Not much to this other than to bemoan the rapid passing of summer. July was beastly, but August has been nice, and I’m looking forward to pleasant weather through October (call me optimistic). Karen’s about to enter her last year at Cleveland Institute of Art, Katy just started her second year at Bowling Green, and Lylah’s now a junior at Beaumont—and working: She got a job at Chocolate Emporium, a kosher confectionery virtually around the corner from our house.

Off Provincetown, Mass. this August—whale watching is great!

Lylah, Karen and Katy: my beautiful household.

Read a great book: Paul Bowles’ The Sheltering Sky. Also reviewed a book of his travel writings for the Boston Globe, and for the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, reviewed Driving Home, a collection of essays and memoirs by the fine British writer Jonathan Raban. I’m still reviewing jazz CDs for Jazz Times and a little bit of rock for Hearsay.

Invisible Soul is vexing. I applied for a Creative Workforce Fellowship to the Cuyahoga Partnership for Arts and Culture and will know by Oct. 12 whether I got it. It’s for $20,000, which would help me a lot and pay for some research help. In the meantime, I already have an outline and am gearing up to just plain write the thing, or at least parts of it that I have under my belt. Poring over old newspaper stories and display ads is fascinating; there’s so much oddball, uncovered history here. In the meantime, I have another book out (sort of): WIXY 1260: Pixies, Six-Packs and Supermen. Published by a subsidiary of Kent State University Press, it’s credited thus: “Mike Olszewski & Richard Berg with Carlo Wolff.” Basically, I edited it. It’s fun.

One last item: My first wife contacted me through Facebook. I haven’t seen her/been in contact with her since 1983. Amazing how the lines of your life connect—far more easily than they used to.

On another front, Invisible Soul, the Cleveland soul music book project I’m developing, is moving along. I’m encountering some resistance—some key figures are hard to reach and/or simply don’t want to be—and there might be competition. If there is, I hope it turns into coopetition. Seems I’m treading sensitive waters; meanwhile, I’ll continue to post occasional, Cleveland soul-related stories on ohioauthority.

The book reviews are dwindling, probably because a) newspapers continue to cut back, b) bookstores are dying and c) book publishing is shrinking—or at least morphing. Such change is the reason I want Invisible Soul to be a book, an e-book, a soundtrack, a DVD, and maybe more. Gotta be multimedia these days; it’s the only way to market to a wide audience.

On the home front, Katy got a 4.0 in her first semester at Bowling Green and Lylah won high honors for her academic and artistic work in her sophomore year at Beaumont.

Karen’s working hard on updating her book, “Thick Through the Middle,” as a senior project.

A year from now, Karen will be a Cleveland Institute of Art graduate, armed with a whole new skill set. Reinvention is challenging and continuous.

The heart of the book will be East 105th Street and Euclid Avenue, what we now call University Circle. At the time I’m looking at, 105 was home to a gaggle or bars/entertainment venues where in the late ‘50s you could hear Chuck Berry, Bill Doggett, Johnny “Hammond” Smith and Billie Holiday within the same week. I want to recreate those black-and-white times before the people with the right kind of memories pass. Those people are largely black, and it’s a sensitive project.

So starting in April, I plan to devote more and more time to this. I want it and all its ancillaries—it’s a multimedia era—in stores and online by Christmas 2012. Something big to work toward. It’s exciting. Now if only it would warm up…

The weather sucked. Except for one day when it crept near 50, the temperature in Cleveland has been zero to 30 and there’s been snowfall virtually every day for the past six weeks. That might explain why the Hesitations drew only about 150 despite major publicity.

In any case, the Hesitations were just fine, living proof of the second chance. They recorded for Kapp in the late ‘60s and hit the charts with such tunes as “Soul Superman,” “Born Free” and “The Impossible Dream,” speaking to the rise of black power. Those songs, along with such chestnuts as “Stand By Me” and “Mustang Sally,” still have the power, though whether they relate to today’s young people is a question.

Red becomes the Hesitations

It was great to see and hear a group with harmonies and choreography, a group that plays real instruments and tells real stories through their music. Makes you think getting older pays dividends after all.

Which brings me to my top 10 lists. I wrote one for PazznJop, the annual Village Voice poll of 1,500 critics; it focuses on pop and will join 1,499 others in the Jan. 19 issue. I wrote the other, exclusively on jazz CDs, for Jazz Times, the monthly magazine I contribute to.

