]]> tag:www.beaumonde.net,2011:/weblog//1.233 2011-05-23T02:42:40Z 2011-05-25T17:48:02Z

Typical pose in my office.

July 5, 1995-May 21, 2011

Also known as: Mr. Devotion Boy, Pondicherry, Petey-arey, Big Red, Reddy Freddy, Padary, Alessandro del Piero, Petey, Pwer-boy, Mr. Pete, Mr. Pierre Boy, Mr. Flaps, Fabio

Pierre came into our lives in 1999 via Sheltie Haven Sheltie Rescue, outside of Frederick, Maryland. The photo at right was with his online description for potential adopters. He had a dossier from his foster family that would rival that of a human adoption placement agency in terms of thoroughness. Unlike confident, center-of-his-own-universe Beau, Pierre was something of a trouble child who needed help.

"He's got baggage," said Laura Lane-Unsworth, his foster caregiver over the phone, before we even met Pierre. Sheltie Rescue was looking for someone experienced with dogs to handle this fellow, turned in with the name Petey. He was a bit overweight at 66 lbs. in rescue (we got him under 50 lbs. for the rest of his life.) "He has a talent for finding food," she said, and had stolen pizza and a bagel. He was low man on the total pole in his foster house of three dogs and two cats, a pattern he would repeat with us.

First photo of Pierre at meeting in Frederick. Lamont commented on his glow-in-the-dark teeth.

He was turned in because he bit a child in his previous home in Baltimore County, where the family had bought him at a pet store. "He was a wreck around kids," she said. "He couldn't handle the noise level." His owner considered euthanizing him but finally tracked down sheltie rescue. She called to see how he was doing every week until she heard he'd been placed.

While overall a friendly and affectionate dog, he failed at a walk-in exhibit of rescue dogs in Frederick. He reacted badly to a man there, growling and lowering himself. 

A visit to Twinbrook to meet my parents. My mom commented on his evident devotion to me from the start.

Pierre meets Matt and Skipper, right.

"He needs molding and work on obedience," she said. "He could be a wonderful dog. He's not a push-button dog like a golden retriever. He's not a biter that can't be trusted. He's a joy in the household now."

Laura said she would keep him if she had more time to work with him.  "And one more thing -- he's gorgeous. He has a white stripe and he's a sweetheart." He was a very feeling dog who played a bit too roughly, but corrections squelched him. A balance needed to be found where he could be confident and well-behaved. He was very smart and sensitive, exuberant, vigilant and protective and most of all needed to be "molded." "He's like a big puppy, taking everything in," she said. 

Could he handle the pit bulls in the neighborhood I wondered, as Beau had been victim of an attack. "He's strong," Laura said. "He wouldn't cower."

We arranged to meet Pierre outside Frederick at a house full of fostered shelties. He was a giant among a fish-school swarm of average-sized and tinier dogs. I took him out back to see if he would get along with Beau and climb an agility seesaw. All went well and we signed the adoption papers, paid our $100 and bought him home on July 3, 1999.

He was a good-looking as advertised, a honey sable verging into a reddish color, such that Big Red became one of his nicknames. He clambered happily into Lamont's Saturn, completely willing to try a new life. We went to a McDonald's in Frederick and he and Beau happily competed for fries.

Sneaking onto a duvet.

Petey seemed an absurd name for this very beautiful dog who looked nothing like the "Little Rascals" Staffordshire terrier. He needed a new name for a new life, and Pierre became it; close to his old name but more elegant. Whenever he behaved like a Petey though -- anxious or a big goof -- we trotted out his original moniker.

Perhaps due to all the changes and stresses in his life, Pierre developed an ear infection. He was strong and bit me when I tried to put medicine in his ears. I was concerned that he was too much to handle and called Sheltie Rescue back. I realized he was closed to being euthanized before arriving at sheltie rescue and it really was the Last Chance Saloon for him.  I just dominated him and made it clear he had to behave and not bite as I put in the medicine. The second time, I had Lamont hold Pierre while I put the medicine in, and things went much better.

An interesting thing happened the third time I put in the medicine. His ears were better, and Pierre was a trusting angel who lay still and well-behaved. He turned out to be a reasonable dog with adults, who behaved unless he was in pain, but never could relax around children. His groomer found him reasonable and intelligent, and if she proceeded with him gently he behaved even as arthritis got him more and more in his senior years.

/

Pierre still comfortable and glossy coated a month ago.

His most prominent nickname over time became Mr. Devotion Boy. He didn't live the adventurous life Beau did, going to Montreal and Yellowstone, being bitten by a pit bull, but he was steady and quite devoted to the members of his household, as shown in the photos below.

Pierre and housemate Megi, above and below, had a love fest, as her family had shelties as well.

Edited to add: He did have one small adventure, on a walk on the old piers near Bo Brooks soon after I got him. He disappeared completely and didn't respond to my calls. I looked in all directions and under the piers -- no luck. I ran around to near the Getaway Sailing School and sure enough, his pretty red head was bobbing in the water as he swum around the point of land. I called him to the boat dock, and a construction worker helped me haul him out of the water, as he hadn't lost his excess weight yet. I was struck by how relieved I was to see him and how bonded we were already, and bought the worker a couple of six packs of beer in thanks.

Pierre's main friends after myself and Lamont were housemates Micheleen, Mark (a jogging buddy), Catharine, Megi, Katie, Joanne and Laura, and outside the house he loved Lillian Crowley of Lombard Hardware, Janet Cook and Dr. Jane Hungate. In his last week, we made a little trip up to the hardware store and he was relaxed and happy with Lillian's familiar demeanor even though he was mostly blind and a little disoriented.

Dressed up for the Ravens, in his  favorite place -- Lombard Hardware, and outside the store below.

Oh no! They are closed for a holiday! Who will give us treats?

He had problems with a pancreatis attack in July 2009 but was otherwise quite healthy until he began to suffer from Cushing's disease. This led to a lack of muscle tone in his hind legs and he had increasing difficulty walking in his last month, but could be lured along with a peanut-flavored dog biscuit from the Baltimore Dog Bakery.

Pierre pawned by one of the cats from coming in the hallway.

I sensed that he didn't have much time in his last week, as he sometimes collapsed after a step or two on his walks, so he got a shinbone from Whole Foods to chew and the special dog biscuits. As much as I could, I rubbed to top of his white-blazed head and the sides of his face and stroked his back the way he liked. He panted in what seemed to be discomfort but the petting soothed him, and I thought as long as he was soothable I would delay setting a euthanasia date.

Tummy rubs needed to be accompanied by the rhetorical question, "Is it tummy rub time Pierre boy?

On Thursday, I took him to his vet, who gave me painkillers, antibiotics and arthritis medicine to see if he might rally over the weekend. I was prepared if necessary to euthanize him, but the vet recommended a different course.

Running at Betty Hyatt Park, soon after we bought him home.

