storeeze

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...

“We take this action not for the purpose of expanding the war into Cambodia, but for the purpose of ending the war in Vietnam and winning the just peace we all desire.” —President Richard M. Nixon, Address to the Nation on the Situation in Southeast Asia (April 30, 1970) Out in the boonies, away from the gaiety of modern life, one perilous day bred another in Vietnam, a confused and horrible country that I had zero interest in. Imagine my delight, my joy, when Capt. Martinez interviewed me for a job I never saw coming. I listened attentively: “Sgt. Barclay is going back to the world. We like your background, McClish. You’re high on our list. As of today, you're the company clerk if you want it and think you can handle it.” What would life be without fetid water, oppressive heat and rain, random bouts of violence, maddening insects, flies everywhere, loathsome diseases, and beefy loads?  “Uhm, yeah, I guess so. I mean sure, Captain. Yeah!” I tossed my trusty M79 grenade launcher, C...

My wife Babs heard about a history professor at the University of Minnesota who crafted wine cabinets, and thought it would be the perfect birthday present for me. We saw him one evening to pick the style, wood, and finish. A month later we brought the finished cabinet home in the back seat of the car. We were so impressed we decided to have a dinner party for it. Babs invited the professor, her shrink Paul Arnold, and his wife June. I brought the menu to Haskell's, a fashionable wine dealer, and came away with nine bottles and precisely when to drink them during the meal. The christening came on a warmish evening, beginning with Weingut Muller Privat Rheinriesling Spatlese.  Chateau Thivin Cote de Brouilly, was uncorked when Paul and Babs went to the kitchen. The professor sampled the rogue bleu while he stared at the Girl with Red Chair, Brick Wall, hanging over the fireplace: “She has a beautiful little body, hasn’t she?” June leaned in, wearing a clingy red jersey knit. “You sh...

She came in the rain, hair wet,  the day I left Vietnam. “Get in, the Thirteenth Part has not yet run.” We rode on, smoked cigarettes. Someone in back  Was sleeping. She stopped in the long green grass, Clasped my wrist, And sobbed “Borgo.”