PazznJop was tougher. I’m of a generation out of step with a lot of current pop, so I suspect my list reads dated. Jazz is easier, now that I’m in the current of jazz recordings. Anyhow, I’m sharing:

For the Voice:
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Mojo, Reprise
The National, High Violet, 4AD
The Deadbeat Poets, Circustown, Pop Detective
Tom Jones, Praise & Blame, Island
Roky Erickson, True Love Cast out All Evil, Anti
Kanye West, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, Good Music
Dan Auerbach, Keep It Hid, Nonesuch
Bettye Lavette, Interpretations: The British Rock Songbook, Anti
Taylor Swift, Speak Now, Big Machine
Eminem, Recovery, Aftermath/Interscope

For Jazz Times:
Sarah Manning, Dandelion Clock, Posi-Tone
Rudresh Mahanthappa & Bunky Green, Apex, Pi
Dave Morgan, Way of the Sly Man, Being Time
Danilo Perez, Providencia, Mack Avenue
Nik Baertsch’s Ronin, Llyria, ECM
Metropole Orkest/John Scofield/Vince Mendoza, 54, Emarcy
The Nels Cline Singers, Initiate, Cryptogramophone
Stephan Crump With Rosetta Trio, Reclamation, Sunnyside
Charles Lloyd Quartet, Mirror, ECM
Cassandra Wilson, Silver Pony, Blue Note

I’m depressed about the elections, though oddly confident that Obama will now learn to lead the country, particularly since all the GOP seems wont to do is continue to say no to anything he tries. That’s not a program, and even when it’s hard to discern, Obama has one. So maybe there’s hope.

On the CJO: This was the first time I’d encountered several members of the board since I quit in August over its hiring of a communications person other than me. I don’t like some board members, so encounters were prickly. The show featured Cleveland stars Bob Fraser, guitar; Dominick Farinacci, trumpet; Ernie Krivda, tenor sax; the storied blind organist, Eddie Baccus Sr., rocking the Hammond; Ki Allen, vocals. It was a little lurchy and long, but basically nifty, even communal. Ki—my favorite Cleveland singer for sure—was terrific; Ernie was big-toned and expansive, particularly on “Laura”; the Frase made a lovely pass of intricately chorded variations on “Norwegian Wood”; and the restrained, suspensefully soulful Farinacci turned in a gorgeous “Manha de Carnaval,” from the film “Black Orpheus.” The show didn’t quite sell out, but it felt good. I’m still hostile toward the organization but miss the band.

Tomorrow I travel to Vancouver for a Best Western conference. I’m looking forward to a brief visit to a city that years ago was the stage for the wildest week I’ve ever spent. In 1975, I flew there on recommendation of a sometime girlfriend in Burlington who suggested I stop over there on my way to San Francisco and hook up with two of her friends, Jane and Carla. Did I ever: I spent a wild, stoned week there, enjoying myself immensely, profligately, bawdily. I leave the detail to your imagination.

And on Nov. 16, I’m flying to Tokyo for six days, courtesy of Hilton. I’ll stay at the Conrad at the Shiodome, tour the new Tokyo airport, and inhale as much as I can of a city I’ve always wanted to see. More soon.

The country—hell, the world—is rocky. England is shredding its overly expensive safety net, France is making people work harder, China continues to pollute and control and produce, India—wait a minute!—is booming, and Afghanistan remains medieval. What to do?

Not go backward. The U.S. should take a cue from Britain and France, which are meeting challenges head-on. Obama should learn from Britain’s David Cameron. Still, despite failures of nerve on the gender, finance, health care and employment front, Obama has moved the country forward. He’s been woefully deficient as inspiration, contrary to the promise of his masterful presidential campaign. But he and the key Democratic Party mechanics like Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid have effected change, incremental though it may be.

Most polls say the GOP is going to retake the House and maybe the Senate. It’s certainly going to nab some governorships. I expect our new Republican leaders will cut social and medical programs in the name of fiscal responsibility and do their utmost to repeal health care reform. I want to fight this. That’s why even though I’m not fired up—it’s hard to be these days—I’m going to make calls for incumbent Gov. Ted Strickland next Saturday. Who knows? He might squeak back in. It’s certainly worth a shot. Such volunteer work is the least I can do to stave off a return to the Dark Ages.

So I pull into a Lexus dealer who tells me to go across the street to Metro Toyota. I’m looking to pull in, get the problem solved, and be on my way. It’s a very cold call.

At Metro, I tell the service desk my problem, and this tall guy says no hassle, he’ll take care of it, he won’t even write it up, go into the waiting room and he’ll be back to me. Long story short, 20 minutes later, he tells me my car’s ready. The tires were woefully low on pressure, they need to be replaced by winter, two valve stems were missing (I’d forgotten to put them back on after my ill-fated inflation attempt), he’d had the car washed, no charge.

