Christmas with Granddaddy

Sandy Evander  Jones was the Grandfather I grew up with. He was born and raised in rural South Carolina and moved to Washington DC after marrying my Grandmother,the former Annie Louise Moore. My mom was their only child.
After my parents divorced,my grandmother came to live with my mom and my brothers in Connecticut during the school year. During the summer,we'd all pack the car and spend our entire summer in Washington at my Grandfather's house.

We called him Granddaddy.

While we would spend our summers in DC,so that in part my grandparents could be together,there would be a few times a year when Granddaddy would show up at our Hartford home.Sometimes only my Grandmother would know when he was coming,other times he'd surprise everyone and just show up! Christmas, however were the holidays we knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he'd be with us.

When Granddaddy would come to town,he would come via the Greyhound Bus,and despite my mom's willingness to pick him up at the Greyhound station,the only time I can ever remember him calling for a ride home was April 4,1968 after Martin Luther King was assassinated,and something tells me if he could have gotten a cab that night,he would have. He'd leave DC early in the morning,and as soon as dusk struck,no matter what my brothers and I might be doing,we'd take time to look out the window in anticipation of his arrival.
..Then sometime in the evening it would happen. A Yellow Cab would pull up in our driveway. A moment or so later,he'd emerge,complete with his fedora hat and a single suitcase.

GRANDDADDY!!

 My brothers and I would yell,and we'd start to run out the door to greet him. We'd inevitably be stopped by my Grandmother. When I look back,I think my Grandmother was determined to be the first to greet him when he'd walk through our doors.

There's a saying "You can take the man out of the country,but the you can't take the country out of the man." That was  Granddaddy. Awake and doing something by 6 am..Grits and gravy with biscuits for breakfast. He never quite understood why my brothers and I liked to stay in bed in the morning,and after a couple days in town,there he'd be,trying to break us of that habit. My brothers and I would be on our best behavior when he was in town. Just his talk about "the switch" and using it was enough to keep us in line. He was a man of sayings and stories,some of which he'd repeat so many times,you knew the endings before he got to them. His stories and sayings had a moral tale behind them,so it was important for him to get the point across. One he'd repeat to me is "Cleon Jones (a New York Mets outfielder I admired) is not going to be around to help you when you grow up!"

 I was good at baffling him. For the life of him,he could NOT understand how I could name all the Presidents,get A's and B's in school and fail to see the piece of trash that was right in front of me..or not notice that my shoes were untied.At the same time,he was proud that I could do the things I could do.
Granddaddy never came bearing gifts at Christmastime. He could have if he wanted to,he was successful in Real Estate and owned various properties around D.C.,including a plot of land large enough to put a house on,but instead was used as a garden plot. The gift he'd bring was that of himself. His gift was making people want to be around him,and until his passing in 1972 the best gift one could ask for.. I'd be remiss if I didn't recall one of my fondest Christmas memories..That of Granddaddy,my Dad,my brothers along with some neighborhood kids watching the 1971 playoff game between the Miami Dolphins and Kansas City Chiefs in what became the longest game in football history.

Ken Norton Robert Wren and Brooklyn

..Funny how one event triggers a memory of other events and times. In my case right now,it is the passing of boxer Ken Norton that brings back certain memories of a particular era,that of Brooklyn New York in the late 70's.
Before I get to that however,let me provide some background. Muhammad Ali first turned me on to Boxing.It wasn't that I enjoyed seeing guys pounding each other that drew me to the sport,but rather the persona of Ali,and his willingness to go against the grain. If someone like that was a boxer,then maybe,I thought,boxing was worth following.

I saw the first Ali-Norton fight on TV. It was apparent early that it wasn't Ali's best fight,but as an Ali fan I continued to hope that somehow he would pull off the decision. That didn't happen. Ken Norton beat Ali and from that day on,I knew I'd never become a Norton fan.

