Downtime Doings

A Tricky Treaty Halloweenie

Wed, 31 Oct 2007 10:08:37 -0700

Yes, it's that day again—the day when we dress up in bizarre outfits and go out in an effort to convince strangers to provide us high-calorie low-nutrition food to keep us from doing something nasty.
Sounds like a tour, doesn't it? Not in this case, though. It's Halloween, a sort-of-a-holiday that has gotten way out of hand. Long ago, it consisted of adolescents going around and turning over outhouses. This wasn’t always a bad thing. Several times, a rowdy group of kids tipped over my high school friend Frank, which served as his first clue that really he needed to do something about his bad breath.
Nowadays, people who don't celebrate any other holiday release all their pent-up merrymaking by turning their houses into death mansions and costuming themselves as ghouls, vampires, skeletons, Tom Cruise, and other scary creatures.
Larry Brown, one-third of the Joy Circuit ensemble, is a scary-house proprietor, and sometimes we go over to his place to help out. Nothing beats the fun of dressing in a mummy outfit and rising every few minutes from a coffin in order to scare the bejeezus out of kids and provide photographic souvenirs for vanloads of Japanese tourists dressed in suits and ties.
But this year, I've opted for a different kind of Halloween fun. Call it a trick or call it a treat, but I've scrounged together a little video for one of the cuts from our inexplicably well-received album "Taking America to America."
When deciding which song to visualize, we wanted one with a lot of meaningful commentary about the human condition, one with deep emotion and far-ranging philosophical content, so we chose..."Dear PBI."
It's posted somewhere beyond the Jenkins-Peabody home page, and you're welcome to view it, but try to keep one eye shut. That way, if it destroys your vision in one eye, you can always costume yourself as a pirate.

Birthiversary?

Tue, 9 Oct 2007 20:43:44 -0700

Imagine my surprise when I checked in recently on our little message board here and found myself deluged with birthday greetings. I had completely forgotten that I was another year older. I always forget that. Actually, I've forgotten it again already.
It's wonderful to get kind greetings from those of you who are total strangers and those who are only partial strangers, and even those of you who aren't strangers at all. Very few people are stranger than I am, so I appreciate you all.
One reason my birthday frequently slips to the back of my consciousness is that it is also the date of my, or rather I should say "our" wedding anniversary, to include my lovely bride Sarah, whom I wouldn't want to leave out of this discussion.
I'm sure it would be considered a poor career move for a handsome young rock 'n' roll star like myself to say this, but since the cat is out of the bag, I have to confess something to you ladies right now: I am no longer available.
I think that's a fairly reasonable statement to make after 45 years of marital blitz. Did I say blitz? Sorry, I meant to say bliss. I make that mistake occasionally.
I know that once a marriage reaches a certain duration, mention of it is a sure-fire method of getting applause on a talk show, so I'd like to ask any of you who are still applauding to please knock it off.
I will now dispense a few observations about marriage. Remember, these from someone whose authority comes solely from seniority, which is frequently an accepted substitute for wisdom:
1. After the first ten years, marriage becomes much easier.
2. After the first twenty years, marriage becomes better.
3. After the first thirty years, marriage becomes even easier and better, but everything else becomes more problematic.
4. After the first forty years, let's see, what was I talking about?
So how did we, the Hensleys, celebrate our anniversary? First there was a big church ceremony, with a full choir and hundreds present, all dressed up in fine formal wear. Then we all went to the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, where we all had drinks in the lobby, followed by a banquet for nearly 200 people in the ballroom. There was a deejay and dancing and a champagne toast, and we had the time of our lives.
You're probably asking yourself, "How could the Hensleys afford to have such a lavish anniversary party, particularly during a year when Tom isn't working even a tiny bit, and with prices being what they are and all that, how could they even afford the gas to get from the church to the hotel?"
First of all, when you eat the way we do, gas is no problem. But the deeper truth is that our festive anniversary celebration didn't cost us one red cent! As luck would have it, we received an invitation from a couple we know, two fine young gentlemen who have lived together for 15 years and who wanted to make their covenant more formal, within the limit of the law, and their very traditional vows were set to take place on the same day as our anniversary.
Thus the rusty but roadworthy Hensley anniversary caboose was surreptitiously hooked onto the shiny Amtrak of Jeff and Joe's commitment ceremony and rolled out of the station powered by the shared joy of two people whom you don't know, but if you did you would say "They seem like such NICE young men," because that's what everyone present was saying, especially their mothers.
This wasn't a gay marriage, mind you, because that sort of thing is still illegal in most places, but whatever it was, it was damned fine and it was filled with love, and we were proud to be invited to be a part of it.

