Hey y'all:

Thanks to everyone who's stopped by for the next installment of my Whitney story. I've been involved on two RUSH assignments for the last week; but should have my case(s) resolved today. That means I can maybe get some writing done tomorrow, and perhaps resolve this post by Friday.

In the meantime, here's a few You Tube clips that may or may not have been on your playlist.

Pat Metheny/John Scofield (Live):

Miles Davis in Poland:

Pharaoh Sanders 1998 w/ Winard Harper on drums:

Todd Rundgren w/ Hiram Bullock on guitar: Can't Stop Running

Recently deceased Jimmy Castor: Troglodyte

Should be back to writing and posting by end of week. Hope to see ya then!

My Whitney Houston Story (well,...not Whitney, per se)--Part 4* (*Scroll down for Parts 1-3):

"I don't want my eyes all puffy."


"...we'll do something after we finish the edit."

I’m no genius, I’m well aware of that reader; so its not like Jamaican Whitney’s comment was particularly painful. And she’d said it in a way that was still in her CSI character. Like she was still performing. So I didn’t take it personally.

As it turned out, I think the photographer was grateful for the break. He still had that long line of gals to get thru, so he led Whitney, Khatija, and me into another room where they could splice and edit what would ultimately be her audition tape. I kind of wanted to watch them do it, but I hadn’t been invited over for that. My purpose had been served and I began to feel like maybe Elvis had left the building. I didn’t want to overstay my welcome and have to be shown the door in front of all those models.

“So hey,” I said, as I addressed the three of them in what was another converted bedroom, “that was a blast. I really appreciate you inviting me over. There’s so many smoking hot girls here--just like you said. And I think you made a great tape Whitney. You’re really good. I’m gonna look out for you.”

I slung my backpack over my shoulder to leave, but to my surprise it was all three of them that stopped me with equal vigor.

“Hey,” Whitney said, “don’t you want to see how the scene comes out?”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Khatija added, “let’s do something after we finish the edit.”

“Yeah?” I asked again.

“Sure,” the photographer said. “Come ‘ere.”

The photographer led me back to the living room where we’d shot our scene, then stealthily pulled the sofa back from the wall to reveal a cooler full of cold Red Stripes and Heineken's.

“Take what you want,” he told me. “But I ‘ave to get back to work.”

I grabbed a Red Stripe and popped it open with a lighter from my pocket.

“You want to smoke a little bud?” I asked, as I offered him my one-hitter in reciprocation.

“Naw,” he told me with an adamant shake of his head, “I have too much work. Look!”

Here he gestured toward the girls that seemed to perpetually enter and exit the house. He gave my shoulder a friendly pat, then left me where I was.

“Okay!” he announced to the models as he made his way back downstairs, “I don’t know how you were lined up before, so you ‘ave to work it out. And would someone go upstairs to tell my son that we’ve finished?”

With that I was left alone. Well, not alone. I had a cooler full of beers. And a house full of hot chicks milling around in bikinis, halter-tops, and sheer dresses. I was amazed at my continued good fortune and my host’s hospitality. The only way it could have been better was to burn a little herb.

But that photographer had declined--despite being Jamaican! I couldn’t believe that. And when I asked one of the models if she wanted to step outside she declined too.

“Naw,” she said, with a wave of her elegant hand like I was being silly, “I don’t want my eyes all puffy when he takes my pictures.”

Uh,..alright. No issue. Surely I’d find one of these gals to step outside with me for a few minutes of face time, right reader? I mean, not to beat it to death; but half these girls were either Jamaican or Dominican.

But no, none of ‘em smoked. Least, not with me. I even went upstairs to the son’s room--where the hip-hoppers and rappers were making their discs. Of course I could blaze up there, right?! But even there I didn’t smell any weed, and when I got to talking with the son I realized he was a lot younger than I’d first thought. So I bailed on that idea too and snuck out to the front porch to nurse my Red Stripe in the sun.

After all, this was my Saturday. I didn’t need to work.

And there was lots to see.





* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split it into another part. Next installment in a few days.

** ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics contained herein were stolen off Google Images and are used simply to enhance the story. Copyrights may exist.