I moved to Brooklyn from Palmer Alaska in September of 1976. Sometimes I feel like I still reel from the culture shock of that move! Within those first few weeks in Brooklyn,I had been nearly killed by merely crossing the street,was the cause of a theft at house I lived in for failing to lock the door,and had the car I was responsible for stolen. Welcome to New York.

Ken Norton was to fight Ali again in September of '76. This time at Yankee Stadium. Ali won a close decision,but as big a story that day was the muggings and robbings that took place outside of Yankee Stadium after the fight. New York City Police,preparing to go on strike,for the most part stood by as it all was happening. Welcome to New York.

 When living in Brooklyn,I was part of a group called Gospel Outreach. G.O. as we called it was an outgrowth of the "Jesus Movement" of the late 60's and early 70's. It was a group mostly populated by countercultural types,and it brought a countercultural touch to Evangelical Christianity. G.O. was founded in Northern California,and one of the things it was noted for was its communal homes. Now in Northern California,Oregon,Washington State or even Alaska where I first encountered G.O.,communal living was not going to seem all that much out of the ordinary,after all during that time period,that's what a lot of "hippies" did.  Brooklyn was not Northern Cali however,and Brooklyn was not the small town or rural community that G.O. tended to be located.

G.O. had 2 houses in Brooklyn, both in the Park Slope neighborhood.One we called "The Shepherds House" the other "Sterling House". I started my life in Brooklyn at the Shepherds House,but most of my time there was spent at the Sterling House.

Park Slope in the 70's was not the gentrified neighborhood that it is today. It was part of the 'hood. Never saw what the cashier at the corner store looked like. Across the street from the Sterling House was an apartment building where one would be greeted upon entering with the aroma of piss in the hallways and where it was best for many reasons not to use the elevator. People would hang out in front of their brownstone buildings in Spike Lee "Do the Right Thing" fashion,and if you were walking down Sterling Place,one might never know that a service,complete with acoustic guitars and the like was taking place inside the Sterling House,because it was likely being drowned out by large speakers as "Disco Wars" were commonplace in the day.

Up till around 1978, television was not allowed in G.O. communal houses. In Alaska,my buddy Richard Twiss and I would arrange to be in Anchorage so we could watch Muhammad Ali fight at the Downtown J.C. Penney store.
Sometime in 1977,a man named Robert Wren came to live with us at the Sterling House. How he came to live there I do not recall. Like most of the rest of us living in the communal homes, he was not from New York. Robert Wren was not some ex-hippie. Robert Wren came from Oklahoma where he had been a biker and had previously been in a motorcycle gang. He was one big dude. Highly opinionated,and one not afraid to voice his opinions in a setting where voicing one's opinions was not particularly valued. One thing was for certain,even in the 'hood,someone was going to need to think twice before messing with Robert Wren.
Robert and I came from completely different backgrounds,but perhaps because of that inner rebel spirit,we became fast friends.
September 1977 Muhammad Ali was to fight Earnie Shavers in a bout that was to be nationally televised. TV's were still not allowed at the Sterling House,but there were few worries about missing the fight. Muhammad Ali fights were by then cultural events and one just had to walk the streets of Park Slope to get a glimpse of the fight from some TV or hear the cheers for Ali. Doing the same thing though we didn't do it together was Robert Wren.
By 1978,TV's were allowed in the G.O. Houses but what was watched and how much time spent in front of the television was tightly monitored.
Robert Wren would like to think it was his voicing of opinion that got it done,and who knows? maybe there was a fear of God involved in saying no to Robert,but of my fondest memories of Robert and of the Sterling House was that of myself,my other buddy Keith Marquette,houseleader Gary Crouthamel and Robert Wren watching the Ken Norton-Larry Holmes championship fight in the basement of the Sterling House.
To this day,the Norton-Holmes fight is considered to be one of the most exciting fights ever..
R.I.P. Ken Norton,and Robert Wren? I hope you are well wherever you are
 

Bookmark:Colfax Avenue

One doesn't have to spend much time in Denver Colorado before one hears from someone "Colfax Avenue is Baaad-Stay away from Colfax",and I guess if a person lacks a sense of adventure,one would avoid Colfax.