On Saturday, a beautiful day for the running of the Preakness here, I wanted to go see the visiting Nationals at the Orioles' Camden Yards, but a friend I invited couldn't make it. So I was home as Pierre took a turn for the worse in the afternoon, and he died as I held him as I tried to move him to a more comfortable position in our back alley, where he rested in the shade. He was gone at 5:50 p.m. He managed to escape euthanasia on three occasions and is our only pet to have died at home.

We took his body to Pet ER in Towson for ultimate cremation, and the staff thoughtfully set up his comforter-wrapped body in an exam room for a little version of a private wake. We stroked his still-pretty fur -- he looked like he was sleeping -- and said our goodbyes. We'll get an urn with his ashes, a pawprint and a lock of fur in a few days.

Thank you to those who saw the good in Pierre: Carol Guth and Laura of Sheltie Haven Sheltie Rescue; his original owner who surrendered him; Dr. Pam Nesbitt of Essex Middle River Veterinary Center; Lillian, Micheleen, Megi, Dr. Hungate and Mark and others of the Friends of Pierre club.

Hanging out back with the chrysanthemums.

During a blizzard.

Dressed up I think for the Women's World Cup.

2010 picture.

One of the most revealing pictures of Pierre, locked on my expression during a walk in Gwynns Falls.

On the deck, photos above and below. He smashed a hole in the railing so he could go eat compost.

With Beau on right at Betty Hyatt Park.

Betty Hyatt Park in autumn.

Chillin' with "The Pack," including Casey, Olivia and Beau.

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The corner where Baby Boy met his end, the morning after.

“Pop-pop.” Pause. “Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.”

Without saying a word to each other, Lamont and I began moving. I heard him pick up the phone and report to 911, “There’s been a shooting at the corner of Pratt and Durham streets.”

I climbed cautiously to the roof deck to peer out on the corner, which was strangely empty. No pedestrians, and few parked cars, given that many Hopkins students were gone for the holidays. I looked over neighbors’ roofs to see if anyone was fleeing yet another police raid at 1811 E. Pratt. Nothing.

No sign of smoke or glitter that it could be fireworks, either. Lamont was right: The sound was louder, sharper, more human directed.

We walked together downstairs, out the front door and rounded the corner onto Pratt. Already an ambulance and numerous police cars were on the scene, and officers were beginning to tape off the crime scene.

A prone figure lay utterly still in front of Pratt Street Liquors, on the drug hot spot we’d been complaining about for years.

“It’s Baby Boy,” said Robert, a neighbor. Without thinking, I began walking toward the figure. A police officer ushered me back and began unrolling tape. Dozens of neighbors gathered on both sides of the scene.

Medics hovered over the victim. He didn’t waggle a foot or a hand, like NFL players do to signal they are OK after a bad hit. Deputy Major Bill Davis of Southeastern District came over. He confirmed it was Baby Boy. “Pretty bad,” he replied when I asked how he was doing.

“I’ve known him since he was a little boy,” I said in shock, still hoping it wasn’t him. The victim was loaded into a gurney, his face largely obscured by an oxygen mask. That smooth forehead topped by bristly black porcupine hair. My stomach lurched. It was Baby Boy, unless there somehow was another similar-looking 21-year-old Lumbee Indian kid running the streets.

Lamont stood near the ambulance, his brow knitted in concern. I walked toward him, saying to Robert as I passed him, “I loved Baby Boy.” The words just came out. Robert shrugged. “We watched him grow up. That’s why we called him Baby Boy.”

Kinlaw Craig Jones was declared dead on arrival at Johns Hopkins Hospital, around 12:30 a.m., Dec. 27, 2009.

***

James Jones, left, and Kinlaw Craig Jones, right, enjoy an ice cream on Ann Street. My 1998 photo shows Craig's open expression and crinkly-eyed grin.

Baby Boy and his brother, James, lived with their grandfather, who was said to pass the time “huffing” (sniffing) glue, at 109 S. Ann St., one block up. I asked Baby Boy his real name one day, and learned that his family called him Craig, his middle name, not Kinlaw. I called him Craig thenceforth, to keep the street a little bit at bay. His father and mother also lived in the neighborhood but did not raise him or James under their roof.

They were among 10,000 Lumbee Indians, originally from the Carolinas, who now live in East Baltimore. Kinlaw is a common Lumbee surname, along with Locklear and Jones.

Craig had gotten lead poisoning as a child, and as a result was short in stature, but still strong and clever. That combination caught my eye. I thought this kid might be able to help solve a problem.

I asked Craig the father for permission to hire Craig the son to run a new circuit to my refrigerator. The rehabbers of my house had left the fridge on the overall kitchen circuit, and it blew constantly. I couldn’t myself crawl under the heating ducts the 60 feet or so back to the crawlspace area under the far end of the kitchen. Craig looked like he was small enough to squeeze past the ducts, brave enough to essentially tunnel in dirt dating from the 1840s, smart enough to follow my instructions.

The father gave his permission. I put an old T-shirt over Craig’s clothes, sent him along with a flashlight, a trowel for digging and the end of a length of 12-gauge wire, and he delivered the wire to an area underneath the fridge, where we figured out a way to haul it through the drywall. He backed his way out and stood in the basement by the crawlspace opening with reddish Maryland clay dust in his raven hair, on his face and the T shirt.

“Stand right there,” I said, and got a broom to brush him off. He took some cash in payment and nodded when I said to ask his mother if he could keep it, having said very little, and headed off.

The house where Craig grew up, 109 S. Ann St.

After that, Craig and his sidekick, Michael Cuffey—“Fat Mike,” tackled many more house rehab projects during summer vacations. We called Fat Mike “Big Mike” to his face to spare his feelings. He was a much taller and heavier Lumbee kid, like Craig with a mother battling addiction problems, and raised by his grandmother, Miss Linda, up on the 1900 block of Pratt Street.

They tore the plaster off the central stairway and wielded a Sawzall like a light saber, wearing their dust masks. That their edumacation hadn’t made great strides was on display when asked to do anything involving reading, writing and arithmetic.

“Here’s the wood vices,” I said to Craig. “Put them away downstairs in the drawer labeled ‘vices.’” He tried his best, but couldn’t spell well enough to figure out where to put them, and came back upstairs to ask for my guidance.

“You worked six hours at $5 an hour. What do I owe you?” Neither could say.

They excelled however at a few things, including buying rap and eating. Big Mike loved DMX’s rap album “Ruff Ryders, Ryde or Die Vol. 1” and carried it over every day in an ever more tattered CD cover to play while they worked. I tried to play them some more Old School music, while they waited stoicly for DMX to reappear on the boom box. Lamont was appalled when after unrelenting exposure I broke down and bought DMX myself, with his gangsta lyrics. We changed the main line of one of the worst offending songs to “I love my shelties and but where’s my corgis?” from the original lyric involving lovely "n" and "b" words.

