Dusty Hunting

Sometimes the universe speaks - and when it does, you need to listen.

This wonderful post dropped into my lap two days ago.  It concerns Dusty Hunting - a term unknown to me.  If you Google it, you'll find lots of hits about women who go into nail salons looking for old nail polish.  The little jars no longer glistening because of the dust covering them - but sought after nonetheless by searchers looking for discontinued colors.

Greg, though - and I don't know Greg, not yet, but I revere him all the same - Greg was a Dusty Hunter of another sort.  Greg travels to old-school liquor stores seeking out whiskey - bourbon and rye - that was bottled years ago but that never found a home.

Whiskey, just sitting on a shelf, waiting.

I couldn't quite believe what I was reading.  Greg said that he detoured into Baltimore, hitting a few dozen liquor stores, and there they were:

A bottle of Old Overholt Rye, from 1968.

Bottles of Old Forester from the 1970's, others from the mid sixties.

J.T.S. Brown Kentucky Bourbon from 1969.

These were just a few of the treasures he found that day - and the world of Dusty Hunting suddenly opened up to me.

Could this be true?  It couldn't be true.  I couldn't just walk into a liquor store and find something bottled before I was born (1966), some delicious treat that had been unpacked before we walked on the moon, placed on a shelf, placed on another shelf, the shelves getting lower and dirtier as the years went by?

But here was more proof posted by my new friend Greg.

There's a certain tingling I get when I know something is going to please me - the first time I went to a speech tournament in high school, crutching up to the podium, dragging a shattered leg behind me.  Doing terribly.  The worst speaker to take any stage in 1980.  But even then I knew I was going to like it, later.

Baseball - that first professional game we saw.  The Modesto Reds.  Tingle tingle.

Well, let me tell you, Greg got my spidey-sense tingling.

There's a liquor store - the Pit Stop Market - up the street from the bookstore.  Tracy needed some Everclear because she's trying to concoct some bitters for a Bad Monkey cocktail we're devising (more on that later.)  So I thought I'd kill two boozy birds with one stone and I took a walk.

The Pit Stop must be the kind of place Greg would be drawn to.  Shabby on the outside, most of its windows screened with ads for Newport and Marlboro.  A Bud Light sign in another window, the Silver and Black Raider staring out at you with his one good eye, the words One Nation One Beer underneath.

I'd been inside before, but never on a Dusty Hunt.

What do you look for?  What are the broken twigs, the signs of scat, the trail markings that a Dusty Hunter seeks?

Dusty bottles, number one.  And then tax stamps.  Remember those?  Affixed to the top of the bottle?  Green if it was bonded whiskey, red for other hooch.

Look at how the liquid is measured.  Anything in ounces is good.  4/5 of a quart?  Gold.  There were a few years when bottles had both metric and US Standard measurements - some sources say it was only 1979-80.  Others say mid-70's to early 80's.  Either way, if you've got a dusty bottle with both measures, she's an old one.

So I walk into the Pit Stop.  The woman behind the counter can't be bothered - she's yakking on her phone.  Like many such establishments, the hard stuff is behind the counter.  I scan the shelves and see four bottles of Everclear - 151 proof.  Lots of vodka.  Cheap whiskey.

And there, on the bottom shelf, almost at the end - two old bottles.  Black and White Scotch Whisky.

I catch the woman's eye, the woman behind the counter, get her to stop talking on the phone - and ask if I could take a look behind the counter.

She looks at me like it's a hold-up - and I'm certain the Pit has had its fair share of those.  Why you want do that? she says.  No, she says, I'm busy.  And she goes back to yakking.

I ask if I can buy two bottles of her Everclear and she perks up.  Sure, sure, she says.  Why you no say?  And she smiles.  So then I ask if I can take that peak around the counter.  Quick quick, she says.  I'm busy.  But she's still smiling.

The first thing that started the tingle was the tax stamp.

Tax stamps - those wonderful relics that progress and bar codes made obsolete.  So first, that - and now, with the smaller of the two bottles in hand, I see how the scotch is measured:  500 ml (16.9 FL. OZ.)

