I am 33. 34 by the time you read this. I keep thinking that, at some point, I'll get it together. I'll frame a schedule of music, writing, reading, listening and business which makes sense and allows time for the rest of my life. But it never really comes.

This summer I was going to read, practice, go to the lake with Jenny & go out to hear music - catch all the acts at the Jazz Showcase, and get caught up on all the scraps of ideas I carry around. I was going to work out regularly & take naps and generally recover from the last seven years or so of personal and professional trail blazing and road living. I have been working as hard and as smart as I've been able to make a place for myself in the world as a Jazz singer. Strike that. As the Jazz Singer. No sense in denying it.

You have to believe in yourself all the way if you are to overcome everything that comes flying at you in life. I remember reading that Charlie Chaplain, of all people --Even when he was just a poor nothing kid tagging the streets & stealing oranges - even then he thought of himself as the greatest actor in the world. Had to, he said, if he was ever going to get anywhere near the fulfillment of his dream. And I'm no different, I guess. Too much in life wants to tell you "no". I make things as I have taught myself, from the ground up, always watching and learning (or trying to learn). You need focus, will power, patience, business acuity, sit-down-ability, a sense of humor.

This summer I needed a break from the tempo. I just got tired, is all. At a certain point, you just have to say, "enough". I even called off some solid dates with Billy Childs, my friend Herb Graham, Jr. and the great poet Kamau Daa'ood at the Jazz Bakery at sort of the last minute. I really wanted to hit that gig, but was just too worn out on too many levels. I can only hope that Ruth and the cats have forgiven me by now. Tired is tired.

It's been five years since my first stab at New York - the guerilla tour - when just trying to get traction was a big enough struggle. In that time I've made four more records for Blue Note, written five shows for the Steppenwolf Theater's "Traffic" Series, written and directed Chicago's Millennium show, toured Europe, four times, Japan twice, Australia three times, hit countless gigs & rehearsals in the States, logged a thousand repetitive interview hours, called the charts, sold & signed the cds, driven the van, paid for the hotel rooms & the bass overweight, fired the drummers, watched the clock & generally busted my creative and professional ass to get things moving. AND I've stayed married.

And still I wake up at 2 or 3 or 4:30 and think of ten things that need to be done - I need to get a drummer to sub on some gig. I need to send a thank you not to some promoter. I need to get with LH & write a lead sheet for some tune. I need to make calls to set up a Border's tour in Chicago suburbs. I need to get money from somewhere for lighting design for the record release, need to make sure fliers are printed & put up, need to call guests for the Green Mill. Need to shed. It never fails. If I'm not utterly wiped out, I'm Thinkin'. Drives me nuts.

All I was going to do was see if I could help out a bit. You know, go to a couple of meetings, make some suggestions. After all, with all its rich history (The Sutherland Hotel, the Bee Hive) and all the cats who live down here, Hyde Park needs a Jazz club. Plus, it's my summer off . . . I ought to get into it at home, right?

So I go & of course one thing leads to another. You put pieces together in your head, you know? I remember I was on the road & reading in DownBeat about this place "Geri's Palm Tavern" over on 47th Street. They called it "The heartbeat of Bronzeville's golden age." All the cats used to stop by after their sets at the Regal and Metropolitan Theaters. Dizzy came to relax with Geri after sets. Duke brought his whole band in one time & treated them all to steaks. Dinah Washington got up and sang for kicks at the piano after desert wearing a mink coat. Joe Louis, "The Brown Bomber" got engaged in booth number six. The place has only been open since the repeal of Prohibition. Of course, somebody wants to kick the owner, Geri Oliver, out after forty years & demolish the place.

"I've got to see this before it's gone," I thought. So I get off the road & go & dig the scene one afternoon.

It's a ruddy old room - press tin ceiling, scuffed up brown tile flooring. Old paper party favors hanging down; glee from parties ten years past. A lot of the leather in the booths is covered over in some kind of faux-leather tape. There is everywhere the detritus of Geri's forty years - clothes on hangars by the side door in a pile, a couple of non- working tv sets, old plastic flowers stuffed and taped into different spaces, old garage sale pictures of a beautiful young Sarah Vaughan, Count Basie in a suit. But there are signs of life, too - a pile of dictionaries and encyclopedia behind the bar to settle arguments. Also small printed signs all over the room, saying, "Truth tellers are not always palatable. There is a preference in life for candy bars." Or, "We must remember that we have the same aldermen in city hall that were there when Harold Washington was mayor . . . THEY ARE ONLY OLDER." And, of course, Mama Geri herself behind the bar, weary, but lit up in the reflection off the bar of the summer sun.

"What 'chu want, Baby?"
"Gin and tonic, please," I say.
"You want well gin or premium?"
"Well is cool."

I dig the people while she fixes my drink - old dude in a chair by the front door, passed out. Some of Geri's regulars at the bar. There is a group of younger folks at the piano, too, singing gospel tunes at the tops of their lungs - turns out to be the cast of "Blues For Jesus", a musical review by the house playwright Fernando Jones, who is rehearsing them himself in signature fedora and hip, shiny shoes. Oddly, there's also a small film crew from Northwewstern University coiling up cables and packing cameras.

"They're here recording my last days," says Geri, laying down my drink and noticing my quizzical look. "This is IT for me, baby. The city's gon'shut me down."

Hmmmmmm.

Fielded calls about my Palm Tavern Idea today, for a total of around three grueling hours. It's a tough racket, community organizing. Have already met with the neighborhood committee twice, the head of Empowerment Zone funding, Michelle Boone, the head of Gallery 37 and her staff, We're still on for the meeting with the Mayor's wife and the head of the Chicago Historical Society's Architecture Preservation board for Wednesday at The Palm. (I guess it's still standing after the arson attempt two days ago,) we're not sunk yet.

Plus fifteen calls about the record - my second Blue Note side to encounter cover art misfiring. I'll come up with a cover myself before I let them move the release date back. I've worked too hard this summer planning the release concert - finding the venue alone took two months! Plus, we've scheduled an entire week of events around August 28, including a radio-sponsored master class the day of the release, open rehearsals at Gallery 37 and the set at the Chicago Jazz Festival that Friday night. Even now, I'm trying to work out a bartering deal with a local publicity house just to work the Chicago area. No way we're moving the date. I'll make the cover myself.

Took a break tonight & caught Nina Simone at the Chicago Theater. A sweltering hot night - typical Chicago mid-summer humidity making your back sweat as you drive & your face drip wet as you walk. I was sure we'd be late (we're always leaving late), Plus, I've been hitting it all day on the phones & trying to practice in between so I'm all wound up & frustrated.

We're racing to drop the car off in the garage at the time when the paper says Nina's supposed to be on stage and I'm sweating, pulling Jennifer along frantically, practically by the hair. Of course, we round the corner on State Street & we see just what Jennifer calmly said we'd see: hundreds of people lined up outside waiting in line - sweating & talking, smoking - still hoping to buy decent walk up tickets. She's right again: plenty of time.

We go to will-call & score, then to the bar

When she finally does come out, Ms. Simone is a queen, an idol. She is a walking landmark - a monument to her own idiosyncratic career, commanding ovations after every song with a scepter of African horsehair, speaking ex cathedra, doing arrangements she's done a million or more times. Many in the crowd sing along. Many weep. We're all were made to stand many times to pay homage. Fascinating. Cult artists always have the most interesting relationships with their fans. Don't you think?

Walking out from our apartment by the lake I see couples and families, a scruffy black kid dragging and laboring a webber behind him on two wheels - almost tipping it over ('cause it's too big for him) every two or three steps.