No time for love

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Still roaming this sweetly savage planet
Dear Dr. Jones
by GZO Jones

he passing of Ann Landers signals GZO Jones’ ascent up the crowded ladder of neophyte advice givers. Hey, a rung is a rung. So rather than dwell on his claims of living in Brazil, surviving a variety of nasty ills and rubbing elbows with the best of the bygone Beats, we’re just happy that his antics have yet to bring on any litigation. Check out the GZO Jones Town Web site to appreciate our concern.

Dear Dr. Jones,

If you're such a big deal, what are you doing writing for a Web site that nobody'll ever read?

Signed,
Skeptical as Hell

Dear Skeptical,

Well, you’re reading. It’s OK to be skeptical, but don’t be such a wise acre until you get some talent.

– Jones

Dear Dr. Jones,

What did you do this year on Sept. 11?

Signed,
Just Curious

Dear Curious,

You must first remember that my humble abode in the Brazilian backwoods is not exactly the be-all and end-all for expatriate displays. I did, however, spend several years during the last century calling home to the Greatest City on Earth. And I can't deny feeling an eternal connection.

“I’d bet,” a colleague posited several months back, “that you wish you’d lived in New York on Sept. 11, 2001.”

The simple truth is that I'd never wish for such solipsistically revisionist history. At the same time, had I lived there on that most earth-shattering of days – and during the aftermath’s fear-tinged uplift – I certainly would have found a tremendous amount of inspiration from the good, the bad and the ugly. Perhaps I would even have found a way to lend a needed hand.

Some people, it’s been said, are born to greatness. While others have it thrust upon them. But those who shoulder greatness and then absorb another dose – those are the ones worth watching. A lot of people earned such stripes and continue to thrive on that mighty little island. And a place that was already insanely exhilarating is now, I would imagine, that much more so.

As for me? Do I long for a stroll through Tompkins Square? A visit to Star Falafel? My former stool at Pat's Jazz Bar? A scalped ticket to Yankee Stadium? A blissfully anonymous ride on the Staten Island Ferry? A simple coffee-white in a paper cup and a seat on the interior stairs of Grand Central?

Yes and no.

I lived all that and now my days are mostly defined by happy routine: I awoke, I typed, I showered, I shaved, I strummed my oud. I made a few phone calls, I made love. I tossed the Frisbee with my faithful dog, Brando. I typed some more. Then I thanked my lucky stars that I still roam this sweetly savage planet.

Thanks for asking.

– Jones