Cloister Commentary, Day 45: Snackery

It was a terrific, peaceful Sunday. A segment on “CBS Sunday Morning” reminded me to ask my small band of readers a question of great importance: since I know all of you, like us, are snacking to beat the band, would you mind commenting with your go-to munchies? Nicole and I are about to turn into Geisha-brand wasabi-coated peas (we’re already like two peas in a pod), we cannot make a bag of Backer’s plain tater chips last more than a day (The Girl with The Golden Curls has her hooks in us), and I believe we’ve gone through five containers of Planter’s Cocktail Peanuts since mid-March. I am warning you: do not buy peanut butter creme Oreos. Don’t do it.

Apropos of nothing except maybe we caught the bug from a vintage concert broadcast Friday night on our favorite community radio station, WWOZ, we cranked up Louisiana music virtually all day long. It. Is. Balm. For. The. Soul. Roll call: Sidney Bechet, Beausoleil, Professor Longhair, Ricky “Shake For Ya Hood”B, Allen Toussaint and Wynton Marsalis (forgive me, but it was his Jelly Roll Morton album, and he can be charming).

Zoomed with my parents, my brother Brian and his best gal Myra. I hope we get to see each other in person soon. Is a 450-mile round-trip drive-by visit silly, or not? It would be 34 hours to Houston and back, though.

My grandpa used to cry watching soap operas, so when I quietly wept watching last night’s wrenching episode of Call the Midwife, I guess I was coming by it honestly. If Nonnatus House gets demolished and that ends the show’s run, I’m going to get mad.

Streaming for Shut-Ins:

I’m dedicating this one to my very sharp former student Amann Woldeghebriel in the hope he’s never heard it. Amann loves jazz and is frequently in search of something great he hasn’t sampled. Dig this, friend. You will be asking about the guitarists: John McLaughlin and Sonny Sharrock. And Miles is ON.

Cloister Commentary, Day 44: Out Where the Buses Don’t Run

Picked up another robust order from Happy Hollow at the Columbia Farmer’s Market. Up in this mess, we could not live without them.

Dropped by Love Coffee to snag some java, muffins, and scones from their tent in the parking lot. Please patronize them if you do chance to get out–they’re one of the good ones. Methinks it’s a touch early, though, for some of the casual interaction we saw among the patrons, but what do I know?

Worked on both of my blogs, the one I transfer these to in slightly modified fashion, and a music site that pretty much exists for a monthly list of goodies. Why do I need TWO blogs? (Calvinist overtraining as a youthman.)

Had a dirty martini. I’d like to recommend Missouri’s own Pinckney Bend gin.

Chauffeured Nicole out to a drive-by celebration of one of her Columbia Area Career Center peers. Stacey lives out there where the buses don’t run!

Devoured a bowl of a fresh batch of Nicole’s red beans and rice with tasso ham. I have been trying to commit to vegetarianism, and not faring poorly, but we are slowly working through some specialty meats we have in the freezer. Next up: the boudin.

Messaged back and forth with my “nephew” and National Guard stalwart Mitch Carlin, who has discovered The Kinks and The Sopranos. He’s always fun to “talk” to, and he has a nose for the finer works of art.

Beat Nicole in a single game of Scrabble to even my tournament record at 2-2. We played until the last tile was used–my favorite kind of game. Musical accompaniment: Carmen McRae, The Coasters, and Hound Dog Taylor (if you’re a fan and you don’t know Release the Hound, change that pronto).

Had trouble sleeping (I’m struggling with that a bit), and found myself, at 3:15, in my head, planning out the weekly class structure for an on-line composition class I may be teaching this summer for Stephens. Hey! I have a plan! Once a teacher…

Streaming for Shut-Ins:

Please enjoy more of the expert percussion of the late Tony Allen.

Cloister Commentary, Day 43: Parasite Plays Be Damned!

