As it turns out, Lexi Zehren performed with Koko Taylor in Chicago and I was there. She and I discussed it tonight. She and I discussed Koko, and that night when Koko asked Lexi to sing with her, though neither of us remember how or why she got up on the stage.
I'll never forget that night. Though Lexi and I don't remember at what club we were visiting that night, I do remember how my best friend --little, skinny Lexi -- got up on stage and wailed with Koko Taylor. Koko was so humble and inviting to the only 2 white girls who were so "ballsy" to come to that club. I remember that Lexi was so nervous but so had the passion and soul equivalent -- in some ways -- to do a duo with Koko.
And so a legend was created and will continue.
And so we honor and appreciate our icons and role models, as they shed light onto what and how we should conduct ourselves as carriers of the lantern for the wisdom of the artists' evolution.
Virginia Erdie
http://www.virginiaerdie.com
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Life
That's the thing about life, Wednesday, it just drags on relentlessly but in retrospect each day is jam-packed with interesting details.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Neurosis and the Minority Report
I had a dream about Ruth last night. I worked with her 26 years ago at a utility company. She seemed to idolize me. I didn’t know why. I was so unhappy then. I didn’t know why.
I worked for this incredible woman, Alma, who was eons ahead of her time. I worked as a personnel records clerk, recording the statistics for the minority report. I saw everyone’s salaries – everything was very confidential, as you can imagine. I saw educated, experienced women making much less than men of equal stature. I saw the red dot on the minority report when a black person was hired and a quota was met.
Ruth and I ate lunch together often and she always commented about how she admired my trim figure. Oh, I was very trim indeed. It was after my father died and after my divorce. I was living on Birds Eye vegetables, scotch whiskey and one-night stands. I had lost a lot of weight and my menstrual cycle had stopped. I worked a second job at night as a cocktail waitress, waiting on drug addicts that snorted cocaine with huge straws at my waitress station. Often the college kids would then go to the back (also my waitress station) and throw up. I got sick and was finally hospitalized. I asked for apples and soup and they gave me mashed potatoes and pecan pie. I had some neurological tests done, since one leg was an inch thinner than the other. I gained some weight after 10 days, my menstrual cycle resumed and I was released from the hospital.
I showed the neurology report to Alma. I knew would she would keep it confidential and she was so smart, too. She pointed out the word “neurosis”. I did not know the meaning of that word. It is common that a person does not know the meaning of a word that describes them succinctly. When studying the dictionary, I looked further to the word “neurotic” and began to understand my dilemma.
I left for art school soon after that.
I finally get it. I wish I could talk to Alma – maybe I should look up Ruth and give her a call.
I worked for this incredible woman, Alma, who was eons ahead of her time. I worked as a personnel records clerk, recording the statistics for the minority report. I saw everyone’s salaries – everything was very confidential, as you can imagine. I saw educated, experienced women making much less than men of equal stature. I saw the red dot on the minority report when a black person was hired and a quota was met.
Ruth and I ate lunch together often and she always commented about how she admired my trim figure. Oh, I was very trim indeed. It was after my father died and after my divorce. I was living on Birds Eye vegetables, scotch whiskey and one-night stands. I had lost a lot of weight and my menstrual cycle had stopped. I worked a second job at night as a cocktail waitress, waiting on drug addicts that snorted cocaine with huge straws at my waitress station. Often the college kids would then go to the back (also my waitress station) and throw up. I got sick and was finally hospitalized. I asked for apples and soup and they gave me mashed potatoes and pecan pie. I had some neurological tests done, since one leg was an inch thinner than the other. I gained some weight after 10 days, my menstrual cycle resumed and I was released from the hospital.
I showed the neurology report to Alma. I knew would she would keep it confidential and she was so smart, too. She pointed out the word “neurosis”. I did not know the meaning of that word. It is common that a person does not know the meaning of a word that describes them succinctly. When studying the dictionary, I looked further to the word “neurotic” and began to understand my dilemma.
I left for art school soon after that.
I finally get it. I wish I could talk to Alma – maybe I should look up Ruth and give her a call.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
The Trip Home From Baltimore
I made very few trips home from art school in the 80’s, partly because I really didn’t want to go home and partly because my pinto hatchback could hardly make it home each time I took the 4-1/2 hour drive.
I am recollecting one particular trip home from The Maryland Institute, College of Art, driving home in the ice and snow through the Appalachian Mountains. The roads were cut into the sides of the hills and they curved around the mountain. Elevation levels varied greatly and oxygen levels waxed and waned, as well as the ability of the 4 cylinder hatchback to make it up and down the hills.