Unreal. I didn’t think service like this existed anymore. Maybe it’s because Toyota is trying to repair a public relations image its recalls have badly damaged. Maybe it’s because Toyota wants me to remain loyal. It didn’t feel calculated at all, however. It felt genuine. That’s why I want to go on record thanking Bruce Schad, the service manager at Metro Toyota, for what he did. Service like that should go on the record.

The CJO decision continues to weigh on me, and I’m not sure whether I’m going to reconsider it. It left me in a world of hurt, a place I don’t want to occupy and one I’m struggling to pry myself out of. Sorry for the grammar, sorry for the circumspection. It’s a matter of calibrating the proper balance between personal and professional.

As for Katy, it was difficult to leave her so far away in beautiful Colorado, but word is she’s adjusting, though not without challenges. Our trip there en famille was stressful, though Boulder’s very attractive.

Ties do bind. Sometimes they fray. Sometimes they break. The last is when repair becomes the operative word. September will be a month of repair.

Other random thoughts: I’m reviewing/working in/on jazz a lot, writing reviews and features for Jazz Times and doing some marketing work for the Cleveland Jazz Orchestra. I’m also listening to rock again. I love the new Tom Jones CD “Praise and Blame” and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ “Mojo” and am intrigued by The National, a New York group running Bowie circa “Low” through a fuzzadelic blender on “High Violet,” their dourly beautiful new album.

Also must direct you to the blog of my wife, Karen Sandstrom, who has crafted a portrait of me at my summeriest, wearing “jorts.” What a drag it will be to wear long pants again. It’s almost time.

What’s great about her first world credit as Lylah Rose Wolff is she hit it age 15. I didn’t go global until the ‘80s, when I was in my late 30s and writing for Goldmine, a record collectors’ magazine. My wife, the amazing multimedia artist Karen Sandstrom, hit the world in 1995 with a preview of the art that would go into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum in Cleveland. That ran in Art and Antiques.

Lylah’s way ahead of the curve. A whiz at Photoshop, she’s wired for contemporary media. She has a Nikon, she’s beginning to turn her bedroom into a studio, and she’s creative and ready to learn. All she has to do is keep on keeping on with her camera, get over any squeamishness that stands in the way of getting a powerful picture (much is distasteful to my very girly girl) and press her case. It’s a powerful one.

Carr is an ambitious kid. He’s going into ninth grade at University School and spent nearly two years on the project. It’s a little crude, kind of like rock itself, and it’s the “official” Cleveland rock story in that it doesn’t mention anything underground or alternative.

But it has some cool footage, including some very raw AC/DC and a clip featuring Southside Johnny and Bruce Springsteen from an Agora concert. Check them out on YouTube:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Click here to view the embedded video.

I’ll be in Brussels, Barcelona, Toulon, Marseille, Chantilly and Munich. More train than plane is in the plans; it’ll be interesting to see how Europe handles its travel in the shadow of the volcano.

It’s been a while since I wrote. One of the highlights of the past few weeks was Karen and I going to dinner with Bob Hoover, books editor of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette; his wife, Kathleen; our friends Ron Antonucci and Sarah Willis; and the star of the event, Kay Ryan, Poet Laureate of the United States.

Dinner with the Poet Laureate of the United States was something to chew on.

Karen and I went to the film festival for the first time in it must be 10 years last week, and didn’t hit a clunker. Here’s what we saw: “The Ape” (Swedish); “House of Branching Love” (Finnish); “A Matter of Size” (Israeli); “Fire in the Heartland” (U.S.); “Desert of Forbidden Art” (U.S.); “Marwencol” (U.S.) Each time we went downtown was more fun. The festival was packed, the standby lines long. Here’s a brief rundown of the flicks:

—“The Ape”: Intellectually fascinating study of paranoia and trauma that never resolved, remaining ambiguous and disturbing. The point of view was riveting.

—“House”: Bawdy, funny sex comedy about tribulations and rewards of marriage. Entertaining as hell and ultimately uplifting. The actor who played Wolfi could be a major star.

—“Fire”: About the May 4, 1970 National Guard shootings at Kent State. Well-documented and profoundly sad, it evoked the politics of the ‘60s with minimum preachiness and suggested there still are stories to uncover about that seminal incident.

—“Matter”: Emotionally my favorite flick, it’s a comedy about four giant misfits in a small Israeli village who channel their creativity into becoming sumo wrestlers. It’s a whole new way of seeing fat, too. A blast.

—“Desert”: A documentary about suppressed Soviet-era Modernist art in a museum in Uzbekistan. Great art, amazing story.

