Molly Ivins died today. I loved Molly's columns. I loved to see Molly on TV with her common-sense take-downs of those who spoke nonsense and foolishness. She was the best. I will miss her.
Here's the story from AlterNet:
Molly's enduring message is, "Raise more hell."
....
Although short, Molly's life was writ large. She was as eloquent a speaker and teacher as she was a writer, and her quips will last at least as long as Will Rogers'. She dubbed George W. Bush "Shrub" and Texas Governor Rick Perry "Good Hair."
Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
UPDATE: Rmj at Adventus, who is a native Texan, has fuller coverage of the Texas take on Molly's obituaries and memorable quotes from around the country.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Thought For the Day
(Idea stolen from MadPriest)
Some folks are obsessed with sex. Some folks are obsessed with other people's sex.
Definitions of obsession via The Free Dictionary:
1. Compulsive preoccupation with a fixed idea or an unwanted feeling or emotion, often accompanied by symptoms of anxiety.
2. A compulsive, often unreasonable idea or emotion.
Obsessions are generally not a good thing.
Some folks are obsessed with sex. Some folks are obsessed with other people's sex.
Definitions of obsession via The Free Dictionary:
1. Compulsive preoccupation with a fixed idea or an unwanted feeling or emotion, often accompanied by symptoms of anxiety.
2. A compulsive, often unreasonable idea or emotion.
Obsessions are generally not a good thing.
Confessions of a Recovering Homophobe - Part III
Parts I and II can be found here and here.
Before I could catch my breath after meeting my two hunky hosts, and before I could absorb my delight in my luxurious new digs and my amazement as I explored the rest of the compound, the guesthouse, the gorgeous patio and pool, and the tennis courts, we were whisked off to dinner with six or eight of T. and C.'s gay friends. There I was plunged headlong into gay society in that city in the Southwest. My sister, and brother-in-law, and I were the only straight folks in the group, as we were to be several other times during the visit. R. and H. knew that I needed an INTERVENTION, and they wasted no time in giving me one. They were too polite to call it that, but that's what it was.
While we were having our meal, and after a few glasses of wine, I asked T., "So, being gay is not a lifestyle choice for you?" T. answered, "Who would choose it?" I don't know, maybe some would choose it, and that's fine by me, but he's an out-of-the-closet business man, and I'm sure that his life would be easier if he were straight, therefore, for him, what he said made sense.
My next conversation was with K. K.'s story is so sad, that I want to cry when I think about it. He grew up in a strict Mormon family, so strict that the males in the family all wore "the garment", which I had never heard of before. It's a one-piece undergarment, sort of like an undershirt and boxers, but all in one piece. My grandfather used to wear something similar.
K. grew up, got married, and had two children. Well into the marriage, his wife told him that she had suspected for some time that things were not right in their marriage, that he did not love her in the way she wanted to be loved. She told him that he needed to go and be true to himself.
K. did love his wife, but not in the way that a husband loves his wife. He still loves her, and they are quite close, as he is to his children, but they are not married any longer. K. was alone and very lonely at that time. I hope by now, he's found someone to love and who loves him. He was one of the sweetest and gentlest people I have ever met.
He told the funny story of straying from the strict Mormon style of dress, and putting on shorts to go out. However, he still wore the garment underneath, and he had to be told gently that his garment was hanging out of his shorts.
All these men were lovely, interesting people, and they could not have been nicer and more welcoming to me. They took me in, whether I wanted to be taken in or not. It was a soft intervention.
For me, the week was, in may ways, my fantasy week. Before leaving home, I had looked at their city newspaper online to see what events were happening during the week I'd be there, and I saw that the opera association was having a performance of "Carmen". I love "Carmen", and I thought, "Hmm, that would be nice to do," but I decided not to make plans of my own, but left the planning up to my hosts. Soon after I arrived, I found that we had tickets for the "Carmen" production. I seemed to be in a place where your wishes came true before you even expressed them. One day, we took a beautiful drive to view desert rock formations nearby. Another day, my sister and I were treated to a facial and upper massage at a spa. The rest of the time was spent at dinners and lunches and parties with great people both straight and gay, but mostly gay, and a few quiet times hanging out at the mansion and, in my case, taking long baths, looking through the glass at my garden and my mountain view.
