ED CARAEFF PHOTOGRAPHER- He came out for the opening, a really nice guy. We played Hendrix every day for 6 months.
PHILIP TOWNSEND AT HIS EXHIBITION IN SANTA FE, NM. A PRINCE OF A MAN. WE SOLD ALL HIS STONES, BUT 4 THAT I KEPT.
JIM MARSHALL-Only he could get Dylan to smile. Jim, the legend rocked the gallery, the most eccentric man I ever met.
JIM MARSHALL.
BARON WOLMAN. The man who ignited Gallery Loulou with his introductions and faith in my passion.
LEFT TO RIGHT. MAN, unknown, my pal Blair Sabol, Jim Marshall, Ali McGraw. I get chills looking at this adventure. OPENING NIGHT IN TAOS, NM.2007
JERRY SCHATZBERG, ICONIC PHOTOGRAPHER AND FILM MAKER WHO DID MORE THAN PUSH THE ENVELOPE. HE PUNCHED IT. I JUST SPOKE WITH HIM, 99 YEARS OLD, CLEVER, HUMOROUS, ALL THERE.He exhibited in the gallery and we became confidants.
AND OF COURSE FAYE. WHOM HE ADORED AND TOOK HER TO HIS CAMERA.
After several summers in Saratoga Springs, I discovered I loved thoroughbred horseracing. All my life Iโve been a performing arts spectator. I never watched any sports on television and only attended baseball games when my father needed a companion. The art of performance led me to experience the racetrack as live theater.
The racetrack is a stage, the jockeys are the actors, and the men and women that fill the bleachers, the picnic grounds, the Turf Club, and the private boxes are the audience. The racehorse is the star celebrity.
The tickets for admission, like any show, are based on your seating. You can walk through the gates for $3.00 or buy a box for $100,000 a year. The collage of human emotions, drama, suspense, and danger are key components to good theater.
Gambling personifies the Shakespearean twist of the racetrack. High rollers and drugstore cowboys wager to win. Some men walk out with a grocery cart of recycled cans; some walk out with enough money to buy a racehorse. They leave by the same gate, and the next day, they return for more. But why, I ask, is thoroughbred racing not considered an all-around American sport? Why donโt jockeys get athletic respect? These two spheres of lightning truth struck me while I trampled through the mud one rainy August day at Saratoga Racetrack.
I asked around for opinions. The Governorโs bodyguard remarked that it was a good question. He did not think gambling was the reason because people always bet on sports. He thought maybe that it was because, as kids, we donโt learn to race horses, like baseball and football. The public is naรฏve about jockeys because they have never raced. Another answer I heard was that 200,000 fans fill a ballgame on any given day and that those numbers donโt compare with horseracing.
Iโm not a gambler, and I donโt ride very well, but I am a drama whore. I took my notebook to the jocksโ room to ask the jockeys what they thought about this irregularity in sports. Jose Santos had a few minutes to spare.
โJose, do you feel like America thinks of you as an athlete?โ
โWe donโt get the respect that we should. I think itโs the gambling. This is the greatest racetrack in America, and there is gambling in every sport, but when you come to the track, you see it right there, and people cannot avoid it. Pound for pound, we are more fit than most athletes.โ
I asked Jose what he does aside from riding. He jogs three miles every day and walks for a mile. He reminded me that if he goes down with the horse, his strength is what gets him back up again. Another misconception is that jockeys only ride for 2 minutes. Well, the race is 2 minutes, but they ride every day of the year. They do not take breaks.
โHow does the public perceive you?โ I asked.
โIn Europe, they are treated like movie stars. Over here the jockey is just another person, and in sports, the jockey is low. I wish we had more respect, but we donโt get the publicity.โ
This feels like the guts of the truth; our little minds like to align with other like minds. The leaders of the pack go to football and baseball, and the media follows behind.
