tag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:/blogs/dima-s-blogBLOG2024-02-09T11:00:03-08:00Dmitri Mathenyfalsetag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/73486902024-02-09T11:00:03-08:002024-02-09T11:41:05-08:00THE OWL CLUB PART 6 — HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT<p style="text-align:center;"><br><strong>“The owls are not what they seem.”</strong><br> <i>—The Giant</i></p><p><br>Now a full time musician, no longer employed by Kendall Lane, I agreed to stay involved by joining his Board of Directors.<span> </span></p><p>I soon learned that our board chairman was a newly minted Owl. So was the CEO of my wife’s investment management firm. So were several of our well-heeled friends on the San Francisco arts and culture scene.</p><p>Like AA, involvement in the Owl Club is supposed to be a big secret. And like Fight Club, the first rule is you don’t talk about it. Yet somehow its members often find a way to let you know.<span> </span></p><p>Some Owls communicate their affiliation by wearing a club signet ring, tie tack or lapel pin. Others sprinkle their small talk with offhand references to “The Club” or “The Nest” in much the way evangelicals will casually mention “The Church,” as if everybody attends the same one.<br> </p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/5b64ffa86726d73389a3c0d3317c623652c2db6b/original/oc-ring.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><p><br>For such an exclusive organization, the Owls sure seemed to be everywhere, hiding in plain sight.</p><p>One autumn night in the early aughts, I was invited to perform for an Owl Club function downtown. It was my kind of event, a noir-themed variety show. Everybody, performers and guests alike, wore fedoras. </p><p>I was playing a lot of “crime jazz” in those days, and as I recall, our music was a big hit.</p><p>After the show one of the guests motioned me over to his table for a cocktail. The gentleman was charming, but after a while our ostensibly informal chat began to feel more like a post-audition interview, conducted in a coded language I didn’t fully understand.<span> </span></p><p>At first I didn’t see anyone familiar among the shadowy men-in-hats, but as I was packing up my gear, I happened to make eye contact with someone I recognized: Glen Rollins, the well-known vibraphonist and flautist. Glen was casually leaning against the wall with an air of relaxed confidence, totally at home, like he owned the place. </p><p>Is he a club member, I wondered, or is he, like me, merely a hired gun?<span> </span></p><p> </p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/52a3c6be38aa1fb06378e650dfbe1cb1cea7ad53/original/faceless-man-in-fedora-scaled.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><p> </p><p>The following spring I received a call from Josh Maxwell, the eccentric jazz professor back home in Arizona, inquiring if I would consider being guest soloist with his university big band as part of their annual “jazz week” celebration. </p><p>I said I’d love to.<span> </span></p><p>I’d known Maxwell ever since my teens, when the local jazz society arranged for me to take a few music theory lessons at the college of music, and record a demo in their brand new recording studio. We'd stayed in touch over the years, and recently the two of us had even played a few gigs together, in which he would sing, cabaret-style, and accompany both of us on piano.<span> </span></p><p>You might say we were now professional colleagues, but I continued to regard him with respectful deference. Maxwell was one of a kind. I admired his joyful stage presence and liberal use of obscure hipster lingo in everyday conversation. He was the closest thing our little town had to a real jazzman.</p><p>Maxwell was an accomplished composer and conductor as well. After one of the jazz week rehearsals, he ushered me into his office to show me his current work-in-progress: the orchestral score for an original musical theater production all about Teddy Roosevelt.<span> </span></p><p> </p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/3335a638caac9b787f6bb6fb14f79dfabfcd2f94/original/teddy-roosevelt.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><p> </p><p>I was impressed with the project's ambitious size and scope.</p><p>“Wow! Do you think you can ever get it performed?” I asked.<span> </span></p><p>“Oh, yes,” he replied in an exaggerated stage whisper. “In fact, this will be the 100th Nest Play!”<span> </span></p><p>Wait, did he say <i>Nest </i>Play?<span> </span></p><p>Could it be that Josh Maxwell — way out here in the Lonesome Desert — is a member of the Owl Club?</p><p>Precisely how many of my associates, I wondered, are secretly involved in this not-so-secret society!</p><p>At least one more, I would soon learn.</p><p>Upon my return to San Francisco, Tom Hill, a longtime friend and benefactor, surprised me with an invitation to the Owl Club’s famous annual retreat.</p><p>“Dmitri, I would like you to join us at The Nest,” Tom announced grandly, “as my guest, for our midsummer encampment.”</p><p>I was astonished. </p><p>I had no idea that Tom was an Owl.</p><p>I certainly never suspected that a non-member would be welcome at The Nest, even as a guest.</p><p>And I never would’ve dreamed that a ne’er-do-well iconoclast like me would be invited.</p><p>Maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised. My wife wasn’t.<span> </span></p><p>“Obviously you’ve been <i>vetted,</i>” she said.<span> </span></p><p>“What’s that mean?” I asked, not familiar with the term.</p><p>“It means you’re going.”</p><p> </p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/c1014c980a3e5a73c1b4e2d2cf885ed9a7d25efa/original/owls-blockprint.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><p> </p><p style="text-align:right;">Next:<br>The Owl Club Part 7 — The Nest</p><p style="text-align:right;">Previous Posts:<br><a class="no-pjax" href="https://dmitrimatheny.com/blogs/dima-s-blog/posts/6889748/the-owl-club-part-1-invitation" data-link-type="url">The Owl Club Part 1 — Invitation</a><br><a class="no-pjax" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/the-owl-club-part-2-a-weaving-spider" data-link-type="url">The Owl Club Part 2 — A Weaving Spider</a><br><a class="no-pjax" href="https://dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/the-owl-club-part-3-the-gift" data-link-type="url">The Owl Club Part 3 — The Gift</a><br><a class="no-pjax" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/the-owl-club-part-4-sweets" data-link-type="url">The Owl Club Part 4 — Sweets</a><br><a class="no-pjax" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/the-owl-club-part-5-parliament" data-link-type="url">The Owl Club Part 5 — Parliamen</a><a data-link-type="url">t</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/73261722023-12-30T10:10:28-08:002024-02-08T12:21:58-08:00RESOLUTIONS 2024 — THE YEAR OF QUIET CONFIDENCE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/48047580b3e8b3e8e7a10fe33c3bd9cfc71c07d7/original/campfire-background.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p> </p><p>This year I resolve to work smarter, not harder.</p><p>I plan to pace myself, take my time, and do things right.</p><p>I’ll talk less, walk more, and appreciate every moment.</p><p> </p><p><strong>1. Sustain my daily routine at home.</strong></p><ul>
<li>Wake up before sunrise. Walk, stretch, make bed.</li>
<li>Handle all business before noon; reserve afternoons for music.</li>
<li>Practice flugelhorn long tones and rudiments. Prepare repertoire.</li>
<li>Read, study, walk dogs, run errands, and finish chores before daily meal.</li>
<li>On gig nights: allow extra time, drive carefully, arrive early, and read my book.</li>
<li>On free nights: enjoy television, movies, music, and podcasts.</li>
<li>Before bed, put the day up for review and plan tomorrow.</li>
<li>Practice deep breathing and mindfulness meditation.</li>
<li>Sleep soundly for six hours or more.</li>
</ul><p> </p><p><strong>2. Make the most of every road trip.</strong></p><ul>
<li>Service van and replenish supplies before every tour.</li>
<li>Plan ahead. Research each day’s driving route, meal, and nature walk.</li>
<li>Drive no more than six hours daily. Rest every two hours.</li>
<li>Schedule one (but no more than two) engagements each day.</li>
<li>Cut costs to increase margins. Overnight with Harvest Hosts when possible.</li>
<li>Maintain personal hygiene and stick to a regular sleep schedule.</li>
<li>Recharge devices and handle business each morning.</li>
<li>Plan breaks along the way for visits with friends.</li>
</ul><p> </p><p><strong>3. Prioritize mental well-being.</strong></p><ul>
<li>Relax, smile, and laugh. Choose to be in a good mood.</li>
<li>Limit exposure to negative people and influences.</li>
<li>Watch no more than 30 minutes of daily news.</li>
<li>Spend no more than 10 minutes on social media.</li>
<li>Get outdoors. Appreciate nature. Play with dogs.</li>
<li>Schedule seasonal solitude retreats and staycations.<span> </span>
</li>
<li>Make time for real conversations with friends.</li>
<li>Be of service. Offer help and follow through.</li>
<li>Avoid complaining, even to myself.</li>
<li>Stay humble, hopeful, and grateful.</li>
<li>Memento mori. Amor fati.</li>
</ul><p> </p><p><strong>4. Prioritize physical health.</strong></p><ul>
<li>Enjoy food and drink in moderation.</li>
<li>Limit consumption of caffeine and alcohol.</li>
<li>Follow OMAD and Warrior Diet protocols.</li>
<li>Visit the doctor and dentist regularly.</li>
</ul><p> </p><p><strong>5. Maintain financial discipline.</strong></p><ul>
<li>Boost contingency fund by 20%.</li>
<li>Increase retirement savings by 10%.</li>
<li>Pay off 100% of consumer debt.</li>
<li>Protect home and credit rating.</li>
</ul><p> </p><p><strong>6. Shut up and listen!</strong></p><ul>
<li>Hold few opinions and express even fewer.</li>
<li>Listen more. Speak less. Two ears, one mouth!</li>
<li>Remain curious, interested, and open-minded. Become laconic.</li>
<li>When possible, try to make the point in one sentence, without preamble.</li>
<li>In conversation, pause to think, then choose words carefully before speaking.</li>
<li>When performing, settle down. Be a supportive listener, not a cheerleader.</li>
<li>Rather than reacting impulsively, respond thoughtfully.</li>
</ul>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/73260372023-12-30T00:47:40-08:002023-12-30T10:05:29-08:002023 BY-THE-NUMBERS<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/9f7b5363bca75b7a827d3ce502a0a88cde48c3b5/original/2023.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p> </p><p>What a year!<span> </span></p><p>Profound gratitude for all the travels and adventures, and much appreciation for the support from friends old and new.<span> </span></p><p>A deep sense of relief, as well. This year was an endurance test. We launched several challenging new projects while working to pay down debts and rebuild our touring circuit after the disruption of the pandemic.</p><p>In 2023, the YEAR OF GRIT & GUMPTION, we:</p><p>traveled over <span class="text-big">27K</span> miles</p><p>charted <span class="text-big">13K</span> spins and streams</p><p>added <span class="text-big">2K</span> followers and subscribers <span> </span></p><p>employed <span class="text-big">389</span> musicians</p><p>gave <span class="text-big">102</span> performances</p><p>directed <span class="text-big">57</span> workshops</p><p>played <span class="text-big">9</span> big band concerts</p><p>accompanied <span class="text-big">7</span> talented vocalists</p><p>headlined <span class="text-big">5</span> music festivals</p><p>commissioned <span class="text-big">3</span> new works</p><p>staged <span class="text-big">2</span> milestone collaborations, and</p><p>enjoyed <span class="text-big">1</span> hell of a year<span> </span></p><p>As 2023 comes to a close, with a sigh of relief and a smile of gratitude, we thank you for being part of it.</p><p>Here’s to 2024!</p><p>Cheers,<span> </span></p><p>Dmitri</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/73235672023-12-23T10:16:38-08:002023-12-26T06:04:30-08:00DADDY BILL'S ASHES<p><span>Finally scattered my father’s ashes.</span></p><p><br><span>I’d kept them in my van for three years, wondering as I traveled where to best honor his simple request: “no funeral, ashes scattered.”</span></p><p><br><span>Gave consideration to Puget Sound, the Maine Coast, the Sonoran Desert, his favorite wild pecan orchard, even Jeanie B’s woodpile, but was never able to make a decision.</span></p><p><br>Last weekend, <span>William Douglas Matheny found his final resting place among the red rocks of Coconino National Forest, near the trunk of a lone Juniper tree, below the famous chapel. </span></p><p> </p><p><span><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/e7c478ffb14027a99bf61e73a7dc4aa6aa07f1c4/original/1.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p><p><br><span>Not entirely legal, I know, but it was a beautiful day and it just felt right. </span></p><p><span><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/f867c5dad7d650936062433d175f59cae84c8733/original/2.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p><p><br><span>I love you, Daddy Bill.</span></p><p><span><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/cd5b82d307969794ca9f519b1103450c0ca670f7/original/3.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72950202023-10-28T09:43:27-07:002023-10-28T16:34:15-07:00MICHIGAN TOUR | DAY 21 — REFLECTIONS<p>Made it home safely to sweet Sass and the fur-babies!</p><p>Since my bio-clock is still on midwest time, and Scout is a “morning person,” we’ve added an early AM neighborhood walk to our schedule. During today’s chilly moonlit ramble I reflected on Michigan, why I love the place so much, and why I keep returning.</p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/893c3225073474b9146e5229ab16737a99aaea93/original/brisk.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p><p>The Great Lakes State figures prominently in my origin story.<span> </span></p><p>It’s the first place I lived after leaving home, where I first became serious about music, and where I found out what it means to live as an artist. It’s where I learned the values and habits that have nourished and sustained me: how to be creatively resourceful, emotionally resilient, financially independent. How to be a citizen of the world. It’s where the boy became the man.</p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/cfbbf18df68cec955fff3fa5d152ba8956ee4b00/original/iaa17.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p><p>So many “firsts” happened for me in Michigan. It’s where I met my first benefactor and my first great music mentor. It’s where I prepared my first concert as bandleader, and where I played my first paid gig. It’s also where I first experienced romantic obsession and heartbreak.<span> </span></p><p>I accepted my calling there, that “mournful yet grand” destiny of which Liszt spoke, the internal narrative which has shaped my entire life. The place is absolutely redolent with personal meaning, and each time I return to that poignant landscape, its familiar sights and sounds and smells bring back a rush of emotion, and my affinity for Michigan only deepens.</p><p>When I was planning this trip, I intended to include other favorite midwest venues in Chicago, Milwaukee, and Cleveland, but I simply ran out of time. Before I knew it I had filled every available date with “mitten bidness” — 21 concerts and workshops in as many days!<span> </span></p><p><span><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/49f92449bf29d27806870dfb61979c0685205f04/original/once-more-round-the-mitten.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p><p>I’m glad it worked out that way.<span> </span></p><p>The trip felt like a homecoming, not just back to my beloved Michigan, but back to myself.<span> </span></p><p>These past few years have been challenging, ruminating over the loss of my father, facing my own mortality, dealing with the financial impact of the pandemic, struggling with anxiety.</p><p>Yet in Michigan, standing before the brilliant Diego Rivera frescoes at the Detroit Institute of Arts, I had this epiphany: returning here has reminded me of who I am.<span> </span></p><p> </p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/5333b920067a6cf0484b5339e275ddee09497ee4/original/dia-rivera-murals.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p><p> </p><p>Road life is rewarding, but it can also be exhausting, especially after so many trips around the sun. </p><p>However, today I feel rejuvenated. I now believe I have another decade of traveling and performing in me, something I doubted before. </p><p>October is the perfect time to visit Michigan.<span> </span></p><p>Criss-crossing the state, driving those winding backroads through the tunnels of trees, past all the rivers and lakes and farmhouses in the mist, with the autumn leaves swirling? Absolutely magical.<br> </p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/e425cbf957f9920ca9fb5a69f2515f69a107c902/original/tunnel-of-trees-fall-puremichigan-2.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p><p><br>The other thing that made this trip so healing? The people.</p><p>My bandmates and I shared a big house together in Detroit. Lisa cooked Korean food for us, Tom shared several excellent bottles of wine, and we all talked late into the night about anything and everything. </p><p>Our performances got stronger as we grew closer, something I haven’t experienced since my international travels with Amina Figarova years ago.<span> </span></p><p> </p><p><span><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/b646a3b08697fd7e2780e497c1a82e31613aa2da/original/lisa-sung-korean-barbecue.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></span></p><p> </p><p>But it wasn’t just my colleagues on the bandstand. </p><p>All the venues were so warm and welcoming. </p><p>The students and teachers were so inspiring. </p><p>And the audiences were amazing! </p><p>So much kindness, soulfulness, and generosity. So much joy.</p><p>Thank you, Michigan.</p><p> </p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/448dd117787a79d49397beba198afd7316819b93/original/michigan-friends-and-fans.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72944632023-10-27T09:24:44-07:002023-10-28T16:34:15-07:00MICHIGAN TOUR | DAY 20 — HILLSDALE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/89ba7eb233b9388c97801c9ced5a1957ca79e4cd/original/day-20.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_xl justify_center border_" /></p><p>Wrapped the <i>Once More Round The Mitten</i> tour at Hillsdale College. Performed with brass brother <strong>Chris McCourry</strong> and his excellent big band and combo, and enjoyed two wonderful home-cooked meals with Chris and his supercool wife Maurine. Thank you, McCourrys! Thank you, Michigan!</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72938392023-10-26T07:05:32-07:002023-10-26T07:05:33-07:00MICHIGAN TOUR | DAY 19 — BOYNE CITY<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/a65c3f46d04dcc5542b1cc204f070ccf78688670/original/day-19.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_xl justify_center border_" /></p><p>Had a ball working with Mr. Ivie’s students at Boyne City HS. Wonderful to witness so many girls and young women discovering the joys of jazz. Broke up the 4-hour drive to Hillsdale with a nature walk and leaf-peeping in Roscommon State Forest. Enjoyed a hearty bowl of cajun shrimp pasta at a roadside brewpub, then stopped at a rest area for a brief flugel sesh. So grateful for this simple life of simple pleasures. Excelsior!<span> </span></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72926812023-10-24T09:03:51-07:002023-10-24T10:42:02-07:00MICHIGAN TOUR | DAY 18 — TRAVERSE CITY<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/a883ba7feb87612e424f09400098c515efe9ae40/original/screen-shot-2023-10-24-at-11-23-15-am.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_xl justify_center border_" /></p><p>Arrived in rainy Traverse City to the comfortingly familiar cadence of broadcaster Ed Ronco (formerly of KNKX Seattle!) on Interlochen Public Radio. Led a morning masterclass for Mr. Vieira’s excellent jazz ensemble at TC Central HS, then played tourist, sampling some of the tart and sweet cherry products for which the region is famous. Finished my visit with a short stroll down memory lane, to the Maritime Academy on Grand Traverse Bay, where Tom Knific gave me my first “pro” (aka paid) gig 40 years ago. Time sure has flown! Guess I’ve been having fun.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72924452023-10-23T21:14:58-07:002023-10-23T21:14:59-07:00MICHIGAN TOUR | DAY 17 — MONROE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/0cc6d0d2b7b63a8dfb690af2dd34c598c06bb367/original/screen-shot-2023-10-24-at-12-06-06-am.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_xl justify_center border_" /></p><p>Packed up all my cares and woes, said “farewell for now” to the K-zoo crew (I already miss you, Annabelle), and decamped for Monroe, Michigan (3 hours east). After a thoroughly enjoyable session with Mr. Swinkey’s jazz band, traveled another 5 hours northeast to Traverse City and the comfortingly familiar voice of Ed Ronco on Interlochen Public Radio. Excelsior!</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72919132023-10-22T20:33:10-07:002023-10-22T20:34:26-07:00MICHIGAN TOUR | DAY 16 — KALAMAZOO<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/66ac897316b3ef7552ff994f4ff661830c81f8c7/original/day-16.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_xl justify_center border_" /></p><p>A rejuvenating day off in Kalamazoo with dear friends Tom and Renata and their two beautiful Labradors, Annabelle and Fifa. Sketched a little duet arrangement of “Mean To Me” for this Thursday’s concert in Hillsdale, then took the dogs to the glorious 24-acre Meadow Run Dog Park in Oshtemo Township. In the evening Lisa joined us for savory mesquite-smoked ribs, Greek salad, oven-roasted rosemary potatoes, red wine, and chocolate truffles. Life is good!</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72917892023-10-22T09:20:29-07:002023-10-22T09:21:27-07:00MICHIGAN TOUR | DAY 15 — GRAND RAPIDS<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/e0c1ff726c6f6f2f784284dfe2a61f8e39284724/original/day-15.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_xl justify_center border_" /></p><p>For our final quintet performance of the tour we convened at GRNoir in the heart of downtown Grand Rapids. What a magnificent venue! </p><p>Heartfelt thanks to owner/founders Shatawn and Nadia Brigham and artistic director Kevin Jones (a renowned, respected artist in his own right) for creating and sustaining this cultural treasure where everyone feels welcome.</p><p>Also grateful for my beautiful bandmates: <strong>Tom</strong> (my great friend and mentor for over 40 years), <strong>Lisa</strong> (all the world is waiting for you, and the power you possess), <strong>Jeff</strong> (my brother from another mother), and <strong>Jordan</strong> (so soulful and creative, he always elevates the bandstand).<span> </span></p><p><span>Special thanks to </span>Blue Lake Public Radio Jazz Director<strong> Lazaro Vega</strong> for making the scene <u>and</u> helping to fill the house, and to tap artist <strong>Heather Cornell</strong> for sharing her gifts.</p><p>Bright moments!</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72907662023-10-20T09:23:34-07:002023-10-20T09:55:54-07:00MICHIGAN TOUR | DAYS 13-14 — SHELBY, DEARBORN<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/986f0987b6b6f39a83cd1a0d7a3612469321fbb7/original/days-13-14.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_xl justify_center border_" /></p><p>After our thrilling show at the Blue Llama, I drove through the night to the quaint little village of Shelby in western Michigan for a 7 AM workshop. (Pro-tip for night-drivers: staying awake is easy when you’re scream-singing along with Olivia Rodrigo’s “Vampire” at the top of your lungs!) </p><p>The Shelby HS students were brave and bold — everyone improvised! — and their delightful teacher, Erin Ray, even played drums for our session.<span> </span></p><p>Upon returning to Detroit, I visited the Dearborn HS program under the direction of Brian McCloskey. His jazzers meet even earlier — 6:40 AM — but these kids showed up ready to work!</p><p>Back-to-back “zero hours” on opposite sides of the state are no joke for a tired old road dog like me. Nevertheless, I’m grateful for the opportunity to work with such inspiring young students and teachers. Their energy and enthusiasm always seem to replenish the spirit.<span> </span></p><p>Excelsior!</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72903532023-10-19T17:44:36-07:002023-10-19T17:44:38-07:00MICHIGAN TOUR | DAY 12 — ANN ARBOR<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/3a2ca8acd27631d3f709504e0048ac9082dd5f65/original/day-12.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_xl justify_center border_" /></p><p>Ann Arbor’s Blue Llama Jazz Club is a spectacular venue with award-winning cuisine, aesthetic lighting and design, excellent sound (right on, Jacob), and a very hip crowd. Warm thanks to owner Don Hicks, artistic director Dave Sharp, and the professional staff for taking such good care of the band. And much appreciation to our guest soloists: my longtime friend vocalist Joan Belgrave, rising stars trumpeter Carter Haugen and saxophonist Tim Grieme, and the man himself, Don Hicks, who played some tasty licks for us on an historic trumpet that once belonged to none other than Miles Davis. What a night!</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72892582023-10-17T19:19:35-07:002023-10-17T19:19:36-07:00MICHIGAN TOUR | DAYS 10-11 — SHELBY TOWNSHIP, BLOOMFIELD HILLS<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/e829be8d4c5deb60f79f027a53cea23cb7eea8f6/original/guilty-pleasures.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_xl justify_center border_" /></p><p>After our thrilling week at Cliff Bell’s, I hung around suburban Detroit for a couple more days of solo workshops in Shelby Township and Bloomfield Hills. Then caught up on business, did a little laundry, ran a few errands, and rewarded myself with a few favorite gastronomic guilty pleasures: White Castle, Timmy Ho's, and Great Lakes Pasties. Always remember <i>The Anschell Principle</i>, kids: road calories don’t count!</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72891532023-10-17T15:21:14-07:002023-10-17T15:21:16-07:00MICHIGAN TOUR | DAYS 6-9 — DETROIT<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/741d3233f8c23b494fe0bf1744f31d704836636f/original/cb.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_xl justify_center border_" />After coaching the Bloomfield Hills jazzers, I met up with my band for a 4-night run at one of our favorite venues: the historic Cliff Bell’s in Detroit! We made lots of new friends, and our pianist even got to play Stevie Wonder’s Rhodes! Among the extramusical highlights: walking in Palmer Park, visiting the Detroit Institute of Arts, and enjoying Mama Lisa’s home cooking. Excelsior!</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72878922023-10-14T15:01:16-07:002023-10-16T18:54:02-07:00MICHIGAN TOUR | DAY 5 — GRAND RAPIDS, BATTLE CREEK<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/9837ff062065c430fa2a2ba2eea02d374499e643/original/calvin-university-with-lisa-sung.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_xl justify_center border_" /></p><p>Thoroughly enjoued presenting “Melodic Mastery” jazz improv workshops for Calvin University (Grand Rapids) and Kellogg College (Battle Creek).<span> </span>Warm thanks to professors Lisa Sung and Eric Campbell for hosting. Excelsior!</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72861592023-10-11T07:22:34-07:002023-10-16T18:54:02-07:00MICHIGAN TOUR | DAY 4 — ANN ARBOR & LANSING<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/9e1298605144f5a51ef8fe3ed421c0d840452a24/original/randle-gelispie.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_xl justify_center border_" /></p><p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/fc3acbcdb76943964381db3042a5a28e7d6f803a/original/jeff-shoup-and-friends.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p><p>Big day, big night! Afternoon workshops for two outstanding music programs — Pioneer and Community high schools in Ann Arbor — followed by an evening set at Moriarty’s in Lansing with the ace rhythm team of Jeff Shoup (photo credit), Lisa Sung, and Reuben Stump. Made lots of new friends, one of whom contributed some outstanding “Evergreen Girl” lyrics. Surprise celebrity appearance by the great Randle Gelispie! #respect</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72851792023-10-09T16:38:23-07:002023-10-09T16:38:24-07:00MICHIGAN TOUR | DAY 3 — BATTLE CREEK<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/d3eff8c04d31e48405593b62ac24935640cc1278/original/screen-shot-2023-10-09-at-2-32-22-pm.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p><p>Today's workshop was postponed to later in the week, so I took the opportunity to explore Woodland Park Nature Preserve, where the leaves are just beginning to turn. Scout would adore this place!</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72848052023-10-08T19:06:22-07:002023-10-08T19:07:38-07:00MICHIGAN TOUR | DAY 2 — AUTUMN LEAVES<p style="text-align:center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/4983b5bbc77f10c61527112220406866a98cba24/original/day-2.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_xl justify_center border_" />Made it to the mitten to find the fall colors in full effect! First order of business: a Steak & Shake burger! </p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72843322023-10-07T10:27:38-07:002023-10-07T14:06:44-07:00MICHIGAN TOUR | DAY 1 — THREE WEEKS, ONE BAG!<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/35b743afee2c1ed235dc574cd8886ec721b13af7/original/20231007-123042.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_xl justify_center border_" /></p><p>Returning to the Great Lakes State for three weeks of concerts and workshops celebrating the new album! #MittenBidness</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72680782023-09-03T00:12:54-07:002023-09-03T00:12:55-07:00COMPOSITION RETREAT | DAY 8 — BAINBRIDGE ISLAND<img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/2a571f05a790a0efc0b5325b3b6c38cbc6d714be/original/day-8.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><p> </p><p>Final day of the retreat! Returned to Wildcat Lake with my morning coffee.</p><p> </p><p>Spied a Great Blue Heron and a little boy, both fishing. Daddy Bill would love this spot.</p><p> </p><p>Today’s meal: pupusas con curtido and a spinach-blueberry-banana smoothie.<span> </span></p><p> </p><p>Showered up and decamped to Poulsbo, to rendezvous with Jenny Davis and the band for our evening gig on Bainbridge Island.</p><p> </p><p>Gratified to have spent the week up here, ruminating and rejuvenating.</p><p> </p><p>Now returning home to Sass, the pups, and my own bed!</p><p> </p><p>Life is good.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72673032023-09-02T08:42:04-07:002023-09-02T08:42:05-07:00COMPOSITION RETREAT | DAY 7 — GREEN MOUNTAIN<img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/5810052b70f26d794b27ff76fd794ffb940f2e98/original/day-7.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><p> </p><p>Got my morning joe from the roadside diner before decamping to Green Mountain and the Wildcat Trail.</p><p> </p><p>Found a secluded spot lakeside to work on my arrangement of “Shelter” by Jay Thomas.</p><p> </p><p>Shared the trail and spectacular views of the valley with a few ambitious kids on mountain bikes.<span> </span></p><p> </p><p>Today’s meal: a mighty satisfying, spicy bowl of seafood pho with Vietnamese lettuce wraps and beer.<span> </span></p><p> </p><p>Made camp among the evergreens in the secluded equestrian community of Bridal Trail.<span> </span></p><p> </p><p>Grateful for the Icy Breeze, a tour bus air conditioner, white noise maker, and cooler, all in one (not a paid endorsement).</p><p> </p><p>Tomorrow is the final day of this adventure. It’s been grand!</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72668382023-09-01T10:31:27-07:002023-09-01T10:39:16-07:00COMPOSITION RETREAT | DAY 6 — HOOD CANAL<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/6cec609960ae3150e4c18312a8f92cdd77785d70/original/day-6.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p> </p><p>Woke up with the sun, grabbed an espresso from the bikini baristas, and hit the road for Seabeck, a mill town on Hood Canal.</p><p> </p><p>Followed a beautifully maintained walking trail to a small waterfall. Not another human soul in sight.</p><p> </p><p>Sketched an idea for vibraphone and double bass. Not what I’d planned, but could be something.</p><p> </p><p>Today’s meal: steamed mussels with salad, bread, and wine. Almost as good as Bartje's!</p><p> </p><p>Tonight’s lullaby: <i>Clifford Brown with Strings</i>.</p><p> </p><p>Goodnight, Blue Moon.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72663602023-08-31T11:08:37-07:002023-09-01T10:37:46-07:00COMPOSITION RETREAT | DAY 5 — STILLAGUAMISH<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/431f244a59196d82eff0d7843873b6b7c3347efd/original/day-5.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p> </p><p>Summer showers again last night as I slumbered, cozy and warm, under the covers. #vanlife</p><p> </p><p>Woke up to the welcome aroma of freshly brewed coffee, then explored the forested hills around my campsite.</p><p> </p><p>Nature walks really aren’t the same without the company of my canine companion (Scout stayed home this time), but at least I have the voice of Daddy Bill in my mind’s ear, narrating, identifying all the birds and plants!<span> </span></p><p> </p><p>Played some long tones over the water at sunset. It’s good to get away and recharge.<span> </span></p><p> </p><p>The writing plan, however, has been a bust so far — more “posing” than “composing,” sadly.<span> </span></p><p> </p><p>Nothing but false starts, insincere, derivative melodies, and ostensibly original ideas that lead nowhere.<span> </span></p><p> </p><p>Oh, well. Not giving up. Fail better tomorrow!</p><p> </p><p>Today’s meal: mango salad with prawns and peanuts and a sensational rainbow roll.<span> </span></p><p> </p><p>Tonight’s entertainment: a download of <i>Blade Runner, </i>an enduring favorite.</p><p> </p><p>Even fired up the propane heater for a little extra warmth and atmosphere.<span> </span></p><p> </p><p>I do love a rainy night.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72657532023-08-30T09:08:41-07:002023-09-01T10:38:35-07:00COMPOSITION RETREAT | DAY 4 — STILLAGUAMISH<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/7d9ae73e776fbad4c94a224b1e11f0e8369f0296/original/day-4.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p> </p><p>Fell asleep to the comforting sound of gentle rain on the roof of the van. Pure bliss!</p><p> </p><p>Enjoyed the morning java en route to a new encampment: the Stillaguamish River in Snohomish County.<span> </span>The wisdom of Matt Foley notwithstanding, I believe I’ll stay here awhile. This is living!</p><p> </p><p>Walked around Lake Goodwin under stormy skies to work up an appetite, then visited the town of Stanwood to absolutely inhale a wood-fired pizza. So good.</p><p> </p><p>Wrote no music at all today. Just listened to the rain.<span> </span></p><p> </p><p>Read my book. Napped a lot.</p><p> </p><p>My kind of day.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72651552023-08-29T08:51:33-07:002023-09-01T10:38:50-07:00COMPOSITION RETREAT | DAY 3 — KITSAP<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/313e79dffd453b51cb52a56705aef26ecfba4b8c/original/day-3.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p>Woke up to smoky skies courtesy of the Canadian wildfires.<span> </span></p><p> </p><p>Grabbed a coffee for the ferry and said goodbye, for now, to Whidbey Island.</p><p> </p><p>Arrived on the peninsula just as a sudden cloudburst washed away the haze. Glorious!</p><p> </p><p>Today’s meal, a frugal flugel favorite: teriyaki bento with sushi, sashimi, tempura, gyoza, and rice. Oishi!</p><p> </p><p>Admired the sunflowers in Blueberry Park, then headed over to the pub gig with saxophonist Chris Bickley and his terrific band: Osama Afifi, Mark Ivester, and Brian Monroney, whose collection of guitar effects pedals delighted me.</p><p> </p><p>After the show, in the mobile man cave, I finally listened to the SRJO recordings from our collaboration a few weeks ago.<span> </span></p><p> </p><p>Forever grateful.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72647012023-08-28T11:21:55-07:002023-09-01T10:39:16-07:00COMPOSITION RETREAT | DAY 2 — WHIDBEY<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/5d72d010781a12d40e62c245f1d3d8c4a800af49/original/day-2.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p>Started the day with a hot cup of local java and a long walk along the Langley seawall.</p><p> </p><p>Found a lovely practice spot, serenaded the critters, and did a bit of writing.</p><p> </p><p>Today’s meal: a delicious chicken bánh mì, loaded with pickled veggies, on a crusty french baguette.<span> </span></p><p> </p><p>Returned to basecamp among the towering trees.<span> </span>No campfire allowed (burn ban) but I found a pleasant way to take the edge off the evening chill.</p><p> </p><p>Life is good!</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/72641932023-08-27T11:00:26-07:002023-09-01T10:39:04-07:00COMPOSITION RETREAT | DAY 1 — WHIDBEY<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/s:bzglfiles/u/57640/2033856f0fd5bfbe6cf1695dc6eea4e16ba20abf/original/day-1.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p><p>Getting away for a few days of writing, walking, and relaxing, as I van-camp around Puget Sound.</p><p> </p><p>Visited the Seattle music studio of Bill Anschell for a little coffee and conversation, then continued north to Whidbey Island for a performance with guitarist John Stowell. So grateful to have these two wise mentors and good friends in my life.</p><p> </p><p>Strolled around the scenic island town of Langley, where bunnies frolic among the whale skulls, then dined on rockfish, mixed greens, pinot noir, and cherry pie, overlooking the Saratoga Passage.</p><p> </p><p>It was a good day.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/71281422022-12-24T13:19:01-08:002023-01-07T17:07:39-08:00RESOLUTIONS 2023 — THE YEAR OF GRIT & GUMPTION<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/32edec5b8a32721a8b83f5a5e3db7af4ceb9b682/original/cowboy-up.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Be a man. Cowboy up! Don’t whine. Don’t complain. Just do what needs to be done.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Accomplish more with less effort. Use the tools of habit and ritual. Be resourceful.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Book extended tours: midwest (2023), western states (2024), east coast (2025).</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Recommit to meal planning, black coffee, portion control, and nature walks.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Use fewer words. Say precisely what you mean and then stop talking.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Update duo, quintet, and big band repertoire. Prepare new sets.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Make time for long, meandering conversations with friends.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Maintain tourbus in excellent condition. Service regularly.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Update home security and emergency response plans.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Boost income from workshops by raising fees 20%.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Seek a mentor, a drinking buddy, and a side hustle.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Make the composition retreat an annual event.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Schedule a full week of rest in every season.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Stay humble. Stay hopeful. Stay grateful.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Take Sassy on a birthday vacation.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Selectively apply for grants.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Reduce debt by 10%.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Listen to the rain.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Learn to bowl.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Prepare.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Adapt.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/71281112022-12-24T11:11:32-08:002022-12-28T14:51:06-08:002022 BY-THE-NUMBERS<p>This has been one for the history books!</p>
<p>It may take a little time before we return to pre-pandemic levels of activity. Several of our favorite venues, both at home and on the road, were sadly shuttered during the shutdown. For those that remain, the struggle is real. </p>
<p>But thanks to YOU -- the clients, customers, friends and fans who sustain us -- little-by-little we’re getting back to business.</p>
<p>In 2022, the <strong>YEAR OF CASCADIA, </strong>we: </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_regular">traveled </span><span class="font_large"><strong>33K</strong></span><span class="font_regular"> miles<br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/be217a552512b6bb27dfbdf6209da9810c41841c/original/miles.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" />charted </span><span class="font_large"><strong>11K</strong></span><span class="font_regular"> spins and streams<br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/8cd7f881b2c7bf81fab489123539b9c9940d1dac/original/spins-streams.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /> added </span><span class="font_large"><strong>4K</strong></span><span class="font_regular"> followers and subscribers <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/2da6c75a23659cf7f4ccdc9c081b360157ea0c34/original/social-media-followers.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" />played </span><span class="font_large"><strong>132</strong></span><span class="font_regular"> concerts<br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/330d7389b6543538c36b89aadec22ac7897848c0/original/ravenscroft-photo-rebecca-strange.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" />directed </span><span class="font_large"><strong>41</strong></span><span class="font_regular"> workshops <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/9fff2f5a7dbcbb19388133b130a1c582c9ced9da/original/workshops.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></span><span class="font_regular">produced </span><span class="font_large"><strong>9</strong></span><span class="font_regular"> album release celebrations<br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/ec30d26bc1543d1e00bba16b6d381a93f83a833b/original/jl4-full-band.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /> accompanied </span><span class="font_large"><strong>8</strong></span><span class="font_regular"> talented vocalists <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/a2c77e3b0cb7ac466028e36ea7bf1c074be0a850/original/vocalists.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" />headlined </span><span class="font_large"><strong>7</strong></span><span class="font_regular"> music and arts festivals<br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/ffba0ffcc12a650fdb82bb4376e9bd7af7256248/original/screen-shot-2022-12-24-at-11-44-07-am.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" />published </span><span class="font_large"><strong>6</strong></span><span class="font_regular"> original compositions <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/50c6939b48c051387a1e19c2920e879bfb76b122/original/published.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" />planted </span><span class="font_large"><strong>5</strong></span><span class="font_regular"> douglas firs<br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/605a70b95a83dc89e7fa0be046e9dbe0f23e9b9d/original/trees.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /> recorded </span><span class="font_large"><strong>4</strong></span><span class="font_regular"> podcasts <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/173f918b349af34454c30e10ba7d1b98461562a0/original/podcasts.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" />arranged </span><span class="font_large"><strong>3</strong></span><span class="font_regular"> large ensemble charts<br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/97c68c680f776ffe917ce7dabedae1d05fff7c2f/original/screen-shot-2022-12-24-at-12-12-11-pm.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" />completed </span><span class="font_large"><strong>2</strong></span><span class="font_regular"> artist residencies<br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/b82ba6811932d8429f8baa955df38819837f8d26/original/residencies.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></span><span class="font_regular">enjoyed </span><span class="font_large"><strong>1</strong></span><span class="font_regular"> epic year <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/218dbd4f175bce243356f09922e9e0dfd8ca8645/original/year.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /></span></p>
<p>Thank you for being part of it.</p>
<p>Here’s to 2023!</p>
<p>Cheers, </p>
<p>~Dmitri</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/71090422022-11-23T09:42:03-08:002022-12-31T09:54:29-08:00GRATITUDE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/ee0d2f08b47bf2cfc8ead46b276cb257fdd24cad/original/happy-thanksgiving.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Words fail to express how much we appreciate your generous support over the past year — the Year of <a contents="CASCADIA" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank">CASCADIA</a> — and the warm reception this project continues to receive from radio, retail, music journalists, and most of all, from friends like you. </p>
<p>In the four months since its release, CASCADIA has been covered by dozens of online and print media publications internationally, garnering positive reviews from <em>CD HotList, LA Jazz Scene, Earshot Jazz, Something Else, Jazz Views, Jazz Weekly, Midwest Record</em>, and more. </p>
<p>The album received 4-Stars from <em>All About Jazz</em>, spent over three months on the <em>JazzWeek Top 100</em>, is playing on radio stations all around the world, and was recently among the Origin Records releases submitted for Grammy Awards consideration. </p>
<p>We’re grateful for all your lovely messages and social media comments about the album, too. But nothing compares to the thrill of performing live for folks who already know the songs because they’ve been listening to CASCADIA at home! </p>
<p>Music brings us together and lifts our spirits. </p>
<p>Thank you for lifting ours. </p>
<p>We appreciate you! </p>
<p>Dmitri</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/95b70617a3bc693468693bb539d8705d24192346/original/evergreen-girl-michael-croan.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/70644692022-09-20T10:35:15-07:002022-11-13T18:42:57-08:00TRAVELOGUE | DAY 17 - EPILOGUE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/b1451d37983d3835bdbdd5deffd8e7701744495c/original/epilogue.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br>117 miles from home, one of my "new" tires came completely apart on The Lonesome Road!</p>
<p>I could see the circular tire tread rolling along the freeway in my rear view mirror, as Ella hobbled over to the side of the road. Fortunately my spare was in good repair and I made it home safely.</p>
<p>Having all the tires checked today, just in case.</p>
<p>#VanLife</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/70635632022-09-19T10:18:31-07:002022-09-20T10:30:22-07:00TRAVELOGUE | DAYS 15-17<p>Finished the tour in Ashland, only a 375-mile drive from home, and the rain began to fall, as if on cue, just as I crossed into Oregon. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/210bd001b52988c3038ca42b371b3022e56383ae/original/welcome-to-oregon.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>The Old Siskiyou Barn is neither old nor a barn. It’s a hidden jewel of a recital hall, tucked into the canopied woods in the hills just south of Ashland. It boasts exemplary acoustics, a terrific piano, the earthy fragrance of ancient wood, and a metal roof that sings when it rains. It’s perfect. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/2e0914be70c03d5f79c0d9e1f7c7e212329c597b/original/osb.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>Darrell and I first performed here back when Starlight Cafe was released in 1998, and we’ve been fortunate to return many times over the years with our duo. </p>
<p>This weekend we played a few favorites from the old repertoire, some new selections from our current recordings, and a brand new piece dedicated to the beautiful souls who created this place. Our friend Ed, concert producer and guitarist, joined us for a couple of songs including the premiere.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/6bd3c790254fcde9d663b6b8cc82f08cde97e4fc/original/osb.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>It occurs to me that I’ve worked this same circuit, up and down the left coast, for decades now, yet this trip felt different. Emotions are heightened. Everything carries a patina of significance. </p>
<p>For one thing, audiences are just so delighted to finally be out of isolation, enthusiastic about returning to live events, and eager to connect with the performers. The pandemic is far from over, however, so that enthusiasm is tempered with an awkwardness about intimacy and proximity. Every post-concert meet-and-greet now has this oddly nervous “first date” energy. </p>
<p>Also, there is a weird apocalyptic undertone to everything now. The steady drumbeat of negative news over the climate crisis, wildfires, disease, war, economic hardship, political extremism and more, is creating an atmosphere of fear that these may be the end times. I exaggerate, but only a little. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear doomsday language sprinkled into even the most mundane of verbal exchanges. People don’t feel safe anymore, all situations seem tenuous, so we’d better get serious and make sure whatever we’re doing matters. Admit it, you feel it too. </p>
<p>But what really made this trip emotionally rewarding was all the reconnections with important people from my past.</p>
<p>Someone once said “the best mirror is an old friend.” Many of us have reached an age at which we’re reassessing the past and rethinking our place in the world. Some of us are even starting to question long held beliefs. There's nothing like a conversation with an old friend to help you find your way.</p>
<p>I really needed these reunions. It felt to me, on this tour, as if we were drawn together magnetically. Our conversations felt somehow predestined, or guided by the divine, if such a force exists. <br> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/f1a65c1cc61f3aa0fd8aba925d004702db951f7d/original/hearsay-1.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>My heart is full.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/70622582022-09-16T18:40:33-07:002022-09-17T05:21:15-07:00TRAVELOGUE | DAY 14<p>Traveled 300 miles today from Arden-Arcade to Ashland. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/72434450aec1ef0e0602f7db77292dad1ac1f8f0/original/goodbye-ca.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>California, I miss you already, but I’ll be back again in the spring. Try not to burn up or fall into the ocean before then, m’kay? </p>
<p>Paused for the cause in the resilient town of Weed. Happy to report that both the Mill and Mountain wildfires have been contained, power is restored, and our friends at the Hi-Lo are back in business, serving up the very best pie a la road! <br> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/66818488e868d30c39a6a9055d10cd4faa26f99b/original/pie.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Crossing into Oregon I swear I could feel the seasons change from summer to fall! </p>
<p>Found a sweet parking spot (#MattFoleyForever) and spent some time with Darrell Grant’s tunes in preparation for tomorrow’s show in Ashland. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/b656f3754abc0c4d38f856129db0e6ba49184c65/original/practice-room.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Nice work if you can get it.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/70613352022-09-15T17:30:12-07:002022-09-15T17:31:29-07:00TRAVELOGUE | DAY 13<p>Traveled 225 miles from Santa Cruz to Seaside to Sacramento. </p>
<p>Deja Blue, the Monterey jazz + soulfood venue where my friend Leon Joyce (“The People’s Choice”) leads the house band, is my kind of place!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/b8e4886586e990d3eb1d0d90fe09058db867a75a/original/ljc-deja-blue.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Convivial atmosphere, lots of laughter with friends old and new (you're a jewel, Barbara), and I’m not sure which was tastier, the music or the catfish! </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d70a253db6ecb2e016d478c1ba53a1010cbe0170/original/deja-blue-soul-food.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>The RV park by the Steinbeck House in Salinas didn’t work out, so I traveled north and spent the night in Gilroy, California. </p>
<p>If you haven’t been to Gilroy, you’re missing out. The very air you breathe carries the mouthwatering scent of the little farm town’s most famous crop! </p>
<p>How could I resist? Before skipping town I hit one of the roadside tourist traps and tried a little garlic ice cream. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/046a5fd22197d238dd713833be9a9d66b2460973/original/garlic-ice-cream.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>It was delightful! But it would be even better with bacon. Don’t judge. </p>
<p>Now back in Sac looking for fresh vegetables.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/70604132022-09-14T14:44:54-07:002022-09-15T09:29:37-07:00TRAVELOGUE | DAY 12<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/b210332a0c639a249956372f14054d9b5ca50455/original/gettyimages-515102387-custom-3fd37826b74f9deb4b2a24dbbf61764bfb7be636-s1100-c50.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Said goodbye to Sunset Beach this morning and headed down to Monterey. </p>
<p>Listening to NPR on the drive, I heard the news that Ramsey Lewis has died. </p>
<p>It seems like we lose another hero every few days, but this one hits hard. </p>
<p>30 years ago in May of ’84, Ramsey Lewis came to Interlochen Arts Academy for a performance with our studio orchestra. I was a senior in high school and he was the first “big name” jazz musician I’d ever met. </p>
<p>He made a huge impression. I was blown away by his infectiously joyful performance and his extreme generosity toward me and the other student soloists.</p>
<p>It couldn’t have been very rewarding for him, sharing the stage with a bunch of teenage amateurs, but I can still see his thousand-watt smile, still hear his howls of approval, as we launched into “The ’In’ Crowd” and “Hang On Sloopy” — big Ramsey Lewis hits from the year we were all born! </p>
<p>After the concert Mr. Lewis took the time to speak with each of us individually, encouraging us to pursue our dreams. Yes, he did. And we did. </p>
<p>After that I began checking out his discography in the listening library, beginning with <em>Upendo Ni Pamoja</em>, the album recommended by my classmate Frayne Lewis, Ramsey’s son.</p>
<p>Later I discovered Mr. Lewis' collaborations with Maurice White and members of Earth, Wind & Fire, one of my all time favorite bands, and I was hooked. </p>
<p>I suppose it’s no coincidence that tonight it will be my privilege to work with Leon Joyce, Jr., a longtime member of the Ramsey Lewis Trio.</p>
<p>Or that this weekend in Ashland, Oregon, Darrell Grant and I will play Mr. Lewis’ theme song, the spiritual “Wade In The Water” — a staple of our repertoire for 25 years.</p>
<p>Ramsey Lewis was far more than a Grammy-winning, chart-topping jazz and pop star. He was a true Gentleman of Jazz, the kind of Great Man that Kipling wrote about, who walked with kings but never lost the common touch. </p>
<p>Mr. Lewis proved you can be <u>both</u> a serious artist and a crowd-pleasing entertainer. His worldwide reach and influence as a performer, educator, broadcaster, and recording artist, is profound, deep and lasting. </p>
<p>He was called, he served, he counted. </p>
<p>His legacy is secure.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/70594842022-09-13T12:43:08-07:002022-09-14T17:08:50-07:00TRAVELOGUE | DAYS 9 - 11<p>Put another 481 on the odometer criss-crossing San Francisco, Alameda, San Mateo, and Marin counties, giving school workshops and private lessons, and visiting friends whenever possible. </p>
<p>Last week was a little too busy for my taste, but I only have one commitment each day for the rest of the tour, and that’s how I like it. Travel, make some music, enjoy a meal, take a walk, then hunker down with a good book, movie, or podcast. Is this what they call “quiet quitting?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/f19db74aa4a2c1120d75c60a75633f58f65b8449/original/0.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The historic heat wave finally seems to be dissipating, thank goodness. Ocean breezes, morning fog, and cool mists are providing welcome relief from the summer sun. Now this is the Bay Area I remember! </p>
<p>Since my next performance is down in Monterey, I decided to make camp in the seaside community of Santa Cruz. I have some <a contents="history" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/6560789/of-late-i-think-of-santa-cruz" target="_blank">history</a> with this colorful little town, a favorite destination since my first Kuumbwa date back in 1989. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/88ee5a81fcf9ce5a06e33b99da29c88aa4b2cf66/original/1.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>You’d think I’d grow weary after all this driving, but cruising the Pacific Coast Highway is always rejuvenating and revivifying. This scenic coastline, with the dramatic sea cliffs on one side and the serene blue ocean on the other, never fails to feed my soul. <br> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/ec47122be841fcdb8e9e24a592b8817c5cfbf3b8/original/2.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>The fish tacos at the Santa Cruz beach boardwalk are exceptional, and my campsite is so beautiful I feel like I’m getting away with something! </p>
<p>I spent three glorious nights at Sunset State Beach, a peaceful hideaway under the pines overlooking Monterey Bay, on the very same playa privada as $ea$cape Resort next door. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d3090d4e6b67fc6355b594a00745ef2372fe1523/original/3.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I watched the sun go down, took a luxuriously hot shower, then curled up in my comfy bed, falling asleep to the gentle rumble of ocean waves. </p>
