Tag Archives: Coconut Grove Drum Circle

Playhouse Parking Problems Proliferate

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Coconut Grove Playhouse panorama

As I told my newest BFF, Art Noriega, CEO of the Miami Parking Authority, I don’t go to Miami to find problems with his parking lots. That just seems to happen whenever I go to Coconut Grove.

As you may remember from our last exciting epsiode, EXCLUSIVE: Are Valet Companies Stealing From Miami Taxpayers?, I reported how Paradise Parking was illegally parking cars on the Playhouse Parking Lot, contrary to its agreement with the City of Miami. Paradise Parking rents 45 spaces from the Miami Parking Authority at $6.00 per space per day, but those spaces are immediately behind the Playhouse, not the main MPA parking lot to the north of the building.

Copy of Art Noriega’s letter

When I reported this skulduggery to the Miami Parking Authority, Art Noriega jumped into action and sent out this letter, which reads in part:

May 7, 2015

Dear Mr. Radrizzani:

This letter is to follow up on our conversation with Mr. Victor Rosario (Senior Manager of Operations) on Monday May 4, 2015 in regards to Paradise Parking valet staff parking vehicles outside of the designated area at the Playhouse Lot. As explained in the conversation, this conduct or practice will not be tolerated and Paradise Parking staff needs to adhere to the current policies effective immediately.

If for any reason this or any other issue occurs, the current agreement will be terminated immediately.

[…]
 
Art Noriega,
Chief Executive Officer

Some of the 25 spaces reserved for valet parking on June 6

Just a month later, on June 6, I parked in the Playhouse Parking lot again. Ostensibly, I was attending another Coconut Grove Drum Circle, but I couldn’t help notice that the entire middle section of the Playhouse parking lot was cordoned off with caution tape and reserved for valet parking.

Because this seemed contrary to my understanding of the parking lot rules and the letter of understanding, I spoke to the security guard on duty, who knew he was talking to a reporter. Lionel Pichel, of Security Alliance, told me that the spaces had been rented for use by valets for MAC Parking, a Florida company with headquarters in North Miami. It was his understanding the spaces were reserved for a private party at a private residence on the east side of Main Highway. However, that’s as far as his information went.

An interesting thing happened while I was standing there talking to him. Twice valets from Paradise Parking, who confirmed to me later they were working an event at the Cruz Building on Commodore Plaza, pulled in wanting to use the spaces reserved for MAC Parking. Pichel told them the spaces were reserved for someone else and they drove off, to park behind the Playhouse. I’m not sure if an attempt to park where they’re not allowed would vitiate the contract with the Miami Parking Authority, but “If for any reason this or any other issue occurs, the current agreement will be terminated immediately” seems pretty all-encompassing. Pichel told me that the valets always try to park in the
main lot and they always have to be chased away. He said he was glad I had already confirmed the rules to him.

These spaces were empty all night long.

Shrugging my shoulders, I went off on my merry way, first to dinner and then to the drum circle, which is right across the street from the Playhouse parking lot. Before hitting the drum circle, I returned to the parking lot to get my stuff out of my trunk. I couldn’t help but notice that every space reserved for valet parking was still empty.

I talked to Mr. Pichel again. He was surprised the valets hadn’t arrived yet and told me that I should be seeing guys with white shirts running around soon. However, all night long I kept popping back over to see whether anyone had parked in these spaces reserved for MAC Parking. Eventually all the other spaces in the lot were occupied and, just like in May, customers would pull into the lot, find no available spaces, and leave again. Yet, the center core of the parking lot, 25 spaces in all, remained empty.

I didn’t stay overnight, but when I left at 11 PM these spaces were still unoccupied. Subsequent research informs me they were empty all night.

The MPA confirmed that MAC Parking rented 25 parking spaces, at $10 per. However, that was THE PREVIOUS WEEKEND, not on June 6th. That means there was an internal communications SNAFU that cost the city of Miami an untold number of dollars on Saturday night. Because it was FAM Night in the Grove, every one of those 25 spaces would have been filled. Furthermore, who knows how many times each would have been turned over during the course of the night?

