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Welcome! The stories I love feel very personal, but they are built on a foundation that is universal. No matter what, I want to find myself in another person's story, so that's what I try to do here, in blog-land and at my gigs. Sure I'm talking about "what happened to me today." But what I'm really talking about is gratitude and fear, joy and loneliness, health and pain, love and loss. You know, a usual day in my world... So stay tuned and thank you for taking some of your precious time and energy to read these words and may you find yourself in these stories too.  August 23, 2010 -- No Bugs M'Lady  One more tale from the North Shore...Grace, the bass player, picks us up in her jeep en route to the music jam near Ha’ena, along the gorgeous road that dead ends at the majestic Na Pali coast on the north shore of Kaua’i. We’re heading to Dave’s house and thankfully Grace is driving because we’d never find his place on our own as it’s located on a blind curve and partially obscured by curtains of tropical vegetation. “Oh, a spider house,” I purr. That’s my nickname for a home that is built on stilts. In fact Dave’s house doesn’t start until the second floor, but he’s turned the covered ground level into the band rehearsal plaza, complete with speakers, amplifier, comfy chairs and a communal music stand. It’s lush, jungle-like and damp in these parts, but not as soppy as Mount Wai’ale’ale, the volcano a few ridges over that is the wettest spot on earth. “How long does your equipment last in this weather,” I ask Dave. “About three years.” But that’s only half the story. Apparently geckos are attracted to amplifiers too. It’s not the music. Amps are toasty and an appealing hideaway for love-making. Dave has pried open a crackly amp only to find two geckos, fried and preserved in their final love tryst. The only gecko I know is in the Geico Insurance commercials and I’m pretty sure that little guy is neutered… Both my husband and I are strumming our ukuleles, Dave plays a tiple, which looks like a small guitar but is tuned like a uke and sounds festive and sparkly. Bruce adds his excellent lead guitar and petite Grace is playing the big electric bass. We jam our way through their songbook of 60’s rock which includes a bounty of Bob Dylan and Elvis tunes. Suddenly Grace screams CENTIPEDE !!!!!!! Everybody stops as Dave quickly sets down his tiple and runs in front of me towards the biggest mo-fo bug I have ever seen in my life. I hear the word “centipede” and think of a cuddly caterpillar, butterfly-bound, but apparently that is not how things work around here. In the jungle. This bug is about 8 inches long, pudgy-thick and from my vantage point, looks like it has a thousand legs as it scurries across the cement floor towards my husband. Dave is a big man with big feet and he stomps the thing over and over again. I’m speechless. At home, I’m the one who captures each bee that flies into our condo through the open screen door. I trap it against the wall with a Dixie cup, cover the opening with an index card and release it back into the wilds of Culver City. Furthermore, my idea of “doing jungle” is running my hand over the bamboo cutting boards at Bed Bath and Beyond. After the initial stomping, the centipede is only momentarily stunned so Dave grabs a kayak paddle off the wall and begins whacking the hell out of it some more. “You can’t kill them. Cut them up into little pieces and they’re still alive,” Grace calmly chimes in as Dave scoops up the squirming remains and dumps it in the backyard, which is basically the beach. “Are they like, poisonous?” I ask, once I find my voice again. “If one bites you, you won’t die, but you’ll wish you were dead because it hurts so damned bad,” Bruce laughs. Dave soon returns, picks up his tiple and we play “Love Me Tender.” Aloha... August 18, 2010 -- Hunting Wild Boar On Kaua'i  There
is big mojo on the north shore of Kaua’i, which is why my husband and I
return again and again. You can see a thousand shades of green in
the trees and taro fields. Just count them. The island-fresh air is a healing balm as I breathe in and out. In the summertime, Hanalei Bay, an undulating palette of turquoise and azure, is calm and warm. After it rains, waterfalls appear like silver ribbons unfurling down the tall mountains that wrap around Hanalei Valley. And of course, there are the people of the north shore. We stay at Beach Bums Bungalow, a lovely studio apartment built over the garage that belongs to Jill & Steve Landis who are transplants from Long Beach, California. She is a teacher turned successful romance novelist and is so cute you want to pinch her cheek. Steve is a teacher turned actor, slack-key guitar player and is one buff “sixty-something” who just won First Prize with his paddling team of “older fellas” beating out the favorites from O’ahu and the Big Island in the State Championship Race. They have a giant avocado tree in their backyard that produces fruit the size of a small chicken. We did our food shopping at the Big Save in Hanalei’s Ching Young Village and a bag of tortilla chips took us through several big bowls of homemade guacamole. Did I mention the papayas that I snagged at the local Farmers Market? Four beauties for five bucks and they are fresh off the tree. Are you tasting the sweetness. Just a little?  Over
