Triptych

Some years ago, while walking dogs in Park Slope, I came across a pile of books that someone had left out on the street to give away--a wonderful local tradition of which I have availed myself as both donor and recipient. On this occasion I came across a volume called The Quest for Corvo which seemed a good one to take home. When I began it was hard for me to tell if it was a fictional biography or an actual one, and as the subject, Baron Corvo, was a person of some mystery, I went along for the ride blindfolded and let his story unfold without the aid of an internet search. Corvo, it turns out, was real--an author who had written a novel titled Hadrian the Seventh, which had attained some notoriety in its day. "Baron Corvo" was born Federick Rolfe, and either acquired the title Baron legitimately from an Italian benefactor of some royalty or made it up entirely. The biography is written like a detective story, with the biographer inserted as a character, a literary sleuth. While this approach has been replicated since, at the time it was new and quite different. When I finished I felt the need to know more about Corvo, most especially the novel which had so interested the biographer--A.J.A. Symons, whose off-beat biography revitalized interest in Hadrian such that it was easy for me to acquire the book online more than a hundred years after it first appeared.

Hadrian the Seventh is an unlikely tale of a low-born, fastidious, defrocked priest who is elevated to Pope. It is strange and wonderful, and Hadrian has many ideas about how to run the papacy that are far outside the norms. The new British Pope is highly intellectual, dispassionate to a fault, and persnickety to the point of hilarity. The novel is a tour de force, if a bit claustrophobic, and I could see why it was a minor hit in its day and fell out of favor subsequently. The author employs a specialized brand of English that is, at times, difficult to make one's way through but also tickles the fancy of the true linguaphile. After completing the book I found myself wanting to know more about Corvo’s biographer and why he was so infatuated with his subject. Fortunately for me there was a third book, A.J.A. Symons, His Life & Speculations, written by his brother, Julian Symons, himself a mystery and crime writer of some note. This book tells the story of a man of supreme talent who chose to spend it chasing after schemes that would make him his fortune as well as partaking of fine wine, food and company, while ignoring his true ambitions. He supposed, perhaps as we all do, “time enough for that”, as he spent years not fully pursuing his literary interests--e.g. a seminal biography of Oscar Wilde had only a handful of chapters written at the time of Symons' death. As it turns out he and Corvo both had shortened lifespans, failing to accomplish their major goals, while for each of them, the completion of a brilliant book, gave a hint of what went missing when they died before their times. There is a fourth book I could track down, Julian Symons Remembered: Tributes from his Friends, but to be frank, his life does not interest me enough, it doesn’t have the tragic element that Corvo and A.J.A. Symons possessed, nor the extreme manner of living—he lived to be eighty--and while I say, “good for him” for being a more consistent writer, living in a reasonable manner and to a ripe old age, he simply doesn’t hold my attention as do his brother and the Baron. 

If you’ve gotten this far into my wordy post, I would say that you are a candidate for one, two or all three of these volumes. I commend them to you without reserve, but I would note that the correct order in which to read them is simply chronological to when they were published: Hadrian, Corvo and then Symons. May your immersion in these lives be as rewarding as my own exploration of this shining triptych. 

Cool It With “Karen” Already

I’ve been seeing more and more “Karen” videos and am getting increasingly disturbed--not only at the obnoxious sense of privilege which manifests in condescending language, racial slurs and dangerous threats to call the police on black folk for basically, you know, existing while black. But I also have consternation about the proliferation of these “Karen” vids while noticing (from my scrolling and in my digital social circles anyway) the relative dearth of analogous “Chad” videos. It’s more entertaining, somehow, to show a woman behaving in this fashion, especially, it seems to me, when it’s in relation to a man. I think this has to do with status and people being expected to know and keep their place. Yes, these women are using their privilege, oblivious to the feelings and concerns of others, but calling them “Karen” is akin, methinks, to calling black people “uppity” when they stray from what others perceive as their proper place. Am I sniffing the powerful odor of sexism in the cyber air?