—“Marwencol”: From rural, upstate New York comes this documentary about a guy beaten nearly senseless whose “recovery” consists of creating a World War II-inspired community in his backyard, populated by dolls. The most provocative movie I saw, it makes you rethink your notions of art and “wellness.”

Saturday night, I saw John Zorn’s Masada Sextet at the Cleveland Museum of Art. Saxophonist Zorn, who channels what he calls Radical Jewish Culture, and his five co-conspirators played only a little over an hour, but how and what they played! Great, often romantic music with a Sephardic, Spanish coloration; even one highly abstract piece was a kick, because Zorn and Co. so enjoy each other and their shared discipline.

The film festival and Zorn show were breaths of fresh air in a community that often feels ingrown. Seeing crowds downtown was invigorating. Hearing Zorn’s music was similarly mind-expanding. Cleveland felt like an open city this past week. Maybe it’s spring rearing its desired head.

Today I got Martin Benjamin’s “Atomic Age” in the mail. I worked with Marty in Albany in the ‘70s and ‘80s at rock and roll shows, and he’s the best photographer I’ve ever worked with (dig into his website and you’ll find a picture of me—with more hair and way bigger glasses). His book—infrared photos of his wife; shots from irradiated sites; glimpses of remote cultures; startling closeups of what look like perfect strangers—is an event. Like words, but in different ways, images can move and shape and change the world. Marty’s certainly do.

I saw Erickson at the Beachland Ballroom last night, after catching him Nov. 14 at a Janis Joplin tribute in which he sang “You’re Gonna” and “Ooh! My Soul,” a Little Richard number perfectly suited to his primal scream. Could Erickson sustain a whole set? No problem. He was fabulous.

Not only did he end with “You’re Gonna” (no encore despite wild applause, whistles and the usual hoots), he stomped through a gang of other numbers from his work in Elevators and Roky Erickson and the Aliens, and he was fierce. This was hellfire rock ‘n’ roll snatched from the abyss and delivered by a master. In the beginning, the rock word was Sun Records. The second generation was the British Invasion and the American response spearheaded by the Beatles, the Byrds, Dylan—and misfits like Erickson, a leonine phoenix who works idiosyncratic hard rock as if he’d invented it. He’s on a brief tour with Okkervil River, a startlingly good young band from Austin, the liberal oasis in secessionist Texas, where Erickson made his first mark nearly 50 years ago. I can’t wait for “True Love Cast Out All Evil,” his first album of new material in more than 10 years. It’s due out April 20.

The show was cool for other reasons. Not only was it a highlight of the Beachland’s 10th anniversary, it also featured two talented Cleveland bands: Living Stereo, a sharp, new wave quartet with complex songs and stage presence to burn, and the Alarm Clocks, a Byrds- and Petty-influenced guitar band of chops, seasoning and occasionally interesting texture. Living Stereo was a hard act to follow (especially for an opener), the Clocks a nice bridge that got better as the mix settled in. Erickson, however, dominated as soon as he took the stage.

I wish I’d caught Pere Ubu the night before, when the storied and fractious underground Cleveland band recreated “The Modern Dance,” its 1978 breakthrough. Friends tell me the house was nearly full, the energy level high, Ubu mainman David Thomas in relatively high spirits. A frazzled-looking, withdrawn Thomas was at the Erickson show. He looked thin and weary, a shadow of his former self. I hope he enjoyed the Erickson revival as much as I did.

It’s still cold but it’s bright, the snow crunching less than it did even a week ago. It’s been a chilly winter, though the sun the past few days has been delightful if a bit illusory. Around this time of year in Cleveland, the mind turns to getting far, far away and warm, warm and sunny.

Karen and Katy are traveling to Colorado next week to look at the University of Colorado in Boulder. Lylah just turned 15 and got a Nikon for that milestone (you’ve seen some of her pix; you’ll see more). And I’ll be traveling to Europe in about six weeks on a hotel trip arranged by my good friend and highly prized professional colleague, Rich Roberts.

So the thaw seems real, there’s motion in the works, the freeze is breaking. Other signs: those wily socialist Democrats who want to plunder the country for their own takeover will pass health care reform, flawed though it may be; the economy is sputtering with a little promise; reason seems to be clawing its way back into public discourse.

Ask me for citations and I’d be hard-pressed, but that’s my feeling.

I parked in the Justice Center garage across the street from the plug-ugly Justice Center and got to the second floor in plenty of time for my 10:45 a.m. hearing. I put my name on the sign-in sheet and was eager to tell an officer why I thought the officer was out of line busting me, especially around Christmas.

Before my scheduled time, a woman handed me a sheet saying the charge had been dismissed. Maybe the cop never showed. Maybe just requesting the hearing did it. In any case, it was a worthwhile trip to downtown Cleveland, a place I’m leery of, a place so money-grubbing it’s the opposite of welcoming.

