Amy Winehouse died 9 years ago today

Pencil on paper.

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Three Ghost Stories

When I was sixteen, we lived in the middle of the woods in a super tiny town in an 1860s house. The whole town was haunted, if you ask me. One day, my girlfriend Renee rode her bike over with her Oujia Board. Dead serious, we were meeting after school for this dead serious ghost session and we were both like, totally dead serious about it...that is how we sounded. Well, it was serious in the sense that we weren't merely fooling around with the Oujia board. We actually had a specific spirit in mind—the one my mom had recently seen. Apparently, on returning back to bed one night after investigating a strange noise she heard outside, my mom startled a ghost in her bed. The figure she saw was a tall woman in white pajamas, who leapt back from the bed to squat down with her back against the wall. My mom made a specific point to say that this woman's knees were drawn up to her chin, and that she gripped them like she was protecting herself. The woman's eyes were wide open and full of fear. That's the last thing my mom remembers before falling back to sleep. Renee asked the Ouija Board, "What is your name?" The planchette spelled out "R U I N." We never did it again and my mom is still mad we messed around with a Ouija Board. Renee and I are both ruined, now that I think of it. In different ways. Sorry to bum everybody out. I should call her.

My second ghost story is thirdhand. My aunt tells a story about seeing the faint figure of a woman out in the back field of a house where she was staying as a guest. I relate that story elsewhere. That's a good one. It's safe to read it, nobody gets ruined in that one.

My third ghost story is more personal. Last year, the Boston music community lost Asa Brebner, a friend and downright rock star who everyone adored, every last scruffy, dastardly inch of him. Asa was the kind of guy whose stories are better than fiction, and he'll grudgingly tell them if you ask him. "Everybody knows all this stuff," he grumbled when I interviewed him. "For the younger readers," I implored. I meant myself. I didn't know any of the stories, Asa was a good twenty years my senior and had seen it all. I love his music. I bought every single record. I wish I had found the money to buy one of his art pieces. Asa painted and made interesting wall art out of old guitars, Barbie dolls and toys, which he glued together and painted. I've donated some items for the projects, like a bunch of extra Barbie doll legs I had laying around (my pieces use the tops, I didn't need the legs). I love Asa's work. His pieces are gorgeous. Asa left this mortal coil suddenly in March 2019, to the great shock and grief of the entire Boston music community. Asa's send-off was held in a pretty big local theater, with bands preforming songs from Asa's vast discography of roots rock and America. When I logged in for a ticket, it was sold out. I shook my head: Oh, Asa. You always wanted shows to be earlier in the day. They'd do better, you wrote in a blog piece titled, if I'm not mistaken, "Fear of Late." You wrote that it was an affliction that all your friends have and that condition keeps them from coming out to your plentiful rock shows. I have the fear now, too, old man. One day in the spring of last year, several months after Asa died, I was in my kitchen and I felt him. Just for a few seconds, out of nowhere in the middle of the day, I smelled him and felt him there. I even felt drawn to the back part of the kitchen, in front of the back door. When his scent drifted away, the feeling went away too. But I felt really really serene all of a sudden. Just a quiet, deep kind of peaceful serenity. "Asa," I whispered, kind of mysty-eyed. I wasn't scared. It felt good. I feel so honored to have gotten that goodbye. There'll never be another Asa Brebner. ∎

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My Mom Will Make Me Take This Down

This beautiful picture of my mom was taken by my Aunt Sharon, at a funeral a few months ago. Grandma Lombardi died. If you're thinking, "Leopard print and red, at a funeral?" you'd need to know that Grandma Lombardi would have loved this look, right down to the red lipstick. The old lady had pizazz and, I think, always liked my mother's style. That's another thing that's great about my mother: style for days. Happy Mother's Day, JoAnna.

I told Joe that this year I'm incorporating him into the blog more in a section called The Joe Chronicles. He's so funny and talented and I love his writing.  Here's what he wrote about my parents.