For those who have never been to Denver,Colfax is the longest street in the US,stretching from West to East. Depending on where you were,the landscape would be punctuated with used car dealerships,dive bars,porn shops,and transient motels. While there are not as many today as there once was,there are still enough there to give a person a sense of its history,and now numerous medical marijuana dispensaries can be found on the street.

When I first arrived in Denver back in 1980,I was told to stay away from Colfax,so naturally I found myself on the street often. Most of my time there,I lived in the Capitol Hill neighborhood,just blocks away from Colfax,and while like in most urban areas one watches the surroundings carefully,I cant say my experiences were negative on Colfax. I met one of my closest friends,Thomas Behler,on the infamous #15 Colfax Avenue bus line. Had coffee with the late radio talk show host Alan Berg at the White Spot Restaurant which used to sit near the corner of Colfax and Colorado Boulevard,and life took a positive turn based on an encounter that took place on Colfax Avenue.

As would often be the case when I was bored,short on funds,and restless,I'd hop on the #15 Bus just to view the sights on Colfax.On many a night,the entertainment was better than that on TV. Some evenings I'd take the 15 way out East to Aurora then turn around and head back to Capitol Hill,but on this particular evening I didn't venture far from Capitol Hill..got off the bus and went inside of a bar called Goodfriends. I started to drink my beer when I recognized also sitting at the bar was John Coit.

John Coit was a columnist for the now defunct Rocky Mountain News in Denver. John was a special writer. While some columnists would try to act as intellectual giants of some sort,John would speak to the heart. John had a unique way of speaking to the humanity of the situation and would do so whether he was in a gathering of movers and shakers or was hanging with street hobos as they prepared to hop the railroad. Readers of the Rocky Mountain News felt as if they knew him as he'd also write about his marriages, child custody issues,and the fact that loved to follow the Grateful Dead.

John Coit was a columnist,but I loved his writings almost as much as that of Richard Brautigan's If you know how much I love Brautigan,you know I'm saying a lot  I never got to meet Brautigan,but here I was in the same bar as John Coit! I was not going to leave the bar without saying something to him,but I wasn't going to be a fawner either. 3 quarters of my beer was downed before I asked him "Shouldn't you be finishing your column about now?" Coit replied "Fuck you man! Come over here!" I thought I was about to be chewed out by the man,but rather he bought me another beer,and began venting about a column that was approaching deadline,but he was finding himself stuck. I knew something about being stuck. I had written essays,short stories and poetry throughout high school and college,but by the time of our meeting at Goodfriends,all that seemed like a distant memory.Life was seemingly all about survival now.

I wanted John to feel better about his situation,so I shared how I was stuck. He would have none of it and instead shared these words. He said "I don't care what you're doing now.You are not going to be happy till you start writing again. Nothing is going to work till you do it." I didn't have to take the bus home that night. After finishing our beers,John Coit took me back to my Downing Street apartment,but not until after a high speed drive which first had us speeding through City Park then backtracking circling around Cheesman Park. How we never got pulled over by the cops beats me. John finished his column and a few days later,I bought a notebook. Last I checked,I still have the writings that came from that meeting.
Though I saw John Coit once after that meeting,I never told him I picked up a notebook. We were both at another Colfax Avenue institution,Smileys Laundromat then,making sure our clothes weren't getting swiped,and like anyone else in Denver at the time,singing the praises of the Denver Broncos.
A year or so later,John Coit was dead.Victim of a heart attack at age 38.
It took a few years after our Colfax encounter before I began writing in earnest again,but you know? Life did get better when I did.
Thanks John,and to all those who would want to criticize Colfax Ave. Fuck You.