Is my first Dusty Hunt a success?  It has to be.  The bottle and the scotch are old.  It's not whiskey, it's not Old Fitzgerald Bottled in Bond, but it's pretty.  There's that.  And I remember seeing those two scotties from when I was a kid - I don't think my dad ever touched the stuff, so maybe it's just the memory a little boy filed away, maybe from Modesto Liquors - a little boy drawn to the cute little doggies on the label.

I buy it, of course.  Just the small bottle, though, not the bigger.  If it was bourbon, yes.  If rye, yes.  But I'll call off the dogs from the dogs.  One bottle is enough.

I hand the woman the bottle of Black & White.  Ooh, look at that, she says.  That old label, very old.  And she happily adds $13.98 to my purchase.

Back at the store, I give Tracy her Everclear.  The two bottles should be enough.  Then I show her the trophy from my hunt, tell her how I bagged those two doggies.

There's another mini mart that I pass on my way home.  Bonfare Market - Fine Foods Fast.  Should I push my luck?

Of course I should.

I walk past the blaring orange lights trumpeting how many millions are available to the California Lottery's next lucky winner.

Inside, more shelves, more booze.

Down low, right?  It's gotta be down low again - and sure enough, on that bottom shelf, there's a dusty bottle being used to prop up an empty frame.  The bottle has the red tax stamp I'm looking for.

And in my hands, with both measures of volume on the label, I hold a bottle of DeKuyper Creme de Cacao.

Like a hunter looking through his scope, taking the measure of the buck that he's tracked, there comes that moment when you have to decide whether or not to pull the trigger.

She's an old animal, this Cacao.  For sure.  But I'm not pulling the trigger.  I put her back where I found her.  Clap my hands loud - to scare her off, to let her know that I could have had her if I wanted, but she's not for me.

Maybe some other Dusty Hunter with a thirst for something chocolaty will find this treasure.

I'll leave it at that.

I'll leave it at that because I know I've got some dusty bottles at home - bottles from my dad's stash that my mom distributed after he died.  I know more than a couple have red stamps.

I know that there's at least that bottle of Jack.  Unopened.  That my dad must have gotten around the time I was crutching up to that first podium, around the time Queen was singing about Another One Biting the Dust.

So I'm headed home, successful from my first forays into Dusty Hunting.  Eager to see what my own stashes hold - and what the Bay Area has to offer. 

Greg?  Thanks.  Wherever you are.

My Dad - Three Years Later

After my dad died on March 1st, 2010, one of the things that haunted me was the fact that we called Hospice too late.  The point of Hospice, the purpose of Hospice, is that they develop a plan of care for the terminally ill.

I don't know when the perfect time is to initiate contact, but certainly it shouldn't be just a few days before death.

We didn't know.

It was the first instance any of us had spent time - intimate time - with Death.

So we didn't know.

Thursday afternoon, a social worker came to the house to begin the process.  He let us know that he'd coordinate all the efforts of Hospice - he'd make sure that any volunteers, health aides or nurses that my dad needed would be provided.

Again, this was all too late for Dad.  He'd be dead in days.  Our only concern at that point was effectively managing his pain - there was so much pain.  Too much.




My father - in the middle - with his brothers, Pete and Dean, on the porch of House #402, in Greek Town, Hiawatha, Utah

The Hospice worker explained that he'd begin by collecting information about my dad:

Full name:  Anthony George Petrulakis

Place of birth:  Hiawatha, Utah.

Date of birth:  June 24th, 1932.

Did  he go to college?  Yes, at the University of Utah.

His occupation?  He was a pharmacist.  He received his license to practice pharmacy in 1955.  The California Board of Pharmacy recognized his 50 years in the profession at their Board Meeting on July 27, 2006.



Dinner, 1960, Sinaloa Cantina, San Francisco.  Tony far left.

My dad was still going strong then, still working then.


What was Anthony's wife's maiden name? Anna Montzourani.

When did they get married?  March 10th, 1962.

Did they have any children?  Yes, George Anthony Petrulakis, Nicholas Anthony Petrulakis, and Dean Peter Petrulakis.

Religious affiliation?  Greek Orthodox.


The questions went like that for a while.  My mom sat across from the Hospice representative, I sat at the table with them, my brothers were in the living room.  All of us there, worried about my dad, Dad lying down in the back bedroom.

So much pain.

