The Jazzonian

Jazz is Diversity. Jazz is Democracy.



#Wheelchairistocracy

From the demented mind of Rusty Taylor

Jester and Vocalist for jazz band

Southern Standard Time

A Monthly Newsletter

August 2018

The Jazzonian is a quirky e-newsletter published monthly unless the author is somehow incapacitated. It details the growing jazz scene in Columbus, Georgia and the surrounding Chattahoochee Valley, written exclusively by Rusty Taylor, a Mercer alumnus and the quadriplegic jester-singer for the vocal jazz band Southern Standard Time. The newsletter takes a rhetorical approach to current events from the point of view of a progressive student of Life who, for thirty-two years and counting, has been unable to perform even the most rudimentary acts of daily living.

But he can write... and sing.



Important Notice

The Columbus Jazz Society is planning a monthly jazz jam in the Columbus, Georgia area. Please give us some feedback on the best days and times by the completing the 5 minute survey from the link below:

https://form.jotform.com/81991852039163 

Pass this along to anyone you know that may be interested in live jazz.

Points of Interest

in this week's issue

Salutations

Greetings!...

Before we begin, I must apologize for the premature sending of a skeletal August issue of The Jazzonian last month. It was a mistake. I am a staff of one. I have no one else to blame for the typos, incorrect syntax, and all the unforced errors that are all too common within the dissemination of this newsletter that can be effectively described as “aureate commentary written in a fairly unique style that is enjoyed by only a few who dig an artistic expression that is challenging and fun.” However, I have been adulated recently by a few fans who seem to really dig my abstruse style. I would like to thank you, dear readers, for inspiring me to continue this labor of love, so… let us begin:

Greetings fellow Jazzonians, and welcome to the official August edition of our monthly e-newsrag of yellow journalism disseminated with the intent of spreading good vibes about Jazzonian reality that emphasizes peace, love, diversity, and communication between jazz enthusiasts (active listener and musician alike)… oh, and to strongly disparage the participants in the current attack on our nation’s founding principles, vituperative commentary brought to you by the anticipated feeling that major economical and political changes are about to happen within the boundaries of our planet’s macrocosm. Before we get into all that, July was a groovy musically inspired month.

On Saturday, July 7, 2018, I was invited to sing for the 28th Anniversary celebration of the passage of ADA, the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990, sponsored by the Fulton County Commission on Disabilities, Abel 2, Inc., and wonderful volunteers. It was an awesome program of artists ranging in disparate disabilities performing a wide range of artistic genres from comedy, singing, rap, to a wonderful Elvis impersonator who is autistic--incidentally, he brought down the house... metaphorically. The building is still intact...

The Fulton County Commission sponsored the talent showcase of individual artists with disabilities and was emceed by comedian Jessie Simms. Jessie has Cerebral Palsey but he is funny, which works out great; it helps one's career as a comedian if he is funny. Fo' mo' info on Jessie, visit his facebook page by clicking here .  I am honored to have been chosen to sing for the event (that was videoed, so there exists evidence of this performance somewhere on the planet). Atlanta pianist Darren Winters accompanied me, which makes me beam with pride because he is a really remarkable musician and a wonderful man. Incidentally, the county commissioner chairman Robb Pitts was present, and he dug my interpretation of Hoagy Carmichael’s “Georgia On My Mind,” so much so that he asked me to sing it for their upcoming meeting; unfortunately, there wasn’t time enough to work out the logistics, but maybe another opportunity will manifest from this.

The celebration was so groovy.

In 2010 Jessie Simms signed a contract with John Roberts Power, which is the owner of one of Americas top talent agencies named “Starz 2 Be”. Right now Jessie is pursuing his career as an entertainer taking different opportunities to appear in various movies, television shows, and all forms of entertainment. He is also working on bringing out his new movie and stage play to take around the world

DEVIN “DELVIS” LANNING came to my attention when, as Board Chairman of the Georgia Music Industry Association, I was asked to Judge a group of Talented Independent Artists throughout a six week contest. From the moment that DELVIS came to the stage and the music started, I knew there was something special about this 13 year old boy. His voice was amazing and sounded exactly like Elvis Presley even at such a young age; AND, DELVIS had ALL the”Elvis Moves” down pat too. 

The audience as well as the Judges were stunned by this young boy who was so obviously talented. BUT, what we didn’t know until he made his way into the Finals of the competition was that DELVIS is Autistic and has been dealing with his Autistic Challenges since birth. 

Only after he completed the contest, was I made aware of the fact that DELVIS did not speak until he was almost 4 years old, and it was at this age that he began his connection with Elvis Presley. As DELVIS began speaking, he ALSO began singing Elvis Presley Songs!! To this day, his parents do not know how DELVIS became aware of “THE KING’S” Music as they did not play any of it in their home.

Fulton County Commission Chairman Robb Pitts with vocalist Rusty Taylor at the 28th Anniversary Celebration of ADA in Atlanta

The jazz jams at Eighth and Rail have been really groovy lately. The crowds have been just short of ridiculously animated, not like cartoons but with the unbridled enthusiasm of a two-year old bolt of lightning. Young people, people with more life experience, pulchritudinous people to offset people like I who are aesthetically impaired, tall people, people who are vertically challenged, endomorphic and ectomorphic body types, but they all come to actively listen to jazz played by some of the planet’s most talented musicians starting with the Jane Drake Band: Jane Drake (vocals), Taylor Pierce (guitar), Coleman Woodson III (keys), and Eric Buchanan (drums). £

Photo of weekly jazz jam at Eighth and Rail in Opelika, Alabama hosted by the Jane Drake Band, a photo by Auburn artist (and aspiring torch singer) Teresa Rodriguez. Pictured above from left to right: Nick Johnson (sax), Patrick Davis (percussion), Taylor Pierce (guitar), Eric Buchanan (drums), Coleman Woodson III (keys), Rusty Taylor (vocals), Burdette Burks (flute, vocals), and Jane Drake (vocals and jam host)

Every July, the Auburn Knights Orchestra celebrates its anniversary, which is groovy for the Eighth and Rail’s jazz jam because some of the alumi musicians stay over and join our regular group of weekly jazzonian dreamscape jammers. I’m sure that I’ll forget a few, but last month’s jammers included Jonathon Harms (guitar); Nick Johnson (sax); Dan Mackowski (guitar, although he has been bringing a slide guitar that has given the jam a slightly different feel that adds to the music’s intrigue); Kathy Roberts (vocalist); Burdette Becks (vocals and flute); Ryan (trumpet), an Auburn Night alum; a Dark-haired woman bassist from out-o’-town; Chris Helms (sax), Patrick Davis (percussion); Robert Morgan (guitar); Elwood Madeo (guitar); David Morgan (drums), Sam Williams (sax), and, of course, the irrepressible Teresa Rodriguez (who has also sung with the Hot Club of Auburn at Piccolo’s and pictured below.)

