Above the Ground Beneath
Civerolo revisions metal now, for the future
Kinky Curiosities Party February 13th!
Rip Williams & Shawna Cory, Mistress Lexianna
Our too-hot-for-print 2017 Sex Survey results are in, and all will be revealed at Alibi Fetish Events: Kinky Curiosities party at Sister on February 13. Here's the first tease of what's to come!
It is our pleasure to welcome back the dynamic duo, Rip Williams and Shawna Cory! They brought a compelling energy that spellbound the denizens of the Fetish Formal, and we're delighted to have them back to perform a suspension performance at Kinky Curiosities.
Rip Williams is the long-time host of Guerrilla Photo Group (GPG), a frequent winner of the Best of Burque Best Arts Event and a group designed to hone the skills of photographers, models, art directors and more in a collaborative, nurturing environment. Recently, GPG partnered with Cabaret Audacity to help train photographers to shoot performances at the Vaudeville Open Mic every third Wednesday at Sidewinders Cabaret Theater.
A photographer in his own right, Williams has won Best of Burque's Best Photographer category more times than this writer wanted to go back and research. In addition to his work developing the visual chroniclers of the next generation, he also hosts two get-togethers per month at his Downtown studio for people who are interested in the art of rope bondage.
Shawna serves as the art director for GPG, curating (along with her team) their quarterly art shows. Shawna is also an accomplished photographer, and I had the pleasure of meeting her when we were both working with the Bella Donna Burlesque Review.
Rip, Shawna and their team will be weaving their magic on the main stage at Kinky Curiosities, headlining the demo portion of our evening.
Mistress Lexianna brought style, class and delicious sadism to the Dungeon of Visual Delights at the Fetish Formal, and we are delighted to bring her and her cadre of favored playmates to our team at Kinky Curiosities. Do you need further introduction? Let us encourage you to ask very politely.
There's more: Advance tickets are available at the Alibi Bucks site, and if we sell out they won't be available at the door. We're going to give you the best Monday night of your year. Don't miss out.
Sail on, Sail on, Sailor
On Saturday night the bell on my landline went off and damn it all if it weren't the Sailor, ringing me up to hear more about Duke Ellington and his way with the piano.
"Come on over, August," he breathed gruffly and grandly into the handset, "and show me again how those first 16 bars go, because I have an idea on how to fit a harmonica over that bit, plus which I believe I can lay a fine shuffle under that storm and so we will be on our way to being a fine jazz band, after all."
I'd already had a couple of drinks of Wild Turkey by that time though and told him I didn't fancy driving through the student ghetto just to lay down some clumsy riffs on his Yamaha electric, but he disagreed.
"Go on and walk over then, Mr. March and I will mix you up a creme soda with Jameson's in the bottom of the glass."
I could not resist and so spent the next 3 hours rambling through "East Saint Louis Toodle-oo" while the rest of the boys followed along blithely. My wife called about 10 and told me I better get on home if I wanted any spaghetti. "Who could resist that," I told the Sailor as I dropped my charts onto his desk, grabbed my cane and ambled toward the door. I flashed him the peace sign and said I'd see him Tuesday for practice.
That was the last time I saw the man folks here in Dirt City called by a nautical name.
I'd known him since I was a kid, and him being 20 years my senior did stop us becoming fast friends. He was part brother and part father; we hiked, smoked, drank, jammed and regaled each other with stories of where the other had been on the Earth.
He was the only man I knew that had seen more of the planet than me. I'd been on all the continents, excepting Antarctica; his tale of seeing the Ross Ice Shelf rise up on the horizon set my brain on fire and besides that we always had a laugh about the after-midnight goings on in Singapore, the lights of the north star and the aurora way up north or how it was impossible to understand the dialect of the Peruvian seamen who landed in Guayaquil looking for a good time.
When he broke his hip late last year, my wife and I sat with him at the hospital, brought him dinner from Los Cuates on the weekends and made sure his walker was ready to go when he was. The pain was bad he told us, but nothing like the time he got burned putting out a fire on an oiler outside of Osaka.
Just last week, we spent an afternoon listening to the Rolling Stones new album, a blues thing. And I complained that Charlie Watts was about an eighth note behind Keith Richards when it counted but he said to take it easy because we were all getting old.
On Tuesday morning the bell on my cell phone went off and god damn it to hell, it was the Sailor's neighbor who was weeping on the line when I answered and then told me the news.
"Mike got up early this morning and now he has died."
I went home early that day, staring into the sky as I drove. I sat at my piano and played until my hands hurt, thinking about the time the Sailor told me how Polaris was possibly the center of the universe—blinking timelessly, brightly while the rest of the sky rolled and spun chaotically around and around.
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