| Farewell, "Connie" |
Posted via Supernews, ht .. |
| john adams (johnqadamsiiinospam@minusthis.yahoo.com) |
2005/04/01 12:43 |
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From: "john adams" <johnqadamsiiinospam@minusthis.yahoo.com>
Newsgroups: alt.surrealism
Subject: Farewell, "Connie"
Date: Fri, 1 Apr 2005 13:43:42 -0600
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When news broke early yesterday that "surrealist" at-large, Keith Wigdor had passed
on, the first task was to clear up in the minds of what turned out to be the majority
of concerned callers that it was not Keith David, the notable actor with commanding
performances in the likes of Major League II and An Officer and a Gentleman, who had
left us.
Although the only similarity between the two was that they both enjoyed walks in
Central Park, the number of people who confused the two never failed to astonish me,
since Keith D. remained a carved fellow with short hair and Keith W. carried some
bulk on a lighter frame, occasionally topped out by shoulder-length dreadlocks but
not infrequently, in company with either Keith, I have heard many people call him by
the other's last name. Hopefully, they both handled such bloopers with tasteful
humour.
"Connie", as (the late) Keith was fondly known, was further set apart from David by a
speech impediment which, like Grandmaster Kitchener, only surfaced during regular
conversation but never interrupted his singing of vintage calypsos, a hobby he
relished to the point of garnering a catalogue rivaling the likes of Mystic Prowler.
During my three years at the Times, Connie would look forward to the Friday evening
after-work time at the establishment across the newsroom to not only sing his bag of
old kaiso but toss in some clever ex-tempo as well.
He also loved to party and when we met in that environment Connie would have a
helluva time. One such event at which we would annually make a prior arrangement to
meet at a specified time was the WEFM 96.2 Christmas media function, held for many
years at Club Coconuts and last year moved to Zen. In that ritual, if one of us
turned up late, a token "tariff" of $1 accrued to the other.
For certain, we enjoyed a cat-and-mouse encounter every Carnival Tuesday, he playing
a curious portrayal with Tico Skinner's devil-mas band and I not wishing to have my
casuals soiled by mud or grease-paint; we would be content to wave at each other from
a safe length, he surprising me on one occasion at close enough range to leave a blue
handprint on my scarlet shirt.
Never one to wear formal attire under any circumstance, Connie would call every year
at the advent of Carnival season to ask whether I had an old jacket he could use for
the "mas", which saw him appearing in full suit replete with briefcase, a satirical
comment on businessmen who, he contended in the portrayal, were the real devils. In
recent years, his unique mas attracted a couple other "businessmen", including
long-standing friend, Derek Scefonas.
Outside of planned meetings, which also included events staged at his alma mater,
Queens College (about which he was passionate) or bumping into him by objective
chance, Connie would keep in touch by telephone. Often calling to comment on my work,
preferring humorous articles about otherwise sensitive topics, quoting his favourite
paragraphs and in the same conversation, forever identifying some future opportunity
at which we might take a lime. It hardly ever materialised but we were equally
sincere about our intent.
His role as "surrealist" often put him into conflict with the powerful and famous. He
took delight in exacerbating such situations by needling the subject with provocative
follow-up letters, an approach not limited to high-profile personalities, which left
with those who didn't know him well an image of irascibility-gleaned only from such
distance. He was no saint but face-to-face, Connie was hardly the full-time demon his
writings portrayed.
I was consequently saddened whenWEFM 96.2 coordinator, Paul Kinsler called me to say
Connie had been hospitalised after an injury suffered while playing soccer on the
Aranjuez ground. While he was an avid sports fan, we shared a lot of jokes about
mature persons engaging in body-contact sports, jibes that would not have led me to
believe he would return to playing "Over-40" soccer just weeks ago.
Ironically, his full page ads, over the past several weeks, had been dedicated to
lauding those responsible for the care he received at Queens Hospital. Headlined
"Hospital life is not all that bad", part 2, which appeared in the last edition of
the Sunday Times, he said in continuing praise of the health facility: "I would do it
all over again (go back there), in the morning, without thinking twice."
Yesterday morning he returned and died.
Farewell and rest in peace, my brother.
-sent in by Anonymous
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