I wish to emphasize that I don’t have sympathy for the women who are filmed behaving atrociously. But I do fear that the calling out of these women women by using the stereotypical shorthand name is just the latest bit of  ever-pervasive misogyny floating in the zeitgeist. I saw a video recently of a man who was taping a woman whom he said cut him off while both were driving, she gave him the finger and used a racial slur. He followed her home and posted her license plate number and a shot of her house presumably so that she might be doxxed and get the social opprobrium she deserved. I wonder if he’d have tailed a man in the same situation and if the exchange would’ve gone the same way (she was hiding her face and her voice was on the verge of tears--of course, she accused him of attacking her simply by videoing her--ugh). It was an ugly and uncomfortable scene to watch on many levels. Maybe this particular man would’ve behaved the same had the offender been male, but I can’t help believe that because of systemic sexism people in general feel more emboldened to hold a woman accountable through confrontation. I understand there is historical precedent wherein white women are perceived to have some power in this situation, because she has the ability to accuse a black male and be believed (Emmett Till’s murder is a prime example of this horrific legacy.) But the power dynamic in this situation is hierarchical, with the white men doing the enforcing--the women they are “protecting” are clearly a rung or two down from them, and viewed as chattel.

I am aware that there are those who would accuse me of having no sense of humor in this regard. “Aw, c’mon, it’s just more fun to call them Karen.” But it is a demeaning form of “merriment” at the expense, by definition, of women. I don’t think it hypersensitive or unreasonable for me to be suspicious of that result. The fact that it is unsympathetic white women of privilege who are the target does not, for me, make palatable the nasty underside to this practice.

What do I want out of this? Simply for us to stop using the term “Karen,” as the incidents recorded would be no less outrageous without the use of the pejorative epithet, in which women become collateral damage of sloppy anti-racism. I wish too for us to consider and be mindful of the interplay of sexism and racism in these encounters and not be so quick to give our imprimatur, through Liking, Sharing and Rah-rah commenting, to someone using unjust means to obtain justice. 

Best of the Worst

While a great work of art, novel or movie may not be ruined by its title, a poor one can certainly diminish it. Creating a work and hanging a name on it are two separate skill sets, which is why newspapers have since time immemorial hired people whose job it was to write the catchy headlines for stories journalists toiled over (only to sometimes see the whole gist of the story ignored for a punchy one liner). This was the analog version of click-bait.

I’ve long been bothered by a few works whose titles completely miss, for one reason or another, and it's high time I get this off my chest. I have only one nominee for the Best Album with the Worst Title. And the loser is... There Goes Rhymin’ Simon by Paul Simon.

Perhaps this would be a good title for an illustrated children’s book about a boy who rhymed everything in his path (“Oh, look what I see...a tall and very green tree!”) but not for anything adult, most especially an album with some serious themes. So what should the album have been called? While I don’t think it necessary for me to have a replacement in order to legitimately abhor the actual title, I will go so far as to say almost anything he could have called it would have been an improvement. Even the shortened Rhymin’ Simon, while offensive, would still have a few legs up on There Goes you-know-who. Truncating it further to Rhymin’ is better still--less is always more with this terrible naming. But I’d rather chop the whole misshapen tree down in favor of an alternative that would add to or at least not detract from the work. My choice would be American Tunes--merely pluralizing a song found within the album. True, American Pie had been a mega-hit and released only three years prior, so Simon might’ve wanted to stay away from something so similar; but surely the risk of committing the crime of same-iness was worth it for attaining "something so right." 

Rhymin’ starts and ends with a pair of hits: ”Kodachrome” and “Loves Me Like a Rock” (both reached #2 on Billboard) and in between are a slew of wonderful songs: “Something So Right”  and “St. Judy’s Comet” stand out for me, but the brightest shining gem to my taste is “American Tune,” whose melody is based on a portion of JS Bach’s “St. Matthew’ Passion” https://youtu.be/O8U9bzT968k. This track holds special meaning for me as it was a song my late wife Heather came to love so much that, though shy about her singing, we performed as a duet for small gatherings of people on several occasions, and for just ourselves many times. 