On this particular evening, it was very dark, very foggy and my night vision was limited due to the fact that the Pinto had one headlight, no heater and the windshield wipers didn’t work. I had tied the muffler on at a previous point, so the car was vibrating wildly.
Digressing, I tell you that on the previous trip home, my muffler fell off and I stopped alongside the road, grabbing a coat hanger to twist around the pipe and the muffler. A nice gentleman stopped to help me – told me he was a Chaplain. I was still sitting inside the car and suddenly got creeped out by some bad karma. I told him “thanks anyway” and he tried to get into the car. I drove off, him still holding the car door handle, dragging him along a little ways.
Back to the trip home, I could see nothing ahead of me and the roads were curving sharply so I became some kind of intuitive machine, following only the reflectors on the edge of the highway, knowing that the drop-off of the edge of the mountain was infinite. I could see my own breath since the heater was broken. The steering wheel was rattling and vibrating. When another car approached I slowed way down and hoped for the best. It was a 5-1/2 hour trip that night.
When I got home, my mother and her best friend were very angry that I was late. They were sitting at the small kitchen table at the house that my father had built. He was not there anymore, having passed away before the kitchen cabinets could be completed. My mother and her friend finally calmed down and asked me, "How was the trip?"
"Oh, it was fine." I said as my clattering teeth forced out the words.
I am recollecting one particular trip home from The Maryland Institute, College of Art, driving home in the ice and snow through the Appalachian Mountains. The roads were cut into the sides of the hills and they curved around the mountain. Elevation levels varied greatly and oxygen levels waxed and waned, as well as the ability of the 4 cylinder hatchback to make it up and down the hills.
On this particular evening, it was very dark, very foggy and my night vision was limited due to the fact that the Pinto had one headlight, no heater and the windshield wipers didn’t work. I had tied the muffler on at a previous point, so the car was vibrating wildly.
Digressing, I tell you that on the previous trip home, my muffler fell off and I stopped alongside the road, grabbing a coat hanger to twist around the pipe and the muffler. A nice gentleman stopped to help me – told me he was a Chaplain. I was still sitting inside the car and suddenly got creeped out by some bad karma. I told him “thanks anyway” and he tried to get into the car. I drove off, him still holding the car door handle, dragging him along a little ways.
Back to the trip home, I could see nothing ahead of me and the roads were curving sharply so I became some kind of intuitive machine, following only the reflectors on the edge of the highway, knowing that the drop-off of the edge of the mountain was infinite. I could see my own breath since the heater was broken. The steering wheel was rattling and vibrating. When another car approached I slowed way down and hoped for the best. It was a 5-1/2 hour trip that night.
When I got home, my mother and her best friend were very angry that I was late. They were sitting at the small kitchen table at the house that my father had built. He was not there anymore, having passed away before the kitchen cabinets could be completed. My mother and her friend finally calmed down and asked me, "How was the trip?"
"Oh, it was fine." I said as my clattering teeth forced out the words.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
The Mind of an Artist
An artist is born with a particular kind of mind, a mind that thinks outside the box…not just some of the time - most of the time. They are not given to the occasional “ah-ha” that many people experience when their defensive armor accidentally falls off for a moment and they are able to experience something outside the “norm”. They are given to constant “ah-ha’s” and yet somehow try to focus on the here and now and think inside the box so that they can make enough money to survive in this physical reality.
Many artists barely survive and are true to their calling, giving in to their real identities and living on ideas solely. I felt a neurosis to “fit in” the herd and be “normal” and so pretended much of my younger life to be a “normal” person. I never felt normal and anything that I thought about or talked about was seen as “she has such an imagination, that one”, as though that was a bad thing. So I tried to keep quiet and do all the stupid pet tricks and go along with what the herd was discussing. I felt more and more “different” as time went on and eventually could deny who I was no longer. I “came out of the closet as an artist”, so to speak.
I may still appear normal (I don’t know – do I?) these days but I am admitting to my true identity as an artist and embracing it now. Though you may not see me standing outside in the war protest groups or spending time with activists groups (they can be herd-like too), you will see my own signature on expressing my futuristic, spiritual, mind-bending ideas in my artwork, which I exhibit only in the most creative and holistic venues – venues without pretension – that are not making breaking news by mimicking some idol or fleeting idea of the “herd”.
An artist is born with a particular kind of mind, a mind that thinks outside the box…not just some of the time - most of the time. They are not given to the occasional “ah-ha” that many people experience when their defensive armor accidentally falls off for a moment and they are able to experience something outside the “norm”. They are given to constant “ah-ha’s” and yet somehow try to focus on the here and now and think inside the box so that they can make enough money to survive in this physical reality.
