'Moto [a/k/a Victoria Lenti] Remembers Mel [a/k/a Jerry Melin]

click to enlarge - Vicki Lenti on the Staten Island Ferry (with Our Lady Of the Harbor in the distance)

Vicki Lenti, or Moto, as we often call her, which is really short for Lentimoto, sent me this nugget about Jerry Melin a long time ago, and for some reason I am just getting around to posting it.

It's kind of appropriate, because tomorrow is Saint Patrick's Day, and it was exactly ten years ago on Saint Patrick's Day that Jerry Melin's funeral was held in Ross, California. Namasté, brother!
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Jerry Melin
By Vicki Lenti

Catfish was how I was first introduced to Johnny [ed's note: often now known as Jack]. The year was 1972 and I met Chris (Milo) Petersen at Green River Community College. Little did I know that the course of my life would change after that meeting. With Chris came his friends. . .and they soon became my friends. I was introduced to John, Johnny, Jack, “Cat” ”Catfish” Brummet, Jerry “Bart” Melin, Kevin “Scooter” “Mort”, “Tibbs” Curran, Keelin Curran, and Frances Hayden. I was one of the lucky females to get a nickname, and that was Moto. I remember Jerry giving me that nickname, but it may have been the combination of Jerry and Johnny. Anyway, 36 years later, I will still answer to it.

I was taken aback by this group of people when I first met them. I remember thinking that they were the hippest (1972) group of people I had ever met and that Keelin and Frances were (and STILL are) the epitome of “together” females. From Tacoma to Kent to Bellingham to NYC and back to Seattle, my life has been blessed with knowing them. Through them I met so many others, like Nick Gattuccio, and the list goes on.

So many memories come to mind, it is hard to know where to start. I found this blog by searching under Jerry’s name, so I will pay tribute to him. I LOVED JERRY. I loved all these people that I met in 1972, but Jerry and I had something special--as I know Jerry had something special with all the people he loved and I feel so lucky that he loved me.


click to enlarge - Jerry on Bainbridge Island, visiting Jack and Keelin

When you were with Jerry, you were important to him and you felt it. I remember some early memories of Jerry; one of the first was that he had that long fingernail (his pinky finger). I remember having a bad cough at the time and got some codeine cough medicine. Jerry asked for a swig and drank half the bottle.

Jerry always pushed the limits, and I don’t know how many of the stories I heard at that time were true (I believed them all), but the image I had of him was like “Neal Cassady or Dean Moriarty,” Jack Kerouac’s friend in On the Road. I loved this about Jerry and I was even a lucky recipient of a Jerry Melin “fake” driver’s license. [ed's note: see Jerry Melin, Master Forger and Craftsman].

I had a green Ford Maverick in those days and something was always happening to it. One day I went out to drive the car and it was gone. In calling around, I found out someone had hit it the night before, and it was slammed into a building. The city had towed it away. Jerry rose to the occasion, donned his leather jacket and (I think) with Milo, went to the tow yard to retrieve the vehicle and make sure I didn’t have to pay a fee.

After many mishaps to that car, I was sitting in an apartment. that Jerry and Fran occupied. We heard a crash, looked out the window and Jerry says “it’s Moto’s car”. We all ran down the stairs and confronted the person who hit me. My car, which had been hit several times before, looked like an accordion. The person who hit me had insurance and since I was only in town for the weekend, we met with the insurance company to settle matters. Jerry went with me and the agent offered me $1000. This was big $$$ at the time and the car wasn’t worth much. Jerry told me beforehand not to say anything too quickly. When the agent offered the $1000, Jerry and I were silent, then Jerry looks at me and say’s “Well Moto, what do you think?” To which I replied “I guess that’s fine”. I thought I would have to pay at some point to have this car put down. This was a jackpot and we laughed all the way home.

In 1982, I was lucky enough to drive with Jerry cross country to New York City. Jerry pushed my dark side somewhat and we ended up in the kind of places I would only end up with him. We stopped at a strip club in Amarillo, Texas and listened to the Blues on Front Street in Memphis. As we approached Washington D.C., the same day as Ronald Reagan’s inauguration [ed's note: Vicki must have the dates wrong...RR was inaugurated in '81], he told me that if anyone asked what we were doing there, to say we were on a mission from Jane Wyman to buy the Blair house and not to give out my last name.

Arriving in NYC, on the doorstep of John Brummet and Keelin Curran, we entered a new chapter. First, I must say that John and Keelin were incredible. They let us stay until we found a place and that whole time is such a wonderful memory to me.

