posición en el baile flamenco.
posición en el baile flamenco. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The throw of the dice this week lands on the un-said and underscored vignettes that pass through us. Those moments which make us turn away from screens, cameras, and cell phones, to observe life around us.  Writers do this habitually, like addicts. It is our drug to examine what we feel no one else is seeing, feeling or thinking. These were last week’s vignettes.
I am outdoors on the patio of La Posada Resort.  The cotton wood leaves on the trees, are dancing in setting sun light. At the far end of the dining patio, the lawn is staged, and the grass is covered with folding chairs. On stage, under a white billowing tent, teenage Flamenco dancers’ switchblade their black and coral skirts, as the pillow soft breeze brushes my face. I’m smiling without envy, a massive leap, because for most of my life, when I see professional dancers, I’m scolding myself, for not following through with my passion for dancing. Tonight, it is gone. My joy erupts to the surface. The dancers are the same age I was when I began training.
Their painted cheeks and darkened eyes are highlighted by the sunlight; they look like paintings that have come to life. The music is burning through centuries of Spanish history, through blood and battles, and the eruption of their passion for dance.
We have a convention of insurance salesman, dressed in Eddie Bauer, and the ladies in Jones of New York, seated like birds with their wings clipped. The men are standing in huddles, roaring laughter at inside jokes. Three dancers break from tradition and are now dancing to Billy Jean, striking their poses and facing our table. the leader, whom the others bashfully imitate, plays to us, and I want to tell her, don’t stop dancing, don’t give it up.
 Seated in front of me is a couple in their late sixties.  Transparent by dress and manner, they look farm-bred Midwestern. He wears a hard-working no fluff or formality expression, and his wife, probably is his high-school sweetheart. She appears painfully restrained-but she covers this up with a contented smile. The husband is staring at me, his lips are scornful, his eyes like that of a disbelieving police officer, or judge. I’m behind sunglasses, absorbing them through my mental lens, as if we were having a conversation. I imagine him on a tractor, and his wife behind a white worn picket fence picking fruits and vegetables. We’re separated by the cultural divide, but I want to ask the farmer how his life has changed, how the economy impacted his crops, his dreams. What did he dream about when he was a boy? Maybe dreams were a luxury he could not afford.
Beneath a black lake of stars, the breeze whips my hair, Rudy smiles at me, without a word I know what he’s thinking. The evening volumnized when the band kicked into sixties soul, and the insurance salesman are now dancing with the insurance saleswoman, and their wings are unclipped.
We left, crossing through the festivities to our porch, where the music resonated. Rudy turned on the blue lights.
             “Don’t turn them on; they attract the moths.”
            “I tell you what I’ll do and what I won’t do.
            “They’ll eat your eyeballs when you’re sleeping.”
               “What!  Where did you come up with that?”
             “Don’t know. Look whose coming out to complain about the music?”  Then we see our neighbor, stomping across the lawn in his red T-Shirt and Beret. Professor J, demands to voice his rights at every opportunity. I’ve seen him argue with a Police Officer in the middle of the street, at one in the morning. “You have an obligation to police Santa Fe that is your job!” He shouted at the officer for thirty minutes.
 The night closes, like a play from the summer of 2012. Doesn’t sound like the summer of 1971, when we met on the streets, and just hung out, listening to radios, and watching people.  I think living next to a hotel, has kept me closer to street life.  I could do without the delivery trucks at six in the morning and the crashing bottles in the dumpster. It’s not unbearable any longer because La Posada is nowLa Familia.



beijing bamboo walkways and dog pyschology
beijing bamboo walkways and dog pyschology (Photo credit: rejon)

in beginnings. Starting over, and rewriting a life you’ve lived many years is the same as re-writing a secret story. It takes the same blind courage. About half between forty and fifty years old, you hear people say, “It’s too late to start over,”  It’s not true. Behavioral change is essential to living a full life.

In the middle of the night I woke up as if it was morning. When I looked out the window, an almost full moon, white as a laundered tablecloth, was staring back at me. It said, get up and write.  I retreated to my corner of the world; a tiny room bathed in blush pink and gold, and I wrote.   The moon watched.


My dad was Johnny’s pal, close, like brothers, all through their life. Uncle Johnny

was my hero, he calmed my dad down, and he loved my mother because he knew she was a saint, and he was immensely religious.  This is how I imagined his murder.

A blue Ford sedan with tinted windows pulled up in front of a bar in Biscayne Bay.  The driver Tony, stared out the windshield looking beyond the boundaries made by man.  Two of his men, sat in silence in the back seat.  They were staring ahead, in the same mental latitude as the driver, with unblinking surgeon eyes.  Tony turned off the ignition, and leaned back. The only sound came from the flapping of the bar screen door.