Friday was Game Night! Nicole loves when we play games because she routinely kicks my ass. However, this time she claimed minor reluctance because of her supposedly inferior vocabulary, as we had chosen Scrabble, which we hadn’t played since Christmas ’12, when we spread out the board at her mom Lynda Jo’s kitchen table. I chuckled evilly, anticipating domination.

She poured a Pinot, I cracked open a Bud and backed it with a finger of Four Roses, and it was on. After I slaughtered her by over 100 points in Round 1, I foolishly assumed my losing streak was over, but–alas–I got hustled. Despite my frequent “parasite plays” (adding -s or -ed to high-value words she’d already laid out), she took the last two rounds, killing me in the final one by setting up a three-letter word right where I was going to rack up a 36-point triple word score on my next turn. RAT FARTS!!!! Next time, by Gawd, we’re playing Rook!

My pain was assuaged throughout not only by the beer ‘n’ bourbon, but also, of course, by the music: The Ramones’ classic It’s Alive!, an archival Professor Longhair tribute concert broadcast on WWOZ (from ’74, with Benny Spellman, The Meters, Earl King, Dr. John, The Wild Magnolias, and Fess himself), and two jaw-droppers. Bonnie Raitt’s Give It Up has realllllly grown for me over time (maybe it’s me who’s grown): absolutely stunning singing and playing, spot-on song selection, and a powerful, natural, sexy feminist persona (is that ok?). And…Rod Stewart’s Every Picture Tells a Story? That album makes our eyes mist up every time we play it–mostly from wonder as we marvel at the humanity it expresses so vividly, but also because ol’ Rodney was one of Nicole’s mom’s favorites. Has there ever been a one-two punch to the heart like “Maggie May” and “Mandolin Wind”? And how’d you like to just chuck talent (or is it genius) like that?

We also had a Facebook drop-in by an old high school friend of mine, Jim Mac. We’ve only seen each other a few times over the years, but he never fails to make a strong impression on us. He’s smart, funny, observant and soulful, and the Scrabble memory he shared was very evocative. I hope we are able to see him in person soon, but I believe our 40th high school reunion will likely be virtual if it occurs at all. I also enjoyed several Facebook appearances from former students who made me miss full-on teaching even more than I already do, but also reassured me that my existence has not been in vain.

Streaming for Shut-Ins:

Prelude to Scrabble. Did anyone else out there see the Furs at Stephens College in ’82, on the Forever Now tour? I love this band.

Cloister Commentary, Day 42: Weather Reps

One of our shelter rituals has been watching the local and national news at 5 and 5:30. Alas, to that we must put a stop. After 30 minutes of local “coverage’ during which we saw the same advertisement three times, had the weather POUNDED into our brains via four reps–I got it the effin’ first time, people–and consumed maybe 30 seconds of actual information during the last 10 minutes of the program, WE CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE! I assure you, enough vital news (not even counting pandemic stuff and the beginning of campaign feces-flinging) is out there to fill 60 MINUTES. I’m not naive; I know the TV exists to sell, that it’s the “shows” that support the ads, not the other way around. But still. What a waste. We can always use more time for books and music, I guess.

Ok, then. Perhaps in response to this frustration, Nicole and I jumped in the car and just drove: out to her workplace, Battle High School, past her mom Lynda’s old house, down 63 to the AC exit, up Providence to downtown (sad to see Lucky’s lights still on but no cars in the lot), through the Stephens College campus (“Look! There’s where I park! And there’s the library window I’d jump out of in an emergency!”), onto I-70 and across the Missouri River bridge, then back home, the last 20 minutes accompanied by a mellow but vivid sunset. Soundtrack: Novo Baianos’ Acabou Chorare (a late-Tropicalia masterpiece from Brazil), Thelonious Monk Trio (if you don’t know Monk’s brilliance, a great starting point), and Sonny Rollins’ Saxophone Colossus. It was a redemptive little trip, but it left us sad to think we have no clue when or where we will actually be able travel to see people and places.

