where's the jam?

botti for his birthday

If a picture is worth a thousand words, this post will be a long one. 

Why is it that two thousand camera phones were allowed into the Chris Botti concert Thursday night, but a single 35mm Nikon was not?  Someone explain the reasoning to me, please. 

The first photo I'd have shared would be of Chris Botti himself, keeping it real: walk to center stage and play the trumpet.  Sublime notes, those first few that take your breath away, can't unfortunately, be captured even if allowed. 

The second picture might have been a close-up from the video screen showing you the very handsome face of this man giving the crowd such beautiful music. 

Botti had a little help.  I'd have shown you Childs on piano, Kilson on drums, McBride on bass and the Rio de Janeiro guitarist who was equally as amazing as the rest.  There was a bass guitarist I shamefully can't name either, who played on some numbers. 

Botti had a guest violinist; they first played Emmanuel.  I was hoping!  I was thrilled!  Lisa Fischer wooed the crowd with her vocals on a few songs.  We heard Italia, The Look of Love, the awesome Miles Davis'-Bill Evans' Flamenco Sketches and so many more. 

I'd love to be able to show you a silhouette of Botti in his classic black attire.  He has an obvious ease onstage and the way, while standing straight, he gracefully arches back on certain notes... well, I just swoon.  You'd also have seen photos of him performing down in the theater aisle and shaking hands with his fans as if he thinks himself just an average guy who can blow a horn. 

As it seems he's done at other venues, Botti invited a couple of very young, aspiring musicians up on the stage to participate in Nessun Dorma, the song which made the evening for me. 

There was not a thing funny about the last of them though; the slow, heart wrenching, My Funny Valentine. 

I wanted to show you all of this!  Instead, all I have to offer is this tailgating shot.  

Denied even it, for in the time it took to reach for the camera, the beautiful sunset had played its final encore.

I never found the right moment to tell the guy sitting beside me that I
was with him if he opted to violently kick the chair of the two girls in front
of him who were yapping through it all.  Section 202, Row FF, Seats 3 and 4. 

oh so pretty

tell me, daisy

Should I?  Should I not?  Should I?  Should I not?  Should I? 
Should I not?

Should I start a book club? 

I'm weighing it, sitting on the stoop despite the chill, plucking petals off a perfectly beautiful daisy.  I want to!  I'm scared to!  I want to!  I'm scared to!  I want to!  I'm scared to! 

Let me explain... 

My life is filled with people I love.  They are wonderful.  They are smart and accomplished and generous and I enjoy every minute I spend with them.  But they don't know of Bill Buford. 

Is he writing a book about his time in French kitchens?  Will Gabrielle Hamilton write another masterpiece?  Will Simon Hopkinson offer us Burnt Chicken? 

No one around me speaks this language and Spoke can only take so much... 

I want to design a club which is first and foremost about the writing; food writing in many forms. 

It's tricky, such a book club.  Who would want to join? 

Most importantly, will we be on the same page?