At some point, the recitation of questions and answers ended.  The Hospice worker leaned back in the dining room chair.  His hands came together on top of the table.  I remember that distinctly, his hands, fingers lacing, resting on polished dark wood.

I thought he was through.  That his hands on the table signalled that he was through.

He wasn't through.

Anna, he said, looking at my mom.  I just have one more question.

Mom's eyes were wet - they'd been wet all morning.  She of course more than any of us had borne the brunt of this struggle with Death.  My mom who was so very used to helping everyone else, so very unused to asking for help herself.  Death can be brutal on the dying - she's an absolute bitch to the caregivers.

Yes?  My mom said, wiping her eyes.

Anna, he said.  Does Tony have any regrets?


Are you with me?  Because if you're with me you'll realize that this question was an aberration, was so different than the others that it seemed to have been spoken in Greek, not English.  Greek, though, is my mom's first language so she understood.  Easily.  Was able to answer.

She took a deep breath, looked over at my brothers in the other room, across the table at me.

No, my mom said.  No regrets.


Thanksgiving 1997


And the amazing thing?  My mom was absolutely right.  My father lived for his family, his church,  his friends and his work.  He'd worked hard - too hard - for too many years.  But work was what my dad did.  To provide for his family.

Dad's family began with my mom.  He loved her more than anyone - more than any of us boys, certainly.  And this is said with no offense, no resentment.  He loved his boys, yes, but he adored my mom.

Adored her.

Maybe his granddaughters were moving up in the pecking order.  Possibly he loved those three girls more than his three boys - no, not possibly but probably - because they were so small and he was so big and he could just enjoy them.  Enjoy them with a wonderment that wasn't available to fathers in the sixties.

Regrets?  My dad?  In all honesty, no.

No regrets.

The question knocked me back on my heels, though.  Regrets?  I've had a few.

What was I doing wrong, then?  If Elizabeth and Kristina had to overhear this conversation in the future, if someone rested his hands on our dining room table and asked my wife-

Karen?  Does Nick have any regrets?


I regret not being a better husband, a better father.  I regret not being a better son, a better friend.

I regret the the books not written.

Regret not being better.

Regret.


So the question was an uncomfortable reminder that this is it - and if you're not enjoying it, this full catastrophe of life, if you're not doing your best, right now, at whatever it is that's in front of you--

Then why not? 

Why not?

Pluto - 29 Years Later

We had a bit of a rough start when we headed to Disneyland on Valentine's Day.  About twenty miles into our journey we realized we had left our tickets for the Magic Kingdom at the house.

So around we turned and headed back.  As I exited 880 onto the frontage road that wends along the freeway, I could see Kristina in the backseat getting her bearings.  I looked down and saw that we had traveled 43.5 miles only to be back where we started.

Kristina, still looking around, said, Hey, shouldn't we be further along than this?

I really love that kid.

Grabbed the tickets from beside the clock, found the guide book we'd also left behind, and resumed our trek.


After midnight, I decided to plug in my iPod and play only the longest songs I could find.  Alice's Restaurant ate up more than 10 miles of our dark route, and the Day the Music Died was good for another 10.  But In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida?  Thank you, Iron Butterfly - 45 years after you released that song, you carried me well through the Grapevine.  25 miles at least.

Lotta drums and keyboard in that song.  Lots.

On that end of our journey, as we neared our destination, Iron Butterfly now a memory, Caltrans decided to close the 405 - without providing any detour signs, God bless 'em.  I don't drive much in SoCal, so this put another wrench in our works.

But finally, around 3 a.m., we arrived in Newport.  I hope the poor woman who lives above the garage was out frolicking, because I opened and closed the garage door four different times.

I apologize.

Disneyland?  Disneyland is amazing.  I know, you knew that.  But we didn't know what to expect.  The crowds! we'd been warned.  On President's Day Weekend?  The crowds!

Do you have a plan of attack?  Who'll get the Fast Passes?  Are you packing lunch?

And you know what?  It was still amazing.  We had a great time - the girls had a great time.  The Haunted Mansion is phenomenal.  As is Pirates.  I had a mission, though.  To find Pluto.  I explained that the last time we were in Disneyland, Karen and I were enjoying Grad Night 1984.  One keepsake from that night was a picture with the dog himself, happy Pluto.  So we we're going to recreate that, if we could - with our two additions.