Jose remarked that he only felt real enthusiasm and support when he won the Triple Crown. Otherwise, they get a little column in the paper with the results. โThe Racing Form is 100 pages, and nothing is written about us.โ
โWhat if there was a Jockey Magazine?โ
โWell, that would be great. Then, the companies would be interested, and weโd get sponsors. When I go out to the park and run, I wear Nikes too.โ He chuckled.
โHave they ever approached you for sponsorship?โ
โNo, I donโt expect they will.โ
A few days later, I found Jerry Bailey before a race. It was a cinch to get into the jocksโ room in those days. That was before Elliott Spitzer sipped all the fizz out of Saratoga Race Track. These days the Press canโt walk inside the Jocksโ room. Jerry hopped onto a counter and extended his hand.
โHow are you?โ
โGreat, Jerry, thank you for meeting me.โ
โSure.โ
โJerry, Iโm very interested in the lack of sports sponsorship offered jockeys. Why do you think that is?
โBecause no one is promoting us. If you donโt do anything to promote us, how does anyone know? They have bobbleheads and gimmicks like that, but there isnโt even a Jockey Calendar. Excuse me now; Iโve got to ride a race.โ
Of all the risk-takers and entrepreneurs in the world, horse racing is the champion in all categories. If I decided to understand the business, attend every race, meet every owner, jockey, and trainer, thereโs no chance Iโd understand anything more because I do not love the horse the way a jockey does, and you canโt fool the horse!
During the Hall of Fame Induction presentation at Saratoga a few years back, D. Wayne Lucas made a speech that drew a full house of gregarious applause. This is an excerpt:
โYou ride a great horse, and the owner wakes up the next day and decides to switch to Bailey. The adversity is gut-wrenching, bringing you to your knees and humbling, whether youโre a rider, trainer, owner, or breeder. Thereโs one thing that will keep you going, and that is simply your attitude. Attitude is the most important decision you make every day. Make it early, and make sure you make the right one. You will have a very full and very peaceful life.โ
Maybe itโs time for a Jocks Nike, call it the Two Minute Nike.
Truth is out of style, it rather went the way of 600-page novels, bicycles built for two, print magazines, street theater and many other authenticates we donโt have the will or patience to seek. We take shortcuts and improvise our way through the encrypted labyrinth of electronic modernism. We are in revolution, itโs been coined Cancel Culture, thatโs just a tagline. Our Democrats and Republicans, are trafficking disinformation. Not a day goes by that a political analyst or news anchor doesnโt say it. They wand me up.. and I line it down with opera and wine. Be creative, I say is the best booster.
IN NOVEMBER OF 2005 I reserved a space at the San Francisco Writers Conference. I was nervous and edgy when I boarded the plane. My pitch proposal, pitch suit, and pitch necklace, were tucked inside my suitcase. The pitch convinces an agent or publisher, that you know your subject well enough to feel one hundred percent confident.ย It may sound irrational that a writer could work five years on a book and not know what it is about. As an emerging writer I view my work through a kaleidoscope lens. I see multiple themes, subplots, and messages, and they change with each reading. Then there are loose knots of personal misery, lost versions and rejections ringing in my ears. My pitch has to convince an agent, that at least 5,000 people will buy my book. The pitch suit is the outfit you wear for an interview; only for writers, the guidelines are very loose. Some writers wear their narrative. I brought my tailored, looking successful, pants suit. My pitch necklace is a gold Buddha medallion that my father had designed for my mother. I wear it for good luck and because I know the necklace has survived all the family tragedies. The conference is at the St. Francis Hotel at Union Square. From experience, I have learned that choosing a conference because of its alluring location is meaningless; I never pay attention to past experience.