Our gift to them was to cook a New Orleans-style lunch for T. and C. and several friends. We decided on a Creole jambalaya, but my recipe was at home, and I could not reach my husband to have him give it to me. Fortunately, C. had a Creole cookbook with a jambalaya recipe in it, but one that neither my sister nor I had ever cooked. We made it hoping and praying that it was a good recipe. We fixed a broccoli, cheese, and almond casserole and a salad to go with the jambalaya, and it turned out delicious. Everyone loved it.
What a week! I met some of the most loving, welcoming folks I have ever met in my life, and I assure you that I was not the same person when I left, as when I arrived. Interventions? Bring 'em on! If you must undergo an intervention, do it in style. I fear that it would not take me long to become an irredeemable sybarite. I loved that life, but it was time for the limo ride back to the airport to return to the real world.
More to come.
Before I could catch my breath after meeting my two hunky hosts, and before I could absorb my delight in my luxurious new digs and my amazement as I explored the rest of the compound, the guesthouse, the gorgeous patio and pool, and the tennis courts, we were whisked off to dinner with six or eight of T. and C.'s gay friends. There I was plunged headlong into gay society in that city in the Southwest. My sister, and brother-in-law, and I were the only straight folks in the group, as we were to be several other times during the visit. R. and H. knew that I needed an INTERVENTION, and they wasted no time in giving me one. They were too polite to call it that, but that's what it was.
While we were having our meal, and after a few glasses of wine, I asked T., "So, being gay is not a lifestyle choice for you?" T. answered, "Who would choose it?" I don't know, maybe some would choose it, and that's fine by me, but he's an out-of-the-closet business man, and I'm sure that his life would be easier if he were straight, therefore, for him, what he said made sense.
My next conversation was with K. K.'s story is so sad, that I want to cry when I think about it. He grew up in a strict Mormon family, so strict that the males in the family all wore "the garment", which I had never heard of before. It's a one-piece undergarment, sort of like an undershirt and boxers, but all in one piece. My grandfather used to wear something similar.
K. grew up, got married, and had two children. Well into the marriage, his wife told him that she had suspected for some time that things were not right in their marriage, that he did not love her in the way she wanted to be loved. She told him that he needed to go and be true to himself.
K. did love his wife, but not in the way that a husband loves his wife. He still loves her, and they are quite close, as he is to his children, but they are not married any longer. K. was alone and very lonely at that time. I hope by now, he's found someone to love and who loves him. He was one of the sweetest and gentlest people I have ever met.
He told the funny story of straying from the strict Mormon style of dress, and putting on shorts to go out. However, he still wore the garment underneath, and he had to be told gently that his garment was hanging out of his shorts.
All these men were lovely, interesting people, and they could not have been nicer and more welcoming to me. They took me in, whether I wanted to be taken in or not. It was a soft intervention.
For me, the week was, in may ways, my fantasy week. Before leaving home, I had looked at their city newspaper online to see what events were happening during the week I'd be there, and I saw that the opera association was having a performance of "Carmen". I love "Carmen", and I thought, "Hmm, that would be nice to do," but I decided not to make plans of my own, but left the planning up to my hosts. Soon after I arrived, I found that we had tickets for the "Carmen" production. I seemed to be in a place where your wishes came true before you even expressed them. One day, we took a beautiful drive to view desert rock formations nearby. Another day, my sister and I were treated to a facial and upper massage at a spa. The rest of the time was spent at dinners and lunches and parties with great people both straight and gay, but mostly gay, and a few quiet times hanging out at the mansion and, in my case, taking long baths, looking through the glass at my garden and my mountain view.
