Wheeled Snow Shovel

Incredibly clever… the Sno Wovel is a back-saving device for scooping, lifting, and throwing snow.  It has a unicycle-looking large wheel that moves the shovel forward and functions as a fulcrum for lifting.  Everything in the design is said to be proportioned to maximize the lever action and to capture the greatest amount of snow in one pass.  It appears to be a brilliant idea that the U.S. manufacturer claims will handle all kinds of snow. Hooray for innovation!

The Doorman’s Diary: 12.4-5.10

It was a night with little to note. Most people came, paid the cover, and enjoyed. Four guys with attitude filled the doorway. I asked for the cover and the main prick asked why? I said, with my own ‘tude: “Live music—musicians don’t work for free, do YOU?” They left. The band sounded great. They nailed the Horace Silver hard bop tune “Filthy McNasty.” One definite sparkler that light up the generally uneventful night was the return of a couple who I had coaxed in several weeks earlier. That first night they hesitated until I said, “Come in, the cover is on me.” Tonight, they returned, paid, and settled in like regulars. I told the bartender to treat them like the VIPs they are. It felt good to see them again enjoying the music and the club. 

The Doorman’s Diary: 12.3-4.10

Chill in the air with moon-luminous snow clouds that were threatening to, as Les McCann and Eddie Harris would say, “hang up our God-damn” city with the forecasted six-inches of snow.  The club, pleasantly full with pleasant people, was treated to the band’s version of “Compared to What.” The singer growled out…

Love the lie and lie the love


Hangin' on, with a push and shove


Possession is the motivation


That is hangin' up the God-damn nation


Looks like we always end up in a rut

Tryin' to make it real - compared to what?


….while the trumpet and two saxes wove their magic through the crowd. It was early but the adrenalin was pumping as the key player spazzed his way through the song like a man possessed. It was electric. Throughout the night it was nice to collect covers from folks that didn’t debate or deny the imperative. There were three women throughout the night who I noticed—a brown haired woman, a blonde, and an Asian. What made each remarkable were smiles that illuminated. They were normal—like you or me—but when each smiled there was an aura of allure that each sent out like a tuning fork’s sound vibration. At first, I couldn’t figure out why they were so attractive until it hit me that their beautiful smiles were infectious – much like the band’s version of the Les McCann and Eddie Harris song.

Stoked About Dracula

Just finishing Dracula, the 1897 novel by Irish author Bram Stoker. The copy I’m reading is a free book on my Kindle and my reading it was inspired by a Biography channel profile of Stoker I watched around Halloween. At the time he wrote it, Stoker was a business manager for the Lyceum Theater where he was enamored with actor Henry Irving, who was contemporaneously famous and popular, and whom Stoker envisioned as playing Dracula in a theater version of the book. As it turned out, Irving didn’t think much of the story and apparently felt it wouldn’t be worthwhile to stage. The book was researched and written over an approximate seven years, while Stoker was busy staging Lyceum productions and catering to the needs of Irving, his idol. The book is written in an epistolary form—as a series of letters, diary entries, and a couple of ships' logs. The language is thick with planning deliberations for eliminating Dracula, Victorian proprietary concerns (shall I, or shall I not), and concerns about “protecting the delicate nature of Mina”—a main character in the plot who turns out to be smarter and tougher than they think. The book is a bit of a trudge to read, but is worthwhile. It is a classic.

The Doorman’s Diary: 11.27-28.10

At least three of our customers were stoned. They reeked of grass…reefer…Mary Jane. According to a 1943 article in TIME magazine it makes sense: “The association of marijuana with hot jazz is no accident… (the) drug seems to heighten the hearing—so that, for instance, strange chord formations seem easier to analyze under marijuana.” One reefer-mad customer was a tall, skinny Truman Capote look-alike with circle glasses, gray hair in a tight pony tail under a beige page-boy cap, wearing a multi-color, multi-pattern Mexican shirt with a flower-enshrined Madonna on the back. His Capote-esque whiny voice made him irritating. He geometrically compounded it with his stoner in-your-face excessive talkativeness. The Doorman Code calls for restraint and professionalism, even though fists were forming at the ends of my French-cuff arms. The innate was denied. I turned my attention to the accomplished guest jazz guitarist who laid down smooth rhythms accented by the trumpet and sax. My night ended with a Black Russian, expertly and generously made by the owner, while I made a note to reread In Cold Blood.    

The Doorman’s Diary: 11.26-27.10

Day after t-giving…black Friday. At the jazz club, crowd expectations were modest. It ended up being an Ike&Tina-Turner-Proud-Mary night. It started out nice and easy, and ended…nice and rough. Early on we had several couples (one pair of smoochers who stayed all night), a group of five, and a couple of lone wolves. Collectively, they filled up the stools around the bar. The tables in front of the band were empty. I said to the owner, “It’d be nice if we had another dozen.” I stepped outside into the freezing air and looked skyward for a falling star to wish on and settled on the blinking amber street light down the block and wished, while thinking “what the hell, it might work.” It did. With 40 minutes left before closing, a dozen 20-somethings walked in—all friendly and predestined. They ordered domestic beers and vodka kamikazes, bought the band drinks, and hooted, yelped, and danced as the band perked up. The regular saxman who had the night off, and had happened into the club, was called on stage for his signature song, Grover Washington’s Mr. Magic. Supported by a heavy bass, a groove-laden wailing beat was laid down. And the magic of the amber-light wish was fulfilled through the last several songs. The night became a strange collision of destiny with coincidence. 

Picture Perfect

Yeah, it doesn’t hurt that all of her models are insanely cute, but North Carolina photographer Marie Killen offers more than shots of beautiful young women. Her portraits display creative staging, dramatic lighting, technical proficiency, and a playfulness that is endearing. To demonstrate her competence, it would be nice to see portraits of the battle-scared, life-weary women and men seen in grocery stores at 11 at night or the over-worked, anxious commuter stalled in the river of traffic. One suspects, that even with “normals,” Killen could capture their beauty.