A ritual we are practicing that I’ve forgotten to mention is periodically ordering something neat to give ourselves something to look forward to arriving. I think we’ve made four Powell’s Books orders, I have some Soul Jazz-labelmusic coming from the UK, and Nicole got a box of nice stuff (soap, incense, a Shiva scarf, and a cone incense diffuser) from Nag Champa. We are fortunate to have leisure capital to spend, but at least we are spending it with quality merchants and avoiding Amazon like the plague during the plague.

Still keeping your eye on the ball regarding our Republican “legislators”‘s ongoing attempt to subvert democracy and overturn Clean Missouri while we’re distracted? Creeps. Not much noise about THAT at all on the TV news. Cheating in plain sight is the new political normal.

Streaming for Shut-Ins:

Curious about that Novo Baianos record? Here.

Cloister Commentary, Day 41: In Dreams

Dreaming strangely during this crisis? Me, too. My body literally forced me to take a nap yesterday–rare for me in almost any case–and, even rarer, I dreamed during it. In this dream, I was napping (that’s how much I needed one, I guess) on the couch in our front room when someone I know who shouldn’t ever be in our house emerged happily from the basement. This awakened me (in the dream),and, feeling like I’d swallowed three muscle relaxants, I moaned, “What are you doing here?” The individual grinned and said, “Your dad said I could fix it.” From the TV room, my dad yelled, “Yep. I did.” I got up from the couch as Nicole walked into the room, and I told her, “Let’s go.” We exited the house, got in the car (I chose to drive, which I usually don’t), turned to Nicole and said, “I’m too out of it to drive,” and proceeded to back out of the driveway onto Phyllis and continue backing the half-block toward Garth. Nicole said, “You’re driving backwards and you’re not using the rear view.” I looked at her, nodded, braked, put the car in drive, checked the rear view before accelerating forward–and the mirror was opaque. Then I woke up, though it took me at least an hour to do so fully.

Turns out COVID-19 is influencing many folks’ dreams. According to experts, we dream frequently of being chased, but in this mess’s case we may be deeply unsure of what. In dreams, we may be being communicated solutions to present conflicts by our subconscious. I looked further into it, and happened upon both an interesting article about the phenomenon and a blogger’s project in logging our dreams as we find our way through this pandemic labyrinth.

Streaming for Shut-Ins:

Happy International Jazz Day!

Cloister Commentary, Day 40: Lightning Strikes!

Almost every time we’ve walked the neighborhood, on our way over to or back from Parkade Park we stop and chat with our neighbor Kelly. She’s an educator like us, and yesterday we talked to her curb-to-window (COVID-style). We generally share how we’re making it, what’s frustrating us, and what we need (and need not) to be doing. Speaking of the latter, she’s been biking the Katy, and that inspired us to get out on one of our epic Old 63-to-Scott Boulevard hikes very soon.

We knew a storm was brewing, so when we returned from our walk, Nicole went out back to bring in the deck umbrella. The windows were open, and, standing in the kitchen, I heard a sizzling crackle, saw a quick flash, then heard a boom. My heart jumped into my throat, then I heard the umbrella fall to the deck and the back door swing open. Wide-eyed, Nicole appeared, eyes wide, a little pale, and uttering epithets. We are both grateful that lightning strike spared her.

I don’t know what your dog does during thunderstorms, but ours becomes angry and races through the house looking to attack every thunder-peal, so we enjoyed that for about an hour while trying to calm down after the near-electrocution. I think I’d rather he be scared.

The storm finally abated, and we spent a second straight night reading in the front room, with the windows open and listening to jazz (the full album I’m sharing below was a major highlight). What was I reading, you didn’t ask? If you happen to be seeking some good literature that springs from Missouri heritage; if you want to be both brutally enlightened and deliriously entertained; and if you want to experience one of the most inimitable voices in crime fiction, may I direct you to Jeff City-born Chester Himes‘ Harlem Cycle of novels, which feature the laconic yet explosive detectives Coffin Ed and Gravedigger Jones? I finished Blind Man with a Gun last night and have only Plan B to go before I’ve read the whole nine-book Cycle. Himes is amazing. The titles you may have heard of are Cotton Comes to Harlem and A Rage in Harlem; they’re all very good, and pack a stiff volley of punches into 200 pages.