the years Jill and Steve have welcomed us into their Kaua'i family of
friends and that’s how we met Uncle Pat and Auntie Bev.Pat and Bev have been married forever and live with their extended family in an area on the island that is reserved for native Hawaiians. In this economy, especially, they are struggling, so on weekends, Pat, his friends and the hunting dogs head off to some secret wilderness on the island and hunt wild boar. I’m such a city girl. My idea of hunting is catching the early shift at Trader Joes. As Pat describes a recent hunt, it’s like I’m watching a National Geographic special on cable. He mentions the words, “juggler vein,” several times and informs us that his dogs have GPS hooked onto their collars just in case the boar drags them off into the jungle, which apparently happened last week. “Wild boars are very healthy and delicious. If they get sick, they know what plants to eat to get well. They eat stones too.” Bev adds. “Stones! They eat stones???” Suddenly a childhood memory tumbles out of my mouth: “Oh my God, I used to eat paper bags!” Everyone looks at me like I’m fricking nuts. Which of course I am. “Yeah, when I was little. I helped my mom carry the grocery bags from the market and nibbled at the serrated tops on the way home. I wonder what disease I was staving off. Maybe family dysfunction. Is that a disease?” They had no answer. Pat did three tours in Viet Nam and hasn’t worked since. He’s a walking medical miracle, lifting his shirt and proudly showing off his battle scars. His chest and belly look like a road construction zone and imbedded near his right shoulder are a pacemaker AND a defibrillator which fires if his pulse goes over 138 beats per minute, which apparently happens often (I mean considering hunting boar and all that). When it does happens someone yells “Pat is down” and administers nitroglycerin. When we walked into the backyard, I put my arms around his waist and said “Pat you are SO tall!” “No you are short,” he laughed. We’re both right. He was 6’8” until the auto accident when their car was smashed by a tour bus in front of the famous Coco Palms (yes, where Elvis filmed ‘Blue Hawaii’), and he lost 2 inches after the spine operations. But he’s like the Ever-Ready Bunny, plugging along, and I like him very much.  Bev,
who comes from a family of famous Hawaiian musicians and songwriters,
carries on the local traditions and indigenous music. On the
island of Kaua’i, she teaches hula and music in classes that include
mostly non-Hawaiians now. Beverly also sings with that exquisite
Hawaiian falsetto style and plays the ukulele with extraordinary
skill. Over the years, I’ve watched her perform and tried to
figure out what the hell she is doing on the uke. Well this
time, I bought a lesson with the master herself and that’s when she and
Pat showed up at the “Tiki Lounge” (also known as the carport at Beach
Bums Bungalow). As Bev and I played through several songs together, she unraveled the mysteries of her island strums. I will not forget her joyous laugh and warm generosity of spirit. I feel like a musical archeologist, mining for strands of technique that have grown indigenous in Kaua’i and are new discoveries for me. As a musician, I bring “my story” to each performance. That includes my big-city-girl aesthetic, my connections with family and friends, what I value and don’t. It all plays out in my music and now I can add a little bit of Kaua’i to the mix. I will never play like Bev, but what is important is to be true to who I am. Isn’t that the work of a lifetime? To finally feel comfortable in our own skin?  August 14, 2010 -- We Didn't Crash! For me, vacation starts the moment the taxi arrives to take us to the airport and doesn't end until another taxi delivers us back to our front door. It helps that we fly Hawaiian Airlines. With their lilac/pink-lit interiors, luau music piped through the speakers, wahine flight attendants who wear big flowers in their hair and the sweet aroma of plumeria wafting through the cabin, we’re already falling under the spell of aloha. Our flight to Honolulu is sublime. That said vacations don’t always go as planned, in fact they rarely do. We never know what will happen next, really, whether we stick to the same square mile of “home” or venture forth. And fly. I guess dem big airplanes are like airborne buses these days, roaring along the gigantic freeways in the sky. We take Flight “HA1” from LAX to Honolulu, which immediately is relieved of its passengers and cargo, then restocked, reloaded and gussied up for the return flight. Ah the circle of life, at least in the airline-industry world. The engines barely stop whizzing before new passengers buckle in and prepare for the flight, now called “HA2,” back to Los Angeles. So we expect to see our beautiful airplane at the gate waiting for us when we arrive at the airport in Honolulu, refreshed from our vacation and ready (almost) to go home. Instead, there is a big sad empty space and a flashing sign that indicates the incoming flight has been delayed a couple hours so our flight back to LA is also delayed. I ask the nice lady at the desk “is there a problem with the plane?” Her response includes these words: “something mechanical.” Do you wonder what that means? I wonder what that means. But right on time, two hours late, the plane arrives from its first leg. My fellow passengers applaud and I soon forget (or go into