My Whitney Houston Story (well,...not Whitney, per se)--Part 3* (*Scroll down for Parts 1 & 2):

"What do you think we're going to do to you?"

"...like the bridge or guide that led to a new aesthetic philosophy."


And you may ask yourself, how did I get here? That’s certainly what I asked myself as I stared into Khatija’s eyes in the living room of that previously unknown house in Rosedale. Perhaps that’s why my countenance expressed such confusion. Such awe for the possibilities of life, which she mistakenly interpreted as concern. But it wasn’t trepidation, I was just stunned by her beauty and the surroundings. And that she continued to engage me.

Stunningly beautiful reader. No offense to Deelishis or Jessikah Maximus, but there’s sexy stripper chicks that’ll give you a quick hard-on, and then there’s women like the legendary Iman that make you want to be a better person. A refined grace that when it stands before you and engages with a smile makes you want to stand-up straighter and adjust your tie.

Before my move to New York, Iman had always been the prototype of perfect feminine beauty. And when it came to outright sexiness, that was Naomi Campbell. For me anyway. I just didn’t grow-up around a lot of Asian girls in Detroit, or meet a lot of Asian gals in Denver. But this caramel-colored Khatija was like the bridge or guide that led to a new aesthetic philosophy. Part Spanish, part Asian, part black, part London. Entirely confident with a radiant smile. And she was no mere girl, as I found out later.

But Khatija’s not what this post’s about. At least, not per se. Again, I’m not sure what this is about exactly, which is probably why its taking so long to write. But I sense its something to do with the vibe in that house with Khatija and Jamaican Whitney and that Rosedale photographer after he emerged from the basement to shake my hand and set-up the video camera.

I was a bit concerned as to what the photographer’s reaction to my unannounced presence would be; but he turned out to be a somewhat short, friendly, Jamaican guy--probably as old then as I am now (45). He wore tan, linen shorts with a matching, short sleeved shirt; beads round his neck, and sported a kind-of squarely-cut, Thelonious Monk beard for which there’s probably a name that I don’t know.

After introductions were made, we proceeded to set up the camera while the models leaned against the wall and complained.

“Come on, we’ve been here two hours already! Now you’re first goin’ to start wit’ her?!”

But that’s the way these artists and great capitalists are. Like car enthusiasts or Indian tabla players they’ve got no sense of hourly time. They move within their own cycle. People assume genius is a positive thing, but these guys are most often a bunch of obsessive, sick fucks who’ll stick with a seemingly inane idea long after a sane person would have got bored or gone to bed.

Anyway he set up the cheap camera on a tripod, using his old, wood-paneled TV as a monitor, after which he went upstairs to quiet the son’s music down. When he returned, Khatija demonstrated the best angles and lighting to shoot Whitney, then we did a quick run-thru for practice. Then, with all the models standing round in a semi-circle to watch, we recorded the first take.

Of course the first take’s always best--just ask Jay-Z or John Cassavettes. All the girls clapped when Whitney finished her soliloquy, but of course we weren’t done yet. Whitney wanted a second take, and then a third take. Then we had to shoot from different perspectives since she was adamant that the tape had to show at least two different angles.

After awhile my interest began to flag--what can I say? There’s a reason why I’m Lodo Grdzak the bumblefuck blogger you’ve never heard of and not Jonathan Franzen or Jeff Beck. My mediocre ass can only stay focused for so long. And it was hard not be distracted by all those girls in bikini’s and cotton dresses.

“’ey,” Whitney said to me as she snapped her fingers in front of my face, “What’s da matter man? I’m not get’ing the same vibe like we had before.”

“I know,” I told her, embarrassed that she called me out in front of all those gals, “but now we’re in front of all these beautiful women. And we’ve done the scene so many times!”

A fair explanation if I say so myself. I know the photographer laughed. But Whitney just threw up her hands in exasperation.

“Ugh--stupid man!”





* NOTE: I don't know what the weather's been like 'round you reader; but here in New York, it's been 65 degrees all week (first weeks of March!). Wouldn't wanna be a Polar bear, but great days for Lodo Grdzak. Supposed to rain tomorrow, so I'll try to write. But next installment may be a few days.

** ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics contained herein were stolen off Google Images and are used simply to enhance the story. Copyrights may exist.

My Whitney Houston Story (well,...not Whitney per se)--Part 2* (*Scroll Down for Part 1):

Of course I eventually went to Rosedale with those gals, but not before I felt things out a little better. I mean, these were two very hot women and I’m just a regular guy, doing the regular things that normal people do. So the investigator in me had to be soothed a bit.

“So hey,” I told them as we progressed towards the train stop, “you’re not gonna pull the old East-coast flim-flam on me when we get there are you?”

“What?” Whitney asked with a laugh. “What is d’at? East-coast flim-flam?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, “...not really sure myself. Just seems quite a coincidence is all. With that bookmark, and you sitting next to me and then going out to that guy’s house today of all days.”

“What do you think we would do to you?” Khatija asked, eyes fixed on mine as she leaned across Whitney in my direction.

“I don’t know. Maybe you’re a pair of hot bad-asses or something. Or maybe someone’s gonna gack me when we get to that house.”

“Oh my God! Really?” Khatija exclaimed incredulously in her very London accent. She was actually from Trinidad-Tobago, but we’ll get to that. For now, she and Whitney shared a laugh.

“’ere, I’m going to show you somet’ing,” Whitney said, as she dug into her bag again and this time pulled out a Black Hair Magazine. She thumbed through the pages ‘til she found what she wanted. Then plopped the open magazine on my lap.

“Look,” she said as she tapped at the magazine’s glossy pages with a long, painted fingernail. It was a two-page photo spread; both sides of the magazine, that featured her in about a half-dozen different hair styles and weaves. Flirty Whitney, bobbed-hair Whitney, extensions Whitney; afro-Whitney, blonde Whitney.

“Oh wow, you know who you look just like in this one here?” I asked.

Whitney and Khatija both answered at once.

“Whitney Houston!”

“Right. Guess you get that a lot.”

Keep in mind this was almost ten years ago, so Whitney Houston was still a decent beauty. And Jamaican Whitney was even prettier than the real Whitney. Fuller lips and hips. More plush. And probably a few years younger than me.

But this isn’t about Whitney Houston. Or Jamaican Whitney. At least, not per se. In fact, I’m not sure what this post’s really about, though perhaps its meaning is buried somewhere in that walk over to the photographer’s house in Rosedale.

I exited the train with those two gorgeous gals in tow, feeling a lot different about myself and life than I had 20 minutes earlier. All eyes watched as we trundled through the narrow train aisle, then it was about a two block walk through brightly painted, framed houses and middle-income, Long Island streets. It was probably 90 degrees outside. Not a cloud in the sky as I made my way in my flip-flops and backpack.

I heard the hip-hop before we got to the two-story house. It blared out the open, upstairs windows; and once oriented I saw a line of gals that spilled-out the house’s front door to the porch. I don’t know if there was a hundred--more like twenty or so; but these gals all could have been straight out of Smooth Magazine. Or better--by which I mean high-end fashion magazines. It was hot outside, so there were halter tops and short-shorts and thin cotton dresses and those low-cut jeans that were still somewhat new to me back then.

And once we got inside there were girls in bikini’s queued-up to get their pics taken. From the first floor down to the basement they stood in line, and all of them had these comp cards or...I forget what they call ‘em, but they’re these oversized, glossy business cards with 5 or 6 shots of the girl in various styles and poses. The card lists the girl’s representation or agent’s contact; and all the girls either had one or were on line to pick their’s up.

It was like straight out of a Jay-Z video, with that hip-hop simply blasting from upstairs. Turned out the music was the photographer’s son who had a music studio in his bedroom. Just like his dad, the son had about a half-dozen people that streamed out his bedroom door, down the stairs from the 2nd floor. The son was mixing hip-hop CD’s with guys rapping over their tracks and whatnot. And just like with the dad, the rappers were waiting for their finished discs or to cut theirs.

Everybody in the place was entrepreneurial. Had business going on. Except me of course, who simply floated round in my flip-flops and oversized beach hat. All skinny legs, pale skin, and awed respect for the turns life can take.

