I have been taking a few art classes with my pal, Dick. They are outstanding. He has a real knack for pulling the best out of everyone. A couple of weeks ago we messed around with pastels. I’d never used them. The big class project was a self-portrait. Here’s mine:
Posted under Art
This post was written by admin on May 30, 2009
So I’m out walkin’ my best bud, Homer yesterday morning when we come across this old geezer with a home-made cage in his hand. Inside is a big green parrot. I work to restrain the dog: I don’t want to freak out the bird, ya know? The old dude says, ‘That’s all right. It’s just his nature. She’ll be fine.’
Homie has his nose literally on the wire mesh, less than an inch from the brid’s beak when the bird says, ‘Hello! My Name is Amiga!’
You’d have thought someone goosed the dog! He hopped up and down, his ears pirked completely up and his head tilted to the side. He was overwhelmed with excitement and confusion. A talking Bird!?! Wha’s up wit dat??
A few minutes later, the old guy told the bird to say goodbye.
‘Goodbye!’ cried the bird. And they walked off.
Homer spent ther rest of our walk — probably 20 minutes worth — absolutely obssessed with that bird. He kept looking and pulling back toward the last place they were seen. It is remarkable how the most exciting things come along willy nilly. Strange dancing lessons from God, indeed!
Posted under Dogs (and other pets)
This post was written by admin on May 29, 2009
Ok. So I really like this green and dark purple thing. I know it’s not really purple, but I don’t know the name of the color that it is and it’s not far from purple so. . . purple it is. It works, too. I mean: all my posts are formatted to a 370 pixel width and this seems to do that in two columns. What I need to do now is to find an rss feed that will fit in one of the three widget columns at the bottom and some kind of text box to fit in another. Then I need to find out how to upload my magical multi-colored mona as a header instead of that blank plank.
By the way: Snag is by Stefan Krober at arcance.net.
Posted under Uncategorized, Web/Tech
This post was written by admin on May 27, 2009
For years I have resisted the urge to jump through hoops and apply not so subtle tricks in order to optimize this place for Search Engines. I wanted a cleaner, more artistic look. That’s why jazzding.com is a static page (very beautiful! if I say so myself) overlaying an equally lovely Wordpress blog. The changelessness of the first page is an SEO no-no. The blog itself changes regularly, but it’s not on the first page. So, I’ve made a (difficult decision). I am going to reformat my site. It’s not going to be as beautiful as it has been but it will include a number of things the Search Engines love: an RSS feed of some kind, an everchanging message board that can be added to with little or not hassle, and so on.
I realize as an artistic snob, I am an internet dinosaur. Who cares how beautiful your site is? If you’re not getting thousands of hits a day (and I’m not), you’re not communicating.
This little process will probably take a number of days, perhaps weeks. I promise (myself) that I will do everything in my power to keep it from being the clutter mess so many optimized sites are.
I mean: there’s art for art’s sake, and then there’s practicality. Keith Haring knew he could reach more people if he put his designs on tee shirts. Wroked for him. Outa work for me.
Posted under Uncategorized
This post was written by admin on May 27, 2009
San Juan Bautista was one of the first of the California Missions, having been built in 1797. It is a remarkable structure that 
I have visited twice now. The Mission occupies one side of a town square that also fronts a number of historic buildings. The one that immediately captures your attention is the Plaza Hotel.
The Hotel was originally a barracks designed to house the handful of Mexican soldiers whose task it was to guard the Mission. In 1846, when the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo* was inked, Mexico ceded Alta California to the United States and the barracks became the property of the Anzar family who turned it into a store to supply the many adventurers who passed through on the way to the California Gold Fields.
In the mid-1850’s that Angelo Zanetta, an Italian immigrant, rented the old barracks and converted it to a saloon. Zanetta had come west after 
working as a chef at the St. Charles Hotel in New Orleans. The hospitality trade came easily for Angelo as his father had been a successful innkeeper in Italy.
The opening of the bar was timed to coincide with the 1856 fiesta of San Juan, which falls on Summer Solstice. The fiesta was very big in this town (seems obvious: San Juan Bautista) and that year attracted upwards of 10,000 people. As the only saloon in town, Zanetta did a huge business that day, taking in about $3,000 in 24 hours.