<p>I’ll bring Scout next time. </p>
<p>She will love it here.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/70585842022-09-12T11:29:47-07:002022-09-15T09:29:37-07:00TRAVELOGUE | DAYS 7 - 8<p>Logged 147 miles this weekend traveling back and forth from my base camp, a bucolic farm in Fairfield, to the bustling cities of San Francisco and Oakland.<br> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/100b3270a5678e16a09dc1942662319b0809811a/original/1-san-francisco.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>Friday's venue was Bird & Beckett, a cozy Glen Park (SF) indie bookstore that hosts live jazz every weekend. Eric, the owner, is so hip that he named his shop for Samuel Beckett and Charlie Parker! </p>
<p>Saturday was the Sound Room Oakland, my favorite music venue in Northern California (and I've played them all). Proprietors Karen and Robert just do everything right, and the sound engineer Carey is top notch.<br> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/ae3d4e0591228b717e54cfee99a84a1af6cb223f/original/2-shows.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Although the band had no opportunity to rehearse, everyone did their homework, listened to the album, prepared their individual parts, and showed up ready to play. We had a ball! Both performances went spectacularly, quite gratifying when performing for the hometown crowd.</p>
<p>Our drummer Deszon played especially well, later commenting that perhaps it's so easy for us to connect because we’ve known each other half our lives, playing together in different configurations for over 30 years! </p>
<p>Between gigs I had a little free time in San Francisco, so I took a stroll down memory lane (aka Clement Street) and visited a few of my old haunts from back in the nineties.<br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/f4bc0d853c8ab129cdbede536f123a2eaa106665/original/3-clement-street.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>Surprisingly little has changed! </p>
<p>It’s comforting to know you can still pair a steamed pork bun from Wing Lee with a latte from Blue Danube, grab a slice from Georgio’s, or lose yourself in the stacks at Green Apple books. </p>
<p>And it’s reassuring that the battalion of dusty Ultraman action figures still stands sentry, presiding over the Toy Boat gelato counter, silently awaiting your next visit.<br> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/89c85330cf86211c50c73bdb870db09cadf9a436/original/4-ultraman.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/70569602022-09-09T11:44:33-07:002022-09-09T11:45:22-07:00TRAVELOGUE | DAYS 4 - 6<p>Traveled 424 miles for jazz workshops at high schools and colleges in and around Sacramento, Silicon Valley, the Wine Country, and the East Bay. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/1c57657c749560e26d7830c6dad3e26079c0b9f5/original/1.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>You never know what challenges or opportunities may arise on the road. I always try to have flexible plans that can adapt as circumstances change. I’m determined to enjoy every moment of this tour in spite of the <a contents="historic heat wave" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/climate-environment/2022/09/08/western-heatwave-records-california-climate/" target="_blank">historic heat wave</a>. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/331a7d78805c8484dc6bce2174f1a164bacbc009/original/2.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I love it here. I lived in the Bay Area for twenty years (1989-2009) so this trip feels like a homecoming.</p>
<p>Between gigs I’m reconnecting with old friends and my heart is full. </p>
<p>Big thanks to Ann & Lalo, Mary & Peter, Julie, Tom, Ian, and <a contents="Harvest Hosts" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://harvesthosts.com/" target="_blank">Harvest Hosts</a> for the hospitality!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d2a1d3bde7b1afdb4aed9cb0e076a93b16d9c55f/original/3.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/70539872022-09-06T06:35:18-07:002022-09-06T06:35:20-07:00TRAVELOGUE | DAY 3<p>Traveled 296 miles today from Ashland to Sacramento. </p>
<p>The drive down was relatively uneventful. Saw smoky skies and plenty of fire devastation in and around the town of Weed. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/a6d071bbfc10be3f0674e8f6ac62e0c6baffe7ae/original/1.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>My beloved Hi-Lo Cafe was closed (sigh, no pie) and the entire downtown area is still without power, but the hot shots seem to be making progress. The Siskiyou Wildfire is now 40% contained. </p>
<p>Out of the fire, into the frying pan! Northern California is experiencing <a contents="record high temperatures" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/PlMWW4R1ZBM" target="_blank">record high temperatures</a> this week. So grateful to have air conditioning 24/7 in the mobile man cave. Thank you <a contents="IcyBreeze" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.icybreeze.com/" target="_blank">IcyBreeze</a>! </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/2025a839ba77fd685f8c051a3438c0faae8051c0/original/2.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Tonight’s encampment: a Harvest Host in Arden-Arcade! #AlliterationNation </p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/70532122022-09-04T19:36:40-07:002022-09-04T19:37:27-07:00TRAVELOGUE | DAY 2<p>Traveled 448 miles today from Centralia, Washington to Ashland, Oregon. </p>
<p>Easy breezy. Open road, sunny skies, no wildfires. </p>
<p>And have I mentioned how much I love my little 12-volt coffee maker? </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/a2093343703d505ea1d85641c200d0764cb2c891/original/1.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>There’s something deeply satisfying about brewing a fresh cup of hot coffee inside the van, whenever you want one, without having to pull over or reach for your wallet. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/682ea71057fc7445817e67289785c6765f98aec3/original/2.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Stopped in Ashland this afternoon for a short visit/rehearsal with my dear friend, guitarist Ed Dunsavage. I’ve known Brother Ed and his supercool wife Jen for 25 years, and they remain two of my favorite people anywhere. </p>
<p>Now settling in for the night at a riverside spot just north of the California border.</p>
<p>Should’ve brought my fishing pole!</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/bc912b90e88928037f6a173d7b60f9a8fe15cb8f/original/3.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/70525982022-09-03T12:00:26-07:002022-09-03T12:02:59-07:00TRAVELOGUE | DAY 1<p><a contents="" data-link-label="TOUR" data-link-type="page" href="/tour" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d771f723bccb06fc34ff0220b63c4807995a81c5/original/ca-tour.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a><br>Packing up the tour bus for two weeks in Northern California!</p>
<p>It’s thrilling to return to road life, dodging fires, floods, and viruses to share our music with the people.</p>
<p>Seriously, some of these AP photos along I-5 look like something straight out of a Mad Max movie, so we’re mapping a couple of alternate routes south just in case. </p>
<p>Today I'm grateful for the wise Minnie Pearl, who said it best:</p>
<p><strong>“Take the back roads instead of the highways.” </strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e836054e973cf9254baa1164d3a95b017eea4fe0/original/fires.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/70030522022-06-27T18:30:03-07:002022-08-29T11:51:36-07:00CELEBRATE CASCADIA!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="Celebrate Cascadia!" data-link-type="page" href="/celebrate-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/662bfed79e6537c03b41ae06e2789b593a100ec5/original/290342009-140479308590817-8254078498676062562-n.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_xl justify_center border_none" alt="" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69962212022-06-17T10:28:15-07:002022-06-17T10:28:16-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | THE FINAL HOURS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/2c8410515f25d15a8df30446f5ad95f3c6857108/original/fvbtp-gucae09xc.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/bbf460719238d2e9a32cf504143e16899f5021d7/original/1.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/59cb394d253c59d6098d14b2e5bf0722c2a41d38/original/2.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/0b9118ad49449c292f9af29fddb73fdf6bcca4e6/original/3.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/18be46ea66b044f9846aca002ada7967a0649706/original/4.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/cac55c4ad4dc11513adc5ca762944a5c54fbb07e/original/5.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/b9fe6e78c1d753891dbc61364e8f2cde27bf2de6/original/6.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/60874b5599c1139ed25dcf6e2f7a6387b995e83c/original/7.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/fa3f94327365731f5836a943c5dbfe36e810a68c/original/8.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/36da22b473e1a6e5073ca0f5a5c2388159e12be4/original/9.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/8fc2bb0da29f149228ebde227e8efa47fe0dc8a9/original/10.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/a748a2bdd8508f5eed2053ecdb1ce0bad60620e5/original/11.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/0a720f9ec55616112aba9e35dbfba7663744cab0/original/12.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/93360240dd137dcc0014cf3fcc4679515f8bf4a5/original/13.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/13d64c7d71cfefc00a09cf3c709f92564e2fdc7d/original/14.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/9b54d32dd25ac71b3563455e703a35655985cde4/original/15.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69944972022-06-15T09:33:02-07:002022-06-15T09:33:02-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 1 DAY!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/dee31bce31049096c5fa11fd6c502b7e0afd7267/original/cc-6-15-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69936702022-06-14T09:45:22-07:002022-06-14T09:45:23-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 2 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/7f8cce3678e97780624e956c299e8f77240dc04b/original/cc-6-14-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69927782022-06-13T09:39:47-07:002022-06-13T09:39:47-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 3 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/5cfe038272ab1a01f755b2e10a0219247de0105f/original/cc-6-13-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69922522022-06-12T09:28:47-07:002022-06-12T09:28:47-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 4 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/019df671d4121d878882a1b62ec7ada3ed0cccbd/original/cc-6-12-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69918172022-06-11T09:29:39-07:002022-06-11T09:29:39-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 5 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/a0bd090443bd1bfc968c024f45cf3f42b0c76267/original/cc-6-11-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69910392022-06-10T08:06:17-07:002022-06-10T08:06:17-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 6 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/84416390c42358fc9a827997af9e402b2670729d/original/cc-6-10-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69902612022-06-09T09:29:03-07:002022-06-09T09:29:03-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 7 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/a3b0b4aa17856d83668895f61bb4f15368d3e30e/original/cc-6-9-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69893732022-06-08T08:09:42-07:002022-06-08T08:09:43-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 8 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d3655e3a235badfbdee679bf823b040800bb2709/original/cc-6-8-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69886832022-06-07T10:31:54-07:002022-06-07T10:32:39-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 9 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/9c13c469816899c423e0498aa8012ecdcc115339/original/cc-6-7-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69878152022-06-06T10:06:49-07:002022-06-06T10:06:49-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 10 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/1227f551a9f3002c91257df349d82f0fcc096753/original/cc-6-6-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69871362022-06-05T08:46:10-07:002022-06-05T08:46:10-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 11 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c08b18235b6a0b6a5d71c9d7640464b31641a93d/original/cc-6-5-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69866902022-06-04T09:08:47-07:002022-06-04T09:08:47-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 12 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/af8b86cd01c4634f82e8b9be42d57441002ecb78/original/cc-6-4-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69860552022-06-03T09:04:55-07:002022-06-03T09:04:55-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA |13 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/7ef1fe9eea21c9c5ca149d63347c3182b2dc8bc7/original/cc-6-3-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69850802022-06-02T08:51:36-07:002022-06-02T08:51:36-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 14 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/0a5563ecfbb6806ad57d0c72752d4fe00c7bab73/original/cc-6-2-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69842932022-06-01T08:03:58-07:002022-06-01T08:03:58-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 15 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/b0cdd3727a027d0e5f9317b17f941ad4e109631c/original/cc-6-1-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69834412022-05-31T07:59:00-07:002022-05-31T07:59:01-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 16 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e0450bb22bdba3b8e3b4155a68063fc81929002e/original/cc-5-31-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69829892022-05-30T13:01:59-07:002022-05-30T13:01:59-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 17 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/9713ed3e2195f63b657e2a0937e1e1033838a6a7/original/cc-5-30-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69824062022-05-29T09:41:54-07:002022-05-29T09:41:54-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 18 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d3965289b762343886ce6e7b5fd17c1396498a29/original/cc-5-29-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69820872022-05-28T10:48:31-07:002022-05-28T10:48:31-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 19 DAYS<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/dee8ab1fd24a2abfac0a629d08c47254e6882928/original/cc-5-28-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69812562022-05-27T09:24:34-07:002022-05-27T09:24:34-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 20 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/079534fd5405f332e2751d441ab044748645db24/original/cc-5-27-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69803602022-05-26T10:10:17-07:002022-05-26T10:10:17-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 21 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/b32de5f1080af104d856d38771f9ad2fea70dc88/original/cc-5-26-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69795052022-05-25T09:23:11-07:002022-05-25T09:23:11-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 22 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/833909ed1db6874d6c994876bb83240723dbb940/original/cc-5-25-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69785852022-05-24T09:06:26-07:002022-05-24T09:06:26-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 23 DAYS<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/0c0d2961eb23aa84d646f6786eb1626464b1892c/original/cc-5-24-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69776382022-05-23T07:43:24-07:002022-05-23T07:43:24-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 24 DAYS<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/340d597b32047fbae38c76b6b6e7c331b325aa9d/original/cc-5-23-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69771132022-05-22T08:52:27-07:002022-05-22T08:52:27-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 25 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/dafd20189f4ace76482d96918115ad08716b9487/original/cc-5-22-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69767182022-05-21T10:41:13-07:002022-05-21T10:41:13-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 26 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c854b2ccc765858894415049443a6131bfa026cb/original/cc-5-21-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69758022022-05-20T06:47:01-07:002022-05-20T06:47:01-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 27 DAYS<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/f25bea3b66752a370eb7bcd0b7baae6309f07ae8/original/cc-5-20-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69749062022-05-19T08:02:10-07:002022-05-19T08:02:10-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 28 DAYS<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/9f6fb37d4f627c8331448b521cb458e500a61863/original/cc-5-19-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69739712022-05-18T08:26:37-07:002022-05-18T08:26:37-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 29 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/861ee82a562e8334662089955c165bf5745c06c2/original/cc-5-18-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69730832022-05-17T07:32:29-07:002022-05-17T07:32:30-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 30 DAYS!<p><a contents="" data-link-label="2022 Cascadia" data-link-type="page" href="/2022-cascadia" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/83ddf2f6384c7e7b0a536b81ced2de110ff897d5/original/cc-5-17-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a><br> </p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69721352022-05-16T06:00:28-07:002022-05-16T06:00:28-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 31 DAYS<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/ee3b8d45d1e40c5ea50652478cfb799333ac1ce7/original/screen-shot-2022-05-16-at-5-56-42-am.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69714382022-05-15T00:05:30-07:002022-05-15T00:05:30-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 32 DAYS<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/88045fc2433b450cbc0b19381ae065f65928ee76/original/cc-5-15-22.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69711402022-05-14T10:24:08-07:002022-05-14T10:24:08-07:00COUNTDOWN TO CASCADIA | 33 DAYS<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/5d97d95e9bae2b4a3a498a4d4e17e99be242b378/original/cc-5-14-22-b.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/8d17d9064535f87524eecb37b038c355bfcc222f/original/cc-5-14-22-a.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69331892022-03-27T08:16:34-07:002022-03-27T08:16:34-07:00TRAVELOGUE DAY 12<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/8114a19913b2a2d30e920284fbaf36a60a49b3b8/original/t12.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br>Santa Fe was a stone groove! </p>
<p>Highlights: sold-out show at Club Legato (woo hoo!), giant metal statue of Scout (my kinda public art!), and the best fish tacos in the world. Thanks JT! #BumblebeeBobForever </p>
<p>Now comes the fun part: the vantastic homeward journey of 2,000 miles, through five states, in three days! From New Mexico, through Arizona, California, and Oregon, and all the way back home to Washington State. </p>
<p>I’m so glad we did this. </p>
<p>#Forward #BoondockerBoondoggle</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69314812022-03-24T20:10:21-07:002022-03-24T20:45:33-07:00TRAVELOGUE DAY 11<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/cf4889a554c20288c10d36efc8ff46cf87986d6e/original/t11.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br>Yesterday the Jazz Noir band rehearsed in Phoenix for our upcoming show at Scottsdale Center for the Performing Arts. Scout chased a Gamble’s Quail and cooled off in front of the fan. </p>
<p>Today we traveled 281 miles to Gallup, New Mexico. The scenery on the drive was stunning. Highlights: snow in the White Mountains, a greasy spoon breakfast in Payson, and a lovely walk with Scout near Petrified Forest National Park. </p>
<p>Tomorrow’s destination: Santa Fe!</p>
<p>#Forward #BoondockerBoondoggle</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69298632022-03-23T07:56:47-07:002022-03-23T07:56:47-07:00TRAVELOGUE DAY 10<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/81aec2c9a38bfb8025740ebb90e657c30f74d34a/original/t10.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br>In Twentynine Palms, having tucked in for the night behind the big boys at Luckie Park, we were able to start our day with a vigorous game of fetch, or as Scout calls it, “Rowr-Roo.” </p>
<p>300 miles later we arrived in the Lonesome Desert just in time to witness a spectacular Arizona sunset. I’ve enjoyed sunsets all over the world, but none can compare. Thank you, Daddy Bill.</p>
<p>Today the Jazz Noir band rehearses in Phoenix for our upcoming show at Scottsdale Center for the Performing Arts. Then Scout and I will hit the road again, this time for Truth or Consequences, New Mexico.</p>
<p>We've been listening to books on tape while we drive. Current selection: <em>Dolly Parton, Songteller: My Life in Lyrics.</em></p>
<p>Nobody’s getting rich on this tour, but we’re having loads of fun, and it’s one hell of a vacation for my dog! #Forward #BoondockerBoondoggle</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69287712022-03-22T06:40:22-07:002022-03-22T06:40:22-07:00TRAVELOGUE DAY 9<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/6771f851f807b55bd0019fdabb1171651a0a4a02/original/t9.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br>400 miles is about as far as I care to travel in a single day. But I must admit, as sure as dog is my co-pilot, I actually enjoyed the drive from Oakland to Twentynine Palms. </p>
<p>Highlights: seeing the sun rise over Alameda County, doing a KSFR Santa Fe Public Radio phone interview as we drove through the Tehachapi wind farms, walking Scout among the giant alien broccoli in Joshua Tree, and dining on pulled pork when we finally reached our destination. </p>
<p>Today we cross the Lonesome Desert into Arizona for a rehearsal, then it's on to Santa Fe. #Forward #BoondockerBoondoggle</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69278272022-03-21T05:33:47-07:002022-03-21T05:33:48-07:00TRAVELOGUE DAYS 8 & 9<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/208ab2e986d1547a2f2e1158e3426b715156b3c1/original/t8-9.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br>Yesterday we drove to Merced, California. At the dog park Scout became fast friends — literally — with a beautiful Aussie named Partner. They ran and romped so fast that I couldn’t even snap a photo! </p>
<p>We arrived in Merced early, so I found a laundromat with wifi and took the opportunity to do a load of laundry, charge up our power station, and catch up on a little business. </p>
<p>Road life isn’t always glamorous. I once bumped into Diana Krall at the Jazz Aspen festival, matter-of-factly doing her laundry at the hotel in Snowmass Village. This is the way. </p>
<p>Still feeling the love after our Oakland show. Warm thanks to everyone who made the scene. It was a stone groove. </p>
<p>Today will be a long one. 7 hours driving. Destination: Twentynine Palms. Distance: 391 Miles. #Forward</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69273012022-03-20T07:55:09-07:002022-03-20T07:55:09-07:00TRAVELOGUE DAYS 7 & 8<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/2c02ff122684a0b90d251affda41bcebd4917ff2/original/screen-shot-2022-03-20-at-7-36-36-am.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Yesterday Scout and I woke to the sound of raindrops on the roof of our tour bus. She tilted her head and stared up at the ceiling in wonder. I immediately fell asleep again. Rain is a terrific soporific. </p>
<p>Then the sun came out and announced the beginning of spring. It was a big day for my CaCo (aka Canine Companion, pronounced “Keiko”). We visited three parks: <em>Magnolia Park</em> in Oakley, <em>Tex Spruiell Park</em> in Livermore, and <em>Joaquin Miller Park</em> in Oakland. She charmed everyone we met, of course. </p>
<p>In the evening I dropped her off for a puppy party with celebrity friend Berkeley (you.see.berkeley on Instagram), and then I headed over to the Sound Room to earn a little more kibble cash. </p>
<p>I had a ball with pianist Ken French, bassist Ruth Davies, drummer Mark Lee, and special guests guitarist Ed Dunsavage and vocalist Cary Williams. The convivial crowd included many friends I haven’t seen in ages, including several well-known musicians.</p>
<p>The old Sound Room was already a favorite; this new, improved venue is even better. Thank you, Karen and Robert! We’re looking forward to returning in September for our album release celebration. </p>
<p>Today Scout and I hit the road for Southern California.</p>
<p>So far, so good.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69264002022-03-18T16:03:59-07:002022-03-19T08:56:17-07:00TRAVELOGUE DAYS 5 & 6<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3018bb6602adbb7e138e264a9e3069009cde0184/original/screen-shot-2022-03-18-at-3-56-48-pm.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br>Scout and I spent yesterday at <strong>The Klub</strong> in Glen Ellen, the exclusive wine country getaway expertly owned and managed by our dear friends Rocket, Peaches, Jasper, and Wilson. It was our first grand reunion since the beginning of the damndemic. So good.</p>
<p>Today I coached the San Mateo High School jazz band while Scout visited the groomer. The jazz kids were engaged, focused, and inspiring, a credit to Maestro Til, the head coach. The pup emerged from the beauty parlor looking (and smelling!) more fabulous than ever. </p>
<p>Tonight it’s long tones in the mobile practice room (big show tomorrow), and if we aren’t too tired, a movie before bed, preferably one that isn’t too stressful, without dogs barking in the audio track of every establishing shot. </p>
<p>Funny how ubiquitous those movie dogs have become. There’s one particularly distressing bark they use over and over, like the Wilhelm Scream. Let me tell you, Scout is not a fan! So we’ll do our level best to find something hopeful and barkless to send us off to dreamland.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69248452022-03-17T10:29:22-07:002022-03-17T10:29:22-07:00TRAVELOGUE DAYS 3 & 4<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c090077125208ac2b1de608970d1b7b6c94cf093/original/t3-4.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Scout and I have had a wonderful couple of days in the San Francisco Bay Area. </p>
<p>We explored the Redwood Glen and Palos Colorados trails, had a puppy party at the Oakland Dog Park, visited with friends old and new, and spent two nights on a farm! This afternoon we’re headed to the wine country.</p>
<p>I also presented a couple of jazz workshops in area high schools, so this is a legit work trip, not a vacation (ahem).</p>
<p>#BoondockerBoondoggle</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69227502022-03-15T08:50:10-07:002022-03-15T08:50:10-07:00TRAVELOGUE DAY 2<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e71afe7f66ccf6da2f88ac98fc396c17d4e3a2d7/original/t2.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br>Destination: Oakland CA </p>
<p>Distance: 306 miles </p>
<p>Lovely day yesterday traveling with my best girl through Washington and Oregon to California. </p>
<p>We enjoyed the rain, listened to murder mystery audiobooks, and made excellent time on I-5, considering all the pit stops for puppy walks and pie!</p>
<p>Today (3/15) we ease on down the road to the San Francisco Bay Area.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69214952022-03-14T00:02:58-07:002022-03-14T00:06:17-07:00TRAVELOGUE DAY 1<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/fc1f2c2aa8b2ca150a944c12f9ada4bf6f611ecd/original/t1.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br>Destination: Yreka CA </p>
<p>Distance: 413 miles </p>
<p>Scout and I are hitting the road today for California, Arizona, and New Mexico.</p>
<p>The first leg of our journey will take us all the way from Centralia, Washington to Yreka, California. </p>
<p>$5 per gallon for gas is no joke!</p>
<p>Heartfelt thanks and a "free" music download for all our generous <a contents="tour support" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://dmitrimatheny.com/tour-support" target="_blank">tour support</a> contributors!</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69153922022-03-06T15:17:47-08:002024-02-08T12:21:58-08:00THE OWL CLUB PART 5 — PARLIAMENT<p style="text-align:center;"><br><span class="text-small"><strong>“Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time,</strong></span><br><span class="text-small"><strong>Ruling from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime.” </strong></span><br><span class="text-small"><i>—Scott Snyder </i></span></p><p style="text-align:center;"> </p><p>When Mr. Higgins told me how the Owl Club boasts many prominent artists and musicians among its members, I was skeptical.</p><p>I figured there are probably a small number of movie actors and rock stars sprinkled among their highfalutin order. I imagined that any artist members would have to be the type of mainstream celebrities that impress rich people and share their classist, politically conservative views. Even the pedigree of someone like Gordon Fleecing (British, famous) fit with my assumptions about this not-so-secret society. </p><p>But learning that <i>Sweets</i> — one of my personal heroes! — was a member? This blew my mind.</p><p>Because Sweets is not some rich white guy, mind you, but an African-American gentleman of modest means. Not a business mogul but a retired school teacher. Not a celebrity so much as a master craftsman, highly respected among our peers in the community of musicians. Hard-working. Dignified. Sincere. <i>Real. </i></p><p>For all my trepidation about this club and groups in general, I must admit that his involvement intrigued me. <br> </p><p style="text-align:center;"> </p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/57d32bfefe24f30d8063fd7c04c0dac23d63dd40/original/1.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><p> </p><p>It’s springtime in San Francisco, and another typical workday in my three-ring circus of a life. Morning at the festival office dealing with demanding sponsors. Afternoon at the record company dealing with complacent distributors. Evening on the bandstand dealing with this unforgiving horn. </p><p>The plates never stop spinning and I always feel as if I’m neglecting something or someone somewhere. But tonight brings a welcome pause in the routine. After our show an audience member approaches the stage and offers to buy me a drink. </p><p>His name is Gregory. He’s a guitarist. We barely know one another, yet he speaks to me with the warm familiarity of an old friend. He asks how I’ve been, inquires about my wife and family, and shares some intimate personal details of his own.</p><p>Delighted to have made a new friend, I sip my single malt as we sit together, chatting amiably until the lights come up and the club empties out. In the parking lot Gregory hands me a small envelope. </p><p>“We're having a party in the city tomorrow,” he says. “You should come.”</p><p>As he drives away I open the envelope. Inside is a thick card embossed with raised lettering: <i>Cocktails In The Cartoon Room</i>.</p><p>I’ve never heard of the place, and there’s no address on the invitation, but in the lower righthand corner is the now familiar telltale symbol: the Owl of Athena. </p><p>Well I’ll be damned. </p><p style="text-align:center;"> </p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/13f990aa8e2f76c3ae06ea558a08bd24cbf4fbce/original/2.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><p> </p><p>The Cartoon Room, it turns out, is no place for introverts like me.</p><p>I’ve been here before. This massive barroom, with its chaotic jumble of paintings and posters, was overwhelming on my first visit, but tonight the place is packed, shoulder-to-shoulder, with glad-handing, back-slapping, martini-swilling men, all laughing and shouting over the sounds of big band jazz. </p><p>I scan the room for Gregory (no luck) then jostle my way through the crowd and up to the long redwood bar. Before I can utter a word the bartender casually greets me by name. </p><p>“Mr. Matheny. So glad you could make it.” He pushes a tumbler of amber liquid across the counter. “Lagavulin, neat, yes?” <i>A stranger who knows my name and my drink. What sorcery is this?</i><br> </p><p style="text-align:center;"> </p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/de97436b249794193fbf2cfa48430e12d524770c/original/3.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><p> </p><p><br>I'm about three fingers in when the far wall slides open to reveal a 25-piece swing orchestra in mid-shout chorus, capped off by a tasty trumpet solo from none other than Sweets Allen. The room erupts into boisterous applause. </p><p>How wonderful! I assumed the music was piped-in, but it’s <i>live,</i> and excellent. I recognize several of the musicians. Are they <i>all </i>members, I wonder, or hired help?</p><p>I want to pay my respects to Sweets and the other musicians, but I’m unable to get to them through the throng. The place is a madhouse. The guy who invited me isn’t here. The whole situation feels peculiar, like I’m supposed to do something, but I don’t for the life of me know what it is. So I stay about an hour, making awkward small talk with strangers, until the claustrophobia kicks in and the crowd becomes too much to bear. </p><p>As I cross the Bay Bridge home I ponder my perplexing experience in the parliament of owls. </p><p>“I felt like Alice going through the looking-glass,” I confess to my wife over dinner.</p><p>“They were clearly expecting me but nobody said anything.” </p><p>She raises an eyebrow. “Maybe it was some kind of test.” </p><p>“If so,” I reply, “Then I most definitely failed.” </p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69088452022-02-27T14:09:48-08:002022-03-09T08:59:41-08:00THE OWL CLUB PART 4 — SWEETS<p style="text-align: center;"><br><span class="font_small"><strong>“I hide in plain sight. <br>Same as you.” </strong><br><em>—Gustavo Fring </em></span></p>
<p><br>I’m not a superstitious person by nature, but I was raised in the south where even educated folks recognize the power of signs and omens. Charlie’s gift of a tiny silver owl felt like such a signifier to me: a talisman of unknown provenance and portent. </p>
<p>I began to carry the mysterious little figurine in my pocket, where it would gently jingle against my mouthpiece and pocket change as I walked. I carried it everywhere, like a good luck charm, and it seemed to be working. Within a few short years I’d established myself in San Francisco as a working musician, and had sold enough sponsorships to increase our jazz festival budget ten fold. </p>
<p>In hindsight, this was during the tech boom of the early 1990s. Gigs were plentiful then because there were so many gainfully employed young people looking for a night out, and donations were up, too. The dot com bubble was expanding, the stock market was booming, and corporate support for the arts was ascendant. Bay Area businesses needed somewhere to park all that extra cash. Why not a nonprofit that offers exciting social events and a tax write off? It was an easy sell. </p>
<p>I didn’t have that perspective at the time, however. Naively I thought I’d cracked the code! I felt powerful, like a double agent: professional jazz musician by night, hot shot sponsorship salesman by day. Oblivious to the unseen economic forces that conspired to pave my way, I credited my own skill and hustle, with perhaps just a little bit of secret “owl luck” thrown in for good measure. </p>
<p>Over time my magical thinking grew deeper, abetted by echoes. Not only was I carrying the owl totem in my pocket, but I also began to notice similar statuettes in the executive offices of prospective sponsors. </p>
<p>I would be in mid-pitch, sitting across from some corporate mucky-muck, when I would look over at the shelf behind them, and there it would be: another owl statue. I never said anything, but on more than one occasion I sensed a subtle nod or look of acknowledgment when I spied the owl. </p>
<p>Like, I saw it. They saw me see it. Now what? <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/4228a7f1a75d1d9facdefe8ebf23be01018aa84b/original/owl-shelf.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> </p>
<p>It’s Tuesday night in San Francisco, and I don’t have a gig of my own, so I’m headed over to Sonny’s Place in North Beach to hear the incomparable flugelhornist Sweets Allen. </p>
<p>For true fans of lyrical swing, it gets no better than Sweets and his honey-toned horn. He’s the real deal, a veteran soloist from the bands of Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, and Tony Bennett. Now in his 70s, Sweets is one of San Francisco’s most beloved musicians and one of the last great gentleman of jazz. </p>
<p>For me, Tuesdays at Sonny’s are like graduate school. I rarely miss the chance to attend one of these weekly masterclasses.</p>
<p>Tonight Sweets is really living up to his name. His improvised lines are powerfully simple, pure, soulful, logical, and undeniably joyful. The warmth of his sound and the smile on his face combine to lift the spirits of everyone in the club. <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/708ccd70476e2a4e58511fe609c8e18120bfb8ea/original/allen.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>On the break I motion for him to join me at my table. Like my father, Sweets is a former school teacher, a wise elder who doesn’t mind sharing his accumulated knowledge. He patiently answers all my questions about music and life. </p>
<p>“The main thing is to tell a story,” he advises, tapping his finger on the table for emphasis. “But it’s not like reciting a poem or singing a song. It’s got to be <em>your</em> story.” </p>
<p>“Just <em>be real</em>,” he adds, “and never let the naysayers get you down. They’re everywhere, so keep your head on a swivel.” </p>
<p>“Like an owl,” I say quietly. </p>
<p>“Precisely,” he smiles, standing. </p>
<p>“Which reminds me,” he adds before returning to the bandstand. </p>
<p>“A little birdie told me you may be joining us.” </p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next:<br><a contents="THE OWL CLUB PART 5 — PARLIAMENT" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/the-owl-club-part-5-parliament" target="_blank">THE OWL CLUB PART 5 — PARLIAMENT</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/69026822022-02-20T14:05:03-08:002022-03-06T12:59:31-08:00THE OWL CLUB PART 3 — THE GIFT<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“Open your minds, my friends.<br>We all fear what we do not understand.”</strong><br><em>—Robert Langdon </em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Charlie Higgins leads me by the arm into a space entirely unlike the rest of this mysterious fortress. </p>
<p>The dining room is sunny, warm, and elbow-to-elbow with convivial groups of men in business attire, eating, drinking, talking and laughing.<br> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d4ba8a1176cfb12705b8d970bd50857d38c2fac9/original/club.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br>“This is us,” Charlie says as we approach a corner table where a couple of seated gentlemen rise to greet us. “Let me introduce you to two of the original hep cats, Walt Connor and Will Cooley. Gentlemen, this is Dmitri Matheny.” We all shake hands and sit down together. </p>
<p>At each place setting a single card embossed with the now familiar OC logo offers a simple selection of steak, seafood, sandwiches, and salads. I’m delighted. Since moving to San Francisco from Boston a few years ago I’ve enjoyed a steady diet of international and vegetarian fare. I’ve even learned to appreciate California cuisine with its requisite avocado, pine nuts and sun-dried tomatoes. But I was raised on American comfort food from cafeterias and diners. This is my kind of menu. </p>
<p>Nevertheless, I decide to order something I’ve never tried before, a <em>Crab Louie Salad</em>. Based on the name, I’m fairly certain that I will enjoy at least two thirds of it.<br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/943afc6e43268e5693856158eb9763a8485a1b86/original/crab-louis-1.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>Over lunch, Charlie cheerfully embodies his role as table host, guiding the conversation so as to include everyone. In spite of our difference in age (I’m in my late 20s and they’re all in their 60s) we all get along swimmingly. </p>
<p>Curiously, no one discusses business. Charlie, the candy magnate, talks about his experience as a paratrooper in World War II. Will, a Southern California real estate developer, holds forth about Stan Getz and his involvement in the committee for jazz at Stanford University. Walt, an author and photographer (who may or may not also be heir to a large national department store fortune) speaks with authority about the forgotten history of jazz on the Barbary Coast. I mostly listen, fascinated by these wise old owls. </p>
<p>As coffee is served, Charlie casually turns the conversation to the unique history and ethos of the Owl Club. Unlike other quote-unquote secret societies and fraternal organizations, Charlie explains, we aren't centered around a particular industry, sport, or school, but a common interest in nature and the arts. </p>
<p>“Our membership roster includes not only prominent businessmen and CEOs,” Charlie says proudly, “but writers, journalists, military heroes, politicians, global leaders, and many well-known artists and musicians.” </p>
<p>I'm intrigued. “But no women?”</p>
<p>Charlie smiles. “You know, a hundred twenty years ago when this club was founded, men tended to stay in their unhappy marriages. They needed clubs like this as an escape. Of course these days, if you aren’t happily married, you get a divorce. That’s why so many of our happily married members are now requesting more events to which they can bring their spouses.” </p>
<p>Taking this as my cue, I pull the glossy jazz festival sponsorship brochure from my breast pocket and lay it on the table. I’m just about to begin my pitch when Charlie interrupts me, raising his hand and saying, “no-no-no, not here.” A red-vested waiter immediately approaches to ask that I “kindly put away the literature.” </p>
<p>“I’m sorry, I thought …” I stammer, befuddled. </p>
<p>“We can discuss all that later,” Charlie replies magnanimously. </p>
<p>At precisely this moment, as if responding to a silent alarm, everyone stands to say their goodbyes. I stand too, shaking hands with Will and Walt, who leave together.</p>
<p>Charlie places his arm around my shoulder and ushers me back through the grand foyer, past the empty bar with its mad jumble of framed art, to the dark alcove where I first entered the building. It looks somehow different to me now. Less off-putting. More cozy.</p>
<p>“What a pleasure,” I say. “Thanks for lunch.” </p>
<p>“Ah! I almost forgot!” Charlie replies, reaching into his pocket. He retrieves a small box, about 4 inches in diameter, wrapped in white paper. “This is for you.” </p>
<p>On my way back to the jazz office, I stop by the piano bar at Kuleto’s, my favorite Union Square watering hole. I find a seat by the fireplace and order a bourbon, neat, feeling not unlike a noir detective at the beginning of a perplexing new case. </p>
<p>I unwrap the mysterious gift box, genuinely curious what I will find inside. </p>
<p>Perhaps some chocolate truffles from Charlie's candy company? But no.</p>
<p>I place the heavy totem onto the table in front of me and study it.</p>
<p>No card, no explanation.</p>
<p>Just a<strong> tiny silver owl</strong>. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/6ac3d8063f1ede81427e3c2b8af26152404ad1ea/original/silver-owl.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next:<br><a contents="THE OWL CLUB PART 4 — SWEETS" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/the-owl-club-part-4-sweets" target="_blank">THE OWL CLUB PART 4 — SWEETS</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/68975432022-02-14T12:20:46-08:002022-02-20T14:52:39-08:00THE OWL CLUB PART 2 — A WEAVING SPIDER <p style="text-align: center;"><br><span class="font_small"><strong>“Weaving spiders, come not here; <br>Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence! <br>Beetles black, approach not near; <br>Worm nor snail, do no offence.” </strong><br><em>—William Shakespeare </em></span><br> </p>
<p>The Owl Club’s downtown headquarters, a stately ivy-covered red brick building off Union Square, turns out to be just a short walk from our jazz festival offices south of Market. </p>
<p>I’m curious, of course, why Charlie Higgins invited me here, but truth be told I have my own agenda. Based on the Fleecing concert, many of our city’s business leaders and arts patrons are apparently members of this club. In fundraising parlance, this place could be what’s known as a “happy hunting ground.” </p>
<p>I stand before the club entrance and study the large bronze plaque beside the door. It’s a Great Horned Owl in bas relief, its wings outstretched. In welcome or warning? I wonder. <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c846e0c65d7e47fba60ba4fdcd7a5b8262ef8d72/original/bg-owl.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>I open the heavy wooden door and enter the dark chamber. It's drafty and deserted, with no signs of life other than the warm glow of a single unattended fireplace along one wall. Am I early? Guess I’ll have a look around. </p>
<p>From the grand foyer with its high vaulted ceilings, I take in the antique lighting fixtures, wood paneled walls, tall shelves of leather bound books, and low mahogany tables surrounded by clusters of empty armchairs. Down a quiet hallway I find sitting rooms and salons, meeting rooms, galleries, a music library, even a small theater, but no dining room and no people. Not a living soul. </p>
<p>Across the hall is a beautiful redwood cocktail bar, also unoccupied, yet entirely overpopulated with visual art in what can only be described as a surreal assault on the senses. The walls of this room are literally covered, floor to ceiling, with a chaotic jumble of ancient oils, sylvan landscapes, faded portraits, sepia photographs, and dozens of hand-painted event posters, all of them adorned with whimsical cartoons and carnival words. <em>Carefree! Frolic! Hi-jinks!</em> It’s dizzying. </p>
<p>I pick up a bar napkin to wipe my brow and notice the logo: it’s the Owl of Athena in profile flanked by the initials<em> O </em>and <em>C. </em>This is definitely the place, so where the hell <em>is</em> everybody? I feel like that guy in <em>The Twilight Zone</em>, only instead of wandering solo through Mayberry I’ve somehow stumbled into a haunted saloon or abandoned hotel. </p>
<p>But am I really alone? Because I feel like I’m being watched. </p>
<p>That’s when it hits me. I realize with a shudder that all around me, looking at me from every corner, are the <strong>eyes of owls</strong>. Owls staring from every shelf, peering out from the paintings and posters, glaring down from a stained glass window. Owl faces printed on the wallpaper, carved into the wainscoting, even woven into the very carpet beneath my feet. </p>
<p>Most unsettling of all is the large bronze owl shape directly in front of me. It has no face at all, just a blunt featureless void, giving the impression of both a very modern abstract sculpture and an ancient idol of the pagan underworld.<br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/476cba87cdff00afef51a1da8f56682628e92c59/original/screen-shot-2022-02-14-at-12-02-45-pm.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>“Beautiful creatures,” intones the familiar voice of my host, suddenly standing right next to me. </p>
<p>“Fierce hunters, too,” he goes on. “They can swallow their prey whole, bones and all. I’ve seen it!” </p>
<p>“You sound hungry, Chuck” I say. </p>
<p>“Let’s eat,” he replies.</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next:<br><a contents="THE OWL CLUB PART 3 — THE GIFT" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/the-owl-club-part-3-the-gift" target="_blank">THE OWL CLUB PART 3 — THE GIFT</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/68897482022-02-05T16:20:27-08:002022-02-14T12:28:31-08:00THE OWL CLUB PART 1 — INVITATION <p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“Men have a desire for stability, security, repetition and order in their lives. <br>At the same time they have a tendency to want to flee, <br>to meet the adventure, and to destroy.” </strong><br><em>—Stanley Kubrick </em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I’ve never been much of a joiner. </p>
<p>Never had much use for clubs or cults or crowds. </p>
<p>Large gatherings and groupthink make me uncomfortable. </p>
<p>It’s one of the reasons I prefer playing an intimate jazz venue over a huge music festival. It’s why, even though I’m a serious <em>Green Lantern</em> collector, I can’t bring myself to attend Comic-Con. It’s why I never cared much for church or theme parks or spectator sports. It’s even why, at the apex of my Buddhism studies, I had to leave the San Francisco Zen Center. I could handle the silent sitting, but as soon as the chanting began, I got the willies and hightailed it the hell out of there. </p>
<p>But of all the creepy crowds I’ve ever encountered, none compare to <strong>The Owl Club</strong>. </p>
<p>Our story begins in the early ’90s, at San Francisco’s elegant Herbst Theater, where the brilliant blind pianist Gordon Fleecing is playing to a full house. Fleecing and his trio are in fine form, enchanting the sophisticated audience with their witty and clever takes on the Great American Songbook. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/f6425d941f6a1aa6f2d4740d8eb890231344f94d/original/herbst-theater.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I’m standing in the wings wearing my only suit, feeling like a fraud as my boss and I peer through the curtains at the well-heeled crowd. I’m only half listening to the music, because I’m there in a professional capacity, not as a jazz musician, but as a fledgling fundraiser. I’ve recently begun writing grants and selling sponsorships for the concert’s producer, the mercurial jazz impresario Kendall Lane. </p>
<p>“Isn’t this great?” Kendall asks, squinting and smirking in triumph. His smile, if you can call it that, seems weirdly disingenuous, but the man has good reason to feel proud. The concert is a sold-out success and many of the city’s movers and shakers are in attendance. Tonight is a big night for our scrappy little organization. </p>
<p>At that moment something curious catches my attention. While improvising over the unmistakable chord changes to <em>Autumn Leaves</em>, Fleecing begins to play a different theme, something whimsically wistful, redolent of a European folk song.</p>
<p>This melody is unfamiliar to me, but a smattering of applause around the recital hall suggests that a dozen or more of our patrons have immediately recognized the song’s provenance. From our position at the side of the stage, we can see several captains of industry making eye contact with one another and nodding their heads in approval as Fleecing transforms the simple melody into a grandly majestic anthem. </p>
<p>In the lobby at intermission, I walk over to greet Charlie Higgins, the sponsor of tonight’s show. </p>
<p>I dig Charlie. He carries himself like one of the “good old boys” back home. He’s the real deal, a true believer and a genuine music lover with a jovial nature and a ready handshake. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but Charlie is a great philanthropist, too. He and his candy company have underwritten nearly every significant jazz event on the west coast for years. </p>
<p>“Isn’t this great?” I repeat Kendall's line.</p>
<p>“Yes, indeed!” Charlie smiles broadly. </p>
<p>“Hey, what was that song Fleecing quoted?” I ask. “You seemed to recognize it.” </p>
<p>“<em>The Soul of Bavaria</em>,” Charlie replies. “It’s a favorite at the club. Fleecing is a longtime member.” </p>
<p>“Ah, the club. Of course.” I nod solemnly, understanding nothing. </p>
<p>“Why don’t you join me there for lunch next week,” Charlie asks casually, as if the idea had just occurred to him. </p>
<p>“It would be my pleasure,” I accept. I'm mystified but intrigued by the surprise invitation. </p>
<p>That night over dinner I consult my wife. She seems to have an innate understanding of such things. </p>
<p>“I've been invited to lunch next week with Charlie Higgins. I'm not sure why. I think it’s at a private club. Do you know of a club in the city where an American executive and a British jazz pianist would both be members?” </p>
<p>Her eyes widened. “You mean <em>The Owl Club? </em></p>
<p>We’d better get you a new suit.” </p>
<p style="text-align: right;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next:<br><a contents="THE OWL CLUB PART 2 — A WEAVING SPIDER" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/the-owl-club-part-2-a-weaving-spider">THE OWL CLUB PART 2 — A WEAVING SPIDER</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/68837732022-01-30T07:03:05-08:002022-01-31T09:19:50-08:00RENEWAL<p>Unhindered one may walk this good earth </p>
<p>and see it’s bounty of living things </p>
<p>One may find heaven </p>
<p>wherever there is beauty </p>
<p>All superfluous things are gone </p>
<p>Simplicity itself remains </p>
<p>and grows and gains </p>
<p>what had been lost </p>
<p>No more fighting just to hang on </p>
<p>This is the good part of life </p>
<p>The struggle is over </p>
<p>What is there left to do </p>
<p>but to do good? </p>
<p>What is there left to say </p>
<p>but to say truth?</p>
<p> —Bill Matheny</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/cb853c6a833e9763c17343af2aeeec36adf5e872/original/renewal.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/68785562022-01-24T16:32:45-08:002022-01-24T18:39:32-08:00UNTETHERED<p>“Untethered.” </p>
<p>That’s the best word I could find to express the particular brand of loss that consumed me after my father died. </p>
<p>I wasn’t in mourning so much as weary and resigned to the cruel finality of mortality, both his and, by extension, my own. I was even a little relieved because his suffering was over. </p>
<p>In a way, Dad and I had already progressed through the first four stages of grief together — from denial to depression — while he was still alive, in hospice care. Only acceptance remained. </p>
<p>I miss him terribly, but truth be told, I’ve been missing him since long before he passed away. I miss the man he used to be, before Parkinson’s and dementia robbed him of his mobility, wisdom and good judgement. By the time he succumbed to the disease, it had already been many years since we’d had a real conversation. Many years since I could benefit from his sage advice. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/0a2562dc7ff7c2c94d14a7fd839d3bc7aa06a0b1/original/unnamed.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>With both my parents now dead, and no siblings or children of my own, it’s no wonder that I felt like an orphan. I’d experienced an inkling of that emotion only once before … when my marriage ended. </p>
<p>Erica Jong describes divorce as “a ritual scarring that makes anything that happens afterward seem bearable.” She’s not wrong. I was gutted by the loss, not only of my wife and home, but of her family, whom I’d come to think of as my own. And I was surprised to lose nearly all the friends we’d collected over our 14 years together. It’s deeply unsettling and disorienting, after so many years, to no longer be responsible for, or accountable to, anyone. </p>
<p>But even during the dark days of my divorce, Daddy Bill was there to commiserate and console. He was in my corner always. He never wavered. And now he’s gone. </p>
<p>Because of the pandemic, I wasn’t able to be with him when he died, but I did visit him frequently during his final few years. I would return to Arizona for a week or more each season, and would sit with him for hours each day before heading off to the evening gigs that paid my travel costs. <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/aff53a14881867aabfa075fcf9836003ad3d8b19/original/db-1.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>It’s difficult to know whether these extended seasonal visits to his assisted living facility were a genuine comfort to my father. He was embarrassed by his circumstances, and often when I returned each morning he didn’t remember seeing me the previous day. But every now and then his eyes would twinkle and he'd say something remarkably funny or insightful. He was still in there. </p>
<p>Even in hospice care Dad somehow maintained a sweet disposition. For all his charm, however, he mostly avoided socializing with the other residents, opting instead to merely exchange pleasantries at meal time, then return to isolation. He had no interest in group activities or parlor games. He was a man who treasured his solitude, who loved to get outside and explore, but whose world had become oppressively small: a single twin bed in a tiny shared room. He often told me that he felt like a prisoner. It was heartbreaking. </p>
