Mama's Pizza, St Paul MN

It was a bitter cold Saturday night on the corner of Front and Rice Street in St Paul’s east side. We had never been here before;pulling up outside Mama’s Pizza, but we had heard so many good things from so many locals, including the governor, no less, that we decided it was time. During these days of covid it’s just an order-and-pick-up deal so we’ll have to wait to sit in and soak up the ambience. We resigned ourselves to running in out of the icy dark and warming up while we waited our turn, and the smell of cooking pizza that enveloped us was a welcome bonus on a Winter night.

It’s definitely the cozy kind of place where, under normal circumstances, you could hang out and linger over dinner. Super friendly staff and old-school decor put you right at ease, but that would have to wait for another time. We grabbed our order and headed home, all the while being slowly tortured by the aromas emanating from that flat innocent looking box. Ommigod we gotta get this thing home and dive in….

..which we did in record time, but let me back up. I’m gonna start with one word - cheese. There was lots of it, which is fine by me. It smelled snd looked amazing, melting over that rich red tomato sauce, their mixed aromas filling the house. Oh boy.

i knew this was gonna be good. I also knew it was going to be bad- yes, it’s not exactly health food. I briefly had a vision of a young Freddy Mercury sitting at his piano singing “ Mama’s just killed a man” and wondered if that might have been the original lyric, inspired by a post-gig pizza stop in St Paul maybe?

But enough of such thoughts- it was time to dive in. The crust is pretty thin and firm with a soft crunch. That tomato sauce has really rounded flavors of garlic and Italian seasonings- I’m no expert but it tasted like something that was perfected over years.

Bottom line, I’m looking forward to getting back there sooner rather than later. If you haven’t been there, do yourself a favor: go to Mama’s. Meet the friendly folks working there. Soak up the atmosphere and the smells. Take a pizza home and eat the hell outta that thing. You can thank me later, and apologize to your fitness regime. The diet starts tomorrow, as they say.

Crosby, MN

Heading north through Minnesota, the towns get a little smaller and a little more spread out. Having snaked through Garrison on the shores of a frozen Mille Lacs, and on through Deerwood, the few miles through the tall pines on route 6 lead you onto a main street flanked on either side by a selection of mom 'n' pop stores, restaurants, bars and cafes, until you get to a stop sign. There you have two choices; take a left to Brainerd or a right to Emily. We decided to do neither. Looking up at the sign across the street that said Welcome to Crosby, we pulled over, parked up and went back along that main street on foot, taking our time and exploring what Crosby's welcome had to offer. Truth be told I'd passed through here a few times on my travels but this time, my wife and I decided to slow down and smell the fresh cold January air. Crosby is a town on the Iron Range, and was built for the sole purpose of mining. Proud of its roots, the town still boasts a lot of the original buildings on the main street, many of which are now homes to new local businesses eager to adapt and develop on what the town's history has left behind. The scarred landscape that is the trademark of any former mining industrial site became the foundation for a vast web of bike trails that is now world famous. The Cuyuna biking trails now attract bike enthusiasts from around the world. Me, I'm a casual.biker at best, but that didn't stop me checking out the Red Raven Bike shop, repair shop and coffee house at the end of main street. I admit I was mostly attracted by the coffee, given the early morning hour, but I couldn't help but be impressed by the fine array of bikes, parts, bike wear and accesories they stocked, not to mention the super friendly staff and yummy food smells. So coffee in hand we stepped out of the Red Raven and back to strolling around on a cold, crisp and sunny January morning. The streets of this small snow covered northern town were quiet and peaceful, and made waking up easy with a leisurely stretch of the legs, and a sharp eye on the icy patches beneath our feet. I wandered into an antique store, found a few bins with old vinyl LPs (it's a thing I do) and dove in, just to see what untold gems might be hidden there. I find a few things and pay at the register, where the lady ringing me up tells me she's a Tanya Tucker fan, herself, and she too likes to rifle through the vinyl bins - a kindred spirit. I tell her I can give up anytime I want, but I suspect she knew I was lying, and with a friendly "have a good day now" I'm back on the main street, my brand new old treasure tucked under my arm. The Cuyuna brewing company is, at this writing just a few years old, but already a big hit with locals and visiting bike enthusiasts alike, and with good reason; the building oozes character, having once been a bank in Crosby's early mining days, and it still houses the original safe from that time. The tap room is at once openn plan and cozy - perfect for social distancing, something the brewery is hyper vigilant about. Super friendly and knowledgeable bar staff make the whole experience extremely pleasant and very conducive to having "just one more", which we did. Maybe more than once. As the sun sets on these small northern towns, it brings with it a blanket of silence which only occasionally ripples with the whish of a car sailing through the slushy main street. The snowy roofs turn a light shade of blue against the night sky, and the stars poke through the inky blue, glistening like suspended smowflakes. The plan solidifies: let's eat something and turn in. We stayed at Crosby Lofts, which is conveniently located above Rafferty's Pizza. Two birds . One location. Nice. The pizza is delicious. We sat in, the place being completely empty due to current 50% capacity regulations, and we watched a steady flow of pick up traffic keep a fully staffed restaurant on their toes - in these current times, that in itself is a fine thing to witness. Pizza gone. Up the stairs and into bed. The Lofts are a completely hands-off, here's-the-security-code kind of affair. It was clean and comfortable and I slept like a rock. We left Crosby with an intention to come back and explore some more, or indeed just to sit down, kick back and soak up the easy pace of life in a northern town. I'm pretty sure it won't be too long in thefuture. Looking forward to it.