At the time that was a large amount of money. Consider John Breen, the 16 year old son of the Breen family that survived the Donner Expedition and arrived destitute in San Juan. When the gold rush hit, he journeyed to the fields and returned several months later with $10,000 in gold dust. With the money, his family bought Castro House, a large adobe that had been home to Juan Castro and the Mexican government and 400 acres! Angelo’s $3,000 take had to be worth $50,000 or more by today’s standards. 
Within a couple of years, Zanetta, who was working as a master chef at a restaurant on Third Street, bought the property which also included a guard tower from the Breen family for $450. He went to work adding a second story to the building and opened it in January, 1859 as the Plaza Hotel.
The Hotel was elegant for its era and locale and became very popular with travelers who passed through San Juan Bautista. There were plenty of them, too. Up to eleven stage coaches a day came and went from the thriving town. Angelo brought his considerable skill as a chef to bear on the dining room creating dishes that were seldom seen west of St. Louis. It was his desire to focus on the food that caused him to bring in a partner, John Comfort, to oversee Hotel and bar operations.
Angelo’s Hotel, Bar and Restaurant were so successful that he purchased what had been a dormitory for Mutsun Indian women, across the square from the Hotel. He tore the building down, and using the best of the adobe bricks 
that demolition left, built Zanetta House, the largest home in town.
In 1874, John Comfort opened the stables that sit across the square from the Hotel to accommodate the very active stage coach trade. It is ironic that transportation was so important to the growth of San Juan Bautista; it was also important to its demise. Col W. W. Hollister, a very powerful man who drove sheep from his home in Ohio to the 37,000 San Juso Ranch, prevailed on the Southern Pacific Railroad to route through his ranch rather than through the logical choice of San Juan Bautista. With the coming of the railroad, the stage coach traffic declined . . . and so did the town. Many of the businesses uprooted and moved to the new town of Hollister and by the late 18th Century, many of the structures in San Juan Bautista were abandoned.
I am intrigued with the story of Angelo Zanetta. First, he emigrated to America from Italy. Lots of people did that, but most didn’t. The ones who did were driven by an adventurous spirit and the desire to make something from nothing. He established himself in the civilized environment of New Orleans, then left that to do it all again, coming to California in search of more opportunity and adventure. Opening the Bar seems so obvious today. It’s the old west, you have thousands of people passing though town; a saloon seems to be an obvious addition. But I bet it looked risky at the time. It had to. Otherwise someone else would have beaten Angelo to the punch. And, successful as it was, the bar was not enough. Zanetta needed to grow into something bigger: a Hotel.
When we think of the American capitalist spirit, we usually thing of the big industrialists of the 19th and 20th centuries: people like J.P. Morgan and Andrew Carnegie. I think Angelo Zanetta, virtually unknown by comparison, is as good a symbol, if not better. Over and over he took what he had — which at times was just himself — and made something bigger out of it. He is an American hero for me.
This remarkable photo is of the bar on its last day of operation before the State took over the building as an historical site (1933). I found it o Flickr. It had been scanned from the Ottoboni family collection. The man on the right is identified as C.C. Zanetta, perhaps a grandson of Angelo?
*Interesting: the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo guaranteed that the property ownership rights of Mexicans living in the ceded territories would be respected, which they sometimes weren’t. It also guaranteed that the Spanish language and culture would be accepted alongside English and the American culture. California was supposed to be a bi-lingual state! The treaty originally stated that Mexicans remaining in the territory would automatically become American citizens after one year. That language was changed to citizenship being granted when the Congress determined the time was right . . . whatever that means.
This post was written by admin on May 24, 2009
Quicksilver Messenger Service. Long time ago. Live at Fillmores on either coast. Incredible. I thought I could write about this mesmerizing performance, but then I read this, by Griel Marcus and decided he said everything that needs to be said about this masterpiece. Enjoy.
On the cover of what is presumably Quicksilver’s last album is a delightful picture that might remind on of the old Fredric Remington paintings of the old west. The lettering is done in pure thirties world fair script, on the back are members of the band in pen-and-ink, their cowboy portraits matching their sound: there are even little pictures of Coit Tower and the Statue Of Liberty. It’s Quicksilver’s version of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, on tour from sea to shining sea.