1. Kodachrome
2. Tenderness
3. Take Me to the Mardi Gras
4. Something So Right
5. One Man's Ceiling is Another Man's Floor
6. American Tune
7. Was a Sunny Day
8. Learn How to Fall
9. St. Judy's Comet
10. Loves Me Like a Rock

The Dixie Hummingbirds’ gospel vocals were featured on “Tenderness” and “Loves Me Like a Rock,” Quincy Jones did string arrangements for the album, and Maggie & Terre Roche performed backup vocals on “Was a Sunny Day.” Many other quality artists contributed to the making of this beautiful effort. Paul Simon is a wonderful wordsmith whose previous album titles with Simon & Garfunkel were good to excellent: Wednesday Morning, 3a.m.; The Sounds of Silence; Bookends; Bridge Over Troubled Waters.... How could he have gone so wrong with this one? When I first purchased Rhymin’ as a teenager I knew the title sounded, well, doofy, but I liked what I heard of it on the radio and bought it anyway. I never hoped to know the provenance of this clunker of a name, but a few years ago I came across a biography of Paul Simon called Homeward Bound, by Peter Ames Carlin, that solved the mystery. It seems Simon’s wife had a dream in which she said, “There goes rhymin’ Simon,” and he decided to use it as the title for his third solo album. This is a prime example of why one shouldn’t allow romantic feelings to overshadow the creative process. He was throwing her a bone because they were having marital difficulties. Their marriage dissolved within two years of the album's release, but the awful title remains, a rotting albatross hanging around the neck of this fine collection.

Stay tuned in Peevish for “Best of the Worst: Movie.” I’m also accepting your nominations in any category you wish.

THANKSgiving

Originally posted on Facebook, November 23, 2010

Dear Ones,
This has been an extremely trying year for me, one which saw me lose not only my beloved Heather but also, about two weeks after Heather entered the hospital, my dear sister-in-law Madelaine, who died suddenly and unexpectedly. I've been wondering as Thanksgiving approaches, what do I have to be thankful for this year? First, of course, I'm thankful to have had the opportunity to know Heather & Madelaine, and to be privileged to carry pieces of them through memory and by putting into practice the things I learned from them. But I am also thankful to have you in my life--you the hundreds of people who gave so much help over the past two and a half years, and who continue to do so.

When Heather lived in Pittsburgh she noticed that people said THANKSgiving instead of ThanksGIVING, as we in the New York area say. This year I'd like to follow the Steel City's lead and put the emphasis squarely on the "Thanks." So thank you, those who gave your time to talk to me, who responded to these emails with many or few words (I read every single email and some of them I read to Heather, but I wasn't always able to personally respond), thanks those of you who quietly kept us in your thoughts, who gave money which allowed me to spend my time with Heather--which was so important to both of us, thanks for going food shopping for us, for cooking us meals, for walking our dog, for boarding our dog for FOUR MONTHS, for walking my clients' dogs for six months and keeping my business intact for my return, thanks for moving my car, for coming to take care of Heather when I needed to be in Brooklyn, thanks for playing music for Heather, thanks for visiting, and for those many of you who didn't get to visit--thanks for understanding that Heather couldn't have very many visitors--I know you really wanted to see her, but she just didn't have much energy for that, thanks for making phone calls, for doing research, for saying prayers, for keeping Heather in your meditations, for doing rituals for Heather, for telling your friends about Heather, for putting her name in a wide variety of healing circles, for throwing a fundraising party for us--TWICE, for drawing a picture for Heather, for giving her a book or DVD, thanks for cutting her hair in the hospital, for giving her so many Jin Shin Jyutsu sessions--daily at times, amazing, thanks for the Reiki sessions too, thanks for speeding through her prescription for oxycodone when you just happened to be at the pharmacy that day, for setting up a wireless connection allowing Heather to watch Netflix instant plays & youtube in her final weeks, thanks for the beautiful flowers in our window--it gave her great comfort & joy to awake to such a beautiful sight, for giving Heather photographs of nature which we spread about her room, thanks for the wonderful concert outside Heather's window, she so appreciated it, thanks for helping get Heather to the Botanic Gardens when she came home for hospice, thanks for coming to the funeral service in New Jersey and the Memorial in Brooklyn, thanks for speaking at theses two events, and thanks to those who wanted to speak but didn't & for those who sent me what you would have said, thanks for completing Heather's faerie art project for her, thanks for having a social visit with me away from the hospital, thanks for the whimsical postcards from Maine--Heather got a kick out of them, thanks for your wonderful cards & letters, thanks for telling me how Heather inspired and continues to inspire you. Special thanks to Heather's sisters Holly, Andrea and Lizzy, and her brother-in-law Jason, who gave so much time & love caring for Heather for which both Heather & I were and are extremely grateful--I really can't imagine having to go through this experience without you all--I'd call & you'd be there. And sometimes you'd just be there without my calling at all, right when I needed you. Thanks to everyone for anything and everything you did for us, whether I knew about it or not, whether I've mentioned it here or not, and thanks for being such an amazing circle of friendship and love.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Heather in Richmond, Virginia, at the Eastern Regional Synchronized Skating Competition, January 2010 (2 months before entering the 5-month hospital stay prior to her death, August 25, 2010)