Craig, Mike and I went for lunch most days that summer of 1999 (gauged by the release of “Ruff Ryders”) at the McDonald’s at Highland Avenue and Pulaski Highway in Highlandtown. “Give me some fries n-----,” Craig ordered Big Mike one day. The word made me wince. They listened respectfully but as if dealing with a senile old fogey to my explanation of why the “n” word was pretty bad. It just wasn’t bad to them, the music they loved swam in the word. They humored me enough to not use it in my earshot.

Big Mike was sloppy at the work, while Craig was methodical and determined. When we finished the stairs, I gave Craig other work whenever he came by. He did a flawless job cleaning the kitchen floor. I peaked at him once as he worked, and he was focused and meticulous. Often he asked, “Miss Jeannette, will you hold my money for me?” I put it in an envelope. This is how you bank in the city, when you are small and the kids on the bus might rob you.

It was obvious that Craig, then about 11 years old, would make an excellent drug salesman, being streetwise as he was, as well as under 18 and thus not eligible for adult sentencing. “Craig, you are smart and strong, and the drug sellers will want to have you sell for them,” I said one day at the Highlandtown McDonalds. “They are using you, you will be at risk and they will get away with making money off you. If you ever need money, come to me, I’ll give you some work.”

He listened and nodded.

By this time, he was less solemn and often quite jolly as we worked together. We drove off to get supplies for another project, and got in the drivethrough at the North Avenue Taco Bell. I made up a Ruff Ryders-type rap about what we were going to order at Taco Bell, and how it would compare to McDonald’s, and Craig giggled happily and just said, “More!” He was always laconic, and sometimes unintentionally adult. “Ain’t that a mother,” he said once to my complaint about something.

Lamont took him to soccer on two occasions, and we both noted he was far more willing than the true bad-to-the-bone street kids to try new experiences.

Craig and James showed up one snowy evening to borrow our snow shovel and make money shoveling. They returned happy with a fair showing of earnings, but soaked to their knees. We gave them some of Lamont’s much too big clothes and belts to hold up his pants. While their clothes tumbled in the drier, we made them hot chocolate and hung out in the dining room. The brothers were like stray cats, they had found us and picked us, and for that night at least, they were with two adults that got along well and didn’t “use” and spoke kindly to them. After a similar visit, Craig asked to lie down for a while. After a few hours, I tried to shake him awake. Something about life exhausted him that night, and he wouldn’t wake. After a while, I just threw a blanket over him and let him stay. Somewhere in the back of my mind was whether he needed to be formally fostered, but he had a mother and father of his own, right in the neighborhood.

Craig’s grandfather, known as Mr. Bob or "Pop Pop," moved out of the neighborhood, over to Erdman Avenue. I still saw Craig in and out of the neighborhood. Granddad, a solemn, high-cheekboned, quiet and very Indian-looking man, came down with throat cancer. I delivered Craig to him one day, in a grim public housing project. He couldn’t talk. He did gesture for me to look at the baby pictures of Craig and James, framed on a shelf, with their black eyes and bristly hair looking like papooses in a tintype from an early American settlement.

Somewhere around 1999, Craig’s grandfather died, and Craig lost his tether of stability. In August 2004, he committed an armed robbery. We didn’t see him for a while while he was put away. He returned a summer or two later, much more muscled and ripped and tattoo’d. Was that Craig sitting on the parking lot barricade beside the Ann Convenience Store? I walked by with the dogs. He put his head under his T shirt, hiding from me. “Craig is that you?” No response. “Craig, I know that’s you.” He stayed under the shirt.

He was on the bookstore corner a few days later with a giant thug pal of his. “Hi Craig.” This time he kept his head unhidden. “You know what you’re like?” He looked off into space, humoring me. “A salmon, you know what that is?” Shake of the head, no. “It’s a fish that comes home to the place it was born, year after year.” He looked a bit amused.

He built his rap sheet. August 2006: drug charges. June 2007: Implicated in the notorious killing of a U.S. Marine home on leave a few blocks north of here, on the border of the Washington Hill and Butchers Hill neighborhoods.

He was out again, racking up drug charges in November 2007, July 2008 and August 2008.

The prosecutors who work with us in East Baltimore wanted a community impact statement for Baby Boy at a sentencing hearing held Oct. 21, 2009. They made a plea for input at our community association meeting in September, if memory serves, noting that they had caught him with a driving violation and gotten him back in jail on a relatively small charge. And they wanted to put him away for longer. No one ever wrote a statement for them, and I’m sure the prosecutors were very disappointed. Craig’s drug trading was far more discrete and less blatant than that of other dealers. He walked quietly in the shadows of the trees on Ann Street, to and from his deals. We wanted the more blatant, cheesy dealers put away first. In retrospect, we probably should have suggested that Butcher’s Hill take the lead on keeping him in jail; he dealt drugs in our area, and probably was our worst homegrown criminal, but he got tangled up with serious violence only off his home territory.

If he had been kept in jail, he’d likely still be alive, and have a chance at redemption.

I saw him alive the last time this past summer, as I rounded the corner of Ann and walked with Pierre up Pratt. He was on the corner of Pratt and Durham, the south side, steps away from the north side, where he would be executed later. He stood with some of the other hoodies, them sullen and vacant as ever in my presence, Craig alert and aware but relaxed. I was happy as always to see him, because of our history before his grandfather died. We exchanged smiles and a soul shake. “How you doin’,” he said, his voice and accent now thoroughly street, like his one-time muse DMX.

He was on his road to his ultimate fate. Yet it was still a horror to see his poor still body, to watch him depart with strangers in an ambulance, to read later in the paper he had been shot in the head and shot repeatedly as he lay fallen.

The Baltimore Sun reported in City surpasses '08 homicide total:

The man, identified as Kinlaw Jones, was taken to Johns Hopkins Hospital, where he was pronounced dead at 12:30 a.m. Sunday, Agent Donny Moses said. Jones had a long criminal record, according to electronic court records. He was convicted of drug distribution in December 2008 and sentenced to 10 years in prison, with nine years, seven months and 21 days of that sentence suspended.
In June 2008, he was acquitted on charges of attempted first-degree murder, pleading guilty to assault and possessing a deadly weapon with intent to injure. For that conviction, he received five years in prison, with four years and about four months suspended. He was charged with violating his probation in October 2009, receiving a two-year suspended sentence.

Homicide put several of its aces on the case, including Detectives McGraff and Joseph C. Landsman, the model for Jay Landsman on "The Wire," whose findings are reported in the Baltimore Sun's Cockeysville man arrested in deadly Pratt Street shooting:

According to charging documents, witnesses identified Antonio Edwards, 26, of the 6000 block of Clovercrest Way in Cockeysville as the man who shot Kinlaw Jones in the 1800 block of E. Pratt St. Witnesses said the men were arguing when Edwards pulled out a gun and shot Jones several times, then stood over him and continued to fire, Detective Joseph C. Landsman wrote in charging documents.