denial) about this mechanical stuff even though I press my face against the big window peering eye-level into the cockpit where a mechanic is poking around. I watch the captain do a walk-about on the tarmac, checking the tires, perusing the engines, but we are soon buckled into our seats and I’m doing my usual ritual of memorizing where the nearest exit is. At the airport in Honolulu, the plane taxies for what feels like forever, as if it’s on a scenic tour, past rivers and golf courses. My husband comments “are we driving home?” Finally it’s our turn to take off. But you know something is wrong when the plane should be moving and it’s not. Like isn’t it time for him to put the pedal to the metal? What we hear instead is the crackle of the intercom and the captain reporting there is a warning light and he’d rather be safe than sorry so we’re going back to the terminal. That’s when he makes a sharp U-Turn, big-plane style, on a teeny-weeny circular road, right off the runway. I bet the captain can parallel park an eighteen-wheel semi too. We fidget in our seats as the mechanics in their elevator trucks surround the plane and the flight attendants move quickly, very quickly, through the cabin. We learn later that this “warning light” business probably caused the initial delay out of Los Angeles and the captain is having no part of it again. All this waiting makes people want to go to the bathroom. Have you noticed? And the lines get longer in front of the lavatories. But soon we are solemnly filing out of the airplane and returning to Gate 27, The Holding Pen, as a sweet-faced Hawaiian Airlines manager updates us every few minutes over the intercom. I’m happy to say that my fellow travelers are pretty well-behaved, albeit concerned and frustrated. Finally we are told a new plane is ready, but a fresh crew won’t arrive for five hours. The dinner vouchers help soothe us, although a palpable groan fills the hall when it is reported the $15 gift certificate will not cover alcoholic beverages. My husband and I become intimately acquainted with the bustling food court at the airport. I love freebies and am embracing this whole thing as a grand adventure (after all, we are still on vacation). This sort of equanimity is not always my default, but we have just spent over a week on Kaua’i and that will change your attitude or else your innards are made of cardboard. Later the staff of Hawaiian Airlines offers us more apologies, water, juice and $200 travel vouchers per passenger. The weary travelers break into spontaneous applause as the three-man cockpit crew rolls in an hour before take-off. By then our disparate group of some 250 people has already bonded in mysterious ways, after all, we have been hanging together for several hours now. Strangers talk and laugh together, others stretch out on the floor, as if they are home and don’t care who sees their ass hanging out of their shorts. The younger ones plug their assorted techno toys into the wall sockets, creating small Wi-Fi enclaves. When the plane actually lifts into the air, we applaud again. Later the captain announces that those with a window seat can view the Perseid meteor shower tonight. That would be me! I set up my own dark-out curtain with the blanket wrapped around the window as I watch shooting stars streak across the black sky. The best way to view this annual event is to get out of the city. Talk about good timing... By 7:00 A.M. my husband and I are watching the dazzling array of bags drop onto Carousel #1 at LAX and we are hopeful ours will soon appear too, just as the baggage manager had promised back in Honolulu, but a woman standing to my left groans on. Her nasally voice sounds like she does helium inhalers. “I better get my bag. I can’t stand it if something else goes wrong. I mean nothing has gone right with this flight.” Yes we're all exhausted, haven't slept for over 24 hours and are pissed off because our plans are shredded like confetti and some people have missed connecting flights, but let's look at the big picture here... “Hey our plane didn’t frickin’ crash and I would say that’s a good thing.” My retort is oozing passive-aggressive niceness. She nods in agreement and without missing a beat, continues to bitch until her suitcase slides down the chute. Here’s the way I see it. These aircraft have millions of parts that have to work together “just so” and stuff wears out, wires short circuit, spark plugs fizzle and frankly it’s a long way down from 38,000 feet. This time I’m damned grateful our pilot erred on the side of caution. We arrived safely, so did our luggage and with those nifty travel vouchers in hand, my husband and I are already planning our next trip to the land of aloha. July 28, 2010 -- Variety, Vaudeville & Va-Va-Va Voom Forget the “June Gloom” in July, it’s been quite an exciting month for me in my famously bifurcated career. Besides entertaining my beloved senior citizens and teaching a ukulele class for beginners, I put on my “singer-songwriter-hat” and did three concerts du jour. It was all ukulele and fun at Island Bazaar in Huntington Beach where I was part of their first ever Ukulele Variety Show. Folks, it was a sell-out (and then some) which is why the powers-that-be had fingers crossed the fire department wouldn’t show up. Variety means there’s a little something for everybody. Maybe vaudeville is back! Don’t believe me? Just spend an