“Move,” Tony ordered closing his eyes. Abe and Chuck exited the sedan in one long continuous motion as if they were tied together. Tony waited, without changing the position of his right hand on the leather coated steering wheel. He heard the bar door squeak as it opened. He could see Abe and Chuck entering the bar. He did not need to see them physically. This was stored in his memory. The single file procession into the bar, the attachment to the target, and the guarded exit. Tony checked the time on his pocket watch. The minutes went slowly. He lost his concentration, and was tumbling in memories; he filed them in two categories, the ones that belonged to the outfit, and the ones that belonged to him. He slipped back to the sixties, in Las Vegas, when the boys sat poolside at the Desert Inn and bit into olives handed to them by freshly polished show girls in bikinis.   Then he saw Johnny, lounging at the pool, his crown of white hair perfectly combed. He was surrounded by showgirls. The dames loved Johnny. He was better than any Hollywood movie star.

Then the door to the passenger side opened. Tony glanced at the blue gabardine slacks, and Gucci loafers.  He could smell Johnny, even before he got in the car. His scent was recognizable, as if he’d been born wearing Boucheron.

“For crying out loud boys–I was just getting

an erection. ”

Johnny turned to Tony, the man he met twenty years ago when he was a driver for Santos Trafficante, the Mafia Don in Florida.  Johnny slapped his knee and wheezed through his laughter. Tony couldn’t return the glance, or the laughter

“Tony! What’s the long face for, are we going to a funeral?” Tony shook his head from left to right. He gripped the steering wheel, afraid he might put his fist right through the windshield. Johnny nudged his rib.

“Loosen up, you’ll miss the target.”  Tony reached into his breast pocket.

“Have a cigar Johnny, fresh from Castro. The same brand you tried to poison him with remember?” Tony’s forced  laughter sounded hollow.

“Hell, that wasn’t my idear; you guys are still screwing up the story.  That’s your problem, it you’re gonna squeal at least tell it the way it happened.”

“You shouldn’t talk bout squealing Johnny,” Chuck interrupted.

“Shut your trap,” Tony snapped.  Johnny did not appear to hear the comments, or if he did chose not to recognize the remarks of the backseat thug.

Johnny took the cigar and fingered it. He twirled it around with two fingers, and then placed it under his nostrils and inhaled deeply.

“Doc says no more–not if I’m gonna live without an oxygen tank tucked into my pocket. How ‘bout that? I even gave up the cigars when I moved down here. I can’t afford them anymore.” His laughter came easy, the way it always did.

“Johnny……I,” Tony stuttered.

“Did you hear the joke about the Italian and the Jew?” Tony nodded yes, but Johnny began telling the joke anyway. Tony turned the ignition on and drove away from town, slowly like they do in a funeral procession. They left the parts of the city ruled by law and order.  The white villas shaded by palms, and guarded security gates. They descended into the pit of the buried past, the old rail yards, the site of hollow industrial buildings and warehouses. From there Tony entered an abandoned parking lot inside a junkyard, piled high with tin and steel parts. At one time they were valuable, like Johnny. Those days were gone, the junk piled up, just like dead Mafia Dons.

The sky dimmed in these parts of town, the shadows from the freeway overpass blocked the late crimson sunlight. Johnny was quiet now, sitting calmly with his hands folded together in his lap. His facial muscles relaxed, the jokes were over now. His mind was elsewhere.

“The son of a bitch gave me no choice John! I’m sure dead too if I ….” Tony stammered.

“Stop your babbling, I’m not your priest. I got a few orders for you. I want you to get word to Smiley, before anyone, you hear me. Don’t call his home; he’s got a private service. I’ll give you the number when I’m finished.  He’ll know what to tell my sister. He’s a born messenger of bad news. Had to do it too many times.”

“How long you known we was coming?”  Tony asked solemnly.

“Just as long as I’ve been taking orders. Tony my boy, I didn’t think I’d go out like Brando in the movie. How long has it been now? …forty-five years. That’s a long life in these shoes.  The whole mess is running through my head Tony, as we sit here, it’s like a movie rewinding. You want to know the best of it; I mean the one moment worth remembering. The first night I walked into the Mayflower Hotel as a guest of Capone. My first big shindig was a coming out party for Joey Lewis’s big fight.  I was so impressed with Ricca back then, I tried to mimic him. Must have looked like a soiled fool. I thought I had a smart suit on until I got to the party, and took a look around. Suddenly I felt like a paisano clown. I said to myself, I’ll never know this again; never will I feel less than the people around me. Capone treated me good in the beginning, all that money he threw around…..  It impressed Rockefeller.”