After asking around, Jamaican Whitney worked her way down to the basement to locate the photographer. That left me upstairs with Khatija. Alone for the first time.

She was from Trinidad-Tobago, I know I mentioned that. Trinidad and London, where her family lived now. She had a skin-tone that’s featured in another magazine called SHOW. Unlike Smooth, which actually features black models, every model in SHOW has the same mysterious range of caramel-colored skin. Like the progeny of those models from United Colors of Benetton. Its obviously an air-brush, but it doesn’t bother me. In fact, its funny that this has now become a type or a demographic niche to be marketed. An idealized shade for someone with a certain aesthetic sense.

“What do you think we’re gonna do to you?” Khatija asked as she widened her exotic eyes.

“I don’t know. Nothing right?”

“Well that’s not how you’re looking at me,” she said with a laugh.






* NOTE: Due to the length of this post I'm going to split it into another part. Next installment in a few days.

* ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images with the exception of those in which I appear. Images are included simply to enhance the story and I'm sure copyrights exist on photos culled from Smooth and Show Magazines.

My Whitney Houston Story (well,...not Whitney per se):

I wanted to write my Whitney Houston story back when news of her death first broke; but I was in the middle of writing Buttons and Jules and felt I had to finish it. There was no urgency anyway since its not really a Whitney Houston story per se. I just call it my Whitney Houston story.

I think its really a story about my homemade bookmark (see above). I’ve had it for years now and its held my place in all the books I’ve read for close to a decade: Augie March, House of the Dead, Hard Times, Sexus, Nexus, On the Road, The Hundred Brothers, Winesburg, Ohio--a billion more! Every book I’ve read since I’m a New Yorker.

The girl on my bookmark is named Farrah. Or she calls herself Farrah--I don’t know if that’s a real name or not. I got her picture from Smooth Magazine, which I used to buy all the time before the internet killed print. I used to have a real big thing for black girls--a holdover from my Detroit days, though my taste has become a little more varied here in New York.

Still, Farrah’s one hot piece-of-ass, even if this pic was taken almost a decade ago. By now she’s probably got two kids and at least 20+ pounds to go with her $200 dollar, bi-weekly hair-weave expense; but I ain’t what I used to be either (and never was much to begin with). So call me up sometime Farrah!!

I suppose it’d be interesting to see what Farrah looks like now. I’ve looked at her face and body so often over the years I wonder if I’d recognize her on the street. Even after the changes of a decade. Did she win in life? Get what she wanted? We’ve shared a lot of good books and intermissions, so I certainly hope so.

But wait, this post’s supposed to be about Whitney (stay focused Lodo!). Not Whitney Houston per se, but a girl who looked just like a young, pre-crack Whitney who I met on my way out to Long Beach. This was about 6 or 7 years ago, on a sunny Saturday afternoon where I’d taken a seat on the Long Island Railroad next to the window.

On the LIRR you sit on leather benches wide enough for (3) people. The odd number creates all kinds of mixed social situations where parties of two are often matched-up with 3rd-wheel loners like myself. This happens all the time on the LIRR or the subway, and results in a lot of chance meetings. Particularly with women. You’re already on the same train, in the same city, going literally in the same direction if not the same destination. Oh my God--we have so much in common! And if she’s from out of town that’s great too. You know where such and such is? Sure, that’s east side. Let me show you. There’s no sexual overtones like in a bar; and conversation is easily spontaneous. Its just nice.

On this Saturday afternoon I sat alone on the train to Long Beach, next to the window as people boarded at Penn Station. There were two open seats to my immediate right; but I paid no attention since I had my book and wasn’t in a particularly social mood. I can’t remember the book, but I recall being immersed in it when I suddenly felt the presence of weight on my bench, followed immediately by the sound of female voices.

“I like your bookmark,” the voice closest to me said as she pointed at Farrah. If you didn’t know your accents you might think she was British, but I had a very serious thing for black chicks; so I knew even before I turned that she was Jamaican.

But I didn’t get confirmation ‘til I addressed her comment; and it was then that I found myself face-to-face with my young Whitney Houston look-a-like and her even more gorgeous friend from London named Khatija.