Then I paid $9 for my stay of maybe 38 minutes. The Justice Center garage charges $3 for every 15 minutes. That way they got you coming and going. Oh, well. One way to look at it is I saved $16.

We saw a cop ticketing my car. I yelled there was time left. He said I’d parked more than two feet from the curb. “Downright Christmasy,” I told him. I also told him I couldn’t believe him and said he’d had a choice: to ticket me or leave it be.

What’s your name? I asked. It’s on the ticket, he said. My $25 ticket from The Parking Violations Bureau of the city of Cleveland identifies him as “Cintron.” I told him the city does anything for money. I was furious. I took out my bile on Lylah on our way back east. That was unfair.

She wondered whether he’d had a yardstick to measure that legal 24 inches. I wish I’d had one with me and had the presence of mind to measure the distance myself. Didn’t look like two feet to me, so it’ll be my word against Cintron’s when I go for my hearing. I don’t intend to pay this fine.

Wonder what else the uninviting city of Cleveland plans to do to me and others willing to brave it? Its officials wonder why people don’t want to go downtown. People like Cintron are one of the reasons. So is a law that’s more than open to interpretation—and that feels especially capricious in a city with no traffic to worry about because nobody wants to go there.

Leonard Cohen: The mystic as fashion plate.

Cohen’s was one of two concerts (here’s John Soeder’s spot-on review from the Plain Dealer) I saw in the last week by Jewish musicians. Cohen’s was one of the best I’ve ever seen, and that covers hundreds of shows.

The other was by Sophie Milman, a 26-year-old Russian Jew who grew up in Israel and now lives in Toronto. A tiny blonde bombshell whose contralto-alto embodies the airy and the husky, she’s a true torch singer. Milman fronts an excellent band (Diego Rivera stood out on sax), scats like Sarah, and takes over Joni Mitchell’s “Be Cool” for her own smoldering purposes. (Here’s my preview from Cleveland Jewish News). The hottest Canadian import since Diana Krall, Milman is set to explode. Some paintings fell off the wall of Nighttown during her first set; might that have been a sign?

This pictures Sophie's newest disk.

This is the cover of Bobby Selvaggio's latest CD.

Selvaggio can get entangled in his own virtuosity, so there are times his brain outstrips his heart; having the more romantic Werner and the more brazen, charismatic trumpet player Sean Jones as foils helps. “Modern Times,” a very good, very rich CD, puns on rhythm and our turbulent times even as it signifies a step forward for serious, contemporary jazz saxophone.

Audio CD (May 26, 2009)
Original Release Date: 2009
Number of Discs: 1
Label: Arabesque Recordings
ASIN: B002AT8BGO

For more Bobby Selvaggio music, click here.

Willie is a great live performer, a true-blue New Yorker who celebrates the city, the young, the innocent, the dreamers. “Vagabond Moon” and the Stonesy “She’s So Cold” should have been hits when they popped out of his 1980 debut, but they weren’t. Later tunes like “Places I Have Never Been” (the title of his 1988 “comeback” album) and the soaring “Whole World With You” should have been, too. Willie spent most of the ‘80s in litigation with Arista, which released his first two albums. The limbo didn’t help. Neither did record-company disinterest.

Anyhow, Willie, who was once described as a “one-man Clash,” soldiers on, rocking hard and passionate as ever, and his writing has gotten even more rugged and true. Willie writes rock that deserves to be classic.

When Willie saw me backstage before his show, he didn’t miss a beat, called my name, we hugged, and it was as if no years had intervened. He’s still charmingly and rightfully convinced of his own talent, sure his writing is getting better. He gave me his latest CDs and a DVD and told me he’s doing really well in Europe, he just performed with Springsteen at Giants Stadium, and he’s about to drop a new CD even though “House of a Thousand Guitars” has been out for only half a year.

It’s a pleasure to hang out with Willie Nile. It’s a pleasure to catch his shows, too. He may be the best folk-rocker most people have never heard. Makes me wish newspapers still published reviews of club acts. They may not draw big crowds, but they can be mighty.

I’m also writing debut columns for a yet-to-be-announced, Cleveland-based news portal that will debut in November. My first two will be about the head of the Civic Innovation Lab and my friend Dave Pech, a photographer who happens to make Ping-Pong paddles.

I just returned from a trip to Phoenix for a lodging conference. I stayed at the Arizona Biltmore, one of the nicest hotels in the U.S. The conference was by no means upbeat—occupancy and rate are way down—but it was great to be warm for a few days after this chilly summer.