Jeffers Petroglyphs, MN

At the crossroads below my hotel window,  the lights go from red to green in the inky black. Lives speed through or wait or turn, each disappearing into the the night; the boyfriend heading to his girl's house.  The weary shift worker thinking about bed.  The drunk thinking about back roads.  Asphalt underneath. Neon over head. Concrete either side.
Next morning I'm standing on an outcrop of Souix quartzite that juts  out of the grass prairie. The Tallgrass stretches far off into an overcast horizon. Grey watercolor  clouds gradiate  into each other forming a loose rippling blanket over the swaying green. Once or twice, a lone Bur Oak will reach up, punctuating  the seam of grass and sky. On the low humming breeze, birdsong wafts in and out of earshot. Insect wings flutter from flower to leaf, bud to green  blade. All together, it's an aural color-palette that demands silence in order to be heard. The noise of a restless mind is enough to obscure it. No crossroads here. No need for one, when all you have to do is stop.

Raleigh/Durham NC

Got in late for a gig the next day. The air is warm and a little soupy, with a light breeze blowing.
Despite the late hour, birds chirped intermittently in the trees, sounding more like a slowly waking dawn chorus than a midnight motel parking lot.
The next morning, a short walk around the area revealed the shopping precinct with its ubiquitous hum of traffic to and fro.
All the while , out of the thick sunny air, mockingbirds, cardinals and a host of others unrecognizable to me held sway in the air directly above us, their chatter occasionally piercing the low hum of engines.
Surrounding us on every side, lush green forested hills rose gently to the horizon, still, like giant cupped hands holding the hustle and bustle in safety as it rolled in and out between its fingers.

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Raleigh/Durham NC

New Orleans

New Orleans. Overseeing volunteers in the Lower ninth ward.
The neighborhood's narrow streets are spotted with banana trees and lined with grass margins and shotgun-style homes, some still completely ransacked by the hurricanes, others beautifully rehabbed.
Theday was spent sanding and priming - chatting and laughing with the others made the day pass quickly. Afterward, the shower coulda used a traffic light. The French volunteers made dinner and it disappeared in seconds . Now the downtime - a cup of coffee and a game of cards and the hours unwind with an easy rapport unfolding between everybody.
Plenty more to do tomorrow .




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Cafe Hawelka

Cafe Hawelka, in Vienna is as much a part of the city as the city is a part of European history.
First opened in 1939 , it has changed little over the following decades and since that time has been operated by the Hawelka family, handed down from generation to generation. Through the twentieth century it was and remains a meeting point for writers and artists to share ideas over a melange or two, and maybe one of the famous pastries that are still made in house from recipes handed down directly from the matriarch Josefin Hawelka.
Among the artists, housewives take a break from their errands. Businessmen take lunch, or random blow-ins like me come in to look at them.

On a rainy Saturday afternoon, the dark wood and dim lighting invite the weary pedestrian to hang their coat and follow the maitre d' to a booth or table. From the deep colored wallpaper hang photographs of the family through the century and some beautiful original artworks - some original paintings hang from once unknown painters who, without the money to pay for their lunch, would offer a work of art instead. These hang proudly , some of them now priceless, in a room with no music or radio or any vestige of the modern world ,; a place to view art, enjoy coffee, and hear the low chatter of one of Europe's most elegant cities, and allow a small portion of the day to tick down at its own chosen speed.


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North Country

Outing, MN just North of Emily . Way up in the pines . Duck boats gather under a blue sky - the log-built bait shops dot route 169 and the camouflage hats and jackets dominate as 4x4s and flat beds file in and out of the parking lots .

The day ticks down at the pace you'd expect from a northern Minnesota village.

Still plenty green on the trees , but sure to turn soon. The slight chill in the air is a clue to what's up ahead, but for now, the sun's shining and there's time to kill. 

There's a play in Emily tonight that'll draw a good chunk of the little town - dinner theater: pulled pork and a musical comedy from Screen Porch Productions to wash it down. Maybe a beer at the Bungalow Inn on the way home.

Until then, a  guy could do worse than just kick back and look around. Think I will....