Streaming for Shut-Ins:

Would you like to sample a classic hard-bop jazz album that’s near-equal parts lightning swingers and probing ballads? I knew that you would.

Cloister Commentary, Day 39: Contempt

I know I’m not alone.

Yesterday, I watched the governor of Georgia address a member of the media, who’d asked him a simple, relevant, and necessary question, with absolute contempt. Once again, I was put in a very frustrating position: my impulse was to want to see this boor publicly disgraced, at the very least chastened into silence, but for that to happen, he would need to be very, very publicly wrong, which would mean…bodies stacked like cordwood. That’s the last thing I want, so that leaves me hoping the boor is correct. I’m really tired of feeling this way, deep in the pit of my stomach. Contempt, militant ignorance, bloviation, bristling insecurity, crudeness–and the blatant inability to accept and respond, intelligently and knowledgeably, to criticism: these have always been the hallmarks of the small man. They can’t also be the hallmarks of our leadership, can they?

I know this is probably weak-minded, but who liked these kinds of humans in high school? Who enjoys them as bosses? Who likes them between their legs?

Ok, breathe.

Streaming for Shut-Ins:

Feels appropriate.

Cloister Commentary, Day 38: Our Happy Hollow

Even though we don’t really have a “family” in-house (well…pets), we eat at the table on a regular basis. We almost–almost–did so thrice yesterday; the oatmeal came off the stove right as “CBS Sunday Morning” came on in the living room and we like to watch that live (Note: I am not a fruit eater but Nicole has seduced me into enjoying blackberries, raspberries, and bananas in my hot cereal–one fringe benefit of sheltering). But lunch and dinner were magnificent efforts by the chef: vegetarian enchiladas made with Tortilleria El Patron‘s tortillas as well as Happy Hollow Farm‘s purple radishes and sweet potatoes (of which I’m not normally a fan unless they’re in a pie) for the former, her long-time staple and specialty peanut butter curry for the latter. The windows were open all day, the music was flowing, and no neighbors were screaming at each other.

I understand it’s rather bourgeois to linger too long over food (Luis Buñuel made that point powerfully), but a) I may actually be rather bourgeois–more so than I’d prefer–and b) home-cooked meals have been one of the most sustaining rituals of this mess, and I’m fortunate to live with someone who cooks with love, skill, and imagination. For the record, I always and zen-happily wash and dry the dishes promptly; I seldom use the dishwasher, but as a mercy to my chapped hands and wrists, since the thing began I’ve leaned on it a bit. My goal since we moved in together has been to never allow her near a stacked sink, and to assure her every implement’s clean for her to make as big a culinary mess as she needs to. I’m not very romantic, but those are my dozen roses, I suppose.

I dug Albert Camus’ The Plague out of the basement library in the early evening. How cliché at this point, I know, but that paperback has been with me (physically and spiritually) longer than most of the books in the house. The novel was required reading for a fantastic “Philosophy and Literature” class I took as a senior at what was then Southwest Missouri State, and the prof was superb. I can’t remember his name, but he had long gray hair, a mustache, and muttonchops, and always sported the same cigarette-burned corduroy jacket–Clay Thomas, you recall him, by chance? The Stranger and “The Myth of Sisyphus” were splashier reads, but The Plague seemed much more adaptable to the lived life of a 21-year-old, and warmer (if that makes sense). Time for a re-read, even if (maybe especially because) millions of other humans are also picking it up. I encourage you to, as well; there’s more than one plague we’re dealing with, after all, and this book will help.

The Plague

Oh, and Tux finally used his $100 house after many months (including a fall and winter) of turning up his pink nose! Instead, he’s turning his nose up at the lunch that he did not eat at our table.

Streaming for Shut-Ins:

This may not actually be the greatest jazz concert of all time, but with Bird on sax, Diz on trumpet, Bud on piano, Max on drums, and Mingus on bass, it is mos def no disgrace.