It begins with an entire side dedicated to Bo Diddley’s “Who Do You Love,” superbly recorded at the Fillmores East and West. Quicksilver has been doing this number for some years. Now they have taken Bo Diddley’s horror story and come back with one of the best rock and roll recordings to emerge from San Fransisco, a performance that captures all the excitement and grandeur of the great days of the scene in a way that is almost too fine to be real. If rock and roll really will stand, as the Showman sang, it will be music like this that makes it that way.
Quicksilver goes into it at full speed. John Cipollina’s guitar alternately harsh and sweet, clashing with Gary Duncan’s rhythm, Greg Elmore’s drumming simple and solid, never an iota of sloppiness, not a note missed. They use the infamous Bo Diddley rhythm not as a crutch, not as something for the rhythm section to play with while the lead takes it; Quicksilver finds dimensions of that “bump bubby bump bump-bump bump” beat that no one has even suggested before, as a motif or a bridge, as an idea rather then as a pattern.
The vocals are wild and screaming, like on the first Moby Grape album, but with singing constantly jerked in like a zipper pulled hard. This combination of vocal anarchy and almost vicious timing pushes everything just past that point where one thought the limits were.
Describing this song is almost like trying to explain the plot of a movie by Godard; it opens with some of the finest hard rock ever recorded, then moves fast through a Bloomfield-like solo by Gary Duncan (but with an edge on it). Then into an interlude of yelling and shouting by the audience, the participation of the listeners almost like a “found object” out of Dada, a beautiful example of the kind of communication rock and roll is all about. Cipollina takes over again, the excitement flashes, and finally David Freiberg and his bass slowly take it apart and put it back together, with chilling words whispered and hissed out to the audience-”graveyard mind…don’t mind dyin’”- the tension builds and they hit it all at once, guitars harder and harder. Elmore pounding, voices screaming, everything working. By the time the band yells “Bye!” to the audience it’s just not to be believed.
Posted under Music & Singers
This post was written by admin on May 23, 2009
So I went to Oakland on Wednesday to do a meeting for my new job — the one I haven’t started yet. The day before, I figured, what the heck; I’m set to fly up there and back the same day, my new job doesn’t start for another week, and the old one is on cruise control . . . I should just hang out up there for a little R & R.
I pulled up Google Maps and scanned the area: what could I do within 100 miles of Oakland? I eliminated San Francisco right off because I’ve been there and done that and didn’t care much for it. I seriously considered Russian River, but quickly discovered that all of the campgrounds were full — and at that time I was planning to camp to save $$$. The it struck me: I’ve never seen Big Sur!
I extended my plane ticket, abandoned the camping idea and found a cheap motel within jumping off distance: Salinas (home of John Steinbeck).
Thursday I drove down beyond Big Sur, to Lucia Lodge. It is everything I’ve ever heard it was: breathtaking and awe inspiring. God was having a very good day when he made Big Sur.
Friday I went to Monterey and did the 17 mile drive, which is also awe inspiring, as much for the houses as for the scenery. Then I toured the Carmel Mission and drove out to Point Lobos. Wow. Point Lobos was a complete surprise. It’s like Big Sur in miniature: easy hikes through breathtaking scenery. On a path through a cypress grove I came upon a group of deer, probably six of them. They were far too trusting, allowing me to get within a few feet for photos.
Today I’m going to drive over to Mission San Juan Bautista and then down to Pinnacles Park, hopefully to see some Condor.
My no-tell Motel in Salinas has been ok. The bed makes my back sore, but other than that it’s adequate. Salinas itself is interesting. It’s an agricultural center just 20 minutes from the glitz of Monterey. I’ve had some difficulty finding things to do in the evening . . . but thankfully my YMCA membership is good here and the Padres have been on a winning streak. I’ve pretty much done those two things each evening.
Posted under Travel
This post was written by admin on May 23, 2009
All of this New Orleans stuff. Ok: I admit it: I’m rewriting and inventing lots of little vignettes as I work toward creating my piece (!) about New Orleans. It’s a story with lots of crazy shit going on and then a murder and then a mystery with an undertone of romance. All of these little snippets are me working out my characters and key elements of plot.
But I’m trying to write a chunk about having a 3 way with a MF couple, said 3 way introducing a key character in working out the mystery later on, and I’m finding it hard to know what everyone says next.
I think I just need to chill for a few days.
And that’s what I’m going to do. I have a business meeting in Oakland tomorrow and this morning, I changed my return flight to Sunday, reserved a car and a hotel room in Monterey. I’m going to go explore Big Sur, a place I’ve never seen.
I expect spiritual mountains to move within me. I expect to still the stormy waters of my recent history and find a renewed focus and energy. I expect to emerge from this Memorial Day weekend a more grounded and capable human being.
The best thing about staying in Monterey is that you’re an hour from Big Sur, an hour and a half from San Jose, and about the same from San Francisco. I can see me crawling all over that magical coast during the day and then racing up to the bars and baths in the evening. Ah, yes: I smell adventure.
And I bet the change of scenery and focus will have me once again chopping away at my magnum opus. We’ll see.
Posted under Travel
This post was written by admin on May 19, 2009
(I wrote this some time ago but just re-read it this morning and found it quite interesting, so I’m reposting it. It’s an alphabetical list. Enjoy!)
All STDs would be cured with aspirin and warm salt water gargles
Bad would be . . . just bad
Barbra Streisand would retire
Before acting, people would consider the implications of their actions and the impact they may have on others
Bill and Monica would never have been discovered
Broadway shows would be inventive, exciting and memorable
Cars would run on dreams and prayers
Computers would respond to thoughts
Every guy would have something interesting to say
Everyone everywhere would ‘think it possible (they) may be wrong’
Everyone would be on vacation
Everyone would have skin like velvet
Farts would smell like freshly baked bread
Friends could share sex without getting all weird
George W. Bush would be the dog catcher in Pittsview, Alabama
Gone with the Wind could be read in as much time as it takes to watch the movie
Grace would be more than a sitcom character
Haircuts would cost five dollars
It would be possible to achieve the kind of happiness my dog enjoys
It would snow for two days and then be instantly tropical for three days and then rain for two days and then repeat
Money would grow in my mailbox
My upstairs neighbor would have put a sound absorbing underlayment down before installing hardwood floors
Nobody would be allergic to peanut butter
Nobody would care about the personal lives of celebrities
Nobody would ever need glasses
One could become fluent in a new language in a week
One pair of jeans would be enough
Parents would delight in their children no matter who they are or what they do
People would apologize for the unintentional inflicting of psychic or physical pain
People would aspire to be good followers rather than bad leaders
People would dress UP to go OUT
People would type less and talk more
Religion would be taboo but faith would be required
Republicans would bake themselves into a giant Scrooge pie and mail it to Mars
S&M would stand for Suzie and Mike who live down the block
Sex and Love would be discrete events that may or may not occur simultaneously
Size wouldn’t matter ‘cause everyone would be large
Smart would be cool
Stan Marsh would be a Supreme Court Justice
Sweating would feel good
Talent would easily manifest
Telephones would only be used for setting appointments
The ’07 Padres would be World Champs
There would be a forest 30 minutes from anywhere
There would be enough food and water
There would be few enough people so that every person was precious
There would be no electoral college
There would be no parking meters
Time would slow for the good times and speed up for the bad times
Waterfalls would be mandatory
We would know the secret functions of our gall bladder, appendix and tonsils
Whether anything comes of it or not, the only reaction to being hit upon would be to be flattered
Windows wouldn’t crash
Wine would make you smarter
Women wouldn’t drive or go to the same gyms as men
You could get anywhere in the world in an hour and a half
Posted under Deep Thoughts
This post was written by admin on May 17, 2009
“Michael!” I proclaimed when he answered the phone.
“Um . . Yes?” he resonded.
“I’m coming, Michael! I’m coming!” I shrieked.
“Well, heah . . . lemme put down a coupla Chux uh something” he chuckled, then, “Who in the world is this?”
“It’s meee, Jack!” I shouted, “And I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon!”
“Oh, my my my . . . I shoulda known . . . Nobody else I know would evah call screaming that kind of . . . of. . . sexual . . . bravado.”