A sidenote: Shortly after his death,the Rocky Mountain News published a collection of John Coit columns. If I have anything resembling a Christmas tradition,it is reading Coit's Christmas column. Some 25 years after it was published,it still brings tears to my eyes

When the Cops Came Knockin'

The Bug Theater is a mid sized theater in Northwest Denver. It's in a mostly residential neighborhood that was in the midst of a transition. Denver has always been more of a sports town than a theater town,so to see this theater stand where it was..well unusual. It had been dormant for years when a couple artist renovated the space,and began putting shows on there.

One of those artists involved with the Bug was Hugh Graham.Before moving to Denver,Hugh Graham had spent some time as a playwright in Minneapolis. It was that Minnesota connection that created an instant bond when we met. Hugh saw a void in the Denver theater scene and it was his dream to bring more of what he called "cutting edge" theater to Denver. In his eyes,my Reggae Theater piece Malcolm X Meet Peter Tosh fit the bill,so it was agreed to bring the piece to the Bug Theater.

The year before I had brought Malcolm X Meet Peter Tosh from Minneapolis and the Cedar Cultural Center to Denver and the Mercury Cafe. There it drew packed audiences and Alan Dumas,theater critic of the now defunct Rocky Mountain News called it the "top cultural event of 1994" It also drew its share of controversy. A theater piece with Reggae and Rasta themes,and especially a piece dealing with the life of Peter Tosh was going to have to deal with the topic of marijuana. Malcolm X Meet Peter Tosh tackled the subject head on..with spliffs the sizes that Peter Tosh would have smoked. Some loved it and would return with their friends.Others would walk out,and at a performance at Colorado State University in Fort Collins Colorado,the police were called upon reports of "marijuana being smoked onstage" No arrests were made.

The cast for the Bug performances was truly a "One Love" cast. Malcolm X was portrayed by James Crutchfield. James grew up in a household full of reggae music. James was new to theater and had doubts about the process and the cast at times and would express it in rehearsals but would channel that tension in a professional way and thus brought just what that character needed to be onstage

 Scott Kelley played Peter Tosh. At the Mercury and CSU performances Scott portrayed Malcolm X opposite me as Tosh. For the Bug shows,I merely wanted to direct and Scott had now grown dreadlocks,so this was perfect. Scott was from the Virgin Islands and loved reggae music. I first met him at Ken Hamblin's (DJ K-Nee) weekly reggae event,the Yardie Lounge.

The Yardie Lounge is also where I first connected with the "Man on the Couch" character,Thomas Behler. Thomas also became one of those who saw both Mercury and Fort Collins performances. He also became good friends with the original "Couch" character,Mitch Olson.With Mitch deciding to return to Minneapolis shortly after the Fort Collins shows,Thomas seemed like the natural fit for the role.

The Storyteller was Lisa Slicer,a Native American storyteller who came to the piece via the Denver Indian Center and a subsequent pow-wow.
The band for the Bug performances was the 8750 Reggae Band from Telluride Colorado. When I first returned to Colorado for the Mercury shows,someone told me that the 8750 Reggae Band was the best band in Colorado. When I first saw a picture of them,I didn't want to believe it,but when I saw them for the first time,I became a believer,and felt blessed when they said upon hearing about this play,that they wanted to be a part of this. All this made for a wonderful cast.

Seems like in my experience in theater often opening night's performance gets through due to opening night adrenaline,the second night something unexpected happens,and by the third night things click for the rest of the run.
The first night at the Bug blew me and the audience in attendance away. Everyone was amazingly good.

One had the sense something was going to happen the moment one walked into the Bug for the second night. There seemed to be some sort of tension even backstage before the show began.

With Malcolm X Meet Peter Tosh, it was a given that a certain degree of tension would be created long before the first words of dialogue were spoken. What some would consider to be pre show music was actually part of the show and the volume of it was more akin to being at a live concert rather than at a theater event. Some of the audience would arrive during the "pre show" music upsetting some of those expecting a show to start" on time".Then there was the excruciatingly slow walk from the audience to the stage by the "Man on the Couch" All tension building from the start.