Karen wanted to know if there was an app that let you track the whereabouts of the costumed characters - but I was pretty certain we'd find him.  I mean, right?  We couldn't not find him - that just wouldn't be right.

So of course, we did.  And if I do say so myself, I think the almost 30 years have been kind to that doggy.

What do you think?

For Valentine's Day - The Happiest Place on Earth

The last time Karen and I went to Disneyland was Grad Night.  On May 25th, 1984, the Senior Class of Modesto's Grace M. Davis High School - go Spartans! - took an overnight bus trip to the Happiest Place on Earth.

Bands.  Remember the bands?  We missed hearing Cheap Trick by a few days - they performed the week before.  I think we got - Con Funk Shun?  Was that a group?

Instead of I Want You to Want Me, we got Ffun.

Two f's.

But what a night.

For how much fun we'd have - the Pirates of the Caribbean, the Haunted Mansion, getting our picture taken with Pluto - the trip began ignominiously.  My fault, that.  All mine.

I knew about these electrical wires that crossed the 5 over the Grapevine in the Tehachapi Mountains.  To share this fact, because share I must, I commandeered the driver's public address system and told my classmates that when we got there - to where those wires crossed overhead in the Tehachapis - they'd get a shock because we were so high up and the wires were so low down that you could feel the electricity conducted through the windows.  Careful, though, because sometimes the effect was uncomfortable.

I told everyone this as we rolled out of Modesto.

Reminded them in Merced.

And Fresno.

Then Bakersfield.

Squawking on the mic made me feel like those truckers on their CB's in C. W. McCall's Convoy.  10-4, indeed, good buddy.

We're now hours into the trip as we begin our ascent through the mountains, but because of all the reminders, I didn't have to ask my fellow students to keep an eye out.  When the towers appeared alongside the freeway, the towers linked by those coursing wires, it wasn't just me who got electrified.

Then, there - ahead - the wires crossed the 5.

I got back on the mic and told everyone to get ready, to touch the windows.

If you're with me, right there beside me, I'll hand over the mic so you can also remind these soon-to-be graduates of the drill.  And as you tell them to reach out, you'll look down the length of the bus and see dozens of students - the boys in coats and ties, the girls in skirts and blouses, good ol' Walt maintained his dress code down in Anaheim - you'll see those natty kids reaching over themselves and others to touch the glass.  Waking up their snoozing seatmates so they don't miss out.

As we approach the wires overhead I'll take the mic back just as the bus passes underneath - as the driver himself reaches for his side window because he's never experienced this phenomenon.  I'll look out at all those Spartans and tell them, as their fingertips graze glass, to be careful.  To be careful because on a clear day like that one in May - in 1984 - the effect I described could be magnified.

Then I ask them if they feel it.

Feel what? some grumble, because we're under the wires now and the high I've promised hasn't hit.

Feel what? I ask right back.  The pane.  Don't you feel the pane?


As understanding nears, as the grumbles increase, as these students who've spent four years with me - and now a long four hours on this bus - see the dawning of what's just happened, that I've teased them through the length of California's great valley just to jolt them with a bad pun, the grumbles become threats.

Matt Petersen yells out that I better stick close to Mickey and all the other rats in Disneyland.  I'm not about to correct him - Mickey's a mouse and would take offense at the comparison.  I just hand the mic back to the driver who hangs it from its mic doohickey as he keeps his eye on the freeway sliding under his bus.

Stupid kid, I'm sure he thought. 

It was a long walk back to my seat - deflecting the slings and arrows being tossed my way.  And Karen?  Karen looking at me, shaking her head like - oh dear.  Oh dear.  Really?  I'm going on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride with this guy?

Really?

I do not know why she put up with me - or continues to do so 30 years later.

But Disneyland?  We're going back.  For the first time.  Not with fellow students but with two kids in tow.  We'll track down Pluto, make him take another picture.  This time with four, not just us two.

I wonder how much Pluto has changed in 30 years?  More than us, or less?

Caprice Cocktail

Tonight, Keith is in New York City drinking with friends at Little Branch.  He let me know that it was cocktail time and asked that I pick his poison - bourbon or gin.  I wrote that I usually go bourbon, but that tonight I was headed for gin.

