The LA Burrito Project

Nestling down on a barstool in downtown Los Angeles, I glanced over at a burrito that the vertically challenged man beside me, who was coincidentally named “Shorty,” was unwrapping  from a shiny foil cover.  I watched with envy as he bit into his dinner. My mouth watered and I inquired, “Bean and cheese?”  He just nodded his head and continued chewing.  A bit famished myself, I asked where I might find a burrito nearby.  He responded rather matter-of-fact, “From the LA Burrito Project…”

For going on three years, The Los Angeles Burrito Project has been preparing and distributing burritos throughout downtown.   The project was born in San Francisco in the late 1990s and was originally dubbed The Mission Burrito Project.   One of the members explained that there were “hip-hop kids” making demos in San Francisco and they eventually came up with the idea of handing out burritos to the hungry locals. 

The organizer of the Los Angeles Burrito project, who wishes to remain anonymous, proffered that the project is a “no brainer.”  He continued, “It’s not hard to do.”   The gentlemen with the burrito in hand, “Shorty,” described the project’s efforts as being a sort of weekly Wednesday tradition.  For some 50 locals, ranging anywhere from “12-18 people in any given week,” the project is a way of gathering together to take part in assisting downtown Angelenos who are hungry.  “Shorty” fondly recalled that they have an enormous caldron of beans and a group of friends all enjoy preparing the burritos together early in the afternoon.  He remarked, “We eat, drink, and hang out together as we make them.”

Each week approximately 300 burritos are prepared and distributed along with 80 Capri Suns and 90 water bottles.  The organizer explained, “We show up with backpacks and we get on bikes and roam around downtown.”  When asked who is entitled to a burrito, the organizer joked, “Whoever is hungry.  We just ask, are you hungy?”

 With 35 people on the usual roster, the somewhat organized group is not looking to enlist members.  Nor do they wish to reveal their identities.   Though this group’s sacrifices are evident, as the organizer added, “I’ve blown through one stove already,” the sentiment on the part of the organizer and members is extremely down-to-earth and unassuming.  The Los Angeles founder noted, “It is not church…it’s been my baby.” 

The message imparted by the members was that others should be inspired to start their own projects if they are interested.  Though the organizer was reluctant to use MySpace as a reference, there is a LA Burrito Project page where information about the group can be found.  Though in early 2007 MySpace honored the group with an Impact Award calling them “an instrument of community action on behalf of the needy,” the company has yet to award them the $10,000 in prize money.       

Like a movie set that has been converted into a functioning food court, cafés and restaurants fill the alleyway just west of Broadway.  This alley, called Saint Vincent’s Court, offers a sleepy retreat from the bustle of downtown.  Formerly the site of Saint Vincent’s College (1868-1887), the buildings have now been adapted for the use of restaurateurs and jewelers.  The College, which was the first “institute of higher learning” in Los Angeles, has a plaque to commemorate the school.  The school actually predates the UC system and was built by the archdiocese of Los Angeles under Bishop Thaddeus Amat, a Vincentian priest.  In 1911, the Jesuits assumed control of the school and it became Loyola College.  Today, Saint Vincent’s College is located in the Harvard Heights district of Los Angeles and is called Loyola High School (Normandie and Venice).

Though the facades that adorn the alleyway are less than spectacular, the European and Persian cafes and storefronts are kitsch if nothing else.  As you enter the alley, it conjures up visions of an Italian side street, but in a miniature golf sort of way.  The pizza on the corner as an Italian might exclaim, “fa un po’ schifo “ (it’s sort of disgusting).  But the little chairs on the slanted brick walkway are inviting and though European culture is evoked throughout, your best bet is partaking in the wonderful Persian cuisine.  Sample some of the beef or lamb kabob and French fries, before enjoying a laidback moment of people watching while sipping coffee. 

There is a deli as well as a market where many Middle Eastern specialties can be located (good hummus, olives, etc.).  If you fancy an espresso and a smoke, Saint Vincent’s Court allows you to pretend, if only for a (very) brief moment, that you have finally managed to live out your “Before Sunset” and/or Hemingway/Fitzgerald fantasy of European café culture. 

Karaoke Gong Bong Show

Pop in around 10:45 pm on Wednesdays as the white binders circulate throughout the bar.  Bar 107, on 4th Street next to Main Street, has one of the liveliest karaoke nights in downtown.  Sitting at the bar before the contest got underway, one of the judges informed me, “There are songs we will gong you for immediately.”  Consider yourself forewarned.  That being said, competitors engage in a fierce battle for the prized foot-and-a-half bong that is bestowed upon the finest singer of the night.  A judge clarified that it was for “smoking tobacco products.”<

The witty judges, who watch from above, provide puerile banter and insightful critiques after performances, giving kudos for song selection as well as advising singers on their stage presence.   Perhaps the most memorable performance was of Van Halen’s “Jump,” a spectacle replete with jumpkicks, air guitar, and spot-on Diamond Dave hollers.

 

 

The bar is eclectically designed with red walls exhibiting kitsch knick-knacks stacked upon moose heads and miscellaneous clutter.  A blow-up Spiderman doll sitting on a statuette with a Lucha libre-esque wrestling mask adorns the corner of the main barroom. Above the stereo behind the bar, a photograph of a dog humping a pig catches the eye of patrons.  A husky man named “Pancake,” who ostensibly has Tourette’s syndrome, repeatedly hollered to me across the bar exclaiming, “I’m Pancake, you done good son!”  This was before I had even gone up to give my rendition of Elvis’ comeback special classic “If I Can Dream.”  Whether you are battling it out for the bong or simply hanging around the bar, an evening at Bar 107 is sure to be an animated one, filled with good cheer

  

 

On 4^th Street, a bearded man is wondering where he can find a late night snack before retiring to his tent on Olive.  He sells lighters for a living.  Thomas Mozzone, 53, has called downtown Los Angeles his home for more than eight years. He initially rented a room downtown for a mere $75.00 a week.  Thomas was content with a bed and community bathrooms initially, expecting to find employment in the Los Angeles area.  Clad in a suit and tie, with a bachelor’s degree in Computer Science, he painstakingly tried to find a job in his field.  With no good fortune coming his way, the aspirant grew frustrated. 

Thomas was born in Atlanta, Georgia and grew up in a Catholic orphanage, before being adopted by the Mozzone family.  Willing to have his picture taken and be interviewed, Thomas wanted to share a bit of his story. He pointed out that he does not drink or use drugs, and that his only vice is “smoking cigarettes.” After a few minutes of conversing, one sees that he is extremely lucid and quite knowledgeable about current affairs.  However, a run of hard luck coupled with not having a safety net to keep him afloat, has forced him to call a tent over on Olive his home.  Keeping his sense of humor, Thomas shared, “I have a $300.00 Rio tent-I am the envy of all the homeless!”

Running errands for business owners and selling lighters are how Thomas makes enough to eat.  Thomas explained, “People know me, they trust me.”  Bar patrons and downtown shoppers order lighters and he supplies the best ones that he can locate.  Unfortunately, business last Christmas was particularly rough.  This last Christmas, Thomas sold, “half a dozen lighters.”  Thomas asserted that in a good year, “I usually sell 6 dozen at Christmas.” 

Thomas spoke out against police officers.  He recalled an episode where he had been attacked on the corner of Main Street and 4^th Street.  “There was a cop car sitting a red light, watching the entire scene.”  A man sucker-punched Thomas for the little change that he had, and the police hesitated, before they “floored it and fled the scene.”  Thomas suspected that had he been dressed better, they may have provided some assistance. Commenting further on police enforcement, Thomas said, “The police want you out by six in the morning. They are trying to push everybody east of Main.” 
For a brief period the police were effectively pushing out the homeless, but the efforts by the American Civil Liberties Union, according to Thomas, have helped the homeless.  In that case, the ACLU and LAPD, worked out an agreement about “tent cities.”  “Bounded by Central Avenue and Los Angeles, 3^rd and 7^th Streets,” homeless people cannot be challenged by business owners or the police.

Thomas said that he has a great affinity for downtown and that he greatly appreciates the efforts that the city and developers have made to improve the downtown area.  Thomas explained that he would not accept handouts and that “welfare is for families, children, mothers…men don’t deserve welfare.”
 

“I’ve become complacent,” Thomas admitted.  Adding that he had paid his taxes before arriving in Los Angeles, Thomas feared that collecting social security may not be realistic.  In a brief austere moment, Thomas shared, “(I) don’t think I can last another 12 years.”  We returned to discussions about where to grab an inexpensive bite and we settled for a cup of Joe.  We then parted ways, as he started to grow a bit anxious about leaving his tent being unattended for too long.

  

 

Leo Politi: (1908-1996) An Artist and Pioneer of Multiculturalism in Los Angeles

“No Dogmas,
No Prejudices,
No Fears,
Can Stand as Barriers
Between Man and Man…”
Leo Politi, 1934

Historically, Politi captured the last century of Los Angeles.  As an artist, he left behind a large body of work that capsules the people, customs, and architecture of twentieth century Los Angeles.  Whether it is Angel’s Flight, Bunker Hill, or Olvera Street, Politi had a passion for artistically rendering the people of Los Angeles, their surroundings and their cultural heritage.  As seen in the painting “Marcel,” Politi painted Angelenos that he admired.  His subject matters varied from the Chinese and Mexican youth of Los Angeles to the Victorian houses in and around downtown to Catholic saints such as Saint Francis. Dabbling in cartoons, realism, and cubism, Politi’s variance in approach mirrors the diversity of his subject matters.Politi wrote about the painting “Marcel,” explaining, “One of the tenants of the Brosseau rooming house was Marcel Cavalla. During the day Marcel would sit on the porch and spend hours painting old homes on the avenue.”
 
Born in Fresno, Leo Politi moved to Italy to his parents’ homeland at the age of six.  Cultivating his skills in Monza, not far from Milan, he obtained a degree in Art and Decoration in Italy before returning to California.  In 1931, he moved to Los Angeles, taking up residence near Olvera Street. 

A prolific painter, author, muralist, and illustrator, Politi was a progressive man who used his artistic talents to promote cultural awareness.  If you have the opportunity to visit the Los Angeles Central Library from February 2-14, you can take a gander at his Bunker Hill collection in the First Floor Galleries.  February 8th and 9th one can attend a reading of Politi’s book Moy Moy by the woman who inspired the story, Mary Joe, at The Chinatown branch library. 

On January 26th, Leo Politi’s children brought several works by their father to the Pico House.  I had the good fortune of attending the exhibit.

After procuring a parking spot in the Felippe’s lot, I headed towards Olvera Street.  Though I had a serious hankering for taquitos from Cielito Lindo, I sauntered along the zigzagging bricks, passing the mariachi singers and shopping tourists. Before making my way towards the Pico House, I sprung for a churro and paused in Los Angeles Plaza to listen to the trumpets and accordions resounding from the bandstand.  Seconds later, finishing my last bite, I noticed the families crossing the quad to enter the exhibit.

Entering the Pico House, I joined several Leo Politi admirers and began touring the paintings that his family had brought for this one day celebration commemorating the centennial of Leo Politi’s birth. 

The expressive eyes of Politi’s subjects, whether depicted in cartoon drawings, water color paintings, or cubist charcoal renderings, convey a profound sense of bewilderment, sorrow, and joy.  The subjects are often modest, self-conscious, and befuddled and more often then not, the subjects are children.

 The first painting that I viewed was called “Mexican Girl” (1963).  It is a 20 by 24 watercolor and gouache painting of a young girl sitting curbside without shoelaces.  She seems caught off guard, vulnerable, and unsure of herself.  The sincerity in the girl’s expression is moving.  The viewer is left to wonder why this girl so young has found herself all alone, perhaps abandoned on the cold cement.

“Sunday” is another of Politi’s work that captures the complexities of youthful existence.  Here we see a young girl ostensibly with her brother.  She engages the viewer by looking straight ahead as if she is trying to build up the courage to ask a question.  Clenching a basket of fruit, she seems her brother’s keeper, towering over the younger sibling.  The young boy’s eyes are closed as he munches on a churro.  He schleps a wooden backpack that is filled with bric-a-brac.

Beloved by Angelenos for his exceptional artistic talent as well as a deep love for Los Angeles that is celebrated in many of his paintings and books, Leo Politi is an indelible part of Los Angeles history.  View his works at the Los Angeles Public Library while you have the chance.