<p>Sadly, he was no longer a man of letters, either. Books, his lifelong companions, were no longer of any interest. His hands weren’t steady enough to write, his eyes weren’t strong enough to read, and his attention span wasn’t long enough to follow the narrative of a novel or movie. Much of the correspondence sent to him remained unread. He appreciated postcards, greeting cards, small talk, and short conversations, even phone calls, as long as someone could help him operate his device. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/888e3d1454751cbd1aeb53e682c831284d52dbd6/original/bill-matheny-oct-2019.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Most days I would just sit at his bedside and watch him drift in and out of sleep, while the TV spewed a continuous stream of conservative news and sports highlights. Sometimes we would talk about the weather or listen to an Eva Cassidy song. Occasionally we would venture into the other shared spaces of the care home, or sit outside on the patio, just for a change of scenery. But Dad needed to remain near the bathroom at all times, so we couldn’t go far. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/cd94e77b4f66fee0d403fa6762fb9b3919e222ca/original/db-last-visit.jpeg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>When he was able, we would shuffle around the tiny patch of desert surrounding the house. He tried valiantly to do it without his wheelchair or walker, but it was only a matter of time before even these small, slow walks around the block were too much for him. Yet even during our last few walks, although he struggled to finish a thought, he could still recall the latin names of all the neighborhood flora and fauna!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c63482e7ed3f9bfe1fcf86f744299affedce0876/original/bill-morphini.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Dad’s been gone for over a year now and the world is diminished by his absence. I miss him something awful. And I must confess, while I don’t necessarily believe in an afterlife, I do find myself talking to him in quiet moments. I wonder what he would think of my life choices. I hope he would approve. </p>
<p>Thankfully, I feel a little more “tethered” these days as I make a sincere effort to reconnect with distant friends and extended family. It’s especially comforting to spend time with other people who knew and loved him. </p>
<p>Mostly I just feel grateful for everything he was, and will remain, in memory.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/68702702022-01-15T14:17:07-08:002022-01-15T14:17:07-08:00ON VACATION<p>Sometimes </p>
<p>I wonder </p>
<p>If God is trying </p>
<p>To tell me something. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or, </p>
<p>On the contrary, </p>
<p>If God is telling </p>
<p>And I’m not trying. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> —Bill Matheny</p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/26b1d4c99fb2a0dacb7b24ddc94a5d95ce138f00/original/remembering-daddy-bill.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/68636022022-01-09T10:24:40-08:002022-01-09T10:24:40-08:00GENETIC FLAW<p>We are human beings </p>
<p>We kill each other </p>
<p>That’s what we do </p>
<p> </p>
<p>We are created in the image of God </p>
<p>the god of the Jews, Christians and Muslims </p>
<p>who commands “Thou shalt not kill” </p>
<p>who orders the ancient Israelites to kill </p>
<p>all the Amalekites, every man, woman and child </p>
<p>because they are an abomination to him </p>
<p>kill their animals too and take their land </p>
<p>God promised it through Abraham to you </p>
<p> </p>
<p>We fight wars to end all wars </p>
<p>in the name of God and all that is good </p>
<p>and holy and righteous and absolutely true </p>
<p>to defend our vital national interests </p>
<p>to protect our precious people from evil </p>
<p>practiced by the heathen and ideologically impure </p>
<p> </p>
<p>We kill each other to keep America whole — </p>
<p>brother against brother, sister against sister </p>
<p>slave against slave and soak our soil </p>
<p>with brotherly blood but the union is saved </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Turks lock Armenians in boxcars </p>
<p>Turks, Iraqis and Iranians kill Kurds </p>
<p>Hitler does genocide on gypsies and Jews </p>
<p>Bosnians and Yugoslavs do ethnic cleansing </p>
<p>Tutsis and Hutus too </p>
<p>Shi’ites kill Sunnis </p>
<p>Serbs kill the Kosovars </p>
<p>And the union bombs both to oblivion </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Downtown a shirtless and shoeless man </p>
<p>stands in the sidewalk and yells at me </p>
<p>“See this ring in my nose? If you look </p>
<p>at this ring in my nose I’ll kill you!” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I look at it, chuckle and walk around him </p>
<p>He does not kill me but yells again </p>
<p>“Come back here you son of a bitch!” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>At that instant the Trench Coat Mafia are </p>
<p>bombing and shooting, killing kids and teachers </p>
<p>inside a Colorado school </p>
<p> </p>
<p>the union mourns </p>
<p> </p>
<p>the union agonizes and asks and argues </p>
<p>about gun-control laws and teaching more </p>
<p>conflict resolution classes to the kids and </p>
<p>censoring all their pop-culture and </p>
<p>getting secular humanism out and </p>
<p>putting god and prayer back </p>
<p>into the schools </p>
<p> </p>
<p>We are human beings </p>
<p>created in the image of God </p>
<p>We created a more perfect union </p>
<p>We kill each other </p>
<p> </p>
<p>We tell the kids to vent their anger </p>
<p>with words not weapons </p>
<p> </p>
<p>We kill each other with words too </p>
<p> </p>
<p> —Bill Matheny</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/68573852022-01-02T14:12:01-08:002022-01-02T16:51:20-08:00COURSE CORRECTION<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s heaven for? </strong><br><em>—Robert Browning</em></span><em> </em></p>
<p>About a year ago I wrote an <a contents="obituary" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://everloved.com/life-of/william-matheny/?flow=201" target="_blank">obituary</a> for my father. </p>
<p>I sorted through his letters and personal papers, created a list of his educational and professional accomplishments, and attempted to fashion the <em>mercurial vagabond voyage</em> that was his life into some sort of cohesive linear narrative. </p>
<p>I tried my best, but tributes never quite capture a subject’s true essence. This is especially the case with Daddy Bill, a great man who eschewed all markers of greatness. He didn’t care a whit about fame, gain, or material success. </p>
<p>The part of his obit that feels 100% right to me is this: </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em><strong>Throughout his life, Matheny generously shared his love of nature with others, </strong></em><br><em><strong>inspiring many of his students, friends and family members to develop their own<br>deep appreciation for the natural world. This is his great and lasting legacy. </strong></em></p>
<p>That legacy was underscored for me by the many people who reached out personally to tell me what Bill Matheny had meant to them. There’s no question: the man was <em>beloved</em>. He died without property or prestige, but his reach was wide. He will long be remembered as someone who made a positive difference in the lives of others. </p>
<p>Unlike my Dad, I’ve always been ambitious and more than a little selfish. I knew better than to expect fame or fortune, but all my life I’ve worked harder than most of my contemporaries, powered by “main character syndrome” and the sincere belief that I was on track to become an historically significant artist. </p>
<p>I now understand that goal to be unrealistic. </p>
<p>Mind you, I’m a far better musician than I used to be. My new album will be my best, and I’m not done yet! I'll continue to strive for incremental improvement, greater authenticity, and soul. </p>
<p>But my talents are limited. At age 56, there simply aren’t enough years left for me to join my jazz heroes on Mount Olympus. Instead, I now hope to live up to my father’s simple example of sharing with, and inspiring, others. </p>
<p>Like the song says, “the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.”</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/2b970f82d5fa4f8fd13b1387d8d7fb27d34f9659/original/daddy-bill.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/68530012021-12-27T17:11:23-08:002021-12-31T10:33:11-08:00RESOLUTIONS 2022 | The Year of CASCADIA<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/cdbf80d65c2b51e0900cd4e9c6b61492c6febcbb/original/2022.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br>Health </strong><br>Recommit to OMAD, black coffee, and portion control. <br>Plant new salad vegetables in the garden. <br>Walk every day before the evening meal. <br>Curtail alcohol consumption. <br>Prioritize memory work. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Music </strong><br>Perform mostly songs from the new album. <br>Expand melodic range in both directions. <br>Arrange Joni Mitchell material for Holly. <br>Write songs for top Indiegogo backers. <br>Study Nelson Riddle's orchestration. <br>Practice Beleza duo repertoire. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Business </strong><br>Arrange for album design, distribution, promotion, and marketing.<br>Maintain tourbus with regular servicing, repairs, and upgrades. <br>Apply for touring, residency, and commissioning grants. <br>Schedule tours and album release events. <br>Purchase a backup horn. <br>Reduce debt by 25%. <br><br><strong>Personal </strong><br>Make an emergency response plan.<br>Write a blog post every week. <br>Invest in home security.<br>Make time for friends. <br>Practice gratitude.<br>Pace yourself.<br>Go fishing.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/68527642021-12-27T10:24:42-08:002021-12-27T11:00:06-08:002021 BY THE NUMBERS<p><span class="font_regular">Well my friends, it may take several years before we can return to pre-pandemic levels of activity. But little-by-little we’re getting back to business, ever grateful for the clients, customers, friends and fans who sustain us. This year we: </span><br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">staged <strong>81</strong> concerts and events</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/1b159d16e7485befbfbe89aedd8f82efb265292d/original/81.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.png" class="size_l justify_center border_none" alt="" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">welcomed <strong>75</strong> generous album backers</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/a51f37b35aff060fcb633155c5662809ed0c9712/original/75.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />published <strong>50</strong> memoir blog posts </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/eab5ae9d5ea580a063b4d7bf1907bd1d1a08ffb9/original/50.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">gave <strong>23</strong> private lessons</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/952f59da0db78fa8a852e3400328a0d9bae9d443/original/screen-shot-2021-12-27-at-10-54-10-am.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">conducted <strong>19</strong> workshops </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/7eae33711d0ad7e0bedcf91e9fc6f90ee885ba68/original/19.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_large">collected <strong>12</strong> vintage treasures </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/4bab4d7d0c9b85d51c4b1728c78525174b1002e2/original/12.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">recorded <strong>10</strong> songs</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/8e8286f86e4165640504266adb8b19b46d00ef86/original/6.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">headlined <strong>9</strong> festivals </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/8ef82d50efa24feb5a00f2cab8441d7fc745d4da/original/9.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">bottled <strong>8</strong> jars of homemade hot sauce </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/aab555efef2c0a21fbc5b350457b2e4e67364363/original/8.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">completed <strong>7</strong> new compositions </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/00afd72b744254f1f2092c10f89496061cf48881/original/7.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />played <strong>5</strong> live stream shows </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/cafb3663edb0fb098eb364c5e93736e76ef99006/original/5.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">traversed <strong>4</strong> western states </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/81d1813a82e282a44c56c07ad17ea1bfb538c6e7/original/4.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">received <strong>3</strong> doses of DollyVax </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/09287c82e71b994a8fc6a4d8ecf485de369ce0ac/original/3.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">hosted <strong>2</strong> brilliant visiting artists </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/8f2c6cdcfd81761fe9c75bcd95f13d721811f5f9/original/2.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">rescued <strong>1</strong> precious puppy</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/22082e889429e632b72846d11d678ad2387e3024/original/1.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">and consumed <strong>2197</strong> hours of television (sigh).</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/5da4958a96ed0a48236ce10723bce7606a3f3b0d/original/2197.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Here’s to a happier, healthier, and more productive 2022. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Onward and upward! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">~Dmitri</span></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/68393602021-12-13T09:30:36-08:002021-12-13T09:33:40-08:00WALK WITH ME<p>To K.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hawks are lazing in the azure sky </p>
<p>Come walk in the warm sun with me </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Goldenrods and Joe-Pye sway with the wind </p>
<p>Come walk in the autumn fields with me </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Only the wood thrush’s flute breaks the solitude </p>
<p>Come walk in the deep woods with me </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Can’t you hear the thunder of the surf </p>
<p>Come walk by the edge of the sea with me </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The moon is full almost but not quite </p>
<p>Come walk in the cold moonlight with me </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Night-sounds, night-smells, night-magic abound </p>
<p>Come walk in the soft dark with me </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The rain is a friend when one is alone </p>
<p>Come walk in the rain with me </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Now the rainbow hangs with a promise </p>
<p>Come walk to its end with me </p>
<p> </p>
<p>See how the steeple sticks the sky </p>
<p>Come walk to the church with me </p>
<p> </p>
<p>One man’s lover is another’s friend </p>
<p>Come. Take my hand. Walk with me. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> —Bill Matheny</p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/df3c36e2d2a39f1c43e9477c749a885fc302274a/original/photo-1560336561-c1cbad1f8cca.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/68321042021-12-06T16:01:37-08:002021-12-06T16:01:37-08:00PLEASE GO AWAY AND BE MY FRIEND<p>(To J.)</p>
<p>Please go away and be my friend, </p>
<p>This cup of fire let pass from you — </p>
<p>Because I know it’s not the end </p>
<p>I’ll only spill a tear or two. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Your laugh, your touch, your kiss I’ll need, </p>
<p>But these are only part of you — </p>
<p>Your other gifts to me indeed </p>
<p>My strength, my will to live, renew. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The on the other hand reproof, </p>
<p>Of language and “what’s right for me” — </p>
<p>(Don’t think I’m really that aloof) </p>
<p>Of these, at least, I’ll soon be free! </p>
<p> </p>
<p>So think of love quite seriously </p>
<p>And to your new affairs attend; </p>
<p>What’s left for now’s enough for me — </p>
<p>Please go away and be my friend.</p>
<p> —Bill Matheny</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/73abd805a4cb0f692e2241c691e8727b45741639/original/girl-woman-looking-silhouette.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/68244082021-11-29T10:40:41-08:002021-12-06T16:02:07-08:00SEND ME YOUR POEMS<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/6e939ad56181f0565ff3017d8d8d0f094fb041b6/original/clock-wall-clock-watch-time-wallpaper.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />(To J.)</p>
<p>You send me your poems, </p>
<p>I’ll send you mine. </p>
<p>So what if your songs are better? </p>
<p>I’m lyrical too in my way. </p>
<p>So what if you never pay attention </p>
<p>To the time, </p>
<p>Though time means everything to you. </p>
<p>So what if I’m always cognizant </p>
<p>Of the time, </p>
<p>Though time means nothing to me. </p>
<p>So what if I’m forever </p>
<p>Blown and buffeted about by the winds of chance, </p>
<p>While you’re so secure </p>
<p>In your comfortable cocoon spun by God himself. </p>
<p>You know as well as I that </p>
<p>Security can take a flying leap. </p>
<p>No matter that you are </p>
<p>A girl from a different world; </p>
<p>I’m mister Adaptable Soul </p>
<p>The one can make the two converge. </p>
<p>Don’t think for a moment </p>
<p>That you are my Mother Confessor, </p>
<p>Even if I do tell you that </p>
<p>I like to smoke a cigar now and then </p>
<p>Because it makes me feel the rake. </p>
<p>You and I together — </p>
<p>Like a picture hanging, </p>
<p>Slightly crooked on the wall. </p>
<p>Like being on the verge </p>
<p>Of a breakthrough long in coming, </p>
<p>But never really getting there. </p>
<p>You and I together — </p>
<p>Always searching for the rare and unusual, </p>
<p>Yet both hating this </p>
<p>Labyrinth of lies called life by some. </p>
<p>You and I — such little words; </p>
<p>But little people we are not. </p>
<p>You send me your poems, </p>
<p>I’ll send you mine; </p>
<p>I’ll send a picture too </p>
<p>If you will send me one of you.</p>
<p> —Bill Matheny</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/68189932021-11-23T06:25:08-08:002021-11-23T06:25:09-08:00LANDLESS<p>I would buy a pool </p>
<p>If I weren’t such a fool </p>
<p>As to have nowhere </p>
<p>To put it </p>
<p> —Bill Matheny</p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/5971e382b4187c45fd170133380e18ccf4f1530e/original/keko1i.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/68110322021-11-15T21:37:16-08:002021-11-16T06:12:30-08:00FROM THE 24TH FLOOR OF THE PEACHTREE PLAZA<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/ec18aea6d29b515d40b64e5d63f11ebaceaacc45/original/atlanta-sunrise.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Thank God for the morning <br>To drive away the hobgoblins of the soul <br>That haunt and terrorize through the night. </p>
<p>Thank God for the morning <br>To cleanse away the dregs of the mind <br>That corrupt and blaspheme all one’s sight. </p>
<p>Thank God for the morning <br>To pull away the spikes from the temple, <br>That defile and weaken human might. </p>
<p>Thank God for the morning — <br>Now to look through the glass not darkly, <br>Now to find the labyrinth gone; <br>Now the new light dissipates the pain, <br>And now the sunrise sets things right.</p>
<p> —Bill Matheny</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/68028582021-11-09T06:19:24-08:002021-11-09T06:19:24-08:00END OF SUMMER<p>The thunder groans and soon gives birth </p>
<p>To storm still-born, September’s worth — </p>
<p>To searing sight of flashing light </p>
<p>That tears apart the sky-soaked night: </p>
<p>Staccato sound of pelting rain </p>
<p>Throbs through my open window-pane. </p>
<p>Long have I lain in bed awake — </p>
<p>Such rain this thirst can never slake; </p>
<p>The awful truth, I am alone, </p>
<p>Hits home full-force: yes, you are gone. </p>
<p> —Bill Matheny</p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/53a1512c447a1a7e0d60c469bf9c52884bc08e3d/original/dark-winter-rain-nature.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/67946222021-11-01T23:00:16-07:002021-11-02T06:11:34-07:00EARLY ALZHEIMER'S<p>It’s time to go inside myself <br>I’ve had my share of happiness </p>
<p>The greatest lessons life can teach — <br>To learn to live with loneliness </p>
<p>To look ahead and not grow weak <br>To feed on inner resources </p>
<p>A seed must die to germinate <br>A life must lose before it gains </p>
<p>Oblivion will give new strength <br>When passion’s gone the good remains </p>
<p>I’ve watched a child become a man <br>From womb to break I gave my all </p>
<p>A drink from Lethe I don’t need <br>Both pain and pleasure I’d recall </p>
<p>I’ve thrown my share of pearls to swine <br>I’ve loved a woman long and well </p>
<p>The silly prattle of a fool <br>I’ve known the joy of heav’n and hell </p>
<p>I’ve seen the timber wolf lope by <br>And watched the eagle wheel and soar </p>
<p>I’ve listened to the whip-poor-will <br>And heard the ocean swell and roar </p>
<p>I’ll have my share of happiness <br>As long as I can climb a hill </p>
<p>But when it comes my time to die <br>I’ll leave this life at my own will</p>
<p> —Bill Matheny</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/67868862021-10-25T21:36:16-07:002021-10-25T21:36:16-07:00THE BONNETS<p>When I was in kindergarten, if a boy misbehaved, the teacher would make him sit in the corner wearing a blue bonnet.</p>
<p>If he misbehaved a second time he would have to wear the pink bonnet.</p>
<p>I don't know what the punishment was for girls.</p>
<p>They never misbehaved.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/6d0c6f36738541ac842181d3c581e882be25250d/original/bonnets.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/67797752021-10-18T15:22:35-07:002021-10-18T20:44:40-07:00THE SUNFLOWER<p><strong><span class="font_regular"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/9a12498756e22ea49a30a5bd84f5eaadcbc0185d/original/a-single-sunflower-in-a-square-holly-eads.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></strong></p>
<p><br><strong>To Georgia ... From Arizona</strong></p>
<p>The Georgia clay bank <br> would surely erode <br>Except for the Chinaberry tree <br> standing stark against the sky </p>
<p>A sunflower bloomed <br> outside my patio door <br>The sunflower was you </p>
<p>September, somehow the saddest of months <br> except for October — <br> exquisite, mournful October <br>Bringer of beautiful Autumn </p>
<p>Now the mid-life crisis <br> takes a strange and different turn <br>Some would say I’m crazy <br> though I would tend to doubt it </p>
<p>Living on the fringe of civilization <br> like a desert cat <br>I expend little energy <br> to find my food </p>
<p>Trying to keep in touch <br> with the few friends I have <br>I feel everything slipping <br> away from me </p>
<p>Would you please <br> keep me informed <br> of any change of address <br>Even after you marry? </p>
<p>I promise not to interfere <br> with your new life <br>Just to know <br> where you are <br> how you are <br>To hear from you <br> once in a while <br> will be enough </p>
<p>I can find <br> the minor key <br> in any song </p>
<p>Because <br> I live my life <br> in a minor key </p>
<p>Becoming used <br> to the freedom <br> of being alone </p>
<p>I sit and suffer <br>I mull over <br> all the things <br> that have happened <br>And wonder why </p>
<p>God, I have become <br> a desperate scribbler of lines <br>Who doesn’t know whether <br> he creates or not except for <br>A simple declarative act of love </p>
<p>Besides, <br> every word <br> once spoken <br> becomes a cliché </p>
<p>My head is full of poems <br>But they won’t come out straight <br>They are muddled <br> and mixed <br> and unintelligible </p>
<p>I lie on the desert floor <br>Looking at the Arizona night sky <br>Looking at the myriad of stars <br>That appear so <br> clear and clean and close <br>Enough to touch <br>Maybe if I could <br>Then the thoughts <br> should come out <br> clear and clean </p>
<p>Perhaps if I could touch a star <br>A poem would come out right </p>
<p>I love <br> this Golden Land <br> of Eternal Sunshine </p>
<p>But I’ve had enough <br>Of sitting in the sun </p>
<p>A sunflower bloomed <br>Outside my patio door <br>The sunflower was you</p>
<p> —Bill Matheny</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/67729822021-10-11T17:44:09-07:002021-10-11T17:44:09-07:00THE SECRET<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/4285d38fc64469c3c103893de3625d2f409c4bb1/original/dmitri-art-farmer-slider.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br>When I first met my hero Art Farmer, he was spending half his year at home in Vienna and the other half on tour.</p>
<p>Occasionally concert promoters would pony up for his New York band, but most of the time Art worked with local rhythm sections. Regardless, he hired the best musicians everywhere, and his ensembles never failed to impress.</p>
<p>"How do your groups always sound so good?" I asked him after a knockout performance at Kimball's in San Francisco. "What's the secret?"</p>
<p>"Dmitri, it's simple," he said. "If you find that you're the smartest cat in the room, <strong>you're in the wrong room</strong>."</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/67616572021-09-29T22:56:25-07:002021-09-29T23:14:40-07:00GENERATIONAL WEALTH<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small">“<strong>What did I know, what did I know <br>of love’s austere and lonely offices?</strong>”<strong> </strong><br><em>—Robert Hayden</em> </span></p>
<p>When the time came for Daddy Bill to move into hospice care, it fell to me to clean out his stark little studio apartment. </p>
<p>The task didn’t take long. I’d planned to rent a storage unit for his stuff, but this turned out to be entirely unnecessary. In the man’s eighty-something trips around the sun, he only accumulated enough possessions to fill a few small boxes. </p>
<p>I was amazed. Not by Dad’s extreme minimalism (don’t forget I used to live with the guy), but by the eloquence of the items he deemed precious enough to keep. In his closet was a sleeping bag, camp stove and hand crank portable radio. Everything else was arranged in neat little dust-covered piles around the room. He had an axe, a battered pair of binoculars, an old fly rod, a few books and compact discs, a coffee cup, some framed photographs, a pocket knife, and a small leather pouch. That’s about it. <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/aa4798953a9a4e1703c103b311099182ee38053b/original/generational-wealth.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> </p>
<p>The pouch was empty, but when I opened the drawstring to look inside, the familiar scent of Middleton’s Cherry Blend brought tears to my eyes.<em> </em>I was about nine years old when we last visited the Schley Family Farm in Georgia. I still remember sitting next to Daddy Bill, watching with rapt attention as Dr. Schley used his leather-crafting tools to carefully cut, punch and sew the pouch together. Once finished, he ceremoniously presented the soft little bag to my father, as if it was some kind of totem or talisman imbued with magic powers. The Schleys were important people in the Brookstone community, and Dad treasured this handmade gift. He stored his pipe tobacco in that leather pouch for years. <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e24168352478ee1fa638f8d797991d2afcde4c82/original/leathercrafting.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>In a drawer under the sink I found a mishmash of papers: old bank statements, love letters, canceled checks, poems, his birding “life list” handwritten on a yellow legal pad, and a stack of picture postcards, many of them from me, which had once adorned the thumbtack-covered walls of his Graham County hermit house. Resting on top, like a paperweight, was a small carved wooden sign: <em>White Thorn Gallery. </em><br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/0b6779c5e701780da2cf0c7e4cac3d8250393bcf/original/wtg.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>As far back as my great-great-grandfather, the Matheny men were all expert craftsmen. Daddy Bill and his brother Jim grew up working alongside their father in the Matheny Cabinet Shop, building and restoring heirloom furniture in mahogany, oak, walnut, cherry, maple and cedar. Almost everyone in our extended family today has at least one precious Matheny antique at home. </p>
<p>But the only furniture my father owned at the end of his life was a single reclining armchair, purchased for him a few years ago by a generous friend. Everything else had long since been given away. He was funny that way. He gave all our furniture to one of his stepdaughters. He gave our car to my friend Kent. I have no doubt the old man would’ve eventually given that recliner away, too. </p>
<p>So I followed his example and left that chair behind for the next tenant. I slipped my father’s poetry into my backpack, and boxed up the rest, stacking everything in the corner of Nedra’s garage for safekeeping. </p>
<p>I suppose I’ll come back for that leather pouch someday. </p>
<p>And maybe that fishing pole, too. </p>
<p>I miss you, Daddy Bill.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/67570272021-09-24T22:35:00-07:002021-09-26T20:22:07-07:00HOW WE LIVE<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“The more we share, the more we have.”</strong> <br><em>—Leonard Nimoy </em></span><br> </p>
<p>Early autumn, 1972. Rural Alabama. Late afternoon. </p>
<p>Daddy Bill and I are winding our way home in our muddy station wagon. We’re in high spirits, both of us having just spent several gratifying hours, each in our respective happy place.<br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/70a5b1fb73b73ff4282ad3e762d63b9cc30a8494/original/1-eufaula.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>Since dawn Dad has been wading through the saltwater marshes of Eufaula Wildlife Refuge, beating back cattails, stepping over gators, peering through his binoculars at shorebirds and raptors. Meanwhile I’ve been hunkering down in the backseat, oblivious to flora and fauna, blissfully engrossed in a new fistful of Green Lanterns, fresh off the spinner. <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/635339e31797c990d628bcfc8952b83632e30838/original/2-green-lantern.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> </p>
<p>I know, I know. Daddy Bill isn’t likely to be voted <em>Parent of the Year </em>anytime soon. He thinks it’s a good idea to leave his seven-year-old kid alone for hours, in a parked car, in the middle of nowhere. But what can I say? This is how we live.</p>
<p>We relish our solitary pursuits then share our stories over catfish and okra at Bram's Diner. Dad holds forth on kingfishers, kestrels, sandpipers and snipes. I recount the latest exploits of hard traveling heroes Ollie and Hal. And so it goes. </p>
<p>After supper I’m riding shotgun and fiddling with the radio dial as Daddy Bill pilots our wagon homeward. Just before the Georgia line, as Paul Harvey is about to tell us “the rest of the story” -- <em>BAM! </em>A sudden jolt. A flash of white. The sound of crunching metal. Dad slams on the brakes as we skid along the red clay shoulder of the road. We lurch forward then slam backward again as a waterfall of broken glass cascades around us.<br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/55c9991a85db561f9d891f9f4e62989bda1bbbd9/original/3-deer.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>As soon as we tumble out of the car, we see him. There in the road, illuminated by our headlights, is the broken body of a very beautiful, very dead, white-tailed deer. The poor creature must have leapt right into us. </p>
<p>“You okay?” Daddy Bill asks. </p>
<p>“I think so.” I reply. “You?” </p>
<p>“Welp, I guess we’re both better off than he,” Dad says, nodding to the unfortunate young buck. </p>
<p>“Give me hand, will you?” </p>
<p>Pulling a tarp from the back of the wagon, we hoist the heavy carcass onto the roof and secure it with rope. Daddy Bill then turns on the emergency flashers and drives -- even more slowly than usual -- to the Columbus home of Coach Rutland. “Jim’s a hunter,” Dad explains. “He’ll know what to do.” </p>
<p>A few days later at Brookstone School, Mrs. Simmons calls to me in her sweet southern drawl. </p>
<p>“Deh-MAY-tray! What are you chewin’ back there?” </p>
<p>“Venison jerky, ma’am,” I confess. <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/6d37d541aa6ba09dcaa5a616ed14bae4b3217950/original/4-venison-jerky.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> </p>
<p>“Bless your heart,” she smiles, “but it’s not polite to eat venison jerky in class unless you’ve brought enough to share with everybody.” </p>
<p>Fortunately I have plenty! More than enough to feed the multitude. </p>
<p>Roadkill. Sharing is caring.<br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/6fb4d328ffcd995077216d0ac22f57c6193120d6/original/5-first-grade.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/67521312021-09-20T13:47:31-07:002021-09-20T16:25:28-07:00KINKAKU-JI<p style="text-align: center;">“<span class="font_small"><strong>The foundation of any national character is human nature.</strong></span>”<br><span class="font_small"><em>―Vasily Grossman</em></span><br> </p>
<p>Of all the many magical places I’ve encountered in my travels, Kinkaku-ji, Kyoto’s <em>Temple of the Golden Pavilion</em>, is one of the most magnificent. Set in a classical strolling garden by a reflective pond, the temple’s design is strikingly opulent yet perfectly integrated into the surrounding landscape. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/dbaa8e4d44edafa7fb8b946d278bb5fa7dccd57e/original/kinkaku-ji.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>Although I’ve only visited the historic world heritage site twice, I return so often in mind and memory that it has become comfortingly familiar. For me, this temple achieves what the great cathedrals of Europe do not. Instead of making one feel small and insignificant, Kinkaku-ji inspires a profound feeling of gratitude and connection to the natural world, inviting contemplation of one’s own role in the cosmos. As above, so below. </p>
<p>Kinkaku-ji is a wonder of architecture and aesthetics. Each section of the three-story structure represents a different historical period and point of view. The first level, named <em>Chamber of Dharma Waters</em>, is rendered in the natural wood and white paneled <em>shinden </em>style of eleventh century imperial aristocracy, with verandas and open areas that bring the outdoors inside. The second story, called <em>Tower of Sound Waves</em>, is built in the tenth century manner of <em>samurai</em> warriors, with sliding doors and mullioned windows intended to convey evanescence. The top floor, <em>Cupola of the Ultimate</em>, is constructed in the twelfth century <em>zen</em> style suggesting meditation and spiritual insight. The top two levels are completely covered in shining gold leaf. Taken collectively, this singular architectural marvel confers both respect for nature and an awareness of the fragile, fleeting nature of existence. </p>
<p>But it’s the luminous golden reflection of the temple on the surface of the pond that I find most compelling. The image remains constant as the seasons change. Even before you view the relics and treasures within, the building’s exterior design eloquently communicates the Japanese ideals of <em>shokunin</em> (craftsmanship, pursuit of perfection), <em>wabi </em>(understated elegance), <em>sabi</em> (the beauty of impermanence), <em>yugen</em> (mystery, grace) and <em>ma</em> (negative space, emptiness, and silence). </p>
<p>Kinkaku-ji is a truly remarkable place. It’s also where I learned a valuable lesson about the absurdity of stereotypes and the gentle power of humor. </p>
<p>A light rain was falling as I quietly admired the temple with my new friend Masa, an expert on buddhist culture who also happens to be the husband of a <a contents="favorite visual artist" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://sarahbrayer.com/" target="_blank">favorite visual artist</a>), when our silent contemplation was suddenly interrupted by a boisterous busload of Japanese tourists. They tumbled out of the bus, photographers all, and immediately began to laugh and shout as they joyfully took pictures of one another on the temple grounds. </p>
<p>I was offended by what I perceived as an inappropriate and unwelcome assault on my reverie. Kinkaku-ji is a sacred place! They should know better, I thought. But when I looked to my guide he was grinning ear-to-ear, delighted with their arrival. I wondered how he could remain so cheerful in the face of this intrusion.</p>
<p>“You don’t find them rude?” I asked, as yet another cluster of giggling girls pushed past us to pose in front of the temple. They squealed gleefully and flashed peace signs as their male companions snapped photo after photo.</p>
<p>“This is a happy place,” Masa explained, smiling benevolently. “Why shouldn’t they be happy?” </p>
<p>Of course he’s right, I realized. Embarrassed by my own foolishness, I tried to make a joke. </p>
<p>“Hey Masa, you’re Japanese. Where’s<em> your </em>camera?” </p>
<p>He replied without hesitation.</p>
<p>“Well, you’re American...<em>where’s your gun?” </em></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/67448762021-09-13T13:01:54-07:002022-01-19T19:40:46-08:00MEETING LELA | PART 7 — BISCUITS & GRAVY<p style="text-align: center;"><br><span class="font_small"><strong>“We all grow up with inherited genes <br>and inherited sensibilities, and <br>they run very, very deep.” </strong><br><em>—John Lithgow </em></span><br> </p>
<p>To recap: it turns out that my estranged mother, who left us when I was a baby, was a singer. Although she never recorded, Lela had an active performing career singing torch songs in Tennessee nightclubs with her combo. And apparently my father was a fan who regularly attended her gigs before they met and married.</p>
<p>So music, my passion in life, is what originally brought my parents together, yet neither of them thought to tell me. I chased my dream obliviously ignorant of this history. I chose this path all on my own, or so I thought until age 46, when Lela showed up to one of my <a contents="gigs" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-5" target="_blank">gigs</a> and dropped a DNA bomb on my self-made origin story. </p>
<p>I wonder what <a contents="Mr. Stockdale" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/snapshots-part-3-tangle" target="_blank">Mr. Stockdale</a> would think of all this. I didn't fully appreciated those <a contents="MACOS" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man:_A_Course_of_Study" target="_blank">MACOS</a> nature/nurture lectures at Brookstone until this moment.</p>
<p>After Lela returned home to Michigan we took up where we had left off as penpals. She shared more wild yarns about <a contents="America McGee" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-4" target="_blank">America McGee</a> (whose very existence I doubted), but the primary focus of our correspondence had now shifted to our shared interest in music.</p>
<p>“When you were singing, who were your influences?” I asked. “Any favorite artists or albums?” </p>
<p>“Well, if you ever get a chance to hear a record that Nancy Wilson made with Cannonball Adderley, that one is very special to me,” she replied. “I played that album to death when it came out and learned all of it by heart. I was probably singing those songs while you were in the womb!” <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/28488fe933a1fd678c598663eba068702c9667cb/original/61othmmbotl-sl1200.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>This revelation struck me like a thunderbolt. To find out that a classic jazz recording I’ve admired and enjoyed all my life <em>also</em> happened to be formative and personally significant for my mother? Damn. I wondered how much more we might have in common. </p>
<p>Lela must have been curious about this as well, because a few days later a Zune portable media player arrived in the mail with this note: </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Here’s my music collection. <br>This will tell you more about me <br>than words can ever say.</strong><br> </p>
<p>She was right. Her cherished music encompassed many genres, from classical to country to jazz and blues, and I loved all of it. Our likes were so eerily similar, in fact, that it would feel self-congratulatory to compliment her excellent taste.</p>
<p>The overlap in our music libraries was uncanny. Of the several thousand songs and artists in Lela’s playlist, nearly all were already prized plums in my own collection. She sent Sarah Vaughan with Michel Legrand, Elly Ameling singing Schubert, Ahmad Jamal <em>Live At The Pershing</em>, Chet Baker on Pacific Jazz, <em>all</em> the Ella Fitzgerald songbooks, John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman, Patsy Cline <em>Showcase</em>, Anita O’Day <em>Travelin’ Light</em>, nearly everything Miles Davis did in the 1950s and ’60s, some recent recordings by Diana Krall and Shirley Horn, and soooo much Nancy Wilson, clearly her favorite. Lela even included Willie Nelson’s cover of “Stardust!” Amazing. </p>
<p>Only a handful of the artists in her list were new to me (Jo Stafford, Helen Forrest, June Christie) and their songs resonated so deeply that they immediately became part of the soundtrack of my life. Driving around the Lonesome Desert at night, listening to my mother’s favorite music, made me feel a profound sense of connection to her in spite of the fact that we were basically strangers to one another.<br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/779abd59cbf9efb93e7c04859a3438c3621ed6b3/original/desert-at-night.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>I met Lela only once more. </p>
<p>In April 2014, while on tour in Michigan, Sassy and I accepted an invitation to visit her at home in rural Potterville.</p>
<p>Lela and Bill Horton (of <a contents="Mr. Bill’s Adventureland" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://www.mrbillsadventureland.com/" target="_blank">Mr. Bill’s Adventureland</a>), her husband of 23 years, received us warmly. Lela even cooked biscuits and gravy for us! Sitting there at my mother’s kitchen table, watching her fix me breakfast for the first and only time in my life, flooded me with conflicting emotions. Gratitude. Wonder. Comfort. Melancholy. Loss. </p>
<p>After our meal Bill gave us a tour of the rambling, ramshackle Horton house. The place was a packrat’s dream, filled to the rafters with papers, boxes, books, knickknacks, old computers, oxygen tanks, medical supplies and more. As Bill led us from room to room, Lela toddled behind, randomly tidying up and apologizing. “We don’t get many visitors.” <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/4fd6373e334f6455d660334953976bdca382737b/original/biscuits-and-gravy.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>I remember thinking how beautiful it was, that this frail and fragile couple were lovingly taking care of one another in their declining years. Will Sassy and I do the same? </p>
<p>Bill was especially eager to show me their collection of records, tapes and compact discs. Lela had already sent me MP3s of most of it except for one major omission: the Hortons had amassed an impressive, damn near comprehensive stockpile of Dmitri Matheny CDs!</p>
<p>I was astonished. Not only did they own all my albums as a leader, they'd also somehow acquired a bunch of sideman recordings from my early years in San Francisco. Seeing this stash of obscure, out-of-print discs, I realized that Lela and Bill must have been quietly following my career for years, buying each new recording at the time of its release, long before I found Lela online. </p>
<p>Flattering, yes, but also infuriating. I’ve had a website since 1995. Lela obviously knew where I was and what I was doing. Why had she never contacted me? I’ll likely never know.</p>
<p>In August 2018 I received a phone call from Bill Horton letting me know that <a contents="my mother" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.prayfuneral.com/obituaries/Lela-Horton-2/#!/Obituary" target="_blank">my mother</a><a contents="my mother had died" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.prayfuneral.com/obituaries/Lela-Horton-2/#!/Obituary" target="_blank"> had died</a>. He didn’t mention her cause of death, but I assume it was severe emphysema after a lifetime of smoking. </p>
<p>“I also wanted to tell you that some years ago Lela and her brother inherited a parcel of land on a mountain near Chattanooga,” Bill said. “They sold it and she put her half of the money into a Vanguard account. You’re listed as beneficiary after I die. I’ll send you the paperwork.”</p>
<p>I remembered Lela's cryptic “mountaintop inheritance” call back in the 1980s. How about that? Another mystery solved.</p>
<p>I'm grateful that Lela and Bill Horton had so many good years together, and glad I had the chance to visit them before she died. Bill and I have stayed in touch since Lela’s passing and I’m glad. I’ve come to think of him as part of the extended family, especially now that both my mother and father are gone from this world.</p>
<p>The other day Bill sent me an antique sepia photograph. </p>
<p>“Lela would want you to have this,” he said. </p>
<p>“It’s a picture of your great-great-grandmother ... <a contents="Matilda America McGee" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://mcgeefamilyhistory.com/showmedia.php?&mediaID=137&medialinkID=95&page=2" target="_blank">Matilda America McGee</a>.”</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/539c09448bdf7b8bb9406ca2ce288e45a1e531b2/original/mcgee.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: right;">MEETING LELA<br>Part 1 — <a contents="The Frosty Frog" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-1" target="_blank">The Frosty Frog</a><br>Part 2 — <a contents="Chattanooga" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-2" target="_blank">Chattanooga</a><br>Part 3 — <a contents="Adventure Land" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-3" target="_blank">Adventureland</a><br>Part 4 — <a contents="America McGee" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-4" target="_blank">America McGee</a><br>Part 5 — <a contents="Music Under The Stars" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-5" target="_blank">Under The Stars</a><br>Part 6 — <a contents="Gifts" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-6" target="_blank">Gifts</a><br>Part 7 — <a contents="Biscuits &amp; Gravy" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-7" target="_blank">Biscuits & Gravy</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/67391472021-09-07T17:03:43-07:002021-09-13T18:27:23-07:00MEETING LELA | PART 6 — GIFTS<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“All of us labor in webs spun<br>long before we were born.” </strong><br><em>—William Faulkner</em></span><em> </em><br> </p>
<p>The next morning I asked Lela the question that had kept me awake most of the night. “Same repertoire? What did you mean by that?” </p>
<p>She smiled. “Well, you played <em>Stormy Weather</em>, <em>My One And Only Love</em>, and <em>I’m Beginning To See The Light</em> ... I did all those same tunes!” </p>
<p>“What do you mean, you <em>did </em>those tunes?” I asked. “When? How? Where?” </p>
<p>Her face registered genuine surprise. “You knew I was a singer, didn’t you?” </p>
<p>“No, ma’am. I mean, I found some pictures of you in high school,” I stammered, “you know, singing musical theater stuff, but…” </p>
<p>“Oh, honey! I was a<em> jazz</em> singer! Your father used to come to my gigs. That’s how we met!” she laughed. “Where did you think your <em>gifts</em> came from?” </p>
<p>You could have knocked me over with a feather. </p>
<p>“Lela, honestly, I always figured it was Dad’s record collection that set me on this path. <em>Sketches of Spain</em>, <em>Round About Midnight</em>, <em>Kind of Blue</em>…” </p>
<p>“Ooh, that’s just like him!” she interrupted, shaking her head. “First of all, those were <em>my</em> Miles Davis records.” She paused a moment. “He never told you? Really?” <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/235298d60c6c7222db6e51e4ac6495fa865cd703/original/miles-turntable.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>Nope. He told me you were crazy. He said you were a criminal. He said you “ran off in the middle of the night” and told me we were better off without you. But no, he never once mentioned anything about you singing jazz. </p>
<p>Was it even true? Or was this just another of Lela’s tall tales? </p>
<p>I was determined to find out. After she returned home to the midwest, I drove out to Daddy Bill's Hermit House to see if I could verify her story. I was a man on a mission. The three-hour drive through the Lonesome Desert gave me plenty of time to consider how I might broach the subject with my old man.</p>
<p>I arrived in the late afternoon to find him hunched over a bucket on his front porch, methodically shelling and cracking pecans with his blistered, blackened fingers. Pecan trees grew wild in the scrubby chaparral of Graham County. It had become Dad’s habit to harvest the nuts each autumn and gift large bags of them to family and friends during the winter holidays. I admired his resourcefulness.</p>
<p>“Hey Bub!” Daddy Bill greeted me cheerily. “You’re just in time.” </p>
<p>He handed me a Sam Adams from the cooler. “Don't tell the Mormons,” he said with a wink.</p>
<p>Another glorious Arizona sunset.<br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/9d35041a65e1e630d185fe8f79129a44284c43fd/original/pecan-sunset.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>“So. Dad. How did it feel to see Lela again after all these years?” </p>
<p>He gazed thoughtfully into the distance. “Welp. She got old.” </p>
<p>“You and I aren’t getting any younger either,” I laughed. “Anyway, did y’all have a good talk at the concert?” </p>
<p>“She did most of the talking,” he said, adding “you know how she is.” He kicked a pile of pecan shells off the porch.</p>
<p>“Right. Listen, Dad. Lela told me she used to be a jazz singer.” </p>
<p>My father rolled his eyes. “Aww, she was what we used to call a <em>torch </em>singer. But that was a long time ago. Before you were born.” </p>
<p>“So it’s true?” I asked, astonished. “You didn't think your son -- the musician -- might want to know about that?” </p>
<p>“Why would you care?” he said dismissively. “She wasn’t a big deal or anything. She just sang in nightclubs with her little combo.” </p>
<p>Unbelievable. </p>
<p><strong>“Dad…what exactly do you think I do for a living?” </strong></p>
<p style="text-align: right;">MEETING LELA<br>Part 1 — <a contents="The Frosty Frog" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-1" target="_blank">The Frosty Frog</a><br>Part 2 — <a contents="Chattanooga" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-2" target="_blank">Chattanooga</a><br>Part 3 — <a contents="Adventure Land" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-3" target="_blank">Adventureland</a><br>Part 4 —<a contents="&nbsp;America McGee" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-4" target="_blank"> America McGee</a><br>Part 5 — <a contents="Music Under The Stars" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-5" target="_blank">Under The Stars</a><br>Part 6 — <a contents="Gifts" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-6" target="_blank">Gifts</a><br>Part 7 — <a contents="Biscuits &amp; Gravy" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-7" target="_blank">Biscuits & Gravy</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/67297472021-08-28T10:56:41-07:002021-09-13T18:28:04-07:00MEETING LELA | PART 5 — UNDER THE STARS<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“The only thing new in the world<br>is the history you do not know.”</strong> <br><em>—Harry S. Truman</em></span><br> </p>
<p>Since Lela’s last <a contents="Irish goodbye" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-1" target="_blank">Irish goodbye</a>, I’d grown up, moved out, finished high school in Michigan, graduated from college in Massachusetts, lived in California for twenty years, and traveled all over the world. I’d made my bones, married, divorced, and moved on. Suffice to say, it had been awhile. </p>
<p>Then in 2009 I returned to the Lonesome Desert with my girlfriend Sassy. Daddy Bill’s health had taken a turn for the worse, so I bought us a house in a bedroom community outside of Phoenix and fixed up a room for him. He would often come to visit but always left after a day or two, stubbornly refusing to move in. “I don’t want to be a burden,” Daddy Bill said. “Besides, I prefer my little Hermit House by the Pinaleños.” <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/4a6f183c120ac55295e8ebcf01fd6bf2ae16ef3a/original/1.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> </p>
<p>In October 2012 the Dmitri Matheny Group played <em>Music Under The Stars</em> in Tucson. The open air concert felt like a homecoming. Presented by the very jazz society that gave me my first scholarship when I was fifteen, the event was held at Tohono Chul Park, my not-so-secret hideout during the CDO years. I’d spent many soul-restoring hours in the desert gardens of Tohono Chul back in the day, and I had returned to the Old Pueblo many times over the years for concerts. But this event was special. Both my father and biological mother were in the audience. <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/eda50b0c836aefc2d58b3c013358e75c536ea361/original/2.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>The show was a grand success. The crowd was warmly receptive and our performance could not have gone better. I was so proud of my band, especially Akira Tana, who’d flown in from California for the occasion. But the great highlight, for me, was re-introducing Dad and Lela to one another after the show. </p>
<p>“Well, I’ll be damned,” Daddy Bill said upon seeing Lela. “I thought you were <em>dead</em>.” </p>
<p>“I thought <em>you</em> were dead,” Lela replied. </p>
<p>Delightful.</p>
<p>I left them alone to chat a bit while I packed up my gear and settled up with the band. Eventually the old man hit the road back to Hermit House, and I returned home with Sass and our surprise overnight guest. </p>
<p>Back at the Maricopa Cabana, Lela and I sat side-by-side on the living room sofa. Tee many martunis later, story time was in full effect. For all her past reticence, my mother was now a free-flowing fountain of information, and for once, not just about America McGee. <em>In vino veritas! </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/79e42e3223bb1746202bc98064b399ca5529f299/original/4-late-lela.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> </p>
<p>To summarize, Lela never wanted children but she loved my father and “decided to give him a son.” It was an especially difficult and prolonged pregnancy. Lela was in labor for days. The delivery, when it finally came on Christmas Day 1965, nearly destroyed us both. I was a breach birth. The doctor had to extract me with forceps. My father cried when he saw my misshapen skull. Everyone feared I might not survive. Eventually my head retained its natural shape, however, and I turned out to be perfectly healthy. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/cd59115878c7480e988013b8897564d13b1b1c40/original/miracle-baby.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>“You were my miracle baby,” Lela smiled, shaking her head, “but you nearly killed me. I never blamed you, of course. But I had to get the hell out of there.” It was the closest thing to an explanation I’d ever heard. </p>
<p>We continued to talk and imbibe into the wee hours until both of us were slurring our speech. When we finally called it a night, Lela was a little wobbly on her feet, so I gathered her bony frame in my arms and carried her down the hall to the guest bedroom. I could scarcely believe that this little old woman, this tiny weightless bird, had ever given birth to anyone. </p>
<p>“Oh, about your concert,” she mumbled as I turned out the light.</p>
<p><strong>“You and I do a lot of the same repertoire.”</strong></p>
<p style="text-align: right;">MEETING LELA<br>Part 1 — <a contents="The Frosty Frog" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-1" target="_blank">The Frosty Frog</a><br>Part 2 — <a contents="Chattanooga" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-2" target="_blank">Chattanooga</a><br>Part 3 — <a contents="Adventure Land" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-3" target="_blank">Adventureland</a><br>Part 4 — <a contents="America McGee" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-4" target="_blank">America McGee</a><br>Part 5 — <a contents="Music Under The Stars" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-5" target="_blank">Under The Stars</a><br>Part 6 — <a contents="Gifts" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-6" target="_blank">Gifts</a><br>Part 7 — <a contents="Biscuits &amp; Gravy" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-7" target="_blank">Biscuits & Gravy</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/67252102021-08-23T20:03:07-07:002021-09-13T18:28:24-07:00MEETING LELA | PART 4 — AMERICA McGEE<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“Myths are lies and therefore worthless,” CS Lewis told <br>JRR Tolkien, “even though breathed through silver.” <br>“No,” Tolkien replied, “they are not lies.</strong></span>”<span class="font_small"><strong> </strong><br>—Joseph Pearce </span><br> </p>
<p>“Dmitri, I can’t believe it! How on earth did you find me!!?” </p>
<p>How indeed! I cannot account for the bizarre sequence of events that led me to <a contents="Mr. Bill’s Adventureland" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://www.mrbillsadventureland.com/" target="_blank">Mr. Bill’s Adventureland</a>, nor can I rationally explain how I knew that Mr. Bill’s Lela and mine were one and the same. But somehow, whether by fate, synchronicity or merely coincidence, at the age of 43 I became penpals with my long lost mother. </p>
<p>We didn’t converse so much as trade soliloquies. She ignored my questions, so I volunteered details from my own life hoping she might respond in kind. I told her about my successful music career and failed marriage. I shared all my hopes, dreams and fears. </p>
<p>Lela answered these confessional data dumps with imaginative tall tales in which distant relations appeared as folk heroes. Often embedded within these homespun legends were non sequiturs of a more personal nature (e.g. “the scent of oranges always reminds me of Christmas”). I jumped at these crumbs like a starving orphan.</p>
<p>One day an envelope arrived with no letter at all. Inside were a one page single-spaced typewritten genealogy labeled “The Brown Family” and two photos. In one of the images a group of adults stands in a distant row facing the camera. On the back, in crayon block letters, they are identified as “(L-R) Mama Zulah, Brownie, Jo, Allene, Sissy, Evelyn, Frances, Sara, Jim, Willard.” The reverse of the other photo, a mother with two children, is annotated in Lela's handwriting, “I was about 8 and my little brother was 6 when this was taken, so it was about 1950.”</p>
<p><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/a0ec68f0eb9931050876f20763d0e70643e9bbbb/original/2-relations.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />(</p>