Our gift to them was to cook a New Orleans-style lunch for T. and C. and several friends. We decided on a Creole jambalaya, but my recipe was at home, and I could not reach my husband to have him give it to me. Fortunately, C. had a Creole cookbook with a jambalaya recipe in it, but one that neither my sister nor I had ever cooked. We made it hoping and praying that it was a good recipe. We fixed a broccoli, cheese, and almond casserole and a salad to go with the jambalaya, and it turned out delicious. Everyone loved it.
What a week! I met some of the most loving, welcoming folks I have ever met in my life, and I assure you that I was not the same person when I left, as when I arrived. Interventions? Bring 'em on! If you must undergo an intervention, do it in style. I fear that it would not take me long to become an irredeemable sybarite. I loved that life, but it was time for the limo ride back to the airport to return to the real world.
More to come.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
One Last Shot
This morning, after reading my paper, I've been contemplating the horror of the situation in Iraq, and, indeed, in a large portion of the Middle East. The catastrophic "what ifs" are multiple and awful to contemplate.
I read about my own senator, David Vitter, who supports the president's "surge" as the "final shot", the "last chance for the Iraqis to step up". Oh, the bitter irony. We went to Iraq and destroyed the country, its infrastructure, its institutions, and turned it into a killing field. Now we want the Iraqis to "step up" to fix what we have destroyed. At least "final shot" is a little more creative than the "one last shot" that we have been hearing about for months - no - years. Solution: send in more troops to serve as targets, for they are unlikely to have any effect on the violence and chaos.
I turn away from the big picture, which I find too disturbing, and zoom in on a small piece of the picture, the Green Zone. As I wonder what it will take for the president and his supporters to face the reality of Iraq, I think of the Green Zone, the enormous guarded compound situated in the center of Baghdad. What if the defense of the Green Zone fails? Surely, the military leadership has a plan for this possibility. They must, surely they must. What is the plan? What would they do? Of course, if there is a plan, it is top secret, as is so much else with the Bush maladministration.
"One last shot" will no more give us a decent way out of Iraq, much less a win, than the "one last shot" will get the drunk out of the bar before he collapses.
Update: Here's the link to the story in the Times-Picayune.
I read about my own senator, David Vitter, who supports the president's "surge" as the "final shot", the "last chance for the Iraqis to step up". Oh, the bitter irony. We went to Iraq and destroyed the country, its infrastructure, its institutions, and turned it into a killing field. Now we want the Iraqis to "step up" to fix what we have destroyed. At least "final shot" is a little more creative than the "one last shot" that we have been hearing about for months - no - years. Solution: send in more troops to serve as targets, for they are unlikely to have any effect on the violence and chaos.
I turn away from the big picture, which I find too disturbing, and zoom in on a small piece of the picture, the Green Zone. As I wonder what it will take for the president and his supporters to face the reality of Iraq, I think of the Green Zone, the enormous guarded compound situated in the center of Baghdad. What if the defense of the Green Zone fails? Surely, the military leadership has a plan for this possibility. They must, surely they must. What is the plan? What would they do? Of course, if there is a plan, it is top secret, as is so much else with the Bush maladministration.
"One last shot" will no more give us a decent way out of Iraq, much less a win, than the "one last shot" will get the drunk out of the bar before he collapses.
Update: Here's the link to the story in the Times-Picayune.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Confessions of a Recovering Homophobe - Part II
Now that I've done few posts on other subjects, you know that not all of my posts will be all about me - that would be tiresome, wouldn't it? - I'm back to me.
You must know that my stories do not necessarily arrive in chronological order. Part II actually takes place before Part I of The Confessions. Once again, I'm fearful of causing offense, but I don't know how to tell the story of my transformation without telling the truth. Forgive me, my gay and lesbian readers.
My beloved sister, who died last April, in a much too swift and untimely manner from pancreatic cancer, had many gay gentlemen friends. Her friends were a generation or so younger than she. She met the men through T., with whom she became friends a good many years ago, in the mid-western city where they lived. He and his partner, C., were youngish then and struggling to establish a political consulting business.