Teresa Rodriguez singing with the Hot Club of Auburn at Piccolo's in Auburn: Patrick Bruce (guitar), Dan Campbell (violin), Jason deBlanc (bass).

Oh yeah, I’ve been going to the weekly jam for a few years now. Back when I started, the audience was, well… sparse, so I got to do a lot of singing for a few loyal listeners. The jam now has a steady, really groovy crowd each week. I’m not sure if I contributed to the increase in the number of listeners we now have, but the optics give that appearance, so I am encouraged to sing two songs per the three sets allotted… unless, of course, the number of visiting musicians dictates a more equitable sharing of stage time, which are the jams I love most; the more musicians, the better; it’s the musician/listener relationship that makes Tuesday evening in Opelika, Alabama such an endearing experience.

Of course, I am aware of four area jams: Eighth and Rail (in Opelika, hosted by the Jane Drake Band), Venkman’s (in Atlanta, hosted by Joe Gransden), Red Café Lounge (in Atlanta, hosted by Gordon Vernick), and Brin’s Wings (in Montgomery, hosted by Coleman Woodson II). The Columbus Jazz Society is slowly stirring back into action; hopefully, it will re-establish its monthly jam. All in all, area jazz jams are a cost-friendly, really creative and groovy time. Each are a gas.

* * *

Piccolo’s Lounge is couched within the hallowed halls of the Auburn Hotel and Conference Center in Auburn, Alabama, a cozy li’l carpeted lounge with a televised fireplace, couches, overstuffed chairs, tables, and an aura of academic erudition. Three black and white portraits of Louis Armstrong, Lester Young, and Dizzy Gillespie hang from the wall beside a grand piano that sits on a slightly elevated stage. For Friday and Saturday evening entertainment (except during college football season when Auburn University has a home game), a cat named Tim Chambliss books jazz acts.

On July 20, 2018, the Hot Club of Auburn played at Piccolo’s. These cats play the swing music associated Django Reinhardt. An Atlanta cat named L. A. Tuten played bass, Patrick Bruce sang and played guitar, Dan Campbell sawed the violin, and Taylor Pierce played guitar; these guys were awesome. Every time I hear them I leave the building with an exhilarated and heightened perception of reality. These cats massage my soul with the furry warmth of a flocculent, purring kitten.

The world seems to be hanging precariously from an unstable precipice overlooking razor-jagged pugnacity; dark clouds of uncertainty loom ominously over our national conscience like the asphyxiating smog that choked Los Angeles in the 70s. Perspicacity is attacked by a nearly insignificant sect of individuals too lazy or unmotivated to improve their cognitive abilities so they childishly attack erudition by parroting simplistic sound bites with language that imitates a three-year old’s demand for chocolate ice cream for breakfast. Fortunately, area supporters of music, art, literature, and scientific methodology can find temporal sanctuary at the area jazz jams that populate our moiety. The Jazz Revolution is gaining momentum, so join in the fun; it could salvage your emotional salubrity.

Peace Through Music

__________________

£ Unfortunately, Eric Buchanan has recently undergone visceral surgery and shall be incapacitated for a while. I am sure you will join me in sending positive energy to Eric and his family, especially his wife Akiko, who will undoubtedly feel the challenges that Eric’s physical nemesis actuates.



Your copy should address 3 key questions: Who am I writing for? (Audience) Why should they care? (Benefit) What do I want them to do here? (Call-to-Action)

Create a great offer by adding words like "free" "personalized" "complimentary" or "customized." A sense of urgency often helps readers take an action, so think about inserting phrases like "for a limited time only" or "only 7 remaining!"

Abel 2, Inc.

Mission Statement: To enhance the Quality of Life of People with Disabilities and the Under-served by Creating Music and Arts opportunities for Employment and Enjoyment!



​

Abel 2 wants you to promote your talent!

We are in the process of building a database of performing artists with disabilities who reside in the Southeast. Send us the contact name and information on our "Contact Us" page or email us at [email protected]. Be sure to include your talent, level of experience, head shot, and video of one of your performances. Click on banner for more info. Myrna Clayton - pictured above - is Artistic/Executive Director of Abel2. Click her photo to access her facebook page.

Bad Jokes of the Month

How do you get two piccolo players to play in perfect unison?

Shoot one.

Did you hear about the guitarist who was in tune?

Neither did I.

What do you call a guitarist who breaks up with his girlfriend?

Homeless.

How do you get a guitar player off of your front porch?

Pay for the pizza.

A Joke/Pun I Recently Made Up

When an Asian gnat becomes one with the universe, it has attained the highest level of insectival nirvana, a state of spiritual purification called Budapest … She then realizes that Nirvana can only be attained in the country of Hungary. (Thank you. I’ll be here all week… don’t forget to tip your waitron and your favorite bartender.)



Tweets of the Month

There are, unfortunately, too many people who still support Trump and his meretricious agenda even after he metaphorically fellated Vladimir Putin in Helsinki; their supremely cultic fawning for the false bravado of an overt coward is as obvious as black and white… the colors, not a racial pejorative. Their rhetorical obsequies are simply a very misguided attempt to maintain the appearance of a soi-disant perspicacity that, in reality, doesn’t exist. They are just stupid. #RussianSympathizers 

—@SSTJazzVolcalist

Trumpeters for Trump are the metaphoric sheep that are following a pernicious shepherd toward the abattoir of their own destruction. Ironically, the badly coiffed herder is a buffoonish vulpine carnivore sartorially arrayed in ovine dissemblance, i.e. Trump is a state-propagandized fox in sheep’s clothing. #RussianSympathizers 

—@SSTJazzVolcalist

My parents’ great-grandchild recently visited. His name is Rydruh D. Storm, and he is just over two-years old, a bundle of nearly endless energy that vacillates between sheer joy and unadulterated rage as easily as DJ Trumpster tweets pejorative messages that derogates the physical inadequacies of others while totally ignoring his own culpable weaknesses both in character and physique. My brother, Rydruh’s grandfather, is a lumbering bear with a huge heart, and it is the most honest joy to watch his grandson’s eyes sparkle with ecstatic happiness accompanied by a shrill cry of elation that liquefies ear wax—which slowly effuses from the auditory organ’s eustachian tube—when he sees his grandfather and then dramaturgically hugs his trunk-like thigh. I can’t imagine how I would feel if I were my brother, whom I love dearly, and someone snatched away Rydruh from my life to have him returned months later only to have that child fear me or to reject me so totally that he prefers the comfort of the foster mother who had comforted the child during the separation.

—@SSTJazzVocalist

Trump is not a Russian puppet; he’s a Muscovite Marionette, and Putin is the puppeteer controlling more than Dumpty-Trumpty’s mouth, he also delicately controls the demagogue's movements.

#RussianSympathizers 

—@SSTJazzVocalist

If Jesus had been a conservative, there would be no Christian religion today. Donald J[ackanapes] Trump and his avid supporters are the contemporary personifications of the ultra-conservative Pharisees and #sad Sadducees of biblical history. Jesus was a progressive who changed the antiquated theology of the Old Testament, converting the status quo into a more progressive ideology that included the gentiles who had been previously ostracized. Jesus never said anything about homosexuality. Stop using his philosophy to justify evil intentions.