hour on YouTube… Gary Mandell’s extra fine Boulevard Music Summer Festival in Culver City hosted another cavalcade of acoustic acts, ten minutes at a time and it was a blast to be the only chick uke player. Folks in the audience set up tents, lounge chairs, laid towels on the grass and with their coolers of food and exciting drink enjoyed a whole afternoon of music. There were enough eclectic acts to sate the senses. Despair not; acoustic music is alive and well. (Check out accousticmusic.com) But for every yin, there’s a yang and this July, I was “yanging” at The Kahnmanpalooza Comedy Show in Long Beach. Yes variety reigned supreme here too. The guys sang about boobs, butts and relationship issues (which involve boobs and butts). I was the only girl in this land of “mook” humor and opened the show with my rather tame (in comparison) set of humorous originals. One might wonder why I was even there since my stuff is relatively PG, but apparently several of my goofy songs are played in these comedy circles, which is news to me. But I found out. Take “Dino-Mike,” a tousled-haired cutie-pie in ragged jeans who followed my set with a song about a particular body function issue: Apparently he (or someone very much like him) can’t pee in the men’s room when someone else is in there too. The next day, when we “friended” each other on Facebook, I told him this has happened to me (in the ladies room, that is). It’s nice to know I’m not the only one! What a relief. (No pun). Then this adorable twenty-something said he’s been listening to my comedy album (“Cali Rose Gets Goofy”) for years. YEARS! And knew every word to “It’s A P.M.S. Kind of Day.” Did I see him singing along at the show? Um, no… But my husband captured this very performance on video, which I posted on "You-Vaudeville-Tube" so you can sing along too, just like Dino-Mike. Bet you’ve been waiting all day to do that. Thank you for supporting my work and live music everywhere, after all, variety IS the spice of life. July 5, 2010 -- South Pacific The husband and I had a wingding of a fight a couple days ago. It happens. Or it better happen because I don’t think it’s possible to live with someone without a “blow-up” now and then. If you don’t agree with me, well, how are things going for you in fantasyland? So, I need to get the hell out of the house and why not spend the afternoon at the theater by myself, alone, with two thousand other people. I end up downtown, at the Ahmanson, for the matinee performance of “South Pacific.” Eventually I locate the ticket booth and cross my fingers. Yes there is a Hot Tix for one and I gleefully shove a crisp twenty-dollar bill through the slot in the glass window. I’m in! It’s a long show so I do a quick pit stop before climbing the stairs to the next level where I show my ticket to the usher. He points upward to another set of stairs. “Oh, okay,” I chirp. The baby-faced usher at the top directs me still higher. “Oh-oh, more stairs?” Apparently my seat is located halfway to heaven. Back row, center, to be exact. That’s what binoculars are for. Ever prepared, I am carrying my father’s old Bushnell’s. Good enough for planets, good enough for “stars.” Fortunately my view of the stage (the very little stage from this altitude) is unobstructed by heads or big hair or hats. My husband and I are really busy and we don’t make time to go to the movies or, dare I say, the theater or concerts, so this is an extraordinary event for me, from any view. When the orchestra begins the overture, that magnificent Rodgers and Hammerstein score — Bali Ha’i, Some Enchanted Evening, Younger Than Springtime, Happy Talk, This Nearly Was Mine, I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out Of My Hair, There Is Nothing Like a Dame — I get all teary and don’t stop dripping for the next three hours. I grew up on this kind of music and can feel the cells in my body open like buttercups open to the sun. It’s funny… Even though I am a professional musician, sometimes I forget the power of music in my own life. But here I am and here it is, resonating as if this building is a great big drum and I forget where the chair ends and my body begins. From the pit musicians and the sign language guy and gal who act out the entire libretto perched on their stools near the stage to the jaw-dropping performances, I know how lucky I am to be here, breathing the same air as these talented people who have put in their 10,000 hours or so of practice and rehearsal and sweat to grow into consummate artists. At the end of the show, Emile de Becque, the mysterious Frenchman, and Ensign Nellie Forbush, the “hick” nurse from Little Rock, grasp hands beneath the dinner table. This gesture signals that she has risen above the prejudices of her southern upbringing to embrace her “soon-to-be” family, in all its ethnic diversity. (Wow, it only takes three hours to overcome early childhood conditioning!) And it is mighty good news that Emile actually survives his potentially suicidal mission to rid the islands of enemy militia. It does appear he will soon get laid, I might add. The music rises to a glorious crescendo as folds of Polynesian bamboo curtains unfurl to the stage floor. There is thunderous applause as we rise to our feet, whooping and whistling. By now my face is awash with tears and I’m asking myself one more time “why don’t I wear waterproof mascara?” South Pacific is based on