<p><br>A close study of The Brown Family genealogy reveals “Mama Zulah” to be Lela's maternal grandmother. Following is the final paragraph, together with Lela's pencil notations in bold italics: “<strong>James Andrew Jackson Brown </strong>(1877-1961) <em><strong>PAPA</strong> </em>son of William J. and Sarah Catherine, married Cornie Perdue around 1900. They had 2 children, V. R. (Brownie) 1904- and Vera Estelle (Sissy) 1906-. After the death of Cornie, James Andrew married <strong>Zulah Estes Cummings</strong> (1888-1963) <strong><em>MAMA</em></strong> in 1908. She was the daughter of Nancy Docia Brown who was the 13th child of Jeremiah Brown and Nancy Hodges Brown. Jeremiah Brown was the great grandfather of James Andrew and the grandfather of Zulah. James Andrew and Zulah had 7 children, Evelyn 1909-, <strong>Allene</strong> 1912-1972 <em><strong>MY MOM, 5 FEET TALL, BIG BOOBS, TINY WAIST</strong></em>, Josephine 1913-, Frances 1920, Sara 1923, <strong>James Andrew Jr.</strong> 1927- <em><strong>MY UNCLE WWII PURPLE HEART</strong></em> and Willard 1929-1977.”</p>
<p>This convoluted “kissing cousins” report represents the sum total of what I know about Lela's roots. More often than not her letters would only recount the superhuman exploits of America McGee, the larger-than-life (and likely imaginary) Native American ancestor who, according to family lore, worked miracles, healed the sick, communed with animals and angels, predicted future events, and inspired everyone in the community with her wise counsel.</p>
<p>I doubted the very existence of this messianic figure, but eventually came to appreciate her significance as a mythic hero. Fictional or not, America McGee was my mother’s personal avatar, the embodiment of her highest aspirations. Perhaps McGee was, to Lela, what the Green Lantern is to me. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/45a542fd50d9ef7b050a42818cb6843bf8eb9556/original/green-lantern.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>I’ve never had much use for religion but I must admit to enjoying these quasi-biblical stories a bit more after having experienced McGee’s magic for myself. After all, a Google search on her name was the <a contents="deus ex machina" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-3" target="_blank"><em>deus ex machina</em></a> that brought Lela and me together again. Even if I never find confirmation of America McGee as an actual historical figure, I will always be grateful to her mythos for moving our plot along. #AmericaMacGuffin </p>
<p>Every once and awhile my mother would let her guard down and reveal something personal. I briefly regarded each of these revelations as precious nuggets of truth until they, too, were inevitably contradicted by Lela herself.</p>
<p>For example, in one of her letters, Lela cast herself as a child prodigy and honor student who “tested at the genius level” and graduated from a prestigious university while still a teenager. In another she appears as a college dropout who never took school seriously and scandalized everyone by “running off with a professor” during her freshman year. In yet a third version of events Lela skips college entirely, having been recruited right out of high school to join a prestigious national advertising firm as a professional commercial artist. </p>
<p>Lela mentioned my father exactly twice. “Bill Matheny was a hopeless romantic,” she complained, “and I was his child bride. He smothered me with too much affection.” In a subsequent email she wrote “The man never said I love you, and I was the kind of girl who needed to hear that from time to time.” </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/31920519d4f5900a7958e0ee84cfb77b34755f10/original/pipe-and-puppies.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>Bill Matheny: Hopeless Romantic?</em></span> <br> </p>
<p>The two of us corresponded regularly for the next four years.</p>
<p>When you consider the sheer volume of words we exchanged, it’s really quite remarkable how little I learned about my mother’s actual thoughts, feelings or life experiences. Her fraught relationship with the truth was frustrating, but after so many years of silence, I was grateful for any contact at all. </p>
<p>Then, in October 2012, Lela called with big news: </p>
<p><strong>“I bought an airline ticket today,” she said. “I’m coming to your next show.” </strong></p>
<p style="text-align: right;">MEETING LELA<br>Part 1 — <a contents="The Frosty Frog" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-1" target="_blank">The Frosty Frog</a><br>Part 2 — <a contents="Chattanooga" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-2" target="_blank">Chattanooga</a><br>Part 3 — <a contents="Adventure Land" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-3" target="_blank">Adventureland</a><br>Part 4 — <a contents="America McGee" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-4" target="_blank">America McGee</a><br>Part 5 — <a contents="Music Under The Stars" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-5" target="_blank">Under The Stars</a><br>Part 6 — <a contents="Gifts" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-6" target="_blank">Gifts</a><br>Part 7 — <a contents="Biscuits &amp; Gravy" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-7" target="_blank">Biscuits & Gravy</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/67188022021-08-16T16:49:27-07:002021-08-16T16:53:29-07:00BILL MATHENY on LONELINESS<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/458d7e43f9aa368cde4f65eeb1ee0474875c5e4c/original/dad.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>“In Toni Morrison’s wonderful novel <em>Beloved</em>, one of the black men from Sweet Home -- can’t remember whether it’s Paul D. or Stamp Paid -- says there are two kinds of loneliness.</p>
<p>One kind is the loneliness that looks inward, rocks back and forth, sits and stares at the walls, finally just curls into the fetal position and withdraws from the world. The other kind is<em> roaming </em>loneliness. That’s where the feet can’t keep still. This kind of loneliness just keeps roaming around the country. </p>
<p>Well, I’ve had the first kind of loneliness. It’s hell. It ain’t very healthful either. </p>
<p>From now on I’ll take roaming loneliness. At least it’s <u>alive</u>! </p>
<p>At least that.”</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/67126832021-08-10T16:03:22-07:002021-09-13T18:29:01-07:00MEETING LELA | PART 3 — ADVENTURELAND<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“Truth is not only <br>stranger than fiction, <br>it is more interesting.” </strong><br>—William Randolph Hearst </span><br> </p>
<p>After the Tennessee trip I called my father.</p>
<p>“Did you know that Lela was serious about <em>music </em>when she was<em> </em>in high school? She performed in musical theater, was a soloist in the choir, and sang standards in talent shows around Chattanooga. You never thought to mention any of this to your son, the professional musician?” </p>
<p>Daddy Bill shrugged.</p>
<p>As fate would have it, Larissa and I divorced before ever having children, and I eventually lost interest in the mental and medical histories of my extended family. If crazy is in my genes, so be it.</p>
<p>But I remained curious about the length and depth of Lela’s relationship with music. When and how did she get her start? Did she continue to sing after high school? Is music still important to her? And does she know my work?</p>
<p>...now here's where the story really gets weird...</p>
<p>It’s 2008 on a rainy winter evening in San Francisco and I have insomnia. My South of Market loft is dark except for the glow of a single lamp and the faint flicker of a black and white movie on the tube. It’s Bogie and Bacall in a film I’ve seen many times. The volume is off but the images keep me company as I sip my scotch and surf the web. </p>
<p>As usual during these liminal moments between work and sleep, I start out with benign intentions (checking the weather forecast, perhaps, or looking up a recipe) but eventually my online meanderings devolve into mindless consumption of celebrity gossip. </p>
<p>I’m half in the bag when I notice that Marlowe is just about to enter the casino where Vivian Rutledge is singing. This is one of my favorite scenes, second only to Dorothy Malone in the bookshop, so I turn up the volume and listen. <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/5bf3837a04a1e4a9e722b94d91805ef0a2ed15a7/original/1.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br><strong>And her tears flowed like wine, <br>Yes her tears flowed like wine. <br>She’s a real sad tomato, <br>She’s a busted valentine. </strong></em><br> </p>
<p>I dig Bacall’s relaxed, cool delivery and the meaningful looks she exchanges with Bogie. Something in her casual manner reminds me of Lela sitting atop that piano singing “The Man That Got Away.”<br><br>It’s been a while since I last searched for Lela online so I decide to give it another go. I plug every iteration of her name into the ancestry sites and search engines: Lela <em>Ault</em> (maiden name), Lela <em>Matheny</em> (married name), even Lela <em>Conte </em>(the name of her late husband), but no luck. I don’t know her precise age, social security number, where she lives, which last name she now uses, or even if she is still alive. My cyber-sleuthing has once again hit a dead end. </p>
<p>I’m about to give up entirely when I remember <em>America McGee</em>, the outlandish (and most likely imaginary) ancestor character from Lela’s shaggy dog stories back in ’79. On a lark I type that name into the search bar.</p>
<p>No joy, however, Google takes me to the Wikipedia page for <a contents="American McGee" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_McGee" target="_blank"><em>American</em> McGee</a>, a video game designer. From there I bounce through various tech and gaming sites until I randomly arrive at <a contents="Mr. Bill’s Adventureland" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://www.mrbillsadventureland.com/" target="_blank">Mr. Bill’s Adventureland</a>, a multiplayer adventure game review site. By this point I've stopped looking for Lela; now I’m just aimlessly web surfing.</p>
<p>I’ve never been very interested in games of any kind, but for some reason I feel compelled to continue down this particular rabbit hole. I linger on the site for about an hour, reading all Mr. Bill’s reviews ... clicking, reading, then clicking again ... until I happen to land on the curious phrase “my wife Lela” — and I freeze. </p>
<p>I know that there are thousands of women named Lela all over the world. I’m well aware of this. But somehow, at this moment, I can just feel it in my bones: this is she.This one is my mother. </p>
<p>Without hesitating I click the <em>contact</em><em> </em>button and write the following message: “Hi Mr. Bill, great website! I believe your wife Lela and I may know one another. Please give her my greetings. Sincerely, Dmitri Matheny<i>.</i>”</p>
<p>I hit <em>send</em> and immediately fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.</p>
<p>When I awaken a few hours later, I see this response from Mrs. Lela Horton in rural Michigan:</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Dmitri, I can't believe it!<br>How on earth did you find me!!?</em></strong></p>
<p style="text-align: right;">MEETING LELA<br>Part 1 — <a contents="The Frosty Frog" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-1" target="_blank">The Frosty Frog</a><br>Part 2 — <a contents="Chattanooga" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-2" target="_blank">Chattanooga</a><br>Part 3 — <a contents="Adventure Land" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-3" target="_blank">Adventureland</a><br>Part 4 — <a contents="America McGee" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-4" target="_blank">America McGee</a><br>Part 5 — <a contents="Music Under The Stars" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-5" target="_blank">Under The Stars</a><br>Part 6 — <a contents="Gifts" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-6" target="_blank">Gifts</a><br>Part 7 — <a contents="Biscuits &amp; Gravy" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-7" target="_blank">Biscuits & Gravy</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/67061692021-08-03T18:34:54-07:002021-09-13T18:29:23-07:00MEETING LELA | PART 2 — CHATTANOOGA<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“It’s good to know where you come from. <br>It makes you what you are today. <br>It’s DNA. It’s in your blood.” </strong><br>—Alexander McQueen </span><br> </p>
<p>In 1984 I was at boarding school in Michigan when my father called from Arizona to tell me about a long-distance phone call he had received from my mother. </p>
<p>Her husband Tom had died after a prolonged bout with cancer. Now a widow in her forties, Lela was back in college studying to become a registered nurse. The reason (or pretense?) for her call was to ask for my social security number. Apparently she was updating her will and wanted to list me as beneficiary. </p>
<p>“But you know how Lela is,” Dad said. “According to her you stand to inherit <em>a mountain top</em> of all things! I promised I’d let you know … even though it’s probably horseshit.” </p>
<p>“Wait, where is she?” I asked my dad. </p>
<p>“Did you get an address? What’s her phone number?” </p>
<p>I already knew what he would say.</p>
<p>“Naw, I didn’t ask. Why do you care? She’s crazy!” </p>
<p>Same old stubborn Daddy Bill.</p>
<p>I didn’t press him. Ever since Lela’s Irish goodbye in '79, I’d grown increasingly ambivalent about her. I had many questions, but it was clear to me that they would never be answered by her or by my father. </p>
<p>A few years later just before my college graduation, Dad came to visit me in Boston. He’d recently divorced wife number four and he wanted to take me on a road trip.</p>
<p>We spent two weeks exploring New England, including one of his favorite birding spots, Mt. Desert Island off the coast of Maine. I would sit on the rocks for hours, playing my horn over the Atlantic, while Dad studied the flora and fauna of Acadia National Park. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/140a4d31d7f689960e7b9560a07378d3a3631257/original/1-acadia-national-park-mt-desert-island-1988.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">Dmitri Matheny - Mt. Desert Island, Maine | Summer 1988</span></p>
<p><br>In the evenings we’d enjoy delicious seafood dinners in Bar Harbor before retiring to our hotel, where we’d crack open a Sam Adams and reminisce. Perhaps because I’d been away for several years at Interlochen and Berklee, Dad was uncharacteristically talkative, so I took the opportunity to steer our conversation to wife number two, hoping to learn a little more about their brief time together and my own origin story. </p>
<p>I noticed that if I asked Dad a direct question (“How did you and Lela meet?”) he would abruptly change the subject, but if I introduced the topic in a more oblique way (“Where did you live before I was born?”) he would begin to wax nostalgic and eventually would find his own way to Lela-land. </p>
<p>I’ve forgotten much of what Dad told me during these late night chin wags, but I do recall him saying that Lela was raised in Chattanooga, not by her parents but by “two old maid aunts in a big house with white columns.” Apparently Lela and several members of her family (the Aults) had experienced “nervous breakdowns” and were “taken to the nut house.” Dad also mentioned a schizophrenic and homeless uncle who was known to wander the streets naked. “Every year they’d find him, clean him up, get him dressed, and bring him to Thanksgiving Dinner,” Dad said, shaking his head, adding “that whole family was crazy.” </p>
<p>I didn’t give these accounts much credence, chalking them up to a combination of heartbreak, hearsay, and hyperbole, but a few years later, when I repeated these stories to my fiancée in California, she expressed concern. “It’s important for us to know the medical history on both sides of your family,” Larissa explained, “especially since we want kids of our own.”</p>
<p>I agreed, so Lara and I traveled to Tennessee on a Lela fact-finding mission. We didn’t learn much about the family but we did find out a few revelatory things about my mother's adolescence.</p>
<p>In the microfiche archives of the Chattanooga Public Library we found the obituary for Lela’s paternal grandmother and namesake, Lela Elizabeth Ault (born Bryson) 1878-1953.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d5b93b393082691515027f78da3feca68123ee7c/original/66691320-131154383099.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">Lela Bryson Ault<br>July 26, 1878<br>Dec 12, 1953</span></p>
<p><br>Since the article included an address for the Ault family home, we drove over to take a look and, sure enough, it was a big house with white columns, looking like something straight out of <em>Gone With The Wind</em>. We knocked on the door but no-one answered. </p>
<p>Returning to the library we discovered my mother’s Chattanooga High School yearbooks. What a find! In official school portraits between 1957 and 1960, we see Lela Ault transform from a cute, mischievous girl into a mature, sophisticated young woman right before our eyes. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/760c102dbd0a874933844f9eeed9e50d88cc0a88/original/2-1957-58-1958-59-1959-60.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">Lela Ault - Chattanooga High School, Tennessee<br>(L-R) 1957-58, 1958-59, 1959-60</span></p>
<p><br>Her senior photo, in particular, is striking. There’s something deadly serious and almost defiant in her expression. At eighteen she already appears to be someone of substance, and the arts-centric bio blurb beneath the image supports this impression.</p>
<p>It turns out that Lela Ault was not only a visual artist in high school, but a prolific singer and performer as well. Who knew?! She sang in the choir and cantata, was a featured soloist in several student talent shows, and appeared in musical theater productions of <em>Porgy & Bess</em>, <em>The Pajama Game</em> and <em>A Star Is Born</em>. Moreover, as a member of the art service and specialty clubs, she was invited to perform off campus for various civic organizations around town. </p>
<p>Prior to this moment I had no idea that Lela was a music person. In media interviews, whenever I was asked if I came from a musical family, I always answered “not especially” and credited my father’s excellent record collection as the catalyst for my career in jazz. I was raised to believe that nurture, not nature, had set me on this path.</p>
<p>But here, in the pages of a midcentury high school yearbook, was new evidence that I could not ignore: photos of my biological mother on stage, five years before my birth, singing jazz standards by George Gershwin and Harold Arlen. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/6d2a2b6b0f670f983e6adcb3caddf6ead70c441f/original/3-summertime-gershwin-heyward-the-man-that-got-away-arlen-gershwin.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small">Lela Ault - Chattanooga High School, Tennessee | 1959-60<br>Singing "Summertime" and "The Man That Got Away"</span><br> </p>
<p>A few days later we visited Daddy Bill's side of the family in Cookeville, Tullahoma, and Nashville.</p>
<p>“Did you know that Lela was a singer?” I asked my Aunt Maxine. </p>
<p>“Oh, she had a lovely voice,” she replied. “We all thought so.” </p>
<p style="text-align: right;">MEETING LELA<br>Part 1 — <a contents="The Frosty Frog" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-1" target="_blank">The Frosty Frog</a><br>Part 2 — <a contents="Chattanooga" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-2" target="_blank">Chattanooga</a><br>Part 3 — <a contents="Adventure Land" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-3" target="_blank">Adventureland</a><br>Part 4 — <a contents="America McGee" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-4" target="_blank">America McGee</a><br>Part 5 — <a contents="Music Under The Stars" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-5" target="_blank">Under The Stars</a><br>Part 6 — <a contents="Gifts" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-6" target="_blank">Gifts</a><br>Part 7 — <a contents="Biscuits &amp; Gravy" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-7" target="_blank">Biscuits & Gravy</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/66971512021-07-24T08:03:05-07:002021-09-13T18:30:00-07:00MEETING LELA | PART 1 — THE FROSTY FROG<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“Sometimes I feel like a motherless child, <br>a long, long way from home.” </strong><br><em>—Traditional </em></span></p>
<p><br>When I was a kid in Tennessee and Georgia I knew very little about my mother. </p>
<p>I knew her name. “Lela Matheny” was written in ballpoint pen on the inside cover of all our books. I knew she was a talented artist, too. We had several of her framed oil paintings hanging on our walls. And I knew she was movie-star beautiful. Although Dad was reluctant to speak of Lela, he did give me a single photo of her which I treasured and kept hidden away in a drawer. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d5f0640a3fb878b36451f25c5749f09e65648a85/original/2.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">“Lela Matheny” was written in ballpoint pen on the inside cover of all our books.</span></p>
<p>The only other thing I knew about Lela was that she broke my father’s heart. </p>
<p>“Shortly after you were born,” Dad explained, “Lela ran off with her lover in the middle of the night. They took my car and went to Mexico. Lela got herself a Mexican divorce and a Mexican marriage to the other guy. As far as I know, they’re still together.” He would repeat this story many times over the years, always emphasizing the words “<em>Mexican</em> divorce” and “<em>Mexican</em> marriage” as if that particular detail somehow signified illegitimacy or proved how unjustly he’d been treated. </p>
<p>If I felt any sadness over losing Lela I certainly wasn’t aware of it. I didn’t remember her, so how could I miss her? I was a happy kid with a loving father and a revolving door of kind female caregivers. But I was understandably curious about the woman who gave birth to me. I wondered where she was, why she left, what her life was like now. </p>
<p>Whenever I asked my Dad these things, he would repeat his “Lela ran off” refrain, and would shut down any follow-up questions with “Aw, you don’t want to know about her! She’s crazy!” <br> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3049d28e67fc7d92585f0924b34e6570d949505b/original/2.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small">I was understandably curious about the woman who gave birth to me.</span></p>
<p><br>As far as I knew our only contact with Lela was the birthday card I received each year at Christmas. There were never any messages inside, just “Love, Lela” in the same familiar handwriting. There were never any return addresses on the envelopes, either, but I always noticed the postmarks. Each year the card would arrive from a different place: Key West, Seattle, New York, Santa Fe, Ann Arbor. </p>
<p>“Looks like Lela’s in Bozeman, Montana,” I said to Daddy Bill after my thirteenth birthday. “Why do you suppose she moves around so much?” </p>
<p>I expected his customary evasiveness, but this time the old man surprised me. “Son, you’re old enough to know that your mother’s husband is a federal criminal,” Dad said soberly. “They have to keep moving because they’re <em>on the lam.</em> Tom is wanted by the feds.” </p>
<p>“No kidding?” I asked. “What did he do?” </p>
<p>“Mail order fraud,” Dad replied. “He sells fake chinchilla furs or somesuch.” </p>
<p>I had no clue what a chinchilla was, but the notion that half my DNA might come from a mysterious, beautiful, crazy, vagabond artist/criminal? The idea intrigued me. I needed to meet this person.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/9243b60e1eece6e34e8eecbcf1346299bb6d13e2/original/e46b0ded965f307ec356fc2d875c5de0.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">"He sells fake chinchilla furs or somesuch."</span></p>
<p>It’s the summer of 1979 in Tucson, Arizona, and I’m living it up in our new Catalina Foothills apartment. Dad is teaching summer school so I have my run of the place. I get to sleep late and have friends over. We do whatever we want, when we want, free from adult supervision.</p>
<p>Our activities are fairly harmless: we crank up the air conditioner, make giant Dagwood sandwiches, drink gallons of sun tea, and watch creature features on the tube. We listen to records in the <a contents="Den of Iniquity" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/snapshots-part-5-chevy-man" target="_blank">Den of Iniquity</a>. Sometimes we ride our bikes down to the Circle K for <em>Mad </em>magazines and microwave burritos, or head over to the Coronado clubhouse to play air hockey and gawk at the high school girls sunning themselves by the pool. </p>
<p>Any self-esteem I lost at <a contents="Marana" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/snapshots-part-3-tangle" target="_blank">Marana</a> has been fully replenished. I now have friends, freedom and, thanks to my paperboy job, plenty of spending money. As if I needed any additional ego boost, they’ve been saying my name on the radio lately (“trumpet solo by Dmitri Matheny”) because I’m playing the mariachi classic “<a contents="La Paloma" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/RgjdTAkLWDU?t=28" target="_blank">La Paloma</a>” in the <em>Fiesta de los Niños</em> at El Con Mall. I feel special again for the first time since we left Brookstone. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/adaf8397737e8fcab34d24d6ec8bdf81647ae03d/original/4.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small">I’m playing the mariachi classic “La Paloma” in the <em>Fiesta de los Niños</em> at El Con Mall.</span></p>
<p><br>It’s mid-morning when the phone rings in our dark apartment. I shuffle into the kitchen and wipe the sleep from my eyes as I lift the receiver. <em>What have I won this time?</em> <br><br>“Dmitri?” says an unfamiliar female voice. “This is Lela.” </p>
<p>“Lela like <em>my mother</em> Lela?” I ask. </p>
<p>“That’s me,” she says. “How are you?” </p>
<p>“Surprised,” I reply.</p>
<p>“Listen, I’m in Tucson,” she says. “I live here. What are you up to today?” </p>
<p>“Nothin’ much,” I reply, bewildered. </p>
<p>“Would you like to go with me to the art museum?” </p>
<p>Half an hour later I answer the door and there she is, the pretty lady from the photo, looking not unlike Suzanne Pleshette in her high-collared lime green pantsuit, white silk scarf, and oversized sunglasses. I lock up the apartment, follow to her car, and slide into the passenger seat next to her. I can’t believe she’s really here. </p>
<p>Unlike my taciturn father, Lela turns out to be an absolute chatterbox. She talks nonstop as we walk through the museum galleries, jumping randomly from one non sequitur to the next, dramatically whispering then laughing loudly, dropping names I don’t know, passionately offering her opinion on every exhibit. The words tumble out of her but I barely comprehend their meaning. I’m too preoccupied with studying her every move and mannerism. Do I take after Lela? She strikes me as stylish and sophisticated, yet insecure and more than a little phony. </p>
<p>After the museum we walk across the street to a frozen yogurt shop called the Frosty Frog. Lela orders a mint chip froyo to match the vivid green of her outfit, then lights a long slender cigarette, all the while babbling like the giddy guest on a late night talk show. Something in her affect makes me feel diminished, as if I’m merely a spectator in the movie of her life. It’s only at this moment, looking across the table at her, that I’m finally able to accept the reality of this surreal afternoon. </p>
<p>So<em> this</em> is my mother. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d52a5fdd92e30ef1dfc7a5d44de41d0eac147702/original/5.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small">Lela orders a mint chip froyo to match the vivid green of her outfit.</span></p>
<p>When Daddy Bill gets home from work he finds me sitting silently in the living room. </p>
<p>“How was your day, Bub?” he asks. </p>
<p>“Well Dad,” I reply, “I think you ought to sit down for this.” </p>
<p>In my memory the revelation that I’d spent the day with my bio-mom was a complete surprise to Daddy Bill. He didn’t mind that we'd met, but he seemed genuinely shocked to learn that Lela was in Tucson, and mystified by how she got our phone number. In hindsight I suspect he knew more than he let on. When it came to Lela, Dad played his cards very close to the vest. </p>
<p>I rode my bike over to Lela and Tom’s place several times that summer. Their condo was modest, even smaller than our apartment, but it was brand new, adjacent to a magnificent golf course, and furnished with midcentury modern Scandinavian decor that looked like something you’d see in the pages of a high-end design catalog. </p>
<p>Lela's husband Tom was an overly tan charmer with “trust me” eyes and a full head of gray-blond <em>Banacek</em> hair. He wore polo shirts and khakis, told silly jokes, brandished a fat bankroll, and flashed blindingly white teeth whenever he smiled, which was often. He spent most of his time either on the phone or on the links. </p>
<p>“What exactly does Tom do for a living?” I asked Lela, thinking of the chinchillas and whatnot. </p>
<p>“Oh, this and that,” Lela said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Tom’s what’s known as an <em>entrepreneur</em>.”</p>
<p>It was the first time I’d ever heard the word. To this day when anyone uses it I think of Tom and his Cheshire Cat grin. </p>
<p>I expected Dad’s reunion with his ex-wife, and the man she left him for, to be awkward, but the three of them got along just fine. They reclined in their chaise lounges, swilling gin cocktails and playing “remember when” like old friends. Later when we all went to dinner together at La Fuente, the mood was entirely convivial, or so it seemed to me. </p>
<p>On one occasion Dad invited Tom over to play tennis while Lela stayed behind to give me a painting lesson. I still remember how she taught me to use complementary colors for the shadows, and the way she demonstrated the proper technique for washing a paint brush by making small soapy circles in the palm of my hand. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/f4c1d895021ac4cab095565e416f4cf6b1fface5/original/6.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">Dad invited Tom over to play tennis while Lela stayed behind to give me a painting lesson.</span></p>
<p>I tried to engage Lela in meaningful conversation but quickly learned that she had no interest in being real with me. Having grown up in the south I'm no stranger to tall tales, but Lela was a full-on fabulist. She seemed incapable of giving a straight answer.</p>
<p>A simple query like “do I have any brothers or sisters” prompted a hyperbolic description of <em>her</em> <em>own </em>brother, a strikingly handsome, independently wealthy, eccentric genius, more clairvoyant than Edgar Cayce, who lives in a mansion and invents rockets for a secret government agency. Ahem. </p>
<p>When asked about her childhood, Lela launched into a series of Bunyanesque tales about a magical, mythical Cherokee ancestor named “America” who married a Scotsman named “McGee” to become “America McGee.” Each story was more outlandish than the previous, but none shed any light on Lela’s actual life.</p>
<p>Lela delivered these far-fetched family fables with earnest enthusiasm, oblivious to how ridiculous they sounded. Eventually I stopped asking questions altogether and just surrendered myself to her whimsy. </p>
<p>We saw each other several times that summer but she never gave up any credible intel. Nor did she seem interested in learning anything about <em>my</em> life or thoughts or feelings. I learned what I could about Lela through observation alone. </p>
<p>In late summer Daddy Bill and I were sharing a bag of Fritos and watching <em>60 Minutes</em> when he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I’m glad you’ve enjoyed getting to know Lela and Tom, but you’d better prepare yourself, son. At some point they’ll disappear again, probably without warning. I don’t want you to get your feelings hurt.” </p>
<p>Dad was right. A few days later Tom’s name appeared in an <em>Arizona Daily Star</em> article about interstate commerce irregularities. I called the condo and, sure enough, the number was disconnected. I rode over on my bike and, no surprise, the place was empty. </p>
<p>It would be another 23 years before I would meet Lela again. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/598f2715f7c63f2b6a07b3714e8da308e316a5e3/original/7.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small">Lela in 1965 (L) when I was born, and in 2002 (R) when I met her the second time.</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: right;"><span class="font_regular">MEETING LELA<br>Part 1 — <a contents="The Frosty Frog" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-1" target="_blank">The Frosty Frog</a><br>Part 2 — <a contents="Chattanooga" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-2" target="_blank">Chattanooga</a><br>Part 3 — <a contents="Adventure Land" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-3" target="_blank">Adventureland</a><br>Part 4 — <a contents="America McGee" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-4" target="_blank">America McGee</a><br>Part 5 — <a contents="Music Under The Stars" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-5" target="_blank">Under The Stars</a><br>Part 6 — <a contents="Gifts" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-6" target="_blank">Gifts</a><br>Part 7 — <a contents="Biscuits &amp; Gravy" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-7" target="_blank">Biscuits & Gravy</a></span></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/66932492021-07-20T10:11:44-07:002021-07-20T19:10:45-07:00REFLECTIONS ON 9/11<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“War, what is it good for? <br>Absolutely nothing.” </strong><br><em>—Barrett Strong</em></span><em> </em></p>
<p><br>On the morning of Tuesday, September 11, 2001, I was at home in Berkeley, drinking my first cup of coffee and viewing the <em>Today</em> show when the news broke. I watched in horror and disbelief as the second plane hit the World Trade Center, in real time, on national television. </p>
<p>It took awhile to get over the initial shock and accept the reality of what was happening, but the awful footage continued to be broadcast on every channel throughout the afternoon and evening. This was not fake. It was no movie. No superhero was coming to save the day. The tragedy of 9/11 and its painful consequences were very real indeed. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d2af1470af7281011d99f528581e199851486c98/original/9-11-photo-explosing-and-buildings.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>One by one we heard from New York friends who survived the senseless attacks. None were injured, thank goodness, but all were traumatized. As we learned the names of those who died, however, our shock and sadness turned to anger.</p>
<p>I’m no conspiracy nut, but I must confess to harboring some rational skepticism about what really happened that day. The official 9/11 Commission report was neither comprehensive nor persuasive. Too many questions remain. </p>
<p>Why was Al-Qaeda able to outwit the worldwide intelligence community? Doesn’t the USA have the most expensive and sophisticated military in the world? Is it really so easy for a plane to fly into the Pentagon, without alerting the Pentagon? And what about the laws of physics? Is the impact from two civilian airplanes truly all it takes to cause the total collapse of three New York City skyscrapers, directly into their own footprint, as if by controlled demolition? And if these atrocities were not perpetrated by a foreign government, but by an unsanctioned group of religious zealots from Saudi, UAE, Lebanon and Egypt, how exactly did these crimes justify prolonged American wars in Afghanistan and Iraq? </p>
<p>I raise these questions not to suggest the possibility of a false flag operation, but to highlight the cognitive dissonance of the day’s events. We may never know whether our government was complicit, or merely asleep at the wheel, but neither is excusable. When something so unthinkable occurs, and none of the official explanations make sense, you begin to doubt everything. </p>
<p>Like many Americans, I experienced lingering feelings of vulnerability and disillusionment after 9/11. It was no longer possible to believe the fairytale that “it can’t happen here.” Even on the west coast, the attacks felt personal, regardless of whether you knew any of the victims personally. </p>
<p>I remember sitting in my driveway the following spring, still mourning, listening to Norah Jones’ <a contents="Come Away With Me" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/lbjZPFBD6JU" target="_blank"><em>Come Away With Me</em></a>, and wondering if our collective national sadness might be partly responsible for her album’s runaway success. We were wounded, and Norah’s soulful, melancholy music was just the medicine we needed. Grief brought us together. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e5d0e1593e82e654ea70a6d0526827cd0e2165bf/original/norah-jones.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>Unlike many, however, I did not feel patriotic after 9/11. Jingoism struck me as an entirely inappropriate reaction to such a catastrophic national blunder. I felt let down by our leaders, outraged that they had let this happen, and troubled by their simplistic, sloganistic responses. Instead of providing the answers and accountability we deserved, they gave us only facile exhortations to “go shopping” and “support the troops.” They curtailed our civil liberties and declared <em>war on terror</em>, an objective that is absurd on its face, not to mention unwinnable. </p>
<p>I was also deeply disappointed by friends and neighbors. I’ve never heard so much anti-foreigner and anti-immigrant hate speech. It was heartbreaking. The concurrent sudden appearance of our flag everywhere, on front porches, car antennas and lapel pins, only underscored my sense of disconnection.<br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3b553f6930b52c6a595cc3a40ba89d3eeb3370e7/original/c0f99215727a151ce884bdce77679fe6.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>Can a liberal pacifist xenophile be a proud American? It's complicated. As an avowed <a contents="Citizen of the World" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/up-in-the-air-part-3-citizen-of-the-world" target="_blank">Citizen of the World</a>, I respect our institutions, but patriotism doesn’t come naturally. Like religious piety, bigotry, and football mania, patriotic pride is something that I’ve never really understood even though it has surrounded me all my life. </p>
<p>Don’t get me wrong, I’m aware of my good fortune at having been born white, male and North American in the 20th century, and am grateful for the rights and privileges that I enjoy in this country. I love that I can own property and speak my mind. But I’m also cognizant of the fact that I didn’t earn these blessings. They were stolen by my ancestors and built on the backs of subjugated people. And I know that even today, not all Americans are able to enjoy the same rights and privileges equally. </p>
<p>I would have to say that I like the<em> </em>idea of America more than the reality. I’ve never bought into the myth of American Exceptionalism. I’ve done enough traveling to learn that the USA is not “the envy of the world,” as I was taught to believe in school, but is actually inferior to many other industrialized nations in education, infrastructure, health care and support for the arts. </p>
<p>I also emphatically reject the notion that our democratic freedom is predicated on maintaining American hegemony and global military dominance. Freedom may not be free, but most wars are unnecessary. Sorry, <a contents="Colonel Jessup" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/9FnO3igOkOk" target="_blank">Colonel Jessup</a>, but we <em>can</em> handle the truth. We don’t <em>all</em> want you on that wall. Some of us don’t want walls at all.</p>
<p>20 years after the events of 9/11, the United States Armed Forces are finally withdrawing from Afghanistan. This has been the longest military action in our nation's history. 978 billion dollars were spent. Over 241,000 people were killed, including 71,000 civilians. </p>
<p><strong>Was it worth it?</strong></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/66860232021-07-12T18:41:54-07:002021-07-13T00:31:00-07:00PEANUTS<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/53f52c2a5674ef7919f04308455a39fd4aec04b1/original/db-peanuts.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Daddy Bill would sit on the porch, reading, looking at his chinaberry tree, and eating boiled green peanuts out of a can.</p>
<p>After awhile he’d take off his shirt and rub brine from the peanuts can all over his chest and arms.</p>
<p>“To toughen me up,” he’d explain to no-one in particular.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/66805702021-07-06T15:57:57-07:002021-07-25T17:24:58-07:00SNAPSHOTS | PART 5 — CHEVY MAN<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“That’s the great thing about being a teenager. <br>You think you’re a genius.”</strong><br>—Daveed Diggs </span><br> </p>
<p>Thirteen wasn’t quite the turning point I’d imagined last summer when I sold off all my comic books and action figures. I didn’t suddenly become cool. I wasn’t immediately transported to a magical land of heavy petting and house parties. </p>
<p>I was still the same skinny little kid, honking my horn. And I still had to make it through the rest of the school year at Marana. In my memory those last few months of seventh grade are a surreal blur. </p>
<p>I remember our teacher jumping up on top of her desk in a desperate attempt to win us over, howling “I’m WEIRD! I like WIZARDS!” And I remember how Jack quietly cleared his throat in response, a more subtle version of the snarky tween eye-roll. </p>
<p>I remember a big panic over an outbreak of Valley Fever which later turned out to be “merely” a respiratory irritation caused by low-flying crop dusters. Delightful. </p>
<p>Mostly I remember the awkward interactions with girls. There was prodigious Paula, who flashed her impressive <em>tetas </em>at me, then called me a “perv” for looking. And there was darling Debbie, who passed me a cryptic note on which she had scrawled, in big block letters, YOUR PENIS RUNNING OUT.<em> </em></p>
<p>What the --? I blushed, checked my fly, then spent the entire rest of that period trying to figure out what she could possibly mean. Is this flirting? Should I write back? What should I say? After class I breathed a sigh of relief when she handed me a pen and said sweetly, “I noticed yours was running out of ink.” <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/a13358f262308bbf2b11f722f1f8af07951b6201/original/1-penis.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Another year, another U-Haul.</p>
<p>It’s the summer of 1979 and Daddy Bill and I are loading our last few boxes into the back of the moving van at 22nd & Craycroft. “You about ready to go jump in that pool?” Daddy Bill asks. “You know it!” I answer enthusiastically. </p>
<p>I’m finally a teenager and everything’s new. <em>New bike</em> (got a ten-speed Schwinn for my birthday), <em>new school</em> (adios, Marana) and soon, a whole <em>new me. </em>The old man has even found us some great <em>new digs </em>over on the northwest side of town. I haven’t seen the place yet, but Daddy Bill promises we’ll have an even better view, a real air conditioner (adios, swamp cooler) and a swimming pool. </p>
<p>Dad chose a terrific location for us. Next year, his last at Marana, he'll enjoy a shorter weekday commute and easy weekend getaways to Mount Lemmon and Sabino Canyon. Most importantly for me, our new zip code means I can now go to Cross Junior High for eighth grade and Canyon Del Oro for high school. “It’s a better school district with more resources,” Daddy Bill says, “and I hear they have a pretty decent music program, too.” </p>
<p>We'll see next fall. In the meantime, summer vacation has only just begun and I’m excited to see our new place. </p>
<p>Moving from one modest two-bedroom apartment to another less than twenty miles away might sound like no big deal, but I feel like we’ve hit the lottery. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/060036a30a17689bd6c34b346bc9f7517b9f31a4/original/2-coronado.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Coronado Apartments at Mona Lisa and Ina is a major upgrade. The complex feels almost like a luxury resort, with its grand Spanish Colonial architecture, tall palm trees, shady courtyards and manicured lawns. </p>
<p>The swimming pool is as advertised. There are also tennis courts, a fitness trail, and even a kid-friendly clubhouse with air hockey and billiards tables. Plenty of kids my age live at Coronado and in the middle-class suburb surrounding us, where ranch style family homes nestle safely in the shadows of the Catalina Foothills. </p>
<p>I love the new neighborhood and can’t wait to explore. I ride my ten-speed through miles of unspoiled desert scrub and citrus trees. Up at Ina and Oracle I discover a retail oasis called <a contents="Casas Adobes Plaza" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/VzxDtPDQVVQ" target="_blank">Casas Adobes Plaza</a> where I grab a BLT at the drug store lunch counter before exploring a treasure trove of curiosities on the shelves of Bullard’s Hardware. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/147b5f9f581f278a076def59655ea0052f5f0990/original/3-casas-adobes.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Life is good.</p>
<p>Jack comes over often and Dad enjoys his visits as much as I do. The three of us stand together on our balcony, listening to Ray Charles and admiring the colorful Santa Catalina mountains. Daddy Bill puffs his pipe and bends Jack’s ear about music and sports and whatnot. At sunset he throws three burger patties on the grill.</p>
<p>“Y’all like ’em <em>charred</em>, don’t you?” he asks with a wink. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/848924c382e439560458c4a61c08d16f1a78f569/original/4-catalinas.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>After dinner I pull a box down from the closet shelf to show Jack my secret collection of stolen hood ornaments. The expression on his face is a curious mix of puzzlement and disapproval. </p>
<p>“What’s the point?” he asks. </p>
<p>“The point is <em>to not get caught</em>,” I say. </p>
<p>Meeting people is easy at Coronado, especially after I land a new job as paperboy, delivering the <em>Tucson Citizen</em> each evening and the <em>Arizona Daily Star</em> on Sunday mornings. Soon I know all the neighborhood kids and their parents by name. There are over 100 units in this apartment complex and almost everybody gets the paper.</p>
<p>Early on a summer Sunday before dawn, I sit cross-legged on the sidewalk in front of our building. I’m stuffing circular ads, <em>Parade</em> magazine, the coming week's TV listings and what Daddy Bill calls “the funny pages” into every fat copy of the <em>Sunday Star. </em>It’s a big job but I’ve learned the secret to getting it done quickly. You line up the stacks in a row, like an assembly line, then you get the rhythm and power through. </p>
<p>Twenty minutes later my hands are stained black with newsprint. I’m nearly ready to load up my big canvas delivery bag when I notice one of the inserts, a flyer for the <em>March of Dimes Superwalk</em>. I know better than to get distracted, but something special has caught my eye: the walkathon’s third prize, a Panasonic stereo with built-in tape deck and automatic record changer. The machine calls to me like the crystal in Clark Kent’s barn. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/516a23a6bb74c7eff0ce3ed9e66788c6611d5255/original/5-stereo.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>That week instead of the tips I usually collect on my rounds, I ask all my customers to sponsor me in the charity walk. “It’s for a good cause,” I explain, “and every page of sponsors I sign-up will put my name into the drawing again.” I’m determined to win that stereo. </p>
<p>I don’t remember how many miles I walked or how much money we raised for the fight against birth defects. What I do remember is filling seven entire pages with pledges. Lucky number seven. Seven chances to win. </p>
<p>The following Friday I wake to the sound of our telephone ringing. I stumble out of my bedroom into the kitchen, thinking Daddy Bill is probably calling to tell me when he’ll be back from birding. But when I lift the receiver, it’s not Dad on the line, but a hyper, exuberant Top 40 Radio DJ. </p>
<p>“Good morning! This is KTKT, the Old Pueblo’s number one station. Mr. Matheny, you are this year’s grand prize winner in the <em>March of Dimes Superwalk</em>, and will soon be the proud owner of a brand new Chevy Chevette. Congratulations! How do you feel?” </p>
<p>“I’m only thirteen,” I said. “I wanted to win the stereo.”</p>
<p>A few days later Daddy Bill takes me over to Matthews Chevrolet to claim my prize. Dad and I don’t quite know what to do about this car, since he already has a new Toyota wagon and I’m too young to drive. Fortunately, the dealership’s general manager comes up with a solution. </p>
<p>“Tell you what young man,” Tommy Stubbs says magnanimously, “How about I just cut you a check for the sticker price? That’s three thousand, four hundred and fifty-five dollars.” </p>
<p>“That’ll work,” I say. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/afef73e1866b48a09be17960c1394a155c1dde77/original/6-chevy-man.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>Dad drives me to the bank where I keep my yard sale winnings. I deposit three grand into the account and pocket the rest. </p>
<p>In a single afternoon I bring home the exact stereo I’ve been obsessing over, three new LPs <em>(Don’t Look Back</em> by Boston,<em> I Am </em>by Earth Wind & Fire, and <em>Out of the Blue</em> by ELO), and a ridiculous amount of swag from Spencer Gifts. </p>
<p>I get busy transforming my room into my own personal nightclub. First I hang a beaded curtain in the doorway and mask my windows with aluminum foil to block the sunlight. Then I install two 17” black lights, a strobe, and a miniature mirrored disco ball. I cover my shelves with luminous bric-à-brac and all the walls with posters: Farrah Fawcett, Lynda Carter, Lindsay Wagner, a florescent cobra. Once everything is perfect I wire the whole shebang so I can turn it all on at once, lights and music, with one flip of the switch.</p>
<p>The result is spectacular. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/109f41b7f6c1c668e9dda8979c69f176bcfeea1a/original/7-den-of-inquity.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><br>“What do you think?” I ask Daddy Bill. </p>
<p>He grimaces. “I think it looks like a <strong>Den of Iniquity</strong>.” </p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next:<br><a contents="MEETING LELA | PART 1" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/meeting-lela-part-1" target="_blank">MEETING LELA | PART 1</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/66724962021-06-27T23:11:53-07:002022-01-04T09:23:55-08:00SNAPSHOTS | PART 4 — CHUBASCO<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“Your vibe attracts your tribe.” </strong><br>—Anthony Bourdain </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“We go back like car seats.” </strong><br>—Harry Bosch</span> </p>
<p>It can’t be an easy thing to raise a son. </p>
<p>It’s a balancing act. To help him find his way in life while also allowing him the freedom to fail. To provide advantages and opportunities without coddling or spoiling him. To encourage excellence without setting unrealistic standards. To teach him both self-confidence and humility. To know when to protect him, when to counsel him, and when to let him face adversity alone. To balance his needs with your own. </p>
<p>My father did his best. In 1978 when he decided to relocate us to Arizona, he had his reasons. He was heartbroken, depressed, and needed a change. The move proved troublesome for me, but I don’t begrudge Dad needing to prioritize his own mental and emotional health. It was never his intention to sabotage my education or put me in harm’s way. Kids are resilient. He knew I would adapt. </p>
<p>It didn’t take Daddy Bill long, however, to realize that Marana was no place for either of us. He loved to teach but was spending most of his time enforcing classroom rules and trying to maintain order. I loved to learn but none of my classes were interesting, and I was always on guard, looking over my shoulder for the next attack.</p>
<p>Dad resolved to seek employment elsewhere as soon as his contract was up, and promised he would find a better school for me in Tucson the following year. In the meantime it was my job to survive seventh grade at Marana Junior High. </p>
<p>Fortunately, life got easier for me at Marana. There was still plenty of student-on-student violence but somehow I was no longer a target. Is it because I carried myself differently after I’d learned a few moves? Possibly, but the more likely explanation is that I was spared because I finally made the right friends. </p>
<p>I met Jack in <em>Reading </em>class (no joke, the class was called “reading”), and we hit it off immediately. Jack was different from the other kids. Like me, he was a displaced southerner (his family came from Virginia) with an artistic bent and diverse interests. He was smart, articulate, creative, and funny as hell. He was also an excellent writer. In fact, the only time I ever got in trouble at Marana, it wasn’t for <em>fighting</em>, but for <em>laughing </em>at one of Jack’s hilarious short stories. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/fd476466d7cd74394ec5633976f905470b0d98b6/original/jack.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">Jack was smart, articulate, creative, and funny as hell.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Settle down, Dmitri,” said Mrs. Woods. </p>
<p>“Yes, ma’am,” I replied. </p>
<p>“Don’t back-talk me! You go to the principal’s office right now!” she demanded. </p>
<p>I told Principal Dewey that Mrs. Woods had misinterpreted my sincere polite response as sarcasm. “It’s how I was raised,” I explained. “At my old school in Georgia, you’d get in trouble if you <em>didn’t</em> say yes ma’am.” </p>
<p>“Well, you’re here now. Lose that habit,” he said. “And I still have to give you detention for disrupting class.” </p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” I replied, true to my roots. </p>
<p>A few days later my new friend Jack introduced me to his pal Bennie, a charismatic football player with a winning smile and a terrific sense of humor. Bennie had cracked the code on how to flirt, too, and all the girls giggled whenever he was around. Ben’s upbeat attitude was infectious. I liked him right away and the three of us soon became fast friends. It didn’t surprise me at all when I later found out my new companions also happened to be Dad’s favorite English Lit students. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c1bff03b19f71c1d683429f3822c745ad80878bb/original/bennie.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">Bennie’s upbeat attitude was infectious.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>No fights found me after I started hanging out with Bennie and Jack. In a school where sports participation is one of the only real forms of social currency, the two of them were well-liked student athletes. They seemed to get along with everybody, even the so-called bad kids. I must have benefitted by association. Plus, Jack was taller than almost everyone else in our class. Nobody messed with him. </p>
<p>We were the original three amigos. We hung out everyday at school and sometimes on the weekends. I liked to draw comic books for fun back then and remember creating <em>Jack Fox</em> and <em>Blazin’ Ben</em> as their superhero alter egos. </p>
<p>For all its faults, Marana did one thing 100% right: <em>almuerzo</em>, or as we called it, <em>lonche</em>. Twenty-five cents would get you a man-sized portion of delicious Sonoran food, served up fresh daily in the school cafeteria. The ladies in the kitchen took great pride in their work and prepared a different main course for us each day: <em>carnitas, tamales, machaca, fajitas, chile rellenos, enchiladas verdes</em>, and more, always with a generous helping of <em>frijoles refritos con arroz</em>. Damn, I loved those Marana lunches. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c26a66748553cc03824cecdf29f50b4fc89d1f3d/original/lonche.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">Damn, I loved those Marana lunches.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The other thing that made lunchtime so great was the game we always played. Bennie, Jack and I, and occasionally our friend Kevin, would take turns trying to make each other laugh with ridiculous jokes, silly voices and wordplay. Sometimes we would mimic absurd Steve Martin comedy routines or reenact entire skits by the Not Ready For Prime Time Players. Invariably we’d all end up doubled over in fits of laughter. The game never ended until the bell rang or Bennie spit milk out of his nose. Big fun. </p>
<p>I loved those guys then and I love them still. </p>
<p>I had no way of knowing, at the time, that Bennie would grow up to become one of the west coast's most popular radio personalities, or that he and his wife would generously let me stay with them while I found my first apartment in San Francisco. I couldn’t have known that Ben would one day introduce me to the O’Jays (with whom I would have the honor of working some years later), or how supportive he would be over the course of my future music career. I didn’t know that Ben and I would remain friends for life. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/98ca786cb2917dd9c47e18a9f35268585e40a0c2/original/screen-shot-2021-12-27-at-5-22-25-pm.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>And I certainly had no way of knowing, at the time, that Jack and I were destined to attend the same high school in Tucson, become college roommates in Boston, and remain close as adults as we both pursued careers in the performing arts. I couldn’t have known how much time we would spend playing in bands with each other, or discovering music together over many late nights at the turntable, poring over liner notes as we listened to his excellent collection of classic jazz on vinyl. I didn’t know we would one day stand up as “best man” at each other’s weddings, or that we would continue to confide in one another, sharing our troubles and triumphs well into late middle age. I didn’t know that Jack would be my best friend forever. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/56c45173e932df43898bbc0f62a6f345e1b2797f/original/screen-shot-2021-12-27-at-5-28-36-pm.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>All I knew was that I had finally found my tribe. I'm not sure whether I ever told them how our alliance had saved me. Jack and Ben made an otherwise miserable year not only bearable, but memorable in the best possible way. </p>