One Saturday Afternoon.....

The root beer was from the Abita Brewery in Louisiana. A good one - not too sweet and full-bodied.
The Blues City Deli rotates its root beer selection regularly and always has something worth trying. The locals file through in a steady line , heading for the counter- best sandwiches in town and they all know it, but that wasn't the only draw today.
At 1pm the Rum Drum Ramblers were hitting the stage with their unique brand of pre war blues- style original songs. These guys are local favorites and for good reason. These afternoon shows at the deli are few and far between these days for the Ramblers, so when the word goes out it travels fast. By the time I'd grabbed my root beer, it was standing room only. By the time I'd finished it, you couldn't fit a sardine in the room , and maybe it was time for me to switch to something stronger.
Local St Louis micro brewery Schlafly is well represented at the Deli, and 3 bucks bought me a bottle of their Pale Ale- smooth not too hoppy and a little nutty. Just a little.
Vinny, the owner. smiled and served me and then fought his way through the crowd to introduce the band, then fought his way back.
The band jumped straight in and in no time flat had the joint hopping - double bass bounced the harp player into a frenzy . Matt held down the guitar rhythm - nailed it to the floor, and a guest appearance from a waif like young girl dwarfed by her baritone sax completed the picture. The crowd , shoulder to shoulder , bopped and sang, whooped and hollered with each solo. Vinnie had announced it as the first gig of the year and proclaimed his intention to start as he meant to go on - with good music and great sandwiches - and man are they good. The Po' Boy's are incredible - the roast beef being a huge favorite. I opt for the veggie Po' Boy every time, and one of these days I may well have earned one of the house t-shirts with the slogan - "If it wasn't for Vinnie, I'd be skinny".
The line moved slow and insistent like cooling lava for the whole gig, and over time it felt like the whole neighborhood had squeezed its way into the roughly 400 sq ft room.
The band bopped til 3.30, and I left a little before, weaving through some couples dancing a two step on the street - the only space around to do so. I wandered out with a full belly and great music ringing in my ears, and a promise to myself to get back there soon. Hopefully I'll see you there.

Even in Anywhere USA.....

Socorro NM was the next exit off of the highway, and where we had plans to bed down for the night.

We harbored visions of a desert hamlet, windswept and interesting, steeped in history, the air filled with coyote howls, the back streets with tumbleweed.

As we pulled off the midnight highway , we were instead met with the ubiquitous glare of hotel chains, golden arches, fast "food" signs and the usual garish clutter that makes a starry night invisible.

"Where are we?" Cathie said. "Anywhere USA" I replied.
We checked into our hotel and fell asleep.
The next morning, I decided to walk the strip, the bright sunshine dominating the sometimes bleak landscape of now unlit fast food joints and second tier motels offering " ree Breakfa & Wifi" .
On either side of this retail thoroughfare, single wide trailer homes and two room houses created ramshackle neighborhoods that ran into the desert and toward the snow capped mountains, as if fleeing the urban sprawl.

Amid all of this I found El Camino - a diner and coffee house from a time gone by, it's huge roadside sign an echo from the days when cars had fins and teenage boys and girls would "go steady".

After coffee in it's red leather and carpeted environs, I rambled further, and was happy to discover that even corporate-heavy consumerist landscapes cannot subdue a town with roots far deeper in the desert sand than anything thrust upon it in the last few centuries: the unique architecture and adobe styling developed by early settlers by necessity still informs the modern structures, and even among these, only a block away from the the grey hum of business route 25, stands the San Miguel Mission, established in 1562, and still standing tall and strong.

The missions were set up to offer a halting place for weary travelers and pioneers in search of a better life on their trek north from Mexico through the desert heat, and those that stand today serve as houses of worship for the Christian masses.

Socorro slowly revealed it's charms. The Manzanares Coffeehouse served up a good sandwich and a friendly artisan space to kick back and admire some local art or just stare out the window at a quiet plaza where life moves pretty slowly - a scene that makes it hard to imagine that just 15 miles away, in 1945, the first nuclear test explosion was carried out, setting the wheels of the atomic age in motion. These days , mining and mineralogy are what keep many of Socorro's wheels turning, with the local technical College drawing students, or "Techies" as they're known locally, from all over the country.

That's a lot of stuff going on for a small desert town, but Socorro seems to carry that weight effortlessly .

Before leaving Socorro the next morning, I made room for one more stop at El Camino. I ordered breakfast and sat at the counter with coffee and the paper. The friendly waitress seemed to be three places at once at all times, my coffee cup never getting below half full, and much sooner than expected, i was looking at a full plate of food - The Eggs Mexicano were magnificent, and set me up for the road ahead. I lingered long on the plush counter-stool, sipping coffee and soaking up the quiet steady flow of locals that came and went. When the time came to leave El Camino and Socorro behind us on the desert highway, it was with a silent mental note- get back here sometime.