Over the years, T. became enormously wealthy from his business, or businesses, for he came to have several. He and C. bought an old house in the downtown area, and restored it magnificently. The house had a third-floor apartment, which he invited my sister and her husband to rent - for a nominal amount - to be there with their dogs when they traveled, which they did a lot.
On several occasions, I was invited to stay in the magnificent house, but I never went. To my great shame, I must tell you that I didn't go, because they were two gay men sharing a house. What is that but homophobia? I must call it that, for that is what it is.
After several years, T. and C. moved from the Midwest to a city the Southwest, buying an even more palatial house, and my sister and brother-in-law bought a house of their own.
Two or three times a year, my sister went to stay with them, and I was invited there, too, but I never went, for the same shameful reason. Finally, one spring, about three years ago, my sister was going to stay at their house for a week to care for their dogs while they were out of town. I had been through a particularly trying time in my own life, and I thought that, since my sister would be staying alone with the dogs, I'd invite myself to stay there with her for a week in the lap of luxury. After turning down all their invitations, I invited myself to their home, because they would not be there. How's that for ingratitude and chutzpah? Oh, the shame! They said fine, and I bought my plane ticket.
A few days before I was due to leave, my sister called me to say that T. and C. were not going on their trip, because they wanted to meet me. They tricked me by not leaving their own house while I was going to be there. What to do now? Nothing to do but go. If I did not go, my reason for not going would be plain - as though my decline of all their other invitations had not already made my reason quite plain.
I flew into the city in the Southwest, and after I retrieved my baggage, I saw a man in a black suit waiting for me, holding a sign with my name on it. He took my luggage and led me to the limo in which he drove me to the house. What can I say, but that I loved every minute of it. No hassle, no fuss, just sit back and enjoy the ride.
T. and C. were good-looking, hunky guys, who welcomed me warmly in spite of my past churlishness. When I look back, I hardly even recognize the person I was back then - the transformation is so great - but I must claim her as my own.
The house was something out of a fantasy, something you see in the decorating magazines, but with a definite personality of its own. They offered refreshments and afterward led me to my gorgeous room, a room with glass doors facing a private walled garden - not private to the house, but private to me - with a view of the mountains beyond the garden. The outside wall of my bathroom was glass, with the same lovely view of the garden and the mountains. I never lowered the blind in the bathroom. I figured if someone came into the garden while I was undressed - what the hell - I didn't care. The toilet was hidden away in an alcove and not visible from the outside. I would not willingly inflict a view of me on the commode on anyone.
Readers, I believe I'm going to have to break here and bring you the rest of the story in another post, or maybe even two other posts, because this is getting long, and I'm getting a pain in my neck from hunching over the keyboard. To be continued....
You must know that my stories do not necessarily arrive in chronological order. Part II actually takes place before Part I of The Confessions. Once again, I'm fearful of causing offense, but I don't know how to tell the story of my transformation without telling the truth. Forgive me, my gay and lesbian readers.
My beloved sister, who died last April, in a much too swift and untimely manner from pancreatic cancer, had many gay gentlemen friends. Her friends were a generation or so younger than she. She met the men through T., with whom she became friends a good many years ago, in the mid-western city where they lived. He and his partner, C., were youngish then and struggling to establish a political consulting business.
Over the years, T. became enormously wealthy from his business, or businesses, for he came to have several. He and C. bought an old house in the downtown area, and restored it magnificently. The house had a third-floor apartment, which he invited my sister and her husband to rent - for a nominal amount - to be there with their dogs when they traveled, which they did a lot.
On several occasions, I was invited to stay in the magnificent house, but I never went. To my great shame, I must tell you that I didn't go, because they were two gay men sharing a house. What is that but homophobia? I must call it that, for that is what it is.
After several years, T. and C. moved from the Midwest to a city the Southwest, buying an even more palatial house, and my sister and brother-in-law bought a house of their own.