I’m told that the MPA people who messed up will be dealt with. However, as a result of my initial inquiries, the MPA said it will no longer rent spaces for valet parking in the main Playhouse parking lot after the end of June.

However, that’s only one problem solved. I filed a Freedom of Information request to learn the name of MAC Parking’s client, the person (or company) who had the juice to reserve public facilities for a private function. However, I have been told that the MPA has no way to compel MAC Parking to reveal the name of its client as it is a private company not subject to Florida’s Sunshine Laws.

I have suggested that this is a serious gap in the information the MPA collects on behalf of the public it serves. It’s more important to know who is using taxpayer facilities than who contracted for said facilities. The argument I made was, “What if my name is Al Capone and I hired a valet company to park the cars of all my mobster friends? Should I be able to hide behind a 3rd party private contractor?” In essence, I was told, yes. As long as the parking spaces are being used for lawful purposes, the city has no interest in who contracted MAC Parking to use public facilities. I told the MPA that we’ll have to agree to disagree, while I investigate that aspect of the FOIA act a bit further, because that just don’t sound right to me.

Meanwhile, there is still the issue of valet parking traffic on Charles Avenue, which was one of those 11 questions I asked of [allegedly] corrupt Miami Commissioner Marc D. Sarnoff, on December 19th of last year. Sarnoff refused to answer my two attempts to get a reply, punting to the Miami Parking Authority instead, even though some of those questions were outside of the MPA’s bailiwick. Here’s a question [allegedly] corrupt Miami Commissioner Marc D. Sarnoff never answered:

2). When neighbours complained previously that the 45 valet parking spots rented from the MPA would bring additional traffic, they were assured there would be no additional traffic on Charles Avenue as a result. This is clearly false. Why has this been allowed to continue for the past year despite occasional complaints by the neighbours?

Read: The Coconut Grove Playhouse Trojan Horse; Part II for the full list of questions that [allegedly] corrupt Miami Commissioner Marc D. Sarnoff refused to answer on behalf of his constituents. Then join ABT – Anybody But Teresa, the facebook page that openly scoffs at the notion that [allegedly] corrupt Miami Commissioner Marc D. Sarnoff is trying to get his wife annoited in his seat after he’s been term-limited out on his ass.

On Saturday night I happened to run into a resident from Charles Avenue, someone with whom I’ve spoken to previously about the parking fiasco. When I explained that the Paradise Parking valets are now forced to go in and out using Charles Avenue, they reminded me the City of Miami promised that that wouldn’t happen. I reminded them that I was told by the city that the residents should be happy that it’s less traffic than when the Playhouse was open, which is hardly the point.

I have a fix for this problem if the MPA is willing to listen, and from what I know of Art Noriega, he will. Whether he acts upon it is another story, but it would solve several problems. If I were the Parking Czar, here’s what I’d do:

1). Allow the parking valets in and out privileges on Lot 6, the main Playhouse Parking Lot, as long as they don’t park there;
2). Where I’ve drawn a yellow line is a white arrow painted on the ground. Paint over it;
3). At the yellow line place a sign that says Valet Parking Only, just like the sign currently on Charles Avenue, and allow the valets to use this for parking cars;
4). Where I’ve drawn a red line is a gate to Charles Avenue where the Valet Parking Only sign is. It used to be closed and locked before the MPA rented the space to Paradise Parking. It should be closed and locked again.

VOILA!!! 

 The valet traffic on Charles Avenue is reduced drastically. Both the valets at the Cruz Building and the restaurants on the ground floor of the Grove Gardens Residence Condominiums can use the Main Highway entrance and exit..

Then, if not for the valets racing in and out of the Regions Bank parking lot, there would be no valet traffic on Charles Avenue at all. However, Aries Development has contracted with Regions Bank to use this parking lot when the bank is closed, regardless of how dangerous it is to have valets zipping in and out where families walk.

