“Back to Pacifica, CA”
On Monday, we walked to Walgreens to drop off a Kate Spade FedEX return. I bought Diana an iPhone bracelet for Christmas and it’s the wrong size. I got quite confused and called Kendra Scott to ask about it, prior to realizing that the bracelet was actually from Kate Spade. I even tried to visit the Kendra Scott store for help, before realizing I had made the same mistake twice.
After the walk, we drove over to Frenchy’s gallery on Oak Street to look at a painting that he did of Jon Batiste at Jazzfest last year. We had a very nice visit with Frenchy, just back from the Big Easy music cruise. He told us stories and showed the paintings he made on the cruise. I liked the Marcia Ball one, and he also had a great one of Keb Mo.
We liked the Jon Batiste painting very much – it captures the show that we saw at Jazzfest very well. It is now hanging on the wall behind my piano.
Frenchy said he snuck Tab Benoit in as the middle marching Jazzfest guy.
Here’s some biographical information on Frenchy:
“Born to a boxer and a saint on August 16th, 1970, in Lowell, MA, Randy Leo Frechette – a.k.a Frenchy – has been drawing since he could grip a pencil.In grade school he impressed friends with caricatures, but he realized his true calling when The Boston Horns persuaded him to paint their Orlando performance LIVE. Since that day, Frenchy’s presence has filled venues around the globe with an explosion of creative spirit.
New Orleans has been his home, and his muse, since 1997, where the eclectic street and music scene continuously inspire his creative expression. Immersed into the sights and sounds of New Orleans, he could be found in music clubs such as the Maple Leaf Bar almost any night, mastering his “acousti-optics” with musical legends such as the Grammy Award-winning ReBirth Brass Band and more.”
I really enjoy seeing the painting each time I come in the front door.
We dropped “Table for Two” by Amor Towles off to Kenny after Frenchy. After that I tried Mint for a Vietnamese lunch – closed on Monday. Val’s Oaxacan Mexican was our backup. Delicious – mushroom queso fundido and an empanada for me, very unique and creative nachos for Diana.
Julia dropped off these pretty tulips as a get well from back surgery gift:
Clorinda was admitted to the hospital again, and so we flew to San Francisco on Wednesday afternoon. We spent the majority of the rest of the week shuttling back and forward to Mills Peninsula hospital to spend time with her. The NFL playoffs provided a little bit of distraction:
Alicia shared the annual report from her work with us. She had a big part to play in the content and layout, with particular attention on the Director’s message. Communivercity seems like a wonderful organization that brings together Community, University (San Jose State), and City in partnership to solve problems and encourage our youth.
It’s nice to see Alicia so happy and rewarded by such a worthwhile job.
My sister Elspeth’s birthday was on Sunday. I enjoyed telling her that it was also:
My first book this week was “Walking with Sam: A Father, a Son, and 500 Miles across Spain,” by Andrew McCarthy:
“Andrew Thomas McCarthy is an American actor, travel writer, and television director. He is most known as a member of the Brat Pack, with roles in 1980s films such as St. Elmo’s Fire, Pretty in Pink, Mannequin, and Weekend at Bernie’s. He is ranked No. 40 on VH1’s 100 Greatest Teen Stars of all-time list.”
The book had me remembering a wonderful movie, “The Way”, where Martin Sheen walks the Camino de Santiago with his son filming and directing. A great movie, and this is a pretty good book. A quick and enjoyable read.
McCarthy’s son takes a while to settle in to the routine of the walk and to feel comfortable opening up to his dad:
“Then—I’m not sure exactly how—the topic turns to school. “School lowered what I perceived I’m capable of,” Sam says. “It did me more harm than good.” There is suddenly real emotion in his voice, real hurt. This is not fresh hurt, like the hurt he has been working through regarding The Ex, but a more saturated hurt. A hurt he has carried for years, for most of his life. It is the hurt born of lazy definition and judgment thrown heavily upon him like a wet overcoat. A hurt that blindsided him, then threatened to define him. His is the hurt of someone who was misunderstood and dismissed out of hand, before he had a chance to define his own experience. It is a hurt that, for a time, came closer to swallowing my son than I knew. It is a hurt with calcified edges.”
