ON THE PASSING OF TOM EVERED

I was saddened to recently learn that my friend Tom Evered had
died. I mostly knew him from my two years at Macalester College
in the mid-1970’s, but we still occasionally crossed paths and
corresponded after that, most recently at a 2023 dinner hosted
by our mutual friend Tom Zimmerman. Tom Evered, in his way,
truly had a sizable influence on the direction that my life has taken.

When I arrived at at Macalester as an extremely unripe 17 year-old, I felt like a terrified kindergartener in awe of all the confident
and mature “big kids.” There were a handful of students from my
hometown, and one of them was Tom Zimmerman. Our parents
were good friends, and Tom (TZ) was nice enough to introduce
me to his housemates, one of whom was Tom Evered (TE). They
were upperclassmen, and wise to the ways of the world, and it
was doubly cool to be able to hang out in a house, as my dorm single wasn’t exactly spacious.

I knew that I liked to play the piano, and had started to develop
an interest in Jazz during my last year of High School, and this
focus continued in college. So, I spent a LOT of time in the
practice rooms, noodling on whatever random stuff came to
mind: in hindsight, this was the time that I was basically learning
how to say “goo goo” and “gah gah.” These were entry level
steps towards establishing the musical vocabulary of
improvisation that (almost 50 years later) is still evolving.

During my first visits to the House of Toms, I was delighted to
notice that TE had a magnificent display of LPs that took up an
entire wall. I’d never seen a collection that big; hundreds and
hundreds of them. Tom knew a lot about a lot of things: music,
cinema, literature, cocktails, recreational drugs, and God knows
what else. He and I connected in our mutual love of Jazz. About
ten years later, Tom went to work at Blue Note records, staying
there for about 25 years as Bruce Lundval’s right hand man, and
was essentially #2 in the chain of command. Over the years, he
would occasionally send me care packages of CDs and LPs that
Blue Note had just released. Some of the stuff was new, and
some of it was reissues.

But Tom’s generous habit of sharing music with me started at
Macalester. He told me about a good record store near campus,
but was also more than happy to let me borrow whatever I
wanted from his personal collection. I was ecstatic to accept
this kind offer, regularly taking armloads of records back to the
dorm, tormenting my neighbors by blasting Crazy Jazz Music
from my room. My brother had lent me a reel-to-reel tape deck, and I was able to make copies of the stuff I’d borrowed from Tom. The size of my recorded music collection quickly grew exponentially, and, for years to come, much of what I listened to had been initially
borrowed from Tom.

For me, devoting a life to playing and teaching Jazz is nothing
short of a true Calling, and listening to music is nothing short of
studying sacred texts, and these become the foundation of a
musical existence.

Tom Evered was brilliant, hilarious, and (most of all) generous.
And also very opinionated. I didn’t always agree with his takes: I
remember recoiling in horror when he snorted “Gawd! Who
needs to hear another version of ‘Embraceable You’”? But it’s
okay to have some differing points of view when you love and
respect the other person.

Rest in peace, Tom. It seems like you left before the tune was
over. And thank you.

Shalom and aloha.

I believe that Science is real; sometimes TOO real. But I’m also comfortable knowing that certain things defy having one clear explanation.  And I also don’t ascribe to many aspects of Mysticism, Spiritualism, New Age thoughts or faith-based parts of traditional religion. But, again, I’m more than willing to accept that there are all kinds of things that we can’t explain with any degree of certainty. I generally embrace what I’ll call the Healthy Skepticism of a Devout Musician.

Having said that, I’d like to relate a recent experience of an unexplained phenomenon: 

After the death of my beloved bride Mariana, her ashes (or, a new word I learned in the process: cremains) made their way to many places. These include Lake Michigan, the oceans Pacific and Atlantic, and under our yard’s yews (a Celtic symbol of death and resurrection, don’t you know). 

BUT….one incredibly obvious place that wasn’t on that list is the tree in the park at the end of our block that now bears a plaque in her memory. I just had never gotten around to it. I was finally compelled to correct that situation when I walked past the the box in the basement where the rest of her ashes resided. It seemed kind of mean that poor Mariana had been banished to such a dreary locale for these several years. 

So I took the box to the tree in the park and dug a tiny trench that would accommodate the rest of the cremains. I then stood there and reflected for a long moment before opening the box to gain access to the plastic bag that held the last of the…..you know.

When I opened the bag, a thick plume of dust immediately leapt out and aggressively shot skyward. It surprised the hell out of me. And it kept doing it for much longer than I thought it possibly could: a continuous and jubilant express towards the place where Mariana thought she should be. It was like she was really glad to get the hell out that bag. So, part of her did just that, and the rest was content (I hope) to help nurture her beautiful tree.