Why I’m Vincent: the Memo

(originally published on Facebook July 1, 2018)

I have preferred that people call me Vincent since 2011, but I find that some of you have continued to call me Vinny. I’ve thought to myself, Wow, it’s like they haven’t gotten the memo. And then I recently realized: I’ve never actually “sent” the memo. Some of you I’ve told, some I’ve give my rationale for changing my name, and some of you have no idea this change has taken place. So, as I’m about to be married and will see so many of you who are used to referring to me by my former name, I think it’s a good time to rectify (and create) the record. So here it is, the official request and explanation for why I wish you to call me Vincent.

After Heather died in 2010 I felt as if I had entered a new world. I began the process of reinventing myself, and changing how I interacted with people. I wanted to demarcate this new portion of my life with something concrete. Not that I desired to forget Heather (which I couldn’t do in any fashion even if I tried) but just to acknowledge that one part of my life was over and another had begun. One way I thought of doing this was by changing my name. I toyed with taking a new last name, but then Rebecca, my girlfriend at the time, began calling me “Vincent” because she’d seen that on my business card, and I liked the sound of it. I’ve always gone by Vincent as an author and in the business world, and I realized that I only needed to “change” my name to, well, my actual given name. And this would only be a small adjustment to folks in my family and social circles, compared with changing my last name to Colossus, e.g., which I considered for a hot second. Ironically, at the beginning of our relationship Heather had wanted to call me Vincent but I resisted and she desisted.

It is not a casual thing, this “new” name of mine. When people call me by my former name I actually become pained—it doesn’t feel right, it is a harkening back to a time that is gone, and I feel momentarily stymied, as if I’m being dragged into the past. This is not, I want to again emphasize, that I wish to rid myself of the memory of my time with Heather; I actually spend a great deal of time thinking about her and all that I shared and learned with her, and I write about it fairly intensely. But I also (and mostly) exist in the moment, and here in the present I am decidedly Vincent. I know this change will sadden many of my cousins who were so tickled to introduce me or otherwise refer to me as “My Cousin Vinny.” Ok, you’ve had the laugh for more than twenty-five years, which is a pretty good run for that shtik. It’s enough already. Of course I realize that you might slip up and still call me by my former nickname, and it’s okay if you forget here and there, I’m not holding anyone’s feet to the fire; I’ll be satisfied as long as you make the effort to remember and respect the fact that I am now Vincent.

End of memo.

🙂

The Triumph of Talent

(This review originally published by Munster Records, for press release) 

More than four decades after its original release, a minor album by an obscure artist from the Vanguard catalog is finally reissued on vinyl (by Munster Records). There are recordings on the Vanguard label by more famous artists than Marc Jonson, and discs that far outsold “Years” – but this collection has stood the test of time on its head, sounding more relevant today than when it was first pressed in 1972.

The maturity of these songs – both musically and lyrically – belie the youth of their writer/composer/performer/producer. Were this just a story about a wunderkind who’d gone unnoticed in his time, that would be interesting and satisfying enough, but “Years” is not only a stunning debut, but a harbinger of the promise of a young artist one would hope to follow for years to come – promise that was ultimately fulfilled by his subsequent albums, “Twelve In A Room” and “Last Night On The Rollercoaster” among others.

‘Rainy Dues’ kicks off “Years” with the tersely honest statement: “I don’t like some things I see” and proceeds to expound on that and other thoughts and feelings with a series of observations and claims about a relationship whose literal nature is nebulous but whose emotional reality is dense with longing and loss, and a tinge of hope sprinkled onto a platter of despair. The album’s second song, ‘Mary’, is a companion piece, a musical sequel to the opener, which treats us to wonderful lyrics as well as powerfully evocative singing.