Leave it to Ken Gorman to push the envelope. There is a scene early in the play where Peter Tosh would hand a joint to an audience member. Often it was then when the marijuana action would begin in earnest,but now,after performances in Minneapolis,Denver and Fort Collins,the audience knew what was coming and while I was introducing the piece,Ken Gorman,the Colorado marijuana activist known for his pot smoking rallies on the steps of the Colorado State Capitol walked up to the stage to hand me a lit joint. Now,with marijuana smoking added to the scripted chaos in the beginning,shouts of "put that out!" and "hand it to me!" was added to the mix.

After the introduction,I took up my seat in the back of The Bug,and pulled up my director's notes.I could hardly write any notes as Thomas,Scott,James and Lisa were all exceptionally good this night..Then as if on cue,but it really wasn't..IT HAPPENED! As Malcolm and Peter were debating the herb's merit onstage,I began to notice flashlights checking the aisles. The flashlights were not courtesy of the Bug Theater which did not employ ushers,but rather that of the Denver Police Department and they weren't helping people to their seats. I heard someone say "Is this part of the play?"
Reggae music has a sense of timing,theater has a sense of timing,and so does life. The police reached the front of the stage in time to get smoke blown on them by The Man on the Couch (Thomas)-the audience cheered. The police then turned around and began to grab people in the front of the audience as Scott begins to go into a Peter Tosh monologue/diatribe on the evils of Babylon. As people are being carried out,the audience shouts "Let them go!" In previous performances,the Man on the Couch would have been one of those hauled off also. The Bug Theater shows were the one time where the spliffs from the stage were not real however.

At this point I'm still sitting in my seat awaiting the joint coming my way wondering if its the real or fake one,and as the writer and director waiting for the police to find and arrest me.
It is now the point in the play where the 8750 Reggae Band does a short set. Some people get out of their seats to dance amongst the wall of cops standing on the side. The spliff gets to me.It's the real one. I take a hit,pass it on,and use the moment to get out of my seat,walk around the theater and in a sense make it easier for them to arrest me if they wish. As I get up,I notice one Denver cop overcome by the One Love vibe and was moving his feet and his club to the reggae beat.

"Is this part of the play?"
In the foyer,cops were getting info from the folks they pulled from the audience. I walk outside. Down the street from the Bug,a fight was in progress. Looked pretty serious to me. Denver cops however felt differently. It was past the roadblock and lineup of cop cars there to deal with reports of pot smoking in the theater. On the side of the theater there were more cops,blocking in the alley the 8750 Reggae Band's tour bus.

8750's set was over and it was time for me to come back inside.

The next day,the Rocky Mountain News theater section began with the headline "Bug's Malcolm X Leaves Audience Members Smokin"

 A sidenote: Hugh Graham tells me that for sometime afterwards,the Bug Theater was noted for what happened that night..I'm not sure that's the way he anticipated putting the Bug on the map,but it worked I guess.

Fast forward a week later. I would begin my days by making a breakfast and follow that with a trip to Alfalfa's, a natural food store nearby in Denver's Capitol Hill neighborhood. There I'd have coffee and engage with friends who lived in the neighborhood. Shortly after returning this particular time,there was a knock on my door. I thought it was the landlord. I was wrong. It was the Denver Police Department. I closed the door behind me. No way was I going to allow the police just to walk inside my apartment.

I asked the cops what brought them to my place. "Report of quantities of marijuana" Normally,without a warrant,I still would not have allowed them in,but I had to laugh and said "Come on in officers,There it is!"