That’s my story and I’m sticking with it. I have no doubt that there are a slew of other explanations, but that’s mine. And perception is reality. 

I am a 3rd-generation Chicago Cubs fan. My Grandma Goldie saw the Cubs play at Clark/Addison before it was called Wrigley Field (it was known as Weeghman Park). My Dad was born fifteen years after the Cubs’ 1908 World Series victory and, like so many other Cubs fans, never lived to see them repeat that glorious deed. He died at the age of 51, almost 42 years before Cubs finally emerged victorious in 2016. True Cubs fans know that those numbers add up correctly: 15 + 51 + 42= 108.

Most of the Cubs teams in the years of my fandom (1967-present) have been fairly….um….non-competitive. Regardless, I have remained their loyal fan unconditionally, and have no plans to change that status. I am a sheep, and (at present) Tom Ricketts, Jed Hoyer and David Ross are my shepherds. Do you get what I’m saying?

Somewhat problematically, the Ricketts family has proven time and again that their political views are very different from my own. Their beliefs have antagonized some of my friends, causing them to withdraw their support of the team. But I’ve remained true to the course, rationalizing this with the feeling that the politics of virtually every pro sports team’s owners are also likely in stark contrast to my own. Then, when the Cubs rolled out their Marquee Sports Network, it was found that the political agenda of its operator (the Sinclair Broadcast Group) was equally heinous. But, once again, I was able to compartmentalize, choosing to focus on my beloved Cubs and their jewel of a ballpark. 

The team’s recent era (2015-2020) has been an unparalleled one in terms of winning percentage. But it can be argued that this team, with the same basic core of very talented players, underachieved by only making it to the World Series once (not unlike the 1985 Chicago Bears, who should have made it into another Super Bowl with that core of players).  Sensing that the window for success might be closing on this roster, the Cubs parted ways with some noteworthy names (Yu Darvish, Kyle Schwarber, Jon Lester, Albert Almora Jr.) before the start of the 2021 season.

But, even with fairly low expectations, the Cubs overachieved during the initial third of the season. The high point may have been a combined no-hitter on the road against the dreaded Dodgers in the last week of June. However, reality showed up in a large way when the Cubs then proceeded to lose the next eleven games in a row. This swoon sent a signal to Cubs management that it was time to part company with some players as the trade deadline loomed, and that’s exactly what they did, to a degree that has seldom occurred in recent memory.  

Older fans (like me, I guess) long for the days when players didn’t change teams nearly as much as they do now. With the advent of free agency, players are free to test the market much more easily, so teams need to be more proactive in determining their rosters.  Three of the Cubs players recently sent packing were beloved stars from the 2016 champs: Anthony Rizzo, Kris Bryant and Javier Baez. This proved particularly traumatic for Cub Nation, but the team’s thinking seemed to be that this roster (as shown by the 11-game swoon) was looking to be no more than an average team with these stars, so it was time to move on. Along with the departure of other veterans, it was painful to have ripped off the band-aid in such a dramatic way, and it was painful to instantly transform from 2016 Champs (seems like a long time ago now) to 2021 Chumps.

It’s impossible to know (in real time) whether a team has traded a player too soon (missing out on further productive years) or too late (overpaying for under-production). Even so, Rizzo, Bryant and Baez all declined new contracts that would have earned them more money than 99.99 percent of us can even imagine. So it all came down to the arcane monetary calculi to which each team devotes countless units of brainpower.

Almost without exception, Major League baseball teams lose 54 games and win 54 games each season. It’s those other 54 games in a 162-game season that separate the wheat from the chaff. So, if you come to a game, you have at least a 1 in 3 chance of seeing your team win. A batter who gets one hit out of three at bats is considered to be an elite hitter. 

We’ve seen high numbers of Cubs fans disavowing their allegiance after this remarkable purge.  To them I say: So long. We’ll see you when the Cubs are good again. You’ll be more than welcome to hop on the bandwagon again. As for me, I look forward to watching the Cubs braintrust fiddle with the pieces, trying to build a roster for the next great team.

Call me stupid, but Go Cubs!

I met Mariana Rence in early 1986, shortly after the Challenger exploded and the Chicago Bears won the Super Bowl. We did a couple of Musicals together (“Baby” and “Godspell”) at a theater in the very odd little town of Cohoes, NY (a bit north of Albany). We were together for the next 31 years, ending when she shuffled off this mortal coil in February of 2017.

Like a large percentage of actors and actresses, Mariana spent much of her time “between engagements” working as a server in a variety of restaurants. Never having done that myself, I was fascinated by the stories she would bring home after her shifts. Most of this employment was at a place called Sarabeth’s Kitchen, owned by the eponymous Sarabeth Levine. To coincide with what would have been our 34th wedding anniversary, I’m going to try to recall some of the more entertaining tidbits that Mariana brought home.