So that is our story from our version of “The Corner,” where many who visit my deck -- fellow publishers, carpenters, others -- look down on Pratt and Durham and see the predictable way the trading down there is going to turn out for everyone. Even the police were appalled that he died at 21, the 235th fatality of 2009. Officer Zayas, who covers our local beat, had recently warned Baby Boy of a drug turf battle on Pratt Street and to stay a few blocks away for a while.

I agree with what Lamont wrote on my Facebook page:

“I used to take him to play soccer when he was really tiny, I mean really tiny. He was a good kid. Its disgusting to see him like that. The people who led him down that road should take a look at themselves and be ashamed, though I know they won’t.”

Kinlaw Craig Jones, Oct. 27, 1988-Dec. 27, 2009

Lamont "Wes" Harvey poses with the Hampstead Hill Academy soccer team, from left: Anthony, Kameron, Zoe, Eric, Christopher and Brooke.

Had fun shooting Lamont coaching one of the local charter schools in Baltimore, Hampstead Hill Academy. The kids wanted to call their team the Hornets, but I nicknamed them the Hamsters for the heck of it. The most charming part of the dynamic, which wasn't really clear until I got home and looked at my photos, was his dealing with a young player with a lot of heart named Anthony, a third-grader who claimed he was a year older to get a chance to play.

Anthony, at right, tries to dribble against opponent Kevin in red pinney, playing for Patterson Park Charter School, while teammate Alex lunges forward.

Kevin readies one of many shots.

Kevin's got plenty of confidence to provide his view of a play counter to the coach's. "Kevin's complaints and comments were remarkably sophisticated," Lamont says. "Most were to the point and had just the right amount of justification, while being only slightly weighted towards Patterson so as to appear neutral. The picture of Kevin is an incident where he was clearly fouled, but I explained that I allowed it to play on because he still had possession and it resulted in a shot on goal. Blowing the whistle would have rewarded Hampstead by stopping the play."

One of my favorite photos ever, as Anthony (right) yowls over a Hampstead missed shot, and Alex (blue socks) and Kameron (white socks) slump dramatically. "Alex had a break away, and hit the post, just barely missing a chance to tie the game," Lamont says.

Alex challenges Kevin.

My favorite action shot, with six players trying to get in on the action.

Lamont coaches as Kameron readies a throw-in.

Lamont makes a point, lit by a lowering autumn afternoon sun.

Anthony and Alex try to hold back a rival player.

Anthony rubs his eyes in embarrassment as Wes makes an emphatic point, while Alex looks on.

Zoe tries a shot. "Hampstead's success often depended upon the willingness of the boys to use Zoe up front," Lamont says. "Though Alex and Kameron were the driving force of the 4th-5th grade team, when they included Zoe in the attack we were able to beat Wolfe and Patterson. "Anthony and Christopher were pretty fearless in their challenges. It took a bit of work to get Brooke to challenge the boys. My solution was to have Brooke take our goal kicks, this kept her involved."

After all the drama between the coach and the youngest player, remember the top photo to see Anthony's ready smile as he poses with his coach. Here it is again:

]]> tag:www.beaumonde.net,2009:/weblog//1.225 2009-10-21T13:22:45Z 2009-10-21T14:40:47Z

Marcia Moriarty, foreground in wedding dress, on her wedding day and 50th birthday, July 11, 2009, with me (second from right) and my brother and sisters.

Our brave cousin Marcia passed away this morning at 1:20 a.m. in Boston. She was diagnosed suddenly with liver and pancreatic cancer on May 20, six months ago.

Shortly after we heard the shocking diagnosis, we received happy news, that Marcia and her longtime friend Arnie Baker would be getting married on her 50th birthday. Four of my siblings, my cousins and aunt and myself attended the happy day in Quincy, Mass.

Arnie let us know after the wedding that he, Marcia and her daughter Alison would come to D.C. to visit my parents. I thought that was lovely thought but unlikely to happen given her grave prognosis. Sure enough though, the trio came to Washington for a cheerful visit that showed not only respect and courtesy to my parents but tremendous fortitude, as Marcia chatted at my sister's kitchen table about playful battles with her brother growing up and rescuing stray cats who had 28 kittens en toto.

She was too sick to talk to us in recent weeks but always in our hearts. On Sunday, her favorite cat, who slept at her feet, stood up on the bed and looked at Marcia and then looked at the ceiling. Her spirit seemed to be passing to Heaven. From Monday til this morning, her body battled, but her husband and daughter told her early this morning it was OK to let go.

]]> tag:www.beaumonde.net,2009:/weblog//1.224 2009-09-12T14:11:56Z 2009-09-12T14:24:53Z

Tomatos, peppers, beans and marigolds to deter bad insects flourish on my roof deck garden. Fascinating article in today's Washington Post, Raising The Root: Some City Dwellers Are Hoping Rooftop Farming Will Bear Fruit. NEW YORK -- Like many...

Jeannette Belliveau http://alskdjf.com

Tomatos, peppers, beans and marigolds to deter bad insects flourish on my roof deck garden.

Fascinating article in today's Washington Post, Raising The Root: Some City Dwellers Are Hoping Rooftop Farming Will Bear Fruit.

NEW YORK -- Like many a farmer, Ben Flanner rises with the sun. Like most crops, his need water and weeding -- bright tomatoes and fragrant basil, delicate nasturtiums, mottled melons and black eggplants, mustard greens, puntarelle, peas, beets, beans, kale -- about 30 fruits and vegetables in all, and then there are the herbs.

But his farm is not like most farms.

His farm is three stories off the ground.

Beyond it is a sweeping view of the Manhattan skyline. Below it is a TV and film soundstage.

Flanner's 6,000-square-foot farm is on a rooftop in the industrial Greenpoint section of Brooklyn. He hopes it can become a model for others who want to grow food but lack space.

I'm getting giant bell peppers this year off my rooftop garden, the size of small pumpkins, with the addition of vermiculture, and just planted some cool-weather spinach two days ago. I find rooftop gardening rewarding for the reasons mentioned in the article, consistent sun, controllable soil conditions and lack of pests. Some photos:

Beans against a vista including the Northwest Branch of the Patapsco River.

Some ginormous bell peppers from the roof deck garden, fed by worm compost.]]> tag:www.beaumonde.net,2009:/weblog//1.223 2009-07-30T13:32:15Z 2009-08-03T14:44:11Z

Yes I am compulsively watching and rewatching the pure boogie-ing joy of Jill and Kevin's wedding dance on YouTube. (And I am not alone, my sister confesses to having downloaded it to her iPod for happiness interlude purposes.)Here are my...

