Jay Leonhart: Journal/Poems

The Response I Wish Senator Obama Had Given.


Mr. Gibson, now that I think of it I’m glad you brought up the matter of the flag lapel pin, which you’ll note none of us are wearing tonight. Why are we not wearing it? perhaps there is a stigma attached to appearing too nationalistic on television. It is interesting that even my questioners chose not to wear the American flag on their lapels tonight as they question me. Does this automatically imply that none of us are true and loyal Americans? No I don’t think so.

I am very proud of the American flag and I actually do believe deeply in the the principles for which it stands. And let me clarify what I feel the flag stands for.

Firstly I believe it stands for true equality among people everywhere. And specifically all Americans. I believe it represents the fair and equitable treatment of all people living in the United States. Which is still an unrealised goal.

I think it stands for true justice, and not vengeance. I think it stands for respect of life. I personally do not feel the flag stands for capital punishment.

I don’t think it stands for racism of any sort.

I feel the American flag implies a respect for the economic welfare of all Americans and all citizens of the world. It stands for economic ingenuity but not deception and thievery.

The flag stands for fairness and respect and the rule of law.

I would insist my lapel flag stood for America’s acceptance of its responsibility to lead the world in reducing energy waste and pollution.

I would hope the American flag would remain a symbol to people all over the world of a great, fair, and equitable country, the greatest and most successful experiment in true modern democracy.

I would also hope the flag represented true compassion for all. I would hope that it might lead to equitable medical coverage for all Americans.

I would hope that it stood for true brotherhood and respect among all American citizens, especially for those who do not share one’s own political, philosophical, or religious views.

This is some of what the flag means in to me, and as a result of this questioning could imply, I now pledge to wear an American flag pin at all times.

At no time will my wearing of the flag imply “my country right or wrong” or “my country over all (uber alles)”, nor that any particular citizens be granted special status. My lapel flag will not imply intolerance for those different from me and persecution of those whom I don’t agree with.

Yet it surely must imply my seriousness and willingness to defend our country and our citizens against harm.

If and when Americans elect me President of The United States, I will wear a flag in my lapel every day of my eight years in the White House. I want to be very clear about my love of this country and what the flag means to me, and I will from this day on proudly wear an American flag in my lapel to symbolize what I believe it stands for.

ASAP

For years I’ve sought the meaning of this interesting acronym,
Never knowing what it meant. I
Wondered, blundered, wandered, pondered, cogitated, contemplated,
Oh my the time I've spent.

Then recently it dawned on me came to me out of the blue,
As if riding on a breeze.
A-S-A-P  As Slowly AS Possible, 
As Slowly As Possible Please.

ASAS ASAP as slowly as possible of
Course that's it it's really very plain. 
You shouldn't rush you shouldn't worry shouldn't panic shouldn't hurry
Shouldn’t stress and shouldn’t strain.

ASAP only means the sender is not in a hurry, 
And you should not be either
Your attention is not needed nothing need be heeded, really,
Just relax and take a breather

Asap really means the sender could care less, the
Statute of limitations has expired.
Take your time, go slow, sit and watch the flowers grow,
No due diligence is required. 

Should you get a message marked ASAP it 
Means go to just relax, enjoy the breeze.
Do not rush and do not worry, don't make haste and do not hurry,
Go as slow as possible please.

“Be sure to get back to me ASAP” means
Make it the last thing you do.
Try not to remember or wait til next November
Is December good for you?

Return this information ASAP means
Do not worry your pretty little head.
Be sure to call me back ASAP really means
You should call me back when I am dead. 

Take care of this matter ASAP means,
Be sure to procrastinate and stall,
Should you somehow forget, Do not worry do not fret, this
Matter doesn't matter at all. 

ASAP ASAP is it not a blessing,
To be given time to just relax,
ASAP ASAP they don't want the information,
They don't need the facts.

All my life I've seen the ASASP mantra, and tried to
Understand its relevance to reality. But
Now I understand, it means the message has no bearing and the 
Whole thing is a meaningless formality.

Call me back ASAP means “we
Really do not need your point of view”.
Let's put off this meeting until hell freezes over or
Never, would never work for you?

ASAP, ASAP now I finally get it,
Do not fill your self with stress and strife.
Do things ASAP as slowly as possible,
Take your time and have a lovely life.