“He was an indigenous part of California’s landscape who will never die or be diminished in the hearts and souls of the public.”
-Cardinal Timothy Manning

“The Lady Named Rose”
“Rose lived on the Hill until its very last days, and like Miss McKinzie was one of the few left who truly symbolized an era that is gone.  Rose was often seen taking long walks around the Hill with her inseparable dog.  She took care of pigeons and wild birds.  When Rose found animals in distress she brought them home and took care of them…This is a picture I did of Rose’s home.  I painted it in 1958.” –Leo Politi 

by JP Kiralla

Olé Mulholland!
 Though water has often been considered a symbol of cleansing, wholesomeness, and life, Los Angeles has had a tumultuous relationship with it, one that has been plagued with scandal and tragedy.

 

 

Jotting down a few notes outside the Mulholland exhibit, a hunched-over elderly man in a guayabera shirt began to read over my shoulder.  Despite his apparent curiosity, I assumed that he was lost. 

“Did you see the iron tunnel inside?   I used to work in tunnels just like that one,” he softly said.

 Hardly making eye-contact and addressing me as “young man,” the gregarious old-timer thought aloud and invited me to enter with him.  Serendipitously, I had found a tour guide. 

Preferring to remain anonymous, the geriatric man brought me to a topographic representation of the pathway of our irrigation and electrical systems.  “Let’s see, this is Mono Lake.  Just sea water, filled with brine and shrimp, you know the seagulls swoop down to catch them.”  Indeed, in 1941 an aqueduct was built to keep the approaching tributaries from spilling into this hypersaline lake.

 He continued, “You see, it’s all there for you to see how Los Angeles gets its water supply.  I’ve been retired for more than 30 years but I was a machinist for DWP for more than 32 years.  After I worked on the tunnels,” he said pointing eastward, “I worked over on Main Street.”

He spotted a wrench hanging from cables.  It was about the size of a marlin.  “Once upon a time I used to work with a wrench like that. We used them in the construction power plants. (It) was heavy as could be.”  

Together we traced the pathways of the map all the way from Owens Valley to the Pacific Ocean.  “You know, the Paiute Indians were furious with us!  Mighty angry about what we were doing.” 

The Paiute Indians, a grouping of Native-American families indigenous to the Owens Valley, had constructed an elaborate irrigation system long before Mulholland laid eyes on their resources.  “We just pretended like they weren’t even there.  Americans have a long tradition of taking what’s not exactly ours.”  The old man paused, smiled, and asked me if I had any questions.

When asked about his opinion of Mulholland, he told me that he was most definitely considered “a big hero.”  Calling him a “genius,” he answered my questions about the Saint Francis Dam disaster.  “The city had to compensate all those people…”  The man did not seem interested in commenting any further about the flooding.  We both looked at the plaque of victims.  “There was lots of violence on the part of the Owens ranchers…thought they had been tricked (or) bullied. They tried to destroy it a few times.”  The violence he spoke of was the inspiration for the movie Chinatown and is what commonly referred to as the California Water Wars.

The elderly man, a woman (who seemingly worked for The DWP and had ducked out of the office to take a personal call), and I, were the only people inside the exhibit.  We toured the metal shoe guards, water works bonds, LADWP paychecks, “coins in lieu of paper money used by workers at LADWP facilities,” and the lead pots used for melting metals to seal pipe joints.  “Well young man, enjoy the exhibit, there is a lot of Los Angeles’ history here,” he said before disappearing.

“There it is. Take it.”  Mulholland’s laconic message delivered on November 5, 1913, after completing the Los Angeles Aqueduct, is posted in large letters in the John Ferraro building on Hope Street.  After hearing about the Paiutes, the quote was particularly poignant.

“The Chief,” as Mulholland was referred to by his workers, was one of the most influential men to ever immigrate to Los Angeles and his legacy is still celebrated in the lobby of the DWP building.  The moniker “Chief” was certainly fitting for a man who carried out feats of such epic proportions. 

Inspiring Robert Towne’s screenplay Chinatown, David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive, and Frank Black’s “Olé Mulholland” and the “St. Francis Dam Disaster” (to name only a few), the contributions of the prodigious innovator are still culturally embraced by Angelenos.  However, aside from a bit of knowledge about Mulholland’s ingenuity and the catastrophic flood caused by the Saint Francis Dam, often referenced as “the greatest American civil engineering disaster in the Twentieth Century,” what do Angelenos really know about this most inspiring man?