Two or three times a year, my sister went to stay with them, and I was invited there, too, but I never went, for the same shameful reason. Finally, one spring, about three years ago, my sister was going to stay at their house for a week to care for their dogs while they were out of town. I had been through a particularly trying time in my own life, and I thought that, since my sister would be staying alone with the dogs, I'd invite myself to stay there with her for a week in the lap of luxury. After turning down all their invitations, I invited myself to their home, because they would not be there. How's that for ingratitude and chutzpah? Oh, the shame! They said fine, and I bought my plane ticket.
A few days before I was due to leave, my sister called me to say that T. and C. were not going on their trip, because they wanted to meet me. They tricked me by not leaving their own house while I was going to be there. What to do now? Nothing to do but go. If I did not go, my reason for not going would be plain - as though my decline of all their other invitations had not already made my reason quite plain.
I flew into the city in the Southwest, and after I retrieved my baggage, I saw a man in a black suit waiting for me, holding a sign with my name on it. He took my luggage and led me to the limo in which he drove me to the house. What can I say, but that I loved every minute of it. No hassle, no fuss, just sit back and enjoy the ride.
T. and C. were good-looking, hunky guys, who welcomed me warmly in spite of my past churlishness. When I look back, I hardly even recognize the person I was back then - the transformation is so great - but I must claim her as my own.
The house was something out of a fantasy, something you see in the decorating magazines, but with a definite personality of its own. They offered refreshments and afterward led me to my gorgeous room, a room with glass doors facing a private walled garden - not private to the house, but private to me - with a view of the mountains beyond the garden. The outside wall of my bathroom was glass, with the same lovely view of the garden and the mountains. I never lowered the blind in the bathroom. I figured if someone came into the garden while I was undressed - what the hell - I didn't care. The toilet was hidden away in an alcove and not visible from the outside. I would not willingly inflict a view of me on the commode on anyone.
Readers, I believe I'm going to have to break here and bring you the rest of the story in another post, or maybe even two other posts, because this is getting long, and I'm getting a pain in my neck from hunching over the keyboard. To be continued....
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Learning To Keep My Mouth Shut
The "Letter From the Rector" in the current newsletter from my church seems directed to me, as a result of a conversation we had on the Alpha Series, which our church will use during Lent.
At "Of Course, I Could Be Wrong" we had a lively discussion about Alpha after I mentioned it. I printed the comments to give to my rector, after editing out MadPriest's comments, which were a little over the top.
My rector's letter is titled "Does Not Follow Directions." He goes on to quote from Mark's Gospel the story of Jesus healing the man with the withered hand on the Sabbath, making the point that sometimes the right thing to do is not to follow directions.
He then goes on to say that he will celebrate 25 years as a priest in March, and he is learning to discern better "when directions should be followed and when not."
About the Alpha series, he says:
Of course, I may be inflating my own importance and taking what he says much too personally. Anyone who cares to weigh in in the comments, please do, and don't be concerned about disagreeing with me.
It is my impression that my rector strives to avoid confrontation, and, perhaps, that's why he would respond in the newsletter, rather than directly to me.
By the way, if my rector ever makes his way to my blog, I am sunk.
At "Of Course, I Could Be Wrong" we had a lively discussion about Alpha after I mentioned it. I printed the comments to give to my rector, after editing out MadPriest's comments, which were a little over the top.
My rector's letter is titled "Does Not Follow Directions." He goes on to quote from Mark's Gospel the story of Jesus healing the man with the withered hand on the Sabbath, making the point that sometimes the right thing to do is not to follow directions.
He then goes on to say that he will celebrate 25 years as a priest in March, and he is learning to discern better "when directions should be followed and when not."
