The day after Thanksgiving.
There was a phone call I missed at 4 in the morning. The police had come to sweep the stairs. Joe wanted my protection. When I see him, I tell him we've been through this. You antagonize the neighborhood, you make it crazy, I can’t help you. Why is that so hard to get across?
Catarina comes in to claim her misplaced camera tripod.Left here since Carman's last concert. Wish I had more time to talk about her writers’ group or her projections with Beppe’s or Carman’s music.
Time to go visit Cara and come back before Open Mic.
Tonight’s surprises at Open Mic:
* An African-American woman who names herself Evangelist Talitha Kumi. She doesn’t know that I understand the Biblical reference. (Mark 5:41) meaning little girl, rise…from a Jesus healing story...I’m always anxious about what someone from that end is going to make of our motley crew. She needs a tape player, which of curse, we don’t have. But launches into a gritty gospel witness and then stays around to listen to, encourage others.
* Rob makes his first appearance. Again I am nervous. But he comes through with his rap of self-affirmation and determination. RL brought to tears.
As for me, I’m thinking about Joe’s admonition that every singer needs three songs, IE, three different songs. And Pat’s commitment to always do new stuff. And for Thanksgiving, to just do songs that are not ironic or ambivalent, just grateful. So I do two from back in the day, including one I’ve completely recreated from just the scraps of one verse. A new song. That felt good. And Pat and I end with Dylan's I’ll be your baby tonight.
A good day. We’ve still got to figure out what to do when certain performers are just too drunk. But a good day. And here comes Midnight run again…