The throw of the dice this week falls on the soundtrack, the rooftop, and the Flu.   The adventure began with music in the winter of 2006.    If you have one teardrop of sentiment for the summer of 69, then I suggest, you pack the soundtrack from Easyrider for your next voyage. It was playing all across the Painted Desert, and I imagined the whole film experience from inside the car. By the time we were in Flagstaff, I felt disillusioned and a little stoned.

When we reached the neckline of Taos, just past the crater crack of the Rio GrandeI was singing, “ Bettcha gotta run now, head out on the highway, lookin’  for adventure, and whatever comes our way.”  I was ready to be born to be wild.  Men do it, dogs do it, why not a girl with a pair of cowboy boots.  God, it felt so good to land on the dirt and gravel, under the star-studded sky of Taos. In my dreams, I was riding a little red motorcycle.               The house light was left on by the electrician who just installed new heaters.  The door to the adobe opened, and the place was toasty.  SC was dragging all the luggage in, and I was already unwrapping rugs, and pulling plastic off the cushions.  I went to the bedroom, and in the window, the luminaries from our neighbors gallery were sparkling. He had wrapped them all around the exterior of the house.  

          By the mid afternoon of the next day, we were scampering around Santa Fe.  The  sunlight evaporated into a fistful of old man winter and the mountains were dry as pavement. Our adventure was just beginning.

          New Year’s was 24 hours away, and so was my surprise ending.    I suddenly felt light as a cracker jack, and my throat was so dry I could not swallow.  My inner house felt like it was sinking.  It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion, it was more like a collapse.

By dusk, I was hugging the bed blankets.  The finer details are better said in abstractions. The cleansing began with sending enough pain through my limbs so I could not move, then turning up the fever to about 104 degrees,  cutting off my breathing, and filling my lungs with sap. I curled into the fetal position and dropped anchor.  From my bedroom window, I studied the rooftop luminaries, and Dennis Hopper’s house.  The house he used to live-in, and now visits only sporadically. If I turned on my other side, I could see the wood burning and crackling in the kiva.   The Torchlight Parade came and went, I read about it in the newspaper, and it sounded even more spectacular than I thought. 

          New Year’s was not about celebration this year, it was synonymous with appreciation.    We sat quietly, and listened to the crackling wood,  drank our vegetable soup, and the moon dropped into view and rocked us to sleep.  We did waken at midnight  by the celebration outside—guns and fireworks.  Locals shoot into the sky, and the sheriff doesn’t have enough time to get from one end of town to the other to stop them. 

          Everything is different in Taos.  The hours passed like clouds moving through a storm.  From distant memories, to present day toils,  the images rolled over, and I came to see very clearly, what a big selfish girl looks like.   I didn’t like the portrait- and that was validated when I looked in the mirror!

             I laid back and dreamt my way into what I’ll do when I get better.   The new deal was struck, and all my plans changed. 

          Without exaggeration, within a few hours, I raised myself from the bed and walked into the bathroom, and ran a bath.  I soaked until I was divinely bubbled, and then I dressed.  It was the first time in five days.

 I sat at the table, applied the touch of makeup I needed, and sprayed Chanel No. 5.    It was our last night.

          We left Taos the next day. As we crossed the Indian desert, once again I played Easyrider. 

Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com 

SUMMER OF LOVE

Hang on to YOUR HANDLEBARS and ride out to Taos for the summer of love. What timing,  just when you thought the world was a digital chip, Taos will rejuvenate your hard drive.   

After living there, and meeting some of the renegades who came for the 60s revolution, I highly recommend going to Taos this summer. Peter Rabbit, Lisa Law, Dennis Hopper ( exhibiton at the Harwood) and Bill Davis, will be giving talks. There are concerts, fashion shows, movies, exhibits, festivals, but the best action will be in the , ” Hey come on over, we’re having a party,” sort of happenings that made the hippie movement keep moving. It was a happening, IT WAS NOT PLANNED. 

WWW.TAOSSUMMEROFLOVE.COM

CONFESSIONS OF A MOB KID

SOME children are silenced. The pretense is protection against people and events more powerful than them. As the daughter of Allen Smiley, associate and friend to Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel, I was raised in a family of secrets.

My father is not a household name like Siegel, partly because he wore a disguise, a veneer of respectability that fooled most.