A Different Drummer ► Unpacking the Writer

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A funny thing happened at the 32nd Annual King Mango Strut

Back in December, when I covered the 32nd Annual King Mango Strut,
I could have hardly imagined it would be a life changing event. Yet,
almost immediately I realized it was a transformational day.

TO RECAP: I attached myself to the Coconut Grove Drum Circle to cover the King Mango Strut from the inside. The parade, which went
around a small 2-block circuit exactly one time, spent the entire morning
marshaling on Commodore Plaza. I had a lot of time to think. It took 5 times longer to get ready for
the Strut than it did to Strut. That was over almost before it began.

A journalist
straddles a tiny grey area between participant and observer. One tries
to stay out of everybody’s way, without blending too far into the background. Taking notes, taking pictures, taking impressions at once removes the
journalist from the action, while it immerses the writer in the experience at the very same time. It’s an anomaly.

One thing became clear to me during all those hours: I DID NOT want
to be covering the King Mango Strut. I just wanted to be hitting those
drums instead.

I’m no drummer. I barely have any rhythm. I’m not even a musician. The blog post My First Band ► Cobwebs And Strange
recalls my HIGH-LARRY-US teenage attempts at being a lead singer in a Rock and
Roll band. To sublimate my lack of musicianship, I love listening to
all genres of music passionately. It’s not a fair tradeoff, but it’s all I’ve got. [That and 42 linear feet of CDs, more that 25,000 tunes on my hard drive, and enough Spotify playlists to last several lifetimes. Whoever has the most music when they die, wins!]

Djembe drums awaiting use

But…but…but…on
the day of the King Mango Strut, all I wanted to do was to slap those drum skins. Every once in a while one of the drummers would let me have a few
whacks on their oddly shaped drum, which I now know is called a
djembe. But, walking past a drum and giving it a few taps is different
from putting it between your legs and banging away. And, I was desperate to put one of those things between my legs and bang away. The only other time music had such an immediate, visceral effect on me is told in The Day I Met Bob Marley, another popular post at Not Now Silly.

By
the time the Strut was over, I knew I would be joining the
Coconut Drum Circle again, but this time as a participant. I would get my chance soon enough. There’s one held on the
first Saturday of every month, just a few hundred feet from where we
marshaled for the Strut.

So, skip ahead. It’s the first Saturday of the month. At the corner of Commodore Plaza and Grand Avenue I was handed a djembe. I spent the evening pounding away like a mad man, until my hands hurt. Sadly, it was nothing like what I had anticipated and it turned out to
be a very unsatisfying and deflating experience.

To begin with, I should have brought my own camping chair. I don’t mean to be churlish because I was graciously supplied with a drum and a tiny stool. But that little thing hurt my delicate ass after several hours. To make matters worse, I couldn’t hear myself. That’s why I hurt my hands. I was trying to make my drum loud enough so I could hear it over all the other drums. Not
being able to hear meant that I couldn’t tell how hitting the head in different places affected the sound. Only later did I realize I sat next to all the BIG DRUMS that people were hitting with big sticks. No wonder I couldn’t hear myself.

Worse still was the fact that, once again, I had to face up to the limitations of my left hand. Back when I was a teenager my guitar teacher told me I had no absolutely coordination in my left hand. To quote myself:

It turns out that time proved him right. Over the years I have learned
that my left hand is pretty useless for most tasks. When I smoked I
couldn’t even use my left hand to hold the cigarette because I managed
to drop it so many times. Trying to use a remote with my left hand?
Forget it! I’m the EXTREME opposite of ambidextrous. Hell! I’d give my
right arm to be ambidextrous.

It’s probably just as well I couldn’t be heard in the mix at the drum circle. Whenever I tried to find my own beats within the group’s rhythm, my left hand would lurch out spasmodically, finding crazy syncopation never intended for music of any kind, even Jazz. I drove back to Sunrise from my first drum circle dejected. It was not at all what I had hoped. Nor did it feel as if I could ever fit myself within the group’s rhythms.

