Monday, September 19, 2016
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Friday, January 2, 2009
In a small two story New York City building, between 7th and 8th Avenue, on the north side of 54th street, my first professional drum lessons took place.
The Gene Krupa, Cozy Cole School of Drumming, wasn’t a school in the formal sense. In fact, it was a 12X12 room, with a blackened out bay window on the second floor. There was no ventilation to speak of as the darkened window couldn’t be opened anyway. In that room, after a dozen or more lessons, with Krupa and Cole, life changed forever.
When I was two years of age in, 1943, Gene Krupa was arrested in San Francisco, on a bogus drug bust. Charged with possession of marijuana and contributing to the delinquency of a minor he was sentenced to 90 days, of which 84 were served. He was later cleared of all charges. A jail term for drug possession, in the 40’s, was a career-busting sentence for a celebrity like Gene.
By the time I was taking my first professional lessons, I had heard and read about my idol’s jail sentence and supposed alleged addiction as in ‘pot head’. After the first few lessons, my curiosity got the best of me and I asked Gene about all the rumors and did he really go to jail.
Gene was very accommodating and tried to put me at ease by simply telling me his side of the story. He said his life was exciting at the time. He had a dedicated roadie setting up his drums. Gene had asked the roadie or the roadie decided, to score some pot without being asked. The dedicated assistant scored, maybe telling the dealer who it was for just to impress him. The kid roadie left the pot in Gene’s hotel room. The cops were snooping around where his band was working and were tipped off.
Krupa, years later, was quoted as saying: “I suddenly remembered the stuffs at the hotel where they’re going next. So I call up the kid and say, ‘Send my laundry out. In one of my coats you’ll find some cigarettes. Throw them down the toilet.’ But the kid puts them in his pocket and the police nail him on the way out, so I get arrested. The ridiculous thing was that I was such a boozer I never thought about grass. I’d take grass, and it would put me to sleep. I was an out-and-out lush. Oh, sure, I was mad. But how long can you stay mad? So it probably helped me. I might have gone into much worse things. It brought me back to religion.”
William Randolph “Cozy” Cole was the prime example of a ‘jazz’ drummer who applied a rudinmentry/ regimental approach to his playing, which established his original style that spanned a number of eras. Other drummers were completely aware that all of the 26 rudiments–flam taps, five-stroke rolls, para diddles and more - but Cozy applied all of them directly to his jazz drumming. The ‘rudiments help a drummer achieve independent left and right hands. The rudiments are a form of ‘weight training’ or rhythmical strengthening exercises drummers use to strengthened their hands. Cozy was a master at swinging those military rudiments.
Cozy Cole was a life-long student of the drums, studying at Julliard in the mid-1940s, with the New York Philharmonics Saul Goodman, It was Cozy who recommended I study with Saul Goodman and Morris Goldenberg, at the extension division of Juilliard School of Music when I completed my lessons with he and Gene and that’s exactly what I did. I also ended up going to college at Juilliard, majoring in Composition and Percussion.
Cozy Cole broke many the racial barriers in music. He was the first African/American musician on a network musical staff. CBS radio hired him to work with Raymond Scott in 1943. Cozy was the utmost professional.
The more you study,” Cozy had often said, “the more you find out you don’t know; but the more you study, the closer you come.”
Study I did, thanks to my Grandmother. She purchased, for my thirteenth birthday, my first new set of Slingerland Drums. I begged my folks to find me a private teacher. I don’t know how they found the ‘Gene Krupa/Cozy Cole’ drum school but they did. They were fans of their recordings and would dance in the living room whenever their records were broadcast over the radio They also had some of their records, and I had practiced playing along with them trying to copy their styles. Just how they found them and how they were able to talk them into taking on a complete novice, I still don’t know.
When my family notified me that they had made the lesson arrangements, I jumped out of my skin. I didn’t know how to prepare. I had decided that purchasing a leather drum stick-carrying case was a must. I had seen drummers use the shoulder strapped holder to carry their prized and varied sticks, mallets and brushes. I knew just where to find such an item. For a few years preceding, I had a subscription to a jazz magazine called “Down Beat” and they advertised such items could be found at Manny’s Drum store, on 48th Street. I had saved up enough money so that few hours before my first lesson took place with these legends of the drums, I stopped at Manny’s and bought a black leather stick case and still had enough left over to get home on the train. Later, when my folks saw what I had spent money on, I caught hell but I didn’t care. I had it for years.