—@SSTJazzVocalist

One reason that #MuscoviteMarionette is having success despite his obvious lack of empathy and mental acuity is because he has formidable foreign intercession; unfortunately, this international imposition is from despotic nations like China, Russia, and North Korea while our traditional allies, especially Albion and Canada, are treated as adversaries. No wonder the flaccid zephyr of verbally bellicose incoherency is so ignorantly confident; however, Robert Mueller and his army of mermidonic intellectual warriors will take down the #MuscoviteMarionette as easily as a squad of Navy Seals can subdue a pack of Cub Scouts. #RussianSympathizers 

—@SSTJazzVocalist

It wouldn’t surprise me if Mueller’s internal investigation of Russian influence in the 2016 U.S. Presidential Election uncovers indictable evidence of malfeasance when George W[ar Criminal] Bush the Lesser allowed Saudi Arabian delegates safe passage out of the United States immediately after the infamous attack on the World Trade Center and Pentagon. 

—@SSTJazzVocalist

Jews and other minorities were the “undesirables” during Nazi-occupied Germany, and they were used as forced labor to build secret airports and warehouses and such. Immigrants, the LGBT community, women who have abortions (but who cannot afford the luxury to travel abroad to civilly eliminate their unwanted pregnancies while exculpating the men who impregnated them), and people of color are the GOP’s current “undesirables.” It wouldn’t surprise me if the immigrant children who have been savagely separated from their parents are building Donald Trump’s insipid wall to barricade our nation against Mexican immigrants falsely indentified as enemies of the state. #RussianSympathizers 

—@SSTJazzVocalist

God is omnipotent. This means that she has unlimited power. The bible, according to some, is the irrefutable word of God penned by God herself, and therein lies some of my confusion: Genesis states that God created the Universe in six days and on the seventh day God rested. Why would she need to rest if she had unlimited power?

—@SSTJazzVocalist

The fact that we, as white people, don’t have to look at the optics of any situation, the way things like racial diversity and setting (i.e. having a news conference in Aspen, Colorado but having few, if any, reporters of color)… the fact that we translucently pigmented humans don’t have to consider optics is an indisputable boon of white privilege.

—@SSTJazzVocalist

The climax in the corruption of our nation’s current interpretation of capitalistically influenced democracy (wherein unconscionable amounts of money tilt the balance of political power (and control) in favor of big business at the expense of the influence of the average citizen, which is the cornerstone of a true democracy that considers common people the primary source of political power, i.e. majority rule) will happen when Vladimir Putin no longer needs the influence of Trump’s presidential usurpation, and Trump ends up the sacrificial expiation to the muscovite Moloch (for the benefit of any Trump supporter who may be inadvertently reading this essay, Moloch is a metaphor for Putin) after drinking polonium tea… possibly in Albion.

#RussianSympathizers 

—@SSTJazzVocalist

Our government “of the people, for the people, and by the people” is morphing into an exclusive administration that ludicrously and nearly exclusively enriches people who irrationally support the Capitalistic exploitation of terrestrial resources that benefit the baronial minority. What our country needs now is a revolution based on the reduction of authoritarian autarchy and gives a voice to the majority of the disparate public denizens. #RussianSympathizers 

—@SSTJazzVocalist

Be careful for what you wish. This aesopic apothegm has been literarily assayed since, at very least, the sixth century before the common era when King Midas commanded the headlines of the ancient journalistic newspaper called the Grecian Picayune . It is also an underlining theme of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s novel about a carbon-animated experiment that slips from the control of its creator to ultimately destroy the scientist who created him. Paul Manaforte recently complained to his judge that his prison cell was too confining for him to effectively prepare for his upcoming trail, and he requested for better prison conditions. The judge then acquiesced and arranged to move him to a less restrictive incarceration, which Manaforte quickly rejected. Seems that his previous confinement was viewed by himself as a country club in which he was not required to wear prison attire, in which he had a spacious work area away from other prisoners, and had access to computers that he exploited to send out unauthorized emails. The judge moved him to the second more restrictive prison against his will.

—@SSTJazzVocalist

Groovy Area Jazz Programs

Schwob Jazz Orchestra (Columbus State University)

Alabama State University

Auburn Knights

Augusta University

Berry College

Emory College of Arts and Sciences

Florida State University

Georgia State University

Georgia Southern University

Jacksonville State University

Kennesaw State University

Valdosta State University

University of Alabama

University of Alabama at Birmingham (UAB)

University of Georgia

University of South Alabama

University of West Georgia

Autobiographical Essays

Unintentional Masquerade

Crippledom. The word is a noun that sadly connotes, promotes, and strongly encourages nearly insignificant, ultra-provincial, minutely microcosmic, and chronically monochromatic negative imagery, but this ignorant connection of paralysis to lugubrious expectations is not, for me, a reality understood by my personal experience. My paralysis is almost always surrounded by ineffable thaumaturgy as that witnessed during every seasonal change. Life is merely the opportunity to react positively to the unexpected. And the choice is... everyone’s. Every now and then, I try to challenge a perceived veracity. Why can’t crippledom be fun?

Crippledom is rarely laughed at but is rife with comic possibilities. What if somebody confined to a wheelchair falls out her electronically energized metal horse? Depends on whether it’s a drama or comedy. My college professor, Dr. Steve Bluestone, once told me that the difference between a drama and a comedy can be demonstrated by a man’s tripping and falling to the ground. If the scene is a closeup, the pain in the man’s visage creates a dramatic event; the audience empathizes with the man. If the scene is envisioned from afar, the scene becomes more comic; the audience is purposely separated from the emotional connections; laughing is then easier.

It would be so groovy to watch a sitcom with the setting of a bustling city sidewalk: two characters are discussing the sundry aspects of their lives when a paraplegic navigates her wheelchair too close to the edge of a curb on the other side of the street, tips over, and falls (unnoticed by everything but the camera) into water that has stagnated in the gutter on the side of the street―the two characters continue their discourse without ever acknowledging the incident that in reality would cause as much commotion as two epileptic lizards dancing to Glenn Miller’s In The Mood . Now that’s funny! but you’ll never see it because of a fear quickened by demagogic pedagogy used to obfuscate unfounded social dogma to sterilize our society, a herded skein of sycophantic ovine supplicants who graze hypnotically in pastureland programmed in life-like detail on electronic games that desensitizes the flock to graphic violence but a society that must, ironically, revert to calling a crippled boy by the appellation of physically challenged because the former appellation might offend annoyingly moral sensitivities.

Yes, I have thus far in my life of paralysis fallen out of my wheelchair on two occasions and have fallen out of my Hoyer Lift twice. A Hoyer Lift (pictured below) is a tool with a hydraulic pump that uses chains connected to an extended arm and to a net that is placed underneath my fleshy hind end; the pump is then used to raise me up so that I may transfer from my bed to my wheelchair and visa-verse without causing permanent back damage to whomever is helping me. It’s really like a lift on the docks that transfers cargo to a ship but instead of bananas from Guam, the Hoyer transfers my fat ass.