<p>On December 25, my father and I celebrated the holiday on our balcony, grilling steaks and listening to our favorite seasonal album, <em>Ella Wishes You A Swinging Christmas.</em> After dinner we watched as heavy, dark clouds rolled over the valley, showering the desert with a wondrous cleansing rain. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/826b60aef3799c8075e51fdec19892d379bb3bf2/original/chubasco.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">We watched as heavy, dark clouds rolled over the valley,<br>showering the desert with a wondrous cleansing rain. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The winter cloudburst felt auspicious, like a baptism or benediction. </p>
<p>“Merry Christmas, Daddy Bill,” I said. </p>
<p>“Happy Birthday, Bub,” he said. “You’re a teenager now.” </p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” I replied, true to my roots. </p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next: <br><a contents="SNAPSHOTS | PART 5 — CHEVY MAN" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/snapshots-part-5-chevy-man" target="_blank">SNAPSHOTS | PART 5 — CHEVY MAN</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/66672202021-06-22T13:39:49-07:002021-06-25T23:57:53-07:00SNAPSHOTS | PART 3 — TANGLE<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“The beginning of things is necessarily vague, <br>tangled, chaotic, and exceedingly disturbing. <br>How few of us ever emerge from such beginning!” </strong><br>—Kate Chopin </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>By summer’s end I’ve discovered much to love about living in Arizona. </p>
<p>The regional art, music and food are outstanding. The laidback lifestyle suits my temperament. The arid landscape is as vast and peaceful as the ocean. I like the way hawks wheel and keen overhead as the majestic saguaro watch silently like sentries. And most of all, I love the glorious sunsets. </p>
<p>Some part of me knows my future lies elsewhere. If books and movies have taught me anything, it’s that one day the call to adventure will require me to leave this desert. In the meantime, this seems like a good place to begin the next chapter of life’s journey. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/43193e707c263b4484025bbc88c2ac87aa2b2a65/original/1.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span style="font-size: 0.8em;"> </span>If books and movies have taught me anything, it’s that one day <br>the call to adventure will require me to leave this desert. </span></p>
<p><br>Today is the first day of school. Daddy Bill and I are up early for our commute to the town of Marana, just northwest of Tucson. The drive is pleasant. The sky is overcast so it’s a little cooler than usual. The university jazz station is spinning some classic Miles, always a good omen, and our little Toyota still has its new car smell. </p>
<p>My spirits are high. I’m excited to begin seventh grade, although I’m not entirely sure what to expect. None of the kids in our 22nd & Craycroft neighborhood go to school out there. I only know what Dad has told me, that it’s a public school in a rural area which takes its name from the Spanish word “maraña,” meaning <em>tangle</em>. And last week I overheard Dad on the phone saying something about “teaching basic English to the children of migrant farmworkers.” </p>
<p>This morning as we travel the long frontage road past dusty acres of alfalfa and cotton, I begin to understand. “Things are going to be a little different here than they were at Brookstone, son,” Daddy Bill says. “Just be patient and keep an open mind.” It sounds rehearsed, like a prepared speech. I have the feeling he’s talking to himself as much as to me. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/746271defb87e35c61f3f3a1b6579d84d9144eae/original/2.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span style="font-size: 0.8em;"> </span>As we travel the long frontage road past dusty acres<br>of alfalfa and cotton, I begin to understand. </span></p>
<p><br>Dad was an important man at Brookstone School, and because of his position, I pretty much had my run of the place. I literally grew up there, kindergarten through sixth grade. I knew everybody, even the high school kids, and always felt safe and supported. Saying goodbye to Brookstone was the most difficult part of leaving Georgia. </p>
<p>My favorite class at Brookstone was a sixth grade social studies elective called <em>MACOS: Man A Course of Study</em>, in which we compared innate and learned behavior in humans with that of other primates, then presented our findings to a panel of university graduate students. Our instructor James Stockdale, son of the homonymous war hero, was my favorite teacher. He taught us to be curious, question all assumptions, and believe in ourselves. </p>
<p>Brookstone School cast a long shadow over my life. I thrived there, but since it was the only school I’d ever known, I took its brilliant faculty and innovative curriculum for granted. I didn’t realize how fortunate I was to attend such an elite private school. I wasn’t aware that we were poor, that my classmates were rich, or that my tuition had been waived as part of Dad’s teaching salary. And I certainly couldn’t have known, at the time, the degree to which being part of that nurturing scholastic community had shaped my nascent love of learning, positive self-image and sense of entitlement. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d4a80bec080808ca8ecbea8a0d615198303cd517/original/3.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_regular"><span style="font-size: 0.8em;">Brookstone School cast a long shadow over my life.</span></span></p>
<p><br>I only knew that I enjoyed school. Or so I thought. </p>
<p>For Dad to describe Marana as “a little different” would prove to be the understatement of the century. Far from the stately red brick lecture halls and leafy woodlands of Brookstone, the Marana campus is little more than a few cement buildings and mobile classroom trailers surrounded by dirt, asphalt and gravel.</p>
<p>Based on the school’s exterior, I’m prepared to be underwhelmed by whatever awaits inside. But nothing could prepare me for the physical and emotional trauma I’m about to endure at Marana Junior High School.</p>
<p>I show up guileless and confident, ready to hit the books and eager to make friends. But for the first time in my young life, I simply don’t fit in. Back home I was a popular kid who excelled in music, art and academics, but my study skills and work ethic are meaningless here. The only things that seem to matter at Marana are football and fighting. </p>
<p>There are fist fights every single day at Marana. Clashes erupt spontaneously, for no reason and without warning.</p>
<p>For the first week I’m able to keep my distance. I watch with detached curiosity as the other students beat each other’s brains in. I wonder what Mr. Stockdale would think of all this violence. Is it innate or learned? And why don’t any of the teachers try to put a stop to it? </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/f7e1b448ff67157d03e02794f5daf3b70b6a9690/original/4.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> There are fist fights every single day at Marana. </span></p>
<p><br>Later I would learn that Dad had actually tried to separate two kids who were fighting, only to receive a dressing down from his boss. “Never, ever lay your hand on a student for any reason,” Principal Dewey cautioned, “or we could be sued.” Dad was flummoxed. “Even if they’re about to <em>kill</em> one another?” </p>
<p>I’m mystified by all the aggression, but naively not afraid for my own safety. I’m new here. I’ve made no enemies. Plus my dad is on the faculty. No one would dare. But the main reason I feel secure is because I’m a good boy. I don’t get into fights. I get along with everybody … right? </p>
<p>Wrong. A skinny little southern boy with no friends who doesn’t play football? A teacher's kid, who struts around with his nose in the air, talking funny, using big words, acting all cocky and superior? At Marana Junior High this is a kid who needs a beatdown. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/0c63519972e0bb30a65cecf99367392306863210/original/5.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> At Marana Junior High this is a kid who needs a beatdown. </span></p>
<p><br>I’m walking to my locker after gym when out of nowhere someone shoves me against the wall. “What the hell?” I react, more startled than afraid. But before I can even get a look at my assailant he's knocked me to the ground. </p>
<p>The jackals encircle us, laughing and cheering. By the time I realize we're fighting it’s too late. The kid's knees are already pressed against my upper arms, pinning me to the concrete floor. I can't move. I'm practically immobile as he punches me repeatedly in the face. </p>
<p>Nobody stops the fight. Neither of us are punished. I’m literally saved by the bell as everyone goes to class, leaving me alone and vanquished. I never even learn the kid’s name or what motivated him to attack me in the first place. </p>
<p>After my nose stops bleeding I wash up and change my shirt. No cuts, just a few bruises. My head hurts and my ears are ringing, but I don’t look so bad.</p>
<p>On the drive home Dad doesn’t even notice that I’m hurt. This is a tremendous relief. I don’t want to get in trouble for fighting, and besides, I’m ashamed. My father was a champion boxer. If he finds out I can't defend myself I’ll be humiliated. </p>
<p>But I have bigger problems. Word gets around: the new kid doesn't know how to fight. It’s open season on Georgia Boy. I now have a target on my back. </p>
<p>Every few days somebody jumps me. It’s not like I’m being bullied, not like on TV. It’s never the same person and there’s rarely any preamble. Nobody threatens me or tries to take my lunch money. They just start shit. I never know when the next sucker punch is coming, or from which direction. And it’s this, the sheer senseless <em>randomness</em> of it, that terrifies me so and makes Marana my personal living hell. Never safe. Nowhere to hide. </p>
<p>I hate this school. I’m learning nothing here except how vulnerable I am. Some of these big, mean-looking boys with facial hair are obviously older kids who’ve been held back. One of them is so strong that he comes up behind me, picks me up, and throws me against the lockers. </p>
<p>But it isn’t only the big kids who pick fights. One day after school I’m walking to Dad’s janky classroom/trailer to practice my trumpet. I notice a group of athletes in my peripheral vision, but they’re all walking in the opposite direction so I pay them no mind. Suddenly a short freckle-faced kid with red hair breaks from the pack and runs straight at me. I flinch but stand my ground. I’m bigger than this one. He doesn’t scare me. </p>
<p>“I’m gonna kick your ass,” he says.</p>
<p>“I don’t even know you,” I say. “What’s your problem?” </p>
<p>“I think you’re a wet bag and a pussy” he snarls. </p>
<p>So I’m standing there looking at this little ginger lunatic, wondering what in the hell a <em>wet bag</em> could be, when he knocks the horn case out of my hand and tackles me. By now I know the drill. There’s no reasoning with these idiots. I land a few solid punches, but the impact does more damage to my fists than his face. The kid is small but he’s fast and knows how to grapple. He gets the better of me again and again. I can’t believe it: I’m losing this fight, too. </p>
<p>That evening the drive home is tense. Daddy Bill is silent and agitated. I look over from the passenger seat and notice he’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles are white. He's pissed. Did he see the fight? Am I in trouble? </p>
<p>Suddenly Dad pulls over, gets out of the car, and says “come here, dammit.” And right there, in the twilight, on the shoulder of the highway, my Golden Gloves-gone-pacifist father gives me the first of several lessons in self-defense. He shows me the boxer’s stance, some footwork, how to block and parry, how to throw a jab. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/2184f8ea39b6ec3fd9088f674c202ceade2ef1ee/original/6.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> Right there, in the twilight on the shoulder of the highway, <br>my Golden Gloves-gone-pacifist father gives me <br>the first of several lessons in self-defense. </span></p>
<p><br>“Don’t hit ’em in the <em>head,”</em> Dad says. “The head is <em>hard. </em>Hit ’em in the <em>kidneys!”</em> </p>
<p>The old man is full of surprises. I should have gone to him from the beginning. </p>
<p>Maybe I will survive this place after all.</p>
<p>Now all I need is a few friends. </p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next: <br>SNAPSHOTS | PART 4 — CHUBASCO</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/66583112021-06-13T11:53:47-07:002021-07-01T22:40:57-07:00SNAPSHOTS | PART 2 — FIRST CONTACT<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“What makes the desert so beautiful <br>is that somewhere it hides a well.” </strong><br>—Antoine de Saint-Exupery </span></p>
<p><br>Four days later we arrive, hot and tired, in the Old Pueblo. </p>
<p>Daddy Bill pilots our dusty U-Haul into an open parking space and squints upward through the windshield. </p>
<p>“I think that’s it, right up there,” he says, pointing to the third story. “Let’s check it out.” We’re both curious about this new apartment. Dad arranged the rental sight-unseen through an agency in Georgia. He mailed a check; they mailed the keys. Now we’re here. </p>
<p>I open the passenger side door and am nearly knocked over by the oven blast. “At least its a dry heat,” Daddy Bill says with a wink. “We’re definitely gonna need <em>this</em>,” he says, removing our portable ice chest from the front seat. </p>
<p>It’s late afternoon. The air is stifling. Cicadas buzz in the palo verde trees. We climb the exterior stairs, our footsteps echoing in the hollow cement stairwell. </p>
<p>The building itself is unremarkable, a typical example of the stark <em>desert brutalist</em> style of southwest architecture. Poured concrete blocks are stacked atop one another, textured with adobe and stained in shades of beige. There are rows of identical square windows, but nothing decorative, no arches, gables, or distinguishing features of any kind. This drab utilitarian structure could be anything: a factory, a hospital, a prison, you name it. </p>
<p>When we enter our apartment, however, I know we are home. On the opposite wall, sliding glass doors open to a balcony with a spectacular westward view. Brilliant hues of orange and violet paint the sky. </p>
<p>“Damn,” says Daddy Bill admiringly. </p>
<p>“What do you say we wait until dark to unload the truck?” </p>
<p>He reaches into the ice chest and hands me a cold one. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/9d5f1637716653e9c5afc2e264d947660cceb63d/original/1-sunset.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Watching the sunset from our balcony became a regular thing for us that summer, just as walking in the rain had been our routine down south. </p>
<p>Most mornings Daddy Bill would get up at the crack of dawn to go birding. “Gotta beat the heat,” he explained. Dad was smart that way, adapting to the climate, timing his excursions in synch with nature. </p>
<p>I, on the other hand, would blissfully sleep until noon, alone in the cool, dark apartment, lights off, blinds closed, swamp cooler cranked to the max. By the time Dad returned I would be on my second bowl of Raisin Bran and just about ready to start my day. </p>
<p>Like a fool I spent my afternoons outdoors under the relentless Sonoran sun, riding my bike, exploring. Whenever the heat became too much to bear, I would stop at the corner convenience store for a cold drink and a rejuvenating jolt of refrigeration. It was during one of these air conditioned interludes, standing in line at the Circle K, that I made first contact. </p>
<p>“You want a saleedo?” asked the girl.<br><br>She was blonde, tan, slender, freckle-faced, a little taller than I, and pretty, in a tomboyish Tatum O’Neal <em>Bad News Bears</em> sort of way. “I’m Cheryl,” she announced boldly, handing me a small, shriveled nugget of mysterious origin. </p>
<p>“Is it food?” I asked, dumbfounded. I studied the curious morsel she had placed in my hand. It was brown, misshapen, about the size of a buckeye, and dry as a bone. It looked like a piece of petrified animal scat. </p>
<p>“Just suck on it,” she giggled, popping one into her own mouth to demonstrate. I smiled. She smiled back. </p>
<p><em>Saladitos</em>, for the uninitiated, are a Mexican snack of dried salted plums coated in chili and lime. Today you might find a sample in the international section of your favorite specialty food market. But back then, in the Summer of ’78, saladitos were a staple at every mini mart in Tucson, usually stored in a large glass jar right next to the cash register. </p>
<p>Cheryl consumed them like candy. “The best way to eat a saleedo is with a lemon or orange,” she stated matter-of-factly. “You cut the fruit in half, stick the saleedo in the middle, and suck out the juice. Soooo yummy.” </p>
<p>After that, the two of us were inseparable, riding our bikes every day on the street, along the sidewalk, and down the dry river beds, called “washes” by the locals. Cheryl was unlike any of the girls I knew back home. She was a wild child, free-spirited and fearless, always taking the lead, often getting into mischief, never waiting for permission to have fun. I was smitten. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c8f7ba043d19e3416567d8d33675093e3d7ca81f/original/3-cheryl.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p>One sweltering afternoon, Cheryl suggested that we go for a swim. “Do you know anyone with a pool?” I asked. “I know a place,” she answered cryptically. </p>
<p>To say we “snuck” into the Doubletree Hotel would not be accurate. Apparently a cute girl in a bikini can pretty much go wherever she pleases. Cheryl and I simply walked right in the front door and straight through the lobby, no questions asked. I was wearing running shorts, not swim trunks, but nobody cared. We parked ourselves poolside like hotel guests, ostensibly the entitled children of errant parents. </p>
<p>We had a blast splashing around in the Doubletree pool, teasing and taunting one another. I poked fun at Cheryl for being a juvenile delinquent, and she playfully mimicked my southern drawl, calling me “Jimmy Carter” and “Georgia Boy.” Eventually I remembered my dad and our sunset ritual, saying I should get home for dinner.</p>
<p>“Why don’t you come to my place?” Cheryl asked casually. “Just you, not your dad.” </p>
<p>The invitation took me by surprise. In all the time we’d spent together, Cheryl had never mentioned her home, and was weirdly evasive whenever I asked about her family. To me she was Feral Cheryl, untamed desert denizen. For all I knew she could have been a runaway. </p>
<p>We got on our bikes and I followed Cheryl home to a charming hacienda-style bungalow surrounded by colorful desert flowers, cacti in terracotta pots, and a welcoming ristra of chiles hanging over the front porch. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/265429af9bd8dbc139f8cd24b556f4012d1a8471/original/4-cheryls-house.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>We walked around back and left our bikes by a large mesquite tree before entering the cottage through a side door. “Hellooo,” Cheryl called, kicking off her flip flops. There was no answer, but I wasn’t surprised. Something in the girl’s breezy, uninhibited manner told me what she already knew: we were alone. </p>
<p>“You hungry?” she asked. “I could eat,” I replied, trying to sound grown up. “I’m not ready for dinner just yet, but let me fix you something,” she said. </p>
<p>I then watched in amazement as my friend, still in her swimsuit, expertly prepared a cheeseburger just for me. I marveled at her casual, effortless skill as she sliced the ripe tomato, lightly toasted the bun, and browned the juicy burger in a cast iron skillet, all the while chattering away, hand on her hip, no big deal. </p>
<p>They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I get that. Over the years I’ve shared many a special meal prepared by, or for, a beloved companion. But this was a first. I was just a twelve-year-old kid. No girl had ever cooked for me. The burger was delicious. If Jay could see me now, I thought. </p>
<p>Cheryl then pulled a styrofoam container labeled “Eegee’s” from the freezer, then led me by the hand to the living room sofa. “This is my favorite thing on a hot day,” she said, feeding me a spoonful of the frozen tropical treat. “Mm, hmm,” I responded approvingly. </p>
<p>“It’s even better with rum!” she giggles, producing a bottle from nowhere like a sleight-of-hand magician. “Now all we need is a little music.” I see a radio on the side table and turn it on. The wail of a <a contents="saxophone" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/x-Yi762sQTo" target="_blank">saxophone</a> fills the room with sound: “Baker Street” by Gerry Rafferty. I feel like I'm in a movie.</p>
<p>Cheryl rests her head against my chest. </p>
<p>She looks up. “Hey, how old are you, anyway?” </p>
<p>“Fourteen,” I lie. </p>
<p>“So ... you ever gonna kiss me?” she asks.</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next: <br><a contents="SNAPSHOTS | PART 3 — TANGLE" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/snapshots-part-3-tangle" target="_blank">SNAPSHOTS | PART 3 — TANGLE</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/66521532021-06-07T14:11:22-07:002021-06-14T23:06:00-07:00SNAPSHOTS | PART 1 — LEAVING<p>Childhood memories are like polaroid photos in an old dusty box. </p>
<p>They don’t provide a cohesive autobiographical narrative, only brief flashes of insight into the murky past. You sort through the random images, shuffling them like playing cards, until one of them finally whispers to you, and a shard of memory is revealed, darkly, like a half-forgotten scent or song fragment. </p>
<p>It is from these small, disparate clues that you must fashion your origin story. But each time you take the box down from the shelf, there seem to be fewer snapshots inside. </p>
<p>It’s the summer of 1978 in Columbus, Georgia. A U-Haul is parked in front of our little apartment at Warm Springs Court. Daddy Bill and I are loading our last few boxes into the back of the truck. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/2680ae166e2d984c1f5b45afc32c7e2517c57e32/original/daddy-bill.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">Daddy Bill Matheny | Summer 1978 <br>Warm Springs Court, Columbus GA</span> </p>
<p>“You about ready to hit the road, Bub Man?” Daddy Bill asks. He’s been calling me “Bub Man” lately instead of Little Bub, and it feels right. I’m 12-and-a-half now, not a little kid anymore, and we’re about to begin a whole new life, far away from this place. </p>
<p>The past year was an emotional roller coaster. Up and down, love and loss. Dad finished his seventh year at Brookstone School on a high note, winning a prestigious teacher’s award from the city and having the yearbook dedicated in his honor. Then he abruptly resigned. Devastated by divorce, he slept for days at a time, rarely coming out of his room. “The doctor has me on tranquilizers,” he explained. When finally he emerged from the darkness of depression, other women came around, comforting him, playing mother to me, and we were happy for a time. But eventually they left, too. </p>
<p>When Dad’s last great love, Judy Mehaffey, moved to Nashville to pursue a songwriting career, her teenage son Jay came to live with us. Welcoming Jay into our home made sense. Our families were already intertwined. Jay’s mom and my dad, who still loved one another, were now prolific penpals. Jay’s older sister Kim, away at college, had been my babysitter and Dad’s star student at Brookstone. Kim and Jay’s father Lem (divorced from Judy, estranged from Jay) was the landlord of our little apartment complex. </p>
<p>Confused? Welcome to my world. The important thing is this: for one glorious summer I had a brother. </p>
<p>I was an only child who never especially wanted siblings. I cherished my solitude and was never bored. Daddy Bill and I were pals, and if I needed more companions there were always plenty of kids in the neighborhood. But Jay’s arrival in the summer of ’78 was right on time. </p>
<p>We lived in a small, two-bedroom apartment. Jay slept on our couch and made the living room his domain. As a tween on the precipice of puberty, I was utterly fascinated by this confident, lanky 17-year-old now living in our midst. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world, the way he immediately made himself at home, blasting<em> Frampton Comes Alive</em> on the stereo, watching <em>Midnight Special</em> on the tube, drinking Sprite, talking on the phone, holding court. I didn’t even try to play it cool. I thought Jay hung the moon, and he knew it. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3c6f09eaa07a37db05bf38c47e7f009c049edb16/original/jay.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">Jay Mehaffey | Summer 1978 <br>Warm Springs Court, Columbus GA </span></p>
<p>Dad knew it, too. Inviting Jay to move in may have sprung from a desire to help Judy, but it turned out to be the very best thing for all of us. Jay had a stabilizing influence in our home. His arrival prompted Dad to come out of his cave. Order was restored. We kept the pantry stocked, shared household chores, enjoyed regular meal times, and took road trips together.</p>
<p>Jay showed me how to assert my independence. Prior to Jay, I was Daddy Bill’s little sidekick, not so much a separate entity as an extension of his adult persona. I perceived Dad’s needs as my own; his moods became my moods. After Jay, I was my own man. There were three of us now, each with his own desires and responsibilities. We were a family. </p>
<p>But Jay was more to me than an ersatz older brother. He was like a cosmic life coach, sent by the universe to guide me through the emotional, hormonally turbulent life transition from boyhood to early adolescence. Our alliance felt all the more momentous because we knew it to be temporary. Summer’s end would mean our separation. Jay would stay in Columbus to finish high school, and I would move out west with Daddy Bill. Dad had accepted a new teaching position in Tucson, so that was where I would turn 13, begin junior high, and meet my destiny. </p>
<p>If Jay felt it was a drag to have a shadow that summer before his senior year, he certainly never showed it. He introduced me to his friends and let me tag along on their outings. He helped me find a job mowing lawns, taught me how to pop a wheelie on my bike, and hipped me to all kinds of music. At night I would make a pallet on the floor between the couch and coffee table, so we could continue talking into the wee hours. I’d stretch out flat, parallel to Jay on the couch above, and imagine that we were real brothers, sharing a room with bunk beds. </p>
<p>Our late night heart-to-hearts offered a crash course in what I should expect from life over the next few years. We talked about all the things I didn’t feel comfortable discussing with my father: cliques, crushes, flirting, fighting, parties, popularity, petty rivalry, peer pressure, the prom. I asked Jay all about the rituals of dating and how to talk to girls. He answered solemnly in great detail, stressing the importance of things like having plenty of money (chicks are expensive), when to give a girl your letterman jacket (only if you’re serious), and how to unhook a bra clasp (always use both hands). He spoke earnestly, as if he’d been tasked with a sacred mission of passing along his accumulated teen wisdom. I was riveted and hung on his every word. </p>
<p>Jay and I haven’t really stayed in touch since then, except to exchange Christmas cards once or twice, the way men do. But I sure hope he knows how important he was to me that summer, and how grateful I remain. </p>
<p>When the moving van showed up I was ready. Packing up was a breeze. After all, I’m the minimalist son of an anti-capitalist. We didn’t have that many possessions to begin with. Plus, we’d already moved several times before, so I knew the routine: put your stuff in boxes; say goodbye to all your friends. </p>
<p>Moving days are always bittersweet, but this one felt different. Inspired by everything I learned from Jay, I was committed to reinventing myself. I divided my belongings into two piles. One pile comprised only the essential things I’d need in my new life out west: clothes, books, trumpet, bike. We loaded them onto the truck. The other pile was all the “kid stuff” I would leave behind forever: comic books, action figures, toys.</p>
<p>Word got around quickly and the neighborhood kids descended like vultures. I sold everything I could and gave away the rest, pocketing a little over five hundred dollars.</p>
<p>“You about ready to hit the road, Bub Man?” Daddy Bill asked. “You bet,” I replied, climbing into the cab.</p>
<p>I didn't look back as we headed west. To the future.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/0cd0077065094b69c524b4d46b9381437daddf41/original/screen-shot-2021-06-07-at-1-12-34-pm.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next:<br><a contents="SNAPSHOTS | PART 2&nbsp;— FIRST CONTACT" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/snapshots-part-2-first-contact" target="_blank">SNAPSHOTS | PART 2 — FIRST CONTACT</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/66449162021-05-31T12:48:59-07:002021-07-20T19:12:23-07:00UP IN THE AIR | PART 3 — CITIZEN OF THE WORLD<p style="text-align: center;"><strong><span class="font_small">“Remember, you’re not alone. <br>You’re part of an international <br>brotherhood of artists and musicians. <br>We’re all in this together.” </span></strong><br><span class="font_small">—Art Farmer </span></p>
<p><br>I aspire to be a Citizen of the World. </p>
<p>A world citizen is a xenophile whose identity transcends geography. Rather than swearing allegiance to a particular nation, ethnicity, or religion, the world citizen treats everyone with equal respect, and derives his rights and responsibilities from membership in the human race at large. He endeavors to be a man for all people. <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/db09b07916377e6f6ca62c5ddbf5106290f1ad8a/original/istockphoto-172923218-170667a.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">I aspire to be a Citizen of the World.</span></p>
<p>Art Farmer was such a man. At the height of his success, as his Jazztet was winning American popularity polls, Art relocated to Vienna, Austria, then commenced to tour internationally for decades. His extensive discography includes dozens of collaborations with musicians all over the world. Near the end of his storied life and career, he was awarded both the <em>NEA Jazz Masters Fellowship</em>, the highest honor our nation bestows upon a jazz musician, and the prestigious <em>Austrian Cross of Honor for Science and Art, First Class</em>. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/aac9666cca4a80d2d5f3533d3ae1e9195261a5eb/original/farmer.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small">World Citizen Art Farmer received the highest honors in both America and Austria </span></p>
<p>Art had been an adventurer ever since he was a teen, when he and twin brother Addison set out for Los Angeles in search of their destinies. But even after many productive decades in the music business, Art never lost his humility or curiosity. He knew that his chosen career of <em>traveling musician</em> granted admission to the global creative class, an identity he cherished as the foundation of his enlightened worldview. </p>
<p>“Remember, you’re not alone,” Farmer told a room full of aspiring jazz students at Stanford University. “You’re part of an international brotherhood of artists and musicians. We’re all in this together.” </p>
<p>Art Farmer’s philosophy resonated deeply with me, perhaps even more than his brilliant, lyrical music. He was “beyond category,” a true Citizen of the World, and I was inspired to live by his example. </p>
<p>In the years since my mentor’s passing, I’ve been fortunate to enjoy many opportunities for international <a contents="travel" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/touring-history" target="_blank">travel</a> with family, friends and fellow musicians. Occasionally I experienced little more than a hotel and concert hall, but whenever time would allow, I made sure to get out, see the sights, and break bread with the locals. I’ve watched the sunrise in Tuscany, climbed the cliffs of Santorini, serenaded penguins in Patagonia, viewed fireworks over Bangkok, and listened to evening prayers echo through the streets of Jakarta. I’ve visited an artist in Kyoto, a tea master in Uji, a winemaker in Alsace and a chocolatier in Brussels. I’ve met so many fascinating people in my travels, several of whom have become lifelong friends. </p>
<p>I’m grateful to the bandleaders who invited me to be part of their international adventures, notably Suzan Lesna, Keiko Osamu, and especially Amina Figarova, with whom I recorded two albums and performed in a dozen different countries on tour. For several years in the late nineties and early aughts, Amina and her husband Bart generously hosted me at their home in the Netherlands each fall, an annual residency that enriched my life beyond measure. I love and admire them both as artists, friends, and world citizens. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/6cc4cd60a326b996ac513f781ffd331cdf9fd1f6/original/afib.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />It was my privilege to record two albums with Amina for Munich Records </span></p>
<p><br>Although I never became a pilot (holding out for a jetpack, I suppose), I never missed an opportunity to fly, and the long international flights were often most luxurious. Singapore Airlines provided big leather chairs, soft lighting, and an array of Asian delicacies. British Airways offered formal tea and cakes; Japan Airlines served sake and sushi. Virgin Airlines had spa treatments and sleeping pods. And KLM, my favorite, boasted a gorgeous cohort of leggy blonde stewardesses, whose fitted blue uniforms and winning smiles harkened back to the Golden Age of Air Travel. </p>
<p>The airports, however, were chaotic, unpleasant places. Everyone was on high alert after 9/11. <em>Departure</em> meant grappling with the recently formed TSA, whose agents relished their nascent power like freshly minted mall cops. <em>Arrival</em> meant trying to appear inconspicuous under the gaze of scowling soldiers, in full riot gear, with machine guns. </p>
<p>We learned to allow an extra hour or two for security screening, during which agents would empty our bags, disassemble our instruments, pat us down and shout commands over the hum of x-ray scanners. “Empty your pockets! Take off your belt and shoes! No liquids!” On one occasion I was pulled out of line, strip-searched down to my socks, and interrogated. “What is this?” barked the agent, holding up my tiny bottle of valve oil. “And exactly what sort of name is Dmitri?” he demanded suspiciously, squinting at the random assortment of stamps in my passport. </p>
<p>But it wasn’t always so bad. One of my favorite airport memories was arriving in Baku, Azerbaijan for the 2002 Caspian Sea Jazz Festival. I’d been working with Amina for several years, and was thrilled to see her ancestral homeland for the first time. I wanted to find out what sort of Silk Road Shangri-La could produce such a regal, charismatic bandleader. I nicknamed Amina “The Diva,” and often teased her about her aristocratic lineage and manner, but I didn’t fully appreciate where she was coming from until that day. </p>
<p>We arrived in Baku exhausted, to long lines of weary, grey-faced travelers. Prepared for a long wait at customs, we took our place at the back of the crowd. Suddenly a dapper gentleman in a dark suit appeared beside us. He smiled warmly, greeted us by name, placed our passports in his breast pocket, and handed Amina a giant bouquet of flowers, kissing her on both cheeks. The distinguished official then ushered us briskly through the crowd, past customs, down a private corridor and straight outside, where a ceremonial honor guard stood waiting at attention beside a row of shiny black town cars. “Apparently Amina is kind of a big deal around here,” I muttered to no-one in particular. </p>
<p>I was right. The whole band was wined, dined, and treated like royalty. There were welcome gifts, guided tours, shopping excursions to the Taza Bazaar, and even a special banquet in Amina’s honor. We feasted on grilled lamb, champagne and caviar, serenaded by a traditional darbuka ensemble complete with belly dancer, who danced with all of us after dinner. The evening concluded with an astonishingly long series of celebratory cognac and vodka toasts to Amina, her family, and the band. It was a glorious evening. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/52a8d29eb60198722bc6685d473c45646553c2f9/original/banquet.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />the whole band was wined, dined, and treated like royalty </span></p>
<p>The festival itself was a triumph of concerts, workshops, jam sessions and creative collaboration. I’ll never forget the delightfully surreal evening we spent at the Caravan Jazz Club, where we performed the funk classic “Pass the Peas” with an international superband of Sax ’N Hop (Germany), Toots Thielemans (Belgium), our quintet (Azerbaijan, Belgium, Netherlands, USA), and half a dozen hungry young horn players. </p>
<p>But the great highlight was our concert at the historic Respublika Palace theater. We played our hearts out, and the band never sounded better. Amina’s modern jazz compositions, especially the ones inspired by traditional Azeri folksongs, were a huge hit with the hometown crowd. The audience cheered wildly. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/78171e3a3f9c6d60183bcd41fadfd80b7844e183/original/respublika-palace.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />the highlight was our concert at the historic Respublika Palace theater </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p>20 years later, I still aspire to be a Citizen of the World, but no longer wish to to travel so far, or so often. Touring is a young man’s game, and my jet-setter days best be behind me.</p>
<p>My new dream is a little more down-to-earth. I’m now in the market for a small camper van with a bed in the back, a simple “tour bus” in which my dog Scout and I can ramble around the western states together.</p>
<p>We’ll take our time, travel the back roads, see the sights, and break bread with the locals. </p>
<p>And who knows? I might even play a gig or two.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/66389322021-05-24T13:55:27-07:002021-05-31T12:50:08-07:00UP IN THE AIR | PART 2 — SEASONED TRAVELER<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“You've taken your first step into a larger world.” </strong><br>—Obi-Wan Kenobi </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>When I was first starting out, my mentor Art Farmer told me what it really takes to persevere in this business. “Do you like to travel?” he asked. “Well, get used to it, because that’s the life of a musician.” </p>
<p>I was reminded of his words a few years later when I asked record producer Cookie Marenco how to get the word out about my first CD. “You just need to go on tour,” she replied matter of factly. “It’s <em>all</em> about the tour. Your tour schedule determines everything: which stations play your music, what stores will carry it, when publications will review it, how people hear about it, and most importantly, whether anyone buys it.” </p>
<p>Such advice may seem silly in this digital age of streaming music and social media. Today, virtually anyone with the right look or gimmick has the potential to “go viral” without ever leaving home. But back in the 20th century we had no choice but to hit the road and participate in the obligatory rain dance of (jargon alert!) flacks, hacks, trades, jocks, promos, co-ops, end caps, take ones, tip sheets, and street teams. The music business was an expensive and time-consuming hustle, and the whole megillah hinged on one’s willingness to travel. </p>
<p>No problem here. Daddy Bill conscripted me into the vagabond lifestyle when I was still a toddler. I pretty much grew up in the backseat of his VW Fastback. By the time I left home at age 17, we had already moved nine times and taken dozens of road trips together. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/64673f4b5794dab1ab3b8d7b2adae521883eb995/original/vw-fastback.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">I pretty much grew up in the backseat of Daddy Bill’s VW Fastback </span></p>
<p>By high school and college I’d begun to hit my wayfaring stride. I saved my pennies to fly from my father’s house in the Sonoran Desert to the snowy pines of Interlochen and the slushy streets of Boston. I rambled through New England for pick-up dates in the horn sections of touring Motown and pop acts, met up with Art for flugelhorn lessons on both coasts, and journeyed to Florida and California for gigs with Berklee friends. I even maxed out my first couple of credit cards chasing a particularly enthralling girl from New York City to London, Ontario, and back again. I was a novice nomad, but was already on a first name basis with half a dozen skycaps and flight attendants. </p>
<p>So by 1995, when I began touring as a bandleader in support of my debut album <em>Red Reflections</em>, I was already a seasoned traveler. I well acquainted with the rules of the road: pack light, arrive early, sit tight, be cool, expect delays. </p>
<p>I tried to find out everything I could about how to make the most of life on the road. Hal Galper had not yet published <em>The Touring Musician</em>, the resource that would ultimately become my bible, so I collected travel hacks wherever I could find them. I worked with agents to find the best deals, consulted a nutritionist for health and wellness ideas, and read magazines to collect business travel tips and tricks. I even asked experienced flyers to share their secrets for gaming the system, such as how to qualify for early boarding and how to gain admission to exclusive airport lounges with fireplaces, daybeds and private showers. </p>
<p>But my number one travel guru, the person from whom I learned the most, was my friend and fellow road warrior, bassist Ruth Davies. We called Ruth “Felix The Cat” because her tiny magical travel bag always seemed to hold whatever anyone needed, be it an allen wrench, gaffer’s tape, a sewing kit or cold medicine. After years of touring with blues legend Charles Brown, Ruth knew everything there was to know about life on the road. She taught me how to “advance” each stop along the tour, insuring that all our backline tech and ground transportation needs were covered, as well as how to anticipate problems and prepare for every contingency.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/dad4acdbfd9d33c56f8555cd4e457449a7ad27af/original/ruth-davies.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">The person from whom I learned the most was my friend and fellow road warrior, bassist Ruth Davies</span></p>
<p>Our first tours beyond the Bay Area were to other cultural hubs out west: Los Angeles, San Diego, Seattle, Portland, Santa Fe, Albuquerque, Las Vegas, Phoenix. Eventually our circuit expanded to include a few midwest and east coast dates as well. We were still only traveling domestically, but since concert promoters rarely covered our travel costs, we learned to leverage frequent flyer miles and points-based affinity programs to receive discounted flights and hotel stays. </p>
<p>Then in the late 1990s I lucked into a quasi-sponsorship arrangement with American Airlines which enabled me to fly at no cost whatsoever. Amazing! I would volunteer a few hours each week to assist my friend Bobbi, an event promotions manager for the carrier. In exchange she gave me vouchers for free air travel throughout the United States. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c5cdac59cd96fa5eaf737c8f3a1890a9560b5a42/original/american-airlines.jpg/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">In the late 1990s I flew free-of-charge on American Airlines throughout the United States</span></p>
<p>Since these were the same certificates used by official airline personnel, gate agents would often quietly upgrade me to first class, no questions asked. Unfortunately, however, I was required to fly “stand by” and was occasionally asked to give up my seat in order to accommodate a paying customer. Plus, no matter where my final destination was, American always seemed to route me through DFW. On more than one occasion, what should've been a two-hour hop from SF to Portland turned into an all day odyssey with a long layover in Dallas. </p>
<p>Crazy, right? I didn’t mind. A free flight is a free flight. Plus, by that point I had trained myself to work at the gate and sleep on the plane. I took the earliest possible flight the day before a show so that any delays would only be a minor inconvenience. And I always brought my practice mute so that even long layovers would be time well-spent. </p>
<p>Whenever possible, I chose to fly out of Oakland, my home airport. OAK was a dream back then, much smaller and way hipper than SFO. They let you park right in front of the terminal, check-in was a breeze, and they even played classic jazz over the public address system. Within a few minutes of handing off your bags curbside, you could be relaxing at your gate, listening to Cannonball Adderley, and enjoying a nice hot cup of Peet’s coffee and a delicious veggie burger from Your Black Muslim Bakery. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/cd42caca2ce349b52c6ed5e11e6522b9660963dd/original/oakland-airport.png/!!/meta:eyJzcmNCdWNrZXQiOiJiemdsZmlsZXMifQ==/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">Oakland Airport was a dream back then, much smaller and way hipper than SFO</span></p>
<p>Those were the halcyon days, before the current era of shrinking seats, lost legroom and silly TSA “security theater.” After 9/11 lots of folks gave up on air travel entirely ... but not me.</p>
<p>I was about to take my first step into a larger world. </p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next: <br>UP IN THE AIR<br><a contents="PART 3 — CITIZEN OF THE WORLD" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/up-in-the-air-part-3-citizen-of-the-world" target="_blank">PART 3 — CITIZEN OF THE WORLD</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/66329002021-05-17T15:58:45-07:002021-05-24T19:15:40-07:00UP IN THE AIR | PART 1 — JOURNEY PROUD<p style="text-align: center;"><br><span class="font_small"><strong>“There’s no sensation to compare with this <br>suspended animation, a state of bliss. <br>Can</strong></span>’<span class="font_small"><strong>t keep my mind from the circling sky. <br>Tongue tied and twisted, just </strong></span><br><span class="font_small"><strong>an </strong></span><span class="font_small"><strong>earthbound misfit, I.”</strong><br>—Pink Floyd</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I’m not sure when or why I first became fascinated with flying, but I suspect it has something to do with my father. </p>
<p>Daddy Bill was always looking skyward, peering jealously through his binoculars at the raptors kettling overhead. Like me, he could fly in his <a contents="dreams" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/recurring-dreams" target="_blank">dreams</a>, and as a boy he imagined doing it for real. Young Billy wanted so badly to be a bird. According to family legend, he even broke his leg in an attempt to launch himself into the clouds, after the ghost of my great grandmother appeared to him in a dream and encouraged him to leap off the roof of the barn. </p>
<p>I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, nor the boy from the barn. Unlike my Dad, I never watched birds, joined the air force, or injured myself trying to defeat the laws of physics, but I definitely inherited his vivid imagination and impulse to fly. </p>
<p>Nearly all my childhood heroes were flyboys of one sort or another. There was Shin Hayata of Science Patrol, who transformed into the giant alien Ultraman (cue theme: “here he comes from the sky!”), and of course the space cop Green Lantern, whose alter ego Hal Jordan was a fearless test pilot. Luke had an X-wing and Kirk had a starship. James Bond had his jet pack and James Brown had his private jet. Neil Armstrong’s moon-landing poster adorned my bedroom wall, and Ol’ Blue Eyes filled our home with songs extolling the romance of air travel. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/422251d3c32dba7614e52e6571e3fd150399ee91/original/fly-boys.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">Nearly all my childhood heroes were flyboys of one sort or another.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Such notions were not uncommon for children of the 1960s and 70s. We were raised by television to defy gravity. </p>
<p>Just as the previous generation had grown up playing <em>Cops & Robbers</em> or <em>Cowboys & Indians</em>, my friends and I played <em>Star Trek</em> and <em>SuperFriends</em>. It never would have occurred to me to pretend I was the Lone Ranger. I was more likely to choose Billy Batson (a boy who, by saying a magic word, can transform into a flying strongman), Steve Austin (a NASA astronaut/USAF pilot who survives a crash to become a powerful cyborg that can leap 30 feet into the air in slow motion), or Evel Knievel (a real life daredevil who dressed like a superhero and refused to remain earthbound). </p>
<p>Could Evel Knievel fly? He sure as hell tried. My friends and I never missed Knievel’s televised stunts, including his disastrous attempt to jump the Snake River Canyon in a rocket-propelled skycycle.</p>
<p>Some of my pals were even more obsessed with flight than I. Lance was a space nerd who knew everything about the Apollo missions and could even recite the names of all the astronauts. Jeffrey could tell you what kind of jet was flying overhead just by looking at its silhouette. And all of us were jealous of Payton, whose uncle was a helicopter pilot. </p>
<p>Commercial airline flights were still considered a luxury in those days, something that only executives, celebrities and rich people could easily afford. This was the tail end of the Golden Age of Air Travel, when seats reclined all the way back and there was still plenty of legroom for everyone. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/55b80f84af9db053f69d06ad4fd4898e838f81cf/original/mid-1960s.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">The Golden Age of Air Travel</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Passengers wore their finest clothes, dined on steak and lobster, and drank endless complimentary cocktails. Beautiful air hostesses, glamorous as models, paraded the wide aisles with magazines and trays of hors d'oeuvres, pausing to lean and light the cigarettes of ladies and gentlemen alike. But the real stars of this hedonistic theater-in-the-sky were the dashing and charismatic pilots. Pilots commanded respect.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/ed68bd392492bb8d817c739120bd181858ac5a76/original/leo-in-catch-me-if-you-can.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">Pilots commanded respect</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>If you’ve ever seen the movie <em>Catch Me If You Can</em> starring Leonardo DiCaprio, you know what I’m talking about. Meeting an airline pilot in uniform was like shaking the hand of a famous military hero or movie star. I only flew a couple of times with my family back then, when I was still too young to appreciate or even fully recall the experience. But I do have one very clear memory: a friendly, square-jawed Delta Airlines pilot winking at me as he leaned over to hand me my very first souvenir kiddie wing pin. </p>
<p>The first flight I remember well was not on a commercial airline, however, but a tiny Cessna seaplane that Daddy Bill chartered from Key West, Florida to the Dry Tortugas. The year was 1974 and I was nine years old. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/ee76da3cebcd65964625ce400acb47bbf9f9cb48/original/cessna.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">a Cessna seaplane in the Florida Keys</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Our pilot, shouting over the engine’s deafening roar, pointed out sharks, stingrays, and sunken treasure ships in the ocean below. My Dad only half listened, preferring to focus on the sky and his quest of adding some rare pelagic birds to his North American life list. I just giggled the entire time, giddy with delight as we soared through the air. When our pontoons finally touched down upon the surface of the water at Fort Jefferson, I squealed “Again! Let’s go up again!” </p>
<p>I would happily go up again and again over the next few years. By the early 1980s, commercial air travel had become significantly more affordable. Small budget airlines were just starting up, and the larger companies lowered their prices in order to compete. Like many middle class families, we chose to fly rather than spend most of our vacation driving to and from our destination. </p>
<p>On the plane, people were still allowed to smoke, but it was becoming less fashionable to do so, and only first class passengers enjoyed the few remaining perks. They had their own dedicated flight attendant serving cocktails and canapés. Meanwhile, back in the cheap seats, where my family and I were squeezed together, “airplane food” meant stale, flavorless cafeteria fare on a plastic tray. </p>
<p>The Golden Age of Travel was over, but I didn’t care. I loved flying and looked forward to every opportunity.</p>
<p>Some of the grown-ups teased me for being “journey proud,” a southern expression for folks who get so excited that they can't sleep the night before a trip. </p>
<p>What can I say?</p>
<p>I’m still that way today. </p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next: <br>UP IN THE AIR <br><a contents="Part 2 — Seasoned Traveler" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/up-in-the-air-part-2-seasoned-traveler" target="_blank">PART 2 — SEASONED TRAVELER</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/66238492021-05-06T21:57:06-07:002021-05-10T20:09:35-07:00SAVE OUR STAGES<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>All the world’s a stage, <br>and all the men and women merely players. <br>They have their exits and their entrances, <br>and one man in his time plays many parts.</strong> <br>—William Shakespeare </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br><span class="font_small"><strong>Don’t it always seem to go <br>that you don’t know what <br>you got ’til it’s gone? </strong><br>—Joni Mitchell</span> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I’ve been thinking a lot about stages recently. Concert stages, stages of life, and all the stages on which we perform, both literally and figuratively. </p>
<p>Social media is itself a kind of performance space, where people gather for creative expression and the exchange of ideas. Depending on the user, social media may offer an elevated platform for high-minded art and ideals, an open forum for lively discussion and debate, or a cynical echo chamber of fear mongering, conspiracy peddling, virtue signaling and performative activism. (Or you can just post puppy photos!)</p>
<p>The virtual stage provided by live-streaming technology has been a godsend for performers during the shutdown, enabling us to stay active and remain in touch with friends and fans. When all the nightclubs and concert halls went dark, musicians from every genre took to the internet almost immediately, becoming virtual “buskers” overnight. I used a platform called “StageIt” to produce my <em>Quarantunes</em> series of live-streaming solo shows.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/328b2efe7d268608572e53b99f20cd640edaead1/original/quarantunes.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />I used a platform called “StageIt” to produce my <em>Quarantunes</em> series of live-streaming solo shows</span></p>
<p>Don’t get me wrong. Live-streaming is no substitute for the real deal. But it can be thrilling to play for an international audience without ever having to leave the house. Food for thought as we consider the post-pandemic commute. </p>
<p>Of course, real life also offers myriad opportunities to perform. Willy Shakes was really onto something when he penned his famous “All The World’s A Stage” monologue. Like actors in a play, we inhabit various roles at different stages of life: the good son, the good spouse, the good worker, the good friend, the good man. </p>
<p>As I look back over my own life and career, I can identify seven stages of development. Starting from juvenescent <em>beginner’s luck</em>, I survived adolescent <em>optimism bias</em> and the <em>Dunning-Kruger effect</em>, then as an adult, progressed through <i>confirmation bias </i>and plenty of <em>denial</em> before arriving at my current position, somewhere between middle aged <em>rationalization</em> and senior citizen <em>rosy retrospection.</em> (Shout out to Wikipedia for the psychobabble refresher!)</p>
<p>Through it all, my refuge and sanctuary has been the concert stage, a sacred space where artists and audiences meet in search of a shared transcendent experience. As the immortal Bobby Hutcherson once told me, “Think of the bandstand as an altar. Music is a spiritual calling, and the stage is our church.” </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/ae59c40d8907efd3eddc7f998f54940be06166f4/original/hutcherson.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />The Immortal Bobby Hutcherson </span></p>
<p>Mr. Hutcherson’s wise words carry extra resonance today, as the pandemic threatens to permanently shutter many of our most beloved venues. Ours is a precious and precarious ecosystem which we must never take for granted. </p>
<p>The relationship between artist and venue is a symbiotic one. Simply put, we need each other. Too often, however, relations between performers and those who hire them are perceived as adversarial. If you don’t believe me, ask your musician friends whether they happen to know any jokes about club owners.</p>
<p>Those jokes don’t seem so funny now. After fifteen solitary months of playing my horn to an unseen audience over the internet, I’m jonesing hard for a real gig with a real band in a real venue. I miss the creative collaboration, intimacy and immediacy of live performance. Most of all, I miss seeing the faces of people in the audience as we experience the miracle of music together.</p>