Happy hour took place daily at John and Keelin's with red wine, and new WAVE music was in the house. They introduced me to the “Talking Heads” the “Pretenders” and all the wonderful bands of the time. CBGB’s, NYC. . .what more could you say? – good bye disco!!!

Jerry and I got an apt. on Ave. B, which at the time was dicey (now trendy). Jerry “greased” the super’s hand and we got the apt. We quickly named it B flat and started to fix it up. Jerry started substitute teaching and his first job was at a Hassidic Jewish school. I remember reading (AND busting up over) the scraps of paper on that table, that the kids wrote, answering Jerry‘s question on what they learned today – not a good question to ask. Part of that first check was spent in a little storefront room up the street (by Kevin’s place) where pot was openly sold by the Moghrebis [ed’s note: the St Mark's Place Puerto Rican Pool Hall, reefer & hash Emporium]. There was NEVER a dull moment when were with him. His wit, his attention to detail, everything…I MISS JERRY very much!!

There are so many stories about this great group of people. These are some of my memories of Jerry, and I hope to add my memories of others at a later date. Unfortunately for me, I have not been the best at keeping up and I miss and love all of the above. Thank you for enriching my life and introducing me to so much, and being involved, and who you are.

Love to you all,

MOTO (Vicki Lenti)
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Senator David Vitter: "Do you know who I am?" Security worker: "Sure, you're that senator who likes to wear diapers with hookers, right?"

By Pablo Fanque,
All This Is That National Affairs Editor


Senator David Vitter missed a flight and tried to open a jet way door after the gate had been closed. He then got into a broil with security (Do you know who I am?). Read the full story here, and/or watch the video clip below:



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The Beatles: Ask Me Why (a YouTube "slideo:")

Ask Me Why
Lyrics and music by John Lennon and Paul McCartney

I love you, 'cause you tell me things I want to know.
And it's true that it really only goes to show,

That I know,
That I, I, I, I should never, never, never be blue.

Now you're mine, my happiness still makes me cry.
And in time, you'll understand the reason why,

If I cry,
It's not because I'm sad, but you're the only love that I've ever had.

I can't believe it's happened to me
I can't conceive of any more misery.

Ask me why, I'll say I love you,
And I'm always thinking of you.

I love you, 'cause you tell me things I want to know.
And it's true that it really only goes to show,

That I know,
That I, I, I, I should never, never, never be blue.

Ask me why, I'll say I love you,
And I'm always thinking of you.

I can't believe it's happened to me.
I can't conceive of any more misery.

Ask me why, I'll say I love you,
And I'm always thinking of you.
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Poem: The War In Your Head

1
When the way ahead is fogged,
When the doubt and cold set in,
You are at not at liberty to retreat.

2
When reason degenerates,
Flight is a mad scramble
For the exits.

3
Retreat is a gathering of reason
As the dark forces assemble;
A provisional step back

As you assemble a full head of steam,
Biding time
For the counter-insurgency.
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Joe Biden: "Give me a f*&$#ing break!" - another VP Biden hot mic moment

At an event at the other Washington's Union Station today, where Vice President Joe Biden was heralding the $1.3 billion investment (boy doesn't that seem like a pitiful amount after the bailout numbers?) to rebuild the train system, a microphone picked up a Senator addressing Joe, as "Mr. Vice President," to which he gave his now standard reply: "Gimme a f*&$#ing break." Crazy Joe didn't know there was a hot mic'.
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Amelia by Joni Mitchell from the Shadows and Light tour (with lyrics)

Amelia is one of Joni Mitchell's great songs. . .in my booklet. The imagistic lyrics are gorgeous. This is an "acoustic" version with her soloing on the electric guitar, in one of her alternate tunings. I like the studio, electric version (with Jaco Pastorius) best, but this is very nice.



Amelia


Music and lyrics by Joni Mitchell

I was driving across the burning desert
When I spotted six jet planes
Leaving six white vapor trails across the bleak terrain
It was the hexagram of the heavens
it was the strings of my guitar
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

The drone of flying engines
Is a song so wild and blue
It scrambles time and seasons if it gets thru to you
Then your life becomes a travelogue
Of picture-post-card-charms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

People will tell you where they've gone
They'll tell you where to go
But till you get there yourself you never really know
Where some have found their paradise
Other's just come to harm
Oh Amelia, it was just a false alarm

I wish that he was here tonight
It's so hard to obey
His sad request of me to kindly stay away
So this is how I hide the hurt
As the road leads cursed and charmed
I tell Amelia, it was just a false alarm

A ghost of aviation
She was swallowed by the sky
Or by the sea, like me she had a dream to fly
Like Icarus ascending
On beautiful foolish arms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

Maybe I've never really loved
I guess that is the truth
I've spent my whole life in clouds at icy altitude
And looking down on everything
I crashed into his arms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm

I pulled into the Cactus Tree Motel
To shower off the dust
And I slept on the strange pillows of my wanderlust
I dreamed of 747s
Over geometric farms
Dreams, Amelia, dreams and false alarms
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Adventures with the Identikit

click to enlarge

Every once in a while, I break out the Faces 3.0 software and crank out some police sketches.