I pointed to the kitchen table to where a small piece of marijuana lay. After the officers inspected the rest of the apartment and commenting on the interesting collection of books I had, ("Not your typical drugman" one of them remarked) I was asked to "dispose" of that piece after they left. It got disposed of in true Rasta fashion. I didn't realize it when I first put the piece on the table,but as it turns out,that  small piece of marijuana was resting on the Rocky Mountain News article.

written  on 4/20/2013

Memories of April 4,1968

I've always had a problem with the saying "If you can remember the '60s,you weren't there. Maybe that term applies to some a little older than myself. I was born in 1955,and maybe I was gifted with a sense of memory,but I remember in 1962 on a tiny black and white TV watching President Kennedy speak during the Cuban Missile Crisis with my brother Howie asking my mom "Are we going to die now?" In 1962,my watching of John Glenn's orbital flight with my mom was interrupted due to my brother Austin contracting a serious case of Pneumonia,and her having to rush him to the hospital.

If you've seen my solo performances Black Hippie Chronicles and/or Cancer,Peace,Love,and Assorted Realities,you've heard all about Miss Amato's classroom on November 22,1963,and in 1964,my mother,Helen Louise Jones Daniels,an educator,and one active in the Civil Rights Movement through her involvement with the NAACP,Urban League,as well as her sorority took me to the 1964 Democratic Party Platform Committee meetings in Washington D.C.,where because of her,I met Dr. Martin Luther King.Sometime before that,my mom had taken my brothers and myself to a rally Dr.King spoke at in the Washington neighborhood she grew up in,but all I remember from that event was that adults much taller than me blocked my view...So enough about not being there in the 1960's.

April 4,1968,I was a seventh grader attending an all boys school,Kingswood School in West Hartford Connecticut. Kingswood School was considered as one of the most elite prep schools in Connecticut and to graduate from Kingswood meant you were likely on track to attend an Ivy League college. I was at Kingswood on a scholarship, That said.. I hated Kingswood and that school year had to be the worst year I ever experienced in my school days.  At the mostly black elementary school I had attended prior to attending Kingswood,I had been teased for things like being a bookworm,speaking "Proper English" and aspiring to be President as that was considered as "acting white" but now at Kingswood, I was harassed and hassled for being black. I was having kids flashing dollar bills in front of me asking if I had ever seen one before.  It didn't matter that my Dad was one of the most prominent and affluent blacks in the Hartford area,these kids were sons of bank presidents and corporate leaders and I wasn't living in the suburbs like they were.  I was also facing something I had never experienced before..I was struggling academically! On top of it all,a few months earlier,my dog and best friend from early childhood, Gyp had died. In seventh grade at that time,it seemed like the only good things going on for me was the music I was beginning to listen to,and the Saturday afternoon time I was spending stuffing envelopes with the hippies working inside the Eugene McCarthy for President Hartford office.

A typical early evening would consist of having dinner and watching the news,national news first,followed by the local news. Many a night we'd watch the news as a family,but this particular evening I was watching the news alone. I think my brothers were off playing somewhere,and my mom and grandmother were downstairs in the kitchen. Most nights in our Hartford Connecticut home we'd watch the news on the CBS affiliate WTIC Channel 3,however on this night,I was watching the local news on the NBC affiliate Channel 30.

Barry Barrants,the local Channel 30 anchorman first broke the news of the assassination. It wasn't long after that when the local news switched back to the national. It was the first time I recalled the news being interrupted by news.
I paused and took a deep breath.
I knew my next step had to be to go downstairs to be with my mom and grandmother. I thought perhaps my grandmother would have the radio that was in the kitchen on and that they would have heard the news. It only took a few seconds in listening to their conversation to realize they had not heard.

On November 22,1963 when I was in third grade,I thought it was my duty to run home from school to inform my mom of JFK's assassination,all I knew was that she'd be watching As The World Turns. Now I had my chance to be the newscaster I thought I might want to be if I didn't become President when I grew up...and I couldn't do it.As bad as JFK's death was,in our household,this news was going to be so much worse. At this point in life,I hadn't lost anyone close to me,but I knew..in this household,this news was going to be received as if someone in the family had died. I could not bring myself to opening my mouth. I merely fumbled around in the kitchen,turned on the radio on the kitchen table,left,not to return till I realized they had heard the news that Martin Luther King was dead. I had to let CBS Radio News break the story to them.