SPIRITS IN THE MATERIAL WORLD

In the laid back desert city of Albuquerque NM, in the heart of downtown , stands the Kimo Theater. Opened in 1927, a competition was held to find a name for the building. A native American chief entered the name Kimo, meaning "mountain Lion" and "King of All", winning the grand prize of 25 dollars.
We arrived for our sound check and were met by our stage manager, Cathy who showed us around and made sure we had what we needed.
"Do you have WiFi here?" I asked. "Yes we do," she said, "the password is Bobby". I thanked her and asked "Why Bobby?". "Bobby's our ghost" she replied. Sensing my piqued interest, she asked me if I would like to see "the shrine". "Oh come on," I thought, "quit pulling my leg."

Sure enough, at the end of the hall, nestled in an alcove under the stage sat a mixed and colorful jumble of tchotchkes and accoutrerments from various acts that had previously graced these halls and left a little something to appease the ghost of Bobby - ballet shoes, masks, candy, drumsticks etc. So finally the obvious question- who was Bobby?
Well, back in 1951, during one of the Kimo's regular movie matinees, a 10 year old boy named Bobby was scared by what he was seeing on the screen and ran from his seat, following a stairwell downstairs beneath the theater, and close o the boiler room where he stayed, safe from the on-screen bogie men. As fate would have it, one of the boilers in the room exploded, fatally wounding young Bobby.
I asked Cathy if Bobby ever made his presence felt here in the theater.
She recounted a tale of one musical act that came to the theater, and on hearing the story of Bobby and his shrine, one of the band members proclaimed quite plainly "I don't believe in ghosts".
That night , just before showtime, the sound-mixing desk refused to power on, much to the frustration and bewilderement of the technicians at hand. In desperation, a staff member ran downstairs, respectfully placed a small bag of candy on the shrine to Bobby, and returned to the stage area. The sound-mixing desk powered up and the show proceeded without a hitch.
Before our show, I took a guitar pick, signed a quick "thank you" on it for Bobby, and left it on the shrine. We had a great show, and left with very fond memories of the KiMo theater in Albuquerque NM. Thanks Bobby.

Sardines

The plane was the smallest I had ever boarded. I should have expected as much when I asked the girl at he gate if there was room in the overhead for my guitar, and she replied "There is no overhead."

Me, 17 passengers, a pilot and co-piiot hopped on board. Turns out the co-pilot was also our cabin steward, and from where I sat, I could see out through the front windows in the cockpit. The cheery co-pilot made the usual announcements - no microphone or speaker system necessary , and if he had added "....and as we approach our destination, we will fill the cabin with brine and land in the canned food section of the supermarket." , I would not at all have been surprised. Neither would it have been the first sardine reference heard on board.
Looking through the cockpit window, I couldn't help but notice how small the window was as it sat atop a myriad buttons and dials. But then it struck me - why have a big windshield on an airplane? When's the last time 18 sardines at 30,000 feet hit a deer?

We took off from Denver CO, where, as I may have mentioned elsewhere in this blog, people just seem happy, and as my wife - a one time resident of the state - likes to point out, it's hardly surprising given it's natural beauty, clean mountain air, sunshine and endless outdoor pursuits. I've heard it said that Colorado is an expensive state to live in, but I suspect it to be money well spent.

We were headed for Farmington NM, a quiet town on the Colorado Plateau that shares Denver's mile-high elevation and sits at the confluence of the San Juan and Animas Rivers. Soaring towards our destination, the clear sky allowed us a perfect view of the San Juan mountains below us, snow-capped and silent, standing like noble elders, perhaps bemusedly watching the coming and going of us tiny creatures over centuries, our lives lasting no more than a blink of their eyes.

We touched down on a cool sunny day, and I headed for the hotel. My driver told me that coal mining and the power plant are major employers here, and it does feel like a working town. It seemed like every second car on the road was an unwashed flatbed of some kind, many of them lining the broad main street like so many tired horses, hitched to their post and dutifully awaiting their master's return.

Once I reached the hotel, I was told that a river walkway ran right behind the premises, and that it was worth checking out. Later in the day, I headed back there as a bright sun was starting to fall behind the trees. Mallards and Canada geese populated the banks. "Maybe looking for sardines" I thought, chuckling. The shallows of the Animas river babbled along beside me as I walked a loop of 2 miles or so, and although never far from the sound of traffic, the river serves as an easily accessible respite from the urban landscape, perfect for joggers, walkers and nature lovers.

My friends JD and Emily, who live in the area, told me of Farmington's apparently under utilized array of hiking and biking trails in the area, and if time had allowed I would have investigated further, but this is a working town, and I had to go to work. Oh well. Next time, but if you get to it before I do, let me know what you think.

