The Great Zucchini

The Adventures of Rick O'Shea, part IV

In a previous post I mentioned that Rick had moved his kite shop out of his home and into a waterfront location on the city's Southbank Riverwalk.  The store became a focal point for buskers and artists and drum circles of all kinds.

They attracted so many people that their performances were formalized into events called, New Vaudeville Nights. They were very informal events, featuring whomever happened to show up that particular evening and they were free and open to the public. 

The performers would station themselves in the center of the expansive boardwalk, the audience forming a circle around them.  It was up close and personal and the evenings were filled with smiles and laughter.  The star attraction at these events was a newcomer to town who called himself The Great Zucchini.

Zucchini was a classic street performer.   Fire eating, juggling, slight of hand and balancing acts all performed during a running commentary of timely anecdotes and one-liners.  Dressed like a French mime with painted face, striped shirt and ballet-style pants and shoes, he would walk the boardwalk during the day, working for tips as he pulled quarters out of a child's ear or gathered a small crowd as he juggled balls over his head, behind his back, under his legs and over his shoulder, all the while balancing a juggling pin on his nose.

During the Vaudeville nights Zucchini often performed with his teenage son, Stefan, an engaging and precocious young man whose brilliant smile could make girls swoon.

Zucchini and Stefan would throw the pins to each other and catch them over their heads, behind their backs, while turning in circles, and while spinning hula hoops.  It was a great show capped off by Zucchini's fire breathing act.  The huge ball of fire blown into the air never ceased to bring forth oohs and aahs and an enthusiastic round of applause from the audience who quickly filled the duo's tip jar in appreciation.

At the time, I worked for a non-profit where I organized several special event fund raisers.  I often employed Zucchini as entertainment.  I would have him wander through the crowd at a banquet performing his slight of hand tricks or juggling at the entrance to an event as he welcomed our patrons.  No matter where I used him, he was a crowd favorite and always brightened the evening.

And then, one night while I was sitting in the circle surrounding his and Stefan's performance on the Riverwalk, I looked across the way and there she was... Shannon!  Her eyes met mine at the exact same moment and we couldn't resist rushing right into the middle of the show and into each other's arms for a great big hug.

Zucchini and Stefan didn't miss a beat.  Grinning from ear to ear, they continued pitching their pins around us as we embraced, and then over and around us as we finally realized where we were and ducked and dived out of the way.  After we got settled she introduced me to her new husband, Raji, an Anglo-Indian computer geek who seemed like a really nice guy.

I couldn't wait to ask about her brother and his family in New Mexico.  Was there any news?  To my surprise, a giant smile came over her face and a twinkle to her eye as she said, "That's him right there.  Zucchini is my brother."

"No way!" is the only response I could manage.

Later that evening, the three of us sitting on a bench together laughing over the improbable coincidence, I asked Zucchini if the whole thing was for real.  He said, unfortunately, yes.

He said he and his family had been out of town on vacation when the Three Mile Island accident occurred.  As they were returning home they saw several people they knew speeding in the opposite direction.  They knew immediately that something was bad wrong and flagged down the next friend they saw.  When they learned of the problem, they left their children with their friends for safe keeping, and he and his wife, both of whom were safety technicians at the plant, went in to do what they could to help.

What they found when they got there was a full-blown melt-down that had somehow failed to totally breach containment.  They also found that the filters designed to stop any radiation leaks were quickly overwhelmed and freely spewing contamination into the environment.  They pretty quickly got it under control but by then, the damage was done.

In the days following, the power company and the government put a tight lid on communication with anyone outside of the plant, especially the media.  Then the cover-up began.  Zucchini couldn't stand the fraud and blew the whistle to the local media.  The rest of the story you know from my last post.  Deliberate or accident, after the death of their brother-in-law they figured there was no sense hiding any longer and so they moved to Baja Georgia to be near Zucchini's mother.

For ten years they had lived in the deep mountains of New Mexico, completely off of the grid.  No running water.  No electricity.  He said that they cut and stacked firewood all summer so as to get them through the brutal winters.  Their nearest neighbor was an eccentric old hermit, a retired circus performer whose stage name was... The Great Zucchini.

