He sat for the longest time staring blankly into the distance. Finally he saw that there was a way forward. As simple as he was, this insight was astonishing. It had all seemed so difficult and clouded. Now he could barely understand how he had…
Joseph Crachiola is from a small town outside Detroit that got swallowed up by the suburbs (same story for me, except replace Detroit with Chicago). He worked 15 years for suburban Detroit newspapers and 22 years as a corporate photographer before he got bought out and decided to move to New Orleans about 2 years ago. He recently served as road manager for the Pinettes Brass Band in Turkey, and photographed the Umbria Jazz Festival in Perugia, Italy.
My gift was rapped in pink paper and Leah’s was too. The others got green or blue. I can’t remember what color they got but it was not pink. Will you be surprised to know they were boys? I wouldn’t. I wanted the green I really did.
A friend of mine just posted a cool link on Facebook.
Stop the presses!
No, this really is cool. It’s audio from a 1969 Velvet Underground show in Boston, accompanied by images from Godzilla movies. Thanks, Dangerous Minds dot net!
I should also thank my friend Chris in Austin for posting the link. Thanks, Chris!
This particular clip happens to feature “What Goes On,” a nifty tune from the VU’s third album, The Velvet Underground. According to Dangerous Minds, someone put a microphone in Lou Reed’s guitar amplifier that fateful night. The recording is Godzillian, indeed.
No vocals are audible here. Behind the din of Lou’s majestic flailing, you can hear Maureen Tucker playing the drums, and that’s about it.
A Prologue by Alton Reece There’s been a lot of writing about food lately. Three-hundred-page love letters on the glories of sun-dried tomatoes and porcini this and pine nut that. You wouldn’t think anyone could make Italy boring except for Henry James…
3 There is turkey running loose on the deck of our ship. The crew has named it Socrates for reasons having vaguely to do with one of them having read a book once. The turkey is not full grown but neither was it a baby.”Too…
I have always had vivid dreams. My mom remembers me regaling her with them over breakfast. Her usual response was a smile, a shake of the head and the comment, “You have some real weirdies, honey.” I still do.
I woke up this morning after having had a dream about the St. Roch Market. First I need to tell you that I have never been there, not seen it as a seafood and Chinese food place prior to the storm. I have stood staring at it many times since and the building itself has a presence, a personality, one that reaches out wanting to be useful and vibrant. It misses people and voices and laughter. At least that’s what it seems to tell me.
As usual, the trains run late in Italy, so we had about an hour and a half to wait in the railway station. My moment of peace came when my wife and eldest daughter brought me a doppio and went off in search of breakfast….
When I’m in the car and I’m hungry and there’s nothing to eat, I always have my fingernails. Yum yum!
The three of us entered the Tulane University field house where their basketball team played. The bleachers of a not large old wooden building were full on that night in the early eighties. However, it wasn’t basketball we had come to see. It was a…
I was on a state highway in Texas. It was about 10 PM. I listened to the radio for the last 40 miles into Denton.
It sounded like the Texas I knew, all right. Twang, metal, hype. How ‘bout them Cowboys!
I was going to Denton to shoot some videos and record some songs with Bob Hate and Stephen Thomas, roughly two-fifths of The Eddy Band.
Stephen’s first band nickname was so obscene it actually became cool over the years. It was succinct and entirely filthy.
It cannot be written here. But sometimes words you leave out are just as good as words you leave in, I think.
Being cheap has backfired on me a couple of times when my family has left me to deal with all of their luggage. The worst experience came after a fateful night in the Children’s Hospital in Florence, Italy. I wasn’t the one that was ill, but rather it was my youngest daughter who, in spite of my suggestions to drink more water, became dehydrated from the Mediterranean heat and sun. The heat had a disastrous effect on her digestive system, which at the time was swollen with cheap tourist pizza. The more she ate, the less she digested. The situation came to a head the evening before we were scheduled to catch a train to Rome.