Things that make you go "Hm".

As my wife and I walked towards downtown Saint Paul in the afternoon sun, we turned the corner of St Paul Cathedral, National Shrine of the apostle Paul, overlooking the city from its perch at the end of Summit Avenue. The Cathedral is a testament to Archbishop John Ireland's determination in 1904 to provide a "mother church" for the community, and standing 306 ft with walls of solid granite and local stone from Mankato MN, it looms large on the city skyline.
It was in the shadow of this magnificent structure, and after a short lull in the conversation that my wife idly inquires " Have you ever seen a squirrel poop?".
I had to say I haven't.
"And" she continued, "do they poop on the ground or in the trees?" .
Once again I was stumped, and the implied threat of the latter question was not lost on me. I felt a quiet sense of gratitude that the skies in these parts were mostly populated by sparrows.
Back to the burning question though- anyone out there seen a squirrel poop? let me know, and no fibbers.

A Maine Event

In Carthage, western Maine, the woods grow thick with Oak, Beech, Ash and Pine. As I looked out over a late September morning, from my hilltop lodging, I saw the faint hint of crimson and yellow begin to bleed ever so slightly into the dappled greens that spread to the horizon, where it met a cloudless blue sky.

One  way up to my lodging - the Skye Theater and Arts Center - was a  dirt road that was laid in the early eighteen hundreds by settlers who farmed the surrounding land and founded the community of Carthage .
From the road, this sparsely populated woodland reveals a few barren cemeteries that stand like ruins, shaded by the towering forest, and serve as the only evidence of a once busy and bustling thoroughfare, now mostly used by logging trucks and a few remaining families on the hillside.

Come breakfast time, Phil, a longtime resident of the hillside, and active community member, pointed us in the direction of The Front Porch Cafe in East Dixwell, and his recommendation did not go amiss.

The Front Porch Cafe, an old rambling colonial style house, has been converted on the inside into a carpeted, wood-lined dining room that butts right up to the kitchen, the aroma of blueberry flapjacks held me for ransom almost as soon as I walked in.
Now normally I'm an eggs n hashbrowns kind of fella, having learned a long time ago that my eyes grow much larger than my belly, but those blueberry flapjacks are singing my song and staring up at me from the menu. I know I'm gonna get crushed under a 3-stack of dish-diameter 'jacks, but I go for it anyway.
The coffee was great , and here , if I may, a word -

I like coffee. I like good coffee and I'm even happy to suffer the "other stuff" if need be, the stuff that looks like coffee, smells like coffee. but man it ain't coffee. But that "other stuff", to my mind, does also have a rightful place; namely that place that glares at you through the midnight dark from the side of the highway, all garishly colored neon shouting " roadside diner" - the greasy spoon - home of the hangover breakfast . I expect the "other stuff" in that environment and I oddly look forward to it's role in completing the scene- greasy  cafe/ diner and a cup of the other stuff to wash down whatever the hash slinger slings my way. In fact, when I am served good coffee in that environment  I'm oddly disappointed, sorely tempted to hail the waitress saying " Take this back - this is excellent!" but I never do of course.

This cafe though, although serving hashbrowns and eggs-a-plenty, was no "other stuff"- serving diner. The deep bean coffee aroma filled the homely dining area, and wafted outside into the chilly morning , beckoning passers by like comely sirens from shore. Ok that's a slight exaggeration, but it was pretty durn good, and served in tall chunky ceramic mugs made locally, and before I knew it, I had washed down the whole 3 flapjacks, covered in maple syrup. I felt like a real man- an overstuffed, bloated fat real man that needed to take a nap pretty quick.
Before that could happen though, there was a surprise in store;
As we filed out of this established, full and feeling it, the owner followed us outside saying" Hey - you guys met Murphy yet?"
With that, she faces the garage that was kitty-corner to the cafe shouting " Murphy!! Murphy!! C'mere, boy!" And with that , Murphy, a black n white dappled mutt, came scampering over the roof of the garage, greeting all he surveyed with an excited bark or two. The garage roof is clearly his domain; he was happy to stand , not budging and just happy to greet his audience from on high.
As our host  said "Murphy, will you sing for us? " for a moment, Murphy looked almost as confused as we did, but as she launched into the opening strains of The Monster Mash,  Murphy howled right along; a good two verses of harmonizing,  entertaining us with a unique rendition of a Halloween classic before we finally had to take our leave. Thanks Murphy. Now about that nap......

Brooklyn NY

Marine Park

Between avenue U and Fillmore, on a small corner of Marine Park's green space is an oak shaded loop-walk  for strolling, jogging, cycling or , as was my intention, just whiling away a hot June afternoon. At one corner, a Bocce Ball court (see above)  keeps a handful of older men engaged in their game and a little conversation, or maybe a lot of conversation and a little of the game.
In the middle of the loop, bating cages are scattered throughout for future A-Rods and Jeter's to hone their skills, and what park benches were shaded by those grandiose oaks never found themselves alone for too long. Although the hiss of traffic is omnipresent, the space remains quite peaceful, and it's surprisingly easy to find oneself unwinding steadily among the dog walkers and sun worshippers.