I did these last night. One serious limitation of the software is that it is difficult to create a female or Caucasian face. It was created for a different era, I suppose (the software is 10 years old...not that different an era). I've created a Hitler and and Elvis, but it's tough to create a recognizable person. Right after I said that Jeff Clinton used an online flash identikit and cranked out a sort of plausible version of me!:


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Claire Brummet & Colin Whitchelo's South Korea Blog

Claire Brummet & Colin Whitchelo have now been living and teaching English in South Korea for about two weeks.

They just started a blog, right here on BlogSpot ®. Bookmark it and check in on their adventure. There are already some excellent nuggets there..

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Photograph: Frances and Jerry, mid-70's

click to enlarge

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A Keith Haring mural on Houston Street on NYC's lower east side (early '80s)

I'm pretty sure this photo was taken by Jan Newberry or Miya Ramsay, although I don't remember either of them having a Polaroid Land Camera. I have the original Polaroid, but no one has written on it. It was stapled to a postcard or something and mailed to me from San Francisco, according to the postmark. In 1982 I was living in Seattle, just after leaving NYC and Europe, and before moving to San Francisco. So, someone took the pic. in NYC, and mailed it to me from SF? That would make Jan the likely photographer.


When we lived in NYC, you could still see Keith Haring and Basquiat doing graffiti on the street and subways. Haring used to do chalk drawings several days a week on these black panels in Times Square Station, which I passed through on my way to my job in the village. I saw him a couple of times drawing with chalk on the wall. Had people realized those drawings would one day be worth tens of thousands of dollars, they would have probably removed the walls.


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The luckiest man alive - Cem Tokac, the incredible survivor

Turkish truck driver Cem Tokac somehow survived this unbelievable accident with only a few bruises. In the first part of the video, notice his hat being blown away. Jump to 0:20 in to see a closer view of this incredibly lucky guy. He should probably propose to Catherine Zeta Jones, throw mondo cash into the stock market, or get into a high stakes poker game real soon...if luck really does run in streaks. . .


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Today on the Interwebs: The Malört Face

Today On The Interwebs is one of my favorite blogs. He digs stuff! And he is almost never snarky. He wrote today about The Malört Face. .



Malört is a "wormwood-flavored Swedish schnapps. It seems like Malört face could describe the worst possible face you can make." He wrote: "Malört Face is a Flickr group showing people who have just tried Malört."

Check out the Malört Faces and slap in this bookmark for Today On The Interwebs.
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Poem: Defensive Daydreaming a/k/a Sparks

I have been [very slowly and spasmodically] attempting to winnow a manuscript of 280 pages of poetry (already down from 350) into something more suitable for print form. Or at least something an editor won't think is the mad emissions of an escapee from the laughing academy.

I first wrote this poem in California 26 years ago, and have returned to it over and over, a) because I liked it; and b) because I always felt a little sheepish over the tone and structure, which is so clearly influenced by the great poet and MOMA curator Frank O'Hara. I like the poem, but I am not going to fiddle with it anymore. This is the last tune-up! I dislike this phrase intensely (because it is too often used to write something off instead of fixing it), but. . . it is what it is.