Hurrying up Broadway to 54th street, crossing Broadway to the north side of the street, I rushed west toward 8th Avenue. The dog day hot summer sun and my nerves caused a nauseous rumble to rise up from stomach to the bottom of my throat giving me a nasty taste in my mouth. The sweat under my arms and on the back of my neck would not stop flowing. I couldn’t help but feel nervous. I had also purchased two pairs of new sticks to go into the fancy leather pouch thinking I would gain favor if I had the Gene Krupa, Cozy Cole models to whip out. Even if I could hardly play I was going to look good trying.
Arriving at the address on 54TH Street, I noticed nothing but a bar. They might have thrown me out if I went in to find out where I could find my future teachers. Next to the bar, was a doorway slightly ajar and the stairway, behind the door, led up to a flight of stairs. The stairwell odorr was a combination of urine and dried up vomit. I gagged a few times going up the stairs two at a time. The clicking sound of my sticks rattling around in my new leather holder, echoed against the dirt stained wall. My eyes and nose became aware of cigarettes and the smell of another sweet smelling something I thought I had experienced once before, observing a jam session that included Peanuts Hucko, Wild Bill Davidson and Eddie Condon. That jam session took place in local record store basement, after those wonderful musicians gave a concert at my grade school. I don’t remember how I got there or how my folks allowed me to hang out with a bunch of older musicians. I probably lied about where I was going and whom I was going with.
One of our local musicians, an older guy in his late twenties, had a car and he had picked up the group at the train station. I knew he had to drive them back after the jam, to catch an early morning train that would drag them back to the city for a days sleep. I went along so I could then be dropped off at home, saving time to be able sneak back into my room before day break. The booze and pot were being past around in the back seat, I took a swig but past on the pot as I didn’t know how to smoke. I never forgot that sweet smell. My clothes stunk when I took them off and I hid them under my bed.
Back to the stairwell: I approached another partially opened door. People didn’t bother locking stuff up in those days. Another odor took over of Old Spice Cologne, my own personal favorite. I immediately felt right at home.
“Come on in, boy,” a easy sounding voice came from somewhere inside the door. I couldn’t see who it was. I entered the room and there sat THREE FULL SETS OF SLINGERLAND DRUMS, with a full array of Zildjian Cymbals, lined up in a row and two very nattily dressed middle aged men standing behind the drums.
“I’m Cozy Cole and this is my partner and good friend Gene Krupa. Take a seat behind the set in the middle, young man and we’ll get started. Let’s see what you got first and then we’ll decide where to begin.”
Sweating profusely, I removed my new stick holder fumbling all the way. I think I dropped one of the sticks, or dropped something, but caught it on the way down.
“Good catch, kid,” Gene laughed, “you might be able to play for the Dodgers in a season or two. A real Jackie Robinson.”
I was shook as I sat behind this gigantic, beautiful white pearl glistening set of drums and froze with fear. I couldn’t move. Frozen like a dick trying to piss in an arctic wind. The smells were more pronounced and began to overwhelm me. I noticed a bottle of Four Roses sat on a table by a couch that was littered with red-bannered Downbeat Magazines, newspapers, a racing sheet from Belmont Race track and an ashtray packed full of thirty-day-old butts.
Gene broke the ice and gracefully sat down and played one of his trademark hi-hat riffs right out of his solo from ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’ with Benny Goodman’s band, the hit record that brought him great fame.
“Try that.”
I took a breath and did and just as I had feared. I quickly muffed it. My feet couldn’t reach the hi-hat or base drum pedals, and the seat was too high. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. Gene stopped.
“First of all we’ve got to adjust everything to your size and that ain’t difficult. Here, I’ll help you.” He got up and adjusted my drums very carefully. Cozy leaned in and lowered the hit-hat cymbals and lowered my seat, with me on it. He called the seat a crown. I started right then and there to feel like a king.
I noticed that Cozy’s fingernails were manicured and graceful looking like a Michelangelo drawing of a hand. The long tapered fingers displayed a grace of movement that I knew I might never obtain but for the moment I thought maybe, just maybe, I could do this dream of drumming for the rest of my life. Gene, returning to his set, chewed gum and patiently twirled his stick around his fingers, a trade mark of his, while continuing to keep time on beats two and four with his hi-hat. This I had to learn. Unbelievable! I knew I had to figure how to do that. Just that.