About the Alpha series, he says:
I embarked on this train of thought recently when I was thinking about the Alpha course we will use in Lent. I have used it many times before and although I think it is a strong curriculum, it is not perfect. (What is?) A good teacher does not slavishly stick to a curriculum as if it were a recipe. I will use what I think is good and either not use the small portion that is weak or teach over against it, if and when it appears.The short form of this statement, as I read it is, "June, I heard what you said and read what you gave me to read, but I'm going to do this anyway. If you feel it's not for you, then you needn't come." I wonder why he didn't tell me this. What do y'all think? This is not the first time that I have felt he was responding directly to me in the newsletter. Why not just talk to me?
Nothing is for everyone. However, I think Alpha is orthodox Christianity served up with humor and profundity.
Of course, I may be inflating my own importance and taking what he says much too personally. Anyone who cares to weigh in in the comments, please do, and don't be concerned about disagreeing with me.
It is my impression that my rector strives to avoid confrontation, and, perhaps, that's why he would respond in the newsletter, rather than directly to me.
By the way, if my rector ever makes his way to my blog, I am sunk.
Help Wanted
Ordinarily, I'd post something like this in the comments at MadPriest's place. It's just his kind of thing. But now that I have my own blog, why not here?
From the Key West Citizen via The New Yorker:
A busy store at 425 Front Street is seeking honest, responsible, reliable & ambitious employees for part-time & full-time positions. Good salary with advancement opportunities for the right person. Job duties include retail sales, stocking & cleaning. Previous sales experience, with register responsibilities, preferred. Spanish as a 2nd language is a plus. References will be verified. If you get drunk, do drugs, call in sick or just plain don't show up for work don't bother applying; you probably have already worked here.
From the Key West Citizen via The New Yorker:
A busy store at 425 Front Street is seeking honest, responsible, reliable & ambitious employees for part-time & full-time positions. Good salary with advancement opportunities for the right person. Job duties include retail sales, stocking & cleaning. Previous sales experience, with register responsibilities, preferred. Spanish as a 2nd language is a plus. References will be verified. If you get drunk, do drugs, call in sick or just plain don't show up for work don't bother applying; you probably have already worked here.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
The Design Group and the Covenant
Richard of the blog, Caught by the Light, is doing masterful reporting as he attends Epiphany West 2007: Re-visioning Anglicanism, at the Church Divinity School of the Pacific, Berkeley, California. He has three long posts up about the conference. It's a long read, but full of great stuff, if you can take the time.
One of the speakers was The Rev. Dr. Ephraim Radner, Rector of Church of the Ascension, Pueblo, Colorado.
After reading Richard's third post titled "Head, Heart, and Hope," in which he summarizes Dr. Radner's talk, I left this comment on his blog:
Perhaps I am naive, and I'm missing something important, but I truly do not see the need for an Anglican Covenant, no matter what it includes. We have the Gospels, the Creeds, and The Book of Common Prayer. Are these not sufficient to bind us together to approach the table of the Lord in peace and to do God's work in mission as a Communion? Won't a covenant serve to further divide the Anglican Communion, rather than bring us together?
One of the speakers was The Rev. Dr. Ephraim Radner, Rector of Church of the Ascension, Pueblo, Colorado.
Dr. Radner is an outspoken apologist for both the Windsor Report and the Anglican Covenant that he is helping develop as part of the Design Committee. He minced no words in stating his belief that "the world needs this, and God wants it for the sake of life."
After reading Richard's third post titled "Head, Heart, and Hope," in which he summarizes Dr. Radner's talk, I left this comment on his blog:
Again, regarding The Design Group, I wonder about the whole covenant movement in the Anglican Communion, why we need another covenant in addition to the New Covenant given us by Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Why would sinful human beings come up with a better covenant than one that includes The Two Great Commandments and The Beatitudes, which Our Lord gave us? It seems to me that a further covenant would be limiting the work of the Spirit in the church, rather than freeing us to follow the Spirit.
If the Episcopal Church is to humble itself and take a lesser role in the Communion - say as an associate member church - then, so be it, but I don't foresee that The Design Group will come up with a covenant that TEC will sign on to.