I would soon get a second chance to be the newscaster,this time when the phone rang. I answered it. It was my Grandfather.

 Now here's one thing you have to know about my maternal grandparents,Annie Louise Jones and Sandy Evander Jones. When my parents divorced,my grandmother decided it was in the best interest of the family for her to move from her Washington DC home to assist my mom in raising me and my brothers..Trust me no easy task. My grandfather,who was still happily married and madly in love with my grandmother would come to Hartford for most of the holidays. We'd spend our summers in Washington,so that they could be together,but in addition to those times,there would be a couple times a year where, without warning,a cab would pull up in our driveway,and out the door would emerge my grandfather! It would be an exciting time for all of us,but especially for my grandmother.

"Granddaddy!" I said after he said hello.
"I'm in Hartford at the Greyhound Bus Station and I cant get a cab"
"Granddaddy did you hear the news? Martin Luther King was killed tonight"

"WHAT??" "No wonder I can't get a cab,I guess I'm going to have your mother pick me up. Put her on the phone"

 No surprise visit this time,but when he said that,I didn't have to hear a local news report to know what was happening. Rioting had broken out. Riots were nothing new to Hartford. A year before riots had broken out in Hartford. Despite the fact that Dr.King was an apostle for non violence,there was no doubt in my mind that once the news of his murder spread,that Hartford was going to go up in flames.
The Greyhound Bus Station was right in the heart of the riot area. Normally from our house it would take a half hour there and back at worst. This night it took my mom nearly two hours after dealing with all the detours and checkpoints,but both my mom and grandfather got back to our house safely.

It was a late night in our household that night with all of us watching the news. On more than one occasion,I can recall my grandmother saying 'What is this world coming to?" in reaction to both the King Assassination and the ensuing riots.

The following days were rather surreal. My grandfather had to cut his visit short upon hearing about Washington DC going up in smoke. He felt he needed to check on his real estate office.

My father,Dr.Evans H. Daniels Jr. had his medical practice not far from the Greyhound Bus Station and in the heart of the riot area. My dad had dedicated his medical career to helping those in need.That work continued during this time as without question and with little concern as to how he was going to be paid for it,he remained at his office,treating victims of the riots..gunshot wounds,cuts due to broken glass etc. On April 4th 1968,and for a few days afterwards,many businesses in the area were either vandalized or torched. My Dad's office was left unscathed.

In 1968,for the most part,if you were black and lived in Hartford,you lived in Hartford's North End. While the exodus of black professionals to the suburbs was beginning,the North End was a mixture of black folks from every economic strata. After Dr King's murder,in the eyes of the police and other government officials,the entire North End was deemed a threat to the well being of Hartford,thus the entire North End was placed under curfew.After 7 pm,no one was allowed on the street. By April,it was warm enough to resume our neighborhood baseball games,but for a couple days,we had to cut our games short. It was rather strange to look out the window in our quiet enclave in the North End to see the occasional police car driving by making sure the curfew was being enforced.

..And that's the way it was April 4th 1968

 

Tales from Cowtown

McFann's was a restaurant and bar at the corner of 11th Avenue and Ogden Street in the Capitol Hill Neighborhood of Denver Colorado.  It was one of those landmark spots in Capitol Hill of the 1980's and early '90's.