“Johnny it’s getting late,” Tony interrupted.

“Capone was puffed up that night, shaking hands with Walker and the boys at Tammany Hall. We were all one then, the politicians and the boys. I don’t know how the thing got so screwed up.”  The car came to an abrupt stop, and the back door opened. Chuck got out and stretched his legs. Johnny glanced at him, “See, no respect anymore.  I would have diced his fingers off in the old days. Get out of the car Abe; go polish your piece or something,” Johnny ordered, and then continued his story.

“That was the night Tony, the best of everything all night and I didn’t sleep for a day afterward because I was so swollen with myself. It sounds silly now.” Just as Tony tipped his head in memory’s path, Johnny clapped his hands loudly. Tony shuddered as Johnny knew he would.

“Lemme see the equipment,” He ordered tossing the sentiment out of his voice. He turned his steely blue eyes on Tony and waited.

“They loaded me up, like I was going to a massacre. They’re still afraid of you John. Even now I have to say.” Tony rattled; he’d lost the last bit of dry eyed machismo.

“That’s a relief.”  Johnny answered.

Tony got out of the car and hopped around the front to open the door for Johnny.  He felt queasy in his stomach like the first time he had a hit. He watched Johnny now, knowing it would be some story to tell.  First Johnny scanned his surroundings, like the eye of the camera.  He could take in distant angles without moving a muscle. He could estimate the distance of things, the entrances, and exits of buildings without appearing to even look at that direction. He closed his eyes for a minute. They all watched, and waited.

“You fellas been here earlier?” Johnny shouted.  The three men exchanged a mutual questioning glance. Johnny shook his head in disgust.

“How can you show up at a location without knowing every rock and puddle?  Christ! Am I gonna have to shoot myself? Show me the equipment before I scare you off.”

Tony reluctantly unlocked the trunk of the car.  Johnny stepped forward, pushing Abe and Chuck out of the way.

“Looks like a lot of machinery for a seventy year old veteran. Whatta they think, someone’s gonna drop down here with back up and take you boys on. What the hell are the knives for?” Abe and Chuck rocked nervously on their heels. Tony hunched over, as if drawing breath from the ground.

“Tony!” Johnny yelled.

“I‘m sick Johnny …. lemme catch my breath.”

“Yea, you do that, while Abe and Chuck sharpen the knives. Go on fellas get your pieces.”

“Johnny, we have orders,” Tony whispered

“From who?  I don’t care if you skin me!  I want to know who gave the order!”

“It’s not who you think Johnny, I could hardly believe it myself.” Johnny moved closer to Tony, he stroked his back, and whispered, “I promise I won’t tell pal,” he said squeezing Tony’s balls.

“The order came from the White House; they called Santos, and told him to take care of it. Johnny I can’t go through it, I can’t do it.”  Then he fell to his knees and clutched Johnny’s leg, sobbing.

“It’s all right Tony, get up and give it to me the way they asked.”

“We’ll clean you out first shot,” Abe interjected. Again Johnny did not acknowledge the comment.  He reached out and put his hands on Tony’s shoulders, and looked him in the eye.

“It’s bad, they got cement don’t they?”

“Oh Christ! let me take this all back.  I can’t do what they ask. They want us to chop the legs, get you inside a steel drum, and in the water.” Tony suddenly heaved up, and vomited, sobbing at the same time.

“Jesus Christ Tony, you’re disgusting,” Abe shouted. He took a cigarette from his pocket. Johnny turned slowly around and glared at the bridge of his nose. He locked in on the spot, and gradually walked toward him. He reached for Abe’s pistol, a 357 magnum and holding it in Abe’s hand guided the pistol until it was pointing directly into his eyes.

“If you’re in a hurry, go ahead and shoot me now.”  Abe turned sideways. Then he dropped his aim, and walked away. Johnny leaned against the car, and wiped his brow.      “Let me alone for awhile; take a walk, all of you.” He ordered.

Tony pulled himself up and wiped his mouth.  That was the least he could do, give the boss one last moment. He signaled for Abe and Chuck to follow and they headed towards one of the abandoned warehouses.  Johnny waited until they were exactly thirty-five feet off.  Then he slid into the car, and turned on the ignition.  In a whirl of smoky dirt, he spun the car around three times, and flew past the boys, laughing his head off.  He didn’t stop laughing until he reached the airport. He left the car, and ran all the way to the reservation desk of Air Italia.  Perspiring and short of breath, he said to the pretty young clerk.  “One way ticket please, to Palermo…. Sicily.” Johnny was going home.

John Rosselli (right) checks over a writ of ha...
John Rosselli (right) checks over a writ of habeas corpus with his lawyer, Frank Desimone after Rosselli surrendered to the U.S. Marshall here yesterday… (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Reference: All American Mafioso, The Johnny Roselli Story.  By: Ed Becker.