JOE KOWALKSI 

They're the coolest/ sweetest. When I first met them it was over an extended holiday trip visiting first my family and then hers. By the time we were arriving at their place in rural CT, it was getting late, we'd had some traffic, and were overall pretty tense/ stressed. (Who has two thumbs and is pointing at himself? ME!) Before we even got to the front door, the door was open and they were calling out lovingly. When I got to the door, I got huge hugs, a glass of red wine was placed in my hand, and a pipe of fragrant green was offered. Within a half hour we were all laughing and talking and drinking and smoking and relaxed and I was playing their piano and her mom suddenly said, "You know what? That's your piano! We're giving it to you! We'll work out the details, but it's yours!" And that's how I got my antique baby grand piano from my wonderful in-laws.🥰

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RIP Ric Ocasek

"People tell me all the time that I look forbidding or aloof. That doesn't bother me much - I am fairly private, withdrawn, and... distant, I guess. But, um, I think that's okay."
- Ric Ocasek  
(March 23, 1944 – September 15, 2019)

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Asa Brebner (1954 - 2019)

"Songs are just sort of feelings put into words, a marriage of the emotional and cerebral. And that's sort of the best thing you can do—express in words what you're feeling, hopefully in a way that's not too trivial or stupid." - Asa Brebner

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RIP Anthony Bourdain

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Rose Marie: 1923–2017

You guys, Rose Marie died. 

I admit that I shed a tear or two tonight. I was way too young to "get" the Dick Van Dyke show when it was in re-runs on TV. But years later I found a connection with it, when I went off to college in New Rochelle. 

I loved Sally, and I guess she was my first glimpse into "a TV writer," and she was a WOMAN. YES! Man, she was cool. So yeah, I got a little emotional when I heard of this fine funny lady's passing. Rest in peace, Rose Marie. MAN, you were smart and talented, and also beautiful. What a dame! 

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Losing Our Heroes: Adam West, 1928 - 2017

Some days, you just can't get rid of a bomb. 

Adam West was my Batman. His was the Batman that I knew first, so he's the one whose visage my mind's eye still summons whenever I hear someone say "Batman." In those days, Batman as a franchise was campy. It was a comic book lifted right from the cartoon pages and performed by people doing very silly things in a very serious manner. Decades before the franchise turned dark, Batman was good wholesome family fun. Just like Roger Moore was my James Bond out of all the Bonds, and Mr. Reeve was my Superman, so was Adam West my Batman.

I've decided that this is the hardest part of growing older. It's not the milestones marking your own personal mortality, or the gray hairs, chubby chin or crinkly eyes looking back at you from the mirror. It's having to say goodbye to contemporary heroes, first crushes and pop culture icons. I remember exactly where I was when Michael Jackson moonwalked on stage for the first time, and I remember how I'd heard that we lost Michael (it was via Facebook). I saw George Michael perform with Wham UK (later just "Wham") on Dance Fever before anyone had really heard of him yet, and losing George felt like a physical blow. That first Wham UK single was "Young Guns" and there were two girls in the band back then. Hard to believe he's gone. When John Ritter died, my mom called me, "How he made you laugh when you were a little girl!" So true. Makes it hard to watch "Noises Off" now, as funny as it is, because we've lost John Ritter and Christopher Reeve. Hard to watch "When Harry Met Sally" because we've lost Bruno Kirby and Carrie Fisher now. Hard to watch "Dirty Dancing," Patrick Swayze was so strong and sexy, and then there's "To Wong Foo...", a movie I love, because now we've lost Patrick, Robin Williams, as well as Chris Penn, delightfully playing the small town homophobic cop. All my guys are dying. You guys. My Batman died. 🦇

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Black Lives Matter

Look, it's not up for debate. No "buts." Black Lives Matter. I cannot believe it's really necessary to explain that this awareness-driven slogan is not meant to imply "Only Black Lives Matter." That's not what it means at all. To take it as such is, frankly, a weird reaction and I have a few questions for you later. But first, let me be clear. Black Lives Matter means Black Lives Mattter Too.