A fellow walker comments on the father-son relationship of the McCarthys:
“James nods. We sit. “I want to thank you,” he says softly. “For what?” “For showing me what a father-son relationship can be.” I wave the remark away. “You don’t see us when I’m trying to get him out of bed, or when I’m tired, or when he’s hungry, or, or, or…” “Just accept the love.” James smiles, throwing my words back at me. “I’ve wanted to walk this with my son… so thank you.” I sit with his remark. “You two talk about a lot, don’t you?” he begins again.”
McCarthy really opens up to his son:
“I went to my dad while he was dying, after years of estrangement. His eyes betrayed him, his terror. I took his cool, now lizard-like, hand in mine. I wanted to let go but didn’t. I sat with him. I apologized for not being the son he had wanted. I loved him. When we were beyond words, we released our past—let it fall to rot on the ground where it belonged. More than a vestige of love remained. I had gone to my father selfishly—and it must be said, at my wife’s urging. I did so that I might be a better father to my own children. The gifts children bear us are complex. Sam hurries to catch up. “Wow, Dad.” “I’m sorry, Sam. I shouldn’t have spoken like that.” I shake my head. “I’ve learned nothing.” “No, you were right.” “That doesn’t matter.” We walk. “Dad?” “Yeah?” “Your Spanish has gotten really good.””
As the duo approaches the end of the 500 mile trek, they are joined by many more walkers who are just doing the final section and haven’t endured the full experience:
“Older couples march with determination. Teens whoop and holler. Long-haul pilgrims stride with confidence. Gone is any resentment over newbies or interlopers to the trail. “All these people,” Sam says, “this is so cool.” He begins to sing Bruce Springsteen’s “The Promised Land,” loudly. Mister I ain’t a boy, no I’m a man And I believe in a promised land.”
On completion of the 500 miles:
“We order Coke and coffee. I go into the bathroom and, as the door locks behind me, I’m surprised by a burst of sobs. Relief, sadness, joy, somehow disappointment, confusion, exhaustion, exhilaration, comingle—the awful truth of the sweetness of life throbs in an unguarded mix of emotions.”
I’m about halfway through my second book, “Martyr” by Kaveh Akbar.
Here are some online reviews:
“NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • SHORTLISTED FOR THE NATIONAL BOOK AWARD • ONE OF THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW’S 10 BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR • ATIME MUST-READ BOOK OF THE YEAR • A newly sober, orphaned son of Iranian immigrants, guided by the voices of artists, poets, and kings, embarks on a remarkable search for a family secret that leads him to a terminally ill painter living out her final days in the Brooklyn Museum. Electrifying, funny, and wholly original, Martyr! heralds the arrival of an essential new voice in contemporary fiction.
“Kaveh Akbar is one of my favorite writers. Ever.” —Tommy Orange, Pulitzer Prize–nominated author of There There
“The best novel you’ll ever read about the joy of language, addiction, displacement, martyrdom, belonging, homesickness.” —Lauren Groff, best-selling author of Matrix and Fates and Furies
Cyrus Shams is a young man grappling with an inheritance of violence and loss: his mother’s plane was shot down over the skies of the Persian Gulf in a senseless accident; and his father’s life in America was circumscribed by his work killing chickens at a factory farm in the Midwest. Cyrus is a drunk, an addict, and a poet, whose obsession with martyrs leads him to examine the mysteries of his past—toward an uncle who rode through Iranian battlefields dressed as the angel of death to inspire and comfort the dying, and toward his mother, through a painting discovered in a Brooklyn art gallery that suggests she may not have been who or what she seemed.”
I have mixed feelings about the book so far – hasn’t really sucked me in too well. Hoping for a pick up in the second half.
The New Orleans Jazzfest 2025 lineup was announced this week, and it includes the jamband Goose. I heard a great set from them on my friend Matt’s Houston radio show a few weeks ago. I’ve been doing some listening, and am not sure I love them – a bit too much sameness to the guitar noodling. What do you think?
And yes, I’m having trouble embedding Spotify links over the last two weeks – always upgrading and breaking things. After an hour or so of putzing around, I think it’s fixed:
I do like this Goose song quite a bit:
And finally, something from the latest Chuck Prophet album. We were supposed to go and see him at Chickie Wah Wah on Thursday night, but will have to wait on the next tour now:
Coexist peacefully, with kindness and patience for all!