Having no marketable trade other than that of nuclear technician and finding it emotionally impossible to plug back into the system, Zucchini borrowed the old man's moniker and put the tricks and stunts he had learned from him to good use as a busker.

Sadly, several years after this story their beautiful son, Stefan, was killed in an accident.  He and some friends were pushing a stalled car off of a dark road when they were hit by another driver who saw them too late.

Devastated, Zucchini and his wife again retreated into the obscurity of the mountains.  I haven't seen or heard from them since.  Shannon and her husband returned to England where, I assume, she still resides.  And me, I'm here still spinning yarns.

And so ends the Adventures of Rick O'Shea.  At least... for now.

A Willowy Blonde and Three Mile Island

The Adventures of Rick O'Shea, part III

Dear readers.  I know the length of these yarns is pushing blogger etiquette but I really don't know any other way to tell them.  I hope you will bear with me but, most of all, I hope you enjoy them.

I first met Rick at a small nightspot in an older, somewhat run down area of town.  It was called AppleJacks, and it hosted some the best musical experiences of my lifetime.  To name a few:  The Howling Wolf, Doc Watson, Mose Allison, JJ Cale, Taj Mahal, John Lee Hooker, Buddy Guy, Herbie Mann, Robert Cray, Johnny Winter... 'nuff said.

It was a place that, when it wasn't hosting the above-mentioned and others I can't bring to mind, in everyday life was a pizza parlor with a couple of pool tables in the back.  The small stage was crowded by a few cafe tables and a row of booths.  It was in one of those booths that this story unfolds...

I couldn't believe it.  I was going to see the great John Lee Hooker up close and personal.  I had gotten reservations in one of the booths for myself and my brother Dan, also an avid blues fan.  We got there early so we could station ourselves on the best side of the booth and get a pizza to boot.  The booths were treated as four seats by management so if you had two seats, you never knew who might get the other two.

We couldn't believe our luck as showtime finally drew close and no one else showed up.  We had the booth to ourselves!  John Lee had just taken the stage and was going through the pre-performance routine of clearing his throat, adjusting the mics, and getting himself comfortable on his stool, when this willowy blonde, a dead ringer for Ricki Lee Jones, came up to us and announced, "Howdy boys, I'm Shannon, looks like I'll be sharing the booth with you tonight" and flopped herself down.

She turned out to be good company for the evening so I asked her to dine with me later that week and she agreed.  (BTW, before the evening was over, John Lee had the women dancing on the tables and taking off their underwear.  Just thought you might like to know that.)

When the big day arrived I was at her house right on time and looking forward to a fine evening of dinner and a movie, but even more, to a fine new relationship.

From the time I greeted her at the door she was totally distracted.  Chain smoking cigarettes.  Uninvolved conversation.  Finally, I asked her if she was alright and if she would rather go back home.  She said that she didn't want to go home and that she was really looking forward to the evening and then, reluctantly, she told me that earlier that day she had gotten word that someone had tried to kill her brother and did, in fact, kill her brother-in-law by running them off of a mountain road.

I thought, "Holy Crap!  Not another wacko!" and nearly took her home anyway.  But the little head, Mr. Happy, had other ideas and drove me on to the restaurant in spite of the big head saying, "This is a mistake."

To make matters worse, she wasn't forthcoming with any other information about the situation over dinner except to say that, essentially, it was top secret and she couldn't tell anyone.  Okay, now I'm dealing with a wacko with James Bond Syndrome.

After dinner, I did take her home.  Enough is enough.  When we pulled up in front of her house, she placed her hand on mine and said, "Thank you.  I'm sorry.  I really would like to see you again.  Do you mind if I call you in a week or two after I've had time to get over this?"

The big head thought, "No way, Jose."  but Mr. Happy immediately chimed in, "Sure.  Looking forward to it."

Two weeks later she called.  Again, we went to dinner followed by a visit to AppleJacks to catch some music.  This time however, she told me the story.

It seems her brother was a technician at the Three Mile Island nuclear power plant during the meltdown.  Those of you who were around then might remember the power company and the government blowing the whole thing off as a "minor accident."  In fact, it was a full-blown meltdown and only the grace of God prevented the thing from totally breaching containment.  Radiation did, in fact, breach all of the filters and spill into the surrounding air and water even though it was denied by both the power company and the government at the time.