“I can’t help it if you have boring friends,” I said. “And besides, it’s only ‘cause I love you, I really do.”
“Really?” he came back, “I’ve seen you fall in love with inanimate objects aftah about four Abita Beers . . . and a coupla Hennessey chasahs, so don’t you be talkin trash bout how much you love me an all. Wheah y’all stayin’ this time?”
“I’m with Miss Opal, of course,” I answered.
“Really, Jackie . . .I do think you could affoahd something a little bettah than tha-yat. . . I mean, Le Richlieu is only what? Like three times as much? You can affoahd it.”
“Of course, but Miss Opal’s is so well located,” I said, ”And she leaves me a praline and a condom every night . . . on my pillow.”
“Have it youah way,” he sighed. “You need a ride from the ayahport? Doesn’t mattah if you do . . . They impounded my caah last week for unpaid parkin tickets, the bastartds!”
“That’s ok: I wouldn’t make you drive all the way out there anyway. . . and why don’t y ou go get your car? “I asked,” how much do you owe?”
“Oh, don’t ask!” he answered,”Like about foah hunret dollahs er somethin.”
“Damn, Michael,” I spat,”What the hell’s up with that?”
“Well,” he began,”I kept finding these note things on my win-shield, and I just figured it was a prank or a mistake or something so I just kept tearing them up and throwing them away. How was I supposed to know I was parkin in the wrong places?”
“Signs, Michael, Signs,” I answered.
And so we bantered for a few minutes and finally agreed to meet at Jewel’s Bar on Decatur Street the next night. Jewel’s was special to Michael and I: we met there on a soggy Sunday afternoon several years earlier. It was special for many people. I’ve met more than one who claims to have lost his virginity on one of the pool tables. And the bathroom . . the bathroom was . . . amazing. A claw foot tub served as a trough style urinal and it was not unusual to find a patron, stripped down to skin, flopped out in the thing inviting golden showers from the beer-filled throng that filed through. This was particularly fun for Michael as his pee hole was actually on the top of his penis, facing up, so that when he pissed he made a lovely arched fountain rising in the air and then crashing down in a loud splatter.
But the most remarkable thing about Jewel’s was the mural. It was located across from the dimly lit bar: a sea scene, a derelict ship in a storm, its sails torn and flying in the wind. On deck, one figure was dimly visible, a woman in a dingy white dress, her brown hair flying from left to right, across her face and off in the breeze. It was said that at times, when the city was soggy in its most sultry summer humidity, when the mix being spun by the DJ was particularly hot, when most everyone in the place was smashed that she would leave her post on deck, walk off the wall and out into the room and up to the bar and order a drink. Then she’d vanish. I never saw this myself, but I must admit: something about the mural made me shudder. It was just . . . odd.
The afternoon I met Michael that first time, there was a beer bust in progress. The street out front was filled with parked motorcycles and the crowd inside, bikers and tourists and staggering locals, was flying high. I had somehow scored a seat at the bar and began talking to the man next to me. He was. . . Old. He just read . . . old. He was very thin and wrinkled and had long hair, parted slightly off center, hanging to his shoulders. As we talked I started to see him as an old sea dog, a sailor, an old salt, haggard and dried by the endless sea. Turned out he was none of these things. He was just a New Orleans native who rarely worked, loved to drink and fancied himself a writer. He was also younger than me, by about ten years.
We stumbled around the French Quarter that afternoon, running into friends of his in place after place. Eventually we took a cab to his house in the Warehouse District. It was a falling down two story mess with peeling siding and knee high weeds out front.
“Now, this is a work in progress,” he said as we stepped out of the cab and stopped to take in the neglected structure. “Michael and I bought it for nothing, moved in and then broke up.”
“Michael?” I asked.
“What?” he answered.
“No . . . I mean, who is Michael?”
“Oh, he was my lovah for about five years.” He paused for a minute then a widening grin began to bloom on his face. “After we moved in here, he realized he hated this house and then he realized he hated me. Now he lives somewhere over in Hattiesburg.”
“Hmm. That’s too bad,” I said.
“No, not really,” he replied, still grinning and wagging his head from side to side. “It was just too much trouble havin the same name. People would call on the phone and I’d never know who they wanted to speak to. It’s much easier now.”