“All right kid, now listen to this and just try to copy it.”
Gene played the same hi-hat swing beat and I copied it as best I could for four bars and then it was Cozy’s turn to show me a rudiment that swung. This stopped me in my tracks but I somehow managed to keep the hi-hat going on two and four.
“That’s it keep the beat going. Never stop,” Gene hollered.
“Okay…okay I see the work that we need to do to get you started,” Cozy offered. Jump start me they did.
Two of the greatest drummers in jazz history, with me on the middle drum set, trading back and forth, four bars at a time, once a week for a dozen or so times. After that I was playing the drums for real and expressing myself musically, as if my hands were on automatic and my teachers were speaking to me from my heart and from there, to my hands.
From that point on, I deserted my bedroom and moved down to our basement, to live with my drums. I found an old cot in a storeroom and moved it next to my drums. I played my drums everyday hard and heavy, after school, before dinner, after dinner and into the night for as long as my folks and kid brother could take it. The sub-conscience trance of a deep obsession with be-bop and every other kind of music kept me in another world most of the time, and it still does today. Somehow, the family put up with this and I was fortunate enough to process and interpret their patients as loving encouragement, which was often offered up in words like: ‘did you practice today?’ ‘Better practice.’ Those lessons cost a lot.’
I created a club like atmosphere in that basement. The lights would be out except for some fake ceiling spotlights aimed on my drums. I would practice my drum lessons first from the Cozy Cole Drum Book and to reward myself after a few hours of trying to swing military rudiments, I played along with the recordings of Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Duke Ellington, Theloneous Monk, Miles Davis, Jerry Mulligan, Stan Getz, Max roach and of course Gene Krupa and Cozy Cole, always at full volume, blasting the Philco Hi-Fi to it’s loudest.
Ten years later, after attending the Julliard School and finding my way into music composition and the music business, I took a morning break from my job producing records for United Artists Records, and went out for a drink to calm my nerves. The bar next to my work place was called The Metropole and was a famous jazz joint at night. As I hit the lunch hour street it, I heard some very fast and furious be-bop coming from the club. I entered and sat down at the bar. The bartender motioned.
“A shot of Grants 12 Year Old and a bear backer,” I ordered. He poured.
“One boiler maker.”
There was a revolving stage and there was Gene Krupa and Illinois Jacquet, wailing away. I was shocked to see that Gene still looked the same in his tan three-piece brown suit. His handsomely dressed figure sat behind the white pearl drum set and the glistening Turkish cymbals cut an impressive presence, considering the Metropole’s noontime zombie clientele. His tie loosened and vest unbuttoned, the sweat rolling down a tanned but puffy face, did not deter me from fixating on Genes constant open mouth smile displaying perfectly white teeth. He finessed the tune ‘Cherokee,’ implanting his swingingness, beat by beat, into the tune and my sub-conscious. The band played its Bop. Krupa’s groups of the early 1940’s were often criticized as being too commercial but his big band was one of the first in the mid-forties to introduce Bop arrangements with the help of some wonderful soloists and arrangers. With the big band days now over, Krupa’s small quintet had a modern, progressive-sound, like Gene himself, who, unlike most of the big-name bandleaders of the era, decided change was important, necessary, and right.
I swigged my drink and stayed for a few chorus’s knowing Gene would never notice me but hoping beyond hope that he might. It was a stupid thought. After ten years, the physical changes I had gone through from an awkward young pimply-faced kid to a Brill Building composer/arranger/song writing fiend, was a complete transformation from puberty to young adulthood. Only my folks and close friends could have recognized that I was the same person.
I shot the shot and chased it down with the cold beer, a habit too early formed, and the tune ended. There was some pathetic applause from the early day boozers.
“Thanks, thank you,” Gene yawned into the mic. I’m sure Gene appreciated the small audience response, but it most likely increased his discomfort level as he counted off the next tune.
Hopefully, not to be noticed, I peeled myself off the bar stool to run over to the Brill Building to sell a song. It was my way to supplement my paltry salary and be able to feed my newborn daughter, Liza, who was taking her nap next to her Mom, up on West End Avenue and 99th street.