James Michener’s “Tales of the South Pacific.” After the cast members take their final bows the last paragraph of his book is projected onto the bamboo curtains that now rest on the stage. Squinting through tears and mascara I am left only with a sense of what he has written — something about how all the events of our lives, the people, the stories, the history, eventually fade into the mists of memory until they disappear forever. Much lip service is paid to “being here now” but I need look no farther than my own life to see how much has already disappeared. After I get home from the show, my husband and I kiss and make up. We don’t know how long we have together or anyone has together and there is no time to waste on anger or petty resentment. We are surrounded by mist. And music. June 29, 2010 -- Living Aloha At Island Bazaar Would you like to take a mini-vacation to Hawaii without boarding a plane or a really big boat? Well there is an island oasis right in the middle of Surf City, USA where four entertaining ukulele artists will enchant the kanes and wahines (guys and gals) of SoCal. It all happens Saturday evening, July 10, 2010 at 8:00 P.M. I’m talking about the world-famous Island Bazaar in Huntington Beach and am tickled to be part of the line-up for their first-ever Ukulele Variety Concert. The rocking, frolicking night includes Ukulele Bartt (who has the greatest hair in the ukulele kingdom), Pat Enos (who is a beloved player and performer) and King Kukulele (who keeps the little ones and big ones laughing and singing along at Disneyland). I’ll be strumming and singing and telling my wacky stories too. Island Bazaar is located at 16582 Gothard St., Suite #R, Huntington Beach, CA 92647. Parking is plentiful and free. Tickets are $20 and you can order by phone at 714-843-9350. I’ve been told this concert is getting “buzz” and I’m not talking bees. They are expecting a sell-out crowd, so you may want to buy tickets, like now… All this horn-tooting aside, I want to tell you about Island Bazaar. It is the love and passion of Shirley Orlando and Danno and Beach Bum Tom and several others who invest their heart and soul in this very special place. You can taste “aloha spirit” the minute you step in the front door. Ukuleles of every size and color and design hang from the walls. If ukes could smile, they’d be grinning like Cheshire Cats. Colorful Hawaiian doo-dads beckon the visitor to “touch me, touch me.” It feels like home. Those of you who follow my blogs know how I rhapsodize over the power of the ukulele to bring people together. There are several groups at Island Bazaar that play and perform in the community. Last year Shirley invited me to be a “guest artist” at their Thursday Ukulele Jam where I got to share a few songs. But the real joy of the evening was playing along with these lovely people as they rehearsed for an upcoming show. Shirley is a force of nature as she leads us from chord to chord, strum to strum, ever the cheerleader and coach. That evening was a real turning point for me, although I didn’t know it at the time. A few months later when an opportunity suddenly arose for me to teach beginning ukulele to senior citizens in Culver City, I said “yes, yes, yes,” because I saw Shirley do it and while I know I have tons to learn about teaching the ukulele, the joy of that evening is what stays with me and that is what I try to share with my students. So Shirley and her crew will move the racks of ukes to the back of the store, set up a hundred chairs, or so, facing the stage and prepare for the big show! I thank her for supporting live music in this YouTube Age and for supporting local artists, like myself. Please join us for this special evening of aloha, music and fun! June 13, 2010 -- Making Mistakes Ukulele For Beginners Lesson 6 Thursday Morning Culver City Senior Center The class was supposed to end at the end of June, but damn it, we’re having too much fun to stop now. I tell my students there is no graduation, so get over it. When it comes to playing a musical instrument, there’s always more to learn. So we’re going to keep on strumming! Time to get started with a new song, the great Nat King Cole classic, “L-O-V-E.” They make it through with gleeful smiles and almost sonorous tones. Suddenly these words burst from my lips: “We’re going to do this song in a show!” “Next year, maybe…” comes the reply. “Uh-uh, this year!” I retort, a second or two before realizing the depth of commitment I just made. Perhaps it’s human nature that we need an end goal to work towards. My father was a writer and his creativity burst into full bloom as deadlines approached. I don’t want to put that kind of pressure on anyone, especially senior citizens who have never played music, except on the radio, but just the idea, the scent of something exciting like singing and playing for other people, is a game changer. So I decide to try something radical. We revisit our first two-chord song, “Polly Wolly Doodle,” playing and singing through it a couple times. Then I ask them to turn their music over so they can't see the words or chords. We're going to play this song BY EAR. You’d think I asked them to steal a car. “Relax my lovelies. There are only two choices. C, G7, C, G7! Now make lots of mistakes!" I want them to begin to feel the chord changes in their bodies. When I goof up at a gig, I tell the people in the audience "that