Her brother knew this, saw the cover-up, and blew the whistle on it in spite of pressure to keep quiet.  In the days following, he and his family got several threatening phone calls and finally, when he wouldn't shut up, one night a cross was burned in their yard and bullets fired into their home.  Afraid for the safety of his family, he packed them all up and fled to New Mexico where they had lived for the past ten years in the mountains about 50 miles outside of Taos.  No one except immediate family knew of their whereabouts, and none of them specifically.

After ten years off of the grid, they felt it was safe to see family and so the visit by his older sister and brother-in-law.  One night, while returning from shopping, their truck was forced off of the road by a hit-and-run driver, the accident killing his brother-in-law.

This story was as incredible as a James Bond tale, but it was certainly plausible and she told it with sincere conviction.

Over the next several months we became good friends, even lovers, when one day she announced that she was moving to England where she had gotten a job as a computer programmer.  And then... she was gone.

The Adventure Continues - Bim Willow

The Adventures of Rick O'Shea, pt. II

Words cannot describe, nor have I any photos of, my friend Rick O'Shea's home.  The house itself was Rick's boyhood home, a nondescript 1950's concrete block tract house, the kind that blankets the landscape of post-WWII America.  The home belonged to his mother and was shared by the two of them.

Mrs. O'Shea totally accommodated her paraplegic son, at first adapting her home to wheelchair accessibility, and then, over time, into the sprawling conglomeration it became.

First there was the swimming pool, installed as a therapeutic pool for him but which became a favorite summer afternoon hang-out for his myriad friends.  Mr. Charleston has been known to spend a pleasant afternoon or two relaxing in the shade with a cool one while playing lifeguard to the bevy of young water sprites who loved to frolic au natural in Rick's pool.  (One of those tuff-job-but-somebody-has-to-do-it kind of things.)

In the previous chapter I described Rick's cottage kite making industry, which took over the garage and every other nook and cranny adjacent to it, but I didn't mention his other business, that of purveyor of fine herbs.  It was the fine herb business that mostly attracted the artists and free-spirited people who were always in attendance.

An unrepentant Deadhead, Rick could be found holding court in the parking lot of most any Grateful Dead concert that came near Baja Georgia, from Miami to Atlanta, and it was largely friendships formed from that community that brought many of the most eccentric souls into his backyard.

There was the African traider who brought back all kinds of musical instruments from the dark continent.  This led to Rick becoming the area's first and only African drum dealer, a business which soon took over the rest of his living room.  His back yard became the center of late-night drum circles, until the neighbors finally complained.

There were the Buddhist monks and the holistic massage therapist, who was willing to give anyone a rub-down anyplace, anytime.  He seemed especially fond of helping the water sprites.

There was the team of lumberjack/shipwrights who decided to build a Norse Great House in his backyard (photo)  It was a grand structure hewed from rough logs the size of telephone poles.  It was about 50 feet across, post and beam construction, and gave Rick a terrific flat, smooth concrete surface to scoot around on.  The whole thing was surrounded by a Coi pond to die for.  The only shortcoming was that they could never figure out a roof.  They tried fabrics of all sorts but they didn't work out.

Rick overlooking the Coi pond and Great House.

And then there was a young man who called himself Bim Willow.  Bim made things out of willow branches.  He would soak them in water and form them into all types of furniture.  Rick's room soon became a fairy garden of willow sculptures... bed, bed canopy, bookshelves, chairs.  It eventially spread out into the yard and around the house.

But it wasn't the furniture that made Bim memorable.  It was another talent, one that left people in slack-jawed amazement.

To digress... As you can tell, Rick's cottage industries soon overcame his house, and his mother, so he rented a space in a trendy but struggling downtown river-front retail area of small gift boutiques, coffee shops, etc.  The store fronted onto a large boardwalk known as the Southbank Riverwalk.  It was a cool space which attracted thousands of folks out for an evening stroll on the river.