Oh, yes. Sunday night, Karen and I are going to be reading at Wise Up!, a benefit for the Cleveland Heights Public Library. I’m going to tell very short stories about jazz—fitting for Nighttown, where Wise Up! will be staged.

Like many others at this get-together, Buddy figures in my book, “Cleveland Rock & Roll Memories.” He’s an affable host, a good drummer (his rhythms animated Rainbow Canyon, Charade and Quantrill’s Raiders) and a soulful singer who can still hit the high notes. On Sept. 14, the weather was gorgeous, the vibes good, and the food—the culinarily talented Carol is a generous hostess—was wonderful.

There were the chronic no-shows, like Raspberry throat Eric Carmen, favorite Cleveland son Michael Stanley and the singularly reclusive Joe Walsh (who doesn’t live anywhere nearby anyway). But there were plenty of notables, like Raspberries lead guitarist Wally Bryson, James Gang drummer Jimmy Fox, and the redoubtable guitarist Billy Sullivan.

It’s a bittersweet event, and not because of the music, which, for the most part, is timeless. But the “reunion” itself shows how far the Cleveland music scene has shrunk since its glory days in the ‘60s and ‘70s, when clubs, arenas, radio and records were a seamless, powerful blend. It’s only at Buddy’s that all of those elements come together. It’s telling it’s by invitation only.

At Fairmount Presbyterian, the petite, 45-year-old German phenomenon played for about an hour and a half, traversing a desultory blues, a few Latin numbers, and a finale that shook the rafters, blending Dennerlein’s volcanic flourishes with Bach’s “Passacaglia and Fugue.” At the Bop Stop, she delivered two sets, serving up deep groove with an homage to Jimmy Smith, a fabulous samba in honor of her half-dachshund, half-terrier dog, and a gang of other originals.

The reason I comment on Dennerlein’s performances is that the guy who sponsored her local appearances challenged me to review her. This is my substitute. There’s no regular outlet anymore for reviews that focus on the unusual artist, the artist who doesn’t draw megacrowds. Part of that is the withering of print. Part is the subsequent conservatism, meaning newspapers aren’t trying to cover everything anymore; they just want to hold on to what they’ve got.

The church show drew about 300, the Bop Stop show close to its capacity of 110 seats. The Bop Stop show swung more and was more conventionally jazzy, showcasing the room’s singularly accommodating design and outstanding acoustics. The place is for sale and opens only for special occasions, like the Dennerlein show. How sad that the best music room in Cleveland can’t do regular business.

By the way, I’m beginning to review CDs and preview shows for Scene again. Seems timely given the number of fine, new CDs by Cleveland-based or –originated musicians like trumpeter Josh Rzepka and saxophonists Mike Lee and Bobby Selvaggio. I’m willing to bet that a promoter willing to mix it up—spotlighting jazz one night, blues another and, God forbid, rock from time to time—could make a go of the Bop Stop. As it, the place is magnificent and shuttered. What a waste.

On July 23, for my birthday the day before, Karen bought me an evening’s cooking course at Sur La Table at Eton Center. We joined 14 other people to prepare those scampi; pan-roasted (farm-raised) catfish with caper-butter sauce & green beans almandine; breaded crabcakes with red pepper aioli & celery root slaw; and grilled salmon with baby bok choy, wasabi mashed potatoes and lime soy vinaigrette; and key lime pie (we didn’t make that, only ate it). Chef Ky-Wai Wong of Lucky’s Cafe in Tremont supervised. I hope you can tell from the pictures that the scene was jamming.

The class lasted two hours; the kitchen at the back of Sur La Table was fully used, believe me, and the degrees of experience ran the gamut. I’ve always had good taste, a healthy appetite and an open-minded attitude, but I’ve been squeamish about preparing food. I don’t like my hands greasy, I don’t like the mess, and I’m probably leery because I’m an only child whose mom cooked for both my father and I and viewed the kitchen as her domain. What I learned above all is that cooking feels good, especially when you do it with your family. Next time, Katy will be on the set (she went to the Indians game). That should make it even better.

In addition to his embryonic CJO career, he’s lead trumpet for the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra (word is he’ll quit that position, where he’s in the shadow of Wynton Marsalis), a professor at Duquesne University in Pittsburgh, and the star of a small jazz combo with which he’s recorded five albums for the Detroit-based Mack Avenue label.

His arrival on the local jazz scene late this summer will be dynamic, breathing fire into a field that’s shriveled in the past five years. I’m sure he’ll be featured in various publications, on TV and on radio, because he’s a complex, fascinating guy.

I interviewed him for the CJO web site. Visit it, scroll down to the bottom of the home page, and listen to our talk.