I confess that the meaning of ‘Mother Jane’ remains a mystery to me after 30-plus years of listening, but I don’t need to understand it to enjoy it – the pondering is a prize in itself and keeps me coming back for more. Side one ends with ‘Fly’ – an existential lament depicting alienation from others and self. Listen for the additional voices coming in near the end of the song on the word “fly” with a simultaneous harp flourish: gorgeous.

‘A Long Song’ is the metaphoric and literal centerpiece of the album, falling precisely at the midway point. It’s sweet and tender, with a narrator sure of himself. The brief ‘Autopsy’ at 1:38 is the shortest song on “Years”, but its five lines, sung twice, carry a hefty poignancy with a melancholic tune. ‘Return To The Relief’, a personal favorite, is a lyrical and musical adventure. The carnival ride of this song finishes with a musical reference to Jackie DeShannon’s 1969 popular single ‘Put A Little Love in Your Heart’ – Jonson simply sings the title of DeShannon’s hit over and over, with a great deal more urgency present than in the original; it’s as if the singer knows that he has the answer to the world’s problems and is bound to tell us that we must do this thing immediately to save ourselves.

‘Munich’ is the only song on the album which feels “dated” in any way – strictly speaking it isn’t “listenable” to the modern ear, but with this track we get a glimpse into the era it came out of – one can hear the influence of ‘Revolution 9’ from The Beatles’ “White Album”. 1972 was a time rife with experimentation on all levels, and ‘Munich’ is a representation from that period. The title could obliquely refer to the hostage taking at the 1972 Olympics in Munich, Germany – the havoc of that event mirrored by the fragmented song.

The final track on the album is ‘The Tredmill’, which features a constrained and dulcet voice singing in front of a muted piano, interpolated with occasional drum. A visual vignette is described: a scene from a summer outing, a brief meeting immortalized in song. A hopeful, if sorrow-tinged, note on which to end.

To see Marc Jonson perform live is to marvel at the amount of aural ambiance he can create in a room with just his voice and guitar. To then listen to his studio work is to know you are in the presence of genius. In “Years” we can hear the beginnings of a young artist learning his craft at the highest level – in a professional recording studio for the first time, Marc Jonson deftly inserts brilliant production values to songs already possessing beautiful melodies and poetic lyricism. This is why RCA Records wanted to hire him as a performer and producer when he walked in off the street with a demo tape at the age of 20.

Marc Jonson once said that the reason he named the album “Years” was because as he labored in the studio it seemed to be taking years to complete. But in listening to this ensemble of songs one can feel the evolution of time added to consciousness from which wisdom emerges. This album is a gift to the ages from an artist who was just coming of age.

www.munster-records.com  

Eclipso (1997 - 2015)

(Originally published on Facebook November 29, 2015)

Dear Ones,

I want to let everyone know that this past Friday my dog Eclipso died as a result of an undetermined cancer. Eclipso had just turned 18 and enjoyed, I hope, a good life as well as a lengthy one. Heather and I found her in a garbage ditch while staying at a bed & breakfast in Ceiba, Puerto Rico--and she never quite gave up her penchant for eating garbage. (As a puppy she especially liked used chewing gum and cigarette filters!) She was born without a tail and was such an unusual-looking and striking dog that on more than one occasion someone stopped their car to shout out: “What kind of dog is that?!” We could hardly walk around the block without being asked this question; the truth was that she was some sort of mix, but people wanted a better answer so Heather and I invented a breed: the tail-less East Caribbean Garbagi [pronounced Gar-BAH-zhee]. Such a lofty name deserved a back story so we gave her that too; this “breed” was originally bred to sniff out errant unexploded bombs from U.S. Navy training missions in Vieques. It was a wicked lie, which most people accepted with a nod, and some would say knowingly, “Oh, a Garbagi.” When one guy said flat out to me, “That’s not a breed” I quickly retorted, “Well it’s not officially recognized by the American Kennel Club but we’re hoping the paperwork will get through this year, so keep your fingers crossed.”