It did not fool the government. My father came into the public eye the night of June 20, 1947, when Benjamin Siegel was murdered in his home in Beverly Hills. My dad was seated inches away from Siegel, on the sofa, and took three bullets through the sleeve of his jacket.

He was brought in as a suspect. His photograph was in all the newspapers. He was the only nonfamily member who had the guts to go to the funeral.

When I was exposed to the truth by way of a book, I kept the secret, too. I was 13. My parents divorced, and five years later, my mother died. In 1966, I went to live with my father in Hollywood.

I was forbidden to talk about our life: “Don’t discuss our family business with anyone, and listen very carefully to what I say from now on!”

But one night, he asked me to come into his room and he told me the story of the night Ben was murdered.

“When I was spared death, I made a vow to do everything in my power to reform, so that I could one day marry your mother.

“Ben was the best friend I ever had. You’re going to hear a lot of things about him in your life. Just remember what I am telling you; he’d take a bullet for a friend.”

After my father died, I remained silent, to avoid shame, embarrassment and questions. But 10 years later, in 1994, when I turned 40, I cracked the silence.

I read every book in print – and out of print – about the Mafia. Allen Smiley was in dozens. He was a Russian Jew, a criminal, Bugsy’s right-hand man, a dope peddler, pimp, a racetrack tout. I held close the memory of a benevolent father, wise counselor, and a man who worshipped me.

I made a Freedom of Information Act request and obtained his government files. The Immigration and Naturalization Service claimed he was one of the most dangerous criminals in the country. They said he was Benjamin Siegel’s assistant. They said he was poised to take over the rackets in Los Angeles. He didn’t; he sold out his interest in the Flamingo, and he went to Houston to strike oil.

I put the file away, and looked into the window of truth. How much more could I bear to hear?

Born in Kiev, Ukraine, my dad’s family immigrated to Canada. He stowed away to America at 16, and was eventually doggedly pursued for never having registered as an alien. He had multiple arrests – including one for bookmaking in 1944, and another for slicing off part of the actor John Hall’s nose in a fracas at Tommy Dorsey’s apartment.

He met my mother, Lucille Casey, at the Copacabana nightclub in 1943. She was onstage dancing (for $75 a week), and my father was in the audience, seated with Copa owner and mob boss Frank Costello.

“I took one look, and I knew it was her,” was all he had told me on many occasions.

On a trip to the Museum of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences in Los Angeles, I was handed a large perfectly pristine manila envelope, and a pair of latex gloves with which to handle the file.

Inside were black and white glossy MGM studio photographs, press releases, and biographies of my mother’s career in film, including roles in “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” “Ziegfeld Follies of 1946,” “Meet Me in St. Louis” and “Harvey Girls.” She was written up in the columns, where later my father was identified as a “sportsman.”

The woman who pressed my clothes, washed my hair, and made my tuna sandwiches was an actress dancing in Judy Garland musicals, while her own life was draped with film noir drama.

My father wooed her, and after an MGM producer gave her an audition, he helped arrange for her and her family to move to Beverly Hills, where she had steady film work for five years. He was busy helping Siegel expand the Western Front of the Costello crime family and opening the Flamingo casino in Las Vegas.

They were engaged in 1946.

Still, the blank pages of my mother’s life did not begin to fill in until I met R.J. Gray. He found me through my newspaper column, “Smiley’s Dice.”

One day last year, R.J. sent me a book, “Images of America: The Copacabana,” by Kristin Baggelaar. There was my mother, captioned a “Copa-beauty.”

Kristin organized a Copa reunion in New York last September. I went in place of my mother, but all day I felt as if she was seated next to me. I fell asleep that night staring out the hotel window, feeling a part of Manhattan history.

Now, the silence is over.

I don’t hesitate to answer questions about my family. I have photographs of Ben Siegel in my home in Santa Fe, NM, just as my father did. Every few months I get e-mails from distant friends, or people who knew my dad.

It seems there is no end to the stories surrounding Ben and Al. I am not looking for closure. I’ve become too attached to the story.

 

Jessica Lang in Grey Gardens

She knocked the stage into smittereans. What a performance!!. Give her more roles Hollywood!

Smiley’s Dice on the Road

THE Throw of the dice this week is on the road.