Yet, there were moments that first night that transcended thoughts, transcended time, transcended my crappy rhythm. I would find myself transported, soaring through millennia of music making. I imagined myself back in Kebo, the name the original Bahamians
gave to this area of Coconut Grove a century ago when they settled here and built Miami. At night there would have been music-making. I could feel the
energy we created merging with rhythms from the past, present and future. Outside was one thing. In my head I could fuse what the circle created with Gospel melodies, horn sections, Rock and Roll, Jazz, New Orleans, and Reggae rhythms. Again, it penetrated me deeply in a way that words just seem so inadequate to describe. This paragraph will have to do instead.

I was pissed. As much as I was drawn to the drumming — as much as I wanted to be a part of it — my lack of left-hand rhythm kept me at a distance, kept returning me to reality. I was running these thoughts through my mind the next day as I listened to music. I soon became aware that, as always, I was tapping my feet and ‘drumming’ the fingers of my right hand on my desk to the tunes. What was going on?

TANGENT: My odd relationship with music didn’t quite make sense to me until I read Musicophilia by Dr. Oliver Sacks. That’s also when I started to over-think my lifetime contract [sic] with music and how I process it. I’ve been reading Sacks, who writes fascinating books about people who have anomalies, diseases, or damage in their brain, for many years. However, this book was the first time I ever thought he was talking directly about me, in part.

I happened across the Sacks book right after reading This is Your Brain on Music: The Science of a Human Obsession by Daniel J. Levitin. Musicophilia is about the [almost mystical] effect of music in (on?) the brains of case studies, both normal and abnormal. This is Your Brain describes the science of measuring the changes in the brain caused by listening to and/or playing music. These two books summed up for me my relationship to music, whether it’s shaking my eardrums or being created inside my head.

Growing up, adults always
told me I was fidgety. It took many years to realize that I wasn’t
nervous. I was keeping a rhythm to music by tapping my feet and/or drumming my
fingers. Even if there’s no music playing. Especially if
there’s no music playing. My mind is
always creating music when there is none: the ticking of a fan, the hum of florescent lighting, or the sound of footsteps can all lead to my brain over-laying a tune on top of it. My toes and fingers are reacting to that. As a child I never had the language to describe it. As a young adult I figured if I told that to people, they might lock me up. Now that I am — ahem — mature, I’m quite comfortable with the music in my brain. TANGENT OVER. MOVE ALONG.

I spent almost a week of analyzing my disappointment to my first drum circle. Friends told me I was over-thinking the whole dealie, but that’s how I process events that rub me wrong. One friend tried to make me understand that all that was needed was for me to feel the music. It wasn’t necessary to think the music. I especially didn’t need to over-think the music. But I did. I knew I did. How did I know? Because I couldn’t get the problem out of my head.

Then the light bulb went on. I realized that what I really wanted to play was what I heard in my head and what I was hearing in my head was not a drum. A drum circle plays
budda-duh-budda-duh-budda-duh-budda-duh-dum-dum-daddah. [repeat] What I was
hearing in my head was tink, tink, tink, tinka-tinkahh, tink, tink,
tink, tinka-tinkahh on top of the rhythm.

It came to while I was ‘drumming’ my fingers on the desk again. Paying better attention to what my fingers were doing — over-thinking it, you naysayers — I realized they weren’t beating out a steady rhythm at all. My fingers were popping off accents within the rhythm. I was hearing the syncopation inside the rhythm.

Mine looked exactly like this
until I knocked the logo off

Over the next week I visited a couple of music stores and tested out a number of percussion instruments. I really liked the sound of the wood blocks, but they were all far too expensive for this weird, new obsession I was chasing. What if I didn’t like it?

I finally settled on a set of claves and a cowbell. I spent the next little while practicing the claves as various genres of music played on my computer jukebox. I knew almost immediately I had found my instrument! My left hand needs to do nothing but hold a stick. How hard is that? My right hand only needs to bang another stick against it. How hard is that?