Didn’t sell a single copy, but I saw a lot of friends and enjoyed partaking in an event designed to push local writing, an ever more endangered species. The event also gave me an opportunity to check out Loganberry Books, a fabulous place I’m sure to revisit. Not only is the place cavernous, it offers a lot of used books (including rare first editions), the giant fiction room I show here, even a bindery.

It’s great to see a local concern thriving amidst dire economic news like the shriveling of the Telarc record label and the downsizing of Borders. I don’t know how Loganberry is doing, but its mix of ambience, inventory and locale is inspiring. It reminds me of the ‘60s in Cambridge, Mass., when I used to scour bookstores around Harvard University. Harvard Bookstore remains the best I’ve ever seen, but I also recall Pangloss and even Schoenhof’s, bookstores long gone.

Being in Loganberry got the intellectual juices going in a way chain stores don’t. I’m not sure why, but I’m happy about it.

Marty’s Amish; his faith forbids him from having his picture taken, so I settled—happily—for a shot of one of his kids, Firman, in the rocker, a beauty made of cherry wood and oak and brass nails. Marty said Firman could pose because he wasn’t old enough to be a member of the church.

Firman tries my rocker on for size. His daddy Marty made the rocker.

It would be a lot more work than “Cleveland Rock & Roll Memories,” but I’m leaning toward doing it. A university press has expressed preliminary interest.

My book would examine what keeps various family-owned Orrville businesses, like Schantz Organ and Smucker’s, going. It would also look into the prevailing Amish and Mennonite culture of the area and see how such non-Amish, non-Mennonite businesses as Schantz interact with the Amish and Mennonites.

I asked Marty whether he’d be willing to talk to me about this for my book; Vic was trying to coax him, too. Marty said he’d have to speak to his bishop about it and would get back to me. Marty doesn’t have a phone or electricity. His faith forbids it. If he lets me into his world, I’m going to pursue this. I look forward to his letter, or a phone call from a neighbor’s. I already love his work.

It’s also fun to wear stuff I really like, particularly these days, when I spend a lot of time at home and there’s no need to dress up to go out. Putting on rock ‘n’ roll clothes is a special gas.

So is being part of a section that’s one of the liveliest in the paper; I thank Kim Crow, who puts together the Wednesday fashion section, for her words, Scott Shaw for his photo.

Although I no longer write for it, I still read the PD. Even though people routinely trash it, I value the good stuff it does. I value newspapers; I write for the Boston Globe, which is shrinking fast, like the PD.

The link to my spread will eventually die off. I’m glad there’s a hard copy in circulation, at least for now. I wish I had the answer as to how newspapers will evolve—if they survive.

For now, the website remains, offering readers a look at the kinds of articles the magazine specialized in: stories about various media, my City Therapy column, editor Sarah Sphar’s welcome to summer, a voluminous, mouth-watering gourmet guide by associate editor Ivan Sheehan. It’s good reading.

I hope a publisher, former or new, resurrects Live and is willing to be patient and gamble on monetizing a medium that seems quaint but still is necessary: the leisurely, thoughtful read. The best example of that is The New Yorker, a weekly marvel that never ceases to astonish.

But every locale of any size needs such a publication. To me, Live always represented an opportunity to trumpet and safeguard and interpret what is best about Cleveland’s culture. I hope I don’t miss it too long.

It doesn’t take effect until May, but a group of African-American ministers is already mobilizing against the registry in the name of heterosexual, more conventional marriage. The Cleveland Coalition of Churches, the minister’s coalition, is saying the registry flouts state law; four years ago, the state of Ohio resoundingly and revoltingly passed a resolution banning gay marriage.

Weird that a prominent group of African-Americans would battle civil rights, particularly after the election of Barack Obama as the first African-American president.

I don’t pretend to know what it feels like to be African-American or gay—I’m heterosexual, though eons ago I skirted homosexuality once—but I’ve always felt civil rights are just that: freedoms available to all rather than privileges available only to a select few.

It feels odd to represent gays when I’m not. It also feels good. Those who call homosexuality unnatural and anti-family only betray their prejudices and fears. There is room for all kinds—of gender, shape, appetite, aspiration, faith—on the planet, particularly in the U.S., which is finally growing up.

The legalization of gay marriage in Vermont, Iowa, Massachusetts and Connecticut, and New York Gov. David Paterson’s putting his clout behind such a move in his state, put momentum on the side of civil rights. You’d think such rights were built in to U.S. culture and society, but no. Each breakthrough—they come particularly hard in Ohio, where yahoos often set the agenda—comes hard. Canvassing neighborhoods and organizing them to fight against forces that would repeal the domestic partner registry are key steps.