Jeannette Belliveau http://alskdjf.com Jill and Kevin's wedding dance on YouTube. (And I am not alone, my sister confesses to having downloaded it to her iPod for happiness interlude purposes.)

Here are my Top 10 favorite moments:

10. "Kevin's Mock Escape"
He appears to pretend to be trying to running  from the altar but the bridal party is marching very determiningly, blocking the aisle.
















9. "Cool Guy Does Royal Wave"

If you can't dance, do the Queen of England's little wave. You're still supporting the concept.
















8. "The Underrated Dancer"

This guy is visually blocked much of the time by the chubby bald-headed guy who kind of does the Funky Chicken, but he acquits himself well when not blocked in the frame.
















7. "Handstand Guy"

One of three or four moments where the crowd ROARS its approval!
















6. "Twirl of Support"

When the party reaches the altar, they slowly mime nearly falling as the lyrics chant "I won't you fall, let you fall, let you fall," and the final three bridesmaids in the frame (are they professional dancers) twirl beautifully. Here we see the barely scripted genius of this entire dance, the song and the moment, as somehow an apparently amateur videographer catches so many lovely ephemera. And as with "Kevin's Mock Escape," the friends are supporting the couple and suggesting that a marriage is sanctioned and held up by the larger community.
 















5a. "Chubby Red-Tie Guy"

He'll never be a professional dancer but he moves with assurance and aplomb and even a certain style behind the lead dancer ("Pogo Guy" ... see Fave Moment No. 2) with the wildly swinging knees and jumps and you gotta love him anyway as a supportive friend. (Looks like I've actually got 11 favorite moments so there will be two No. 5s).
















5. "Somersault and Necktie Straightening"

Kevin does a surprise somersault (whoo!) and then STRAIGHTENS HIS NECKTIE! We are in the presence of greatness ... the whole group is having too much fun to be nervous and inspiration certainly graced the groom for this little gesture.
















4. "Girls Vogue"

How fabulous is this!! Are these professional dancers? The most happening part of the video for me and the crowd knows they are in for a difference. Every woman who loves to dance would love to have this moment in the limelight. I can totally see my high school buds Deborah and Patti in this role.
















3. "Couple Strolls Together to Altar"































2. "Initial Moment of Shock"

The first notes of Chris Brown's "Forever" squeak out, no one is sure what is going down, and then Pogo Guy stars boogieing ... What ?!































1. "The Bride's Appearance"

You can see why Kevin is marrying Jill in these expressions!  Boogie on forever.

There are other great moments that didn't make the top 10, including when the swing dancing couple flashes by the camera with broad smiles on their faces ...















and when the young-looking version of John Goodman-looking guy waves his arms as part of the group dance toward the altar ....















And the woman in the audience whose face reflects delight in each and every segment of the dance (as well as the audible laughter of the guy nearest the camera):















When I first saw this video Saturday, there were 4 million page views. Now there are 12 million. (Many of them by me, obviously!). (Make that 15 million as of Aug. 3.)

Some favorite comments:

Lamont: "If only there were a brass pole at the altar." (It took me two days to get this.)

My sister Sharon: "So glad to hear that I am not the who is repeatedly watching  this video. My favorite parts list is essentially the same as yours!  There's one more moment I just love: the groom taking the bride by the arm, then strolling together in step. Oh, oh and that the guys are in the absolutely blandish tan-brown suits ever. How extremely dweeby is that?  It is perfection.  ... Try listening to it with headphones -  you can really hear the
laughter of the guests."

My reply to Sharon: "The dweeb suits COMBINED with the fact that somebody's non-Hollywood camera manages to miraculously catch a lot of the fleeting expressions and quick dance moves make this sublime."

Sharon's husband Rob: "How'd they leave the church?"

My friend Deborah: "i can't stop crying with sheer joy -- I LOVE IT! it is sooo perfect -- soo happy and frolicking and fun. damn, now i'll have to get married again to do something like that.  thank you for sharing it.  were groomsmen and bridesmaids chosen for their dancing ability?"

My friend Patti: "I watched these crying and amazed at the joy, liberation, freedom and escape music and dancing bring us.  Loved these!  Thanks for sharing ..and thanks, ladies, for being there for 37+ years!"

Adelicia Villagaray, Baltiimore's and maybe the world's finest zumba teacher: "Oh my goodness that was great! I just watched it from your link and i was crying and laughing at the same time how sweet and fun.... i gotta show this to my boyfriend."

Comment on Youtube.com: "I'M GONNA GET A D I V O R C E so I can do it again THAT way. I thought I was a rebel in the 60's because I wouldn't say ...... and OBEY.... HA - love love love this..... Wish I were at the reception. "
 
Read more at the Washington Post: Going to the Chapel & We're Gonna Get Jiggy.

Watch more at NBC Today Show: Interview with the couple and dance recreation on live TV.

Update: Jill and Kevin are hoping to "direct this positivity to a good cause. Due to the circumstances surrounding the song in our wedding video, we have chosen the Sheila Wellstone Institute," they note on a new website seeking to help victims of domestic violence, appropriate given the background of singer Chris Brown.

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Thanks to all for your messages of condolences regarding the loss of our senior cat, Casey (Miss Casey enjoying cat heaven).

My sister Maureen sent For Every Cat An Angel, a simply wonderful little picture book that I promptly reviewed on Amazon.com.

We also received kind and thoughtful e-mails from our other siblings.

In addition to wonderfully written cards from both her vets, Casey was remembered by our former housemate Cassie and her friend Jeff, who wrote in a sympathy card, "We have good memories of her sleeping in her favorite spot on the couch, and her warm and friendly purrs," which pretty much sums up Casey in her mature years perfectly.

Lamont also found the photo above, which although a bit marred on the surface, captured Casey in her more spectacular incarnation when we first got her at about age 8. She was striking and gigantic and well-groomed.

He reminds me that as she lost weight over the years, he called her "The Artist Formerly Known as Fat Kitty." That spurred my memory that I used to call her a Fat Kittycat and a Fat Brown Tabby, to her purring delight every time.

And our former neighbor, Lynda Maslanka, notes, "Sounds like Casey had a peaceful, quiet, respectul passing. Could we all be so lucky? Truly the last gift you could give her."

Thanks again, everybody.

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Casey visits Lamont at the computer. Her very pronounced tiger stripes are evident in the photo.

Also known as: Quesadilla, Miss Exploradia, Miss Chirpadea, Miss Squawkadia, Miss Barfadia, Miss Persnickety.

March 1991-May 9, 2009

Casey Belliveau first came into our lives 10 years ago. We had mice periodically invading our house every autumn at the first cold snap. I mentioned this casually to my mother.

She said, "I think Jim is trying to give his cats away due to Judy's allergies." I relayed that Jim's cats were being given away to Lamont, just conversationally, not as a request to take them. He said, not "oh really," but "OK."