Since finding my instrument I’ve also learned about several different drum circles in my area. Until recently I had no idea drum circles were even a thing, but they’re all over the place. There are a few nearby on each full moon and several within an hour’s drive at other times during the month. There are drum circle classes and larger, yearly, conglomerations of drummers. These bring together many drum circles and people make a weekend of it and howl in the woods (in my imagination). I’m learning there’s a very primal need being fulfilled with drum circles. The journalist in me says they require further investigation. The neanderthal in me just wants to bang sticks together.

I have now guest starred with a few separate drum circles, insinuating my tink, tink, tink, tinka-tinkahh, tink, tink,
tink, tinka-tinkahh within the budda-duh-budda-duh-budda-duh-budda-duh-dum-dum-daddah. I’ve now sat in enough drum circles to note each have a different personality. I’m not quite sure how anyone else takes what I do, but I’m having a great time finally playing what I hear in my head and meeting new friends along the way.

And that’s the story of how covering something as a writer changed my life.

NOT NOW SILLY NEWS FROM THE NOT NOW SILLY NEWSROOM: There are several new posts already in the works, with the research pretty much finished. Just within the last few days so many things have occurred on Charles Avenue, that I’ve barely had time to keep up. I have a few outstanding phone calls, but that will get its own post coming up in the next few days. I’m also part-way through documenting a second chapter of Where the Sidewalk Ends, Racism Begins. And, as I keep promising, there’s a new chapter of Farce Au Pain coming up. While on the subject of books, don’t miss The Johnny Dollar Wars ► Chapter and Verse, in which I expose my crazy cyber-bullies for the malevolent creeps they are, last thing Mark Koldys wants anyone to know.

The 32nd Annual King Mango Strut

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Fake Ford, Fake Francis

The IM came from a functionary of the King Mango Strut: “Can we go off the record?” 

This can be a trap for a journalist. Answer “Yes” and anything you’re told cannot be reported. Answer “No” and you may lose a good tip. What to do? What to do?

After thinking it over for 10 seconds — and remembering how an anonymous tip led to all my reporting on Trolleygate — I agreed to go “off the record.”

“The Rob Ford that will be Grand Marshall at tomorrow’s King Mango Strut is not the real Rob Ford. He’s a lookalike.”

Oh, great!!! I now have the Scoop of the Century and I can only report it if I can get 2 independent sources to go on the record. But why would I even want to?

The King Mango Strut is one of those Coconut Grove events I’ve made fun of in the past. I’ve compared the yearly Strut whoop dee doo negatively with the total lack of concern and awareness for the E.W.F. Stirrup House. However, the truth of the matter is, I have never attended one myself. I just made fun of it from a distance. This would be the year I would change all of that. I was determined to make fun of it close up.

However, before I ever made fun of the King Mango Strut in the past, I did look at hundreds of online pictures from various previous King Mango Struts. One of the things that struck me looking at all those pics is how many of the participants and observers are White. Like 98.4%.

Okay, I plead guilty to looking at everything in Coconut Grove as two societies divided by The Colour Line. The truth is that whenever I look at pictures of any Coconut Grove event, I tend to see a sea of White faces. Believe me, I obsessively look for the people who stand out, because so few do.

The E.W.F. Stirrup House is marked, with
Commodore Plaza where the blue dots stop

I hope you don’t get the impression that West Grove — Black Grove — is on the other side of town, or anything. The King Mango Strut marshals on Commodore Plaza, the next street over from Charles Avenue, just on the other side of The Colour Line. Commodore Plaza is White Coconut Grove. Just behind it is Black Coconut Grove. It’s a slow 3-minute saunter from the historic 120-year old E.W.F. Stirrup House, currently undergoing Demolition by Neglect, to the middle of Commodore Plaza.

The King Mango Strut also [in all those pics] had the faint whiff of alcohol on the breath. From the pics it just seemed like an excuse for a drunken party. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. The whole thing, in all the pics I viewed over the years, just seemed like one big goof. People didn’t take themselves, or the parade, very seriously.