Penny Stetz

I’d write more for my blog if I could embed links in it, along with photography. I’d do more on Facebook if I knew how to work it better. If it seems I haven’t been busy for more than three weeks—the last time I blogged—that’s deceptive.
Here are things I haven’t written about:

• My trip to Burlington, Vermont in early March to see my old friend Eric Lazarus, pictured here sitting on his couch
• my trip to Hawaii for a La Quinta conference in February, and
• my trip last week to the Schantz Organ Company in Orrville, Ohio, a family business I’m considering for the nucleus of a possible book.

Writing a book is a commitment of time and thought and sweat, so I want to make sure that a book I write has an audience, fills a need—and tells a good story I want to tell. I think the Schantz-centered book has those elements: It would be about a fourth-generation, continuously family-owned business that has been one of the pillars of its community for more than 125 years (Orrville’s also home to Smucker’s). So it would be about family values, faith, and tradition.

Orrville is in Wayne County, which, like Holmes County to the south, is known for its Amish and Mennonite populations. These rural counties feature fast tracts of farmland, landscapes where you can see an Amish father and his son tilling the field with mechanical implements (the Amish don’t use electricity). Word is some of these people are very rich, which can happen if you work sunup to sundown, your crops fetch a tidy yield, your kids are home-schooled, and you buy only what you need. Vic Schantz, president of Schantz Organ, tells me it’s about keeping life simple. The society in Orrville (and to a greater extent, among the Amish and their more conventionally attired relatives, the Mennonites) is to a great degree closed. Not only does that preserve traditions and provide cultural continuity, it to some extent immunizes the area from the economic downturn affecting more urban populations.

I’m thinking this would be great material for a university press, but I’d like to think wider. I believe there’s a big picture here, and I want feedback. Would you read a book about family business and family values? Should it include “lessons” on how to run a business? I think not. I think stories about business successes, from a largely rural, faith-based point of view, will resonate on their own. I need input.

Cleveland Heights wrote me today saying I’d lost my driver’s license and car insurance because I’d failed to pay a $150 fine for driving 18 miles over the 25 mph speed limit in that despotically liberal city in mid-December; naturally, the cop didn’t let me go, despite my entreaties and the Christmas season. Then I lost the ticket, so today’s communication was my first since the transgression, of which I was indeed guilty. Still, the punishment and fine seemed unduly harsh.

According to the city, I owed $175 and as of receipt of the letter, would be driving illegally. So I got in my car and drove over to Cleveland Heights City Hall, where I grudgingly paid by debit card (the extra $25 was processing costs, I was told; like for what, mailing a form letter?), then got a receipt and directions to the regional Bureau of Motor Vehicles office in Parma, some 20 miles south. That’s where I had to fork over another $15 to get my license and insurance reactivated.

Thank God I’m retired so I could make the drive (illegal though it was). Thank God I had cash, the only way to pay the BMV, which tells you information about its regulations is available online though you can’t pay online. Thank God I had the money to pay these fines and fees, clearly ways to milk Ohio residents of money to prop up a failing state.

I’m venting, I admit. I shouldn’t speed (or do U turns or fail to signal, offenses a Westlake cop forgave just recently; why can’t Cleveland Heights cops show compassion?) or misplace tickets. Cleveland Heights should be more flexible and less punitive, and the state of Ohio should at the least update its technology and allow reinstatement fees to be paid at any of its offices. Satisfying legal requirements shouldn’t be so inconvenient, expensive and insulting.

I’m trying to mediate between a friend who does a lot of work around our house and the rest of my family. He copped an attitude toward my oldest daughter and her boyfriend, spreading nasty rumors about them and the boyfriend’s parents. God know divorce is ugly, but there’s no cause to make it uglier, let alone shame the kids even more, but that’s what’s happening.

It came to a head in an argument between him and my wife when he, according to her, unloaded with the rumors after she asked him why he’d been so cold. She called me in tears asking me to come home after the blowout. Meanwhile, he’s done painting our family room and building a demi-closet off the kitchen, a good idea he came up with before this latest strain. Once that’s done, that might be the end of our relationship.

What’s sad about this is how it proves it’s all in the perception. There’s a closeness to the kids’ relationship that’s easy to inflate and distort; it’s crowded me at times. But it also seems genuine, if young; undying love of the kind they profess tends to mature and become more realistic. As for my state, it’s become more depressed. I fear we’ll lose the affection of a guy who really cared for my daughters when they were kids but, like some other adults in our circle, doesn’t seem to know how to grow up with them as they grow up.

Being an adult is hard. Being a parent is harder. God knows what being a kid feels like.