McFann's was rather nondescript in appearance. A plain green sign on a white board was how anyone driving by was going to know about the place. Its menu was of the standard American fare,and there was nothing outstanding about the beer selection either. What it did have going for it was the neighborhood: Capitol Hill. If you were a hippie or a punk,and couldn't afford to live in Boulder,you lived in Capitol Hill. Ramblin' Jack Elliott and Allen Ginsberg spent their Denver time in Capitol Hill. It seemed to attract an inordinate number of artists. In the 1980's,if you were gay,Capitol Hill was one of the safest neighborhoods to live in Denver. It was affordable if you didn't have much,but comfortable enough for those who had a little more too...and Colfax Avenue was not far away. Never know what may come out of or from Colfax. McFann's found itself set in the heart of this neighborhood,and that's probably why it thrived.

In the 80's it was more of a restaurant than bar,but as far as I was concerned, McFann's was the epitome of a modern day Wild West saloon. I always related it to something bad happening. When my wife at the time would say "Let's go to McFann's",I learned to brace myself because something was about to go down.

In the mid 90's,I found myself back in Denver,back in Capitol Hill,and back in McFann's. Now it was more of a bar,complete with pool tables,but still nothing outstanding about the beer selection,and found out soon enough that I didn't have to be married to find trouble at McFann's. One night,a Pittsburgh Steelers fan made the mistake of talking smack about the Denver Broncos there. Bet he never did that again..I saw a waitress throw a drink into a customer's face. On another evening while quietly sitting at the bar nursing a beer,I was politely informed by the bartender,that in order to avoid trouble,because there was a man on the other side of the bar who wanted to start a fight with me,that I should probably leave. The bartender paid for my beer..

I will say this about McFann's however: it was through a friend who I met there who introduced me to the 13th Avenue Bar and Grill in Denver where later I met some of my best and closest friends .

One of the last times I visited McFann's was shortly before returning to Minnesota. I ran into my former  neighbor who shortly was going to return to his homeland of Australia. He and I had struck up a friendship while living in an Ogden St apartment,and both of us found ourselves as sworn enemies of the landlord for reasons that had nothing to do with paying the rent on time. One of my "crimes" there was laughing too hard with my friends. That brought the landlord to the door complete with a billy club. Guess the landlord did something similar to my Aussie friend too.

It was getting close to bar close time. We had had a few beers and and spent the evening railing against the landlord,the political system,and even McFann's,but before leaving,my friend had to do one last thing.
As the jukebox ended the night with the Counting Crows' Mr Jones,He pleaded for,and got the patrons attention.
"I love Denver and I love Capitol Hill!" he shouted in his Australian accent "and I going to miss people like my dreadlock friend here!" I began to wonder if he had been a member of the Australian Parliament the way he was speaking. He certainly was getting the call and response from the bar crowd. "But I need to tell you,we were WRONGED by a corrupt landlord!" We must do something about this!" He asked me to join him..I declined,but it seemed like he had enough of the bar following him. I walked by my old apartment the next day,and did notice boards covering up the landlord's window.

McFann's no longer exists and neither does the Capitol Hill of the day. The Wild West can now only be found on Colfax/

Random Thoughts on Cancer,Peace,Love and Assorted Realities

It's one thing to portray another character onstage and another to be portraying one's self. It's easier to hide when you're someone else. There's no running and no hiding in this piece! Black Hippie Chronicles was that way,but there was about 20 years between the time of those experiences before it was brought on stage. Obviously this is more recent. What makes this performance of  Cancer,Peace,Love and Assorted Realities even more interesting for me is that I expect some who lived various chapters of this story with me to be in the audience!

It is great working with Phil Hunter on this piece. We've had a long working relationship and we know how each other works. We come from quite different theater experiences,but what he offers as Director blends well with what I want to do with this story.

Reggae and Rasta works have always maintained a kind of "rawness". I think this piece falls into that category.

This is a very personal story obviously,and I think the theater space of Dreamland Arts in St. Paul  is ideal. It's small and intimate.  There's also a full circle aspect to it all..I lived just blocks from Dreamland Arts when this entire adventure began.

What more can I say except I look forward to this January 19th performance.
 http://www.dreamlandarts.com/shows/detail.php?eventId=212