Even though I lived in Del Mar, California and have traveled back several times a year, my May trip was transformed into a Hotel Indigo vacation.

Imagine, an unsmiling, tense, anxious guest arriving for her first stay at Hotel Indigo, a bit wrung out from a two day desert crawl in the Van.  

Then, I looked around the lobby, and I felt like I was in Tangiers. The Moroccan blues and reds poked at my sleeping senses, and the gentleman, who checked me in, was as well mannered as Cary Grant. The sun-light that flecked the lobby beckoned me to the adjoining deck, where comfortable sofas, and tables formed a circle around a fire- pit.  The ocean fills the gap between an expansive deck and the horizon. I imagined I’d be there later, when the sun drops down.

Still pestered with a needle of tension, about the room, as rooms booked online may be virtually enticing, but in reality, end up cheating us. My room theme, as all the rooms have themes reflecting the neighborhood story, was a sea-shell. Every room is dressed in a mural, with matching fixtures, and coordinated bedding.  The furnishings are new, unmarked, and the bedding stacked with pillows. I flopped on the bed and stared into the tunnel of a white shell. I closed my eyes, and just as suddenly sat up and called the Spa.

The whole concept of Spa is so luxuriating, and indulgent, some of us feel uncomfortable. This spa has the vibe of a nurturing and harmonious enclave. While waiting for the therapist I drank Tea, nibbled on trail mix, and read Travel & Leisure.  Danielle, a woman with a childlike smile and rosy cheeks escorted me into a spa room, and while she prepared me, I was already feeling the drainage of tension.  Eighty minutes later,(and only $125.00)I lay there like seaweed; boneless, semi-conscious, and grateful. I floated by the pool, and decided to walk into town and have lunch at the Secret Garden since the hotel restaurant wasn’t open for lunch yet. (one more week)

Secret Garden sidewalk Peruvian bistro serves the best Ceviche this side of Spain.  Afterwards I vacillated between senseless shopping or going back to the hotel, and the hotel won.  It takes fifteen minutes to walk to the village; and you can take the beach route, the bluff route or Camino del Mar.

With a few hours before dinner, I followed my instincts and took a day nap, at a time one can be interrupted by guest noise, but I heard nothing. It was when I woke up, that

the transformation came full circle.  My fatigue was subdued, and my head empty of annoying chatter. As I passed through the hotel lobby, the conversation from the dining room, was joyful, and inviting.

We chose to dine in the village, at IL Fornaio, where we have spent so many festive evenings over the years I lived in Del Mar.  After a day of decompressing, the evening

was like being in an out of focus movie. The restaurant was crowded, a lot of pretense and showiness, but it wasn’t annoying. My body and mind were at peace.

The next morning, I rose to birds singing, and sun splashed curtains.  After a dip in the very deep and powerful spa, I strolled into the dining room for breakfast. Now, deeply committed to spa weekend, I passed on the Breakfast Panini and Smoked Salmon Eggs Benedict and ordered the Fruit Plate, ($12), deliciously fresh and large enough for two persons.  Once again I took notice of the authentic and bountiful attitude of the staff; they are obviously professionals in a business that has moved civility to the back burner.

Propelled by the excellence I hunted down the manager to

Pass on my Spa Experience. Susan Knapp, is the answer, she is vivacious, warm, and a gentle person, who took me by the hand and explained the coming attractions.

  • Poolside cabanas with massage.
  • Race Track Events
  • Live Music

I asked Susan how she managed to employ such a brilliant group of people. “I hire people with personality. You can train them on all the other facets, but you can’t educate someone on personality.”

Hotel Features:

State of the art gym with steam

Two Pools and full service Spa

Completed $7,000,000 renovation in 2012.

94 Units with 26 suites, (kitchenettes)

Rates: $119-$350

Conference Room

Boutique in the Spa

Dining Room and Full Bar

My responsibility as a writer is to assure people taking a chance in life is the only way to live, and so … I throw the dice.

My responsibility as a writer is to assure people taking a chance in life is the only way to live, and so … I throw the dice..


We hear our voice utter in youth, in our exuberance for life without doubt. In adolescence we begin to question, every nuance, expression, thought and answer.

Then  during our academic or wandering career years it is subordinated, for to-do lists, obligatory appearances, exams, false presentations, social expectations, ambition, competition, and a eagerness to achieve. A distortion of our inner voice emerges.

Until one day, a reminder drops in your lap, and you ask yourself, ‘ WHERE HAVE I STRAYED? 

This is about returning to the forever young paradigm.

Thanks for all your comments and contributions!