The first time I fell from my Hoyer lift was when I was living in the infamous Columbia Apartments in Decatur, Georgia. I was getting ready for bed while, ironically, the Slam Dunk Competition for the NBA’s All-Star Weekend was on television. The person who was helping me was a really effete dude, but I knew him from my days at Shepherd Spinal Center, where he still worked; he was very personable, affable, congenial, and smartly dressed; most importantly, he was very concerned with my well being. He had come to me at a time when I was not having much luck with my attendant care, and we got along really well. I am still very fond of him.

After he pumped me up in the Hoyer lift so high in the stratosphere that I grew dizzy from the lack of oxygen, something happened and I came crashing down to the ground with the force comparable to the energy created by the flatulent expulsion from an exceedingly corpulent man after his rapid mass consumption of a recipe that includes volatile chili peppers of varying sizes, colors, and heat intensity; greasy pork renderings; a five-day old burrito; and semi-chunky milk from the carton with a very questionable expiration date. It happened so quickly that there was no pain (the fact that I have no sensation in over 90% of my body is irrelevant!), but what was really unbelievable was that my friend was determined to try to pick me up without assistance―this really tiny effeminate man was carrying on... hysterically. From the ground, I calmed him down and had him go get help from some neighbors, which he did. This was when Dominique Wilkins unjustly lost to Michael Jordan in the NBA dunking competition, and I can sympathize with Dominique; I didn’t receive appropriate recognition for my slam dunk either!

The second time I fell from the lift was when my father and I went, ironically, to Panacea, Florida. We enjoyed a little bar on Alligator Point (a lounge that no longer exists). The building had an incredible ramp up to the front entrance that was ten or more feet high above the sandy ground. It also had a beautiful back deck that faced the oftimes placid Gulf of Mexico from which I witnessed many breathtakingly beautiful nocturnal vistas. It was the July fourth weekend, and this is where we decided to spend the three days; however, there were no hotel vacancies anywhere around to accommodate us. We ended up bedding down in Tallahassee then driving the thirty or so miles to spend our days nearer the ocean.

Luckily, we found a motel in Florida’s capital city, and it provided beds under which the Hoyer’s base could fit; many beds I’ve used in various motels have a solid base which forbids the use of my Hoyer Lift. When this happens, a two-man transfer must be employed for me to get into bed. Since my father was the only other person from whom I was to receive assistance at this time, it was rather fortunate that the Hoyer could be used. My father pumped me up and swung the Hoyer around so that I was floating above the bed, but something happened and I felt the effects of gravity as I started free-falling toward the bed. In those few infinite seconds neither of us got excited; I was, after all, falling toward the soft bed, but when I hit the mattress, I bounced back upward... towards the oncoming Hoyer Lift, and it came crashing down on my head with the force comparable to the energy created by an exceedingly corpulent man... wait… I’ve already used that metaphor... let’s see... the Hoyer came crashing down on my head with the force comparable to the aromatic energy created by underwater flatulence the morning following an evening of late-night, hasty Krystal hamburger consumption after hours of excessive imbibing. (Now that was a bit too detailed!) Anyway, after my liberal use of vociferous language, we started laughing. It was, after all, funny... well, after the pain subsided.

The two times I fell out of my wheelchair involved my next door neighbors when I lived near Lake Bottom Park in Columbus, Georgia, the Fountain City. I rented a house from a simoniac Baptist preacher who coveted the greenback and used his interpretation of Christianity to buy many houses that he could rent out at exorbitant fees... but I digress. My friend Tom, with whom I attended high school, was grilling steaks out in his backyard, and I strolled over in my wheelchair to experience the elevated testosterone that accompanies my gender and barbecues.

As I came through his gate, I noticed holes in the yard that his dogs had excavated for reasons known only to the canine species but probably deriving from some instinctual preservation for prehistoric mating rituals used by the ancestral male to attract his potential bitch-mate by showing her what a nice hole he could dig, or maybe Tom’s dogs just liked moving dirt. I pulled back on my control lever so that my wheelchair would reverse direction, but the ground was sandy and my wheels lost traction, spinning ineffectively and almost pleading with my chair to back-up out of danger, but my front left well found the hole, and I, once again, felt the effects of gravity as it pulled me toward the earth.

“Here I go!”

It was all I could say, and I said it with such insouciance that the crash must’ve shocked Tom, but he quickly put down his cooking instruments and made me more comfortable on the ground, then he got his wife Diana to help. The really wonderful thing about the whole experience was that they got me back into my chair, arranged my clothes to help me appear less disheveled, and Tom never burned the meat! Tom shall remain evermore in my mind the consummate outdoor gastronome.

The second time I fell out of my chair was at the house that I rented from the cupidinous Baptist preacher, but this time only Tom’s wife Diana was with me. My high school coach and his brothers had built me a long straight ramp that led to the front porch, a front porch I really enjoyed. I was talking to Diana as we approached the ramp, but I missed it with my left wheel, and the wheelchair careened off the lip of the sidewalk, sending me like Icarus to the soft carpet of grass. I remember reading that the definition of flying is to throw one’s self at the ground but to miss it. I didn’t miss the ground, so I guess I wasn’t flying.

“Here I go again.”

I don’t know why, but in situations such as these I don’t get excited.

Diana straightened out my body so that I’d be more comfortable on the ground then phoned my uncle for help. It was a beautiful early spring day, and the sun was graciously warm. Diana went inside and got a blanket and a pillow to make me more comfortable. So there I was, laying supine on the blanket with a pillow under my head, and I was absorbing the sun’s warm embrace, talking amiably with the wife of my good friend. After about twenty minutes Gary Gotterby, a friend of my uncle's, pulled into my driveway. Gary and my uncle had coached together at a local high school, and it was through my uncle that I had met him. My uncle was tied up with work when Diana had called him, so he called Gary and asked him to check on me. Gary and I affably embarked on the casual conversation that spontaneously quickens on almost perfect days such as we were experiencing when Diana asked what method Gary and his friend were going to use to get me back into my chair.

Gary was taken aback because he wasn’t informed that I had fallen; he merely thought I was sunbathing. After the laughter died down, Gary and his friend lifted me into my chair and life was again chary [pun intended]. It was at this time I first realized that there are times I don’t look crippled.

Peace Through Music

Short Story

The Awakening

There’s an intense, irritating bright light shining from the ceiling, and I can barely move… my head, yes… my shoulders and my arms, limited but yes… the rest of my body doesnʼt seem to want to move… doesnʼt want to respond to my kinetic intentions, and I canʼt speak because thereʼs a breathing tube in my throat restricting my vocal cords… I think. Iʼm strapped to a hospital bed, supine, but Iʼm in no pain; in fact, I feel really great, light and foggy, more comforting than disconcerting by any stretch of my imagination, a roiling contentment ameliorating all anxiety and encouraging total mental and corporeal serenity.