THIS IS A NATIONAL CRISIS

We're in a crisis right now. That's why the Black Lives Matter was born. Tragically necessary, #BLM is social movement meant to plead with law enforcement to stop their nationwide rampage of randomly murdering people on the street, and in their homes and cars. Coast to coast the unprovoked shooting or beating of a black person was becoming normalized, and some of us were freaking out over how these events, ordinary traffic stops, results in a gun even appearing? One time with a baby in her car seat, even? Thanks to smart phones and Facebook, these events have been chronicled and shared, and it's been plain to see that every single one of these senseless deaths have been situations where a gun wasn't even necessary. Where a conversation would have cleared up any confusion. Trayvon, just a kid, was stalked and killed by some random asshole that isn't even a cop. Just some gun nut with a superiority complex who has since been recorded gloating and signing autographs in his specious glory as "the guy who killed Trayvon." In the local police firing range, Trayvon's photo was made into a target practice poster and nobody understood why that's horrific. There was no gun fired in the case of Mr. Garner, who was tackled by cops for selling cigarettes. Pinned to the ground, crying out "I can't breathe" until he finally asphyxiated and died. I wonder what it's like to be pinned and deprived of air for so long. Horrifying. Out of this climate arose the campaign. It's simple. Three words. Black. Lives. Matter.

Who is wholly against this nationwide cry for mercy? Who protests this peaceful, quiet reminder that no living soul deserves to be targeted just for the happenstance of birth that determines the color of one's skin? Is it you? Is your response an outraged "All Lives Matter!" Did you just tell me "Blue Lives Matter"? I see. Clearly someone needs to explain to you that you're demonstrating a fairly appalling point-of-view right now. When you react to "Black Lives Matter" with "All Lives Matter" or "Blue Lives Matter," that's antagonistic. What you mean is "No, BLUE lives matter!" Or put another way, Blue Lives Matter More. The main problem with your retort, and this cannot be emphasized enough, is that, completely unlike black lives, nobody has ever implied that all lives don't matter. You don't need to SPECIFY that. Of course all lives matter, and I'd also like to know what's wrong with you that you would possibly consider for one moment that I think otherwise? Remind me never to count on you in a crisis. It's not up for debate. No "buts." Black Lives Matter. That is all. ∎

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Dirty Sweet 'N You're My Girl (Eulogy For An Awesome Chick)

Genine was a high school friend. Brief, bright and deep, that was our love, from about mid-freshmen year to the summer of junior year. I wish I could find my goddamn yearbook so I could see what we wrote into the blurbs on each others' pages at graduation. Was it "remember when we..." and was it promises to keep in better touch? It's things like that you grasp for, when you find out a one-time friend is gone.

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I Am So Sorry, Trayvon

That monster saw a black boy walking in his neighborhood, followed, taunted, confronted and shot that boy for no goddamn reason. George Zimmerman should be in jail.

My heart, my soul, my mind all ache for Trayvon, his friends, his family and everyone in America whose expectations were dashed last weekend. George Zimmerman is a predator who hunted and killed a boy just because he thought he could get away with it, and now the law has shocked us all by approving his actions. Justice died that day.

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RIP Grandpop Kowalski

Cherry Hill, New Jersey

Joe's Grandpop Kowalski passed away, so we got a Zipcar and drove to Cherry Hill for the funeral.
I didn't get a chance to get to know him,
but it's clear that Joe's got a lot of the old man's qualities.
The service was in Polish, but even the Polish-speaking family members
said that they couldn't really hear what the priest was saying,
the way his voice was distorted by the old church's echoing sound system.

The final goodbye was at the cemetery. The Kowalski family and friends paid their respects.
I'd never been to a funeral honoring a military man. 
Young people in full uniform attended, and after lowering the coffin into the winter ground, someone
folded the American flag and gave it to Joe's mom.
It was moving and beautiful. We all cried.
Afterwards, everyone met up at the Adelphia, a big restaurant and function hall, for a luncheon that Joe's dad had arranged.
Friends and family told funny, sweet stories about Grandpop Kowalski,
made each other laugh, and they toasted his memory a lot.

What a fine and noble send-off. 
I think I'd have liked Grandpop Kowalski quite a lot.

Requiescat in pace, sir.

Edward Kowalski, Sr. (c.1940)

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