<p>Small venues have been hit especially hard by the pandemic shutdown. Many went out of business almost immediately. Of those remaining, ninety percent report that they are at risk of closing without additional financial assistance. </p>
<p>Enter <em>Save our Stages</em>, a bipartisan bill to provide billions of dollars in relief grants for venues. Recently signed into law as part of President Biden’s economic recovery plan, the <em>Save Our Stages</em> act is not perfect, but it’s a start. As Minnesota senator Amy Klobuchar points out, “Independent venues were some of the first establishments to close down and will likely be some of the last to open. I refuse to sit by and let the music die.”</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><em><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/0fe6a497d8d28d494a66e1ebf4bff3722d111ac1/original/save-our-stages.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Save Our Stages</em> is an emergency relief fund for live event venues and promoters </span></p>
<p>She's 100% correct, and we all must do whatever we can to help. #saveourstages</p>
<p>Presently, as we anticipate turning the corner on COVID-19, there is reason for hope. My buddy Ed, a jazz guitarist and concert promoter in Ashland, Oregon, optimistically predicts a post-pandemic gold rush for events. He believes that audiences, having been deprived of live music for so long, will return in record numbers, more motivated than ever to buy tickets and support the arts.</p>
<p>Makes sense to me. The global health crisis provided us all with a chance to pause and reevaluate which things in life matter and which things don’t. I, for one, have learned that live music matters immensely, and stages are absolutely essential.</p>
<p>Joni Mitchell said it best: <strong>you don’t know what you got ’til it’s gone.</strong></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/66185042021-04-30T15:02:03-07:002021-05-04T21:34:00-07:00MY THREE DEMONS<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“One day, you’ll make peace with your demons, <br>and the chaos in your heart will settle flat. <br>And maybe for the first time in your life, <br>life will smile right back at you and <br>welcome you home.” </strong><br>—Robert M. Drake </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><strong>“We don't see things as they are,<br>we see them as we are.”</strong><br>―Anaïs Nin</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>When Daddy Bill passed away last December, just before my 55th birthday, I felt something change in me. </p>
<p>Way down deep, beneath the ocean of love and gratitude for all that he was, below the waves of grief, loss and mourning, there was a feeling of release. Not relief, mind you, but release, as if by saying goodbye to this world, my father was giving me permission to let go of certain unrealistic expectations about my own place in it. </p>
<p>Before he died, I never fully appreciated the extent to which my professional ambitions were tethered to the desire to earn my father’s approval. Ironic, since he never pressured me in any way, and was always encouraging, no matter what. He believed in me. He loved my music and supported my life choices without reservation. </p>
<p>Daddy Bill has always been in my corner. His approval was a given. But because I admired him so and wanted to make him proud, I worked harder than I might have, and whenever I achieved anything, no matter how small, I couldn’t wait to tell him about it. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/2c57a721d4c1631615881f44b2c4afc8fd512faf/original/daddy-bill.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Daddy Bill has always been in my corner</span></p>
<p>Even during his last years, as Parkinson’s and dementia assailed his body and mind, we remained close. I visited him in Tucson every few months, and called him every Sunday. Because of his condition, we could only talk about small things: the weather, the news, what he had for breakfast. And though he was often confused or forgetful, he always remembered to tell me that he loved me, and would end every conversation with the same benediction: “you just keep playing that horn.” </p>
<p>I miss my father terribly, but paradoxically, I also feel his presence. I’m not a religious person, and I have no belief in an afterlife. I don’t pray to God, communicate with the ancestors or converse with my father’s ghost. But I do hear the “still small voice” of my own conscience, and it just so happens to speak with a comfortingly familiar, decidedly paternal, southern drawl. </p>
<p>Lately that voice has been telling me to make peace with my demons. We all have our demons, right? I have three, and they have tortured me for as long as I can remember. Their names are Grandiosity, Imposter Syndrome, and Polarized Thinking. </p>
<p>In the past I’ve tried to fight my demons without success. To make peace would require a new strategy: that I stop fighting, and instead try to understand them and where they’re coming from. Think of it as Cognitive Distortion Diplomacy. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/4ae137765c40c95afb168ec304d473c5994dc291/original/three-demons.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />my three demons have tortured me for as long as I can remember </span></p>
<p>Grandiosity is the biggest and loudest of my demons. He infects me with toxic superiority and an exaggerated sense of my own importance. He robs me of rational thought and empathy, and fills me with bogus, superstitious beliefs: that I’m special, that I’m chosen, that I’m destined for greatness, and that the universe magically conspires to assist me at every turn. Grandiosity distorts my positive aspirations and work ethic, transforming them into an unearned and ugly feeling of entitlement. </p>
<p>Imposter Syndrome is Grandiosity’s evil twin sister. Whenever Grandiosity sleeps, she awakes, to drain my delusional overconfidence and replace it with extreme self-doubt. Imposter Syndrome perniciously whispers that I’m an untalented fraud, that my entire career has been nothing but a long con, and that any past accomplishments and accolades are meaningless. Imposter Syndrome says “You’re not special at all. You’re the worst thing a person can be: you’re ordinary.” </p>
<p>Of the three, however, Polarized Thinking may be the most dangerous demon of all. He provides the fuel that sustains the others. He inflicts an absurd all-or-nothing worldview of black and white extremes, in which I’m either destined for success or doomed to failure. Polarized Thinking says there can be no in-between, no shades of gray. If Grandiosity is born of the hope that I’m special, and Imposter Syndrome is the fear that I’m not, Polarized Thinking is the erroneous belief that these are the only two options. </p>
<p>If I’m ever to let go of unrealistic expectations, and come home to the life that I truly want, then making peace with these demons is paramount. I may never be able to silence them entirely, but If I can just see them for the maladaptive, habitual, self-sabotaging ways of thinking that they are, perhaps I can diminish their destructive power and re-integrate them into a more realistic sense of self. </p>
<p>In other words, I must learn to perceive things clearly as they are, unclouded by hope and fear. I must become like Manjushri, the bodhisattva of keen awareness, whose flaming sword represents the transcendent wisdom which cuts through duality and delusion. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e2192a44e77b398596124e718844969ccd57c0a5/original/manjushri.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Manjushri, the Bodhisattva of keen awareness </span></p>
<p>Who knows what the future will hold? None of us control the narrative of our lives, not really. But to the extent that one can shape a life story, I now aspire to a smaller, simpler, more sustainable one. </p>
<p>I will “keep playing that horn” for at least a few more years. But while my love of music is undiminished, any ambitious desires to prove myself or make my mark have waned considerably. The truth is, there is no longer anything to prove. Not to my father, not to myself, not to anyone. </p>
<p>Look at it this way: my dream was to become a professional jazz artist, to travel, make records, and share my music. </p>
<p>As it turns out, I did precisely that, and I've enjoyed it for nearly 40 years. </p>
<p>Maybe now it’s time to dream a new dream. Why not? </p>
<p>Whatever the new dream turns out to be, I'm sure Daddy Bill would approve.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/66138742021-04-26T03:33:22-07:002021-04-27T13:57:02-07:00NEW YORK STORIES<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><em><strong>“if this town is just an apple <br>then let me take a bite”</strong></em> <br>—Steve Porcaro </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I love New York.</p>
<p>Original, right? </p>
<p>Artists are drawn to New York City of course, but unlike many of my college friends, I chose not to move there after graduation. I picked the other coast, and for better or worse, that decision has shaped the trajectory of my life and career. </p>
<p>The first time I ever visited NYC was on a road trip in the seventies with my father. I can’t remember the reason for our trip, or why he insisted on driving into Manhattan, but I vividly recall how he muttered and cursed the whole time, anxiously gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles white, his face crimson red. </p>
<p>For the rest of his life, whenever New York came up in conversation, my dad would launch into his litany of grievances, about “that bastard who cut me off,” how “we both could’ve been killed,” how “crowded and dangerous” that city is, and how “some druggie” even tried to break into our parked car. </p>
<p>But Daddy Bill would always conclude with a smile and the same magnanimous declaration: “Welp, at least Little Bub got a kick out of climbing up that statue.” </p>
<p><br><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/9e9a539bc2ae10d5cefda490706e15c34ddd66f5/original/a-lady-liberty.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small">First Crush, 1975 <br>I've always had a thing for powerful women.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>At age ten, I was fascinated by the Statue of Liberty. Our New York trip happened to occur just as bicentennial celebrations were ramping up, and I was enthralled by all the patriotic pageantry and symbolism. But it wasn’t the ascent to Lady Liberty’s crown that thrilled me so much as the sheer sight of her, towering majestically over the harbor. To this day, I can’t see that iconic statue in a movie without getting chills. </p>
<p>Thus began my complicated affair with The Big Apple. Like my father, I felt out of place there, but I also felt the city’s mysterious gravitational pull. </p>
<p>Surely part of New York’s magnetic appeal is its reputation as the cultural capital of America. The entire history of twentieth century music, film, visual art and literature can hardly be imagined without that city’s seminal role as a proving ground in virtually every genre. </p>
<p>So in 1985, when I began commuting to New York for music lessons with Carmine Caruso (who changed my embouchure) and Art Farmer (who changed my life), it felt right. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/5d2d09118050236dc46393ee02932d5c9eb5c134/original/0.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Art Farmer, who changed my life</span> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I loved taking the train down from Boston, the romantic feeling of passing through all those quaint little New England towns along the northeast corridor, the crescendo of excitement as the skyline gradually came into view, and the butterflies in my stomach as I exited the station and made my way over to Caruso’s 46th Street studio. </p>
<p>After our lessons I would visit a friend or two before picking up <em>Hot House</em> or <em>The Village Voice</em> to check the club listings and decide which of my heroes to go see that evening. I knew that I could never actually live there. As an introvert, I found the city exhilarating but overwhelming. But I was motivated to visit often. When you need inspiration, you go to New York. </p>
<p>Even during my lost years in San Francisco, when I was married and working for Jazz In The City (later renamed SFJAZZ), I enjoyed many business trips to New York. Whether to sell jazz festival sponsorships (Sony, Verve, Blue Note), participate in industry conferences (APAP, JazzTimes, IAJE), or serve on grant review panels (Doris Duke, CMA), I never missed an opportunity for an all-expenses-paid pilgrimage to Jazz Mecca. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3bdb9883e4ef2db99a8340fc9380635bbc6c1ffd/original/screen-shot-2021-04-26-at-2-48-32-pm.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />I never missed an opportunity for an all-expenses-paid pilgrimage to Jazz Mecca.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I saw Art Farmer at Sweet Basil, Tommy Flanagan at the Vanguard, Illinois Jacquet at Tavern on the Green, Sonny Rollins at Town Hall, Chris Potter at the Knitting Factory, and more. I was even so fortunate as to attend a secret late night performance by Ornette Coleman in his Harlem loft. </p>
<p>After I’d lived in California for awhile, immersed in the vibrant Bay Area scene, I started my own band. It took some time to make my bones as a bandleader, but eventually we had a full dance card, playing concerts, clubs and festivals all over the region. We were essentially a territory band, criss-crossing the western states. </p>
<p>As much as I loved life on the road, I soon learned that traveling with a quintet was unsustainable. Presenters rarely covered all our hotel and travel costs, and our margins were razor thin. Eventually I followed the example of my mentor, and began to travel solo, working with outstanding local rhythm sections in each destination. I found talented, capable sidemen everywhere. As one frequent collaborator observed, “The Dmitri Matheny Group is now a cast of thousands.” </p>
<p>But even after I’d begun to tour internationally, New York City remained a tough nut to crack. It was a challenge to get the attention of the gatekeepers, but I was determined to play there. Nobody on the ice world of Hoth gives a damn how hard your cantina band swings back on Tatooine. </p>
<p>I made my New York debut on Valentine’s Day 1995 at the Weill Recital Hall at Carnegie Hall. Presented by Monarch Records as the east coast release party for my album <em>Red Reflections</em>, the concert featured a solid line-up of young NYC musicians, friends old and new, assembled just for the occasion. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e555206b1a350ad686ceda75ede39c45e03e040b/original/c-feb-14-1995.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />February 14, 1995 <br>Weill Recital Hall at Carnegie Hall NYC<br>Dmitri Matheny Group featuring Mark Gross,<br>George Colligan, Jesse Murphy, Hans Schuman </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>My next New York appearance would be a couple of years later at The Jazz Gallery on Hudson Street. I was introduced to the venue’s founder, Dale Fitzgerald, by photographer Lee Tanner, whose work was on display in the gallery. Since the exhibit featured photos of Thelonious Monk, we all thought it would be cool to program an evening of Monk’s music in the same space. That show turned out to be one of the swingingest gigs of my life. I credit the world-class rhythm section for making everything feel so effortless. We had a full house, and the music seemed to play itself. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/4082946d2c877b024355843561e8044cf1acfef6/original/d-nov-8-1997.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />November 8, 1997 <br>The Jazz Gallery NYC<br>Dmitri Matheny Group featuring<br>Jonny King, Larry Grenadier, Tony Reedus </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The following year, Hans Schuman invited me back for a youth concert at the Brooklyn Museum. I’m so proud of my buddy Hans, who founded the nonprofit Jazzreach in the early nineties and has since built it into an arts education powerhouse. The show was a blast, the kids in the audience loved it, and the band Hans put together was first rate. As a surprise bonus, concert sponsor Armani Exchange outfitted us all with stage wear. (I rocked those black velvet pants for years afterward!) </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/73c0311a7398cb28b3a5ee9a465306d4ba4aec4c/original/e-oct-7-1998.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />October 7, 1998 <br>Brooklyn Art Museum NYC<br>Jazzreach presents <em>Get Hip! </em><br>Hans Schuman, Mark Turner, Xavier Davis,<br>Josh Ginsburg, Dmitri Matheny, Vernice Miller </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Later that month, on Halloween, I returned to Weill Hall for a second Monarch showcase, this time in support of my album <em>Starlight Cafe. </em>Pianist Darrell Grant, who played brilliantly on the CD, was able to make the date, and we had a ball. A highlight of the evening was a performance by dancer/choreographer Rebecca Stenn. The show was a big success and even raised some money for charity. <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/7512f8dac5cc86e5eae9c8686a6e75bbe6e45bad/original/f-oct-31-1998.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />October 31, 1998 <br>Weill Recital Hall at Carnegie Hall NYC<br>Dmitri Matheny Group featuring Darrell Grant,<br>Josh Ginsburg, Rebecca Stenn </span><br> </p>
<p>Two weeks later I was invited to participate in a series of promotional appearances for a compilation CD called <em>Gershwin On Monarch </em>by the Crown Project. Our final event was a performance for music retailers and distributors at Windows on the World, a glass enclosed restaurant at the top of the World Trade Center. The view was incredible, a treasured memory now that those towers are gone forever. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/23c94f0bea9e7327f35cc23a7d6d93b3b3d0d6f5/original/g-nov-14-1998.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" />November 14, 1998 <br>Windows on the World NYC<br>The Crown Project </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>My hero, Art Farmer, passed away the following year. It was a tremendous loss, not just for me, but for the entire jazz world. I felt then as I do now, extraordinarily grateful to have known him and to have benefitted from his wise counsel. I was humbled to have been among the musicians asked to pay musical tribute to him at a memorial celebration at St. Peter’s Church. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/387478cbac53dba88fb019bab69c344ff0a5b8e4/original/h-nov-7-1999.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />November 7, 1999 <br>St. Peter’s Church NYC <br>A Celebration of the Musical Life of Art Farmer<br>Dmitri Matheny and Billy Taylor</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>St. Peter’s is often called “the jazz church” by musicians, partly because it’s where so many of our icons have been memorialized, and partly because of the church’s history of presenting jazz in concert. Grant & Matheny appeared there in a 2001 program celebrating the legacy of MLK. Darrell and I premiered new works dedicated to Dr. King, and many of our friends and fellow musicians turned out in support. We were thrilled. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3b35d8a52620456c391d3446a73d98753b321383/original/i-jan-14-2001.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />January 14, 2001 <br>St. Peter’s Church NYC<br>Grant & Matheny </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s funny how memory plays tricks on you. I didn’t realize it until now, but I performed in New York seven times between 1995 and 2001. Not so many, considering the number of shows I played elsewhere over the same period. But what really blows my mind is the fact that I wouldn't return to NYC until 14 years later, when Mark Taylor and I shared a bill at the Cornelia Street Cafe in Greenwich Village. We did the usual promotional rain dance and invited everyone we knew, but somehow our audience that night barely outnumbered the band. That was a rough one. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/a95a6412187688aa95c7c609492ffb6b63434cd0/original/j-sep-14-2014.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />September 14, 2014 <br>Cornelia Street Cafe NYC<br>Mark Taylor's Secret Identity and the Dmitri Matheny Group featuring<br>Richard Johnson, Michaël Attias, Eric Revis, Michael TA Thompson </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I’ve returned to the Empire State several times since then, playing modest venues in far-flung corners and giving more workshops than I can count. I even performed at the <em>Rochester International Jazz Festival</em> — a career highlight — but I haven’t yet returned to NYC. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3627b9d549cdadff1822b35c610b74c163f0eb30/original/k-sep-26-2014.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />September 26, 2014 and October 13, 2017<br>Beanrunner Cafe Peekskill NY <br>Dmitri Matheny Group featuring Richard Johnson, Harvey S,<br>Joe Strasser, Sheryl Bailey, Tony Jefferson, Rob Scheps</span><br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/7e30bcf9066a2a6d648774c8bd8b1448f7a66c30/original/l-sep-24-2017.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />September 27, 2014 and October 14, 2017<br>Abilene Bar & Lounge Rochester NY <br>Dmitri Matheny Group featuring Richard Johnson, Jeff Campbell,<br>Mike Melito, Doug Stone, Bob Sneider, Danny Vitale</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/bb699e54d13807b104f39a252a47235fce923d48/original/m-jun-26-2018.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" />June 26, 2018 <br>Rochester International Jazz Festival <br>Dmitri Matheny Group featuring<br>Bob Sneider, Jeff Campbell, Mike Melito</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Our plans for the post-pandemic future are uncertain.</p>
<p>I’m getting older, and touring is a young man’s game.</p>
<p>But I sure would love another bite at the apple.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/66079152021-04-19T00:08:41-07:002021-04-19T22:08:34-07:00HIGH ANXIETY<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><em>“<strong>It’s not just about me and my dream<br>of doing nothing. It</strong>’<strong>s about all of us!</strong>”</em></span><br><span class="font_small">—Peter Gibbons</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><em>“<strong>Now is the age of anxiety.</strong>”</em></span><br><span class="font_small">—W.H. Auden </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><em>“<strong>Don’t make me dance.</strong>”</em></span><br><span class="font_small">—Lilia </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p>I’m a big fan of <em>CBS Sunday Morning</em>. The show’s bright, optimistic tone, cheerful sun iconography, and calming nature videos are usually a welcome comfort. But this week’s episode made me anxious. </p>
<p>The entire show was dedicated to the encouragement of widespread tourism, as if we’re already living in a post-pandemic world. From host Jane Pauley to travel guru Rick Steves to the lemon merchants of the Amalfi Coast, everyone seemed to be singing from the same reckless hymn sheet. There was even a segment promoting <em>revenge tourism</em>, the idea that pleasure travel is even more fun now, as a giant middle finger to COVID-19. </p>
<p>Are you kidding me? Aren’t we being a little premature? </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/cd4a97e05c08746c92ffc8edc8b554ca388c4896/original/cbs-sunday-morning.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><em>CBS Sunday Morning is usually a welcome comfort, but this episode made me anxious</em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I dig that people are restless, and I understand we’re all feeling more hopeful as vaccinations increase. But the virus is still surging in many areas, and some of those new variants are scary. There are now 141 million cases worldwide, including 32 million in the USA of which 566,000 have proven fatal. This thing ain’t over yet. Is now really the time to cheerlead for non-essential travel? </p>
<p>Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been a travel enthusiast all my life. In the 1970s of my youth, Daddy Bill and I road-tripped everywhere, from the Great Smoky Mountains to the Florida Keys to the Sonoran Desert. In the decades since I’ve had the privilege of making new friends in Azerbaijan, Barbados, Belgium, Cambodia, Canada, Chile, Czech Republic, England, France, Greece, Indonesia, Italy, Japan, Luxembourg, Mexico, Netherlands, Poland, Thailand and nearly every one of these United States. #AlphabeticalHumbleBrag</p>
<p>I'm profoundly grateful for my travels, and I wholeheartedly agree with the late Anthony Bourdain (a personal hero), who contended that travel, if we do it right, is our best defense against racism and xenophobia. You dig? </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/7c97d2e53daee477d8fef0f5740857e6c0ae10ef/original/bourdain.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><em>xenophile hero Anthony Bourdain and friends showing us how its done </em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Cultural tourism literally brings us together! That’s one of the reasons I chose this career. Travel is the lifeblood of our business. You don’t meet many xenophobic musicians. </p>
<p>But this year? I’m not feeling it. </p>
<p>Don’t be surprised. After all, I’m the Proletarian Contrarian. My entire life has been an exercise in cognitive dissonance. Swimming against the current? It’s kinda my thing. </p>
<p>While most of my friends were leading responsible lives, raising families and being good citizens, I was traveling 57,000 miles a year to honk my horn among the great unwashed. It stands to reason that now, when I feel afraid to venture beyond my front gate, the rest of the world can’t wait to get on a plane!</p>
<p>As one sidelined traveler told the <em>Wall Street Journal</em>, “The moment can’t come soon enough to actually hit the road again. We’re all kind of clamoring for the celebration party.” </p>
<p>Not all of us, pal. As usual, I’m out of step with the zeitgeist.</p>
<p>I just got my second shot of Dolly Vax.</p>
<p>I’m very grateful, but also anxious. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/936ab65c56e27bb69cdcc5640bc85a254a1bd412/original/vaxed.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /><i>grateful, but also anxious</i></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Some of my uneasiness is just a lingering reaction to the white coat effect. I always experience irrational fear and agitation around doctor stuff. The stakes are higher this time (i.e., deadly global plague), which only exacerbates matters. </p>
<p>I’m also anxious about the uncertainty of it all. Maybe I’ll have a bad reaction to the vaccine. Maybe the vax won’t work, and I’ll still catch covid. Or maybe it will work, and the next bug is the one that gets me. See what I mean? </p>
<p>And it’s not only the pandemic that makes me nervous. I’m justifiably worried over the state of the world. So much vitriol and violence in the news. Racial unrest. Joblessness, homelessness, food insecurity. Explosions. Invasions. Protests. Riots. Wildfires. Floods. Hurricanes. Police brutality. Political corruption. Voter suppression. Cancel culture. Rampant stupidity. Nazis! Four full years of enduring daily presidential messages of hate. (Aren’t we all still suffering PTSD from that SOB?)</p>
<p>Then there’s the hypervigilance. I don’t mind telling you, I’m straight up terrified of catching a stray bullet. It seems every week there’s another random, senseless mass shooting in this country. I’m always checking over my shoulder and looking for the exits. How does anyone feel safe in a crowd anymore? </p>
<p>Some of this anxiety is grief-related. I’m still mourning the loss of my father. I feel untethered, like an orphan. Facing a world without him in it fills me with dread. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3bfc6ce7330a774e8269c25ceeac4b0e378ad034/original/with-dad-on-mt-lemmon.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><em>facing a world without him in it fills me with dread </em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>So I’m delighted the vaccines are here, and grateful to have received mine. And I’m glad that people are feeling more hopeful, but not if it means we all have to go rushing back. </p>
<p>Because if I’m being truly honest here, the main reason I feel anxious is this: I’m simply not ready. </p>
<p>I’m just not ready to go back. Not yet. I’m not ready for the ambitious workaday world with all its expectations and obligations. I’m not ready to leave the safety and security of my Hunker Bunker. And I’m definitely not ready to resume that relentless hustle and grind. </p>
<p>I’m here for the music, not the dance.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/66024562021-04-12T22:34:46-07:002021-04-14T21:23:26-07:00THE HUNKER BUNKER REPORT | PART 5 — THE ROAD AHEAD<p style="text-align: center;"><br><strong><span class="font_small"><em>“Adulthood and what they call maturity is </em></span></strong><br><span class="font_small"><strong><em>the slow acceptance of what you will never be.” </em></strong><br>—Bryan Callen </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br><span class="font_small"><strong><em>“Maybe it’s time to let the old ways die.” </em></strong><br>—Jason Isbell </span></p>
<p><br>As of today, about 71 million Americans have been fully vaccinated, representing 22 percent of the total US population. As the shots-in-arms number rises, so do our spirits. Restrictions on travel and events have already begun to relax. Folks are starting to get back out there. </p>
<p>Progress is slower globally. According to UNICEF, 130 countries have yet to administer a single dose, leaving 2.5 billion people out of luck in the worldwide vaccination effort. Doses remain scarce in many countries, despite resource-sharing programs like COVAX. Same storm, different boats. </p>
<p>Meanwhile, new COVID-19 variants continue to emerge. The experts are now saying that coronavirus will never be totally eradicated. It has already spread too far and is changing too fast. The primary goal of public health efforts is now to make the virus manageable, like seasonal flu. We may need to get a coronavirus shot every year. </p>
<p>So hope in the air, but so is trepidation. We now consider the road ahead. </p>
<p>I received my first dose of the Moderna vaccine last month, and am scheduled for shot number two this weekend. With cautious optimism, I decided to dip my toe in the water, and agreed to play a couple of socially-distanced jazz festival gigs and teach at an adult jazz camp next month. </p>
<p>Did I make the right call in accepting these jobs? The decision seemed reasonable at the time, but as May approaches, I can feel my blood pressure going up.<br><br>I'm nervous! Covid cases continue to rise, and hospitalizations have plateaued even as vaccinations increase. This thing is far from over. But health concerns are only a part of my ambivalence. </p>
<p>This year in lockdown has taught me a great deal about myself as an artist and as a man. To put it simply, I’m not entirely sure that I even want to return to public life. </p>
<p>When I was a young man, I believed that I was part of a sacred continuum. I regarded my musical heroes as ancestors, and felt that it was my responsibility to take up their mantle and follow their example. I fully expected that one day I would join them, in the grand succession, on Olympus. </p>
<p>As I got older, I began to think about my legacy. I had no protégé, no students, and no children, yet I saved every concert program and news clipping. I imagined that these items would be valuable to future historians, biographers, and curators of retrospective exhibitions about my life and career. I even lugged my memorabilia around in a giant footlocker, which I called <em>The Dmitri Museum</em> without a trace of irony. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/8c095ef2ae6477ce82880deb20e599e154f9d01b/original/the-dmitri-museum.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>The Dmitri Museum</em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>When I hit midlife, after I'd been making a living in music for awhile, I began to realize that my career held no great significance. I’m neither a virtuoso nor an innovator. I can play, but my simple songs and modest independent recordings are not likely to be remembered by history. </p>
<p>After some soul-searching I made peace with the demotion and embraced the more realistic role of blue collar bandleader. I'd lost interest in collecting museum exhibits anyway, so I scanned a few items, tossed the rest, and focused all my energies on filling the schedule. </p>
<p>“If I’m not going to be important,” I thought, “I can at least be busy.” Over the next decades my bands and I spent over two hundred nights a year on the road, playing thousands of shows for small audiences in intimate venues. I took pride in our success, but I also felt like the dog that caught the car ... now what? </p>
<p>Then came the big Pandemic Pause Button, and with it the chance to stop, think, and ask the big questions. Am I happy? Why did I choose this life? What other paths might I have taken? Should I stay the course, or find a new way? </p>
<p>The first few weeks of the shutdown were especially challenging. My ego was attached to my manufactured identity as one of the hardest working, busiest cats around, and that had been taken away. I felt defanged and emasculated. But as weeks turned into months, I began to let all that go. Gradually I settled into a new rhythm. </p>
<p>The pace of life during lockdown slowed to a stroll, my preferred tempo in all things. Each day was perfectly balanced: a little writing, a little teaching, a lot of relaxing. I puttered around the house, played my horn, wrestled with the dog, and took naps. I spent time outdoors, walking, gardening and fishing. I enjoyed home-cooked meals with Sassy and heart-to-heart talks with faraway friends. </p>
<p>We also watched tons of movies. One that I found particularly inspiring was Harry Dean Stanton’s final picture <em>Lucky</em>, in which a 90-year-old man comes to terms with his own mortality in a small desert town. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/0a792031b668873e7169481f47f76b369b45f494/original/hds.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>Harry Dean Stanton in </em>Lucky<em> (2017)</em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lucky finds enlightenment in the minutia of life. “He has a routine,” observes film critic Matt Zoller Seitz, “and like many older people, it gives shape to his days.” Yes, indeed. </p>
<p>Like Lucky, I’m a non-religious seeker, and ritual is important to me as I prepare for my own senescence. This year provided an unexpected, welcome preview of what daily life will be like when I retire. I was surprised to learn that I love this simple life, and that even without music and travel, I’m still me. </p>
<p>This year of Liminal Time was a gift from the universe, an opportunity to reevaluate foundational assumptions. For example, as a child I was taught to see myself as a winner, and that idea was reinforced every time I excelled in school, work, music, life. But how can you be a winner if you never try things outside your comfort zone? How can you be a winner if you never attempt something at which you might lose? </p>
<p>All my life I’ve parsed the world into two absurd, Randian categories: “things that matter” (where I win), and “things that are a foolish waste of time” (where I never lose, because I refuse to participate). I now see that what I believed to be discernment was actually a childish defense mechanism against the inevitable shame of failure. </p>
<p>This cartoonish worldview served me for awhile as a useful delusion. It gave me strength during times of adversity. But it also deprived me of valuable life experience and depleted my capacity for empathy. It hindered my ability to make friends, because whenever I dismissed something as foolish, I would be equally dismissive of those who enjoyed or excelled at that thing. </p>
<p>Art Farmer was 100% correct when he told me that I don’t take enough chances. Art also said that there is really no such thing as losing. “There’s only winning or <em>learning</em>.” What he didn’t say, but I now believe, is that of the two, learning is best. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/23c8851b6406f00a21f1afa5595dcbded6152533/original/juicy-notes.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>Art Farmer was 100% correct when he told me that I don’t take enough chances.</em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Looking ahead, I’m not sure what my new normal will look like, but I hope to fashion a more balanced lifestyle, one with less busyness and more curiosity.</p>
<p>I do still have some ambition in the tank. I'll surely write more music, play more concerts, and record at least one more album before I call it quits. But I also feel the need to make space in my life for frivolous hobbies, silly games, small talk, chance encounters with strangers, taking chances, and exploring new interests. </p>
<p>I’d like to spend fewer nights on the road. It’s time to begin my transition from “touring musician” to “northwest composer” and eventually “eccentric old guy at the diner.” </p>
<p>The fact is, I may have no choice in the matter. Competition for post-pandemic work will be intense. Many venues, including several of my longtime clients, have gone out of business during this crisis. Others are now booking bands at unrealistically low wages. Most won’t return to live music at all until capacity restrictions are lifted. #SaveOurStages </p>
<p>But if this year has taught me anything, it’s that work for work's sake is overrated<em>.</em> Been there, done that.</p>
<p>The new goal is a smaller, simpler, more sustainable life.</p>
<p>One shaped by ritual and routine, punctuated by moments of discovery and wonder.</p>
<p><strong>That’s the life for me.</strong></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65953122021-04-05T19:59:14-07:002021-05-24T19:15:07-07:00THE HUNKER BUNKER REPORT | PART 4 — WHAT I LEARNED IN LOCKDOWN<p style="text-align: center;"><strong><span class="font_small"><em>“Honor the space between no longer and not yet.” </em><br>—Nancy Levin </span></strong></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong><span class="font_small"><em>“COVID-19 has taught us that life and health are precarious. <br>We must not squander precious time.” </em><br>—Tom Hanks </span></strong></p>
<p>This series of missives from the hunker bunker offer my insights after a year of sheltering in place. In parts one through three, we explored the health and financial effects of this damndemic. Today, in part four, we consider the lessons learned from a year in lockdown. </p>
<p>While the news media would have us believe that everyone is anxious to “get back to normal,” I don’t think that’s possible. I also don’t believe that returning to the way things were before is even what most people want. In fact, I believe we are now standing at the precipice of profound sociological change. </p>
<p>Part of the disruption caused by this global health crisis has been the curse, or gift, depending on your point of view, of <em>Liminal Time</em>. Derived from the Latin word “limens” meaning “threshold,” Liminal Time is the period between <em>what was</em> and <em>what’s next. </em>It is a place of transition and waiting. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/44e42033e32b2d41cb07eaa5cbee7a816b8b968e/original/the-gift-of-liminal-time.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><em>Liminal Time</em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Liminal Time</em> is especially important for artists, for it is precisely when nothing else is happening that we’re finally able to achieve a creative breakthrough. It is only when the world is quiet and we are still that the muses deign to visit. </p>
<p>Most of us only usually experience Liminal Time in small doses. Daydreaming while standing in line at the bank, or journaling during the commute from work to home. It is during these unscripted intervals between obligations that we finally have a moment in which to process our thoughts and feelings. And it is often during these small breaks from the status quo that we experience an “a-ha” of sudden insight, discovery or epiphany. </p>
<p>When I lived in California, I loved to drive down the Pacific Coast Highway. Cruising along the curving road between San Francisco and Monterey Bay, with the majestic blue ocean on one side and the rugged hills on the other, I would enter a kind of waking dream-state. Something about the sea and sky along that scenic drive would instill in me a meditative calm and clarity in which all my synapses would fire. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/010191a430b3fb31b8641b84598e31166cbf2203/original/pacificcoasthighway.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><em>The Pacific Coast Highway</em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Highway One inspired many of my best musical compositions. I also made several major life decisions on that road: to relocate from east coast to west, to get married, to record my first album, to quit my day job and become a full time musician. All of these flashes of insight were thanks to the luxury of Liminal Time. </p>
<p>Liminal Time is indeed a luxury. It stands to reason that we all would benefit from more self-reflection and course-correction. After all, if you’re always on the go, how will you know when it’s time to change direction? </p>
<p>People of limited means, of which I am one, tend to regard psychotherapy as a hobby for rich people. We’d like to explore our feelings, but therapists are expensive, and anyways we’re too busy out here surviving to make time for that. </p>
<p>But what if one day, out of the blue, all work was suddenly suspended, and you were asked — nay,<em> instructed </em>— to stay home and…just…wait? What if you were given an entire year of Liminal Time for introspection and conversation? </p>
<p>After so protracted a period of Liminal Time, how could we not expect profound changes to society at large? Whether you were busy during the shutdown or not, even if you've been working from home and caring for family, the disruption of your status quo has been extreme, lasting and undeniable.</p>
<p>I predict that, in addition to anticipated systemic changes, such as increased telecommuting and reliance on new technology, we will see individuals make myriad bold decisions about the future of their careers and interpersonal relationships. Your new normal, and mine, will be very different from how things were before.<br><br>Which brings me to the Rashomon Effect.</p>
<p>In Akira Kurosawa’s 1950 film <em>Rashomon</em>, a murder is described in contradictory fashion by four separate witnesses. The “Rashomon Effect” refers, therefore, to the fallibility of memory and the subjectivity of perception. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/b99ff6c035e6f8b5d6555101587958a5f74e1b0b/original/mv5bmjewnzq3odcxml5bml5banbnxkftztcwmdc0mtc4ng-v1.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon</em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I’ve been thinking quite a bit recently about the Rashomon Effect. A year of navel-gazing and comparing notes has convinced me that much of what I’ve always believed about my own origin story may, in fact, be false. And presently, as I puzzle through the mysteries of my past to begin compiling this memoir, I’m beset by many questions.</p>
<p>Was my father truly the devoted, attentive single parent I remember? Or was he a frequently absent man-child and serial monogamist who expected his wives and girlfriends to be surrogate mother to us both? </p>
<p>Did his second wife, my biological mother Lela, “run off” when I was an infant, never to return (as the official story goes), or did she come back to us several times when I was a toddler? And if the latter is true, as the oil portraits she painted suggest, then why don’t I have a single memory of her? </p>
<p>What about my stepmother Sandi? She and I reconnected online during the pandemic, which has been mind-blowing. I’ve always believed that she was only a brief part of my young life, but to hear Sandi tell it, she practically raised me all by herself, because Dad was always either at work or off birding. </p>
<p>I recently learned that Sandi and Dad were married before my third birthday and stayed together until I was twelve. That’s nearly a decade, almost my entire childhood. But how can that be? In my Swiss cheese memory, Sandi was only around for a little while. I vividly remember their bitter divorce and my father’s subsequent depression, but I don’t remember having a mom when I was in elementary school. </p>
<p>After Sandi there was Judy, then Catherine. I liked them all, but knew better than to get attached. “Women always leave,” Daddy Bill said, a self-fulfilling prophecy if ever I heard one. </p>
<p>So was I parented by my father, his women, or both? Was it just the two of us, just me and my Daddy, the way I remember it, like all the photos in my album suggest? Or was there always someone else, a female presence, just out of frame? Come to think of it, who even took all those photographs, if not <em>mon mère du jour</em>?</p>
<p>I’m starting to suspect that I may be an unreliable narrator of my own story. Like Darley in Lawrence Durrell’s <em>Alexandria Quartet,</em> I'm the naïf who starts out thinking he’s the protagonist of an epic adventure, only to find out he is but a bit player and a fool. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e617c82b09da453683eb8b468dabcabd66ec52dd/original/alexandria-quartet.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>The Alexandria Quartet by Lawrence Durrell</em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Like many children in the 1970s, I was a latchkey kid who came and went as he pleased, and who grew up feeling special and entitled. The Hero’s Journey monomyth was ubiquitous in the comicbooks, movies and pop culture of the era, and I took that omnipresent message to heart. I truly believed that I was uniquely talented and destined for great things. </p>
<p>Freedom-plus-encouragement was a popular parenting style back then and my father was no exception. “You can accomplish anything you want if you set your mind to it” was the familiar refrain. To this powerful maxim, add the privileges of being an only child, attending a prestigious school, and growing up white and male in the American south, and it’s easy to see how I could believe in myself to an absurd degree. </p>
<p>Granted, it wasn’t always easy being the artsy kid in a community which prized athletes and scholars, but “artist” was the identity I chose, and it quickly paid off. My earliest memories are of being in the spotlight, hearing applause, winning awards, taking a bow. Thus my father’s colleagues on the arts faculty at Brookstone School became co-conspirators in propping up both his high hopes for me, and my own nascent delusions of grandeur. </p>
<p>Looking back, I now suspect that those compassionate grown-ups who singled me out, did so not so much for my talent and potential, but out of pity for the poor little ragamuffin from a broken home. He needed the boost, bless his heart. </p>
<p>Today when I look at a school photo of ten-year-old Dmitri, I see things that were invisible to me at the time. I see his uncombed hair and the dirty smudge on his cheek. I notice the wrinkled, oversized hand-me-down shirt he wears, and how it's falling off his skinny little shoulders. I observe the unearned defiance of his proud, upturned chin. What I see is an arrogant problem child who needs a little more discipline and a lot less praise. </p>
<p>Big picture, Tyler Durden was right. “You are not special. You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake.” Sadly, by the time I was old enough to see <em>Fight Club</em>, I was already too far gone, a slave to the tyranny of my own bogus, manufactured destiny. </p>
<p>So what did I learn in lockdown? To doubt the veracity of my own story. </p>
<p>Which begs the question: if I’m not who I thought I was, then who am I? </p>
<p>And if this is a chance to reinvent myself ... who do I want to be?</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next:<br>THE HUNKER BUNKER REPORT<br><a contents="PART 5&nbsp;— THE ROAD AHEAD" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/the-hunker-bunker-report-part-5-the-road-ahead" target="_blank">PART 5 — THE ROAD AHEAD</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65880092021-03-29T09:19:07-07:002021-04-05T20:00:43-07:00THE HUNKER BUNKER REPORT | PART 3 — MENTAL HEALTH & SOCIAL CONNECTION<p style="text-align: center;"><br><em><strong><span class="font_small">“I enjoyed the time out! I loved the fact that nobody had to achieve anything. <br>And the light at the end of the tunnel is stressing me out.” </span></strong></em><br><strong><span class="font_small">—Neal Brennan </span></strong><br> </p>
<p>After a full year of hunkering down and hiding out, I must admit to feeling anxious about the prospect of getting back out there again. My auto-diagnosis: 10% agoraphobe, 10% germaphobe, 30% introvert, 50% rational, reasonably cautious person. </p>
<p>Several fellow creatives have told me that they, too, feel somewhat ambivalent about returning to their old lives. </p>
<p>“To tell you the truth, I needed the break,” my friend Hans confessed over Zoom. “I was feeling burnt out for about five years before this thing hit.” </p>
<p>Another colleague confided, “I’ve always been a homebody. Now I have permission! I hear folks talking about <em>Covid Cabin Fever </em>and how they can’t wait to go to a party or a bar. Is it weird that I don’t feel that way, like ... at all?” </p>
<p>I don’t think it’s weird. We’re not all wired the same. Some of us feel imprisoned and can’t wait to bust out. Others find comfort in what Red in <em>Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption</em> called “the poison peace of institutional life.” </p>
<p>Personally, I miss touring and performing, but not the relentless <em>hamster-wheel hustle</em> required to maintain that lifestyle. Moreover, now that I’ve experienced a year of living simply, I’m finding it difficult to remember why I ever felt it was so damned important to be busy all the time. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e91acf16f685ad20f281a14d8cce4c82c959bed4/original/hamster-wheel.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><em><span class="font_small">I miss touring and performing, but not the relentless hamster-wheel hustle required to maintain that lifestyle.</span></em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>When I hear reports of how social distancing is taking a toll on people’s emotional and mental health, I empathize. According to scientists at the University of Virginia, “human beings aren’t wired for social isolation. When people experience chronic social disconnection, they are subject to psychological distress, physical discomfort, and an increased risk of illness and death.” </p>
<p>In-person social interaction seems to be especially important for children, whose brains are still developing. Socialization helps young people create a sense of self and learn what others expect from them. I really feel for all those high school and college students who are missing out on precious daily face-to-face interaction with peers, not to mention the group rituals that mark developmental milestones, such as the prom and graduation. </p>
<p>I also feel for their parents. My friends with teenage kids have taken a crash course in the importance of socialization this year. They’ve learned first hand the extent to which their children’s happiness and well-being depends upon the physiological stress-buffering provided by “hanging out with friends.” </p>
<p>Then there are those single adults, living alone, who’ve experienced profound feelings of sadness during the solitude of this past year. I feel for them, too, especially the older folks who just want to hug their grandchildren. </p>
<p>I’m no stranger to loneliness, but leave it to me, the Pandemic People-Person, to experience better mental health and a stronger sense of community during this topsy turvy time. Truly, I have never felt such a sincere social connection to my friends and family, as during this year of sheltering in place! </p>
<p>Dig: before the pandemic, my life was rife with obligatory interactions. Pitching prospects, calling on clients, managing musicians, mingling with the crowd. Hustle. Hang. Repeat. Ad infinitum. </p>
<p>A career in the performing arts is essentially a never-ending cycle of event planning. If you’ve ever helped plan a wedding, you know how communication-intensive this kind of work can be. A single event may require dozens of phone calls, emails and discussions. </p>
<p>Now imagine producing over 200 events a year! Is it any wonder that on my nights off I craved only solitary peace and quiet? Is it any wonder that, other than a weekly phone call to my faraway father, I rarely spent time, socially, with anyone? <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/37410c1f726c4584807027778825bbbb02c51eb8/original/wolf.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>Is it any wonder that on my nights off I craved only solitary peace and quiet?</em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s not that I'm antisocial. I love my friends and family. I miss them when we’re apart. But I've always been an introvert, and prior to this pandemic, I simply did not have the alone time required to sort through all the stimulation of my world and my life. </p>
<p>But during the shutdown? <strong>I’ve been downright gregarious!</strong></p>
<p>Refreshed and recharged, I’ve transformed into a Social Media Butterfly — reaching out, checking in, taking a genuine interest in the lives of others. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/2816807816cae627116c48dca14bb62470219e86/original/screen-shot-2021-03-29-at-9-34-41-am.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>Refreshed and recharged, I've transformed into a Social Media Butterfly.</em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>With plenty of time on my hands, I’m now using my phone socially, too. Every day I call a different person, <em>just to say hello</em>. Amazing! This is something I would never have made time for in the past. </p>
<p>This year, through the miracle of technology, I’ve been able to reconnect with distant family, enjoy several heart-to-heart cyber-talks, and even engage in a few “virtual happy hours” with dear friends. I joined group chats, checked out some concerts, participated in podcasts, and even attended a live stream wedding! I've never been more grateful for the healing, community-building power of the internet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/cb7e377b0a260552eb74f7f93227145c0279efc0/original/virtual-happy-hour.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>I've never been more grateful for the healing, community-building power of the internet.</em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>And now, when I stroll with my dog in our little town, we will often stop to chat, socially-distanced, with the neighbors. I used to despise “small talk” as a waste of time, but you should hear me now, remembering names and remarking on the weather and whatnot. </p>
<p>Dare I say it? <strong>I’ve never been more social than during this time of social isolation. </strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next:<br><a contents="PART 4 — WHAT I LEARNED IN LOCKDOWN" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/the-hunker-bunker-report-part-4-what-i-learned-in-lockdown" target="_blank">PART 4 — WHAT I LEARNED IN LOCKDOWN</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65795092021-03-19T17:51:12-07:002021-05-24T17:02:59-07:00THE HUNKER BUNKER REPORT | PART 2 — FISCAL HEALTH<p style="text-align: justify;">As a rule, professional bandleaders operate with neither job security nor a financial safety net. We work gig to gig, operating on the slimmest of margins, without salary or benefits. We aren’t eligible for unemployment and many of us cannot afford health insurance. And most of our jobs are one-nighters, which means we can never stop looking for work, because we never know for sure how we’re going to pay that next round of bills. </p>
<p>And the thing is, we learn to live with this uncertainty. We take austerity measures, diversify our income, launch side hustles, juggle our bills. We do whatever it takes to keep things rolling. After all, this house of cards we call a career is no-one’s fault, no-one’s responsibility, but our own. As Hyman Roth said in <em>The Godfather</em>, “this is the business we’ve chosen.” <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/af32738488fba707234cdf355c013f4e895302b4/original/hyman-roth-was-right.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>Hyman Roth is right.</em></span></p>
<p><br>But this year was different. </p>
<p>When the shelter-in-place order came down and all concerts were canceled, my family suddenly found itself with no income at all. I had no choice but to reconfigure my business model and apply for every available grant and assistance program. It wasn’t easy to puzzle through all the misinformation and red tape, but eventually we began to receive pandemic relief payments as well as consistent earned income fees from our online activities. </p>
<p>Within a few weeks, and with a little help from our <a contents="friends" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://dmitrimatheny.com/thank-you" target="_blank">friends</a>, we were solvent, with fees arriving at regular, predictable intervals, like paychecks. I can’t stress enough how different this is, compared to the feast-or-famine cash flows I usually experience as a performing musician. </p>
<p>No chasing down club owners who disappear when it’s time to pay the band. No having to guess what our income will be from each endeavor, when the amount may vary wildly, depending upon someone else’s sales efforts, not to mention honesty. No racking up thousands of dollars in travel costs and staving off creditors while we wait for payment from concerts we played last month or last year. <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/45ea9863b0f9ab6ab5aee2afc9696ccab5d04aa1/original/payments-for-online-services-are-instantaneous-and-travel-costs-are-zero.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><em>Payments for online programs are instantaneous!</em></span></p>
<p><br>And here’s the kicker: sure, I’m earning less working from home, but my business expenses are wayyyyy lower! Think of it: no airline tickets, no hotel stays, no equipment rentals, no sideman payments. Zero travel costs! Gross revenue and net income are practically identical numbers. </p>