The Gene Krupa, Cozy Cole School of Drumming, wasn’t a school in the formal sense. In fact, it was a 12X12 room, with a blackened out bay window on the second floor. There was no ventilation to speak of as the darkened window couldn’t be opened anyway. In that room, after a dozen or more lessons, with Krupa and Cole, life changed forever.
When I was two years of age in, 1943, Gene Krupa was arrested in San Francisco, on a bogus drug bust. Charged with possession of marijuana and contributing to the delinquency of a minor he was sentenced to 90 days, of which 84 were served. He was later cleared of all charges. A jail term for drug possession, in the 40’s, was a career-busting sentence for a celebrity like Gene.
By the time I was taking my first professional lessons, I had heard and read about my idol’s jail sentence and supposed alleged addiction as in ‘pot head’. After the first few lessons, my curiosity got the best of me and I asked Gene about all the rumors and did he really go to jail.
Gene was very accommodating and tried to put me at ease by simply telling me his side of the story. He said his life was exciting at the time. He had a dedicated roadie setting up his drums. Gene had asked the roadie or the roadie decided, to score some pot without being asked. The dedicated assistant scored, maybe telling the dealer who it was for just to impress him. The kid roadie left the pot in Gene’s hotel room. The cops were snooping around where his band was working and were tipped off.
Krupa, years later, was quoted as saying: “I suddenly remembered the stuffs at the hotel where they’re going next. So I call up the kid and say, ‘Send my laundry out. In one of my coats you’ll find some cigarettes. Throw them down the toilet.’ But the kid puts them in his pocket and the police nail him on the way out, so I get arrested. The ridiculous thing was that I was such a boozer I never thought about grass. I’d take grass, and it would put me to sleep. I was an out-and-out lush. Oh, sure, I was mad. But how long can you stay mad? So it probably helped me. I might have gone into much worse things. It brought me back to religion.”
William Randolph “Cozy” Cole was the prime example of a ‘jazz’ drummer who applied a rudinmentry/ regimental approach to his playing, which established his original style that spanned a number of eras. Other drummers were completely aware that all of the 26 rudiments–flam taps, five-stroke rolls, para diddles and more - but Cozy applied all of them directly to his jazz drumming. The ‘rudiments help a drummer achieve independent left and right hands. The rudiments are a form of ‘weight training’ or rhythmical strengthening exercises drummers use to strengthened their hands. Cozy was a master at swinging those military rudiments.
Cozy Cole was a life-long student of the drums, studying at Julliard in the mid-1940s, with the New York Philharmonics Saul Goodman, It was Cozy who recommended I study with Saul Goodman and Morris Goldenberg, at the extension division of Juilliard School of Music when I completed my lessons with he and Gene and that’s exactly what I did. I also ended up going to college at Juilliard, majoring in Composition and Percussion.
Cozy Cole broke many the racial barriers in music. He was the first African/American musician on a network musical staff. CBS radio hired him to work with Raymond Scott in 1943. Cozy was the utmost professional.
The more you study,” Cozy had often said, “the more you find out you don’t know; but the more you study, the closer you come.”
Study I did, thanks to my Grandmother. She purchased, for my thirteenth birthday, my first new set of Slingerland Drums. I begged my folks to find me a private teacher. I don’t know how they found the ‘Gene Krupa/Cozy Cole’ drum school but they did. They were fans of their recordings and would dance in the living room whenever their records were broadcast over the radio They also had some of their records, and I had practiced playing along with them trying to copy their styles. Just how they found them and how they were able to talk them into taking on a complete novice, I still don’t know.
When my family notified me that they had made the lesson arrangements, I jumped out of my skin. I didn’t know how to prepare. I had decided that purchasing a leather drum stick-carrying case was a must. I had seen drummers use the shoulder strapped holder to carry their prized and varied sticks, mallets and brushes. I knew just where to find such an item. For a few years preceding, I had a subscription to a jazz magazine called “Down Beat” and they advertised such items could be found at Manny’s Drum store, on 48th Street. I had saved up enough money so that few hours before my first lesson took place with these legends of the drums, I stopped at Manny’s and bought a black leather stick case and still had enough left over to get home on the train. Later, when my folks saw what I had spent money on, I caught hell but I didn’t care. I had it for years.