He said he usually goes gin, but that tonight he needed some warmth, so he was going to go bourbon first.  Which actually isn't letting me pick his poison, but that's what friends are for.

After we agreed to do a three-thousand mile *clink* I was left with figuring out what form my gin would take.

Since Keith is in NYC, I grabbed my PDT Cocktail Book.  PDT - in NY -  is the third greatest bar I've ever been to, and its book, by Jim Meehan, is the best cocktail book to come out in ages, so of course I grabbed it.

Choices choices.

I was going to go with the

ASTORIA BIANCO

 

2.5 oz. Tanqueray Gin

1 oz.  Martini Bianco Vermouth

2 dashes orange bitters

Stir with ice and strain into a chilled coupe
Garnish with an orange twist

--Jim Meehan, New York, 2005
 



...but I didn't have an orange for the twist, and yes, the devil is in the details.  Then, fortunately, my eye caught the

 

CAPRICE

 

1.5 oz. Beefeater gin

1.5 oz. Dolin Dry Vermouth

.5 oz Benedictine

1 dash orange bitters

 

Stir with ice and strain into a chilled coupe

Garnish with an orange twist

 

--Hyman and Gale, The How and When, 1940

...and that looked terrific, so I stopped there.  Even though that blasted orange twist was again staring me in the face.

In Mr. Meehan's sidebar next to this drink, he wrote Abe Marco and Hyman Gale imported fine wine and spirits in Chicago.  Their manual includes an extensive wine and spirits overview and a fine collection of classic and unusual concoctions.

I happen to have a copy of The How and When on my shelf - it's usually near the PDT - but I thought it was by Marco and I thought it was earlier than 1940, so maybe it was a different book?

Turns out I had the same book Mr. Meehan had, but the attribution on the spine is indeed By Marco, and the copyright - at least for my first edition - is 1937, and there are two authors listed inside, Hyman Gale and Gerald Marco, not Hyman and Gale.

No big deal.  I don't expect Mr. Meehan to be one of our most brilliant mixologists and a scrupulous copy editor at the same time.  If we could choose, we'd choose the former, and that's the important thing.

Marco's The How and When is one of those delightful old cocktail books that have ads for various spirits

Drambuie, Britain's Premier Liqueur Since 1745, The Liqueur That Satisfies

Muirhead's Blended Scotch Whisky - The Taste Tells

...for drink-related paraphernalia

The New Brunswick Bantam Cocktail Wagon / Compact - Efficient - Convenient - Complete - Smart - Modern


...it also has a quaint introduction from Abe Marco - Gerald's father, presumably:

1888                                                                       1938

What Half a Hundred Years Have Meant

     How swiftly they have gone--these past fifty years that now usher in our Golden Jubilee.  Yet, they have been years full of fond memories and most pleasant associations.

     We wish to dedicate these years which have passed, to the future which is to be, and are doing this through the medium of this little book which I trust you will permit me to present to you.

Sincerely,

Abe Marco



...and finally, of course, those classic and unusual concoctions that Mr. Meehan promised.

The Caprice was there, on page 101, but Mr. Meehan had updated it just a bit.  The original recipe calls for this:

CAPRICE

Do I love this coupe?  I do.

2/3 jigger Dry Gin

1 spoon French Vermouth

1 spoon Benedictine

2 dashes orange bitters

Shake well into Cocktail Glass

Add a ripe Olive

 

--Marco, The How and When, 1937


...which is so similar to Mr. Meehan's update.  But, to my delight, Marco called for an olive as a garnish, which I had - unlike the orange twist, which I didn't - and since I was going with Marco's garnish I also went with his two dashes instead of Mr. Meehan's one.  I like me some bitters, I do.

And olives - so two of those, also.

So that's where Keith's prompt led me tonight.  A journey through two wonderful cocktail books, one new, one old, and an introduction to a beautiful cocktail - The Caprice.

So Keith?

*clink*

To your health.

A Barbershop of his Own

I drop the kids off at Karen's office in Oakland and realize I'm awfully close to the Donut Savant.  It's up Broadway kitty-corner to the old I. Magnin, that beautiful store fronted with green marble.

So I head there and the exact same parking spot is open as last time - the one that's just a space from the end of the block.  I snag it and head out into the rain.  I walk into the Savant, and there are just a few donuts left.  But some of the ones that remain?  They're Tannenbaum donuts - I've never before seen such things.