Scenery racing by at 60 mph, on a two lane highway, saddled between fresh morning pastures, and broken down double-wides. A New Mexican patchwork of serenity and simplicity. On Highway 84 out of Santa Fe, we pass through the one-blink town of Chama. During the summer tourists flock here to ride the Tupeltec Train through the mountains and fish in the Rio Grande.  The window sign of the coffee house advertises Espresso, but the paint is worn thin, and the letters breaking up. The sidewalk flower pots are filled with cigarette butts, and the newspaper stands are empty. There is an old fashioned gas station, closed for the winter, and just beyond are the train tracks, and a stationary train. That’s where I got the idea of living on a train. I could settle down in a train, like Jim West in the television program from the sixties, The Wild Wild West. Movement is what gives me comfort. Some of us just cannot sit still. We try to cushion ourselves in with big windows and heaps of scenery: fireplaces, and fresh flowers, music, books, and home theater.  What lies beyond home organization is a world of surprises and that’s what we keep reaching for.

Outside of Chama the road grows narrower, and signs of life diminish with the exception of the crows, and the solitary underfed horse staring at a fence, looking like the loneliest creature on the face of the earth. The scenery transforms into a sketch of poetry as the sky suddenly turns white, and the hillsides are caked in snow frosting.  We were on our way to Pagaosa Springs; a small town just across the continental divide into Colorado. The Springs Spa & Salon boasts of having European fashioned mineral springs.

 “That’s it?” SC asked. 

 “Yes, I guess so. What’s it doing IN A PARKING LOT? The website made it look like we were in the mountains.”

“ Good marketing.” He said.

“ Oh no, this is awful.” I snapped.  But I caught myself. You know how words come back at you with meaning, and you have to adjust yourself. I looked the place over and thought, I’ll make this an adventure. I will not complain or snub my nose because I’m here, in the cup of Colorado and it’s beautiful. 

“ The springs are public?” SC denounced.

I looked over at the three-tiered sculpted hillside; pools of water connected by walkways, waterfalls, and this wake of steam rising. It was the lusciousness of a European spa, except, the bather’s were beer-bellied rednecks and saloon sloppy women, wearing stretched out bathing suits that hung from their skin. Children were running back and forth, and Soaring Crow didn’t look too happy.  

“ I’m not going into those baths.” He snapped. 

“ The hotel has its own private area; it will be better.”

“ It’s like getting into a bathtub with a bunch of strangers.”

“ Well, I’ll throw some bleach in before. ” 

We headed into the reception area of the Springs Spa & Salon. A man dressed in Spa-white was gnawing on a chewy nutrition bar. Before he finished swallowing, he said, “ What I do for yer folks?”  

He leaned over the counter and chewed, while SC explained we were checking into the Spa. The Spa smelled of chlorine, and I started to laugh.  What I had imagined, was the Sonoma Mission Inn, or Roosevelt Spa in Saratoga Springs.

“I can’t wait to see the room.”  I said.

There are two types of getaways; first class and adventurous, this was less than adventurous, it was shoddy. We unloaded and went for a drive through town. The shop with the Antiques sign drew us in first. It smelled like acerbic spring water was oozing out of the walls. I looked around; drawing my breath in, to avoid a dust storm. Cowboy mugs, saddles, fiesta flatware, mantelpiece trinkets and dusty smudged books were stacked on shabby boxes and wooden carts. Not much to capture the eye, except the saleswoman. She was built like an old door. I imagined she was young once, and had a softer edge, now she moved in wooden strides, and her eyes were plucked of sentimentality. Maybe she came from a mining family, and they were hardened at an early age. I imagined what she was thinking of me. It sort of slipped out when I opened the door. She hadn’t expected me to say thank you, and when she met my eyes, hers were raising heck with my attire.  Outside, the snow continued to dust the town with a bit of whitened cleanliness.

“ Where are we eating tonight.” SC asked.

“ Oh I found a place that sounds interesting, The Old Miner’s Lodge.”

“ It sounds like we should drive by first.”

We drove down the main road, and I looked through the dining guide. The short list was the kind you’d expect in an old mining town, that Robert Redford hadn’t discovered.

“ It’s a steakhouse with a salad bar.” I assured SC.

“ Let’s find something else. I don’t want to bathe and eat with the same people.” 

“There isn’t anything else but what the receptionist suggested, Eddie’s Grill, it’s her favorite place.”

“ Because her father-in-law, or half-sister owns it.” 