Hurrying up Broadway to 54th street, crossing Broadway to the north side of the street, I rushed west toward 8th Avenue. The dog day hot summer sun and my nerves caused a nauseous rumble to rise up from stomach to the bottom of my throat giving me a nasty taste in my mouth. The sweat under my arms and on the back of my neck would not stop flowing. I couldn’t help but feel nervous. I had also purchased two pairs of new sticks to go into the fancy leather pouch thinking I would gain favor if I had the Gene Krupa, Cozy Cole models to whip out. Even if I could hardly play I was going to look good trying.
Arriving at the address on 54TH Street, I noticed nothing but a bar. They might have thrown me out if I went in to find out where I could find my future teachers. Next to the bar, was a doorway slightly ajar and the stairway, behind the door, led up to a flight of stairs. The stairwell odorr was a combination of urine and dried up vomit. I gagged a few times going up the stairs two at a time. The clicking sound of my sticks rattling around in my new leather holder, echoed against the dirt stained wall. My eyes and nose became aware of cigarettes and the smell of another sweet smelling something I thought I had experienced once before, observing a jam session that included Peanuts Hucko, Wild Bill Davidson and Eddie Condon. That jam session took place in local record store basement, after those wonderful musicians gave a concert at my grade school. I don’t remember how I got there or how my folks allowed me to hang out with a bunch of older musicians. I probably lied about where I was going and whom I was going with.
One of our local musicians, an older guy in his late twenties, had a car and he had picked up the group at the train station. I knew he had to drive them back after the jam, to catch an early morning train that would drag them back to the city for a days sleep. I went along so I could then be dropped off at home, saving time to be able sneak back into my room before day break. The booze and pot were being past around in the back seat, I took a swig but past on the pot as I didn’t know how to smoke. I never forgot that sweet smell. My clothes stunk when I took them off and I hid them under my bed.
Back to the stairwell: I approached another partially opened door. People didn’t bother locking stuff up in those days. Another odor took over of Old Spice Cologne, my own personal favorite. I immediately felt right at home.
“Come on in, boy,” a easy sounding voice came from somewhere inside the door. I couldn’t see who it was. I entered the room and there sat THREE FULL SETS OF SLINGERLAND DRUMS, with a full array of Zildjian Cymbals, lined up in a row and two very nattily dressed middle aged men standing behind the drums.
“I’m Cozy Cole and this is my partner and good friend Gene Krupa. Take a seat behind the set in the middle, young man and we’ll get started. Let’s see what you got first and then we’ll decide where to begin.”
Sweating profusely, I removed my new stick holder fumbling all the way. I think I dropped one of the sticks, or dropped something, but caught it on the way down.
“Good catch, kid,” Gene laughed, “you might be able to play for the Dodgers in a season or two. A real Jackie Robinson.”
I was shook as I sat behind this gigantic, beautiful white pearl glistening set of drums and froze with fear. I couldn’t move. Frozen like a dick trying to piss in an arctic wind. The smells were more pronounced and began to overwhelm me. I noticed a bottle of Four Roses sat on a table by a couch that was littered with red-bannered Downbeat Magazines, newspapers, a racing sheet from Belmont Race track and an ashtray packed full of thirty-day-old butts.
Gene broke the ice and gracefully sat down and played one of his trademark hi-hat riffs right out of his solo from ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’ with Benny Goodman’s band, the hit record that brought him great fame.
“Try that.”
I took a breath and did and just as I had feared. I quickly muffed it. My feet couldn’t reach the hi-hat or base drum pedals, and the seat was too high. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. Gene stopped.
“First of all we’ve got to adjust everything to your size and that ain’t difficult. Here, I’ll help you.” He got up and adjusted my drums very carefully. Cozy leaned in and lowered the hit-hat cymbals and lowered my seat, with me on it. He called the seat a crown. I started right then and there to feel like a king.
I noticed that Cozy’s fingernails were manicured and graceful looking like a Michelangelo drawing of a hand. The long tapered fingers displayed a grace of movement that I knew I might never obtain but for the moment I thought maybe, just maybe, I could do this dream of drumming for the rest of my life. Gene, returning to his set, chewed gum and patiently twirled his stick around his fingers, a trade mark of his, while continuing to keep time on beats two and four with his hi-hat. This I had to learn. Unbelievable! I knew I had to figure how to do that. Just that.
