storeeze

“Okay ladies and gentlemen, we're gonna be in Springfield in six minutes, here. Six minutes to Springfield. Please make it through the aisles to get to the doors on the lower level if you're getting off at Springfield. Springfield next,” bawled the Amtrak PA. She was at the counter of the café car, followed me to a table, tugging on the cotton underwear peeking out of her pants. Flashy red earrings, brown corduroys, dirty tennis shoes, and a thin black v-cut slip-of-a-top. No bra. Pendulous breasts stretched low, swaying in time with the coach. Expressive black eyes with a look of almost childish sincerity, encased in sleepy purple eyelids, on a face worn by care and suffering. She called herself ‘Michael Jackson’. She boasted eight children: ‘Boo, Boo, Boo, Boo, Boo, Boo, Boo and Boo-Cah’. She came to Springfield filled with promises made by a man. A shadow fell when I probed her religion, followed by much excitement: “Get God all up in you and be the best you can be.” She kep...

I first saw Ed hanging at Nicollet Isle on his wedding day,  oven-hot. The hippie couple hit the wall, turned middle class, and were looking good. I stood in the bridal house on that sweet day, sweating in the inferno, scotch in one hand, beer in the other. Every man knew, and I did too, Ed was making my sister happy. My Ed.

There's a new statue of Miles Davis outside Marilyn's Bar in downtown Alton, an old river town twenty miles north of St. Louis. Arlene, me and 300 others were awaiting the reveal on a cool October afternoon. After the dedication, it was time for Arlene to pursue her instincts: “When was his birthday?” “May 26, 1926.” “Five plus two and six, a thirteen—one and three, he's a four. A box has four sides. He's feeling confined.” A raspy whisper floated through the air. “What’s that, man? I'm not in a box.” Arlene turned. “Oh, hi Miles. You’re late or we're early.” “Ghosts are always late. They come so quiet, you never hear them.” “I love your indigo and turquoise brocade frock and stunna shades.” Was he here through the miracle of cryopreservation? He didn't smell bad. Miles raised his ghostly voice. “May 25th, dammit!” Someone screamed. The crowd fell back. Arlene recalculated. “That's five plus two and five, a twelve—you're a three. I'm a th...

He is not here, but is risen!—Luke 24:6 My granddaughter Christina was visiting from college on Black Saturday, just in time for my favorite Easter tradition—rack of lamb, red wine and The Last Temptation of Christ —until her mother got wind of it. “THIS MOVIE PORTRAYS JESUS AS A HOMOSEXUAL!” I snatched the phone. “It’s the best Jesus movie.” “It's disrespectful. Bad on Easter. I raised Christina a certain way and I don't want her watching it.” “You haven’t seen it.” “I don’t care. Put her back on.” “Hi Mom, it's me again.” “Don't let gramps make fun of our religion.” I couldn't think of an answer; we went straight for the wine and lamb. Come Sunday, I figured Christina, a biracial young woman, would appreciate the African American congregation and a good honest sermon at the St. Paul Missionary Baptist Church. The building stood on stilts, ark-shaped like Noah's, ready for the Flood. We took it in, and walked up a steep ramp into the vestibule to a blast of Han...

“Fair primrose, we weep to see you fade away so soon”—from Elizabeth Bowen “I'm freezing!” exclaimed Charline. Unnoticed and unobserved in the swirling snow, Charlie and Charline stepped around a pile of rubbish in front of a disused warehouse in Old Soulard. The heavy iron door clanged open to a large glowing cavern. Condom on Your Tongue boomed from the walls. Nude models in body paint roamed the floor, stirring the pot for the grand opening of Naughty Gras. Charlie gestured, “Now this is what I’ve been talking about!” “I've got something for you,” Arlene said, removing her coat and gloves. “Dang! I’m shocked by what you can fit in a Winslet,” exclaimed Charlie. “What did you stare at first?” she said, feeling cute. “You. Can you breathe?” “Barely.” Four hundred revelers had flocked to the bacchanal, away from the veil of everyday life. Sexy art, sensual costumes, a urinal crafted from a female figure, an eye staring out from the female organ, a girl in a thong suspended by J...

“Two photo ops, dinner at the house and Ron Carter at the Bistro. Be here by 5:30.” I was late. We raced to the rarefied atmosphere of the Beaux-Arts at  St. Louis U. A lady with a charming smile handed me a brochure. Richard found me at the Pinot Grigio and round cheeses. “Can't take you anywhere!” Was it my blazer-baseball cap ensemble? I finished the tasty stuff and drifted into the Michael Eastman Retrospective. Large photos, curiously dead (no people), an architectural feel. A cactus resembling a building ornament. Horses with a human countenance. (Why the long faces?) I asked Richard, “What about the sheep?” “We don’t have time.”  Across town and two flights of steps for 70 Years of Martin Schweig at Webster U. Richard was all-in for Schweig. I tabbed Eastman.  Richard’s house was next, pineapple chicken in the crock pot; stretching on the sofa to Paul Butterfield; Sibelius after dinner to think it over. The Bistro doesn't proclaim MAGNIFICENT or HUGELY ENTERT...