Children at Play

Watch children at play. Real Play. They are not burdened with doubt or self consciousness. They play with abandon. They do what they really want. When they make mistakes they only stop to correct the mistake if it affects the results they desire. Or they may just change the results they desire and continue on blissfully. They don't cloud up with self doubt and negativity and ponderous thought. They remain in a positive, simple goal oriented frame of mind. Do what I want.

I have seen this state of mind again and again in great jazz musicians. In all fields actually, but jazz is my particular area of endeavor. I have seen myself play positively and confidently. I have also seen myself play cautiously, defensively, and scared. That frame of mind never helps you play well. It's never good.

At the same time, if a jazz musician's technique is not sound, if his or her knowledge of the music isn't sufficient, no amount of positivity will overcome this lack of expertise. But here I am injecting a judgement. I am insisting that skill and knowledge are required to have fun, and I really know better. But proficiency is fun and the professional jazz musician will always have to practice the individual skills needed to be proficient. But being positive about all this is still the most important ingredient.

Being positive in jazz means letting the listener see and hear how you really play--to let your own musical instincts be seen and heard. You'll have to be like a painter and paint the scene as you see it. This does not mean that you must automatically go off on some cubistic or new music rant. Not at all. You may hear the music of Bix Biderbecke, or you may be like a modern painter who still wants to throw some Cezanne into his work.

As it is jazz and supposedly a personal expression, it is important that you play what you want to play, and not what you feel obligated to play. (I am referring to those situations where one is called upon to truly improvise and interpret a song). The more technique one possesses, the easier it is to simply and positively play the music that she wants to play.

A jazz musician has many subtle areas to deal with in the presentation of a piece of music and the process is best made simple and easy enough for the musician to be able to function.

A jazz musician is thought to be playing "by ear"--that is, just playing he music he hears. This is nonetheless a complex process. It involves instrumental technique, understanding of the music, of intervals, of time and syncopation, to name some major areas. Obviously, positive and confident practice makes all of these things more manageable.

But when performing, the best state of mind is a simple focused one where self doubt and complicated thought are at a minimum. The goal is to state the music clearly and positively. To simply be yourself, whatever that turns out to be, without doubt and fear of disapproval.

Like children at play.

A Letter to the Chicago Tribune

Subject: Rev. Wright in a different light
By William A. Von Hoene Jr.
March 26, 2008
By William A. Von Hoene Jr.

During the last two weeks, excerpts from sermons of the Rev.
Jeremiah Wright Jr., pastor for more than 35 years at Trinity United Church of Christ on Chicago's South Side, have flooded the airwaves and dominated our discourse about the presidential campaign and race.Wright has been depicted as a racial extremist, or just a plain racist. A number of political figures and news commentators have attempted to use Sen. Barack Obama's association with him to call into question Obama's judgment and the sincerity of his commitment to unity.

I have been a member of Trinity, a church with an almost African-American congregation, for more than 25 years. I am, a white male from a decidedly different perspective than most
Trinitarians, I have heard Wright preach about racial inequality
many times, in unvarnished and passionate terms.

In Obama's recent speech in Philadelphia on racial issues
confronting our nation, the senator eloquently observed that Rev. Wright's sermons reflect the difficult experiences and frustrations of a generation.

It is important that we understand the dynamic Obama spoke about. It also is important that we not let media coverage and political gamesmanship isolate selected remarks by Wright to the exclusion of anything else that might define him more accurately and completely.

I find it very troubling that we have distilled Wright's 35-year ministry to a few phrases; no context whatsoever has been offered or explored.

I do have a bit of personal context. About 26 years ago, I became engaged to my wife, an African-American. She was at that time and remains a member of Trinity. Somewhere between the ring and the altar, my wife had second thoughts and broke off the engagement. Her decision was grounded in race: So committed to black causes, the daughter of parents subjected to unthinkable prejudice over the years, an "up-and-coming" leader in the young black community, how could she marry a white man?

Rev. Wright, whom I had met only in passing at the time and who
was equally if not more outspoken about "black" issues than he is today, somehow found out about my wife's decision. He called and asked her to "drop everything" and meet with him at Trinity. He spent four hours explaining his reaction to her decision. Racial divisions were unacceptable, he said, no matter how great or prolonged the pain that caused them. God would not want us to assess or make decisions about people based on race. The world could make progress on issues of race only if people were prepared to break down barriers that were much easier to let stand.