“All right kid, now listen to this and just try to copy it.”
Gene played the same hi-hat swing beat and I copied it as best I could for four bars and then it was Cozy’s turn to show me a rudiment that swung. This stopped me in my tracks but I somehow managed to keep the hi-hat going on two and four.
“That’s it keep the beat going. Never stop,” Gene hollered.
“Okay…okay I see the work that we need to do to get you started,” Cozy offered. Jump start me they did.
Two of the greatest drummers in jazz history, with me on the middle drum set, trading back and forth, four bars at a time, once a week for a dozen or so times. After that I was playing the drums for real and expressing myself musically, as if my hands were on automatic and my teachers were speaking to me from my heart and from there, to my hands.
From that point on, I deserted my bedroom and moved down to our basement, to live with my drums. I found an old cot in a storeroom and moved it next to my drums. I played my drums everyday hard and heavy, after school, before dinner, after dinner and into the night for as long as my folks and kid brother could take it. The sub-conscience trance of a deep obsession with be-bop and every other kind of music kept me in another world most of the time, and it still does today. Somehow, the family put up with this and I was fortunate enough to process and interpret their patients as loving encouragement, which was often offered up in words like: ‘did you practice today?’ ‘Better practice.’ Those lessons cost a lot.’
I created a club like atmosphere in that basement. The lights would be out except for some fake ceiling spotlights aimed on my drums. I would practice my drum lessons first from the Cozy Cole Drum Book and to reward myself after a few hours of trying to swing military rudiments, I played along with the recordings of Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Duke Ellington, Theloneous Monk, Miles Davis, Jerry Mulligan, Stan Getz, Max roach and of course Gene Krupa and Cozy Cole, always at full volume, blasting the Philco Hi-Fi to it’s loudest.
Ten years later, after attending the Julliard School and finding my way into music composition and the music business, I took a morning break from my job producing records for United Artists Records, and went out for a drink to calm my nerves. The bar next to my work place was called The Metropole and was a famous jazz joint at night. As I hit the lunch hour street it, I heard some very fast and furious be-bop coming from the club. I entered and sat down at the bar. The bartender motioned.
“A shot of Grants 12 Year Old and a bear backer,” I ordered. He poured.
“One boiler maker.”
There was a revolving stage and there was Gene Krupa and Illinois Jacquet, wailing away. I was shocked to see that Gene still looked the same in his tan three-piece brown suit. His handsomely dressed figure sat behind the white pearl drum set and the glistening Turkish cymbals cut an impressive presence, considering the Metropole’s noontime zombie clientele. His tie loosened and vest unbuttoned, the sweat rolling down a tanned but puffy face, did not deter me from fixating on Genes constant open mouth smile displaying perfectly white teeth. He finessed the tune ‘Cherokee,’ implanting his swingingness, beat by beat, into the tune and my sub-conscious. The band played its Bop. Krupa’s groups of the early 1940’s were often criticized as being too commercial but his big band was one of the first in the mid-forties to introduce Bop arrangements with the help of some wonderful soloists and arrangers. With the big band days now over, Krupa’s small quintet had a modern, progressive-sound, like Gene himself, who, unlike most of the big-name bandleaders of the era, decided change was important, necessary, and right.
I swigged my drink and stayed for a few chorus’s knowing Gene would never notice me but hoping beyond hope that he might. It was a stupid thought. After ten years, the physical changes I had gone through from an awkward young pimply-faced kid to a Brill Building composer/arranger/song writing fiend, was a complete transformation from puberty to young adulthood. Only my folks and close friends could have recognized that I was the same person.
I shot the shot and chased it down with the cold beer, a habit too early formed, and the tune ended. There was some pathetic applause from the early day boozers.
“Thanks, thank you,” Gene yawned into the mic. I’m sure Gene appreciated the small audience response, but it most likely increased his discomfort level as he counted off the next tune.
Hopefully, not to be noticed, I peeled myself off the bar stool to run over to the Brill Building to sell a song. It was my way to supplement my paltry salary and be able to feed my newborn daughter, Liza, who was taking her nap next to her Mom, up on West End Avenue and 99th street.
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