I have no idea where I am, but Iʼm not alone… Iʼve been in this, this medical unit… (I guess itʼs medical unit)… longer than I can remember… and certain images and patterns keep repeating in my mind… my dreams… my thoughts… images like the unalterable pellucid light that continually shines from directly above me, hovering incessantly like an over-doting parent… my guardian… or guard… both calming and unnerving in its ubiquity, a single, bright, wide beam streaming straight down from an intense round bulb in a sterile room filled with chrome, white linen, and hypoallergenic instruments. Soft voices from sterile white jackets endlessly flit by in what seems like a steady stream of amicability, each dulcet affirmation reassuring in its encouragement but ominous in its lack of detail. I seem to be continually taking pills and IVs, a fastidious pharmaceutical regiment that dictates the verity of my mindʼs embracing only a few anachronistic images.

What happened to me?

Something is terribly wrong with my left leg. Itʼs swollen to twice its normal size; the outer skin blistered as if burned, and a high fever runs through it, consumes it, colors it a deep burgundy. It is so swollen, my toes look like miniature balloons filled with volatile poisons ready to burst through the taut skin. I fall in and out of consciousness… easily… dreaming an endless series of eerily similar dreams, each new dream begins with my swollen, blistered leg raised and a doctor wearing what appears to be immaculate white, plastic, aeronautic or underwater diving gear—hermetic, impersonal, impenetrable, antiseptic, which I assume is for the doctorʼs safety. Clearly, something very serious is happening. I must be highly contagious; the entire room is a bright white altar to sterility. Everything is clean, shiny, technologically sophisticated. The array of monitors is confusing, but their frenetic flashing and brilliant colors are convincing… and comforting; I must be receiving the very best of care… but why? Iʼm not rich… or worthy. Through the clear mask of the doctorʼs helmet I see her comforting, intense, passionate green eyes, and I hear unmistakable embryonic compassion in her dulcet voice.

Iʼve lost total track of time and am so affected by these goddam pharmaceuticals that I really donʼt care… about the time... anyway I just want all this shit to be over with. I miss Angela. I desperately want to heal… get better… get out of this place. It seems like Iʼm doing the exact same thing I had just done, thinking the same thoughts, living the very same moment… some… time… ago.

I am suddenly very cold… zero to the bone, violent chills painfully sprint across my immobile torso then through my extremities. White flitting nurses glide towards me, covering me with warm, flocculent blankets…

I finally feel a tiny semblance of heat deep within the most distant recesses of my visceral being; the modicum of heat slowly spreads… I feel its incipient warmth encroaching radially through my torso and beyond, like a celestial chord that whistles through summer trees.

I fall asleep.

Suddenly wide awake, I rashly gasp volumes of air, intense heat expelling from my lungs as if from Vulcanʼs billows, a heavy, whistling metal-strengthening heat used by the smithy of the gods to create mythological weaponry. Again, white flitting nurses fly to my side, removing the blankets and bringing me drinks that are refreshingly cool. The heat slowly evanesces and I am reasonably comfortable; I fall asleep… again… and dream.

An old, console television set turns off. The tiny white spec in the middle of the screen slowly dissipates until it finally, almost imperceptibly, disappears, leaving behind a subtle fog that turns into a silvery, dusty moth, fluttering in slow motion within another more pallid light; this misty illumination slowly morphs into the sterile lamp that floats above my supine body.

The pharmaceutical schedule I maintain doesnʼt seem to be helping my leg at all, but it does cradle my consciousness in a satin pillowcase that makes dreaming a premium recreation. Even so, the repetitive series of dreams remind me of my youth and a similar theme of benign, looping iteration.

I am with high school buddies Sean Perry and Tommy Robinson, in Tomʼs apartment doing hits of nitrous oxide. Sean and Tom sit across from me and are staring, ready to observe how the gas will affect me. Suddenly, I shoot out of my body like a bullet. The deliquescent room slides into an amorphous stream of fuzz, streaking vertically, but Tom and Sean remain in focus as the smeared walls speedily pass by, aging in time, frenetically slipping by like a blurred photograph taken at high speeds. I am journeying to the very zenith of our terrestrial boundary, and as I thrust ever higher, Tom and Sean smile ever increasingly at me. My path is true.

Just before I reach the zenith of our sublunary existence, my body aggressively ricochets straight down with the same intensity and speed. Iʼm rapidly falling back toward reality. Sean and Tom, still in focus, slowly lose their smiles as I flash past the point of origin. I am now streaking towards the nadir of terrestrial existence, and as I sink further into oblivion, my anxieties increase.

Despair tightly grips my chest and I plangently cry out in emotional pain, but just as suddenly, I rebound back upwards, reliving the previous journey towards the zenith, only this time I journey just a bit higher, and the smiles of my friends become more intense, as if in recognition that I am about to break on through to the other side and discover reality. Iʼm ecstatically laughing, screeching in delight. This is incredible. My stomach has left my body and I am riotously chaotic. Spent. I will soon understand the Universe… the vast… Universe.

I suddenly stop then shoot back down toward the nadir of existence, again, crashing back into the darkness of ignorance and superstition, coming closer to the end just as I had come so close to what, in retrospect, must have been the beginning. Again, I shoot back upward, the room still a blur and my friends still in focus. I come even closer to the riotous zenith. Back down I plummet, and the yo-yo effect continues, each time getting closer to the zenith as to the nadir, reliving the dichotomous gamut of emotions with each directional change. When I reach the highest point, the point at which I am about to enter into the realm of reality, I see my two friends frown at the realization that I am denied entrance into whatever reality I errantly thought I was destined to discover by unknowable forces beyond our understanding. I see a dingy subtle misty cloud slowly metamorphose into a silvery, dusty moth that instantly flies away. Suddenly, I shoot back downward. Each journey from the zenith to the nadir becomes shorter and less intense until the yo-yo journey finally returns me to my original state. When I come back to myself, at the original point of departure, I look at Tom and Sean who are smiling radiantly at me. They donʼt know the details of the journey I had just taken, but they can tell that I had just concluded a powerful trip.

The dream series continues as I lay in the rigid hospital bed, but semi-lucid thoughts from my past are now commingling with images of my dream series: the wretched leg, flitting white jackets, chrome, and visual monitors with kaleidoscopic symbols convulsing on myriad screen monitors. I think about my youth: Right after I graduated from high school I got a job at a nursing home as an assistant to the men in the Maintenance Department. Mr. Thackery was the head maintenance man; Sonny and Jack worked under him. Mr. Thackery and Sonny were Vietnam vets, and where Mr. Thackery was a no nonsense kind of worker, Sonny was never without a joke. Jack was older, a veteran of WWII, retired from the U.S. Navy. Jack was also an alcoholic. Although everyone knew it, no one mentioned it because Jack seemed harmless. All he did was fix the wheelchairs for the residents in a closet that was just big enough for him and the chair he was working on. Jack stayed in the closet-room until the end of the day, mostly incapacitated in a ever-expanding, wan fog, surreptitiously drinking liquor and fixing wheelchairs.