Jamming outside the Kitchen

Mon, 24 Sep 2007 21:31:24 -0700

For our last few days in Indiana, we were staying in Cambridge City, Indiana, at the home of my sister and brother-in-law. We made plans to venture into Indianapolis because I noticed that the Jazz Kitchen, a highly-regarded jazz spot, was hosting a Labor Day party for the neighborhood around the club during the afternoon. We thought, cool! Jazz without having to stay up late!

I called an old pal, drummer Jack Gilfoy, and learned that he would be playing a set there with a group at 2:30, so we made plans to meet for lunch beforehand. When we arrived at the club, the phenomenal Frank Glover was in the middle of his set (alas, playing tenor sax rather than clarinet, an instrument on which he is the grandmaster). Double alas, there were no seats along the sidewalk where the band was playing, and it was a typical hot, humid Indiana summer day, so we settled for having lunch across the street at Moe & Johnny's, a nicely air-conditioned bar, from which we could at least watch, if not hear, the music.

I learned that Jack was to play with a large group, the Buselli-Wallarab jazz band. I was impressed, because I'm a big fan of punctuation, and I hadn't heard of a hyphenated band since the days of Sauter-Finegan. Also, Jack assured me that this was not one of those kid swing bands that play everything as a shuffle, a sure route to tedium in my book. No, this was the real deal: a swing band that actually plays swing music! Authentic? To Quote from trombonist Brent Wallarab's bio:

"In 1992, Wallarab was appointed Specialist in Jazz for the Smithsonian Institution and serves as transcriber, researcher, editor, and advisor for the Smithsonian's extensive jazz program. He has transcribed and edited over 300 masterworks for jazz orchestra and is considered one of the leading authorities on historical composition for jazz orchestras such as Duke Ellington, Sy Oliver, Fletcher Henderson, and Gil Evans. He has been instrumental is cataloguing and identifying many pieces from the Ellington archives housed at the Smithsonian Institution."

I told Jack, "Hey listen, if your piano player doesn't show up, give me a wave and I'll sit in." Jack went across the street to check in before his set, and we finished out lunch along with some delicious sparkling beverages. As we paid the bill, I noticed an emergency vehicle pulling up in the street outside, and peered across to make sure they weren't carting Jack away. But Jack was busy dealing with his drum kit.

We eventually made our way across to the club, where I learned that the piano player in Frank Glover's group, the fabulous Claude Sifferlen, had been the one for whom the ambulance was summoned. He had passed out from the heat and was taken to the hospital as a precaution. (Earlier, when we had arrived and were looking for seats, I had walked past the bandstand following one of Claude's solos and had leaned over to him and yelled "You're TOO F---ING GOOD!" It took a moment, but then he recognized me and returned the greeting. And now he was on his way to the hospital. So much for the healing power of my good wishes.)

We found some seats and were starting to settle in when Jack rushed up to tell me that, triple alas, his band's pianist had not shown up. He was vague about the reason, so I assumed that "a prior commitment came up at the last minute." But it was clear that my bluff had been called!

Thus it was that I found myself sitting outdoors on a 95-degree afternoon (fortunately in the shade), sightreading a series of arcane swing charts for an hour and a half. The band was big enough that the bandstand was crowded, so I had to share the bass player's book. That didn't seem to be much of a problem and it all went pretty well, except for one tune where nobody remembered to tell me that the first chorus was supposed to be more or less a piano solo. It turned out, obviously, to be more less than more for a while. Still, the players were first-class, the charts were sensible and interesting, the style was in my wheelhouse, and I had the kind of fun that jazz guys experience on a good gig.

Afterwards, I looked at my fingers and told Jack, "I knew I wanted to get in touch with my jazz roots, but I just didn't realize how deeply they were buried."

It was a surprisingly satisfying and upbeat way to wrap up a brief, sad trip home. We flew back to LA the next day to resume the doing of our regular downtime doings.

Tailgating in the Belly of the Beast

Fri, 21 Sep 2007 12:29:37 -0700

We pulled into Bloomington, Indiana, late in the afternoon. It was a football Saturday on which the hometown Hoosiers had an evening game against Indiana State, known as the alma mater of Larry Bird. Since Bird was not scheduled to be involved in the game, prospects looked pretty good for a victory for the locals—but since football doesn't really register on my radar screen, I could only muster up a modicum of loyal concern about the outcome.