<p>You dig? Don't get me wrong. I miss traveling and performing for a living. Teaching online is not my calling.<br><br>However, <em>for the first time in years</em>, my family and I have actually been able to make a financial plan and stick to it. We were finally able to predict our income, anticipate our expenses, cover our household costs and plan for the future. We paid our bills, paid our taxes, saved a little, and even made a few charitable contributions to worthy causes. <br><br>I don’t mind telling you, as good as it feels to receive help, it feels even better to be able to help out a little, ourselves. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/1c8fbd9509277531b905f88a38e424068d061358/original/i-miss-the-travel-but-not-the-expense.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>I sure miss the travel, but not the expense.</em></span></p>
<p><br>I understand that for many of our friends, this past year was their first, or worst, lesson in living with financial insecurity. I've been there, and I empathize. But leave it to me, the Proletarian Contrarian, to have the opposite experience. </p>
<p>Dare I say it? This health crisis has been good for our fiscal health. </p>
<p>If this is what financial security feels like, I think I like it.</p>
<p><strong>But is it sustainable? </strong></p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next:<br>THE HUNKER BUNKER REPORT<br><a contents="PART 3 — MENTAL HEALTH &amp; SOCIAL CONNECTION&nbsp;" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/the-hunker-bunker-report-part-3-mental-health-social-connection" target="_blank">PART 3 — MENTAL HEALTH & SOCIAL CONNECTION </a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65743322021-03-15T10:25:23-07:002021-05-24T17:04:33-07:00THE HUNKER BUNKER REPORT | PART 1 — PHYSICAL HEALTH<p>One year ago this week, the World Health Organization declared COVID-19 a global pandemic and we began sheltering in place. </p>
<p>I took the warnings seriously, even though staying home meant figuring out how to pay the bills while simultaneously transitioning from touring performer to online music teacher (aka “building the plane as you fly it”). Planning for the worst while hoping for the best, I also took the opportunity to update my will and put my affairs in order. I resolved to hunker down and wait this thing out until it’s safe to get out there again. </p>
<p>As you may remember, when this shutdown first began we were told to be patient, because “it could take several weeks before things return to normal.” Those weeks turned into months. Now it’s been a full year. </p>
<p>Yesterday I received my first dose of the Moderna (aka Dolly Parton) vaccine. Hooray! Over 10% of the U.S. population has been fully vaccinated so far. According to the CDC, we should all continue to observe safety protocols until we reach about 80%, at which point we’re likely to achieve herd immunity. <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/bdba837f5aa4fafb52619e93d9b0528a52ee1a76/original/ewemzrfuuaigmre.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><em>Why is this man smizing? After a full year of sheltering in place, he just received his first dose of Dolly Vax</em></span><br> </p>
<p>So we’re now in a kind of arms race — a shots-in-arms race, if you will — against the dual forces of vaccine hesitancy and the evolving COVID-19 variants. The idea is to get most of the populace immunized before the virus mutates so much that the available vaccines become ineffective. </p>
<p>Unfortunately, some states have already jumped the gun, prematurely abolishing mask-wearing laws. Scientist Neil deGrasse Tyson observes that such actions are “like designating a peeing section of the swimming pool.” </p>
<p>Here in Lewis County, Washington, it’s fashionable to resist any attempts to suspend individual freedoms in the interest of public health. In other words, folks around these parts don’t take kindly to the government telling us what we can and cannot do. </p>
<p>But even here, people seem to be getting the message. Our pop-up drive-thru vaccination site at the Lewis County Fairgrounds is proving to be very popular. I even noticed, in the long line of vehicles waiting for the vaccine, several campaign bumper stickers for our disgraced former president, who received his own immunization in secret after calling the pandemic a hoax. Sigh. <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d5cc94b9b421d44f59befd55bf6dbc5e9a61e775/original/screen-shot-2021-03-15-at-10-13-24-am.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><em>Although many protested against state-mandated health measures,<br>Lewis County residents are now lining-up for vaccination</em></span></p>
<p>In the future, after this deadly pandemic is well behind us, those of us who were fortunate enough to survive may find it difficult to remember all the troubles we collectively endured over this past year. Beyond the considerable health and safety concerns, the coronavirus era has also been an unprecedented time of economic hardship, social unrest, political instability, ecological imbalance and existential crisis. </p>
<p>So much struggle and sacrifice, fear and frustration, grief and loss. We worry about our sick friends, and we mourn those who died during the shutdown, including non-Covid deaths like that of my father, who succumbed to Parkinson’s while in hospice, just before Christmas, 1500 miles away. </p>
<p>It’s been a long, hard year. Yet even as we reflect on its ravages, and at the risk of seeming insensitive to the suffering of others, we must acknowledge that some positive things have also transpired.</p>
<p>For example, my immediate family and I have enjoyed <em>better </em>health during this global pandemic than before it began. Ironic, <br>I know.</p>
<p>You see, chronic low-grade illness is an occupational hazard for the touring musician. Jet-lagged and sleep-deprived, we ply our trade among the great unwashed, exposing ourselves to all manner of viruses and infections on the road. </p>
<p>It’s always something. You get food poisoning at a roadside diner. That night you go to work anyway, because what can you do? A fellow musician gives you a hug, and afterward you notice she has the sniffles. On the flight home, everybody is coughing and sneezing. Each day is another chance to catch a bug and pass it along to someone else. </p>
<p>But it turns out, when you remove travel and social interaction from the equation, good health returns. In fact, during this year at home, no-one at my house was even mildly sick. Not once! Apparently, staying home not only limits your chances of exposure to coronavirus, it also provides a bulwark against the flu, upset stomach, sore throat, even the common cold. <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/fafc165e085c1b7d78789914f77093ff46f35440/original/garden-salads.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><em>Home-cooked meals heal body and soul, especially when you harvest fresh vegetables from the garden</em></span></p>
<p>I’ve even lost weight! During this lockdown, I’ve been able to eat right, exercise, get plenty of rest and practice good sleep hygiene, all with a consistency that I found impossible to maintain when traveling. </p>
<p>Dare I say it? <strong>This health crisis has been good for my health. </strong></p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next: <br>THE HUNKER BUNKER REPORT<br><a contents="PART 2 — FINANCE" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/the-hunker-bunker-report-part-1-finance" target="_blank">Part 2 — FISCAL HEALTH</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65670422021-03-06T15:52:36-08:002021-03-09T00:23:35-08:00RECURRING DREAMS<p>Since childhood I’ve been haunted by three recurring dreams: the clown, the flying dream, and the shadow man.</p>
<p><strong>THE CLOWN</strong></p>
<p>I know, I know. </p>
<p>Coulrophobia is is such a cliché. </p>
<p>But this one’s a bonafide nightmare. </p>
<p>I’m a small child in a white void, lying on my back, pretending to be asleep. With my forearm draped across semi-closed eyes, I sneak a peek at the only other occupant of this ghostly expanse: a faux-jovial, bald circus clown with a floppy ruffled collar and a cone-shaped hat.</p>
<p>The colors of his clothes and make-up are washed out and faded, almost grey. He reminds me a little of Krinkles, the creepy Post Cereal huckster from Saturday morning cartoons. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/da0235310b7f5851624a36b5b3c1069c64a0ae69/original/krinkles.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>Krinkles, the creepy Post Cereal clown</em></span></p>
<p>The clown stands nearby but faces away, cradling a bright blue, plush velvet sofa pillow in his arms. He seems oblivious to my presence as he pantomimes what appears to be a fake television commercial. Silently mouthing his sales pitch into an imaginary camera, the clown gesticulates dramatically toward the pillow as if it’s a wonderful new product.</p>
<p>Suddenly the clown stops smiling and becomes very still. His face loses all expression as he slowly turns in my direction. I sense that he now knows I’m here, awake and watching.</p>
<p>We lock eyes. A terrifying chill runs up my spine. At that precise moment, I awaken, my heart racing. </p>
<p>I can't rationally explain the terror of this nightmare. What's so scary about seeing and being seen? But to this day, nothing frightens me so much as making eye contact with a clown. </p>
<p>I endured these nightmares nearly every evening until my teen years when, inexplicably, they ceased. Decades later my mother Lela would mention having taken me, as a toddler, to the Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus, but I have no memory of that experience. I do remember, however, the framed portrait of a grinning clown that she painted in oils and hung on the wall of my bedroom. </p>
<p>I never much cared for that picture, especially after the nightmares began. </p>
<p><strong>THE FLYING DREAM</strong></p>
<p>Curiously, my favorite recurring dream -- the flying dream -- centers around the same blue pillow. </p>
<p>In this one I walk over to the sofa, pick up the pillow and take it outside.</p>
<p>Somehow I understand that this pillow is a talisman, imbued with magical powers.</p>
<p>I clutch the pillow to my chest and begin kicking my legs furiously, like a dog paddling in a pool. Gradually my body begins to levitate a few inches above the ground.<br><br>My neighbors watch in amazement. The higher I rise, the easier flying becomes, and the less I need to kick. Eventually I am able to float effortlessly in the sky, still clinging to the precious pillow as I sail above the clouds, over the town and all the tiny buildings and people below. <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/dc3356d185be6599d40277716a0807ed0c24b2cb/original/flying.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>Why does the same blue pillow appear in both the clown nightmare and the wonderful flying dream?</i></span><br> </p>
<p>I'm so deliriously happy that I feel my heart will burst from pure joy. I fly for miles, free and fearless, knowing that I’ll remain perfectly safe as long as I don’t let go of the magic pillow. I only awaken when I realize that I'm dreaming.</p>
<p>Although this wondrous nocturnal fantasy began around the same time as the awful clown dream, it returned more frequently and continued far longer, well into my adult years. I’ve flown over the Great Smoky Mountains, the Sonoran Desert and the Golden Gate Bridge. But was I dreaming or astral projecting? </p>
<p>It’s been a few years since my last night flight, and I miss it.</p>
<p>I swear, if I ever see that pillow again, awake or dreaming, I’m just gonna grab it and give it a go. </p>
<p><strong>THE SHADOW MAN</strong></p>
<p>I hesitate to call this mysterious figure either dream nor nightmare. He always seem to visit during the hypnagogic twilight state between sleep and wakefulness. </p>
<p>It’s always the same story: I rouse in the wee hours with the uncanny sense of being watched. I open my eyes and peer around the room into the darkness. <br><br>I'm not alone. There, in the corner, is the Shadow Man, a dark figure in silhouette with no discernible features except for a wide, flat-brimmed hat. He faces me, yet he has no face. <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e3e19e878014d2edc68d28dbbae332a355a3e3fa/original/shadow-man.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>Is the Shadow Man watching me, or watching over me?</em></span><br> </p>
<p>I’ve seen him many times in my own bedroom, while visiting friends, even in hotels on the road. He follows me in my travels, appearing only at night. He never moves or utters a word. If I speak to him, he doesn’t answer. If I rub my eyes or turn on the light, he vanishes. </p>
<p>Apparently my experience is not unique. The internet is overflowing with accounts of shadow people sightings all over the world. This is cold comfort for me, however, since it answers none of my questions.</p>
<p>Who is the Shadow Man? Is he real or an hallucination? What does he want? Does he intend harm or protection? Is he watching me, or watching over me? I may never know. </p>
<p>His most recent visitation was five years ago, when my dog Scout was only a few months old. I awoke to find the puppy shivering at the foot of my bed, staring into the corner, her eyes like saucers. Even before I looked, I knew he was there.</p>
<p>“I’ll be damned,” I thought. “She sees him, too.”</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65607892021-02-27T19:33:24-08:002021-03-02T13:44:03-08:00OF LATE I THINK OF SANTA CRUZ<p style="text-align: right;"><em>memoria praeteritorum bonorum </em></p>
<p>As we approach the first anniversary of this damndemic, I grow ever wistful for my old life on the road. </p>
<p>My propensity for rosy retrospection is well-documented, but I’m often surprised by where the waves of nostalgia choose to make landfall. Curiously, I don’t miss the big cosmopolitan cities so much as the funky little towns, especially those special places that made a mark on my heart, the places to which I loved returning, year after year. </p>
<p>Of late I think of Santa Cruz. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/4f7c1ad876e2e13f5c2faf35169d4faa0865536f/original/i-love-this-dirty-town.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><em style="font-size: 0.8em;">I love this dirty town!</em></p>
<p>About 75 miles south of San Francisco, and just over the hill from San Jose, the colorful seaside hamlet of Santa Cruz, California was one of my early discoveries when I first began traveling for music in the 1990s. </p>
<p>Among its myriad charms, Santa Cruz is home to Kuumbwa Jazz Center, a great little concert venue managed by true believers Tim Jackson and Bobbi Todaro. Named for the Swahili concept of <em>creative spontaneity</em>, Kuumbwa is much beloved in the community of musicians. Where else can you perform for an enthusiastic listening audience, in a convivial room with an expert sound engineer and a recently tuned, well-maintained grand piano? You’d be surprised how seldom such a confluence occurs.<br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/576d54226d55642f7fed8aa5cb244c67bb2c21c6/original/tim-kuumbwa-bobbi.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><em>(L-R) Tim Jackson, Kuumbwa Jazz Center, Bobbi Todaro</em></span><br> </p>
<p>But the magic runs far deeper than professional production values. Established in the nonprofit arts boom of the 1970s, Kuumbwa is one of those places that genuinely treats everyone like family. Dig: after an easy breezy soundcheck, Tim (an excellent flautist who also happens to be artistic director of the Monterey Jazz Festival) stops by to greet the band and give us a tour of the new black and white photography exhibit in the hall. A few minutes later, Bobbi (simply the coolest) sits down with us in the green room, enthusing all about the expansion of Kuumbwa’s educational programs for kids and families. Then a friendly volunteer arrives, serving up a hot, homemade meal for the band. Now that's how it's done, friends!<br><br>I remember hearing about Santa Cruz back in my Boston days. I was interested to learn that three of the best musicians I knew at Berklee -- David Valdez, Donny McCaslin and Kenny Wollesen -- all happened to be from Santa Cruz. I wondered if there might be something in the water out there.</p>
<p>When I first visited Santa Cruz after the big earthquake in 1989, the downtown area was a post-apocalyptic hellscape of white tents and rubble. Even then, the town’s groovy bohemian spirit shone through. A cute girl with a nose piercing offered me grapes in front of the Catalyst. A street vendor in the alley by Sylvan Music told my fortune and sold me some incense. A soulful little combo called Warmth was busking valiantly on Cooper Street. I thought to myself, “This place is heaven.” <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/db8aea836bcc267607fd955d0015647c91059b7a/original/don-claudia-ray.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>(L-R) Vibraphonist Don McCaslin, leader of Warmth and father of saxophonist Donny<br>Claudia Villela, a favorite recording artist who happens to live and work in the area<br>The <u>other</u> Ray Brown: flugelhornist, composer and Cabrillo College jazz educator</em></span><br> </p>
<p>After that, I routed my tours through Santa Cruz whenever possible, playing one night at Kuumbwa between shows in Oakland and Los Angeles. I would always make sure to arrive a few days early for a little advance work, usually a KUSP radio interview and workshops for music students at UC Santa Cruz and Cabrillo College. Then, after checking the arts section and calendar listings in the <em>Sentinel</em>, <em>Metro</em> and <em>Good Times</em>, I would put up fliers on all the bulletin boards downtown.<br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/65dd9bca60286faaf3c37e70b6d5db4602386995/original/flyers.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><em>gig fliers ... the original social media posts</em></span></p>
<p><br>The promotional rain dance now complete, it was time to chill and enjoy the town. I called these mini-residencies “composition retreats” for tax purposes, but they were really just delightful little solo vacations. </p>
<p>Each year I’d spend a little longer among the hippies, dot com millionaires and homeless hackysack teens that populate Pacific Avenue. By day I’d browse lazily in the vintage shops, galleries and bookstores. Afternoons I’d take a picnic lunch out to Natural Bridges and play my horn as the sun set on Monterey Bay. At night I’d ramble down to the wharf for fresh seafood, then catch a terrific set of live music (Claudia Villela!) before retiring to my cozy Boardwalk motel. </p>
<p>My favorite hang was this big warehouse downtown that had been converted into a funky cafe and community gathering place, with high, vaulted ceilings, giant windows, lots of leafy green plants, and a large, sunny patio deck out back. I’d sit in that joint for hours, sipping coffee, reading, scribbling in my journal, and people-watching. It was glorious!</p>
<p>To this day, whenever I catch the scent of patchouli, I’m immediately transported there again … to <strong>my happy place</strong>.<br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d56dec05bb3507320f00ce77ba72a7e85feafd1f/original/kuumbwa-blues.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_none" alt="" /><span class="font_small"><em><strong>“Kuumbwa Blues” </strong>from </em>Red Reflections</span><br> </p>0:43Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65548512021-02-21T11:42:54-08:002021-02-21T14:41:10-08:00JAZZ COMPETITION IS AN OXYMORON<p>Damien Chazelle’s 2014 film <em>Whiplash</em> follows the fraught relationship between a brutally masochistic music teacher, Fletcher (J.K Simmons), and his ambitious student, drummer Andrew (Miles Teller). </p>
<p>According to <em>Slate</em> critic J. Bryan Lowder, “Fletcher and Andrew are both obsessed with Greatness, but the specific sort they’re after is important: it’s a wholly masculine definition of the term, one tied to notions of jackhammer precision, overwhelming prowess, physical dominance, and solo victory. Alternative values like sensitivity, idiosyncrasy, gracefulness, and collaboration, despite being deeply compatible with jazz, are not admitted to their rehearsal room.” </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/339fe5521bb7618edef7ccaba9e41e3c77ffc215/original/whiplash.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">Miles Teller and J.K. Simmons in <em>Whiplash</em></span></p>
<p>I couldn’t agree more. <em>Whiplash</em> shows us a heightened, yet weirdly accurate, view into the misguided toxic masculinity endemic to today’s jazz education subculture.</p>
<p>Talk to your musician friends who’ve seen the movie. They’re likely to share stories of their own about similar abuse suffered in their formative years. One of my colleagues actually said, “<em>Whiplash</em> triggered my Jazz Camp PTSD!”</p>
<p>I thought of that movie again yesterday, during a college workshop<em>. </em>As the students and I listened to Stitt and Rollins hold forth on “The Eternal Triangle,” I found myself astonished anew, not just by the brilliance of their ideas, but by the joyously playful, positive, <em>collaborative</em> spirit of their “tenor battle.”</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe class="justify_inline" data-video-type="youtube" data-video-id="vFCEHliCwhk" data-video-thumb-url="https://img.youtube.com/vi/vFCEHliCwhk/mqdefault.jpg" type="text/html" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vFCEHliCwhk?rel=0&wmode=transparent&enablejsapi=1" frameborder="0" height="180" width="320" allowfullscreen="true"></iframe><br><span class="font_small"><em>“The Eternal Triangle” from </em>Sonny Side Up<br><em>Dizzy Gillespie with Sonny Stitt and Sonny Rollins</em></span></p>
<p>If all cutting sessions were so inspired, I would be a fan.</p>
<p>To me, however, “jazz competition” is an oxymoron. </p>
<p>We’re going to have a contest to see who can be the most vulnerable? The most sensitive or sincere? To find out who among us can best lay bare our soul and play from the heart? </p>
<p>Every year on tour I hear dozens of excellent high school groups, all over the country, investing hours of rehearsal time, polishing the same Duke Ellington charts in preparation for the annual Jazz Hunger Games. <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/2250e0a4d28ccc328776052ab3ebaecbe07838b7/original/essentially-ellington.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>Jazz Hunger Games</em></span></p>
<p>While it’s gratifying to witness Duke’s music being disseminated so widely, I have to wonder if these young musicians might be better off exploring a larger repertoire of sounds and styles, learning to sight read, listen and improvise. </p>
<p>Of course, there is such a thing as “healthy competition” in the arts. Setting challenges and overcoming them is how we improve. </p>
<p>Competitive, however, is not the correct mindset for quality music-making. This art form is interactive. It’s about listening and openness. Conversation, not competition. </p>
<p>Personally, I don’t feel that I’m in competition with other artists. I’m competing with Netflix, spectator sports, video games, social media and all the other distractions that vie for your leisure time, attention and dollars. </p>
<p>I welcome opportunities to work alongside and learn from my betters. I always try to surround myself with talents greater than my own. Art Farmer said “if you’re the smartest cat in the room, you’re in the wrong room.” </p>
<p>One time Nicholas Payton dropped by my gig in San Francisco and schooled me on a ballad. It was like a ten minute graduate seminar on understatement and grace. </p>
<p>Recently I had the opportunity to participate in a tribute to one of my longtime heroes, Tom Harrell, along with Joe Lovano, Kenny Werner, Sean Jones, Johnathan Blake, and several other world class musicians, including the man himself, who has never sounded better. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/04ddb74c50d9e93101c7a5e57017a65453323224/original/harrell-tribute-1-copy.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><em><span class="font_small">Tom Harrell Celebration (L-R) Tamir Hendelman, Kenny Werner, Ugonna Okegwo,<br>Sean Jones, Ron Stout, Dmitri Matheny, Johnathan Blake, Tom Harrell, Joe Lovano</span></em></p>
<p>Everyone involved was more capable and experienced than I. It was humbling and thrilling. I learned a lot and felt nothing but love and support in the room. There was no vibe. Everyone was there for Mr. Harrell. </p>
<p>Wynton Marsalis says a cutting session is like a debate. And debates have their place, especially in the classroom. But wouldn’t you really rather have a conversation? </p>
<p>Personally, I think most cutting sessions are a drag. Everyone trying to play higher, louder, faster. Everybody posturing, posing, showing off, going for house. The atmosphere of a cutting session is like a Michael Bay movie full of explosions. I usually end up resenting the audience for enjoying such tripe. </p>
<p>Here’s a challenge: let’s play lower, softer, slower -- with intensity. </p>
<p>Let’s play more soulfully. </p>
<p>Let’s just play.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65456962021-02-08T08:00:00-08:002021-02-12T12:19:57-08:00FAME! PART 4 — JUST SOME JAZZ GUY<p style="text-align: right;"><em>“Stars twinkle until they wrinkle.” <br>—Victor Mature </em></p>
<p>That was well over 20 years ago. Since then I’ve weathered many career ups and downs, working both with and without the support of managers, agents, publicists and investors. </p>
<p>Although I’m now a far better musician, I can definitely confirm that the accolades are much harder-won after middle age. Youth isn’t the only thing that’s wasted on the young. </p>
<p>I’ve learned that good fortune is evanescent, and fame, like the TV show, is fleeting. Our desire to to be known is really just the struggle to be seen. When we chase respect or renown, deep down what we really want is love. </p>
<p>I once heard an interview with veteran actor <strong>Sidney Poitier</strong>, in which he was asked what it’s like to be famous. “People don’t really know the man so much as the name,” he replied. <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/fe86b47567f6239ae8e0a0ecf1c35f9020a5ba1f/original/top-ten-sidney-poitier-films.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><em><span class="font_small">Sidney Poitier is an actor, director, producer, author, humanitarian and recipient of the Presidential Medal of Freedom</span></em></p>
<p>He went on to describe a recent experience at a cafe. After taking his coffee order at the counter, the barista, an attractive young woman with piercings and tattoos, hands Poitier a cardboard voucher. “Have a seat and I’ll let you know when it’s ready,” she says. </p>
<p>A few minutes later she calls out his name. “Sidney Poitier? Macchiato for Sidney Poitier.” Poitier approaches the counter and hands her the chit, pleased to have been recognized. She looks at it and frowns. </p>
<p>“No, no, <em>you’re Joan of Arc</em> ... see?” She points to the name scrawled in black magic marker on the small piece of cardboard. </p>
<p>“Sidney Poitier!” she calls again over his shoulder. </p>
<p>“That’s mine,” says an Asian-American gentleman in the back of the room, handing her his chit as he approaches the counter. </p>
<p>Don’t you love it? </p>
<p>Indeed, people don’t really know the man so much as the name. </p>
<p>Not only that -- sometimes they don’t even know the name! </p>
<p>Case in point, here’s a cafe story of my own: </p>
<p>Not that long ago I was performing in New Mexico, one of my favorite southwest touring hubs. Following successful shows in Albuquerque and Santa Fe, I arrived in Taos, a small mountain village with a population of about 5,000. I got to town early as was my custom; the rest of my band would arrive just before soundcheck. <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/577cb265033d833c5dc47f3672994efb71aaf6bf/original/holly-pyle-vocals-01.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><em><span class="font_small">Holly Pyle and Dmitri Matheny at The Outpost (Albuquerque NM) photo by Joseph Berg</span></em></p>
<p>Upon checking in at the hotel, I went out in search of coffee and found the perfect spot. I settled into a corner table with my book and a cup of dark, rich, aromatic happiness. </p>
<p>“First time in Taos?” the barista asked. </p>
<p>“Why, do I look like a tourist?” I laughed. </p>
<p>“I just happen to know most of the other folks in here,” she explained. </p>
<p>“No, I love Taos. Been here many times,” I said. </p>
<p>“Have you heard about the big concert tonight?” she asked. “Everybody’s going.” </p>
<p>“Concert?” I asked, intrigued. “Who’s playing?” </p>
<p>“I dunno,” she said. </p>
<p>“<strong>Just some jazz guy.</strong>”</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/357d5e02c3630fa063459b63083fae0c6267d371/original/taos-news-copy.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65411382021-02-05T21:29:09-08:002021-02-11T09:19:03-08:00FAME! PART 3 — MORE FAMOUS THAN YOU<p>The old man was right. Fame is folly. The music business is no meritocracy. But sometimes the good guys do win. </p>
<p>I’m gratified by the success of many of my friends and former schoolmates, now making names for themselves on the world stage. But I no longer expect to join their Olympian order. Age and experience have tempered my aspirations. As comedian Bryan Callen observed, “maturity is the slow acceptance of what you will never be.” </p>
<p>I’m grateful to have at least achieved my dream of making a living as a touring musician and recording artist. And I’m thankful for all the truly extraordinary people I’ve been fortunate to know and collaborate with along the way. </p>
<p>Recently, while sorting through some sheet music, I stumbled upon one of my old <a contents="newsletters" data-link-label="HR Winter 2000-01 p1-6.pdf" data-link-type="file" href="/files/58057/HR%20Winter%202000-01%20p1-6.pdf" target="_blank">newsletters</a> from the late 1990s. It occurs to me that the closest I ever came to any kind of notoriety was during that period, in the years right around the dawn of the new millennium. For that brief little stretch, the universe really seemed to smile on me. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/dbf05c3766c07fd5b15dee33bd412cd45ed48801/original/starlight-cafe-300.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">Starlight Cafe<em> (1998) with Darrell Grant and bassist Bill Douglass</em></span></p>
<p><em>Starlight Cafe</em>, my third CD for Monarch Records, was a modest success. The album received very good reviews and enough airplay on jazz and college radio that we were able to tour most of the year, returning to San Francisco each spring for our annual home season. Monarch promoted the new release with listening stations at flagship Virgin and Tower record stores, placement on airline in-flight channels, and full page ads in the jazz trades. Meanwhile, our excellent publicist worked wonders for us in the print and broadcast news media. It felt like we were everywhere.<br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/7373811e18feae54461d56497e95efb0295d1054/original/dm-mary-stallings.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><em>Home Season performance at Yoshi's (Oakland CA) with vocalist Mary Stalling | photo by Stuart Brinin</em></span><br> </p>
<p>“My stellar ascension has begun,” I thought naively. Gigs were plentiful. I was traveling internationally and meeting my heroes. Strangers were beginning to recognize me on the street. My phone never stopped ringing. Life was good. </p>
<p>Looking back, I was the oblivious beneficiary of a momentary upsurge in this highly mercurial business. I didn’t know that we were in a boom economy, overdue for a downturn. Nor was I aware of quite how many previously closed doors had opened to me only because good people like Art Farmer, Herb Wong, Orrin Keepnews or Merrilee Trost had “put in a good word.” <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c1bb91e75b41d42d78c14a1b577213442af961bb/original/40206-485395944545-3913758-n-485395944545.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>Art Farmer (1928-1999)<br>hero, mentor, friend</em></span></p>
<p>I was too inexperienced to see how my own good fortune was predicated on the hard work, personal connections and financial investments of other people. I was too busy and self-involved to question whether or not I deserved all the attention. I just thought my career was (finally) taking off. </p>
<p>One night, upon arriving at a black tie gala in San Francisco with my bond trader wife, the event photographer crossed the room to greet us. “Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite couple, Rich and Famous,” he said archly. “<em>She’s</em> rich, and <em>he’s</em> famous.” Delightful. </p>
<p>On another occasion I dropped off some clothes at the local dry cleaner. The proprietress, a lovely woman from Hong Kong named Mei, had clipped a recent news article about me from the <em>Chronicle </em>and attached it to the lobby wall. </p>
<p>“Everybody see?” she said to the waiting customers in broken English. “My client! Very famous musician!” </p>
<p>I was astonished. But when I returned a few days later to pick up the dry cleaning, the clipping had vanished. In its place was a <em>New York Times </em>article about composer John Adams! </p>
<p>“Aw, Mei, you replaced me,” I pouted, feigning hurt feelings. “Is Mr. Adams your favorite client now?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes!” she replied matter-of-factly. </p>
<p><strong>“He much more famous than you.”</strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next:<br><a contents="FAME! PART 4 — JUST SOME JAZZ GUY" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/fame-part-4-just-some-jazz-guy" target="_blank">FAME! PART 4 — JUST SOME JAZZ GUY</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65367172021-02-01T16:11:30-08:002021-02-05T22:27:08-08:00FAME! PART 2 — JAZZ FAMOUS?<p>If Interlochen was an artist colony, Berklee was a star factory. </p>
<p>By the late 1980s, Berklee College of Music had established itself as a global center for music education, attracting talented students from all around the world. From its modest midcentury beginnings as a jazz trade school, Berklee had grown to become a fully accredited conservatory of contemporary music, with a stellar faculty and a roster of chart-topping, Grammy-winning alumni. </p>
<p>However, it wasn't the school's reputation for launching successful music careers so much as the prospect of living in the city of Boston that made me choose Berklee over the other colleges offering scholarships. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/7383026c1da1d4afaa290bc88757e62910745c78/original/boston.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><em><span class="font_small">The many colleges and universities in Boston, Massachusetts have made the city a world leader in higher education</span></em></p>
<p>“You gotta look at the big picture,” a visiting clinician at Interlochen had advised. “Those other programs are excellent, but do you really want to spend the next four years of your life in Denton, Texas, or Coral Gables, Florida? Wouldn't you rather start your journey in a cosmopolitan, culturally rich environment? Don't you want to experience everything the city has to offer?” </p>
<p>The idea made a lot of sense to me. I envisioned myself as an urban denizen, living in a Back Bay apartment, riding the subway, bopping around to jazz clubs, art galleries and whatnot.</p>
<p>Empowered by my experience at Interlochen, I would collect a coterie of cool, bohemian friends from other creative disciplines. We would gather in cafes to challenge and inspire one another with lively debates about art, music and literature. We would navigate the city’s historic neighborhoods and discover its hidden treasures together.</p>
<p>That was the plan, anyway.</p>
<p>And so it came to pass that I arrived in Boston like a quixotic knight errant, carrying my horn like a lance, wearing an invisible suit of armor made of chutzpah, armed with all the grandiose myths I had come to believe about myself and my inevitable place in the world. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/45f75fe5e3ef99038de4260d5eccd9892042532b/original/es47g78uuaqsooc.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>Our hero, poster child for the Dunning-Kruger Effect</em></span></p>
<p>My nascent skills were unremarkable, my self-confidence absurdly high. I must have seemed ridiculous.</p>
<p>Professor John LaPorta was the first to burst my bubble. “I dig your ambition, kid, but if you think you’re gonna get rich and famous playing jazz, think again,” he said. “This music is neither popular nor lucrative. It’s a long, hard road. The best you can hope for is to earn the respect of your peers.” </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/a1f748c3f347da5c0a09bdabdfe1b2912debb71d/original/laporta.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small"><em>Prior to teaching at Berklee, clarinetist and composer John LaPorta <br>played and recorded with Kenny Clarke, Charlie Parker,<br>Lester Young, Dizzy Gillespie and Miles Davis</em></span></p>
<p>LaPorta lamented how the names of even our most celebrated artists are virtually unknown outside of jazz circles. Many of the legends are long dead, and to the extent that any ever became a “household name” — Duke Ellington, for example, or Louis Armstrong — that was in another time, back when jazz was more a part of the cultural mainstream. </p>
<p>“Some of our colleagues have become what we call<em> jazz famous</em>," LaPorta explained. <em>"</em>They put in the work. Now they’re in the big leagues. Civilians may not know their names, but we do. In our world, their names ring out. They've earned our respect.” </p>
<p>“You could be next,” he concluded, “but only if you get serious and <strong>stop fucking around</strong>.”</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next:<br><a contents="FAME! PART 3 — MORE FAMOUS THAN YOU" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/fame-part-3-more-famous-than-you" target="_blank">FAME! PART 3 — MORE FAMOUS THAN YOU</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65294382021-01-24T17:41:23-08:002021-02-01T17:49:14-08:00FAME! PART 1 — I FEEL IT COMING TOGETHER<p>Remember the song “<strong>Fame</strong>?” </p>
<p>Not the groovy David Bowie ear worm. The other one: </p>
<p><strong><em>Fame! I’m gonna live forever <br>I’m gonna learn how to fly <br>High! I feel it coming together <br>People will see me and cry <br>Fame! I’m gonna make it to heaven <br>Light up the sky like a flame <br>Fame! I’m gonna live forever <br>Baby remember my name </em></strong></p>
<p>Remember? </p>
<p>“Fame” was a major showbiz anthem of the ‘80s, a big hit for Irene Cara, and the titular theme song of a popular movie and television series. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe class="justify_inline" data-video-type="youtube" data-video-id="9geTJUzlbqw" data-video-thumb-url="https://img.youtube.com/vi/9geTJUzlbqw/mqdefault.jpg" type="text/html" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/9geTJUzlbqw?rel=0&wmode=transparent&enablejsapi=1" frameborder="0" height="180" width="320" allowfullscreen="true"></iframe></p>
<p>I watched <em>Fame</em> every Thursday night. I had no idea whether New York’s High School for the Performing Arts was real or fictional, but the premise of a special school for talented teens? Seemed pretty magical to me. To this day, when I hear that song I can’t help but sing along. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/6a1cded1d68a1ac3ef7144e421b8ec1c45917d5f/original/lori-singer-as-julie.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><em>Lori Singer as "Julie" in </em>Fame</span></p>
<p>My school in Arizona couldn’t have been less like <em>Fame. </em>Nobody at Canyon del Oro was gonna “learn how to fly” or “live forever,” least of all some skinny little pep band trumpeter with delusions of grandeur. </p>
<p>I could really see myself thriving, however, in a place like that <em>Fame </em>school. It wasn’t the bright lights of New York City that attracted me so much as the notion of being among my own kind. </p>
<p>How glorious it would be to collaborate every day with other young creatives! Learning from experts, making music together, attending plays and exhibits, talking about art! I just knew I could find friends in a place like that, and maybe even meet a girl like <strong>Julie</strong>, the gorgeous but shy cellist/dancer on <em>Fame</em> (huge crush). </p>
<p>So when the opportunity came along for me to transfer to a private, arts-centered boarding school, I didn’t hesitate. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e7be7582461437f47a1958f8f1aa7ca963a49871/original/ica-sign.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_small"><i>Interlochen Center for the Arts (Interlochen MI), home of Interlochen Arts Academy and National Music Camp; Inset: pep band trumpeter with delusions of grandeur</i></span></p>
<p><strong>Interlochen Arts Academy</strong> was everything I’d dreamed of, a community of misfits and eccentrics, just like me. For the first time, I was living among kindred spirits my own age: painters, sculptors, actors, dancers, writers, musicians. I was home. </p>
<p>Like LaGuardia High School, on which the <em>Fame</em> school was based, Interlochen emphasizes both arts and academics, attracting students from all over the world to prepare for higher education while training for careers in the arts. But unlike LaGuardia, which is situated in the heart of Manhattan’s upper west side near Juilliard and Lincoln Center, the Interlochen campus in located in a rural Michigan pine forest between two lakes. </p>
<p>The secluded setting made my experience at Interlochen feel more like living in an artist colony than a boarding school. The year-round Interlochen Arts Academy had grown out of the prestigious summer National Music Camp, utilizing many of the same rustic cabins, classrooms and dormitories. </p>
<p>I staked out my practice spot early on: the boiler room in the basement of our residence hall. Each morning I would take my horn down there to warm up with long tones and scales before the school day began.</p>
<p>I loved that cozy little bunker more than all the grand stages and recital halls on campus. It was my sanctuary. When I returned to IAA many years later as a visiting artist and clinician, that room was the first place I asked to see. Although the building had been renamed, I was gratified to find that my little boiler room had not changed a bit.</p>
<p>Interlochen is where it all began for me, no joke. It’s where I learned the discipline required to build a life in the arts, and how rewarding the artist’s life can be.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/155b04f0ea0b0369a177b0916a3cab663d46e2f9/original/iaa-music.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><span class="font_small">Top: IAA Jazz Combos, DM front, second from left; Middle: performing with IAA Studio Orchestra, Corson Auditorium; Bottom: Stud Orch rehearsal, DM rear left</span></em></p>
<p><strong><em>“You've got big dreams.<br>You want fame?<br>Well, fame costs.<br>And right here is where<br>you start paying: in sweat.”<br>—Lydia Grant, </em>Fame</strong></p>
<p>Interlochen taught me to work hard and stay humble, an ethos that would inform nearly all my future life choices.</p>
<p>It’s where I came to understand the artist's vaunted, leadership role in society, the public expectation to fulfill one's calling, and the private responsibility to develop one's capabilities -- not necessarily in the pursuit of fame -- but toward the creation of something meaningful and lasting. </p>
<p>The pressure to succeed in our lives and careers was explicit. Students who published a poem or won a concerto competition were celebrated by the entire student body. Those elite few who were named Presidential Scholars In The Arts were treated as mini-celebrities, with a pomp normally reserved for football team captains and homecoming royalty back home in the Lonesome Desert. A day did not pass without someone “sounding the call,” enjoining the Gifted Youth to get it together, buckle down, and level up.</p>
<p>I recall walking to class through the Concourse, a long hall of glass display cases, where the photos and accomplishments of notable Academy graduates were displayed. Seeing all their awards and accolades, knowing that these extraordinary young women and men -- now making waves in Hollywood, Chicago, the capitals of Europe -- had started their journeys in this very place? Inspiring! Intimidating, too.</p>
<p>If there is an Interlochen Doctrine, it is the notion of artistic talent as both a precious gift <u>and</u> a sacred responsibility.</p>
<p>“What will you contribute?” asked one of our teachers from the stage of Kresge Auditorium, the pledge <strong><em>Dedicated To The Promotion Of World Friendship Through The Universal Language Of The Arts </em></strong>adorning the wall behind her.</p>
<p>“What will you create for posterity?” she challenged us. “History remembers the artists and the conquerors, creators and destroyers. You are creators! Tomorrow’s leaders. So make your lives count! We’re counting on you.” </p>
<p>That kind of ideological rhetoric, grandiose as it was, really resonated with me.</p>
<p>I've never worked harder or had more fun than I did at Interlochen. I'm grateful to have made several lifelong friends there, too, including my mentor and jazz professor, bassist <strong>Tom Knific</strong>, now a dear colleague and frequent collaborator. </p>
<p>And yes, I even got to know a “<strong>Julie</strong>” or two ... but that’s a story for another time.</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Next: <br><a contents="FAME! PART 2 — JAZZ FAMOUS?" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/fame-part-2-jazz-famous">FAME! PART 2 — JAZZ FAMOUS?</a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65241272021-01-18T11:09:36-08:002021-01-18T17:22:15-08:00LULLABY<p><em>the smell of the rain <br>the sound of the train <br>my dog by the fire <br>home again</em> </p>
<p>As a boy in rural Tennessee, Billy Matheny slept in an attic bedroom, the slanted ceiling only a few inches above his bed. The Matheny house had a tin roof that sang when it rained, and the sound of raindrops would serenade young Billy to sleep. So Billy treasured the rain. And when he grew up, he passed that treasure along to his own son like a beloved family heirloom. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3f6059360c1d5e4fe135ee08aded1364e7001d8f/original/44-444002-live-rain-wallpaper-for-pc-rain-wallpaper-for.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" style="text-align: left;" /></p>
<p>The rainstorms in Georgia were magnificent. </p>
<p>At the first thunderclap, Daddy Bill would throw open all the doors and windows of our little apartment, so we could enjoy the breeze and wait for the rain. If I close my eyes, I can still see him, puffing his pipe in that wingback chair, his legs crossed casually, unlaced hushpuppies hanging off the ends of his narrow naked feet. </p>
<p>Sometimes there would be soft music playing on the turntable -- James Taylor perhaps, or Miles Davis -- but usually we would just sit and listen to the rain as it came down out of the clouds, into the pines, and onto the red clay just outside our open door. </p>
<p>I remember hearing the peaceful, percussive patter of raindrops on the kudzu, accompanied by the low rumble of distant thunder. The aroma of Daddy Bill’s cherry blend tobacco. The fresh scent of damp earth. A sensory symphony of sounds and smells. </p>
<p>As the storm grew more intense, Daddy Bill would cheer the crescendo, appreciating nature’s performance.</p>
<p>Then he’d look over at me with twinkly eyes and say, “Welp, it’s really coming down out there, Little Bub. Let’s go for a walk.” </p>
<p>And just like that we would venture out into the storm, splashing along the sidewalk together. No umbrellas. No slickers or galoshes. Just the two of us, man and boy, in our street clothes, soaking wet and laughing. The neighbors must have thought we were out of our minds.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/8ff6ee099157a646499a4116cf092ddc06be2d06/original/rain2.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" style="text-align: left;" /></p>
<p>Dad and I moved from Georgia to Arizona in the summer of 1977, just in time for monsoon season.</p>
<p>The Arizona heat was exactly as advertised -- damn near unbearable -- but those dramatic summer storms were something else. They cleansed the land, revitalized flora and fauna, and replenished our spirits. </p>
<p>We knew that rain-walking would be a bad idea in the Sonoran Desert around Tucson. The topography is flat, vegetation is sparse and low to the ground, and lightning routinely strikes anything vertical.</p>
<p>No matter. We were thrilled to appreciate the monsoons from the safety of our screened-in patio -- an exhilarating, fully immersive experience.</p>
<p>The rain would pour down all at once in a heavy torrent, punctuated by brilliant flashes of crackling electricity that filled the sky, turning the saguaro cacti into stark silhouettes. The river beds filled up and overflowed their banks, flooding the roadways. Sheets of rainwater pelted our windows relentlessly. Peals of thunder rattled the adobe walls.</p>
<p>It was glorious. <br> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c317fcea6ad87dce1c7e93ae5c0f699abb4f6d62/original/0p7ncg.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Over the years, no matter where I happened to live or travel, the rain has remained a loyal friend.</p>
<p>At Interlochen I would sit on the dock and watch raindrops dance on the surface of Green Lake. In San Francisco, where I lived for 20 years, it wasn't uncommon for the entire month of January to be wet. Even in Boston’s Back Bay, where winter weather vexed my college years, thunder showers were a rare gift. I would sit at the Trident Bookstore Cafe, writing letters, drinking coffee and daydreaming as stormy skies benevolently baptized the red bricks of Newbury Street. </p>
<p>Rainy weather has been my welcome companion on the road, throughout the Americas, and around the world. Whether gentle or tumultuous, her arrival always feels like a personal message of support from the universe, assuring me that everything is going to be just fine.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/7752a0d4391e3261944f276822ad435296c4b2a5/original/wet-empty-road-wallpaper.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" style="text-align: left;" /></p>
<p>Here in Washington State, where I now live with my girlfriend Sassy and our dog Scout, I have fully embraced my birthright as an avowed pluviophile! We receive about 73 inches of rainfall annually -- nearly twice the national average -- yet folks here seldom carry an umbrella. In the Pacific Northwest, rain is simply a fact of life. </p>
<p>Now when I go storm-strolling with Scout, the neighbors don’t even bat an eye. They just wave to us as we splash along happily from puddle to puddle. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d5b4f3b4912adf534d8ad3603234942058aaee49/original/bb9fc16812cd7a8709b6e51d0e852a2a.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Last month, we lost my father to Parkinson’s Disease. I miss him terribly, but I also feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for everything he was and will remain, in memory. Among his many life lessons, Daddy Bill taught me to love the rain. </p>
<p>Shortly before he died, I received a surprise early birthday gift from Sass: my very own tin <strong>Rain Roof</strong>, professionally installed, affixed to the awning over my bedroom window.</p>
<p>Such a thoughtful gift. What a tribute! What a solace!</p>
<p>No one knows what the future may bring, but at least for tonight, all will be well.</p>
<p>Tonight the rain will come, and she will sing us a lullaby.</p>
<p>Tomorrow is a new day.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/275a71928e5cabe011a50005d999efab327c8003/original/grayscale-photo-of-man-standing-under-the-rain.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" style="text-align: left;" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65183092021-01-11T12:44:24-08:002021-01-11T12:57:54-08:00CHET BAKER & THE SOUND OF SINCERITY<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3e23cbb13f1df55533ccfe8921d97cf32ea39559/original/screen-shot-2021-01-11-at-12-30-15-pm.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><em><span class="font_small">Clockwise (L-R) bassist Jean-Louis Rassinfosse, Chet Baker, Dmitri Matheny at the Chet Baker Memorial in Amsterdam</span></em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p>The first Chet Baker recording I ever heard was not one of his celebrated cool jazz hits from back when he looked like James Dean and played like Miles Davis. </p>
<p>No, I fell in love with Chet in the 1980s, long after his heyday, when he was struggling to play on new dentures and looked more like Clint Eastwood at the end of <em>Pale Rider. </em>Chet was living in Europe at the time, and the album that captivated me, <em>Crystal Bells,</em> showcased his working Belgian trio with guitarist Philip Catherine and bassist Jean-Louis Rassinfosse. </p>
<p>It was that sound that got me. Chet’s warm tone and halting, yet lyrical lines, were imbued with a fragile, searching quality that hit me like a bullseye right in my melancholy teenage heart. </p>
<p>I must have listened to that album a thousand times. </p>
<p>The drummerless trio provided the perfect balance of interactivity and space for the old explorer, who seemed to be finding his way back from some kind of profound loss. At the time, I didn’t know anything about Chet’s troubled history, but it was all there, laid bare, in the music. </p>
<p>I felt as if I had found the secret key to a soulful world of authenticity and deep feeling. </p>
<p>Chet died a few years later and my appreciation for him only grew.</p>
<p>When I had the opportunity to work with Jean-Louis Rassinfosse in the Netherlands, I told him how much I loved <em>Crystal Bells.</em></p>
<p>Jean-Louis smiled broadly. “Chet didn’t even have a horn, you know,” he said. </p>
<p>“He’d long ago sold it for drug money. But he kept the mouthpiece in his pocket.” </p>
<p>The veteran bassist then described their routine, how each morning they would call ahead to the next little village on tour and invite all the brass players in the area to come down to the club with their horns. </p>
<p>"At sound check there would be this little row of open instrument cases on the stage," he said. "Chet would go down the line, try out a few different horns, pick one, and that would be the instrument he played that night!</p>
<p>“Sometimes <em>trompet</em>, sometimes <em>kornet</em> or <em>bugel</em>, every night a different instrument,” Jean-Louis said. “But he always sounded like Chet.</p>
<p>“It was that sound, that same sound, always,” Jean-Louis marveled. “And every night, somebody would ask, ‘How do you get that amazing tone? What kind of instrument is that?’ as if the horn itself was somehow magical.</p>
<p>"But it was just Chet. It was all Chet.” </p>
<p>I love this story and 100% believe it to be true, as it confirms my long-standing belief in music as a mystical force, and in master musicians like Baker as sorcerers. The embouchure and equipment are important, but they are secondary. What matters most is your intention. </p>
<p>"Get your mind right," Art Farmer once advised. "<em>You</em> are the instrument. That thing that you're holding is just an amplifier."</p>
<p>“It isn’t the horn,” John Coltrane famously said. “You can play a shoestring<em> if you’re sincere.”</em></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65133192021-01-04T10:41:23-08:002021-01-04T10:48:33-08:00LONG IN THE TOOTH<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/00391c553c9a36f1d763daf6cefdc070629b117c/original/206-2069272-tree-winter-snow-minimal-hd-wallpaper-minimalist-winter.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Welp, I just turned 55. </p>
<p>Now eligible for senior discounts at the diner. </p>
<p>Damn. The years really sneak up on you, don’t they? </p>
<p>The recent loss of my father during the navel-gazing of quarantine has only served to amplify this existential angst. </p>
<p>I get it. Winter is here. But am I ready? </p>
<p>Fifteen years ago, right around my 40th, I remember feeling something similar about facing the autumn of my years. </p>
<p>Below is what I wrote at the time.</p>
<p>Perhaps it still holds up. </p>
<p><strong>ADVICE TO SELF AT MIDLIFE </strong></p>
<p>Congratulations, you’ve made it to the halfway mark. </p>
<p>So far, so good. Now consider this: </p>
<p>You’re old enough now that they no longer praise your potential. All those years of encouragement about your bright future are over. It’s quiet now. </p>
<p>At the same time, you’re not yet old enough to join the ranks of those you so admire, the wise elders. You’re not yet one of them. You don’t speak for the ages. Few look to you for inspiration or advice. </p>
<p>These are the middle years. </p>
<p>Your past accomplishments and your hopes for tomorrow mean nothing. All that matters is what you do now: </p>
<p>Stay agile. Draw up plans, but be nimble enough to abandon them. Be persistent in fulfilling your vision, but also be ready to shift course based on the changing landscape. Be ever-evolving. </p>
<p>Take care of yourself. You’re on your own, so be careful. Pace yourself. Cultivate healthy habits. Know your limits. </p>