Defensive Daydreaming

Six hours into the surprise visit, he lumbers on.
My brain unsnaps from its moorings
and drifts like a drunken dirigible
into the torrent of everything I've seen,
smelled, eaten, licked, drunk,
smoked, touched, read, watched, and heard.
It's like he's been talking weeks now
and I remember Nikita Kruschev
on the television at the UN, flashing
those bad teeth and that goofy smile,
pounding those oxfords alive.
I try but I can't quite hear him;
I hear my friend narrating himself.
Things have gotten so out of hand that
I remember today is Renoir's 164th birthday
and I don't even like his painting,
but, hey, at least he threw in some nudes.
He looking at me! What did I miss?
He looks for a yes and keeps talking.
"Yeah," I say, "right. . .yeah." I think about
Motherwell's Reconciliation Elegy
and how he charged around the studio,
rolling vast turgid highways
of black oil over acres of canvas.
I think about Alice Neel
painting all those people
and what they thought
when they saw the final product
or what people thought when they saw
the first Cubist or Dada paintings.
My friend looks for a show of interest.
Yes! By all means, encourage him.
I cock an eyebrow. He revs back up
and I think about my favorite color,
that mid-palette blue...a blue bisque,
the color of my grandma's cameo brooch...
vibrantly subtle...is that possible?...
yes, it's the color of Della Robbia's Florentine ceramics.
He goes on about old times, about how it was then,
way way way back when when when
when we were all back where, back when, doing what
with, for, and to whom. My brains coughs up chimes,
resonations, cross-references, cerebral links,
odors, tinkles, cues, and subtle whiffs of distractions.
I hear Charlie Parker play Carvin' the Bird
somewhere in my head and it segues into
Black Throated Wind and lurches into
Foggy Mountain Breakdown. He jumps
from childhood to yesterday, in between, and back.
I think of my gal and my pal Keelin
and Jan and how in the end
it was probably a good thing plural marriage was frowned upon.
I think about the incredible, loving extended family
we built in Brooklyn and Manhattan and how often
every single one of them--Mel, Keelin, Jannah, Nick, Kevin, Jan, Miya,
Colin, Tony, Cheryl, Pinky, Fuzzy, Dot, 'Moto, and all our side friends--
shoot across memory like blazing comets, like right now.
See? He keeps sensing me drifting and dreaming but
I nod and wink and pick up the reverie, falling, falling
back, back, back to the night my daughter was born.
It was as quiet as a painting in Berkeley,
driving at three a.m. on Telegraph Avenue
toward Oakland, to the delivery room.
I saw a new moon hung on our old sky.
We watched the monitor and waited.
When her robber-stockinged face came down,
one bleat to the rafters started us all breathing again.
He's buzzing in my left ear
and the rhythms say I am safe.
I think about dreams--not drifting
like this, but real R.E.M. dreams:
I don't know which is better,
to dream it or see it,
to see it right now,
or to have seen it.
I don't know which is better,
the memory or the thing itself.
The memory can be repeated forever
but loses fidelity like an old record
and the fictions your mind confects
start filling in the gaps
until the memory becomes a framework
for what we wanted to be, or what should have been.
He nudges me, waiting for a yes, the go-ahead sign.
Yeah baby, take it on home. I think about Casey Stengel.
He suspects I am drifting over the hills and far away.
I nod "um." It is the sun's birthday
and where did the crows go? When he jumps to El Toro,
my mind starts sleepwalking from Boot Camp.
I wonder if I will ever get to Palestine,
or if there will ever be another Palestine,
or if I will get back to Seville or Tetuan,
Chora Sfokion or Brooklyn, Heraklion or Hoboken,
Vinaroz or the Delaware Water Gap, if I will ever see
Leningrad or Katmandu, and I wonder
if I would want to see Calcutta, Johannesburg,
Bhopal, Cleveland, Camden, or Port-au-Prince?
I don't know which is easier:
to listen or pretend to listen?
I think about bottles of beer
chilling in a tub of cracked ice.
Sexy rivulets of water fall down bottles
glistening in the hot sun.
Even my nose is tired.
Should I pee, or hold it?
Should I hold it and focus
on the distraction?
What did Gertrude Stein mean
when she wrote about those
"Pigeons In The Grass, Alas?"
Was it the pigeons or the grass
or the pigeons and the grass aggregated?
I want to bang my head on the wall
to dull the pain between my ears,
and he's warming up for the stretch.
A pipe doesn't slow him down and the wine
just keeps his throat supple, his voice nimble,
and the memories and word torrent flowing.
He talks about the Marines
and six years marching, marching marching
on the parade ground erect and spitshined,
marching, saluting, dreaming, marching, yes-sir-ing.
I remember Nick Gattuccio's name
means Sicilian Dogfish and the time we drained
a demi-john of Chianti in Florence.
He tells me twenty things I don't want to know
and ten I'm indifferent about for every one I do.
He remembers where he left off
and murmurs a bridge to the next installment.
I think about the firefall of light I saw that day
on a rising skyscraper.
The welder is a star thrower, and constellations
of pale yellow sparks tumble from a heaven
of beams and girders strung with wire and pipe.
Those sparks are like his words, falling down iron bars
to disappear like fugitives in a white lake of sparks.
---o0o---

Drawing of Jack and Keelin Curran by Jerry Melin, 1981

click to enlarge

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Kutiman's Mother Of All Funk Chords: the best mash-up this year (so far)

This is a wonderful assemblage, where Kutiman assembles/mashes up clips of many people's solo instrumental videos from You Tube. And it ends up as a mostly coherent funk song. I don't know how many solo performances were concatenated to make the video...but it looks like 16 or so. . .anyhow, a definite must-see. . .