was jazz." Ha Ha Ha! I recount this story before we begin because I am hopeful that sharing my musician tricks will buoy their spirits. Thankfully, the ukulele is a very forgiving instrument. Even if you are just in the ballpark or even the ballpark parking lot, it still sounds pretty good. These feisty seniors get through it, the song actually resembles “Polly Wolly Doodle” and of course they make lots of mistakes. I am so proud of them I’m jumping up and down now. The marvelous jazz singer and pianist Betty Bryant is in my class. Her son gave her a ukulele for Mother's Day and she's determined to learn a few songs but struggles with that dreaded G7 chord like most of the others. After we run "Polly Wolly Doodle" into the ground, she shares her music trick with us. When she hits a "wrong" note on the piano, she goes out of her way to make the same mistake three more times so the audience will think it’s part of the arrangement. Isn’t that wonderful? "Charm, rather than perfection." That's my motto. At the end of class, Betty rises to her feet with palpable pride and announces she’s a grandma! Twins! Look at the picture of the baby girl and boy she copped from her Facebook page. This beautiful woman has waited 80 years to become a first time grandmother. There is much oo-ing and ah-ing. It’s a display of shared joy that is known only within the secret society of grandparents. Our lives are such a mixed bag, aren’t they? The oil is spilling in the Gulf of Mexico and we have our own mini-catastrophes and losses that spew and roil and change everything. We learn a fun song to play and sing. We welcome new babies into our world. We make mistakes, tons of mistakes, but somehow the earth keeps spinning 'round the sun. All is well, even when it’s not. May 28, 2010 -- Harry Rocks It’s still May and every year around this time, I entertain for the Volunteer Luncheon at a very special senior community in San Pedro. The building itself, inside and out, is lovely. Much thought has gone into design and color and ambience. There's whimsy too! Hanging just to the right of a hand-painted wall-to-ceiling fresco of a quaint Italian village scene is this sign: “Home of Pick Pockets and Loose Women.” “Loose women? Pick Pockets? I had no idea,” I declare to a charming silver-haired resident standing nearby. “Dear, it’s about time you know the truth about us,” she giggles and tiptoes away. Volunteers gather for their pre-show celebration. There are slices of sticky coffee cake, fresh fruit and enough cappuccino to keep the entire population of this beachfront town buzzing into June. Members of the staff have worked here for years and consider this retirement home just that, home, and the residents, the families, the visitors and the volunteers are regarded as cherished members of the family. Volunteers teach Spanish (very s-l-o-w-l-y), bring four-legged smoochy dogs to pet, they sew on buttons and give beloved garments from the 1970’s another year of life, they lead sing-a-longs and mini-church services. And then there is Harry, looking every bit like a Christmas elf with his sly smile and slightly crooked posture. Harry plays the violin--very well--and has a hot date with the retirement home crowd every Tuesday afternoon as he captivates them with sweet music and a little soft shoe. He also has a steady gig at the local pub. Pretty impressive, I would say. Harry is 97 years old. Harry always attends the Volunteer Luncheon and happily accepts his box of cookies, raffle prize and heartfelt thanks for a job well done. But this year, we put Harry to work. He has to earn his damned cookies by playing violin with me! I’ll tell you friends, you haven’t lived until you’ve heard “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” on piano and Stradivarius! When I grab the ukulele, it’s time for Harry and me to get up close and personal. Hey it's just like Las Vegas: “What happens in San Pedro, stays in San Pedro.” Harry is up for a quick chorography mish-mash and suddenly we are swinging our hips in unison to “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.” A little bump here, a big grind there. No script. No rehearsal. We're like two kids in the sandbox. Never mind that I’m dodging Harry’s crazy bow that flies this way and that. He’s the fiddler on the roof...er...rug. But it’s glorious fun, no one is hurt during filming and the ladies in the front row are almost purring. After the show Harry shoves off quickly. He’s a busy man, after all, and his parking meter is about to run out. Oh yes, Harry drives… Playing an instrument is good medicine for our bodies and hearts and minds. And if we’re really lucky, we get to share our music with others. Doing that has kept Harry young, effervescent and I might add, a little wild. I’ve heard it said that in the end, what really matters is that we have loved well. For me, love looks just like Harry! May 11, 2010 -- Ukulele For Beginners--Lesson One I pull into the parking lot at the Culver City Senior Center and unload the giant canvas bag my husband gave me a few birthdays back. It’s personalized with my name embroidered in maroon script (just in case I forget who I am), and stuffed to the gills with extra ukuleles and handouts for everyone. It’s our first class, “Ukulele For Beginners,” and I figure ten people will show up because ten people have already phoned me to ask a few questions and probably make sure I'm not a crazy person. I tape the “UKULELE” sign to the door, arrange the handouts and ukuleles on a long desk at the front of the classroom and wait. “Oh God, what if no one shows up? What if everyone in the neighborhood shows up? What if a plane crashes into the roof?” I’m sorry about that last one but this is how I think sometimes, especially when I’m nervous, which I am, because doing this "teacher thing" is new and scary and I might add, exciting. Suddenly ten people arrive. And they keep coming, bearing ukuleles of all sizes and shapes. 