<p>Pay attention. It’s now your turn to provide encouragement. Learn to be a mentor. Look for opportunities to serve, celebrate and share.</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65101492020-12-30T05:03:32-08:002020-12-30T05:06:23-08:00RESOLUTIONS 2021: The Year of Renewal<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/1055aafb03f038e0a24200035e2d0783f97faa95/original/2021.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_regular"><strong>Health</strong> <br>Drink water. Eat vegetables. Take naps. Pace yourself. <br>Cleaner fasts, more colorful feasts, smaller portions. <br>Spend more time outdoors: walking, riding, fishing. <br>Expand vegetable garden with new crops. <br>Get vaccinated as soon as possible. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_regular"><strong>Music </strong><br>Prepare arrangements for <em>Cascadia</em> studio album. <br>Compose <em>Legacy</em> suite showcasing Dad’s poetry. <br>Add Patsy Cline material to DMG repertoire. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_regular"><strong>Business</strong> <br>Schedule fourth quarter touring engagements. <br>Apply for touring and commissioning grants. <br>Launch <em>Cascadia</em> crowdfunding campaign. <br>Recruit five more private students. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_regular"><strong>Personal</strong> <br>Collect missing issues of Silver Age <em>Green Lantern</em>. <br>Launch a new 30-day challenge each month. <br>Publish a memoir blog post every week. <br>Invest in home security. <br>Practice gratitude.</span></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65030702020-12-23T15:07:49-08:002020-12-23T15:07:49-08:002020 BY THE NUMBERS<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Slept over <strong>300</strong> nights in my own bed </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/f488965aacfd1a822b4e8e00d2759a810c3350a3/original/bed.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Added <strong>196</strong> new friends and subscribers </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/b54b41722e5862b3d1142f7bc498aa562acc899c/original/friends-and-subscribers.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Enjoyed <strong>180</strong> homegrown garden salads </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/95a1e2d9779408cf1c6b0ba34412b0d8e3104715/original/garden-salads.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Gave <strong>122</strong> private lessons online </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c802f8ce1c6f501dd229d66456ffd68fe62c71af/original/private-lessons.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Sold <strong>92</strong> books and household items </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/0aebc169df625bc77743c606808f16cedfd23b14/original/books-sold.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Directed <strong>33</strong> distance learning workshops </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/69752c4d62d9a4989a6b1143ba93d6b30efa8915/original/distance-learning.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Received <strong>27</strong> grants and contributions </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/55460948cd6bc89f2fbb5b2260c496ae54f37601/original/grants.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" />Collected <strong>17</strong> vintage comics by mail </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c47e7065f589c22b39d900ccdae870e507e9658f/original/comics.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Staged <strong>13</strong> performances (pre-lockdown)</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/2b2bfe712df5eb687f3568af05ede67b8fb9c876/original/live-performances.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Wrote <strong>10</strong> new arrangements for jazz sextet </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3c805678c4b075267f7b7f83322c0b32974d11d7/original/sextet-arrangements.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Played <strong>7</strong> solo live-stream shows </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/a62ca7df1190e731f10987a3637f63cbc62a9b41/original/solo-shows.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Created <strong>6</strong> new multimedia presentations </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/99f9977d1fc47716c535968f8e34ce2c8977c153/original/multi-media-presentations.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Played <strong>3</strong> big band concerts (pre-lockdown)</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/fd9a4bb97318600fd5d1edb727405944ed4d03f3/original/big-band-appearances.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Produced <strong>2</strong> virtual arts education festivals </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/822a0f733f27d16be07fab5b511d478cb6caab9a/original/virtual-voices.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Survived <strong>1</strong> surreal, bottle episode of a year!</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/23823e0fc76b0a6a7b9e08405cfe8e521d9f15f6/original/survived.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65029222020-12-23T15:05:32-08:002020-12-28T19:16:10-08:00A YEAR LIKE NO OTHER<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>HINDSIGHT IS 2020</strong></span></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/8104bae5d2d51fa3557e9fa3e6d627ed9b235f3c/original/1-hindsight.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>>Sigh< What a year. </p>
<p>Anxiety, uncertainty, sadness, frustration.</p>
<p>Isolation. Loneliness. Loss. Grief.</p>
<p>Hyper-vigilance. News-bingeing. Doom-scrolling. Self-medicating. </p>
<p>Economic instability. Racial unrest. Joblessness, homelessness, food insecurity. </p>
<p>Explosions. Invasions. Protests. Riots. Wildfires. Floods. Hurricanes. Murder hornets! Nazis! </p>
<p>Police brutality. Political corruption. Voter suppression. Rampant stupidity. </p>
<p>And all this during a deadly global pandemic. </p>
<p>After such a year as this, can one possibly feel hopeful? Or grateful? </p>
<p>For years I’ve made a modest living as a bandleader, traveling thousands of miles, playing hundreds of shows, employing dozens of musicians annually. And back in February, this was shaping up to be our most productive year yet! We had three different touring programs in the works, 217 confirmed gigs on the books, and plans for several exciting new creative collaborations. <br> <br>Then suddenly everything was canceled, and 2020 became <strong>a year like no other. </strong></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>THE DAMNDEMIC</strong></span></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/1c2c1da0852ee08ebeb6d5c2acce3b4eea7df4ad/original/2-damndemic.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>For a horn player, the prospect of an invisible, airborne respiratory disease is deeply troubling. </p>
<p>Some of my musical heroes were among the first killed by Covid. And many of those who recovered continue to suffer lingering symptoms of fatigue, mental fogginess and difficulty breathing. </p>
<p>My conclusion: even if Covid-19 doesn’t take my life, it could very well take away my livelihood. </p>
<p>I dared not risk contracting or spreading the virus. I put my affairs in order, updated my will, circled the wagons and canceled all non-essential activities. Sassy and I resolved to stay home, mask up, hunker down, and wait for the vaccine. We traveled nowhere, not even to the bedside of my father in hospice. That was especially difficult. But we were in lockdown. </p>
<p>Keeping safe from Covid, however, was far from our only concern. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>FILTHY LUCRE</strong></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/f7d3b6ea57783e6319cdb330682b8470ac267d20/original/3-filthy-lucre.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Unlike my colleagues with day jobs, I was a full-time musician in 2020 BC (Before Covid). </p>
<p>I had no salaried teaching position, no private students. I made my living almost entirely from performances on tour.</p>
<p>When all our gigs were canceled, my family suddenly found itself with no income. </p>
<p>How the hell were we supposed to pay our bills?! </p>
<p>I thought of Art Farmer, my late, great mentor, whose wisdom has never steered me wrong. </p>
<p>Art successfully reinvented himself many times over the course of his storied career. Among his invaluable life lessons, he taught that change is inevitable, and the key to survival is adaptability. </p>
<p>“Eventually you learn,” he once told me, “to recognize <em>change</em> as the herald of <em>opportunity</em>.” </p>
<p>Art died before the new millennium. He certainly could never have predicted what would happen to the performing arts in 2020 … but isn’t that the point? </p>
<p>When the unthinkable happens, and all seems lost, new possibilities emerge. </p>
<p>With that in mind, I reached out to a few trusted colleagues for advice. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>THE PIVOT</strong></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3225ed34d598227d93308a9e7705bf20ff58373d/original/4-pivot.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>We came up with this strategy: </p>
<p> • ask longterm clients to consider postponements rather than cancellations <br> • where possible, convert to an internet-based, home business model <br> • prioritize incremental income from streaming, royalties and residuals<br> • develop a range of new online digital products and services <br> • leverage social media for advertising and virtual event promotion <br> • sell digital downloads and custom commissions of new work <br> • learn how to live-stream and begin playing “karaoke-style” solo shows <br> • apply for every available pandemic relief grant and assistance program <br> • cultivate a virtual network of individual patrons and supporters <br> • build a virtual tip jar and begin soliciting individual contributions <br> • launch a teaching studio and begin offering private lessons online <br> • create distance learning curricula for music educators <br> • present online workshops for college and high school music students <br> • join with fellow artist/educators to produce a virtual arts festival <br> • save money, cut costs, downsize, and sell off unwanted items <br> • learn to do routine minor repairs on my instrument at home <br> • plant a vegetable garden and begin growing our own food </p>
<p>I’m delighted to report that we accomplished all these things and <a contents="more" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/2020-by-the-numbers" target="_blank">more</a>. </p>
<p>And with a little help from our friends, we managed to survive this turbulent year, optimism intact. </p>
<p>Presently, as we prepare for the holidays at home, we’re filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>GRATITUDE</strong></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/bf7cfaef42c1b586af15789eeb93ba12335ebb7e/original/5-gratitude.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>We’re so grateful, for so many things. </p>
<p>So grateful for my <a contents="father" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.dmitrimatheny.com/blog/blog/remembering-william-d-matheny" target="_blank">father</a>, for everything that he was, and will remain, in memory. Grateful for his long, adventure-filled life. Grateful for his caregivers at Sedona Garden and Harmony Hospice. Grateful for his companion Nedra, and for everyone who visited, called, and loved him. Grateful that I was able to spend so much time with him over the years. Ever grateful for him, always.</p>
<p>Grateful for our health! We promise never again to take it for granted. </p>
<p>Grateful for Sassy and Scout, for our little house, and the simple life we share. Grateful for home-cooked meals by the fire, and for the soothing sound of the rain on my new rainroof, an early birthday gift from Sass. Grateful to have a home at all, especially now, as so many are facing eviction. </p>
<p>Grateful to all the essential workers, first responders, health care professionals, vaccine developers, farmers, truckers, delivery people and grocers who labored tirelessly on our behalf this year. </p>
<p>Grateful for technology! As difficult as this quarantine has been, imagine how much worse it was for folks during the previous pandemic 100 years ago. At least we are able to stay in touch with one another! Grateful for many virtual heart-to-hearts via email, text and videophone! Grateful for Skype, FaceTime, Zoom, and social media. </p>
<p>Grateful, too, for the things I learned during this solitary period of self-discovery. I found out, for example, that my work doesn’t define me. It turns out that I don’t actually need to perform to be happy. Grateful for this unexpected, but welcome, preview of my own future, and the opportunity to know what it will feel like when I finally get off the road and retire. I learned that the simple rituals of this rural life -- walking, reading, gardening, watching movies, listening to music, talking with a friend, playing with the dog, ruminating, puttering around the house -- these will be enough for me. How comforting! </p>
<p>Grateful to everyone who voted in the recent election, despite the many attempts to disenfranchise voters. Grateful for the courageous poll workers, election officials, cyber-security experts and legal professionals who stood up against craven efforts to undermine the democratic process. </p>
<p>Grateful, also, for all the brave investigative journalists, fact-checkers, whistleblowers, anti-racists, anti-fascists and compassionate activists who stand up, speak truth to power, and call out deplorable behavior. Grateful for decency. </p>
<p>Grateful for family and friends, including several important people from my past with whom I reconnected this year. So grateful to have them in my life. Most of all, I’m astonished by all the good people who generously offered us help, even when we were reluctant to ask.</p>
<p>You kept our lights on and our creative fires burning.</p>
<p>You made sure that we never lost hope. </p>
<p>So grateful for Adam, Amy, Andrea, Andy, Annabelle, Annette, Aragon High School, Arrivederci Wine & Jazz, Bill, BJ, BMI, Barbara, Benjamin, Beth, Bill, Bloomfield Hills High School, Bob & Sue, Brandon, Bruce, California Jazz Conservatory, Carlos, Caruccio’s, ChiChi & Kent, Chris, Clairdee, Curtis, Dan, Danielle, David, Debbie, Derek & Michelle, Destiny, Dick, Donna, Dorothy Jean, Earshot Jazz, Eastern Oregon University, Eric, Evan, Federal Emergency Management Agency, Flo, Fudgie, Geraldine, Grays Harbor College, Greg, Hillsdale High School, Hope College, Jack, Janice, Jazz Foundation of America, Jazz In AZ, Jazz Night School, Jeff, Jenny, Jerry, Jo, John, Jordan, Joseph, Josie Anne, Joyce, JP, Judith, Judy, Kander, Karen & Bob, Keith, Kelso High School, Kent, Kurt, La Grande High School, Larissa, Louise, Lower Columbia College, Lydia, Lynne, Mabey, Manieri Foundation, Marge, Mark, Mary, Mesa Community College, Michael, Michelle, Mike, Mt. Hood Community College, MusiCares, Nedra, Nine Mile Falls School District, Noal, Noir City Festival, Ott & Hunter Winery, Paradise Valley Country Club, Patti & George, Peaches & Rocket, Phyllis, Randy, Rick, RK, Rob, Ron, Ruben, Sam, Sandi, San Mateo Union High School District, Sassy, Scottsdale Unified School District, Seasons Performance Hall, Seattle JazzED, Sequoia Union High School District, Shanna, Shelley, Sheri & Julian, StageIt, Sue, Sumner-Bonney Lake School District, Susan, Swingin’ Sounds, Terry, Teutonic Wine Company, Tom, Triple Door, Vespers In The Valley, Western Washington University, West Valley College, Wind Rose Cellars, and Wilson. </p>
<p>From the bottom of our hearts, <em>thank you.</em> We endeavor to be worthy, and pledge to "pay it forward" whenever and however we can. </p>
<p>From our Quaranteam to yours: we appreciate you. Please stay safe, stay healthy, and remember that you’re not alone. </p>
<p>We’re all in this together! </p>
<p>Happy New Year!</p>
<p>~Dmitri</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/65034692020-12-19T07:49:41-08:002020-12-19T08:55:25-08:00REMEMBERING WILLIAM D. MATHENY<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d0b956f41bf85e218a2bde6b5eaee064ce22a77b/original/dad.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><a contents="William Douglas Matheny" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://everloved.com/life-of/william-matheny/" target="_blank"><span class="font_large">William Douglas Matheny</span></a></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">October 24, 1936 — December 19, 2020</span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_large">William Douglas Matheny, 84, died December 19, 2020 in Tucson, Arizona. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_large">He was born October 24, 1936 in Nashville, Tennessee, the eldest son of William Ewing Matheny and Gladys Ella Bruce Capley Matheny. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_large">Bill attended Columbia High School in Columbia, Tennessee, where he distinguished himself as an honor student and a champion amateur boxer in the regional Golden Gloves competition. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_large">He majored in English and History at Belmont College (Nashville, Tennessee), earning his Bachelor of Arts in 1960 prior to studying Russian Language at Syracuse University (Syracuse, New York). He earned a Master of Arts In Teaching with an emphasis in Russian Studies from Vanderbilt University (Nashville, Tennessee) in 1971. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_large">Matheny served in the United States Air Force Security Service from 1961-63, and worked as a buyer for Castner-Knott Department Stores from 1963-70 before beginning his career as a schoolteacher. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_large">From 1971-78, Matheny served as Chair of the English Department for Brookstone School, a private college preparatory academy in Columbus, Georgia, where he taught English, Russian Humanities, Ornithology and Social Studies. A member of the prestigious Cum Laude Society, he was much beloved by his students, and was awarded the Columbus Chamber of Commerce “Star Teacher” award in 1977. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_large">Matheny relocated to Arizona in the summer of 1977, where he worked briefly in the Marana School District before becoming head of the history department at Green Fields Country Day School from 1980-89. In 1989, he helped to organize and lead a Green Fields student/teacher exchange trip abroad to Kiev, Ukraine. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_large">Bill was known for his intelligence, relaxed, southern charm, and curiosity about the natural world. An amateur poet, avid birder and accomplished naturalist, Matheny traveled extensively throughout North America admiring flora and fauna. He contributed to several annual bird counts for the National Audubon Society, and published the first official birding checklist for Graham County, Arizona. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_large">Throughout his life, Matheny generously shared his love of nature with others, inspiring many of his students, friends and family members to develop their own deep appreciation for the natural world. This is his great and lasting legacy. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_large">Bill is survived by his companion Nedra, his son Dmitri, stepdaughters Janice and Brenda, and his siblings, Jim, Maxine, Pat, Debbie and Dawn. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_large">In keeping with his wishes, there will be no funeral or memorial services. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_large">Those who wish to celebrate his life may make a donation in his memory to any cause or charity they choose to support. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="font_large">In Bill’s own words: “Look around. If you see someone in need, please try to help that person.”</span></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/64987302020-12-13T17:57:33-08:002020-12-15T00:01:30-08:00MY IDOL'S IDOL<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/f8b192dcb118993090171c3abaa098d16eeaf81e/original/art-and-brownie.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>Art Farmer talked about Clifford Brown often. </p>
<p>The two were contemporaries, nearly the same age (born just two years apart), and had played in Lionel Hampton’s band together. </p>
<p>But Art spoke of Clifford Brown with a quiet reverence.</p>
<p>Art called Brownie "my idol” and had his initials carved into the bell of his own horn for inspiration. </p>
<p>“Every time I see those initials — C.B. — I’m reminded of what’s possible. I see those initials, and I work harder.” </p>
<p>Art would rub his thumb over the indentations, shaking his head in disbelief.</p>
<p>He never got over Brown's untimely death, in a car accident, at the age of 25.</p>
<p>“Can you imagine,” Art would ask, “if Cliff was alive today? What he would sound like <em>now?</em> Damn.”</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/64914422020-12-03T21:52:19-08:002020-12-03T22:10:18-08:00KOAN<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3c174cac45f6198553d554c9bf05d8f8954d2111/original/dm-af.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> “I hate my mouthpiece,” I said. “Can you help me find a good mouthpiece?”</p>
<p><strong> “You could spend your whole life looking for the right mouthpiece,” he replied. “You should spend more time looking for the right notes.” </strong></p>
<p> “Am I playing wrong notes?” I asked.</p>
<p><strong> “There are no wrong notes,” he said.</strong></p>
<p> “No wrong notes?”</p>
<p><strong> “Right.”</strong></p>
<p> “But I should be looking for the right notes.”</p>
<p><strong> “Now you’re getting it.”</strong></p>
<p> “Uh, no I’m not! That sounds like some kind of Zen puzzle.”</p>
<p><strong> “Look, there are no wrong notes. But some notes are more right than others.”</strong></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/64890172020-11-30T20:34:59-08:002020-12-03T21:58:42-08:00SPONTANEOUS AND INEVITABLE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/5d82395bd3231963ce0258ccd82f0fd298ef715b/original/interrobang-punctuation-do2zwn3-600.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>The<strong> interrobang</strong> is a punctuation mark that combines the functions of an exclamation point and a question mark.</p>
<p>It's also an excellent symbol of my approach to improvisation. </p>
<p>I intend to “tell a story” with conviction, intentionality and a strong sense of internal logic.</p>
<p>At the same time, I hope to convey a sincere searching, listening quality, an openness to what comes, and something of the mysterious beauty in jazz. </p>
<p>As Art Farmer said, “you want to sound both spontaneous and inevitable.”</p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/64865602020-11-26T19:55:12-08:002020-11-26T19:55:12-08:00HORNUCOPIA<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/ddfbb5800d80d672322386546cbd66c380743ed5/original/hornucopia.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/64614122020-10-22T14:40:24-07:002020-10-22T14:40:24-07:00Released 25 Years Ago | Were You There?<p><a contents="" data-link-label="1995 Red Reflections" data-link-type="page" href="/1995-red-reflections" target="_blank"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/ef8e4a706d95fa2f06f3431ee3fe66ae4ea76c05/original/25-year-anniversary.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></a></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/64585442020-10-18T13:09:51-07:002020-10-18T13:09:51-07:00Spooky<p>But some say that on dark nights you can still hear him Zooming, Skyping, Streaming ... ghoulishly unaware that his career died long ago.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/304cefac18966fa5d747fde11f333050769b5d2f/original/ekjhxqzuuaincgt.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/63685532020-06-27T12:50:51-07:002020-09-11T01:20:26-07:00Gig Safety Protocol<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/9f77bfce1ab48400ce02317bdb2d3eeeb18a6005/original/gig-safety-protocol.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/60449782019-12-29T09:17:15-08:002019-12-29T09:19:44-08:002019 BY THE NUMBERS<p style="text-align: center;"><strong><span class="font_xl">304,000 </span><br><span class="font_large">steps walked <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/9df6a0cf6de09d2779b41bb7f1dbce2ef6c44a43/original/steps-walked.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_xl">47,500 </span></strong><br><strong><span class="font_large">miles traveled <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/f23f7979f13e211a772bbb1cc351a1df16d12c35/original/miles-traveled.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></strong></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong><span class="font_xl">13,000</span><span class="font_large"> <br>friends and<br>subscribers <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d52860524b255af448e334d2967011e004eb3299/original/friends.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></strong><strong><span class="font_xl">756</span><br><span class="font_large">comic books<br>collected <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e5393060cf4212a756ee992c7e0afac90c12ca0d/original/treasures-collected.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_xl">238</span><br><span class="font_large">musicians<br>hired <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/da55b89c6b6c7dc16a206b5b17d695caea8f4446/original/musicians-hired.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_xl">173</span><br><span class="font_large">performances<br>on tour <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/0a6ea95fb5c6309f77858cc220e0fb93f0f41273/original/performances-on-tour.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_xl">53</span><br><span class="font_large">workshops and<br>classroom visits <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/1676b918e8684ecdf1dbf6409d9d533b0f4d0337/original/workshops-and-classroom-visits.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></strong><strong><span class="font_xl">41</span><br><span class="font_large">sideman<br>appearances <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/66afeb82722dd120558c41b07d7ee527b00d5cf1/original/sideman-appearances.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></strong><strong><span class="font_xl">39</span><br><span class="font_large">vocalist<br>collaborations <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/884cfe4cb677abfd402f93ae236ec0c342829adb/original/vocal-collaborations.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_xl">30</span><span class="font_large"> <br>sold-out<br>shows <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e7e0709d0d2c6b8e1041d2c25d33666ba071d8f5/original/sold-out-shows.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_xl">27</span><br><span class="font_large">youth and<br>family programs <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/f2db47608d373dbca80105af9e0baef2c2328201/original/youth-and-family-programs.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></strong></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong><span class="font_xl">19</span><br><span class="font_large">feature articles<br>and reviews <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/21025224fc48d113f730ecd153a2429fae9feab9/original/feature-articles.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_xl">12</span><br><span class="font_large">arts education<br>residencies </span></strong></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/a117cf9765bd114f1a7fe7c9b5ba8fee85824c1d/original/arts-education-residencies.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_xl">9</span><br><span class="font_large">big band<br>concerts <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e5931b0fd3ad0321ceaf26fbb601c2bee43aaa55/original/big-band-concerts.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></strong></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong><span class="font_xl">7</span><span class="font_large"> </span></strong><br><strong><span class="font_large">music<br>festivals <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/9cf934e09a68a5847d54d13d4d0457d3a7277c64/original/music-festivals.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_xl">6</span><br><span class="font_large">jazz + film<br>events <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/239f010c2002cbfa541fea311ca8181eb93a324b/original/jazz-film-events.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_xl">3</span><br><span class="font_large">new compositions <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3443084c3d6c6d44c6c490bfe313ac99b2cc61de/original/new-compositions.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_xl">1</span><br><span class="font_large">epic<br>year<br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e6d74015d4b1d0300f68c0b9c718369890209900/original/epic-year.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpeg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></strong></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em><strong><span class="font_large">Thank you for sharing these memorable milestones. </span></strong></em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em><strong><span class="font_large">Here's to more musical adventures ahead. </span></strong></em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em><strong><span class="font_large">Happy New Year! ~Dmitri</span></strong></em></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/60494272019-12-28T12:12:08-08:002020-01-01T12:15:17-08:002020 RESOLUTIONS<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d8e9a99a7745f5d67e13d37db589ce19eff91325/original/2020-photo-by-jessica-levant.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Get up. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Stay up. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">Move up. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><a contents="Barry White" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://youtu.be/yQm9GNm6zXI" target="_blank">Barry White</a> is right!</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large">So is James Brown:</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/8ae344832debac328efdd6902a23d34350a9fc21/original/unnamed.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/55692692018-12-26T00:55:48-08:002019-07-20T06:39:32-07:002019 RESOLUTIONS<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e828cdbd9b28c55f9a3bf1cd9048b0a60ddaef92/original/2019-resolutions.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/55640032018-12-21T20:43:28-08:002018-12-21T20:50:51-08:002018 BY THE NUMBERS<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 1.4em;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/08e20ae934c420520378b69f0145102ce71978fa/original/2018-by-the-numbers.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><span class="font_regular"><strong>57k</strong> miles traveled </span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 1.4em;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d9c5545251d587a4b282635bd2aa47d3f812920a/original/60000-miles-traveled.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></span><span class="font_large"><strong>11k</strong> friends and subscribers </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/8597d06127b4a32bfa869198bbe005bce882b096/original/11000-friends-and-subscribers.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>7k</strong> streams and downloads</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/b9dbc57af0f41fa6bd9981e8de80a45b954f3ae8/original/7000-streams-and-downloads.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_small"><span style="font-size: 2em;"><strong>319</strong> treasures found </span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_regular"><span style="font-size: 2em;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/62f9d6a899918dd853408bcbfc52850eccebec89/original/319-treasures-found.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>261</strong> musicians hired </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/578bef14054a1dd2294fb3691127545d4169068a/original/261-musicians-hired.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>159</strong> performances on tour </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/4d44e565acc387abea9c2b7a91fba4a35f932033/original/159-performances-on-tour.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>72</strong> pounds shed </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/2ce077508931509e79d698876ddbf1d95ea186e3/original/72-pounds-shed.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_large"><strong>61</strong> workshops </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c4c8c84e4fe2a4ad841e7326810ffdbaa0d51ea6/original/61-workshops.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>54</strong> classroom visits </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/1eaa59b4289d5f01268e9d016ee93d47c8c5b182/original/54-classroom-visits.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>40</strong> sold-out shows </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/11fba6a0af5c15b88019a2ffb91176b3e21d8883/original/40-sold-out-shows.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>39</strong> youth and family programs </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/a193b429c9e27d3087db24180c9e0af2accbf2c6/original/39-youth-family-programs.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>22</strong> feature articles and reviews </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/5cbd458f5f571cd286bb8a21412bb29a33740d45/original/22-feature-articles-and-reviews.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>19</strong> jazz + film shows </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/bbad40d35222510c3999f3a22c6a303df25ef94c/original/19-jazz-film-concerts.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_large"><strong>12</strong> bottles of valve oil </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/ddbc45974ac07769449f42892ce5b6719a21725e/original/12-bottles-of-valve-oil.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>9</strong> radio and television broadcasts </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c7a3e9efab33c9626b5cac7a4ff87bd9ae0ab19e/original/9-radio-and-tv-broadcasts.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_large"><strong>7 </strong>big band appearances </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/fc00bff73965c2691904520abb2717ccbda7fd05/original/7-big-band-appearances.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>6</strong> music festivals </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/6c984dfc72152e2a47a162697c49da6a4bd5c85b/original/6-music-festivals.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><strong>3</strong> new compositions </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/29e005d969dc972c1544a98930770653e8b26ea7/original/3-new-compositions.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_large"><strong>2 </strong>visiting artists </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/90ed35a330599fa360588ab2a91acb550db27b7f/original/2-visiting-artists.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span><span class="font_large"><strong>1</strong> perfect puppy</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_xl"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/98f7de42859b40094dacb94a86aa33685b04f344/original/1-perfect-puppy.png/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.png" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></span></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/55098842018-11-12T11:23:17-08:002018-11-12T11:23:17-08:00HOW TO MAKE THE SCOUT'S BIRTHDAY SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/acba92abc32cea0a6642c3c12e7682982f0b7334/original/scouts-birthday.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/54577642018-10-06T10:09:03-07:002018-10-06T10:09:03-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE MUDDY MUDSKIPPER SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/8c576035022066c47d7bd4322a098bb9e83aea82/original/muddy-mudskipper.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/54515012018-10-01T19:51:52-07:002018-10-01T19:51:52-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE RITA HAYWORTH SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/0745fd51618ee3eecd105c7e1c742a0e3e4bdd93/original/rita-hayworth.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/54505702018-10-01T09:09:27-07:002018-10-01T09:09:27-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE AMY NICHOLSON SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/51c227c7d69ca9c58c8d0ca019885809d488bbbb/original/amy-nicholson.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/54443262018-09-26T09:36:32-07:002018-09-26T09:36:32-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE RITA MITTEN SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/708a9896c1908183d1bbb3af928093834d918470/original/rita-mitten.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/54436262018-09-25T16:08:13-07:002018-09-25T16:08:13-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE PENELOPS SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/807e5446d1ad9f7a9bfcdd3fe3c07cb8b47c9619/original/penelops.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/54404232018-09-23T10:08:42-07:002018-09-23T10:08:42-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE TAMARA DOBSON SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/19ae2493ae36251a5ae147c41cafbc6f239c0f7c/original/tamara-dobson.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/54382922018-09-21T10:56:20-07:002018-09-21T10:56:20-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE PAM GRIER SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/7039b64c729c6e304494fc3c520ca00ce7fe4105/original/pam-grier.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/54379992018-09-21T08:00:38-07:002018-09-21T08:00:38-07:00EVERY STARBUCKS IS SAN FRANCISCO IN MINIATURE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/f77ff3883aa65bd81e89aedd5e1ca698e77bd483/original/sf-is-starbucks.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/54271132018-09-13T09:27:09-07:002018-09-13T09:27:09-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE DONNY MCCASLIN SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/a2f83e92b6126725f8ac6a7ef2609738d28b9abd/original/donny-mccaslin.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/54151902018-09-04T18:40:15-07:002020-01-06T08:22:13-08:00HOW TO MAKE THE SUZY PARKER SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/ad6aa5fe9a6e273d96990cf27410936543e5e596/original/suzy-parker.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/54135962018-09-03T14:06:07-07:002018-09-03T14:06:07-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE GORN SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/46ad77020cf4ab26b447265c9b05731a5497fe0d/original/gorn.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/54120592018-09-01T19:50:14-07:002018-09-01T19:50:14-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE JEANNE MOREAU SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/f4ef208f0d737e395bd5b2d84b497a575716abc6/original/jeanne-moreau.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/54062262018-08-29T10:16:43-07:002018-08-29T10:16:43-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE BRONZE VENUS SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/fb2e6bc9d49dd7deb3eceb1be128e7802b904653/original/bronze-venus.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/54020132018-08-26T05:33:27-07:002020-06-29T06:32:12-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE SLOAN SABBITH SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/93c04b0fc11d5474ca18c5456eff586910a723a8/original/sloan-sabbith.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53951092018-08-20T18:43:26-07:002018-08-20T18:43:26-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE ART FARMER SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/56d660a0096e37b47d85ff9f25371c59eaa6660a/original/screen-shot-2018-08-20-at-6-40-04-pm.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53902132018-08-16T12:34:12-07:002019-12-26T04:12:24-08:00HOW TO MAKE THE GLOPPY SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/83ff9c4aaae114a0a3530f405d69dd45e69252cf/original/gloppy.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53896082018-08-16T01:03:11-07:002018-08-16T01:03:11-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE SAN JUNIPERO SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/80cab07478e7a48a31ff7360905529ef053a3b29/original/san-junipero.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53863892018-08-13T22:15:46-07:002018-08-13T22:15:46-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE SPACE FORCE SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/22d02eec3d13159abe9568d6c408c6c72013ca08/original/screen-shot-2018-08-13-at-10-13-01-pm.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53836612018-08-11T10:26:42-07:002018-08-11T10:26:43-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE FOREIGNER SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/4af1ea4109a8cd64bce34a39131dcdca212b930c/original/screen-shot-2018-08-11-at-10-24-44-am.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53823742018-08-10T10:28:32-07:002020-06-25T06:41:05-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE SHUNRYU SUZUKI SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/00df2cd70e083a229a43fafc2348259d315c0dba/original/screen-shot-2018-08-10-at-10-21-58-am.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53790872018-08-08T07:09:05-07:002018-08-08T07:09:05-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE BOBA FETT SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/0f4c744f68e6a6c6df063833e2cf86fb3f9b5751/original/boba-fett.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53744352018-08-03T20:05:55-07:002018-08-03T20:05:55-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE PLO KOON SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/148a0c572748560a7c06261ab7dad67edbba15c8/original/plo-koon.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53740942018-08-03T15:07:37-07:002018-08-03T15:07:37-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE SWEARENGEN SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/21f9bb43761fbb8374ece5523fd97ae2a8e8b748/original/swearengen.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53699452018-07-31T18:21:21-07:002018-07-31T18:21:22-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE AMBUSH BUG SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/118ac60ffa514ef61a842290a936d403f9fd360b/original/ambush-bug.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53697202018-07-31T16:01:26-07:002018-07-31T16:01:26-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE TRINITY SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/99c56100409cee2b3e7df71e678706fc9497bdd6/original/trinity.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53682932018-07-30T20:16:53-07:002018-07-30T20:16:53-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE HUGGY BEAR SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/748dc4a8d10b87f3604adfe9b32e2dd9a9544220/original/huggy-bear.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53633152018-07-26T16:40:45-07:002018-07-26T16:40:45-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE SUGARFOOT SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/43aae57ad8545242486d27af8477ca8dfdc7c386/original/sugarfoot.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53618542018-07-25T16:01:50-07:002018-07-25T16:01:50-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE VIVIAN STERNWOOD RUTLEDGE SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/8fad9b71023a8dc4258fbe1d62eaa27fc03a4c05/original/vivian-sternwood-rutledge.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53607552018-07-24T20:35:01-07:002018-07-24T20:35:01-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE ANNE-MARIE GREEN SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/f0b3521ccf77f1b89d4a4968b5628e4956cabd45/original/anne-marie-green.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53593332018-07-23T20:44:16-07:002018-07-23T20:44:16-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE HEMINGWAY SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/6190b83ace26e1210cf9b0c959ef0689da9d43b9/original/the-hemingway.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53578912018-07-22T19:52:49-07:002018-07-22T19:52:49-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE LITTLE NUT BROWN HARE SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/063b6483a19c74737773fe3f4b1e614a4eeff9da/original/little-nut-brown-hare.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53572732018-07-22T01:16:32-07:002018-07-22T01:16:32-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE HAFERMANN SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/b7cef9b601234052b36be57f7bb1dbbb11dde36c/original/hafermann.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53564562018-07-21T06:46:33-07:002018-07-21T06:46:33-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE ISAMOT KOL SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/60abc32ebf909a9d6f9a5c31c0ce4d45d5b1fe70/original/isamot-kol.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53560762018-07-20T19:10:35-07:002018-07-20T19:10:35-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE MYSTIC SEER SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/8a6c9428cbc12999abe52a52253460d05ff4fe8b/original/mystic-seer.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53533002018-07-19T07:38:18-07:002018-07-19T07:38:18-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE PORKINS SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3e239eb0a6b3ade4c9b887b7e29aa1d397b9c503/original/porkins.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53515402018-07-18T01:38:58-07:002018-07-18T01:38:58-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE BOB ROSS SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e76864e9ce80d73c5f1a57981f73905789bd9291/original/bob-ross.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53492982018-07-17T01:02:22-07:002018-07-17T01:02:22-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE KILOWOG SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d3f93f486bc1c88ec471898c74fd8600a937941c/original/the-kilowog.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53477832018-07-16T00:21:37-07:002020-07-12T22:06:34-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE HEIDI MONEYMAKER SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/6e88f91b6dcd82302dd42444638e5f7a17c6789a/original/heidi-moneymaker.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53467462018-07-14T18:57:16-07:002018-07-14T18:57:16-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE PEACHES & HERB SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c50c35afc07d19d25d65286a911fa4f2b1a74f7c/original/peaches-herb.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53461732018-07-14T06:45:48-07:002018-07-14T06:45:48-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE GUY GARDNER SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/481ee781e69ec6c0543b914e34a4736d8a2d945d/original/guy-gardner.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53442722018-07-12T23:10:47-07:002018-07-12T23:10:47-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE DR ZAIUS SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c758bd7973c3728c3c09023113a04ae0577ee5fc/original/dr-zaius.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53428582018-07-12T06:01:58-07:002018-07-12T06:01:58-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE HAROLD SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/7a8937d5db010cf1785f6940a13c0cdfcf351a59/original/the-harold.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53422522018-07-11T17:27:20-07:002018-07-11T17:27:20-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE BOO RADLEY SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/7b6b1b24be267b2663118fab1f672bde7b0f2a37/original/boo-radley.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53407672018-07-11T05:48:41-07:002018-07-11T05:48:41-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE BATGIRL SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/286788b07713bc1bfd959acce3edc836cfb837b6/original/the-batgirl.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53399902018-07-10T19:41:32-07:002018-07-10T19:41:32-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE ANNE-SOPHIE SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3daa73b2317e7a337c1cf91287fda38527360194/original/anne-sophie.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53382652018-07-09T18:15:03-07:002018-07-09T18:15:03-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE AUDREY HORNE SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/816bb5c38b008369f7fbf7ac0e3b431fd5704fb5/original/audrey-horne.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53369722018-07-09T00:35:43-07:002018-07-09T00:35:43-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE FOUR CORPSMEN SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/6481fadf82c33db1c7fa951fc67eb90a269f7755/original/four-corpsmen.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53368002018-07-08T19:19:32-07:002018-07-08T19:19:32-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE PEANUTS HUCKO SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/91d25b03022f9e47486eac8c5770a5e47320ae01/original/peanuts-hucko.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53360912018-07-08T01:16:33-07:002018-07-08T08:39:28-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE CHRISTIE LOVE SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d369e5891bf1d54bec9494a47c12a94b06492422/original/screen-shot-2018-07-08-at-8-38-01-am.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53351302018-07-07T01:38:29-07:002018-07-07T01:38:29-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE DOROTHY MALONE SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/cc0ab23330eba428792815c02072f435070ec8dd/original/dorothy-malone.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53335892018-07-06T00:26:07-07:002018-07-06T00:26:07-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE SULLY SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/0822a1046e0771deb6fb2e5cfe1abe905ccb5ab7/original/sully.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53332352018-07-05T18:57:35-07:002018-07-05T18:57:35-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE RAVEN SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/28681b4c73b46d803698f3b7a035198fad654845/original/raven.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53317522018-07-04T22:46:28-07:002018-07-04T22:46:28-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE SPARKLE MOTION SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/f3f4a7c8ff5463ad4181582e8ead6be9ce72f339/original/sparkle-motion.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53307192018-07-04T01:02:40-07:002018-07-04T01:02:40-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE CAPTAIN AMERICA SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/7d5e29f84b782dad3b2150873a6e2c98941f8d7c/original/captain-america.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53305492018-07-03T20:32:45-07:002018-07-03T20:32:45-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE STARFLEET SMOOTHIES<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/5921734995b85d74c6e410feb1fc0f9595f26777/original/starfleet-smoothies.jpg" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53301722018-07-03T15:55:14-07:002018-07-03T15:55:14-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE BAILEY QUARTERS SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/029681febd9d7abac52760a7b7a04bd3770ec188/original/bailey-quarters.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53300522018-07-03T14:37:34-07:002018-07-03T14:37:34-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE DUDE SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/8a57cb69325d57168cdfe6b7d43a2ac50925cce4/original/dude.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53292032018-07-03T01:15:40-07:002018-07-03T01:15:40-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE SCIENCE PATROL SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d8eb8175981127815107f39b80bd6d567504cf63/original/science-patrol.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53284602018-07-02T14:59:14-07:002018-07-02T14:59:15-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE SHOOBY TAYLOR SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e72f81d449a6e5786a4aeb76c6709145a87b5989/original/shooby-taylor.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53278892018-07-02T09:27:27-07:002018-07-02T09:27:27-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE YODA SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e090440ac755c77904d6a6a96ba6bb9d934a6426/original/the-yoda.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53276892018-07-02T04:42:59-07:002018-07-02T04:42:59-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE ROD SERLING SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/4e021a18864fba20b3c924113e199157145a0267/original/rod-serling.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53271212018-07-01T14:15:11-07:002018-07-01T14:15:11-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE NIGHT NURSE SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/defd99c62ee9be96060882687a2f4d4c170252ff/original/night-nurse.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53268302018-07-01T06:20:55-07:002018-07-01T06:20:55-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE DARTH MAUL SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/30756674f6d7b3270ce74c6bd8dc7fd56b3d41dc/original/darth-maul.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53258772018-06-30T06:28:55-07:002018-06-30T06:28:55-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE HONEY RYDER SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e4dfc450d415f475da94ebf8398944e8a10bbd85/original/honey-ryder.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53250292018-06-29T16:24:05-07:002018-06-29T16:24:05-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE SAN FRANCISCO FOG SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/0108b008a472026cbc5d8fad08bf35de86d7bfc2/original/san-francisco-fog.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53236862018-06-29T00:27:42-07:002018-06-29T00:27:42-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE ULTRAMAN SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/88b50eb515c9c9fa489286ee09b1be80a0e2e403/original/ultraman.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53226682018-06-28T13:07:39-07:002018-06-28T13:07:39-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE MEDPHYLL SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c63bbabef55059be01e2fa61c97d6d964c75be8d/original/medphyll.jpg" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53220332018-06-28T07:21:30-07:002018-06-28T07:21:30-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE BLIND LEMON SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/f9d10e6ebb58cb30b3b78b6a98803e46c268cbd4/original/blind-lemon.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53196582018-06-27T01:57:18-07:002018-06-27T01:57:18-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE ALAN SCOTT SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/7675e72128d9f92f809cdac35dd2b1aff3ebf47e/original/alan-scott.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53179782018-06-26T07:00:53-07:002018-06-26T07:00:53-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE SNAKE PLISSKEN SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3e1c0154698f99ae4bd455a9722780a6c73becf2/original/snake-plissken.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53159732018-06-25T07:08:31-07:002018-06-25T07:08:31-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE ORIGINAL OSCAR SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/72d89793722ffd5d15b54a678dcc7fdf385f2638/original/original-oscar.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53153932018-06-24T20:41:33-07:002018-06-24T20:41:33-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE SERENA JOY SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/5ea780ae84c4e68f12b6ad0dc140b3a6b5d28681/original/serena-joy.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53143322018-06-24T00:33:23-07:002018-06-24T00:33:23-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE BOODIKKA SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/42c299010c7c68f5b415b6b1e575aa2955f1b679/original/boodikka.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53133172018-06-23T05:53:40-07:002018-06-23T05:53:40-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE HAMILTON TWINS SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/12aa0c0e21609270f6c934da2cb965f4143c0af8/original/hamilton-twins.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53108622018-06-22T05:33:32-07:002018-06-22T05:33:32-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE RICHARDSON SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/3bec180b247c4588e8b61806f0c35d6c5bd3dc5b/original/richardson.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53086932018-06-21T06:11:09-07:002018-06-21T06:11:09-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE JUSTICE LEAGUE SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/9d67b4dc0008df72babb9026f1ef2e2629409edc/original/justice-league.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53061582018-06-20T00:53:00-07:002018-06-20T00:53:00-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE STRANGER SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/6cba769255c6783facfbd8b24e6eafa49df23003/original/the-stranger.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53044972018-06-19T09:10:14-07:002018-06-19T09:10:14-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE ARISIA SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/8adbd822f5d3dde921dbe3ca03f9b4ab042e8a47/original/arisia.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53021332018-06-18T07:46:12-07:002018-06-18T07:46:12-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE PAULIE WALNUTS SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/2b3c69bd3ea45b3b21de3b9778aee1a3fd4c315a/original/paulie-walnuts.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/53007512018-06-17T07:20:49-07:002018-06-17T07:20:49-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE GANTHET SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/6a39c058eef2acad728134fa8a0fac88e78d4e8e/original/the-ganthet.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/52996372018-06-16T08:07:51-07:002022-05-11T01:21:29-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE ATTICUS FINCH SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/c65de5e571d4015b650083a03a0b846d486fbadb/original/screen-shot-2018-06-16-at-8-04-54-am.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/52986512018-06-15T17:46:08-07:002018-06-15T17:46:08-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE CH'P SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/619240a69df44b6432394a1162b45bdff86950ce/original/screen-shot-2018-06-15-at-5-44-09-pm.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/52948832018-06-14T01:14:29-07:002018-06-14T01:14:30-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE BETH DAVENPORT SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/0f93e318520ff4bdb3a7671c3b98bd39c41aa506/original/beth-davenport.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/52929942018-06-13T07:50:14-07:002018-06-13T07:50:14-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE ITTY SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/e5bf3a4fab31bbc8884c82f41a4277557eb72811/original/itty.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Mathenytag:www.dmitrimatheny.com,2005:Post/52925022018-06-12T22:46:56-07:002018-06-12T22:46:56-07:00HOW TO MAKE THE KWISATZ HADERACH SMOOTHIE<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/57640/d3d74a3e291c0ac87da37ddc2786ec09bac57083/original/kwisatz-haderach.png" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dmitri Matheny