After a stroll around the loop, I decided to grab the next available bench and watch the squirrels, who in turn watched the starlings as they also foraged in the grass, both seemingly unaware of the frisbees skimming right above them.

Amongst the joggers, baby strollers, and cellphone huggers, I saw a small disheveled sandy colored dog moving e-v-e-r   s-o  s-l-o-w-l-y in my general direction, idly sniffing at the base of each oak before moving in a slow, gentle movement that almost looked like a kind of dog- Tai Chi. Directly behind him was his master, an elderly gentleman with glasses, in a white t shirt and wearing a baseball cap.


"Good seat" he said, stopping to look in my direction. "Yup - not bad" I said. " I can feel the breeze on my back." he offered.  " Feels good I'll bet".  "Oh yeah. I've lived here my whole life, just beyond those trees"  he said, pointing.  "Oh?".  "Born 1931. That's a long time. The mayor back then told my mom not to sell the house - they're going up in value, he said."  "He was right". I said.
He  pointed in the opposite direction ; "I used to swim over there. We used to swim and fish, and even then, there was a sign saying 'water polluted' " . "Hm" I grinned.  "Yup. Take care my friend, C'mon Rusty", and with that, the two old timers shuffled on. I took one more stroll around the loop, stopped and looked at a squirrel for a minute or two, and moved on. I hadn't expected to feel so relaxed in the heart of Brooklyn, but there I was, happy to have stumbled upon an oasis of sorts not realizing that just the next morning I'd find another one......

The Oasis Diner

The Oasis Diner, on Quentin Rd and Flatbush Ave is a family run Greek diner that was calling my name as soon as I saw it one morning with breakfast on my mind. This place hit the spot- the server pointed me to a booth and handed me a coffee and a menu. I took my time perusimg the many options as around me a steady stream of neighborhood faces filed up and down  the aisle and filled the room with their familiar exchanges like " Hey George, how's the wife?" and "'zat your car out front ? she's a beauty.."  

After I ordered I sat for a while, continuing my people-watching as three guys at the register discussed the Yankee's chances this season. An older woman picking up an order  blessed us all as she left, and my plate landed in front of me with a "there y'go, hun. Enjoy." from a waitress who was a blur most of the time.

The cheese omelette was great , the home fries were among the best I've had, and the coffee kept coming. I took my time over breakfast , savoring the atmosphere as much as the food, and as I payed at the register, I mentioned to the young guy taking the check that I'd be back again. With a  faint smile he said " Oh good - I'm happy." Me too , I thought.

One day in Dublin , Ireland......

This is Pat Ingoldsby, a poet, and a Dublin icon. He was siting on Westmoreland Street, surrounded by his books and busy finishing a poem in his notebook when I approached. The self made sign above his head read "Dublin Poet - anywhere else I'd be a god."

"Howrya Pat", I said " I want to buy a book from you". " Ah, howrya", he said, "and I've just finished one - can I read it to you? Tell me if you can relate".

He proceeded to recite a poem recounting his difficulty with math and his love of words as a young boy. When he was done he looked up at me and inquired earnestly; " well - can you relate to that?". Indeed I could and I told him so, and after he had lamented the presence of letters in mathematical equation, I suggested that perhaps it's just the words trying to invade and overthrow the math world. He liked this idea and a warm smile spread broadly from under his hat.

Pat is at once whimsical, sincere, biting and curious in his observations of the world he sees around him.His poems reflect the  people he meets as he sits peddling his literary wares on the streets of Dublin, as well as reflections on the natural world as he sees it from the strand in Howth where he lives. In his life he has known both fame and obscurity and  I would hazard a guess that he has little time for either.

As we chatted, he picked up a book and signed it to my wife and I in a large, looping deliberate hand that , when he had finished, read "thanks Patsy and Heather for saving my day". before we parted he recited one more poem that  came to him; a few lines pondering whether the pursuit of wealth is as valid as the value of natural beauty.

And with that , we said our goodbyes - warm handshakes, broad waves and smiles and a mutual wish to enjoy the rest of the day.

"What the world needs now is love, sweet love".  Burt Bacharach wrote that.

" - and a few more Pat Ingoldsbys". I wrote that.

Good morning

In Dallas TX, The  Cafe Brazil offers a spinach omelette with Rosemary potatoes and grilled thick sliced white bread that sets a body up for the day. The help-yourself coffee bar is music to this guy's ears, and the lady beside me at the counter offers me the morning paper with a smile. I thank her, thinking to myself that this is a good start to a new day in a strange town .
I come across an article on a border control snafu in Brownsville, south Texas, where US citizens are finding themselves at odds with the new  fence - rivers bend, but it would seem that fences don't, and residents are left with questions about what land is theirs and and what the government owns.