In fact the whole thing started as a big Eff You to the Orange Bowl Parade years ago when King Orange put so many conditions on entering a float (No kazoos? That’s crazy!!!) that some intrepid Grovites pulled a Mickey Rooney-Judy Garland and started their own damned parade. Hence King Mango. King Orange got kicked to the curb in 2002, but King Mango lives on. The WikiWhackyWoo gets it:

The spirit of the King Mango Strut is significantly tongue-in-cheek. Participants are willing to poke fun at anything and everything. Most of the parade consists of satire of events that have happened in the last year, from world events to state to local. Nothing is off-limits, and the boundaries of good taste are often pushed or broken in the name of irreverent comedy. For example, co-founder Bill Dobson died from cancer in October 2004, but made an appearance in the 2004 Mango Strut, in the form of an urn, with ashes being strewn along the parade route. A group followed with brooms and vacuums followed, trying to “get Bill out of the road.” Organizers do have some humility, however; the ashes were not actually Bill’s remains but regular fireplace ash mixed with kitty litter. However, a sign rode along with Bill’s urn, proclaiming “Hey, I may be dead, but I can still vote in Miami.” Governor Rick Scott, Giant Snails, Global Warming and whatever is current are also “fodder for fun” skits.

When I heard early in the week that Rob Ford, the Crack Smoking Mayor of the town I call home, was going to be Grand Marshall of the 32nd Annual King Mango Strut, I had to see if I could score an interview and put Not Now Silly on the map.

I decided my best bet for doing that would be to latch onto the Coconut Grove Drum Circle. A few weeks ago I mentioned to one of the CGDC organizers that a visit to the Grove coincided with one of their evening get-togethers and I would drop by when I was finished. However, best laid plans, and all that, and I had to skip it. Having now told the drum circle that I would be coming, I decided that it would be impolite to not show up again — just because the real Rob Ford decided not to go. Which is why bright and early Sunday I was driving the 35 miles to Coconut Grove.

MEA CULPA: I misjudged the King Mango Strut entirely. While it’s still 98.4% White, or thereabouts, it’s not the crazy drunken bacchanal as the pictures made it appear. Oh, sure there was a lot of public drinking by both participants and observers, but I didn’t see anyone who was drunk. Except maybe for the fake Rob Ford. It’s hard to tell with that guy.

Something else that I didn’t quite get from all the pics I’ve viewed over the years is the overall vibe of the King Mango Strut, man.

While I’ve written considerably about the Bahamian history of Coconut Grove, I’ve barely touched upon the Bohemian history of Coconut Grove. As long as people have been coming to the Grove, it’s been known as an artists’ colony. From Bohemians to Hippies, The Grove has always had an alternative bent and The King Mango Strut is one of the last vestiges of that Hippie ethos that, I am told, once thrived in the small shops where Cocowalk now is and in Peacock Park. That part of the King Mango Strut actually spoke to me, since I am an unreconstructed Hippie at heart.

And, the drums!!! The incessant drums!!! The beating of the drums!!! 

The CGDC gave off more energy than any of the other floats, and it also
fed off the energy of the participants who got up to dance as they
passed. Experiencing the parade vicariously through the Coconut Grove Drum Circle took me back through the years to Kebo, the African name the original Bahamians gave to the neighbourhood — just the other side of The Colour Line, just the other side of the last century. It made me wonder how long the sound of drums have echoed through this area. The Coconut Grove Drum Circle is keeping a tradition alive that is as old as sticks and logs. All music starts with the rhythm.

A big THANK YOU to the Coconut Grove Drum Circle for allowing me to document up close their participation — from start to finish — in the 32nd King Mango Strut. There’s a much larger facebook gallery of pics here and a playlist of videos at my YouTubery channel.

And, clearly I didn’t insult anyone because the Coconut Grove Drum Circle has invited me back.