Born in Belfast, Ireland, Mulholland spent his childhood days in Dublin. He crossed the pond to New York at the age of fifteen.  Pulling up stakes in New York, he briefly worked in Michigan, Pittsburg, San Francisco, and Arizona, before finally settling down in Los Angeles in 1887.  Prior to his arrival in LA, he had spent six years as a seaman, lumberjack, store clerk, and a miner.  With only $10.00 in his pocket, the industrious itinerant found a job as a “zanjero” (ditch tender) whereupon he set his sights on becoming superintendent for Los Angeles’ private water company.

 His autodidactic ethic was fierce and he taught himself about civil engineering.  Fond of Joseph Le Conte’s book on Geology, Mulholland’s newly acquired expertise (he was much later awarded an honorary doctorate degree from Berkley) secured him a position as superintendent at the Department of Water and Power (his political connections may have helped some).  It has been said that Mulholland had a remarkable memory and that he knew the location and specs of each and every hydrant and sewer in the city.

During Mulholland’s tenure as superintendent, Los Angeles’ waterwheel-storage tank system was supplanted with metered pipes and reservoirs.  The Chief was cognizant of the fact that if Los Angeles was going to grow to its full potential, more water sources were going to be needed.  Los Angeles was turning into a burgeoning city. By 1903, the Los Angeles River, the city’s only source of water, had nearly been sucked dry.
 
 Los Angeles mayor, Fred Eaton, who was a crony of Mulholland’s, pushed the Chief to look into tapping other sources to ensure that the city would have enough water to accommodate its growing size.   Mulholland headed northward, crossing the Mojave Desert, traveling for two weeks.  A historian once said that they left “a trail of whiskey bottles all the way.”

The monumental project was finished in 1913.  4,000 men labored for over five years building open canals, tunnels (including a five-mile tunnel underneath Elizabeth Lake), and inverted iron siphons.  With a mind like a steel trap, Mulholland utilized gravity, parlaying his knowledge of nature and science.

“There was a well known water master man / he was the king / he could do anything / the St. Francis Dam disaster man / thought she was all right / until around midnight / because that water seeks her own / she had a desire to flow
–“St. Francis Dam Disaster” Frank Black

 

 

 

The DWP exhibit’s graphs elucidate that by 1920, Los Angeles was twenty-two years ahead of its anticipated growth (using close to 90 million gallons of water).  Following the construction of the Los Angeles Aqueduct, successfully bringing water from the Sierra Nevadas, Mulholland decided that Los Angeles needed a back-up dam.  With Mulholland serving as the chief engineer, the Saint Francis Dam was built between 1924 and 1926.  Three minutes before midnight on March 12, 1928, despite the fact that Mulholland had inspected the dam that same day because of a reported leakage, a catastrophe unfolded. 

Right before midnight, “1.7 million cubic feet per second of water” began spewing out of the Saint Francis Dam forming a “180 foot wave.”  The massive wall of water consumed the San Francisquito Valley, traveling into what is now Magic Mountain, propelling onwards all the way up to the Ventura-Los Angeles border.  Whirlpools sucked innocent victims into the crashing rapids, sometimes ejecting them from the water by the sheer centrifugal force.  Consequently, survivors were found unconscious the following day.  Expert Frank Rock puts the death toll at 600, though the initial tally was 450.  The tragedy is ranked as the second deadliest in California’s history, second only to the 1906 San Francisco earthquake.   

Mulholland assumed full responsibility for the disaster.  Experts cite a seismic fault and Paleolithic landslides as being possible factors that led to the dam’s failure.  Others have accused locals of planting dynamite (because TNT was used by disgruntled locals at one point prior to the disaster to blow up a 400 foot wall, though it has been thoroughly ruled out as a possible cause for the major disaster).  Myths spread that a Navajo silversmith who worked for actor Harry Carey, had a premonition that the dam would break.  Frank Rock as well as many experts, has said that Mulholland was profoundly devastated by the tragedy. Before Mulholland’s death in 1935, he witnessed the early stages of the Colorado River Aqueduct and the Hoover Dam.

“We take water so much for granted.  It’s like breathing in and out.”
 -Catherine Mulholland, the Chief’s granddaughter

Recommended reading:  A Man a Dam and a Disaster: Mulholland and the St. Francis
 Dam by J. David Rogers   

If the blues was money, Deacon Jones wouldn’t be putting out records like “Jonesin’ For Money.”  Thankfully, he is.  At the Redwood Bar and Grill on 2nd St and Broadway, Deacon Jones and the Bucket of Blues Band pump out two amazing sets on Tuesdays, starting at 10pm.