Baseball season approacheth, and as I wash down the omelette with my umpteenth bottomless cup, I read news of a scuffle in the Cubs dugout, and the Twin's Joe Nathan "feeling fine" after surgery.
The wind picks up a little outside, and it's time for my 3 block walk alongside the highway buzz back to the hotel. The Cafe Brazil offers an antidote of coffee aroma, great food,  and all the color, rattle  and hum that human traffic has to offer . remembering Oscar Wilde's line about being able to resist everything except temptation, I grab a coffee to go.

Columbia SC

What's Columbia got to do with Egypt?

I know - what kind of dumb question is that, right?. I hear you , but there I was , strolling along a meandering country road on the outskirts of Columbia South Carolina, taking in the afternoon sun, and hearing the sounds of the far off State Fair wafting across the September breeze, when I follow the road around the tree-lined bend only to be met with a 20 foot fresco of the ancient Pharaoh Rameses, or someone who looks just like him, peering down from his throne, and surrounded by heiroglyphs of due respect, his face weatherd away by the elements. I was left with only one thought - "What the....?"
Maybe I had some preconceived notions about what traveling in the Carolinas might be like, and maybe it's my own fault for not being open minded, but Pharaohs?
The image is painted on a concrete slab which is clearly the remaining wall of some considerably less ancient structure than a pyramid or catacomb, but has a few seating benches and tables set at its base for the casual wanderer to sit and enjoy their diet coke and fritos, safe in the knowledge that the ancient gods of Egypt are watching out for them.
The jarring visual stimuli didn't stop there.Carrying on my stroll and slowly recovering from my impromptu date with a Pharaoh, I was soon met with a white two story building that boasted the painted image of the Incredible Hulk (sure, why not?) punching his way through the wall and snarling at me. Over his left shoulder near the corner of the building , was the word 'GROW' in grey letters and groovy script.

At the green super hero's feet, a small table soaked up the sun, with an arrangement of blackened and burned engine parts resting on top, and beneath, between it's legs and in the shade, a burned out bird cage. You heard me. Wondering if maybe I had wandered into a Terry Gilliam movie, I dedided to head back to base, and quiz my host - a Columbia native - about these odd sightings.
My host, Davey, at the Redbird School of Irish Music, assured me that I wasn't losing it just yet, and that the white two story building was an artist's collective, once known as the Grow Cafe - a coffeehouse and venue/artist space, now just a studio , although still it would seem very much inhabited by the ghosts of it's former glory.
As for the Pharaoh, Davey could shed no light.......hmmmm...

The Mississippi Mud House

The above picture is just to get your attention and has nothing to do with the following post - just something spotted in O'Fallon MO.
Speaking of MO....

The Mississippi Mud House

....in St Louis MO, on Cherokee and Illinois, is one of the coolest coffeehouses in the mid west : great menu (check out the Portabello Rueben) , great coffee (duh) and a very hip ambience. The salad greens are grown out back, for the most part, and the emphasis is on local produce.

A back wall houses books for sale while surrounding brownstone walls are adorned with local art and retro advertising, and it's WAY easy just to sit back, put it all off 'til tomorrow, and just while away the hours with a hot coffee or three, watching the local Cherokee Street traffic as they stop in for lunch, meet a few buddies, chat with staff, or just sit back and watch you watch the local.....well you get what I mean.

Oh yeah, the French Toast is also top notch.

I first wandered in there with my buddy Kevin after a hard morning recording. Two coffees and a lunch hour later, we found ourselves wandering back to the studio saying, " wow, cool place". We dont say that too often. When I was back in town about a year later, I headed down for breakfast, and ordered the aforementioned  French toast. Hot syrup. Bananas. Hot coffee. Mmm. 
Me and Kevin headed in for lunch  after a morning gig , and man, they did it again . I reacquainted myself with the Portabello Rueben ( we're an item now) while Kevin inhaled the Club Sandwich with emphatic nods of approval.
I'm telling you. You should go. Really cool place.

Knoxville TN

Knoxville stood there waiting for us to have lunch somewhere in it's quiet clean downtown while we wasted time just soaking up the sun and stretching our legs along Gay St ( insert obvious jokes here ). We sauntered as far as the river, and back onto market square where we finally decided on a place to satiate our growing appetites.