Rev. Wright was pretty persuasive; he presided over our wedding a few months later. In the years since, I have watched in utter awe as Wright has overseen and constructed a support system for thousands
in need on the South Side that is far more impressive and effective than any governmental program possibly could approach. And never in my life have I been welcomed more warmly and sincerely than at Trinity. Never.

I hope that as a nation, we take advantage of the opportunity the recent focus on Rev. Wright presents-to advance our dialogue on
race in a meaningful and unprecedented way. To do so, however, we need to appreciate that passion born of difficulty does not always manifest itself in the kind of words with which we are most comfortable. We also need to recognize that the basic goodness of people like Jeremiah Wright is not always packaged conventionally.

The problems of race confronting us are immense. But if we
sensationalize isolated words for political advantage, casting
aside the depth of feeling, circumstances and context which inform them, those problems not only will remain immense, they will be insoluble.

William A. Von Hoene Jr. of Chicago is a member of Trinity United
Church of Christ.
Copyright (c) 2008, Chicago Tribune

New York Times March 12, 2008
"High Finance backfires in Alabama County" http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/12/business/12bama.html?_r=1&ref=business&oref=slogin


I really should have warned them, Morse
Coded and fog horned them, and to
Listen they would have been well advised, but 
Many counties find themselves holding
complex financial instruments
That have not performed as advertised.

But county executives easily fall, they
Feel they must return the call from
Bankers who’s proposals are so delicious. These
Bankers will make offers that 
Quickly empty county coffers 
Into ventures totally in-propitious.

Bankers with inside connections, pro-
pose some daring new directions and
Close big deals they all will soon regret. They
Call the new transactions “swaps” but 
Quickly they turn into flops, and
Leave the county overwhelmed with debt. 

Counties then face debt substantial, from
From these instruments financial, ‘cause
No one really knew what he was doin’ 
The bankers who devise these schemes earn 
Fortunes found in lotto dreams, while their
Clients walk down the path to ruin.

What goes on beneath the table to
Instigate deals so unstable? 
Does something smell a bit corrupt?
A clever scheme a major bribe,
More buffalo for one’s own tribe, 
Then another county is bankrupt.

It almost is mind numbing, you could
Almost see it coming.
Should we really be surprised? That 
Many counties find themselves holding
complex financial instruments
That have not performed as advertised.

Very few have lived to tell the story,
There’s not a lot of them around. So
When they talk I think we ought to listen, for
What they have to say might be profound.

People who’ve jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge and then survived the fall,
Are very hard to find.
One survivor man tells us what he was thinking as he fell,
What was going through his mind.

First of all he says he jumped quite quickly,
Without a hint of indecision, He
Didn’t linger didn’t wait, stop to meditate,
But jumped with purpose and precision.

As he fell he says he got to thinking, As
One can really do when he’s alone,
He says he quickly reached a remarkable level of concentration,
The likes of which he’d never known.

Yes he says he got to thinking,
As any self respecting jumper might,
He says his mind when into hyper-drive
Hastened by the nature of his flight.

Ferociously he started taking inventory,
Meticulously taking stock, And
Suddenly all his problems seemed less pressing,
As he fell and tumbled like a rock.

Suddenly all his trials and tribulations,
Didn’t seem so terrible after all.
He had gained a new perspective,
Hastened by the nature of his fall


He realized that for every problem in his life,
Some kind of solution did exist.
All of this occurred to him in the three seconds it took him to fall,
And disappear into the mist.

Very few have lived to tell the story,
There’s not a lot of them around. So
When they talk I think we ought to listen, for
What they have to say might be profound.

Hard Core Liquor Store

We saw liquor store as we drove along down a
Road in eastern Baltimore,
It had a little bar and grille out front,
Who could ask for more?

It sat there neon flashing and inviting on a
Side road un-residential,
Selling the solid brands of liquors wine and beer,
That humans find essential

So we pulled in to have a drink, I
Ordered beer with no alcohol,
The waitress in the hot pants shot me a ray, 'til
I felt two feet tall.