At our nephew Mike's urging, we were to present ourselves for a while at the tailgate gathering preceding the football game. He described their location as "just below the belly of the beast," a description which made me uneasy. He explained that the football stadium is located on 17th Street, and that the blocks below accommodated parking for those going to the game and also tailgaters, two groups which were not necessarily mutually inclusive. The Hensley location was near 14th Street & Woodlawn. He also gave me a useful orientation guideline: "The closer you get to 17th St., the farther you are from God."

My nephew's friends have massively redecorated an old truck, converting it into a giant pink pig with extensive barbecue facilities in the rear. They are very serious about their grilling and chilling, and I was happy to be the beneficiary of their noble and industrious activity.

These days, Indiana has a reputation as a high-ranking party school. Such was not the case when I earned my degree. In my day, all the students were all thirty years old and occasionally wore coats and ties. In recent years, they've lowered the admission age to, I think, twelve. And many of the students dress in a manner some might call informal, and others might call scandalous. I found it...interesting. I don't see Bloomington as a prime expansion target for Brooks Brothers.

Prospects might be better for those in the beverage industry. Strolling through the tailgate grounds, I saw enough beer consumption to float the Titanic, along with an occasional action resembling a quasi-furtive bong hit, all of it resulting in an overwhelmingly cordial attitude and a quite elevated decibel level.

A significant portion of our time that afternoon was spent waiting to use one of the Andy Gump flotillas stationed around the premises. I called it "where students of the great state stand and wait to urinate." I had been advised to "take a beer along to drink while you're waiting for the rest room," and that turned out to be sound advice. Footnote: when I had reached the second position in the very long line, a stall door opened and a girl emerged from it. When the girl in front of me started to approach that stall, the door closed again and locked. Apparently, that particular unit had been in use by a tandem pair.

We didn't relish a rerun of the Andy Gump queue, and didn't have tickets for the game, so we waved goodbye, drove over to pick a pizza at the Pizzaria, had a beer at Nick's (where we encountered our old friend--and a member of my 60's psycho band, The Masters of Deceit--Gary Potter. How small is that world?) and shuttled up to turn in at a friend's house in nearby Martinsville.

Indiana, I learned later, won the game.

(to be continued)

Hoosier Lunchin’

Thu, 20 Sep 2007 21:55:29 -0700

We were in Indiana a couple of weeks ago for a sad family occasion (see previous post). We had to linger on a bit, because our travel arrangements were complicated by the Labor Day weekend.

Faced with a bit of extra time in the old home state, we headed first for Bloomington. We took the back road up from Madison. By back road, I mean something other than the interstate. In an earlier, gentler time, back road meant little gravel or blacktop pikes which hardly appeared on the map. We loved the interstate highway system back then, little realizing that it would eventually become a conduit for trucks into which we could squeeze our cars for dull-but-efficient journeys which were a far cry from what we used to think of as "motoring."

So came up the state highway on Saturday, and at times it was blessedly reminiscent of country motoring for a while. Let me stop here to tell you one of the oldest traditional Indiana jokes:

Indiana is a funny state. North Vernon is in the south, South Bend is in the north, and French Lick isn't what it's cracked up to be either.

I'll give you a minute to compose yourself after being convulsed with laughter. Okay, now I'll resume.

North Vernon isn't really all that far south, but just south of North Vernon is a town called Vernon. No, not South Vernon, just Vernon. It's a nice quiet little town ordinarily, but the citizens of Vernon apparently make a very big deal out of the Labor Day weekend. The whole town seemed to be lined with stands offering antiques, junktiques, oddtiques, and even some what-the-hell-is-it-tiques.

Since traffic had slowed to a crawl on our non-interstate route, we decided we had no choice but to stop and investigate. I'll confess that we actually made a few purchases we may ultimately question, but it was sweetly entertaining.

Even as we shopped, we were being viciously tempted by the many food stands which were mixed in around the town square. We surrendered to a pair of young girls selling funnel cakes, deeply, deeply fried gourmet treats for those with hearty digestion. That was our starter course, so we followed it up by sharing a platter from Miss Piggy's BBQ.

That was probably the best meal we had in Indiana--very simple, just a boneless rib sandwich, roasted new red potatoes and corn on the cob, but each item was truly (as we say in LA) primo. We asked the proprietor, and were assured that their potatoes and corn came from a small-farm grower in Columbus. We shared a picnic table with a local family, who said they had been to the state fair and the corn there had been mediocre. This, on the other hand, rivaled the best Indiana corn taste I could conjure up from memory. If I could get a bushel right now, I’d...oh well, I’m back in Los Angeles now. We’re still getting a little corn here, but it’s past its season.

If, in your travels, you ever see Miss Piggy’s BBQ stand at an event (they hit a lot of them around southern Indiana), trust us and put on the feed bag.

(2B continued)