25 eager senior citizens in all. The chairs fill up, I run out of handouts and when we began, everyone is staring at me. Maybe because I am the only one standing up? Oh-oh, it’s because I’m the teacher… Well this is rather un-nerving, so I begin by telling them about the wacky dream I had this morning: The class has gathered early, not in the classroom, but in my bedroom (is that Freud on line two?). They are waiting for me to wake up and begin the class, already. I am terrified as I leap out of bed, looking ever so frightful in my ragged teeshirt and tired old pajama bottoms. What's more, I have to pee. At that point, fortunately, I really do wake up. I’ve had dreams like this for a long time. Same theme, different setting and I suspect it has something to do with fear—that I’m not prepared or up to the job or good enough. Sound familiar? I share this with you because I suspect this fear is epidemic in our culture. It’s not just me. In fact, I bet there are people in the class today who are afraid too—afraid that they will never “get it” or “keep up” and be able to play a real musical instrument. And what about the arthritic fingers and the memory that resembles swiss cheese? But you know what? We all do the best we can. By the end of the class those dear people are strumming ukuleles that are pretty much in tune (well good enough), playing a one-chord song (“Row Row Row Your Boat”) AND singing along. It is beautiful to see and outstanding to hear. The smiles on their faces would melt butter. Learning to play an instrument, at any age, is good for our mind, body, spirit and this class made a believer out of me! The ukulele is like puppy. You want to hold it. You want to pet it...er...I mean strum it and like magic a “C6” chord appears without doing much of anything and suddenly we are playing and singing together. There are so many nasties in this world and we need all the ukulele players we can get to pump 'dem good vibes back into the air. So when are you going to learn to play the uke? April 26, 2010 -- Teaching Ukulele and The Andy Griffith Show Years ago, my treasured music mentor and dear friend, Bill Wyckoff, told me that he didn't really learn about the guitar until he began teaching students how to play jazz. At age eighty-something he can still play rings around 99% of the guitar-playing population. The truth is, we really begin to "get it" when we have to explain the what, where, why, when and how of "it" to someone else. Bill understands and appreciates the benefit of sharing his experience with others. “Paying it forward,” so to speak. For me, desire to do this too and the opportunity to actually “do it” have suddenly merged into one delicious confection, right here in my own backyard. I will be teaching Ukulele For Beginners at the Culver City Senior Center every Thursday morning, from 10:00 to 11:00 A.M. in May and June (we meet eight times). Just show up. No reservations necessary and are you ready for this? Are you sitting down? Each session is only three bucks! There are some “restrictions” though, so this isn’t exactly a three-for-all. You have to be 50 years or older, a member of the C.C. Senior Center and don’t forget to B.Y.O.U. (Bring Your Own Ukulele). We will start from the very beginning, like learning the anatomy and physiology of thy uke, holding your baby, strumming, what is a chord anyway, rhythm, melody, and quick as a wink, how to play and sing a song. I am passionate about this little instrument. It makes “happy” and inspires a sense of “community.” The uke is fun to play by yourself but even more fun to play with other people. The good news is that it’s not difficult to learn the basics so we can play and sing in no time. The first class begins Thursday, May 6, so be there or be square. The center is located at 4095 Overland Ave, Culver City, CA 90232, which is the northwest corner of Overland & Culver Blvds. Their phone is 310-253-6700. And speaking of the Andy Griffith Show… Last week I did a really fun show for the Culver City Historical Society but such a presentation, for serious "history buffs," called for some scholarly research. Several nights I abandoned my husband for Google (don't feel bad because he abandons me for Facebook) and uncovered the most interesting stories and songs that are home-grown musical gems. "Like what, you ask?" One of my favorite tunes to sing and play on the ukulele is "The Fishing Hole" from The Andy Griffith Show (which today is my preferred viewing option to “the evening news”). Fortunately this song has words because my whistling will clear a room. I actually know people who speak wistfully of retiring someday, moving to Mayberry and, well, fishing. Okay, we all know that “Mayberry” is a state of mind. But geographically speaking, Mayberry IS Culver City. Yes, the show was filmed at Desilu Studios (which today is