The location was perfect.  Rick had a corner store with high ceilings and lots of glass.  It was filled with kites, drums, hippie clothing, incense and the like.  It became a focal point for buskers and performers and artists and drum circles on the river.  To formalize it, and therefore make it acceptable to the powers-that-be, Rick created New Vaudeville Night on the Riverwalk.  It attracted hundreds of people who came out to be entertained by the musicians, jugglers and artists, among them, Bim Willow.

Bim would take a sturdy straight-back chair, set it in the center of the boardwalk, and sit in it as if reading a book.  He would turn imaginary pages in the book with accompanying facial expressions over its contents.  This went on for a period of time until people began to get restless.

Then, one of his legs would begin to rise, as if pulled up by a helium balloon.  Bim looked startled.  The leg would continue to rise such that it began to pull his entire body off of the ground.  Bim clutched the chair to hold himself down as both legs were now rising in the air.  He would hold on as his legs rose over his head, trying to pull him out of the chair altogether.

Soon his entire body was rising into the air as he struggled to hold onto the chair and Terra firma.  As his body went skyward, his hands would climb up the back of the chair until finally culminating in the chair standing cockeyed on one leg with Bim holding on to the utmost top of it with one hand, his feet and body now suspended over him, pointing towards the heavens.

After a while, the whole thing reversed itself and Bim came slowly back to earth, concluding his performance by settling back onto the chair and reading his imaginary book, as if nothing had happened.

It was the most amazing feat of strength and gymnastic ability I have ever seen.

More to come.

The Adventures of Rick O'Shea

A week or so ago I was enjoying an afternoon repast with my ole buddy Punch at the White Lion in St. Augustine, FL.  The occasion was the annual Gamble Rogers Folk Festival which, for the first time, was spread out among several different venues throughout the ancient city.  A great idea as St. Augustine, the nation's oldest city, is easily one of the most desirable destinations in the country and the location made for a grand afternoon of great music and visual delights.

As usual, Punch had gotten his calendar totally screwed up and ended up in Baja Georgia nearly un-announced and a month earlier than planned, which was alright with me as the boy's visits are always an excuse for some good creative loafing, this one being no exception.

As we sat on the Lion's patio overlooking the Castillo De San Marcos, I was reminded of my recently departed friend Rick O'Shea, one of the most special people it's ever been my pleasure to know.  A wheelchair-bound paraplegic due to an auto accident at the age of nineteen, Rick was one of those persons who made lemonade out of lemons and, because of his infectious spirit, was always surrounded by the most interesting people doing the most interesting things.

The patio at the White Lion Pub

View of the Castillo De San Marcos from the patio.









To digress a bit, a week or so before the folk festival I had gone on one of those "clean-out-the-dresser" tears where you rip through your dresser drawers and pull out everything you haven't worn in three years and toss it into the rag pile.  In my case, it always involves several dozen t-shirts that I've collected over the years but could never throw away, some of them twenty or thirty years old and emblazoned with some logo or other from some event or other that I attended or was part of.

One such shirt was a rather ugly one that I never wore (pictured) but is full of fond memories from an event surrounding Rick.  It seems Rick's mini-van had broken down and he didn't have the money for a new one, so his friends got together and threw a party to help him out.  Indeed, we ended up raising several thousand dollars for the down-payment on Rick's new van.  (Some of you might recognize a few of the players at that event, particularly Grammy-winning bluesman Derek Trucks and Noel Friedline, a fabulous jazzer who now lives in Charlotte.)

Well, with great gumption and fortitude of purpose, this particular shirt ended up in the rag pile.  A short while later, when I grabbed it to wipe down my just-washed car, I paused to look at it and a rush of memories came flowing back to me. 

As you can see from the logo, Rick is depicted in his chair flying a kite.  Rick had gotten into kiting some years earlier and by then had a cottage industry employing two or three people in his garage building and selling them.  There are many tales surrounding him and his kites, one such adventure involving the aforementioned Castillo De San Marcos.

It was Rick's custom to station himself each Sunday afternoon on the great lawn of the fort so as to catch the sea breeze off of the Atlantic and fly his kites.  He was always attended by a retinue of pretty young girls and hippie guys who were constantly looking for ways to push the kiting envelope.

It began benignly enough with just one kite, usually a very colorful one such as a Chinese dragon or the like.  Then, it expanded to two kites on a line with a banner or two.  Then, several kites on a long line topped by a para-sail which they tied-off to Rick's wheelchair to hold it down.