We went looking for Eddie’s and along the way I noticed a sign for Keyah Grande. It was the kind of sign that eluded, exclusive, so I suggested we drive up. Outside a large menacing iron gate, we rang the digital keyboard and the Chef answered the phone. He said to come up. We passed through the gate and slowly eased the car up an unpaved road, and entered what looked like safari country. There were elk and deer wandering inside gated pastures, fat and sleek-coated, without visible fear or alarm, they just seemed to nod at us.

We drove past a sign for horses, and I thought, I’d wished we stayed here. At the top of the mountain, a plateau surfaced and a two story Spanish colonial building jolted out of the ground. We were surrounded by mountains, three cars, and a clubhouse attached to a suspended deck that looked like the wing of an airplane. SC immediately dashed for the edge. I lingered back closer to center. We were raised to new euphoric vistas, set above the San Juan Mountains with streaks of snow edged between pine trees and shafts of light. A cold breeze that John Cage would have recorded brushed through the trees.

We went inside the hotel and discovered a palatial home-museum. A woman greeted us.

“ Hi com’on in. We’re just taking these folks through the rooms; would you like to join us.”

“Yes,” SC said.

“ No.” I answered, and whispered to SC,“I’m still catching my breath.    

We followed another young friendly woman to the cocktail lounge. It was the sort of place you’d curl your legs under and hold the glass as if you owned the house. Darkened cherry-wood paneling and leather wrapped a room with built-in everything, and made it feel gracefully masculine. We sat on the sofa sipping wine and forgot about Pagosa Springs.   

   “Can we have dinner here tonight?” I asked without willing to accept anything less. 

  “You bet we can. I’m not leaving until they throw me out.”

  “Will you be joining us for dinner?” The cocktail waitress asked.

 “Yes, we’d love to.” 

 “I’ll show you the dining room.”

 “How many rooms are there in the hotel?” I asked.

“ We call it a guest house. There are eight rooms.”

“ Are they all booked?” I asked.

“ I’d have to check; we may have one.”

  SC looked at me expectantly.

“ First I’ll show you the dining room,” and she took us through the main parlor, a salon of European taste dignified with a gold trimmed piano, original oil paintings, tapestries, and enough natural light to take a sunbath. 

“ How many acres go with the guest house?” I asked.

“ Four thousand.”

“ Eight rooms and four thousand acres.” I repeated. That makes some kind of statement. 

We found out the rooms were $500.00 a night and it was better to go with the package deal; $800.00 including all meals. It reminded me of what I read in the WSJ; about executive holidays, and the kind of money that passes from one pocket to the next.

 After a peek at the menu, and finding the prices comparable to any fine dining, we finished our wine, and drifted outside like two beggars who’d just found a gracious host. We decided to go back to Pagosa and shower.

“ I can’t wait to go back and use the scratchy towels and cheap soap.”

 “It’s more fun this way, it’s an adventure.” I said. The funny thing is; I wasn’t fibbing or pretending. The adventure in me felt atrophied and I was thankful I was out of town and on the road. Even if it was a tiny stiff room without mints on the pillow, I knew we’d be laughing ourselves to sleep. To be continued.  Any dice to throw: Email: folliesls@aol.com  

 

I AM DOW- TODAY I’M UP TOMORROW I’M DOWN.

A GREAT CAUSE

SEE JIM MARSHALL’S OFFICIAL WEBSITE FOR ICONIC ROCK & ROLL COLLECTIBLES AND PHOTOGRAPHY AT AUCTION.

JIM’S A GREAT FRIEND.

ALL PROCEEDS GO TO THE ROCK FOR MS FRIENDS BENEFIT.

I plucked it out just recently to give my courage.

Good to seet that I am not alone in feeling it is time to shake hands with Steinbeck’s,  Grapes of Wrath once again.

Today it may be renamed,   The wrath of wealth

Uncategorized « Galleryloulou’s Weblog

Uncategorized « Galleryloulou’s Weblog

DOUBLE VISION – 1998- FOR NATIONAL POETRY MONTH

 

DOUBLE VISION

 

 

 

Neckties choking thin men with beepers

I want to strip the needles pricking inside their ambition

Stone the waxed smiles spitting false promises

Shatter the pointed arrogance

Wrapped in crisp bills

Inside brand wallets

Strapped on trendy trousers

Driven by rovers and jeeps

Never been on life’s edge

 

Save the artist

Who wears his life holy

Waiting for the moments to create

Starved from meat and wine

Sits on a ray of light

Enraptured