Perhaps I am naive, and I'm missing something important, but I truly do not see the need for an Anglican Covenant, no matter what it includes. We have the Gospels, the Creeds, and The Book of Common Prayer. Are these not sufficient to bind us together to approach the table of the Lord in peace and to do God's work in mission as a Communion? Won't a covenant serve to further divide the Anglican Communion, rather than bring us together?
Men of Delusion
Main man, Tony, in the UK is as delusional as our main man, George. This is from the AP:
British Prime Minister Tony Blair on Friday offered strong support for
President Bush's new plan for Iraq and said he believes the Iraqi prime minister can meet the benchmarks the United States has set.
In an interview with The Associated Press, Blair said of Iraqi Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki: "He's a man with the intent and we've got to support him in having the capacity. That's what it's all about."
Anyway, the peace march in Washington, DC is huge. I wish I was there.
British Prime Minister Tony Blair on Friday offered strong support for
President Bush's new plan for Iraq and said he believes the Iraqi prime minister can meet the benchmarks the United States has set.
In an interview with The Associated Press, Blair said of Iraqi Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki: "He's a man with the intent and we've got to support him in having the capacity. That's what it's all about."
Anyway, the peace march in Washington, DC is huge. I wish I was there.
The Tim Laughlin Jazz Quartet
Two weeks ago, I attended a performance by the Tim Laughlin Jazz Quartet from New Orleans. The performance was one of a series which takes place at my church, although the support of the series is a community effort, not a church-sponsored series. Our church has the use of a gorgeous grand piano, because the performances take place in our church.
The instruments included in the quartet were saxophone, cornet, piano, and bass. The group played classic jazz pieces, along with new compositions by Tim Laughlin.
Their performance was a delight and included vocal performances by the cornet player, Connie Jones and Tim Laughlin. The pianist, Tom McDermott, had to leave a little early, because of a schedule conflict, and Jones left his cornet on his chair and popped over to the piano to take his place.
Jones sang a song called "Sugar", which Billie Holiday admirers may know, in his husky voice and wonderful N'Awlins accent. What struck me about the group was not only that the musicians were multi-talented, but that each one seemed to take great delight in the solo moments of the others in the group. They were definitely having a good time and enjoying each other as they performed. The final piece, "Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans", was spoken-sung by Tim in a lovely, moving way, and, of course, it made me cry, since I have been missing New Orleans for forty-something years.
Tim Laughlin has a new album out of his own musical compositions called "Isle of Orleans".
I'm amazed at the quality of the musicians that come to perform for our music series, which consists of mostly classical music, with the occasional jazz performance thrown in. We can't pay a lot of money, and yet we get outstanding musicians to come to our small town for the little bit of money we can pay. That leads me to believe that there are many more talented musicians out there than there are gigs for them, which is sad, but works to our benefit, because we get to hear them.
The instruments included in the quartet were saxophone, cornet, piano, and bass. The group played classic jazz pieces, along with new compositions by Tim Laughlin.
Their performance was a delight and included vocal performances by the cornet player, Connie Jones and Tim Laughlin. The pianist, Tom McDermott, had to leave a little early, because of a schedule conflict, and Jones left his cornet on his chair and popped over to the piano to take his place.
Jones sang a song called "Sugar", which Billie Holiday admirers may know, in his husky voice and wonderful N'Awlins accent. What struck me about the group was not only that the musicians were multi-talented, but that each one seemed to take great delight in the solo moments of the others in the group. They were definitely having a good time and enjoying each other as they performed. The final piece, "Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans", was spoken-sung by Tim in a lovely, moving way, and, of course, it made me cry, since I have been missing New Orleans for forty-something years.
Tim Laughlin has a new album out of his own musical compositions called "Isle of Orleans".
I'm amazed at the quality of the musicians that come to perform for our music series, which consists of mostly classical music, with the occasional jazz performance thrown in. We can't pay a lot of money, and yet we get outstanding musicians to come to our small town for the little bit of money we can pay. That leads me to believe that there are many more talented musicians out there than there are gigs for them, which is sad, but works to our benefit, because we get to hear them.
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