Sarabeth’s Kitchen now has many restaurants around the country, and her delicious jams and preserves can be found in many food stores. But it started as a hole-in-the-wall kind of place in the Upper West Side, only selling baked goods and jams/preserves. She eventually started serving breakfast, then opened a larger place in the same neighborhood, adding lunch (and tables!) to the fare. Another location opened in the Upper East Side, and this was around the time when I first met Mariana. 

As described to me, Sarabeth had come of age as a Hippie from Long Island and was into some non-Western philosophies that helped (only occasionally, though) diffuse a somewhat hair-trigger temper. Sara found her success reproducing her grandmother’s baked goods recipes, and her business was a family affair. Her sweet-but-addled mother ran the cash register (the numbers rarely made sense at the end of a workday) and her husband was the co-owner. 

Sara didn’t seem to care if her customers could hear every profanity-laced tirade in her small venues. Once, after spending the day at the West Side place, she stopped into the East Side location and was dismayed that (in her view) ALL of the bread was too stale to serve to her customers. So she gathered it into arms, stomped through the restaurant and out the front door, where she promptly threw all of the bread into Madison Avenue.

But she could be sweet and nurturing, too. Mariana once threw her back out in the middle of a shift and was in agonizing pain. Sarabeth said, “Honey…the best thing for a bad back is to put rising dough on the sore spot. That will absorb all of the toxins.” So she had Mariana climb onto the table in the kitchen and deposited a ton of dough on her back, laying there waiting for the toxins to be absorbed. This was very surprising to the customers who got a full view of it while walking past the kitchen on the way to the restroom.

Mariana came home once with the story of an encounter with an ultra-privileged Upper West Side Mom: it seemed that her little darling was under the weather and had stayed home from school. Mommy absolutely HAD to have some of Sarabeth’s yummy oatmeal to bring home to the patient. It was explained that the restaurant didn’t do take-outs (wow–you’d think that Sarabeth would have known that there’d be a pandemic in 35 years that would make that policy a really poor idea) and they didn’t have any to-go containers. The woman got irate, and, when it was suggested that she could go to Duane Reade and buy instant oatmeal that entailed boiling some water and ripping open the package, that didn’t seem to calm her down. 

One of Mariana’s most annoying steady customers was Peter Max, the painter who is best known for Pop Art posters and album covers from the 1960’s. Evidently, he was friends with Sarabeth and her husband, and he would show up on a regular basis, parking himself at a table for hours on end. He insisted on having a phone placed at his table (this was before cell phones) so that he could make Important Business Transactions. He also had to have all of his food prepared in very specific ways that differed from the menu, including the directive that no butter be used (in a place famous for their baked goods!). Max must have eventually sensed that he was a pain in ass for the servers, so he told them to fill in the tip amount themselves. They started giving themselves 50% tips, and he never said a word. I’m guessing that they would have happily given up his inflated tips in exchange for his absence.

There were many, many other boldface types that came into Sarabeth’s emporiums. I’ll attempt to recall some of them:

Jackie Kennedy Onassis–Very quiet. Very polite. Ate lemon pound cake with her fingers.

Yoko Ono–Very quiet. Very polite.

Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward–Very friendly. Newman’s famous blue eyes lived up to their reputation.

Warren Beatty and Isabelle Adjani–They came in during the making of “Ishtar” and appeared to be in the midst of a Lover’s Crisis.

Warren Beatty and Dustin Hoffman–They appeared to be doing damage control to the state of the Beatty/Adjani tryst.

John McEnroe, Tatum O’Neal and children–Grownups were quiet; children were messy and out of control.

Bill Murray and family–See above.

Peter Boyle (aka Young Frankenstein)–A complete asshole.

Norman Fell (character actor, Stanley Roper on “Three’s Company”)–Incredibly nice and chatty; always wanted to hear about the state of Mariana’s acting career.

I’m sure that there were many more; these are the ones that I recall. I’ve passed a lot of water under the bridge since these events took place. But they still exist if I recall them as memories. Very much like people, now that I think of it.

I lived in NYC from 1981-93 and watched a lot of Yankees games on TV during that time. As I recall, a large percentage of those games featured Bill White and Phil Rizzuto in the broadcast booth. Rizzuto (aka “Scooter”) was a Yankee legend and a Hall of Famer, having played played shortstop on some amazing teams alongside the likes of Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle and Yogi Berra. He was also like your lovable, crazy uncle. You never knew what was going to come out of his mouth. Some of his verbiage was so bizarre that it would be re-framed and published as poetry. For instance: