Linda now blogs Monday to Friday ON THIS SITE

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                          Happy Holidays to my OS friends

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the lofts,
Not a creature was stirring, except a guy next door called Jack Foss.
The earplugs were hung by our bed with great care,
In hopes that our neighbour might play something with flare.

We were all nestled snug in our beds,
While visions of Indie-Pop danced in our heads.
And mamma in her long sleeve top and I without my britches,
Had just settled our ears for a long winter’s nap- Bitches.

When out in the hall there arose such a clatter,
Steve sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away down the stairs he flew like a flash,
I banged on the walls and could smell the damn hash.

The moon that shone on the breast of instrument notes gone bad,
Gave us memories of music that was now distorted and quite sad.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But Steve with a baseball bat and a look of no fear.

With a little knock on the door that was so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment the bad music would soon be fixed.
More rapid than a song by Chet Baker Steve's angry words came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called him bad names!

"Now Jack! Now, Foss! Now stop that bad music you are ‘mixin’,
On, Davis! On, Gillespie! Maybe Marsalis or Blue Mitchell,
To the top of the instrumental pops! To the top of the Glenn Miller wall!
That’s not music you are playing; that’s just garbage "y'all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When Steve meets with an obstacle his anger mounts to the sky.
So up to his top floor- Jack Floss flew,
To grab his trumpet and a keyboard too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard next door,
The strains of bad trumpet music thinking Steve might want more,
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
I heard Steve bang on the door again with his bat going down.

Foss was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,
And his trumpet was all tarnished with perspiration and soot.
A bundle of music he had flung on his back,
And he looked like Doc Severinsen, leading the Johnny Carson pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! (gotta love that homemade beer they make)
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the strains from that trumpet? Dohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

The lip of that horn he held tight in his teeth,
And the blast from that music  encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he played, like a bowlful of expired jelly!

He was chubby and plump, and not quite perfect,
And I did not laugh when he blew our electrical circuit,
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had lots more to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to work,
He played another full length song and then turned with a jerk.
Snapping his finger and picking his nose,
And giving a nod, he asked if we liked Roy Hargrove.

We sprang to attention and then gave each other a nod,
And away we both flew like the down of a thistle.
But he heard us exclaim, with the bat that hardly fought,
"Happy Christmas dear Jack Foss but Chris Botti you’re not!

Photos and "Text Adjustment" by Linda Seccaspina 2011

Just poppin over to say Happy Christmas and have a heck of a good New Year! Happy Holidays!!

Love you much!

Linda