I buy some for the girls.  The maple-salt donut holes?  I get those for Karen.  Then I see candied ginger strips atop butter-cream frosting.  I score those, maybe just for me.

I ask what time they close up shop there at the Savant.  The woman behind the counter, she takes my Diet Coke from the cooler and says they close at three.

But it's 3:30, I say.

She smiles and says it's my lucky day.

Indeed.  I just didn't know how lucky.

I'm getting buckled in my car when I realize that since Karen has the kids, I have a few hours alone on this rainy East Bay Friday.  Where was that barbershop Josette told me about?  I don't often get my hair cut, but I usually do so in December.  It makes my mom happy.

Jesus.  Forty-six and still doing shit to make my mom happy.  Oh well.

Josette had told me about some hipster barbershop in Oakland's Temescal district  I punch those words into Google and boom-shacka-lacka, I'm only five minutes away.  So I gun the Accord away from the curb, turn onto Telegraph, and head up to 49th.

When I get close, I land another terrific parking spot.  Now the rain is coming down good, and I shouldn't detour into the crappy thrift shop there on 49th, but I do.

It's junky, cheep and cheesy.  The Christmas stuff in the front - Santas made out of yarn, drinking glasses that are the opposite of elegant, Styrofoam ornaments - there's nothing cool to this kitsch.

Until I get to the back.  And in the back?  Against the wall?  Cocktail glasses.  Galore.  Time's a wastin, but lordamighty, I've hit the mother lode.  Before you could sing two Turtledoves, I've raked up five glasses.  I take em to the counter and ask the guy how much they'll set me back.

How about seven? he says.

Bucks? I say.

Yeah, he says.

For all of them? I say.

Yeah, he says.

Suddenly I'm seven buck poorer but infinitely richer.  He wraps em in some old Tribunes, bags em, and I'm on my way.  I throw em in the car and turn right onto 49th.

Across the street I see the sign.  So this is the place.

Temescal Alley is just that, an alley with ramshackle buildings on each side - long, low buildings, each separated into four of five small spaces.  Fifteen feet square?  Something like that.  But they've been given face lifts - skylights, the bricks making up the back wall have been scrubbed down and cleaned.  They've been turned into art galleries, coffee shops, and of course, the siren call for me - a barber shop.

I know there's something good in store when I see the barber pole gleaming like a beacon through the dark afternoon.  There are a few guys hanging around outside - talking on their phones, drinking coffee.  I poke my head into the shop and see four barber-chairs, occupied.  Six more guys are sitting in the tight space, waiting their turn.  Sitting on chairs, the chairs on the hex-tiled floor.  There's a chalkboard on the wall with many names - Zeke, Mike, Ted.

I add my name to the list just before one of the barbers takes a towel and wipes the names from the middle column - names that had been crossed out, now all done, haircuts completed, the names wiped away by a young man wearing a leather smock - kind of Sweeney Todd, Tracy will comment.  But somehow testament to the seriousness with which they appear - at first glance - to take this endeavor they've embarked on.

In the corner is a cabinet.  On the cabinet is an RCA Victor radio tuned to a station playing something cool, something hillbilly.  Inside the cabinet are pomades - the brand is called Cock Grease.  There's a rooster on the tin, ok?  A rooster.  They've also got unbreakable plastic combs for sale.

And there, on the bottom shelf - two bottles of booze.  Bulleit Bourbon and Maker's Mark.  Just sitting there on a towel with three shot glasses lined up in front of them.

This is my kinda place.

There are at least fifteen names ahead of mine on the chalkboard, so I head back out of the steamy shop and into the rain.  I try on some vintage boots at one of the shops across the alley.  Then into a popup shop manned by the gent who's the King behind the King Bag Co. of Oakland.

Bobby Glasser, the King?  He sat in front of a wonderful selection of his bags.  You want these, ok?  I got some coin purses for the girls - two blue for Elizabeth, two red for Kristina - and a black one for me.  I scored a photo album for Karen made by some crazy iron artist - an artist who works in iron, not an artist of iron.  If the Heat comes looking, I'm strapping this album with its iron covers over my heart like The Man With No Name in A Fistful of Dollars - it'll protect me like Eastwood's metal plate protected him.