The images of Jack slowly evanesce into a wavering dream journey, and I melt once again into flocculent somnolence… to dream the eternal nightmare that Hamlet dreads and King Lear curses.

Gently, I am awake… from the dream, again, the television setʼs being turned off. Pellucid light from the angry lamp above shines down steadily, intensely onto my red swollen, blistered, peeling leg. The frenetic monitors flash meaningless symbols, benevolent in their color, and white coats flit like colorless butterflies around the equipment. The doctor looks at me with her intense, compassionate eyes. She puts her finger over the hole in my trachea, and I realize that I can now speak.

“Whatʼs up?” I whisper.

“Well, weʼre about to try another antibiotic. Hopefully, this one will work.”

“This infection seems to be a humdinger.”

“Yes, weʼve never seen anything like it before.”

“Really? Have you consulted any other doctors?”

I notice the CDC on her lapel.

“Iʼm sorry, son. Weʼre your final appeal.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Shhh. I need to run this final test.”

The word final floats above my mindʼs eye like the words spoken to Alice from the hookah-toking caterpillar in Wonderland; the pharmaceutical effects help the word dance to the beat of my heart. I know that the doctor is doing her best, but what if she isnʼt good enough. If this is the final test, I will either awaken with my leg propped up and the curing process in its initial stages, or I will dream of the television setʼs being turned off for one final time.

Then what?

More mind-mending medicine easily eases the anxiety that has been fluttering through me like a mindless butterfly. I think of Jack… fixinʼ wheelchairs… bibulously sippinʼ lethean amnesia. Jack spent the latter part of his adult life incognizant of the world around him. Drunk. Unaware that Death was silently waiting. A dusty moth summons me back to my dream, but before I let myself slip into the journey, I think once more about Jack… and envy his drunken ignorance.

By Rusty Taylor © 2005

Upcoming schedule

Peace Through Music

Swan Song: The Grand Ol’ Parties Are Over

Isn’t it ironic? There are people, everyday people meandering through the flora and fauna of the third fairly insignificant planet that orbits the medium-sized sun of our solar system, one of billions of solar systems currently extant within our galaxy, the Milky Way, which is one galaxy in billions of others that humanity has verified over a couple millennia, and these people incubate unfeigned fear that our human species will become subservient to robots in the not-so-distant future. “What’s ironic about that?” I can hear you asking.

We’re already there. Robots have taken over much of our lives. How many hours are we playing video games? How many hours do we spend binge-watching Netflix series? How many deaths can be attributed to texting while driving? Our attention spans are continually filled with hypnotic regularity by computers that only ten years ago seemed like magic.

The entropic citizens of our planet whose physiological manifestations are waning towards ultimate mundane resting inertia effectively paved the way towards our species’ annexation to robotic intentions with the idolatry of the once emotionally overwhelming miracle of television, which, in their youth (and if their families could afford it), ostentatiously ignored the consequences of the rampant conservative social ennui that effectively suckled generic lassitude while emboldening the privileged disposition to become more sedentary and, more detrimentally, to stop thinking. This, obviously, encouraged all the television owners who could afford it to justify protecting their possession against possible culpable subterfuge—by unworthy penury—at all costs because, let’s face it, one family’s owning a television while many other families are unable to afford it, for whatever reason, is beyond prudence or reason.

More poignantly, the vilified laborers who couldn’t afford the mind-numbing electronic audio/visual superfluity didn’t have the leisure time to enjoy the diversion provided by the entertaining delusion that distracts their already thoroughly engaged attentions away from earning a decent living on a “minimum wage” (which is the least amount of money possible for labor that creates egregious wealth for the people who “own” the privilege to be called “emperors” of a corporation, smarmy people who are, more than likely, past their prime and physically incapable of working as hard as the laborers they callously exploit—the idea of providing the most minimal remuneration possible to compensate the assailed laborers for work that is indispensable to the mien of Capitalism is, very simply, legalized and justified slavery).

How is that not favoritism ? And how is “favoritism” not white privilege … the color, not the race… like a white lie ?

What’s a man to do when he owns the only television in his neighborhood? Why, he moves himself and his family into a gated community; that way, he doesn’t have to feel shame when he looks into the eyes of them who can’t afford a television… but even that’s not enough. When he thinks about it, anybody can simply walk through that gate of the limitedly bastioned neighborhood—the only vehicular oubliette (if you will) in or out of the homogenous community, i.e. the only entrance and exit into the neighborhood of mansions, manicured lawns, and luxury automobiles—and steal his television, so he makes laws to protect his boob tube , his electronic mind-numbing machine. This is the beginning of class warfare and white privilege … again, the color, not the race.

Once the television owner began congregating with other television owners, they all started to worry that many, many more of the other people who exist on the same planet as they—but are unable to afford televisions—could also congregate together and contrive secret and devious plans to arrogate all of the neighborhood’s televisions, so the television owners created laws that would protect all their possessions, which was followed by the need to make laws to increase their wealth while depriving “outsiders” equal opportunities.

With the extra appanage, the television owners were able to make more laws that allowed them to purchase more televisions, but they also made laws to give them more power, among the more insidiously effective is the Supreme Court ruling involving Citizens United that gave corporations human rights. I know it sounds apocryphal, but television owners are quite Machiavellian; they justify their avarice with religious symbolism that masks their obvious supplication to the seductive Goddess of Largess, Capitalism. The really befuddling aspect of this insipid modus operandi, other than the reality that really ignorant and mean-spirited people can easily enact this nefarious agenda, is that the self-identified elite have actually convinced nearly all the people who can’t afford televisions that they don’t deserve a television because they are not intelligent enough, not moral enough, or both… yet the non-television-owning people fain accept the ridiculous premise.

Technology is advancing more rapidly than it ever has in the age of modern humanity. Robotic machines are slowly taking over the mundane tasks for which cheap labor (slavery) is necessary… necessary? No! I meant for the further enrichment of people who exploit “others” to assure that their “morally and intellectually superior families” (who already possess unmitigated opulence) can supplement their dubiously acquired amassment of specious trinkets while denying the poor—or, more accurately, the exploited —from even possessing the necessities for life such as housing and healthcare, which coerces the penurious work force into believing that volunteer fealty to corporate supplication is their “social obligation” that guarantees their receiving insubstantial health insurance when the corporations (that are “legal” persons sans empathy) could very easily afford universal healthcare for all their employees in lieu of giving more money and power to people who already possess much more than they need so that they can purchase ridiculously outlandish yachts for CEOs who spend more time on golf courses than in their penthouse corner offices that offer stunning panoramic views enjoyed by few.

