It was quite the scene last night at Gilda’s Stone Rooster (for those who know not of what I speak, read the post below first), and Gilda is quite the scenery.

             She is a tiny, gnome-like woman with pink highlights along the bottom of her curly hair style. She barely peers above the bar where she takes orders from customers at the wait area, and you can barely hear her soft voice. She takes your money and often stuffs it in her bra (yes, she was wearing a bra, apparently). She is 92 years old and I watched her continuously bending over spryly to pick up empty chip bags from the floor. And then, in a flash, she was over by the band, bobbing to the rhythm.

               She worked the room like a pro, laying hands on the shoulders of so many she knew so well, and grooving to the sounds of the Southcoast Jazz Orchestra as they played everything from “144” on their playlist to “172” – they had no set sheet for the evening so took Bingo-like requests from the crowd.

               The Yuengling light beer was only $2 for the bottle, though the Corona later was $5 (I did pass on a glass and drank from the bottle). I guess the Mexican beer is more popular at Gilda’s, or maybe it’s just that much better.

               The audience was a mature one. I brought down the average age. And it was quite enthusiastic and knowledgeable of good jazz when they heard it. And, it was good jazz. The orchestra was a group that matched its audience in age – one was a cardiologist, another a teacher, etc. The two women in the band seemed to be the youngest, and quite talented, as were the men. They played everything from the Beatles’ “Norwegian Wood” to a Herb Alpert number, for those of you who remember Alpert and his Tijuana Brass.

               The décor was rundown but not quite as sleazy as you might think from the outside – well, maybe it was. There were long tables jammed with people, a couple of red Naugahyde booths, a few old couches and a couple of previously owned stuffed chairs. No bikers that I could tell (but then again who’s to say that cardiologist didn’t ride his hog over?). There was no cover charge but, from what I’m told this was the first time they passed the hat for donations for “Gilda’s Jazz Night.” The band had to have played for free out of nostalgia for Gilda’s more active jazz years.

               I saw the waitress from the local restaurant, and other local celebrities acting many years younger than they are – in a good way.

               In short, it was great fun, and terrific music (though the neighbor who lives in the house behind the bar apparently called the cops because of the noise. Guess they don’t know good noise when they hear it).

               I saw a guy tending bar sip a drink he gave a lady customer and Gilda chide him because that apparently is against the rules. “I’m with the band tonight,” he said in his own defense. Still, I never saw him sip another drink while behind the bar. Small, but carries a big stick. I think he was volunteering behind the bar but the rules still apply.

               All in all, a fun night, with good music and an orderly yet animated crowd.

               I have a new way of looking at that ramshackle bar now.

 

We live in the last house on a dead-end street. On the other end of the street is a highway and on the corner is a place called “Gilda’s Stone Rooster,” which is a road house once known for great jazz music. Well-known names would come to this little town in the middle of nowhere, to play there.

 In the many years we’ve had this house, we’ve never stepped foot into Gilda’s because it is a, uh, road house and you typically see maybe three cars in the lot and/or a few men sitting outside near their motorcycles smoking cigarettes. There used to be a local pesticide guy’s truck parked there every day, mostly from about noon to 3, but, not shockingly, he was arrested on a DUI, and I haven’t seen his truck since.

Gilda (you can see an interview with her, done a year ago, here -- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2hcKXbWNMSI – please note the red nail polish on her left hand, the black on her right), of Stone Rooster fame, is a 92-year-old woman who, I’m told, does not allow smoking or swearing in her establishment. You swear, you pay a fine; you want to smoke, you go outside. I’m also told that for sanitary reasons you should bring your own glass when you go to Gilda’s and, if you are waiting for a drink at the bar in a certain area, and it’s raining out, you might want to put on a hat because it drips in that spot. Gilda, I’m told, also is known to go braless. Remember, Gilda is 92 years old.

A couple of years ago, Gilda again started hosting a jazz night on Mondays featuring the Southcoast Jazz Orchestra. A good friend goes often and says you cannot get in the door it is so crowded. So, we made reservations (yes, you need a reservation to get in) but there’s no admission fee. We’re going to walk down and check it out. I'll probably have a beer, no glass.

I’ve now watched the Ray Rice video three times over the course of two days because I wanted to see if I could pick up any signs of remorse, shame or fear that he hurt the mother of his child when he cold-cocked her; a punch that, if he had used it in the middle of a football game, would likely see him immediately removed from that game, pending further punishment. And the other person he would be hitting would be wearing a helmet and pads. And be huge. And, be a man too.  And the original punishment he received for punching his wife would have been less than for his using too much violence on the field.

I saw no remorse, shame or fear in that elevator. I saw a man knock out a woman, close the elevator door when it opened, apparently so no one could see and then, almost begrudgingly, begin to move her like a sack of laundry out of the elevator. Maybe not even as gently as he would have moved a sack of laundry.

The video is appalling, galling and disgusting. This man is worth millions of dollars. This man was a star in his profession. This man was idolized. This man is a phony, woman-beating creep. And, finally, the powers-that-think-they-be in the NFL are doing something about it. Finally.

It is hard to believe no one in the NFL hierarchy saw this video before yesterday, as they are claiming. And if they didn't see it, I assume that means they didn't ask for it. My guess is if they had asked for it, it would have been delivered. The NFL works with Homeland Security, law enforcement at all levels and employs a professional security agency. Yet they couldn’t get the tape? Maybe they should put TMZ on the payroll because they sure got the tape.

The NFL commissioner is as full of it as the management of the Baltimore Ravens, who had the audacity to put Ray’s wife next to him at a press conference to ‘fess up to her “role” in the incident. Her role was to be a punching bag, I guess, because nothing she did should have provoked that kind of action by Rice. There are reports that she spit at him and slapped him before he cold-cocked her. Oooo, Ray, did it hurt??

There have been a lot of thugs in professional sports. Players have brought guns into the locker room. Players have used drugs to improve their performance or just for fun. Other players have been charged with spousal abuse. It’s not a majority of the players, of course, but for a professional male athlete to punch a woman in the face, like Rice did, just remove the word professional from his descriptor and please insert criminal. And creep.

Deaths of celebrities often come in threes. Today, different forms of death came in a pair – Joan Rivers passed away and former Virginia Gov. Bob McDonnell and his wife were found guilty of political corruption.

McDonnell and his wife gave me many laughs in the trial. It was a tragic comedy of errors that resulted in a defense claiming their marriage had fallen apart (despite the politically correct public displays of affection between the ex-governor and his wife when they were at official events). I guess it just goes to show that if you are a public official and a businessman (especially one selling a questionable product as the McDonnells’ businessman was) showers you with various gifts totaling about $170,000 – he probably isn’t doing it because he likes you. He wants something. And, if you’re a public official and don’t know that, well, what are you doing in public office?

Joan Rivers, born Joan Alexandra Molinsky, was 81 and going strong. She had a few shows on TV and was the senior fashion police officer on E!. She always was a caustic comedian. In the old days her primary target was her husband, Edgar. Liz Taylor was a famous target – Joan once said Ms Taylor had more chins than there are in the Beijing phone book, maybe setting a record as she slammed about a billion people at the same time. Take that Don Rickles!

Totally coincidentally, about a week before her death I started reading her most recent book, “Diary of a Mad Diva,” because I read a terrific review of it. I was reading it slowly because its humor is hard to take in places, just as she was. But I shall finish it, now.

May Joan rest in peace. May the McDonnells, well, they’ll have many years in prison, together but apart, to think about their excesses ,and stupidity.