Once I figured out we had leapt into the realm of actually acquiring Casey and Oliver, I called Judy who was very happy that they wouldn't be picked up by strangers as a result of an ad at the grocery store bulletin board and that instead they would stay in the family.

I first recall seeing Casey in the 1980s at Jim's house, where she struck me as large, calm and good with visitors and children as she strolled around the living room. The gentle and less confident Ollie would generally flee at the arrival of guests.

Jim termed Casey a princess who was always perfectly groomed. When she transferred to our household, where I had no clue how to interact with a cat, she knew who to train her adoring eyes on.

"This is a GREAT CAT!" exclaimed Lamont with the enthusiasm of a child at Christmas upon Casey's strolling out of her cat carrier onto our dining room table. She was in his arms purring as loud as a motorboat engine. He renamed Casey as Miss Quesadilla and they were great friends from that day forward.

Lamont understands cats. When Casey snuck out onto the roof, he was less panicked than I, and just put out a saucer of milk for her, to which she promptly arrived out of the dark night. Hence one of her nicknames, Miss Exploradia.

Two weeks ago today, we put our Casey, at this point 18 years and two months old, to sleep.

Until the Tuesday of that week, she had been booking around competently, as was her way, but on Wednesday she crashed, issuing an odd meow and staggering a bit as she walked. She was drinking nonstop at the pet fountain and wrinkling her nose at her food dish (indicating nausea).

It seemed like a rapid-fire version of the kidney failure that gradually befell our sheltie Beau in his last year or so.

We were more businesslike than with prior pet deaths in losing Casey. Having been through the loss of Oliver, we were more prepared. We loaded Casey into a cardboard box lined with warm sweatpants, put a shovel and tarp in the trunk of the car, and drove her to Essex-Middle River Veterinary Center.

Lamont never wants to euthanize our pets, feeling that everything living wants to live, but even he acknowledged that Casey was not longer automatically purring on hearing his voice or being petted. I was aware that toxins were raging uncleansed by the kidneys in her body, and that she must be not only sleepy all the time but fairly uncomfortable, and didn't want to deal with her in end-stage pain or confusion.

She was brave and uncomplaining at the vet. We made a bed out of sweatpants on the examining table. Dr. Zulty was very kind. He gave her a sedative, and she was so compromised that her breaths slowed to once every 40 seconds or so, even prior to the final overdose of anesthetic. She, our oldest pet of all, had a simpler passing than either Beau or Oliver. We knew to leave by the back door of the veterinary center, and we drove off to bury her.

Lamont dug a grave for her six feet west of Oliver's. I wrapped her body in a sweatpants leg cut to her size to serve as a shroud. Lamont said as we laid her to rest, "I'm going to miss your white whiskers."

"I'm going to miss your lynx-tip ears," I said. Even no longer alive, her coat was a beautiful blend of tan, copper and brown as I laid her gently down and we each gave her some pieces of cat food for her journey to heaven.

"You were a very sweet cat, a good brave girl, no trouble even at the very end," I said.

Photos don't do Casey justice. She had a broad nose that was the prettiest brown shading of a lion. She was talkative, chirping and purring like a motorboat when fed or petted or upon seeing Lamont.

For a big cat who loved food, she was very mobile, and managed to book up our stairs when some of the treads were missing during an improvement project, while Oliver, Beau and Pierre, as well as most of the humans, were all stranded.

Casey was popular with our housemates and flirty with men in particular. She seemed to have imprinted on my brother Jim during her first eight years and Lamont for her last 10.

Our housemate Justin was also fond of her and wanted to take her to Hopkins parties to show her off. Our later housemate, Joanne, made a cast of her pawprint for posterity, and was amused by Casey's outgoing nature. She once gathered a group of nursing students in her room to prepare a demonstration poster, and Casey sat in the middle while they worked around her.

Lamont had a call-and-response with her:

(In deep voice) "Miss Quesa-dilla!"

"Squawk."

"Miss Quesa-dilla!"

"Squawk."

In her last days, she didn't squawk or purr in response, she was hollow eyed and weak in the neck.

The vets that had treated her over the years were sad to hear about her crash. Dr. Pam Nesbitt of Essex Middle River had saved her life in 2003 when she got kitty anorexia (hepatic lipidosis), and she called leaving a heartfelt voicemail after her colleague Dr. Zulty euthanized Casey. We also got nice condolence cards from not only Essex Middle River but also Dr. Carine Klimentidis of Doc-Side Veterinary Center here in Upper Fells Point, who also helped with Casey's care in the final months when she was less able to be driven to Essex, and we would walk her, ever lighter as she fought thyroid and kidney issues, in our arms to Doc-Side.

Casey was adopted as a kitten from the SPCA of Anne Arundel County, as were Oliver and his fine replacement, Olivia. (Don't hesitate to get a kitten or cat from there, the staff and volunteers socialize them so much they behave more like affectionate dogs.)

We miss her but know she had a great, great run, making it past her kitty anorexia at age 12 and eventually to age 18.

As her back got more arthritic, it was necessary to put something by the litter box for when she missed the inside. The Group One Litter Welcome Mat is fantastic to keep your litterbox area clean if you have an older cat.

Here are some photos of Casey to keep her memory:

Casey in her favorite spot on the daybed in the living room. Our acquisition of Olivia in November 2005, the young female in the foreground who loved to harass Casey, made her life less picture perfect. Casey never cared for Oliver or Olivia or some kinds of cat food, leading me to label her Miss Persnickety.

Casey on the windowsill where she ate her meals. She was usually a hefty 11-pound cat but declined to only about 4-1/2 pounds in her final weeks.

A last photo of Casey shows her pretty lion nose, lynx-tip ears and white whiskers. She couldn't keep her body temperature warm, so I took her up in the sun on the roof deck the morning of Friday, May 9.]]> tag:www.beaumonde.net,2009:/weblog//1.220 2009-05-19T16:20:45Z 2009-05-22T19:34:02Z

Naomi Klouda works in the newsroom of the Homer Tribune, a beautiful light-filled space overlooking spectacular Kachemak Bay. The back of editor Sean Pearson is at right, and my iMac laptop showing our cats in the foreground. It was...

Jeannette Belliveau http://alskdjf.com Naomi Klouda works in the newsroom of the Homer Tribune, a beautiful light-filled space overlooking spectacular Kachemak Bay. The back of editor Sean Pearson is at right, and my iMac laptop showing our cats in the foreground.

It was wonderful to see my good friend Naomi Klouda of the Homer Tribune continue her lengthy tradition of groundbreaking reporting and win four awards -- a fifth counting the Tribune's best paper award -- at the Alaska Press Club awards this year.

Naomi, also a gifted poet, won first place in best crime or court reporting for  “Seldovia Youth Out of Control,” an article I believe she was working on when I visited her in Homer a year ago. 

"This story met several goals," wrote judge Steve Mills of the Chicago Tribune, "telling readers about a growing crime problem and the longtime police chief’s important role in the community–and how his absence was affecting crime. Well done."

