It’s Tuesday, October 14. D’Angelo passed away. He was something else. I remember seeing the cover for Brown Sugar and wondering who this sexy young man was. I bought the CD on the strength of the cover and loved the music within. Hip hop with some soul. Neo Soul it was called eventually. Erykah Badu, Common, Maxwell, and a whole host of others moved to the forefront. I was interested in seeing him at Radio City, but was somehow diverted by some idiot that I worked with telling me that it was going to be all women screaming.

A few years after that, D’Angelo released Voodoo. I entered a contest back then and won a Rio MP3 player, which fit maybe 3 songs at the time. I still have it somewhere. I won a Levi’s Denim Jacket, which I still have and wear to this day, and also a laminated promo pass for the album. The cream of the whole thing was the video for Untitled (How Does It Feel). D’Angelo, possibly nude, staring into the camera and emoting somewhat erotically. It got my attention and pops up in some gay videos now and then.

Time passed, stories about D’Angelo recording, getting in trouble with the law. The trim physique from the Untitled video had proven to be too great to carry, and he lost it. It wasn’t really him, though it did get a lot of tongues wagging, literally and figuratively. In December of 2015, seemingly out of nowhere, D’Angelo released Black Messiah, credited to D’Angelo and the Vanguard, which included Jesse Johnson from The Time and a top-shelf bassist, Pino Palladino, who had played with The Who.

I played it constantly ten years ago, back when I wore headphones while walking down the street to the Path train. I worked with a guy named Neal Elevado, whose brother Russell was D’Angelo’s engineer. Deep discussions were held about Black Messiah. The next year, Bill and I went to Forest Hills Tennis Stadium to see the tour. Bill was not that familiar with D’Angelo’s catalogue.

We met up with Frankie Santangelo at the concert, an old friend from way back when, and also a fellow checkerboard chick. Today is Frankie’s birthday, now remembered as the day D’Angelo died. Frankie was the one who mentioned that in a phone call this afternoon. I called Frankie to discuss D’Angelo.

It was a shock to hear from Bill this morning about D’Angelo. Bill knew that I would be affected by this, and I certainly was. 51 years old, pancreatic cancer. Much too young. He kept it to himself, I guess, since it came over the wire and left everyone floored. I’ve been posting various clips and videos throughout the day, comisserating with other fans.

D’Angelo had a son, Michael Archer II, with Angie Stone. Angie passed away earlier this year. Michael posted his gratitude to everyone during this rough year.

A statement from D’Angelo & Angie Stone’s son, Michael, on the passing of his father:

“I am grateful for your thoughts and prayers during these very difficult times, as it has been a very rough and sad year for me.” “I ask that you please continue to keep me in your thoughts, as it will not be easy, but one thing that both my parents taught me was to be strong, and I intend to do just that.” -Michael Archer II

Well, it is October 13th, a Monday, and indigenous peoples’ Day, AKA Columbus Day. There was a time when I’d have off on Columbus Day, but those times are gone. A nor’easter was scheduled or predicted, or forecast, but I don’t think it’s actually arrived, at least not here.

Down the shore, coastal towns might be inundated, but in Hoboken / Manhattan, it’s not so bad; it’s just wet. And we needed the water since we’re in the middle of a drought. Who knows if the drought will be alleviated?
was
I’m dictating and not typing. I am at work and hardly anyone is in. Hardly anyone was on the PATH train this morning. There are generally fewer people on Mondays and even less on Fridays, leaving Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday to be somewhat crowded. But like I said, there are a few people this morning on the path train.

I sit at my desk listening to Brian Eno, and I was listening to Michael Kiwanuka earlier.
I’ve been here for about two and a half hours, and those two and a half hours have been very long. This weather does lend itself to sleep, making waking up this morning a little bit difficult. But I did sleep well.

I was going to go over to Mike’s this weekend on Saturday, since Sunday was anticipated to be a weather disaster. And then Mike flipped the script and said he was coming over to Hoboken just so he could get out of his apartment. And then Mike flipped the script again and declared that he had to work even though there was nothing scheduled for the evening it was all done in the afternoon.

To me, that Michael had a playdate with someone and didn’t want to tell me, and I’m pretty sure that’s what he did. I do think he’s a sex addict, and I do think he almost had me hooked once again after all these years.

Despite all his street smarts, he is a bit naive and childlike in so many ways, and I would hate to think someone would take advantage of him, although it seems that he does want to be taken advantage of. And that is why whatever we had did not work because I did not want to take advantage of him.

It’s a grey, damp day with a grayish white sky.

Diane Keaton passed away over the weekend. That was sad. My sister and I used to go see Woody Allen are back in the day at the Century Theater in Paramus. We saw Sleeper, Love and Death, Annie Hall, Interiors and Manhattan. It was a yearly thing since Woody released one new movie a year back in the day. So she was a part of my growing up, one of those actors who, because you like them so much, you would see them in just about anything that they put out.

According to the news reports, it was very sudden, not many people knew, and I certainly did not. So raise a glass to Diane Keaton, a one of a kind ladida la di da.

Listening to a lot of Brian Eno today, specifically the box set of instrumentals that was given to me by Rae Guay back in the day, before I even met her. I’ve explained what happened between me and her. She thought I was smarter than I actually was, and I set up to disprove her, and I am writing about her 20 years later, no contact whatsoever.