The last decade alone has produced technological advances that until their formal presentations seemed thaumaturgic. People now possess much more leisure time, but what do they do with that time? They go home and watch insipid programming, binge-watching banal series like “Duck Dynasty” (as if they’re going to leave their air-conditioned house, laboring out of their vibrating, overstuffed lazy-boy throne to travail into a hot and humid swamp to kill a duck then process it for sustenance), “Naked and Afraid” (justifying their lust-riddled voyeurism by asserting a need to understand what they may have to consider if, for someone unclear reason, they should find themselves completely naked somewhere on the planet where exposure to the elements wouldn’t kill them almost instantly), or “Honey Boo Boo” (actually… I have no clue how anybody could justify watching this show… like watching that now-cancelled show about the Dugger buggers…).

Yes, the upper echelon of our society has so much more leisure time, but instead of seeking the pathway to their ultimate and most sacrosanct terrestrial destination, they spend it superfluously: watching the boob tube or focusing on their phones while interacting with their friends in virtual reality instead of meeting up with them vis-á-vis. We now interact socially more on the computer than in proximity with other tangible anatomical realities; we are losing the desire to touch, feel, and smell our loved ones. Simply hearing and seeing their digitized physiognomy is enough to consummate our relationships, and soon, the computer will simulate the act of sex… not making love, mind you, but the physical carnal stimulation of ejaculatory indulgence… to climax at will and with more comfort and sanitation. Why do we need bodies when, soon, all the things we enjoy as biologic organisms will be done within the realm of binary simulation?

Robotic machines are steadily taking the jobs of “unskilled” laborers (as if growing edible flora or repairing an automobile or waiting tables for hubristic patrons can be classified as “unskilled” while manipulating resources (money and human chattel) is not only extolled as “skilled” labor but “divinely sanctioned” as well). This robotic encroachment doesn’t solicit the concern of the social elite… yet, but it won’t be long before their duties are executed by computers much more efficiently. Their “skilled vocations” will be outsourced by Roddy McDowell§. Then comes the revolution.

In its current interpretive manifestation, Capitalism is a nefarious economic system based on exploiting the limited natural resources of our planet by debasing cheap labor that benefits the few while taken advantage of average citizens to favor of the Sadducees and Pharisees of contemporary society. Capitalism is slavery, but its time is limited. After computers take on the quotidian tasks of the “social elite”: the money manipulators… and warriors… and kitsch entertainers, et al. Everybody will then be treated equally; there will no longer be a need to belittle women, young adults, the LGBT community, immigrants, the handicapped, or racial minorities by the morally annoying.

The planet has enough resources to feed everybody. Humanity has the ability to give healthcare to everyone who needs it. Once the “necessary” cheap labor force is eliminated by robotic technology, people will then be able to more effectively “pursue their happiness.” Believe it or not, there are people who have, beating within their own hearts, a strong desire to help other people instead of incessantly stroking their turgid egos with an unforgiving yet relentless desire for autoerotic consummation. There are people who actually care more for others than they do for themselves. We are surrounded by people who are underpaid servants: CNAs, nurses, teachers, fire fighters, police officers, etc. These people would fain assist others who need help because their self-sacrifice defines them as who they are: human beings with empathy.

We have already succumbed to the lassitude of technologically influenced recreation; two-year olds can already play video games; many in our nation are disillusioned with the current two-party political impotence of corpulent, aristocratic, and patriarchal inefficiency. Soon, every job that is currently executed by cheap, human labor will be executed by robots. We, as a species, will then dissolve the current discriminatory political and economic zeitgeist of an arabesque acquiescence to opulence in order to engender something innovative, something that will encourage eclectic and diverse participation among the disparate anthropological essentials of society. Everybody will benefit, and our species will begin in earnest its emotional evolution towards a planetary assimilation of peaceful diversity.

Peace Through Music

_______________________________________

§ Roddy McDowell was the voice of C-3PO in the ’77 film “Star Wars.” Yes, I’m old…

Word of the Month

a·lex·i·a n. Loss of the ability to read, usually caused by brain lesions. Also called word blindness.

Jazz Etiquette 

Interesting Blogs and Websites by Interesting People

Weekly Area Jams

Red Light Cafe Jazz Jam

Every Wed at 8 pm ET

I have not been to the weekly jazz jam at Red Light Cafe, but it is hosted by the Gordon Vernick Quartet, and I am a huge fan of Gordon's, so I'm planning to go soon, and when I do... Ha! I'm very likely to get excited. Fo' mo' info, click here .

Apache Cafe in Atlanta

Every Wed at 9:00 ET

Al Smith's Midtown Jam Session @Apache Cafe!  Contemporary Jazz , Soul, R&B vocalists jam Session. Featuring live band led by keyboardist Al Smith! Vocalists are invited to sign the list and jam with the band, musicians can sit in too... a must attend! Different Dj spinning on the back patio each week! SPECIAL GUEST HOST EVERY WEEK! Doors open at 9pm and list-sign up is at 9pm. Event admission, the day of, at the door, is CASH. Fo' mo' info, click here .

Brin's Wings in Montgomery

Every Wed from 6 to 9:00 CT

Brins Wings in Montgomery presents Coleman Woodson Jr. Jazz Jam from 6-9 CDT. No cover. Fo' mo' info, click here .

La Salle Bleu Piano Bar in Montgomery

Every Wed from 6 to 9:00 CT

Jazz jam La Salle Bleu Piano Bar, 9 until, no cover. Fo' mo' info, click here .

The Suite in Columbus, GA

Every Thursday at 9:00-11:30 ET

Thursday, January 11 from 9-11:30 p, EDT Live Jazz - Big Saxy Thursday, The Chemistry Project Band starting at 9 pm at The Suite Bar and Grill .

Irish Bred Pub in Montgomery

Every Sun at 9:30-12:30 CT

Third Thursday jazz jam session at the Irish Bred Pub Montgomery, 78 Dexter Ave, Montgomery, Alabama 36104, Corner of Dexter Ave and Perry St, 3 blocks from Capitol. Fo' mo' info, click here .

1048 Club in Montgomery

Every Sun at 9:30-12:30 CT

The 1048 Cafe is in Montgomery, AL. The weekly Jazz Jam led by Sam Williams, 9 pm CDT, $5 cover. I don't really know that much about it, but the 1048 has a jazz jam every Sunday from 9ish 'til whenever. Apparently the jam draws some incredible musicians. Fo' mo' info, click here .

The Suite in Columbus, GA

Every Sun from 6:00-11:30 ET

Michael Johnson and the Silent Threat Band plays at The Suite in Columbus, GA from 6-11:30 pm ET at The Suite Bar & Grill, 5300 Sidney Simons Blvd. Fo' mo' info 'bout the band, click here .

It's not a jam, but the Piccolo lounge offers a comfortable, clubby environment. Leather club chairs, a cozy fireplace and comfy banquettes serve as a relaxing getaway. Enjoy a single malt scotch and relax and unwind from a hectic day or meet friends to hear live jazz every Friday and Saturday night, of non-home football game weekends. Fo' mo' info, click here .