She also won third place for best short feature for “The enduring power of fireweed.” 

Judge Dana Coffield of the Denver Post called this feature "beautifully written and evocative."

Another story, “Rat Island no more?” won third place for best reporting on health or science.

Finally she shared another prize, a third place finish along with Sean Pearson for “Pebble mine series.” The judge wrote:

This series attempts to arm voters with information before they go to the polls on an important ballot measure affecting the future of Alaska’s economy and environment. It is difficult to sift through the spin, but the Homer Tribune tries to show readers what is at stake. The focus on environmental implications, as well as jobs, was enhanced by humanizing the issue. 

And in the competitive, two-paper market of Homer, the Tribune managed to win first place for best weekly newspaper. The judge wrote:

The Homer Trib clearly recognizes that newspapers are in a fight for their collective lives. The paper's staff seeks the conflicts in news—such as a controversial shoot-out at the Homer airport—and latches onto big issues such as the proposed Pebble Mine (Ballot Measure 4) and pursue them with an admirable mixture of skepticism and enterprise reporting. 

Naomi, right, on a friend's boat returning from Halibut Cove, a millionaire's row on the south bank of Kachemak Bay.

My former colleagues at Alaska Newspapers also picked up nine awards. I was privileged to work with them and be the first set of eyes on eight of the nine stories below that won 2008 press awards, which add to a then-record five awards in the 2007 Press Clubs.

• Victoria Barber of the Dutch Harbor Fisherman, who has sinced moved on to the Arctic Sounder, took three awards. Well done! She won first place in best government or political reporting with “Local 302 employees in a sick-out," first place for best reporting on science or health care with "“Technology brings clinic home,” and second place for best short feature with “A rare Attu basket takes the long way home," two stories I very much enjoyed reading as well as editing. 

  The judge for her "Local 302" story noted:

  While union representatives weren't available by press time, Barber used her reporting notebook filled with information from a previous interview with a union leader and a current interview with a union member to provide one side of the story and a letter to the editor and a current interview with the city manager to provide the other side of the story. 

  Barber captured the city manager's surprise and challenged the increases he received in comparison to the union workers. She also included the details of the sick-out, with how many people reported where and how the city remained in operation. Fair and solid.

  Victoria was always incredibly thorough, resourceful and fair, as the judge notes. We worked pretty hard on the sick-out story and the final story appears to have been of great benefit to Dutch Harbor readers.

• Roy Corral won a well-deserved first place for "People of the Salmon" for First Alaskans magazine. I remember being blown away by the poetry of his writing, be it short form or photo cutlines, time and again while editing his writing.

• Roy also won first place for best sports photo, with the judge writing, "Not your everyday sports photo. Super clean peak action vaults this photo into first," and third place for best feature photo.

• Tamar Ben-Yosef, a tremendous worker and reporter during her time at the Arctic Sounder, won third place for "A Family Affair" for First Alaskans, the result of her memorable visit in winter, which included a brush with frostbite, fabulous photos and a real feel of bush Alaska, to the camp of  Kotzebue's leading dog-racing family.

• The gifted Mary Lochner won first place in best business reporting  for “Growing Energy Demands, A Cold Reality for Manokotak" in the Bristol BayTimes. The judge wrote:

  Back in the summer, when it was easy to be distracted by other topics, Lochner sounded an alarm about an energy crunch hitting a Bush village. She documented two significant problems – a lack of storage for gasoline and a lack of cash to fully fill village  fuel oil storage tanks for heating (a problem that would become a much bigger issue in Bush Alaska later in the year as the cold weather hit).  

• The completely unclassifiable Ryan Reynolds, a freelance who writes an offbeat column called "Weird Book of the Week" for the Seward Phoenix Log, won a second place in the Humor category with "All About Varmint Hunting." His editor, the fabulous Cynthia Ritchie, a transcendent writer, wrote about Ryan here.

• Mike Peters also won a third place for best overall magazine design for First Alaskans.

Former Alaska Newspapers sportswriter Darrell Breese and former copyeditor Kate Golden also picked up awards.

Naomi and I first worked together when she was a politics reporter for Alaska Newspapers and later managing editor of the Tundra Drums. We worked together on the Drums' prizewinning report on Rural Justice, compiled here.

Congratulations also to Robert Dillon, former managing editor of the Bristol BayTimes, who is now on Sen. Lisa Murkowski's staff as an energy aide.  ]]> tag:www.beaumonde.net,2009:/weblog//1.218 2009-03-07T16:26:08Z 2009-03-10T01:34:59Z

Daryl Hall and John Oates perform at Rams Head Live! in Baltimore on March 7, 2009. Belliveau's Music Blog rating: Last night was "Karaoke Night with Daryl and John," oh excuse me, a concert by Hall and Oates in...

Jeannette Belliveau http://alskdjf.com Daryl Hall and John Oates perform at Rams Head Live! in Baltimore on March 7, 2009.

Belliveau's Music Blog rating:

Last night was "Karaoke Night with Daryl and John," oh excuse me, a concert by Hall and Oates in front of nearly 2,000 singalong fans in Baltimore, who knew just about every word of every song.

The place was absolutely jammed after a preview article in the Baltimore Sun, '80s superduo Hall & Oates not so out of touch, reminded folks about the huge hit catalog of the Philly soul duo and the injustice behind their lack of ever receiving a Grammy. The article turned the show into a sellout.

I scored a ticket to the show and looked at getting another for my sister Sharon, who has seen the group about six times. We've been fans since the "Abandoned Luncheonette" album came out in 1973 (!) and became a Belliveau family favorite.

For me, this was my first real look at the group. The only other time I'd sort of seen them was around July 2004, when I was riding my bike along the Inner Harbor when I heard ...

"... M-E-T-H-O-D O-F M-O-D-E-R-N L-O-V-E ..."

... wafting through the air.

That sounds like Daryl Hall's voice, I thought. Well, it was indeed. The duo was playing at Pier Six Concert Pavilion, and I'd accidentally stumbled on one of my favorite groups. I stood with the other free riders who gather in front of the Waterfront Marriott to get a distant glimpse of groups playing, for free, and enjoyed the music, arriving home hours after Lamont expected me.

"Where were you?" he inquired mildly.

"Hall and Oates were playing at Pier Six!" I said excitedly.

The Slipknot fan (see Slipknot for the middle aged) looked at my skeptically.

"HALL AND OATES. PHILLY SOUL. 'METHOD OF MODERN LOVE,'" I explained. "You shoulda come! You woulda loved it!"

"I would walk on burning coals for Hall and Oates," the sardonic fan of hardcore noted.

Sharon proved a much more reliably enthusiastic Hall and Oates concert companion. With the rush of interest in the Rams Head Live! gig, she had to score a ticket on the DC Craigslist, as "tickets wanted" to "tickets for sale" on the Baltimore Craigslist was running about 7-to-1.