It’s not often that one has the opportunity to stumble upon a legendary bluesman with such an illustrious career.  A flyer that read “4 years with Freddie King,” “4 years with the Impressions,” and “40 years with everyone else,” humorously boasts about the shoulders that Deacon Jones has rubbed throughout the years.

Leading the band with his Hammond B3 organ, Jones has enlisted several top-notch players.  The band comprises Sherry on vocals, Slick Rick on bass, Tokyo Mississippi on lead guitar, Lamont on guitar, and Dap on drums.  Though outside the bar Micky Champion is billed as their vocalist, she has been replaced by Sista Sherry.  Jones joked that he had had to supplant Champion because she was beginning to forget things, adding, “She is in her eighties!”

Their infectious grooves will propel you onto the dance floor.  The rhythm section is guy rope tight, alternating from a laid-back 6/8 blues feel to a faster Funk Brothers feeling groove.  Slick Rick cited his influences as “James Jamerson and Donald ‘Duck’ Dunn” and the vintage sounds of Mowtown and Stax Records are palpable, especially during the upbeat numbers.  Mississippi proffers tasty riffs which complement Jones’s entrancing keyboard playing.  Jones is a true showman and his spontaneity and candor is utterly charming.  Sista Sherry, whose soulful voice is astounding, captures both the grievous and the humorous sides of R&B. 

The first set kicked off with a groove that is reminiscent of “Spill-the-Wine.”   Deacon Jones belted out, “In New York, they call it Harlem…” and he continued listing ghettos nationwide until he pauses for a second, only to cry out, “In Los Angeles, it’s simply called Watts!” 

Sherry told me before the show that “We Are People” was perhaps her favorite song to sing in the set.  She said the song’s message of unity and harmony strikes a deep chord in all of us.  The lovely singer added that “Cheatin Song” is one her favorites as well.  She laughed as he explained that the song runs through a list of the likely suspects (“Was it the teacher, the preacher, the leacher, who?”)  Up on stage when the song came to an end, Sherry screamed out, “You never know, could be your best friend y’all!” 

Sherry, who co-writes some of their material with Lamont (they used to have a group called Terraplane Blues), recounted how she saw Aretha Franklin on the Ed Sullivan Show at age six.  “That’s when I knew I wanted to be a singer.”  Another inspiration was Janis Joplin.  Sherry explained, “Well, she’s form Texas too.  She was born in Port Arthur and I am from Beaumont.  When she sang, she was so real, so true.”

The man with the remarkable résumé, Deacon Jones, has a brimming smile and in between sets he dazzled me with his stories of yesteryear.  A shortened version of his musical career goes something like this: 1963-1968 Jones plays with Baby Huey and the Babysitters; in 1969 he started playing with Curtis Mayfield and the Impressions; From 1972-1976 Jones toured with Freddie King, and from 1978-1996 Jones played with John Lee Hooker.

2 weeks ago, Deacon Jones published his book 40 Years with Blues Legends (which can be purchased on-line with Authorhouse in softback).  The Richmond, Indiana native, a gifted storyteller, went every Saturday to his lawyer’s house with a tape recorder.  Following his attorney’s advice, he told story upon story to his lawyer, who then wrote up the text from the recordings.

The book tells stories of many blues greats, opening with a story about an impromptu jam session on stage that he had with Buddy Miles, Noel Redding, Freddie King, and an obliterated Eric Clapton. 

Jones wittily recounts that playing with the drunken Clapton was “pretty cool except that he started leaning into me while I was trying to play, bumping into my right arm during my solos.  I was whispering to him out of the side of my mouth, ‘Eric, Eric, I can’t play.’”  Besides supporting Clapton (physically), he has had the fortune of playing with Muddy Waters, Stevie Ray Vaghan, Carlos Santana, Gregg Allman, and Willie Dixon.  He explains, “I still pinch myself when I start daydreaming of all the fun I had.”   Jones clarifies, that although the book does mention several notable greats, “I have no axe to grind and have left out the names of people mostly when I don’t have good things to say.  I don’t want to embarrass anyone or get back at anyone.”  

Furthermore, to get a sense of Jones’s intentions with the book, he remarks, “I hope if nothing else, you’ll understand what they mean when they say that you must live the blues to play the blues.  Your instrument can’t sound like authentic blues unless it’s been in the pawn shop.  The more it’s pawned, the better it sounds.”

