Casey

No, The Leopard isn't the sort to go on and on about their beloved pet. In fact, I find it rather annoying when people do. Still, in the interest of full disclosure, I do love my cat, Casey.

I picked up Casey years ago after seeing her on one of those segments on a local TV newscast where they feature unwanted pets at the ASPCA. When I saw this tiny kitten, looking so incredibly cute n' cuddly, I called the TV station and was directed to a shelter. There I saw her for the first time in the flesh (or fur). She was frantically trying to stick her little fuzzy head through the bars of her cage. I liked her radical spirit.

Cut to 11 years later. The unhappy relationship I was in at the time I adopted Casey was long over, but Casey was still my responsibility. By now things had changed radically: I no longer had a lifestyle that could include a feisty, curmudgeonly older cat.

Despite postings on Craigslist, Facebook and other assorted social networks, my earnest attempts to find her a home brought no success.
Running out of options, I made a last attempt to ask close relatives to take her in. But still, no one seemed to have any extra space for my longtime companion.

And so, with a heavy heart, I decided to take her to a local shelter. Although I expected the worst, the dedicated staff actually went out of their way to assure me that a healthy cat like Casey would most likely find a home. This made me feel a little less guilty.

According to the paperwork, I was"surrendering" my cat to the facility.

I felt more like I was giving up a close friend.

She's Not Depressed, She's Drunk

The Leopard decided to go for cocktails the other night at the creatively grungy Art Bar, a notorious spot in the West Village known for its dank innards, worn furniture, and 1000-year-old beer smell.

Still, the place has its earthy pleasures. As we settled in at the bar for a bit of light conversation, in came a blond middle-aged woman who sat one stool away. I could see her heavily made up face clearly over my friend’s shoulder. She began to make jittery movements like a junkie and looked increasingly anxious. She greeted the bartender broadly, and seemed to want to engage her in conversation, but the server stoically declined to socialize and dutifully poured her a drink.

After gulping down her straight vodka, she grinned at me a few times in a creepy way. I didn’t want to encourage her so I looked away. A few minutes later, she began to quietly sob. Pretty soon, the sobs became moans, and then the moans became full-out bawling, complete with running tears and streaking mascara.

My partner and I tried at first to ignore this noisy, pathetic spectacle but she went on and on, obviously vying for attention. Soon the bartender intervened in a sympathetic yet stern tone, “You’re disturbing our customers. Please leave. Look, Your drink is on me." The woman was so overcome with emotion she couldn’t speak, so she simply scooped up her things and left.

Whenever I walk past that place, I always wonder. What was she crying about? A lost lover? A tragedy in her family? Her own alcoholism? Most likely, I’ll never know.

Chocolate Genius

Chocolate Genius is the tongue-in-cheek moniker of the excellent singer songwriter Marc Anthony Thompson. The Leopard first heard him on a PBS music show singing his heartbreaking tune, “My Mom”, an emotional tome about dealing with a parent’s descent into senility.
Thompson is an imposing figure: flaring Basquiat-like tendrils sprouting from his head, the ever present dark suglasses, and a low, darkly emotional drawl. As Chocolate Genius, Thompson has recorded infrequently. But his three mainstream albums, Black Music (1998), God Music (2001), and Black Yankee Rock (2005) are all inspired gems.

Natural Ass

Living in a wonderful honeycomb of a city like Manhattan, The Leopard can't help but occasionally witness some strange things.

I was standing outside my office chatting with coworkers one warm summer afternoon last week when we all witnessed what is a fairly familiar sight in these parts: a young woman, possibly homeless, possibly schizophrenic, walking past us at a brisk pace down the sidewalk of our building raving aloud and screaming slurred obscenities. This alone wouldn't have necessarily interrupted our socializing, until, out of the corner of our eyes, this young girl of perhaps 25 to 35 began to strip.

Off went her blouse, which revealed a crisp white bra beneath (not what you'd expect a homeless person to own) and then moments later, while still on a determined path, off went her maroon skirt, under which there was no crisp anything.

The effect of this woman's dark brown bottom in full view,
in the unusually bright sun in the middle of the afternoon, was profoundly disconcerting, even dream-like, in contrast to the fully clothed surrounding hordes of business people, taxis, and tourists. People stopped whatever conversations they were having on their cellphones to gawk or report, and the door man in front of a ritzy hotel where she finally paused to continue her rant almost swallowed his taxi whistle. Parents covered the eyes of children, and traffic almost came to a violent halt.