She said “mister I don’t know where you’re from, but
Now you’re in Eastern Baltimore, It was a
Real surly look from the hot pants girl in the
Hard core liquor store.

Don’t give me that designated driver stuff,
Don’t pull that crap around here.
Around here even designated drivers drink at least
One six pack of beer.

Nonetheless less she served one non-alcohol,
As I tried to look cool,
Then she brought me a nice cold Budweiser and
Said let’s make that a Bud O’Doul.

The Budweiser’s free she tartly said, you
Drink real beer in Baltimore.
A lesson in life from the hot pants girl in the
Hard core liquor store.

It's Sunday in Hope NJ. The winds down from the are blowing hard and scattered snow showers come and go. It's sure not New York City. We just got here and the heat is on but it's still cold in the house. Tomorrow I will put window inserts in all nineteen windows and the draft will be eliminated. What are window inserts, you ask? See: http://www.windowinserts.com/

Window inserts are airtight window insulators that work very nicely, especially on two hundred year old wooden country houses. I don't work for them-I just love their product.

Here we are in Palm Beach for two weeks playing with Ann Hampton Callaway and listening to the hippest hotel lobby music since The Jonathan Schwartz Hilton closed down. It's the Colony Hotel lobby and all day long you get to hear Diana Krall, or Mel Torme, or Cleo Lane and the like. Listening to Torme brings a tear to my eye. Almost anyway. He sounds so magnificent. I worked for him for ten years and I knew what a talent he was, but hearing him after the story has been written only makes it more obvious. What a singer he was.

What a great idea! I'm going to talk some innocent record company (an oxymoron of the 1st degree) into recording a songbook series with my trio. Ted Rosenthal and I were rehearsing/practicing together yesterday here in Palm Beach-running through some Cole Porter songs-and it was so much fun that I decided that some sweet little record company is simply going to have to put out a six or seven CD set of our trio playing the great songs of Porter, Berlin, Kern, Gershwin, Arlen, Rodgers and so on. Maybe ten CD's. And I'll bet the Little Record Company ends up being me. But what a great project! I can see it now. My smiling punim gazing out from the CD cover enticing all to buy. But please don't send your cash yet. Let us record the first CD at least. It's great to have a new project in mind!

Here I sit in the Colony Hotel in Palm Beach Florida looking at pictures of Prince Edward who in the fifties gave up his right to the throne of England in order to hang around this hotel in the winter with his girlfriend. (What was her name anyway? Betty? Tiffany?) He was here for the "season", they say. What season was that, you ask?--the hang-out-with-your-girlfriend-and-lose-the -throne season, no doubt. But the hotel takes great pains to point out just WHO you might have been rubbing elbows with in the Royal Palm Bar fifty years ago.

Last night you might have had the honor of hanging out with the bass player for Ann Hampton Callaway, if you were lucky. Royalty of a different nature. However, the pictures of Prince Edward and Sapphire taken here in the Colony do not make him look particularly happy. I think he didn't care for the publicity any more than his princess-in-law Dianna did fifty years later. Me? I put the whole thing on my website and make a big fuss. Different stations in life I suppose. But Prince Edward didn't have record companies bugging him to sell the CD's he talked them into making.

Tulis is my favorite reviewer. What she says, is. Tulis writes:

I went to this (Young Frankenstein) because I thought it might be fun. IT WASN'T. Satisfied?

If you have to go to this production, when you walk into the lobby of the newly renovated Hilton Theatre (what an original name – was there an actor or a writer named Hilton?) walk up to one of the pillars in the lobby and give it a little knock-knock. Hollow. Faux.

Then walk over to the wall and do the same. Knock-knock. Hollow. Faux stone.

This should pretty much prepare you for what you are about to see inside the theatre.
Actually I liked the first ten minutes or so. Then it was like being in some kind of musical loop because things kept repeating and repeating and repeating as if lifted from another source and the current writer couldn't find his way out of the maze of old material – Gadzooks! Frankenstien wants to be pronounce Fronk-en-stine. Frau Blucher frightens humans and horses alike. Inga is a dumb blonde who only wants sex or something close to it. The Monster and Elizabeth are destined for each other and Igor has a moveable hump.

Am I keeping you awake? Sorry.

The cast is bland, the book suffocating,. the music boring and the direction is paint-by-numbers quality. Roger Bart is a lovely song and dance man who deserves a snappy little musical someday. Sutton Foster seems like a truly good person who can sing and dance and do a split, but then so could my best friend in fifth grade. She is as boring as she was in The Drowsy Chaperon. Sorry, But I just don't get the charisma factor there.

And, meanwhile, Mel Brooks is raking in the dough. $450 for a Special Seating Ticket? It was bad enough he single-handedly raised the price of Broadway tickets 25% with The Producers. To charge for this production is insulting. But maybe he needs to do that to pay for having his name in the title. Good gravey.

Here's what I suggest: rent the movie. Then go out and get Gene Wilder's two novellas. Reading them will make you understand where the zing came from in Brooks' movies and why it is so, so very missing here.

Too bad The Drowsy Chaperone has closed. At least then I'd have a musical to recommend.

Feh. Feh, feh, feh.

Wow! How long can this last? Could this possibly happen? I hope so.

Be sure to check your email first thing in the morning so that you will never have the time to have a thought of your own from the minute you get up and instead spend the entire day chasing other people's wishes around the world.

Be sure not to even ask your self what is on your own mind or what is doing in your own world. No, just jump into that endless flow of nonsense that your computer spews out and wrestle with it.

Read all the requests, delete all the spam, read some of the jokes, look at all the pictures people send to you and when you are sufficiently worn out and confused, proceed on your way through the day wondering where you left your soul.

This morning I read Giants tight end Jeremy Shockey's proud, naive, and denial ridden assessment of his drinking habits and the health measures he takes to counteract the effects of his nights on the town. He says he replenishes with water, gets massages, jumps in his hyperbaric chamber, takes vitamins, eats organic foods, gets acupuncture and does "tons of amounts of things to keep his body healthy." Yet he probably gets pretty drunk on his occasional nights on the town. And how occasional, one must wonder. No matter.

I am a musician. Always have been. I grew up in Baltimore and was a very active teenaged musician in the late 50's during the era of the Unitas led Colts. What a team. What a bunch of drunks! I played at many parties after Colt football games where everybody got so drunk that they often could not make it home. One time I remember drinking too much myself and waking up the next morning fully clothed in a bed with LG Dupre and Gino Marchetti, both unconscious. As dangerous as it was, I still secretly cherish the memory, especially now that I have been sober for over forty five years. Every warning sign and danger signal went off in me and I knew I had to "straighten up and fly right".

Most of the players on that team died before their time, mostly due to alcohol abuse. My friends and I have sadly watched our beloved Colts drop off, one by one. I am lucky. But Jeremy Shockey will not need luck. He has his hyperbaric chamber.

OK dude.

Sunday night, January 6, 2008. I am sitting here in our apartment on West End Ave. watching Law and Order and enduring a lousy cold. Ah such quiet misery. I have to work with Les Paul tomorrow night and fly to Florida Tuesday to work for two weeks which would be nice if I didn’t have a cold. I have to pack now. Vincent Donofrio has caught his man once again and I can sleep peacefully knowing justice has once again won out.
Tonight I saw an old friend on Law and order-Joe Pisaro, a great percussionist who always really wanted to act. Congratulations Joe.

Eddie had a dream that is truly quite remarkable
And he swears it’s absolutely true,
When you hear it you may not believe it and I understand,
That’s entirely up to you.

Eddie dreamed a friend of his invited him to play some golf,
About which Eddie really was not keen.
Eddie’d much prefer to spend time upon his sailboat,
And not upon some putting green.

Golf to Eddie was and is a royal waste of time something he
Never even cared for as a kid.
But in his dream his friend insisted that they play a round of golf,
So that’s what Eddie did.

Segue to the first tee, Eddie’s friend inquires if he’d like to
Hit some practice shots before they go?”
Eddie didn’t give a damn, he didn’t want to waste the time,
So he simply told him no.

Besides he had a luncheon date that he really wanted to make, and he,
Only wished this game of golf over and done, So he
Teed the ball up, swung real and hit the golf ball perfectly and
Naturally got a hole in one.

Then he proceeded to shoot a hole in one on every single hole,
Right up to and through hole seventeen.
By this time the word had spread and a gallery had gathered, to
Witness what the world had never seen.

So Eddie stood upon the eighteenth tee a long par seven, well
Over seven hundred yards in length, The
Green was around the bend and behind a mountain but still of little,
Challenge to a man of Eddie’s strength.

As news helicopters hovered overhead Eddie did tee off,
And gave the ball a mighty blow.
Soaring up into the air, around the bend, and over the mountain top, did Eddie’s golf ball go.


Naturally his golf ball flew around the bend and over the mountain top
And directly into the cup.
But Eddie doesn’t really care he’s more concerned about his luncheon date,
Which he hated to pass up.

Eighteen strokes for eighteen holes! This is just incredible, the announcer, Walter Cronkite said.
Will you join the pro golf tour? Walter asked but Eddie said
No, I’ll just quit while I’m ahead.

Walter asked him to explain his extraordinary accomplishment,
This rendezvous with golfing fate.
Eddie said he only wanted to get his golf game over with,
So he wouldn’t miss his luncheon date.

Eighteen holes in one in a row! That’s some fancy shootin’ partner,
In fact it’s utterly profound.
But Eddie had a date for lunch he really did not want to miss,
So he didn’t fool around.

My Brother John had a house in Baltimore,
Where he lived in simple fashion.
May brother John had a garden in the backyard,
That he tended with great passion.

One day my brother John took me on a walk,
Down the garden path well worn,
When I asked ‘bout the funny green plants growing ‘tween the cornstalks
He only said “I call it corn”.

I call it corn, I call it corn
Finest stalks of corn you’ve ever seen.
I call it corn, I call it corn,
Corn with those pointy leaves of green.

My Brother John spent two years in Vietnam,
Though he don’t talk much about it,
Jungle life, stress and strife, you practice horticulture,
Says you can not live without it.

He doesn't say much about life in Vietnam on the
Subject he is mute,
He was in the army band says his rank was a Private CF
Which stands for combat flute.

Now my Brother John can build a house all by himself,
Do it all alone with his two hands,
So it don’t surprise me that he would find a way to
Cultivate the riches of our lands.

I call it corn, I call it corn
Growing clear up to the skies
I call it corn, I call it corn now
Just what else would it be otherwise?

Having funny green weeds growing ‘tween the cornstalks would
Usually make a farmer feel forlorn.
But my brother John only smiled and said with pride,
Son, I call that corn.

I call it corn, I call it corn
Let it grow so strong and tall and free,
I call it corn, I call it corn,
Damn if it don’t look like corn to me.

Recently I took a trip across both Chesapeake Bay Bridges, and
Both of them looked tired and old.
Neither seeming very agile, both seem frail and fragile,
If the truth be told.

You drive them with a sense of fright, you get a feeling of the height,
With flimsy guard rails on the side.
Built fifty years ago, worn down by the endless flow, It
Feels like a roller coaster ride.

Built back in my youth, looking weary to tell the truth,
Their tensile strength seems just a bit suspicious.
Tired and worn away, both have seen a better day,
Building new ones now might be propitious.

Oscar's last bad review.

My friend, my teacher, and my favorite jazz pianist got what hopefully are his last bad reviews last week. Oscar Peterson's obituary in the New York Times by Richard Severo and Ben Ratliff was primarily a tedious rehashing of the critic's castigations over the years. I am deeply disappointed that so much space would be used in Oscar's obituary to rehash the complaints certain critics endlessly voiced about Oscar's prodigious technique and his supposed misuse thereof. Oscar was a technical master and a brilliant musician genius who swung incredibly!

Oscar Peterson's playing meant the world to me. In the nineteen fifties his music lifted me put of my teen-age funk like nothing else. My friends and I used to wear out Oscar Peterson LP's. Nonetheless, The NY Times uses Oscar's obituary to point out once again that some critics thought Oscar's playing was shallow and unworthy of the world wide praise it received.

Oscar Peterson was a big, expansive, and beautiful human being and his playing mirrored his heart. His musicianship and his knowledge and expression of the music around him was fantastic. And nobody ever swung like Oscar. Well maybe Errol Garner. Just listen to The Stratford Shakespearean Festival.

Goodbye Oscar. I loved you and every note you played. Your spirit, humor, and brilliance will remain with us forever. 

PS. Say hi to Ray Brown for us.

Jay