Outside the Redwood Bar and Grill, the voluble Jones began to share how got started.  His candor and wit is remarkable.  Each story is filled with subplots and humorous twists that often parallel the arc of a compelling episode of VH1’s Behind the Music. 

Jones got his first break playing with Baby Huey in the 1960s.  They had a residency at Thumbs Up in Chicago for several years.  As Jones explained, “This girl named Claudia was sent to find the hottest band in Chicago. Baron D. Rothschild, you know, the family who had a banking dynasty, well, he sent this girl named Claudia…In those days, we had synchronized dance moves and we were bringing the house down every show…She approached us after a show and asked, ‘How would you like to go to Paris?’”  Jones added, “You know, we all thought it was BS.”
 
Unbeknownst to the group, who thought they had signed up to play in Paris for two weeks, the contract stipulated that the members would have to play in France for at least 6 months.  “You know, we didn’t have the money to get the contract translated-we didn’t know what it said.  We found out later that if we didn’t fulfill the 6 month contract, we wouldn’t have flights back to the States.  Of course, we realized this much later!” 

Jones told me about the band’s tour of Rothschild’s castle in France.  He chuckled adding, “We didn’t even know who he was.”  Jones’s band Baby Huey and the Babysitters were initially employed by Rothschild, as the magnate wanted to throw an extravagant party for his 18-year-old daughter.    “There were four bands that night, one from the US, the UK, Hungary, and Spain.”  Jones and his group played for the younger guests along with the British act.  In a different section of the castle, “the grownups were entertained by a Hungarian sextet and a Spanish group that played calypso music.” 

When listening to Deacon Jones’s stories, one easily loses track of the time.  He touched on the clubs they played in France and the band’s struggle to get back home.  “We were all forced to make phone calls home to beg for flight money to get back home.  One member, Dennis, had no money and was forced to stay.  He ended up dubbing films there in France to make a few extra dollars before coming back to the States.” 

Before Jones took the stage, he told me a story about their last performance in France.  “We had six members and they were supposed to pay us $3,000.”  After being paid and counting the money at the bar, Jimmy Raymond went to the bathroom.  Trusting that the man who had paid them would watch the cash, Raymond returned only minutes later to find out that someone had swiped the money.  Jones clarified, “you know, they didn’t want us to leave.” 

To hear more about Deacon Jones’s stories with Curtis Mayfield, Freddie King, and John Lee Hooker, you can order his book online.  Or, catch him smoking a cigarette on 2nd in between sets and ask him yourself.  Of course, be sure to catch Deacon Jones and the Bucket of Blues Band.  As Jones states in his book, “Long live the blues.”   

As legend has it, when the little plank, or planchette, of George H. Wyman’s Ouija board revealed a message from beyond the grave, the draftsman heeded the prophetic words of his deceased brother, Mark.  The message advised George, “Take the Bradbury assignment.  It will make you successful.”  Inspired by Edward Bellamy’s utopian novel, Looking Backward, Wyman embarked on his masterpiece for Lewis Bradbury, a mining tycoon.  Bradbury never saw the building completed as he passed away in 1893, months before the unveiling. 

Ultimately spending double what the budget had allotted for, Wyman constructed the building for around $500,000, an extremely hefty sum in those days. 

On Broadway, between 3rd and 4th, the building is available to the public daily. Well worth visiting, I stopped by the other day to see the peculiar building from the noir sci-fi movie “Blade Runner.”  Though I only planned to take a peek, I ended up gaping at the beauty of the building.  Upon entering, the Mexican floor tiles and stairway ironwork in the dimly-lit entrance are a prelude to the flooding beams of light that shine down when one approaches the center.

 The awe-inspiring foliate grillwork from France that ornately encloses the birdcage elevators coupled with the sizeable skylight (considering the ceiling is not that high) form an almost Panopticon-like space. The upper floors are exposed and the alluring presence of the staircases and elevators elicit a profound sense of curiosity.  I felt compelled to ascend towards the glass skylight as I was certain the stairs would provide a fantastic new perspective.  To no avail, the guards down below will ensure that you do not climb more than a flight of stairs.  What seems to be a series of New Orleans balconies somehow conjures up a kaleidoscope of lacework when combined with the cascading light that pierces the glass up above.  Always listen to your dead brother when using an Ouija board.

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