And all over a natural ass.

Michael, My brother

The first record The Leopard ever bought with my own money was a 45, The Love You Save by The Jackson 5. In my world, everyone I knew loved the Jackson Five. When we saw these young, good looking, talented kids on the Ed Sullivan Show, we saw ourselves. My friends, cousins--everyone I knew had a record or two somewhere in their house, even if it was just a cut out cardboard record printed on the back of a Post Sugar Crisp cereal box.

It wasn’t even something anyone discussed. The five boys from Gary, Indiana were like family to us. I remember our school used to receive catalogs from Scholastic, and the first book I ever owned was a little paperback about the Jackson 5 where they were pictured riding on mini bikes around their house. I wanted to be Michael Jackson. What could be better than to sing cool songs with your 4 brothers, dance on Soul Train, wear groovy threads and ride around on little motorbikes?

As I (and The Jacksons) got older, I kind of lost touch with what they were doing. Michael and his brothers dropped the “5” part of their name, and started to have more adult-sounding hits like “Dancing Machine” and “Can You Feel it”. Then things got quiet for awhile, and suddenly, out of nowhere, Michael came out with the album Off The Wall and everything changed. Produced by Quincy Jones, the music on Off The Wall sounded fresher than anything else that year.
Of course, by the time of Thriller, Michael had completely reinvented himself and was in a class all his own. There have been many child entertainers over the years, (think Donny Osmond) but Michael was one of the very, very, few that lived up to his earlier potential.

He also showed a remarkable ease with technology, creating not only cutting edge sounds, but brilliant visuals, in the form of videos, to go with his groundbreaking music. Michael surpassed everyone’s expectations of him, as a dancer, songwriter, musician. In retrospect, it almost seems fitting that he would eventually simply burn out like a light. But what a bright light it was.

Some of My Favorite Artists (2) : Ornette!

The Leopard once had the extraordinary pleasure of meeting the great Pulitzer-Prize winning saxophonist/composer/trumpeter/violinist Ornette Coleman. The organization I worked with at the time was putting together a tribute to his music, and along with some colleagues, I had lunch with the legendary musician one crisp Fall day at a local restaurant near our offices.

For such a world famous, highly respected artist, Coleman treated everyone at the table like family. Not in the true sense of the word, mind you, in the familiar, but regarded each and everyone of us with a graciousness I've rarely experienced from one so accomplished.

Ornette Coleman shocked the jazz world back in 1959 when he and the brilliant young trumpeter Don Cherry and band appeared at the legendary Five Spot jazz club in New York with a new, already fully formed style of music based on a complex system devised by Coleman called harmolodics. Coleman was at first greeted by fellow musicians and critics with derision, (much like that of Thelonious Monk in the beginning) who harped on his use of a plastic saxophone and the unfamiliar avant-garde sound (which, in turn, effectively started a movement). Still, some well-established musicians, like Sonny Rollins and John Coltrane, embraced this exciting new music.

Listening to his first album, The Shape of Jazz To Come now, it's hard to believe so many people thought the music was difficult. So full of melody, beautiful solos, and soul stirring blues performances, only the most closed-ear listener wouldn't appreciate its brilliance.

Coleman has went on to make many more excellent recordings, movie soundtracks, and modern classical pieces as well as garnering unprecedented critical acclaim. In 2006, he received the Pulitzer Prize for the music on his CD Sound Grammar.

At the lunch with Coleman, like any star-struck fan, The Leopard trudged along several dusty LP's, including At Town Hall, which Coleman dutifully signed, as well as for a few others at the table.
I can't remember specifically much of what was said in conversation that day, but I do remember the thrill of being the presence of a true humble genius.

Deep Brown

The Leopard occasionally gets illustration requests. Being a near-salivating jazz fan, I jumped at the chance to design and produce drawings for the new Christian McBride CD, Kind Of Brown. One of the reasons this particular project had such great allure is that in addition to being associated with the great jazz bassist McBride, I would design a vinyl limited edition as well. The opportunity to create a record jacket as well as a CD cover was simply too great to miss.

And it is great music. Check out the review on allmusic.com:
http://www.allmusic.com/cg/amg.dll?p=amg&sql=10:0bfyxzw0ldke