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It was pouring when I arrived. The staff at the front desk greeted me with musical familiarity. Every time I swished by they called out, โHello, Ms. Smiley.โ I imagined them as a chorus singing my name. I arrived one day early to pace the galleries, cafes, museums and Saks. After the first night, I had to switch rooms. I was directly above the street dumpsters, where for hours the chugging of trash kept me awake. I moved frantically, to scoop everything up and not miss a moment of San Francisco. After switching rooms, I dashed over to the Espresso Bar. It faces the corner of Powell and Sutter. Outside, the streetcars clanged by, passengers dangling from the bars like vines on a tree. In between the tracks, workers both blue and white-collar, and some without any collar at all, jammed the sidewalks on foot, bicycle, moped and skateboard. With phones and iPods attached, eyes alert, they buzzed on the vibe of Saturday, moving like musical notes in a symphony.
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In the cafรฉ an elderly woman wearing a SFWC name tag was seated next to me. I noticed she positioned her book on the corner of her table. She looked overwhelmed and frightened. As I introduced myself she smiled courteously, and said she was a neurotic housewife all her life and didnโt have much to write about, so she wrote about her husbandโs war stories. I told her she should write about the neurotic housewife. Just as I was leaving, she stopped me and thanked me for speaking to her. โThereโs always a guardian angel around.โ Her voice lingered in my thoughts all weekend.
At six oโclock that evening, I was gliding around my room dressing for the gala. I reached for my jewelry bag. It was gone. The weekend was ruined! I would never get published, Iโm too wired, too reckless, too distracted. I called the front desk. Heather said she would call me back. Bang, bang, bang, went my shoe against the bed frame. Then the phone rang.
โHello, Ms. Smiley. Iโm sending the bellman up with your jewelry.โ
I answered the door recoiling with pained joy. The bellman listened attentively. I rushed upstairs to Harry Dentonโs Starlight Room. There I began wine tasting with Maggie, Peg and George; three new comrades in a room of hundreds.
I spent the next day among more comrades, writers with unpublished stories, books, and works-in-progress. I listened to panels of writers; agents and editors discussed the fateful downward spin of publishing and upward battle towards reward.ย We sat in our chairs looking overly anxious, taking copious notes, and waiting for answers to our questions. At the end of the panel discussion we all lined up to meet the agents and editors. While we stood in line we met each other.
โWhatโs your story about?โ the woman behind me asked.
โGrowing up with gangsters,โ I replied.
โ Oh well! That will get you an agent.โ
โ I hope so.โ
During the conference, I experienced a lucky throw of the dice. I met one of my mentors; Joyce Maynard. Her book, โAt Home in the World,โ is on my beside table. Joyce was published in the New York Times when she was sixteen years old. JD Salinger read the piece and invited her to live with him. Joyceโs story will send you back to reading Nine Stories.
As I progressed through the circle holding my pitch stick, the fear and apprehension subsided just a tiny bit. Three agents responded; โsend me your manuscript.โ Naturally when I returned home, my hands were tied to editing. I rushed through, did not employ someone to copy-edit, and then ran about announcing my almost to be signed contract. Three months later I recovered from the rejections and began another rewrite and another until today, when I am on my fifth manuscript. This one feels right because I am not rushing through it expectant of publication; this time I know it will be published.
THANK YOU WORDPRESS.ย My odyessy of love stories have reached readers in Egypt, Western Europe, Eastern Europe, Mexico, South America, the Soviet Union and the USA. I cannot find time to read all the books on my shelves because I am reading theย poetry, literature, and memoirs on WORDPRESS.
“Asย a dancer and prancerย at heart,ย my feet are my hands,ย and my hands are my heart.” 2014
IF YOU DON’T SHARE YOU DON’T CARE. I’ve just started recommending a few of my wordpress pals, and their writings. I still resist the word blogging because it sounds like slobbing. Web writers are amazingly talented, from all over the world, and all ages. I’ve learned about the cultures through their stories from: India, Russia, Brazil, Ireland, Scotland, Europe, and the Middle East.