Well, you guessed it, it wasn't long before a gust of wind sent Rick and his wheelchair careening across the lawn straight for the old fort and its surrounding moat.  The hippies and chicks ran him down and tackled him before any serious mishap, but the string of kites took a furious nosedive and crashed into the top of the fort, scaring the crap out of a gaggle of tourists, and knocking a softball-sized chip of coquina out of the national treasure, much to the chagrin of the National Park Service who forthwith banned any further kite flying on the grounds.

It seems that Rick's kite assault had done more damage to the fort than all of the battles and mishaps of the previous four-hundred years!  All of this I observed with much glee from my favorite Sunday afternoon perch on the patio of the White Lion.

Undaunted, Rick and his minions soon set up shop at the end of a residential street which dead-ends at the grounds of the fort, giving access to the great lawn and the attending sea breeze.  By now the kite line was a 300 foot length of rope at the end of which was a para-sail some 20 feet or more across and supporting 25 or 30 smaller kites and banners.  It was a glorious sight and became somewhat of a tourist attraction in its own right.

They used a wench to control the monster and fastened it to the bumper of Rick's mini-van to hold it down.  The kites were self-supporting in the strong wind, requiring no attention, and it made for good entertainment for Rick and his friends to picnic on the grounds of the fort in the cool summer breeze while enjoying the kite spectacular.

Well, you guessed it, it wasn't long before a gust of wind overcame the weight of the mini-van and dragged it down the street, crashing it into the concrete barrier at the end and completely destroying the drive train in the process.  Fortunately, no one was hurt.

Thus was the demise of Rick's mini-van and the catalyst for the party to raise funds for a new one.  And thus, the catalyst for my memories and this post.

More to come.

Fool Proof Security

1. Go to a secondhand store and buy a pair of men's used size 14-16 work boots.

2. Place them on your front porch, along with a copy of Guns & Ammo Magazine.

3. Put a few giant dog dishes next to the boots and magazines.

4. Leave a note on your door that reads:

Bubba,


Bertha, Duke, Slim an me went for mor beer. be bak in an our.

Don't mess with tha dawgs.  Dey got the maleman this mornin and messed im up real good.  I do not tink Killer took part in it but it was hard to tell from all the blood.  Any how I locked all four of em in tha house.

Better wate outside. Be right bak

Cooter

Shortage of Virgins

News flash from Great Britian:

BBC/AP—LONDON, UK (Mar 22)

Muslim suicide bombers in Britain are set to begin a three-day strike on Monday in a dispute over the number of virgins they are entitled to in the afterlife. Emergency talks with Al Qaeda have so far failed to produce an agreement.

The unrest began last Tuesday when Al Qaeda announced that the number of virgins a suicide bomber would receive after his death will be cut by 25% this February from 72 to only 60. The rationale for the cut was the increase in recent years of the number of suicide bombings and a subsequent shortage of virgins in the afterlife.

The suicide bombers' union, the British Organization of Occupational Martyrs (B.O.O.M.) responded with a statement that this was unacceptable to its members and immediately balloted for strike action. General Secretary Abdullah Amir told the press, "Our members are literally working themselves to death in the cause of Jihad. We don't ask for much in return but to be treated like this is like a kick in the teeth".

Speaking from his shed in Tipton in the West Midlands in which he currently resides, Al Qaeda chief executive Osama bin Laden explained, "We sympathize with our workers concerns but Al Qaeda is simply not in a position to meet their demands. They are simply not accepting the realities of modern-day Jihad in a competitive marketplace. Thanks to Western depravity, there is now a chronic shortage of virgins in the afterlife. It’s a straight choice between reducing expenditure and laying people off. I don’t like cutting wages, but I’d hate to have to tell 3000 of my staff that they won’t be able to blow themselves up.”

Spokespersons for the union in the North East of England, Ireland, Wales, and the entire Australian continent stated that the strike would not affect their operations as “There are no virgins in their areas anyway.”

Apparently the drop in the number of suicide bombings has been put down to the emergence of that Scottish singing star, Susan Boyle – now that Muslims know what a virgin looks like they are not so keen on going to Paradise.