“You like that?” I asked Whitney as I held up the bookmark and we inspected it together.

“Oh yeah,” she answered in her West Indian accent, “she’s a pretty girl. But I hope I don’t disappoint you when I say she may not be very natural.”

“No?” I asked, “Why do you say that?”

“Well I know her,” she responded. “Or I’ve seen her. I’m friends with the photographer who took d'at picture.”

Here Whitney took the bookmark from my hand and showed it to her friend Khatija. The two inspected the photograph closely as they proceeded to comment on the lighting as well as dissect all the feminine tricks used by Farrah and her photographer.

“You want to hear something funny?” Whitney asked as she handed me back the bookmark.

“What?” I responded.

“We’re on our way to d’at photographer’s house right now. He lives in Rosedale and he’s going to videotape my audition for William Morris. You know who d’ey are?”

Indeed I did since my old buddy Jake was an actor.

“Wow, really?” I asked. “I’m a big fan of Smooth magazine.”

Both gals laughed.

“Well, he does all their photography from his house,” Whitney said, “If you see a girl in d’ere, he probably took her picture. This one here,” she said as she pointed at my bookmark, “d’at was taken in his basement. I can tell.”

“Oh wow.”

Wow. Great response, eh reader? Must have really been on my game. But in fact we got to talking and eventually Whitney opened her overnight bag and extracted a couple of dog-eared sheets of typewritten paper.

“You want to help me with my lines?” Whitney asked. “The more I rehearse the better.”

“Uh,..okay.”

So Whitney gave me my lines and proceeded to perform her scene right there on the train with no embarrassment or hesitation whatsoever. It was a scene from either CSI or Law and Order. I forget which one, but every aspiring actor in New York apparently has to appear on one of these shows before they move to the next level.

Anyway, Whitney played my character’s old girlfriend, and she laid into me there on the train about how she couldn’t support me anymore and had to leave and was taking the kid and wouldn’t be back (at which point she began to cry). She was good!--and the scene made a lot of sense. Of course this hot Jamaican babe was leaving me and of course she had to take our snot-nosed mulatto kid, and why should she support my freeloading, blog-writing, dope-smoking ass?

And that sing-song accent of hers! I really responded to that since she reminded me of my old girlfriend Judith who I dated back in the early ‘90’s.

Well, we finished our scene and by then I was breathing hard; with dilated pupils and a racing heartbeat. I wanted to reach out to Jamaican Whitney and say Baby, I can change. Don’t go. You me and little snot-nosed Lodo--we can make it! We can...

I was in the moment for real and both Whitney and her friend Khatija could tell.

“Wow,” Whitney said to me, “I’m getting a whole different vibe reading wit’ you than I do with Khatija.”

“Well of course,” Khatija chimed in, “he’s a man. He brings out different things. Read it again.”

So we read it again--or Whitney did (I only had 3 lines, none of which were successive). The 2nd reading was even better than the first, and when she’d finished Whitney had a very decisive look.

“Hey, maybe you want to come wit' us to Rosedale?” she asked. “That way Khatija can be behind the camera and I can read my lines to you.” (here Whitney gestured towards Khatija). “Khatija knows all my angles and can tell ‘im how to shoot me. ‘Cause I know what’s gonna happen when we get d’ere. There’s going to be a hundred girls waiting for their pictures and he’s only going to give me just a bit of time.”

“...There’s going to be a hundred girls there?” I asked.

“Umm hmm. But that doesn't help me 'cause now I see I need to read with a man.”

“So you should come with us,” Khatijia said with an inviting smile.

And oh man! that Khatija was really, really beautiful.




* NOTE: Due to the length of this post I'm going to split it into another part. Next installment in a few days.

* ADDITIONAL NOTE: All pics stolen off Google Images with the exception of those in which I appear. Images are included simply to enhance the story and copyrights may exist.

NYC Pics and a Clip* (*Be sure to Enlarge for Full-view):

"King B" at work in the Bronx:










* NOTE: All pics taken by Lodo Grdzak. 5 Boroughs of NYC. All rights reserved.