[contact-form subject='[SMILEY%26#039;S DICE’][contact-field label="Name" type="name" required="1"/][contact-field label="Email" type="email" required="1"/][contact-field label="Website" type="url"/][contact-field label="Comment" type="textarea" required="1"/][/contact-form] I’m a creative nonfiction short story writer, and aย columnist on arts and lifestyle. I have never said one word about politics; I am not a debater, academic, or political science major.
Do to an act of nature, lightening, I lost Cable for a month. This was when Syria broke. No one talked about it here, and I felt the communities disillusionment. When my service was repaired, I turned on the news.ย I felt more insulted than the time a young boy told me my legs were hairy.ย Who did you think you are kidding? You want us to watch both sides fisting each other like a street gang!ย Please someone tell them, the Press, chill out a bit and stop turning the news into a talk show.ย You talk to us as we were mutes.ย The Government has evolved as false as who we see in the mirror.ย If you are plain you see beautiful, if you are beautiful you see plain.ย I see you government, and I am ashamed.
I haven’t read the papers since June. This Thursday I went to the bank to make a deposit to cover my negative, and I looked at the newspapers on the customer coffee table., My eyes shut after two headlines. How much more can we take? I really have lost track of priorities.
Should I get a job because my writing remains unrecognized. I need a retirement guidance counselor. I don’t like the title of financial advisor; they sound too rigid. Should I respond to the dreadful vacillation of American Policy. How much more debating can they do? It’s like when I worked in corporate real estate.ย The meetings I attended and had to present were progress reports on whether I was an effective employee. I don’t know how I lasted as long as I did; my act was good, and I impressed some of the boys, but communication was too formal to bring out honesty. Maybe that’s what has evaporated in our
government, or am I seeing it differently because I’ve aged into it slowly. I think it started when the cool shit act came about. Some artists have it,ย Musicians, yea they got it, gangsta’s got it, but they always had it. Those of us who feigned cool acts, became feigned. Rambling now. Got to sweep fall leaves and
start editing 350 columns.
I’m listing to Nessun Dorma, and oil treating my hair. I was thinking how much I detest all this multitasking. I can now handle five projects at once; write, sweep mop the floor, water plants, contemplate resolutions to my finances, all the while feeling my nerves tighten, and even though I stretch four times a day; this crushing operatic play in life is overstrung.ย I watch those Sandals vacation commercials and practically cry because how many of us haven’t had a vacation in years, or a chance to
play a round or golf or read More Magazine all the way through?
What is this nonsense? Am I really listening to a national complaint against,
Christmas? Who needs a job? Whoever you are that started this, dig yourself a hole in the ground and meditate for a month.
I’m half Jewish, half Catholic-all I know about my mother’s religion is the holidays. They remind me of her, and how the two weeks transformed our home, because she happy, really looking forward to seeing her mom, and sisters, and nieces and nephews….
Whoever you are, watch Hallmark television. We are saps for comfort.
GUEST ALERT: Daughter Of Reputed Mobster, Making The Radio Rounds
THE MOUTH, NOVEMBER 8TH, 2011 — Luellen Smiley is the daughter of reputed mobster, Allen Smiley. Smiley’s dad was a close friend and confidant of famous Las Vegas mobster Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel and he was sitting on the couch just feet away from Siegel the night he was murdered. While Luellen Smiley hadn’t been born at the time of the shooting, she’s conducted research on her father’s life and the events leading up to the shooting and wants to dispel the common belief that her father might have been involved in the shooting. Luellen Smiley has contributed artifacts to the Las Vegas Mob Experience and she joins us to discuss her family history. She’s out promoting the fact that the gangsters of old were not trigger-happy murderers and that J. Edgar Hoover was someone who was out to get them in a big way. Not letting them go straight, etc. She also believes that J. Edgar Hoover was behind the killing of Bugsy Siegel. (Bugsy’s killing was never solved). This week, she joined KNPR for chat. LISTEN TO AUDIO HERE To set up, contact Scott Segelbaum HERE
ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 
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