At the Dome, in Connecticut

Eclipso’s best friend was my other dog, Vanya, and she played plentifully with Heather’s cat José. She’d follow Heather around our apartment throughout the day and knew her as “Mommy” as that’s what I would tell Eclipso she was called, as in “Here’s Mommy!” and “Go to Mommy,” etc. But because Heather didn’t reciprocate by telling Eclipso I was “Daddy,” I remained nameless to my dog. I think she thought of me as some canine version of “that guy”--that guy who took her on walks, made her food, took her (yikes!) to the vet, and otherwise cared for her. Eventually, she and I were the only two left from our original family of five, and she kept an extra-sharp eye on me, always expecting me (I imagine) to abandon her, or disappear. In the past year when I was brushing my teeth at night, Eclipso would come from her bed into the bathroom to make sure I was still there, and then, satisfied, would return to bed. Sometimes she’d check on me two or three times until I finished my dental hygiene.

Eclipso, age 15, at the top of High Tor

The past year was a tough one for her as her arthritic back legs wouldn’t hold her up very well, (despite glucosamine sulfate with MSM, Chinese herbs, acupuncture, rimadyl, etc.) but she improved once the summer humidity abated and she was walking fairly well around the block up until the day before she died. When she was 16½ she went on a 2-3 hour hike to Leatherman’s Cave in Ward Pound Ridge Reservation, New York, holding her own with the six humans accompanying her. This past Thanksgiving morning Eclipso had the rally which so often occurs prior to the end of a life. She was up and walking and greeted my brother and father, hung out in the kitchen while Julia, her mother Bonnie and I cooked, mooching and getting in the way, as she always had. It was wondrous--lasted about 7-8 hours before she again began to decline. She died in our home at 2:35 the following afternoon, five minutes before her scheduled vet appointment, which I had finally decided to use as an opportunity to euthanize my darling dog. But she was able to die on her own, before we could leave for the vet, and while it was difficult, I was relieved not to have to follow through with the horrific choice to take her life, and grateful that Julia and I were present at the moment of Eclipso’s death, along with her vet, Rebecca Stronger, who joined us by phone.

In 2003, after Vanya died, (also at home and on her own, without euthanasia) Eclipso was despondent. When I fed her breakfast Eclipso looked up at me as if something was amiss and made no move toward her food; I knew something was wrong because, unless she was tremendously sick, Eclipso never turned down a morsel, much less a meal. I was puzzled for a long minute but I finally figured it out.

Eclipso & Vanya, circa 2000

Eclipso was used to having Vanya on her left when she ate--so I picked up her bowl and put it in Vanya’s place and Eclipso then chowed down as usual. Heather said, “Wow. Now we know how to honor the dead: by taking their place.” I have tried, since Heather died, in some small ways, to take her place, though I fear I’ve fallen far short of the mark. Now I must find some manner to fill Eclipso’s paw prints, though I am currently at a loss as to what that will look like.

When Julia first met Eclipso four years ago she thought to herself, Oh, this dog doesn’t

Chillin' in Greenwich, CT

have very long to live. She was wrong, as Eclipso eclipsed her expectations and wormed her way into Julia’s heart. Eclipso would mooch at the table from Julia, but though she wouldn’t give her any food, Eclipso persisted.

“Why does she keep asking me for food--I never giver her anything.”

I responded, “She knows what she’s doing.”

Eventually Julia broke down and became Eclipso’s Chief Advocate for Extra Food. Because of her sensitive digestion I had to limit what Eclipso ate. “But can’t she have a little egg?” Julia would ask me.

“Yes, that’s fine.”

“Didn’t you want to let her lick your cereal bowl scraps?”

Julia worked for Eclipso.

It’s fitting that Eclipso died on Thanksgiving weekend--a reminder to me of how thankful I am to have had her in my life. Our time together spanned the very beginning of my relationship with Heather, Heather’s illness and subsequent death, and the start of what I hope to be a lifelong relationship with Julia, who immediately received the Eclipso Good Vibe Person Seal of Approval. She was a weird little dog, who was a holy terror as a pup and a sweet tolerant elder dog--and lots else between the extremes. She will be in my heart for as long as it beats, in my mind as long as it remembers and in my soul for as long as spirit survives. Thanks Eclipso, for being Eclipso--no one could have done it better.

ALIASES: Clipper, Clipso, Clippy, Clipso-Facto, Clipper-Dip, Dippersmith, Clip, Tip-Tap, Dances for Food (her Native American name), Your Little Friend

All photos by Julia Fischer (except Eclipso & Vanya, by Vincent Collazo)

Stealing another dog's bed