She bought two tickets in DC and on arrival in Baltimore sold her extra ticket for what both had cost to the father of a family of big fans. Score! The night was off to a good start.

We entered the jammed venue, searching for somewhere to stand with something of a view for late arrivals, going upstairs and downstairs, left side and right side, and finally ended up on the downstairs level, right rear, with a friendly group of superfans.

Many asked me to provide the set list, so here goes, annotated:

1. Maneater
   The group appears with six backing musicians, all of whom I recognized, especially the long-haired sax player, Charles DeChant, and guitarist T-Bone Wolk, from their recent and rather beautiful high-definition special, "Hall and Oates: Our Kind of Soul," now in rotation for broadcast on Palladia, the upmarket cable concert channel. (Next showing: March 19, 1:30 p.m.)

   I turned to Sharon and said, "I don't really like this song," and she shrugged and said, "Hit from the Eighties!" I guess I had half-hoped the group would do a few of their soul and R&B remakes from the Palladia special or their underappreciated "Our Kind of Soul" album. We were clearly more likely to be going to Hall & Oates Hitsville for the night, which of course was what 99.9 percent of the crowd, which resembled a Class of 1978 Severna Park High School reunion, really wanted and expected.

2. Out of Touch
   Yay! They played my favorite song of theirs, from my favorite album, Big Bam Boom, which I listened to nonstop on cassette while traveling through Thailand and Indonesia in 1985. Of course the cassette was a Thai counterfeit, listing the artists on the cobbled cassette wrapper as "Dary Hall and John Oates." Sorry Dary, guess I still owe you $16 for that one on CD ... wait a minute, I may have the CD now ... gotta check. "It's karaoke night with Hall and Oates," I write in my notebook, as everyone sings every lyric and mimes Daryl's falsetto and squeak and howl.
3. Everything Your Heart Desires
4. Say It Isn't So
   Daryl's voice remains amazingly strong, Sharon and I notice. He also is probably the world's most quietly sexy, or certainly beautiful, 62-year-old man, as the frizbo blonde in our little corner of Rams Head Live! makes constantly clear. "WHOOOOO I LOVE YOU DARYL!" she screams intermittently at lulls between songs. You know Daryl must still pull the groupies. I can hardly hear Daryl's between-song patter due to the roar of parts of the crowd yakking away, the crowd dynamic is bit tough to figure -- worshipful yet strangely inattentive -- though clearly swaying couples predominate during the songs, as well as some girls-night-out groups.

5. How Does It Feel to Be Back
6. When the Morning Comes
   Sax solo is nice, reworked from original. Sharon notes to her growing group of new friends, one of whom buys her a beer, "I've had this song on album, cassette, CD and now iPod."
7. Las Vegas Turnaround
   So far Hall and Oates are playing sitting down on stools ... well I guess I might too if I were a rocker in my 60s ... and playing their superhits. I feel they are phoning it in a bit, which is understandable when a group has been going nonstop since the 1970s. At least they aren't openly irritable as they phone it in, as I saw when attending a Don Ho concert in Hawaii when he was obviously annoyed by having to do "Tiny Bubbles."

   Hall and Oates are just about to wake up and play, however.

8. It's Uncanny
   Hadn't heard this song before, but they did a super funky version of it and begin to smile a bit and interact with the audience.
9. She's Gone
   Biggest singalong of all time, with a hallful of people trying to do letter-perfect karaoke. Paradoxically Hall and Oates finally connect with everyone there on what may be the song they have performed to death more than any other. It's a five-star version that leads to extended cheering. Truly the best so far, I tell Sharon. "After 30 years, yes they've perfected it," she says.
10. One on One
    Great job on the vocals, the swaying couples are majorly swaying now and guys are rubbing cheeks with their girls.
11. Sara Smile
    Another crowd pleaser of course. The giant shaven-headed black guy to my left begins chanting, "HEY DARYL HALL, TEAR IT DOWN!" He adds a "ONE TWO THREE FOUR" to foreshadow funky parts of all remaining parts of the show, and hollers unsuccessfully for "Wait for Me."
12. I Can't Go for That (No Can Do)
    Daryl is no longer seated, he stands behind the electric piano and begins churning a nicely funked up version of this hit. I think, WHY no GRAMMYS? This song and many others are so obviously deserving.
13. Rich Girl
    This is an encore. Becomes "BITCH GIRL" in the singalong by the giant shaven-headed black guy.
14. You Make My Dreams Come True Too MOR (middle of the road) for my taste. Take that Grammy away again!

    We've been standing for a while now, and I rock my ankles and dance a bit. The baby boomers -- with Social Security in a state, we'll never be able to retire, and with our Peter Pan focus on rock reunion tours, we'll never be able to sit down like mature respected elders and just listen to our music.

15. Kiss on My List
    We're in second encore territory. I'm not sure that this and the next song are the peak of Hall and Oates' talent, but I'm sure the crowd is happy enough.
16. Private Eyes

So, all told at least a 4- or 5-star concert, especially the latter half prior to the encores.

Sharon's notes after the concert:

All the songs took me back to weekends home when my Sarah was 4 and I'd play albums all day - she'd dance to Las Vegas Turnaround in her spinning dress (Sarah puleeze! - turn arouoouuund'.)

The fans around us were reluctant to admit that the first time they'd seen or heard Hall & Oates was in the late 70s when they were spending summers in Ocean City after high school. But they sure knew those lyrics - doing their own long bluesy riffs of say, 'She's Goneononononone ohwwowoo mmyyyy' going up and down and all around the scales.

I truly enjoyed the riffs by the guitarists (T-Bone) and sax players - these mature musicians who'd been playing backup for 30 years getting some front and center time. Hall, Oates and the band did seem so relaxed and to enjoy doing the show. As a person who seeks chairs rather than standing these days, it was funny how they sat through the show.

Check out them dancing though Maneater 34 years ago!

Excellent points! And the "Maneater" on Youtube is a riot!

Reply from Sarah, Sharon's daughter:

Abandoned Luncheonette was THE album to clean the house to when I was younger. And maybe now, when frank's not home & I can sing my own "she's gowowowowowowowowwone"s. Ok, sometimes it's "Tim" by the Replacements. Mom listened to them, too.

The Baltimore Sun article also noted the rather amazing fact that Daryl Hall is now posting a monthly concert recorded at his New York home at this Web site: Live from Daryl's House. I watched the latest one, with Kevin Bacon, and found it thoroughly enjoyable.

A screen capture, above, from the Web site Live from Daryl's House.

Note to Boomers: The next concerts of interest at Rams Head Live! include Todd Rundgren (April 14) and The B-52's (May 13) ... friends and family, who's up for going? Ticket info here for Rundgren and here for The B-52's.

Hall and Oates discography on Amazon.com

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