Cafe 4, we figured was as good as any , feeling a little o erwhelmed by the array of choices the square spread before us - pub grub, Thai and strictly vegetarian being among the many options. Sensing a slight chill in the air, but still enjoying the cloudless sky, we opted for outside seating with a hearty grilled cheese and tomato bisque, refered to on the menu as The Grilled Cheese Dip and dip we did. Mmmm. Also, the fried green tomatoes with goat cheese and balsamic reduction ( dont know what that means) pretty much rocked our world. Service was super friendly and the hanging out stretched long until we finally decided it was time we explored some more.
Ok, Knoxville, what you got?
The Sunsphere (above), to give it it's proper title ( more respectful than my own description of "big goldy thingumee" ) was designed and built by a local architectural firm for the 1982 worlds fair, and offers a 360 degree view of the city and provides the skyline with something unique and instantly recognizable to the approaching tourist, incoming college kids And conference goers, all of which dominate knoxvilles human traffic .



Old city seems to be on the cusp of a Renaissance , with new bars and cafes nestled into the turn-of-the-century buildings, with an eye firmly on the college demographic; coffee shops, vintage clothing stores pepper this growing area, and somewhere we found ourselves popping into The Crown and Goose for refreshment. Finding the place virtually empty, we sat at the bar and tried their own house IPA, brewed for them by the smoky mountain Brewing Company.
The IPA was light and refreshing , and with a spring in our step , it was time to mooch on......hmm, we thought, so far so good. I'll bet the student area is SUPER- cool... Right?

Well, not really. The strip through campus where we expected to find the head shops , hookah bars , vintage clothing and killer vinyl was actually populated by all the major franchises and peddlers of plastic food and shaky tables. They were all here in a line, so if that's your thing, you just roll out of your dorm and into a bucket o' chicken for just SOMETHING 99!!! YEAH!!
underwhelmed by the over abundance of colorfully packaged nothing, we headed back into downtown for a stroll through it's oak lined streets and maybe half an idea to come back and say hi again sometime soon. Not least of all , to check out the Blue Plate Special. - a free concert from local and touring acts at the visitors center, hosted and broadcast every afternoon by WDVX . If acoustic music is your thing, check this one out, preferably live, but you can always catch it online.



From here we headed west through the Smoky Mountains to ......

Asheville NC

This, my second trip to Asheville, luckily allowed me a little more time to soak up the atmosphere and charms of this mountain town which has become synonymous with the arts and local artisans, as well as touring artists eager to put Asheville on their schedule.
As such, Asheville feels like a very mellow sleeping Gulliver, unphased by us langouring Lilliputians running along it's limbs, admiring the galleries , browsing the bookstores and slurping from the coffee houses along it's winding streets.
Actually , Asheville has an embarrassment of coffee houses, enough to inspire my wife to utter the words " man, if you can't find a coffeehouse here , there's something wrong with you." So true. I guess in such a throng of choices it pays to stand out , and arguably the most memorable coffeehouse is The Big Bus, the appropriately monickered London Double Decker forever parked and catering to all your caffeination needs on the first level, with ample seating on the top deck, just a thin spiral staircase away. "How long have you been here?" I asked the Barista, to which she replied "'Me, or the bus?", clearly a comedian. Once I'd sewn my sides back together she informed me that they'd been in business since 1996. Not bad,
And the coffee is pretty durn good.


After a leisurely noodle around the "Downtown Books and News" Bookstore - one of the best we've ever seen, we thought we should hook up with my bandmates; The HiBs. Hannah Flanagans sounded like a good spot, situated as it is close to downtown.
Once again , we walk into an empty bar, so with elbows on bar , we inquire of the barman, what's local and what's good? He points us at what is , in his opinion , the best IPA on the east coast , the Highland IPA from the Highland Brewing Co. Taking him at his word , I had to sample , and indeed found it to be most tasty. I wondered if our friendly barkeeper recommended everything this highly , as some might do in the name of dedicated salesmanship, but my suspicions were swiflty quashed when a girl came inquiring about a particular beer available on tap. " How is it?" she inquired. " it's crap." replied our dedicated bartender, without blinking an eye.
We basked in the honesty, quoffing at a leisurely pace, me on my Highland IPA, my wife on another local brew ; Pisgah Pale Ale, completely organic - even their trucks run on vegetable oil, a factoid I believe wholeheartedly as I heard it from - you got it - our honest barman.
It would be impossible to leave the subject of Asheville without mentioning some of it's many eateries . Every bit as numerous as the coffee houses , the streets fill with a variety of aromas from around the globe . Caribbean , Indian, Thai, and in a town populated by so many hippies, artists and loveable leftys of every stripe , a fine array of vegetarian options.

We grabbed a late breakfast at The Early Girl Eatery, who use all local produce and, man - the banana walnut pancakes blew my mind. Great food In a great atmosphere.

The next day , lunch at The Laughing Seed, a completely vegetarian restaurant served me a veggie Sloppy Joe that, according to my carnivorous buddies, beat the 'real thing' hands down.
Sometime after lunch , it was time to hit the road......