Many artists barely survive and are true to their calling, giving in to their real identities and living on ideas solely. I felt a neurosis to “fit in” the herd and be “normal” and so pretended much of my younger life to be a “normal” person. I never felt normal and anything that I thought about or talked about was seen as “she has such an imagination, that one”, as though that was a bad thing. So I tried to keep quiet and do all the stupid pet tricks and go along with what the herd was discussing. I felt more and more “different” as time went on and eventually could deny who I was no longer. I “came out of the closet as an artist”, so to speak.
I may still appear normal (I don’t know – do I?) these days but I am admitting to my true identity as an artist and embracing it now. Though you may not see me standing outside in the war protest groups or spending time with activists groups (they can be herd-like too), you will see my own signature on expressing my futuristic, spiritual, mind-bending ideas in my artwork, which I exhibit only in the most creative and holistic venues – venues without pretension – that are not making breaking news by mimicking some idol or fleeting idea of the “herd”.
Business As Usual
Hollywood Animal Hospital CEO, Dr. Larry Gene Dee, refuses treatment - business as usual.
Hollywood Animal Hospital, in my opinion, has some of the finest veterinarians/doctors in South Florida. It is a very busy, popular animal hospital. I hear that the Hollywood Police take their police dogs there for treatment. The veterinarians, technicians and other employees of this facility are very caring and thorough in their care. Unfortunately, the financial policies of the hospital are unethical.
I took my cat there just recently, and after spending $1400 was told there was no apparent cause for my cat’s refusal to eat. Many tests were run and many medications prescribed and administered with no improvement. As disheartening as that was, it was more disheartening to learn that I had run out of money and all further treatment would be refused, such as the life-sustaining food tube that could get my cat back to health by providing the necessary nutrients.
After giving the vet an earful about how I felt about the refusal of treatment after I had already provided them with $1400 for services rendered, I apologized for displacing my anger onto her and decided to write about it, since that may be the only way to expose the unethical policies of these so called animal “hospitals”.
I asked the vet how she would feel if she was “refused treatment” by a hospital. Evidently the CEO of Hollywood Animal Hospital, Dr. Larry Gene Dee, sees his facility as a “business” and not a “hospital” (I could have sworn I saw the word HOSPITAL in the title of their “business”). I wonder how Lucille Dee, Dr. C. E. Dee, and Dr. I. C. Frederickson, original founders of the hospital in 1947, would feel about the fact their animal hospital is now turning away those who cannot afford to pay the entire thousands of dollars up front, forcing the pet owners to take their pets home to die. I was referred to Care Credit, which is basically a credit card that charges you interest – so you end up paying the phenomenal amount for treatment without diagnosis plus the exorbitant interest. As I stated to the vet, “I’m not buying a car or house, so why am I paying interest? Since when did health care services rack up interest like the purchase of a car or a mortgage?”
Business as Usual.
Hollywood Animal Hospital, in my opinion, has some of the finest veterinarians/doctors in South Florida. It is a very busy, popular animal hospital. I hear that the Hollywood Police take their police dogs there for treatment. The veterinarians, technicians and other employees of this facility are very caring and thorough in their care. Unfortunately, the financial policies of the hospital are unethical.
I took my cat there just recently, and after spending $1400 was told there was no apparent cause for my cat’s refusal to eat. Many tests were run and many medications prescribed and administered with no improvement. As disheartening as that was, it was more disheartening to learn that I had run out of money and all further treatment would be refused, such as the life-sustaining food tube that could get my cat back to health by providing the necessary nutrients.
After giving the vet an earful about how I felt about the refusal of treatment after I had already provided them with $1400 for services rendered, I apologized for displacing my anger onto her and decided to write about it, since that may be the only way to expose the unethical policies of these so called animal “hospitals”.
I asked the vet how she would feel if she was “refused treatment” by a hospital. Evidently the CEO of Hollywood Animal Hospital, Dr. Larry Gene Dee, sees his facility as a “business” and not a “hospital” (I could have sworn I saw the word HOSPITAL in the title of their “business”). I wonder how Lucille Dee, Dr. C. E. Dee, and Dr. I. C. Frederickson, original founders of the hospital in 1947, would feel about the fact their animal hospital is now turning away those who cannot afford to pay the entire thousands of dollars up front, forcing the pet owners to take their pets home to die. I was referred to Care Credit, which is basically a credit card that charges you interest – so you end up paying the phenomenal amount for treatment without diagnosis plus the exorbitant interest. As I stated to the vet, “I’m not buying a car or house, so why am I paying interest? Since when did health care services rack up interest like the purchase of a car or a mortgage?”
Business as Usual.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
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