I head back into the barbershop just as one of the barbers calls my name.  The guy who just vacated my chair is some kind of tv star.  Everyone seems to know who he is, but I don't.  It'd probably help to have a tv.  Ah, well.  They're all agreed he's a swell guy who always stops in when he's not in LA shooting.

I sit in the chair and my barber with his slicked back hair and full sleeve tattoos fastens a smock around my neck.

The bourbon, I say.  Is that just for show?

He doesn't hesitate.  It's always there, he says.  You don't have to ask.


Do you hear angels singing?  Because I do.


Now, he says, as a new song starts pumping out of the RCA (White Shirts and Rain.  I'd tell you the lyrics, but there might be women present.)

White shirts and rain, yeah they bring on a change


Now, he says, what can I do for you today?

He's looking at my hair kind of funny.  It's long.  I hate haircuts, so I get a cut about once a year.

A little trim? he says, as he starts running a comb through it.

Naw, I say.  High and tight.

White shirts and rain, yeah they bring on a change

I don't know what high and tight means, not really, but I'm trying to adapt to the situation.

What? he says.  You mean you want a proper haircut?  A real one?

I do, I say.  I do.

He smiles and starts to clip.

Just then another guy comes in out of the rain.  He's got a cup of joe in his hands and one of the other barbers says, Hey, if you want to Irish that up a little, it's right over there, and he points with a black comb to the cabinet with the bourbon inside.

Irish that up, I'm thinking?  I used to hate haircuts, but I think I've found my people.

My guy is still snipping away, kind of chuckling to himself as he says, Say goodbye! while he lops off another chunk of hair, another chunk that lands in my lap.

Pretty soon he's putting a hot towel against the back of my neck.  He removes the towel, slaps on some menthol concoction and takes a straight razor to my skin.  I've never had a straight razor clean up the back of my neck before.  Next time I may take him up on a shave.

Never had a proper shave.

Not a lot of time passes, and I'm done.  I hand him some double sawbucks, get back some change.  Help yourself, he says to me.

So I do.  I open the cabinet and pour a shot of Bulleit.  It feels good going down, like bourbon should.  I thank him, thank everyone, and head into the night.

Did I mention that I think I've found my people?  Because I have.  Just a few days before Christmas, and I found them.

I just might start getting haircuts kind of regular.  If you need to Irish up your coffee on a cold Winter's night in Oakland, you know where to go.

Dave Brubeck, December 6, 1920 - December 5, 2012

The first time Karen and I saw Dave Brubeck was when he performed with the Pacific Mozart Ensemble in the '90's.  We'd gathered in a church in San Francisco - which church? which church? my memory fails me - and awaited the great man's entrance.

When he arrived, Mr. Brubeck was led up the middle aisle - I think by his wife (again, memory, oh, mercurial memory).  Mr. Brubeck needed help - navigating the aisle wasn't easy.  He was in his 70's, and not spry.  There was one intake-of-breath moment when the steps leading to the front of the church made him stumble.  But Mr. Brubeck caught himself, and turned around, and we applauded.

Joining him that night - in addition to the PME - was his long-time cohort on bass, Jack Six.  Such a big man, with such big hands.  How did he make such exquisite music come from the strings when his fingers were so big?  These were the fingers and hands of a bricklayer, a lumberjack - and yet.

And yet.

We didn't know what to expect, not really, especially after we saw the pains Mr. Brubeck endured to get near his piano.

But then something amazing happened.  Dave Brubeck sat at that piano, and when his fingertips touched the keys - it was like he received an electric shock.  Energy seemed to flow out of the piano and into Mr. Brubeck's body and suddenly he was invigorated - and the music poured out.

When the energy was too much, Mr. Brubeck was lifted up off his piano bench with whoops, with hollers.  His hands and fingers fed off the touch of the keys and the piano returned the energy with some of the best jazz we'd ever heard.  He and Jack Six playing off one another and all of us in the audience were exhilarated.  Exhilarated and excited.

That's what I'll remember about Dave Brubeck.  A slender figure animated by the presence of a piano in a church in San Francisco.

Beaming from the applause.

Do me a favor - slap on Take Five or whatever Brubeck masterpiece moves you.  Turn the music up, take a drink, and salute the man who created music - red, hot and cool.