On Thursdays at Noon, make a lunch date with our region’s finest musicians. A Little Lunch Music is an informal, come-and-go performance presented by JCSM and coordinated by musician Patrick McCurry. You can sit in and listen to the entire performance, dine in the Museum Cafe from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. CT, browse the Museum Shop or explore the galleries.

For more info, click here.

NOTE - A Little Lunch Music is on Summer hiatus.

Videos of the Month

Lyrics

The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face

The first time, ever I saw your face,

I thought the sun rose in your eyes

And the moon and the stars

Were the gifts you gave

To the dark, and the endless sky.

The first time, ever I kissed your mouth,

I felt the earth move in my hands

Like the trembling heart

Of a captive bird

That was there, at my command

My love.

The first time, ever I lay with you,

I felt your heart so close to mine,

And I knew our joy would fill the earth

And last 'til the end of time

My Love.

The first time, ever I saw your face.

By Ewan Macoll and Peggy Seegar

Fo' mo' info about the song, click here .

Jazz Association of Macon

We Promote Jazz in Macon

and Middle Georgia

Our purpose is to:

Encourage and support creation, presentation, and preservation of jazz music.

Support the creation of new audiences for jazz music.

Provide education and information about jazz.

Encourage young musicians to learn and appreciate jazz.

Develop a network among local and regional jazz advocates.

Increase awareness of jazz events and musicians in our community.

To read their blog, click here .

Area Musicians

Actually, this is a link to a page of my personal website, but it makes it much easier t maintain. It is a dynamic list of area musicians that will, hopefully, be continually updated until I can no longer do it. If you are a musician who is not listed or you are listed but with invalid info, please let me know, and I'll make the appropriate revisions. Thank you, and click here to visit the link.

High Museum of Art: Atlanta Jazz

Live jazz in the Robinson Atrium at the Atlanta High Museum of Art every 3rd Friday of the month. Fo' mo' info, click here .

On-line Radio

Interesting Links

Jazz Matters @ The Wren's Project

Preserving a musical culture, tradition & Art Form

 

Jazz Matters , Inc., is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization that believes Jazz Matters, because music matters.  Jazz is America's only original art form and this national treasure was created by African Americans.

It is our vision to Preserve a Musical Culture, Tradition & Art Form by:

Peace Through Music

Valediction

And now, the time has come for us to face the final curtain... at least until next month. So much is happening in our country; the news cycle seems to bring an endless barrage of discouraging information concerning the current administration of DJ Trump, who is either really doltish or he has a physical anomaly that negatively affects his cognitive competence. Neither excuse is acceptable, but at least I can salve my nerves with jazz music and by writing pejorative commentary about the hypocrisy and the prodigal behavior of the grand ol' party that had, for decades, decried an illusory relationship with the middle- and low-classes of society who they invariably dupe into accepting their maliciously unconscionable behavior. I don't know if music calms the savage beast or breast, but it surely calms my nerves after our president tweets something that sends my digestive tract into a frenzy.

I have a strong feeling that Robert Mueller's investigation is going deep into the GOP's darkest secrets to reveal the obvious: that they've never cared for anything but self-preservation; they don't have any moral obligation, merely obfuscatory rhetoric to addle voters who have been coerced into believing that our nation owes them special privileges that they, themselves, would deny others--who are much more needy of assistance--by verbally cudgeling them with accusations of incivility. It will not surprise me if the investigation uncovers Russian influence in the 2000 election of George W[ar Criminal] Bush, who also lost the popular vote. Who knows, it may, hopefully, tarnish the legacy of Reagan, who perfected the Southern Strategy that has formed the GOP mindset for decades.

If a progressive agenda is realized after the 2018 mid-term elections, a lasting peace will be realized; otherwise, our Democracy will be lost, and I will die soon after because my quadriplegia is a pre-existing medical condition. I ain't worried, though. I believe in that U.S. citizens will make the right decision... ultimately.

Peace Through Music

Donate

If you can afford it, and you think this newsletter worthy, please send a $5, $10, or $20 check or money order to:

The Jazzinian FUN’d Drive

962 Washington Road

Hamilton, Georgia 31811

It ain’t that I’m a Luddite, it’s just that I don’t know how to add a donate button that auto-magically-electronically transfers funds into my banking account. Besides, “the man” always seems to have his too-large-to-fail hand reaching out, palm upwards, in anticipation of remuneration he doesn’t deserve, fees he assesses for banking services rendered electronically via a computer application written by an underpaid intern. I guess, in a sense, I am more like Ned Ludd, the English laborer who was supposed to have destroyed weaving machinery around 1779 because he felt that technology would destroy employment for the laborer, except that I won’t physically destroy anything… other than, perhaps, the practice of usury; I merely want the practice of charging interest on loans to die of entropy. So, I reckon that I am a Luddite in that I believe in moderation and that humanity thrives when the mind and body are engaged instead of when one uses her wit to absquatulate with unjustified and excessive wealth, especially when she’s done so little to earn it.

I currently pay out $20/month to use Constant Contact to publish this weekly newsletter. If I could, I’d earn the money by singing, but my options are limited to accessible stages, which are not very common at all, and there aren’t many stages exclusively for jazz. Jazz is only granted a small piece of the pie… but it’s my passion. Seems like my only concert options are The Loft in Columbus, GA and Eighth and Rail in Opelika, AL; although, in Opelika I use a portable ramp to get onstage; one does what one has to do. When I sing at Venkman’s jazz jam, the soundman brings the microphone to my table, but I’d love to be on stage. How else can I perfect my secondary ambition to be a standup comedian. Incidentally, I currently take a sleeping pill because one of the side effects is somnambulation, but I’m still waiting to awaken ambulating.

I also have ambitions to sing onstage with my friend Ted McVay whom I’ve known forty years. We have a unique sound that, I believe, can and will be appreciated by a wider audience. We harmonize really well together, and the songs he writes are creative, witty, poignant, and fun to sing. Once we get a bit o’ steam, we’re bound to be a formidable, creative musical energy, positive, peaceful, loving. I will then, hopefully, make enough dough to overpay the people I need to assist me in acts of daily living. My family has already done so much for me and need a break. Thirty-two years is an awful long burden… thirty-three this April 18. ‘Til then, if you are able to comfortably part ways with a few bucks, I sure could use it.

Social Media Experiment

In an ignorant attempt to exploit social media to expand my personal fan base, I've created this section to list hashtags and other metadata that might auto-magically give more access to the newsletter I write. Hope it works.

#Wheelchairistacracy #SouthernStrategy #QuestForBest #GroovicusMaximus #FantastAbility #WheelChairistotle #SCI #Handicapplication #Impairistotle #MuscoviteMarionette #BlackLivesMatter 

#Wheelcherry #RudePundit #MakeStagesAccessible 

@SSTJazzVocalist @frangelaDuo @JoeGransden @AtlantaMagazine @VenkmansATL @rudepundit @MalcolmNance @EricBoehlert @CharlesPPierce @StephMillerShow @JohnFugelsang @Thom_Hartmann @anniesellick  @TheRealTBone