The front door was held shut by a chain and padlock that clicked open when Michael retrieved the key from the mailbox. There was a long hall that ran the length of the place form front door to back: this was a two storey shotgun shack. I could see two and then three small dark bodies coming toward us from the back of the house: cats.
“You’re not allergic to pussey’s are you?” Michael asked.
“Not the four legged variety,” I replied. One of the cats walked around us and out the front door. The other two entwined themselves around our ankles, purring and twisting in lopsided figure eights.
“This one is Precious,” he said,” And that one is Francine. The one that went outside is Butch. We probably won’t see him until tomorrow.”
My eyes were adjusting to the darkness of the place. All of the doors were closed and the only light coming in came from the one open room about half way down the hall, a dining room, and from the back room which I presumed to be a kitchen. I watched the dust gliding in the two shafts of light that broke the darkness. Michael reached to his left and opened the door to the front room.
“Go get comfortable,” he said, “I’ll get a coupla beers.”
I switched on the light and found it was a large bedroom with a fireplace and was in remarkably good shape compared to what I’d seen of the rest of the house. It was freshly painted and the floor had been refinished. The furniture had a worn thrift store feel about it but had been quality stuff at one time. I was looking at a photo on the dresser, a picture of a hugely obese child with a big gummy smile and squinty eyes when Michael came in.
“Who’s this?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s my niece, Tina,” he answered, “but we all call her Tiny.” I felt the laughter rising in me and clamped hard to hold it in. Michael was completely deadpan.
“We’re all so proud of her – she’s very gifted,” he continued.
“Oh?” I asked. I was thinking her gift must have something to do with food or eating or something like that. The child was gigantic.
“She does very well in all her subjects at school but her real talent is ballet.” Instantly I had an image of this enormous girl in tights bulling her way through Swan Lake. I was in pain now suppressing the giggle. I cleared my throat and forced myself to think about how sad it was that such a gifted child was crippled by her own weight.
“These are her parents” he said, taking another frame from the bedside table. “That’s my sister Lonnie and her husband, Ronnie.” The woman had a massive overbite and half an inch of space between her two tusk like front teeth. Her eyebrows sloped up toward the center of her forehead. She looked like a rabbit with floppy ears. Her husband had the most severe mullet I’d ever seen and his forehead was so large that the rest of his features seemed compressed in the bottom third of his face. I bit the inside of my cheek but could not hold it any longer. I burst into violent laughter, doubling over, the tears leaping out of my eyes. Michael just stood there looking at me, the photo of his sister and her husband in his hand. He reached out and took the photo of Tiny from me and turned, walking back to the bedside table.
“I don’t’ see what’s so funny,” he spat, ”Everybody can’t be as perfect as you.”
“You’re right, Michael, you’re right,” I said, regaining some of my composure but continuing to spasm. “I’m so sorry. It must be the all –day drinking or jet lag or something. That’s the most insensitive thing I’ve ever done.” He was looking right through me now, his right hand on his hip.
“Insensitive! That’s an understatement.” He looked away. “Bad things happen to people with attitudes like that. Karma. I hope someday somebody doesn’t throw a bottla acid on you so that you can see what it’s like to not be one of the beautiful people.”
“Really, Michael, I’m sorry.” I was now back in control of myself and was doing my sincere best to make amends and get around this.
“Uh-Huh. I hear ya. But, Jack, are ya really sorry?” he asked.
“Yes, Michael, at this moment I am more embarrassed and more genuinely sorry than I’ve ever been in my life, I think. “
“Good!” he smiled, “Cause I’m not related to any of these people.”
“Huh?”
“They’re just awful photos I found on the Internet. I keep them around and make up stories about the people and then freak on folks when they notice them . . . just like I did to you.”
My laughter burst like a scream and I raced at Michael, body tackling him into the bed. We rolled and wrestled there, tickling and kicking and finally relaxing into to a long, slow, lovely kiss. We had sex in that bed that night and a couple more times after that, but we had more fun than we had heat and soon we were on to being good friends.
Posted under Bar Tales, Stories, This Gay Life
This post was written by admin on May 16, 2009