Cloister Commentary, Day 37: So Long, Flo

We said a somber farewell to Nicole’s Grandma Florence Martinez, who passed away at the age of 95 yesterday. She was a strong, smiling presence in her kids’ and grandkids’ lives, and she will be sorely missed. Florence had a mischievous smile and eye-sparkle she would frequently flash that will last forever in my mind’s eye. I try to confront this mess we’re in with an even disposition, but the stabbing way it has robbed humans at the arrival in their lives of birth and death is especially cruel, and makes me just want to loudly lose it a little bit. Adam, Chrisy, Angela, Big Joe and Little Joe, and Cathy, we’re with you in spirit if we can’t be in physical space.

The highlights of a stormy day were simple: Frenchy Treats‘ delicious macarons, which we purchased at the Columbia Farmers Market (they really have their operation together), and a revisiting of a movie we have loved forever, Jim Jarmusch’s Down By Law. Did you know the title refers to a very close relationship, not an oppressed state? My interpretation is, you’re down with someone according to your own laws for a human relationship.

I also was very pleasantly surprised by feedback from two very amazing former students, Justin and Arianna. When you’re a teacher of hoarier vintage, who’s been away from large groups students of students for awhile, you can start picking at yourself, wondering if you’ve still got the knack and shouldn’t consider getting out before you overstay your acumen’s duration. For better or worse, you two, my hand’s still in the game thanks so much to your kind words.

I hate it when I forget to read. I didn’t even read the dang paper. I did read a student’s essay but that doesn’t quite count.

Used to be, the only time my nose ever itched was when my hands were in a soapy sink. Now, it itches every single time I really hadn’t ought to touch my face. I hereby dub this phenomenon “COVID nose.”

Streaming for Shut-Ins:

I’ve noticed on social media that this one of a kind album (even considered in this one of a kind artist’s oeuvre) has been landing in many friends’ lives lately. Perhaps it’s time for you to make its acquaintance if you haven’t already.

Cloister Commentary, Day 36: Im-ma-TOOR

Nicole and I felt a bit exhilarated yesterday. We had behaved very dutifully during the week while enduring some considerable neighborhood (and personal) stress, and we knew the payoff was going to be Mexican food, margaritas…and BEASTIE BOYS SHOW on Apple TV +! So we stayed focused ’til 4 pm (grocery run, disinfecting, school work, reading, and projects), when we broke out the margaritas and participated in a Zoom happy hour with some of Nicole‘s comrades. The exhilaration may have caused me to engage too frequently and too loosely, and for that I apologize–I’m rusty in the society of more than two.

So how was BEASTIE BOYS SHOW? Weird. Rather than being a documentary, it’s more of a two-man performance in front of a documentary. We’d read the very fun BEASTIE BOYS BOOK, to which the movie is a companion, so we didn’t really need the nutshelling Mike D and Ad Rock were doing, which felt strained anyway, especially when they were having to explain the more complicated aspects of their career. We did need the vintage photos and footage from their rise that were projected on the venue’s massive screen, but ultimately we just wanted to see that.

Halfway through, we were inspired to break out our old VHS of Licensed to Ill-era videos, which we enjoyed much more BUT which hasn’t ever been issued in another form, for pretty obvious reasons arising from the backstage (and occasionally onstage) footage. Suffice it to say it is laced with often-inspired–and often-neglible–“im-ma-TOOR-ity.” “Boys will be boys” falls short.

VHS Cover

We returned to the movie just as the Check Your Head process had begun (we saw them live on the first show of that tour), but couldn’t quite stick with it to the end. Partially that was due to the leeching out of excitement that is the bane of so many career stories when they hit the subject’s “ma-TOOR” period; partially it was us getting up at 4, failing to get a nap in, and…oh yes…the margaritas. I’d give the thing a B / B+, but we haven’t quite finished it, and I think folks who haven’t read the book might like it much more than we have. It did beat Ozark.

Streaming for Shut-Ins:

The model. Also, great motivating music for folks struggling in this mess.