Culver Studios, right across the street from Trader Joes). Many of the outdoor scenes were shot at Forty Acres, the present-day eastern, industrial tract of Culver City. I find this altogether thrilling. So look at it this way: You can learn how to play the ukulele in Mayberry! Does it get any better than that? Strum on! April 19, 2010 -- Cali Rose Gets "Historical" This Wednesday! Culver City, home of the game shows Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, the old Desilu Studios and of course, MGM, where the Munchins welcomed Dorothy to the Land of Oz, Fred and Ginger tapped across the sound stages and Gene Kelly did his best as an American in Paris… Yes “that” Culver City is also "my" home. I’ve lived here for umptity-ump-ump years, so I guess I’m feeling a bit historical too. That said I will be doing a free show this Wednesday night, April 21, 2010 at 7:30 P.M., for the Culver City Historical Society AND the public is invited. Singing and accompanying myself on the keyboard and ukulele, I will draw on the music “From The Heart of Screenland,” which is how Culver City sees itself. Eat that, Hollywood… Please join us in the Multi-Purpose Room in the Veterans Memorial Building at 4117 Overland Ave in Culver City. Enter through the back of the building near the parking lot (which is also free). You know me… The hour show will be fun with lots of songs, stories and audience participation. Did I mention IT’S FREE!!!! Everyone is invited; no reservations are necessary (just show up) and I look forward to seeing you. March 13, 2010 -- Railroad Randy and Miss Wong I met "Railroad Randy" at a piano bar gig in Santa Monica, long before personal computers and cell phones. We became instant friends and he’d drive to wherever I was playing, near or far, to have a drink and enjoy the music and what, I hope, is my irreverent humor. "Like attracts like," of course, and Railroad Randy is pretty irreverent himself. He was, is, and will always be an Amtrak guy and worked as a mechanic on those behemoth train engines until he retired last year. One evening during a break at my Embassy Suites gig in El Segundo, R.R. confided that he had installed a real, honest-to-god train whistle under the hood of his car. Like, isn’t that against the law? I thought it was bunch of hooey and dared him to blast the thing. His sneaky, satisfied grin kind of scared me. After the gig, he followed me home. Going north on Sepulveda we entered the long tunnel, which above, is the south runway of L.A. International Airport and damned if he didn’t blast that train whistle, which echoed and reverberated along the cement innards of the tunnel with ear-piercing ferocity for what felt like eternity. I nearly leaped out of my skin and can only imagine the other drivers were scared back to their previous lives. At least I had a sense of what was coming. As if that helped… As often happens, Railroad Randy and I lost touch over the years, but we reconnected this week over a couple Grand Slam Specials at Denny’s. There was much catching up to do—a divorce (his), kids growing up and getting married (his), driving & railroad trips to 49 states (his). Frankly, my life seems dull in comparison. Then he tells me about Anna May Wong. "Whooze that"? I ask. Railroad Randy happened to catch the last part of a PBS series on Chinese-Americans and became mesmerized, no, obsessed, with Miss Wong who was born right here in 1905. She became the first Chinese American movie star and the first Asian American to enjoy international acclaim. He Googled and researched and networked. He learned that she is buried in a cemetery near downtown L.A. and every Thursday, rain, shine or freeway gridlock, he drives to that cemetery and sweeps the broken twigs and dirt from her gravesite and carefully arranges the gifts of endearment--framed pictures, flowers--left by strangers. R.R. isn’t Chinese and his rabid interest in a historical figure, an Asian woman, makes no sense. Some of his friends think he’s off his rocker. But I don’t. We are swimming in mystery, you and me and Railroad Randy. A few of us actually have the courage to act on that, even when it appears we’ve fallen into the deep end. My friend is honoring, in word and deed, an inexplicable connection. And maybe, just maybe, when something that mysterious rocks our world, we’re really connecting with some deeper mystery in ourselves. I say "swim on Railroad Randy!" February 16 , 2010 -- Tap is Back! One of my friends is a talented dancer, director and choreographer with a hit show on her hands, “The Marvelous Wonderettes.” She has won awards and accolades for her work, but what Janet Miller really loves is hanging with her peeps in North Hollywood, California. So in the spirit of good fun and wickedly aerobic exercise, she is offering her internationally famous “Tap Is Back” class for us regular folks. When I received her email invitation, memories of my first (and only) tap dancing class came flooding back…in vivid Technicolor and Lucas Sound. Those of you who are familiar with my blogs know that I’m not “athletically-inclined” and would do everything humanly possible to ditch the mandatory P.E. classes that were the law of the land when I attended Santa Monica College. Yes kids, there was a time you had to take physical education in junior college. On the short list of acceptable alternatives to the dreaded softball class I am slated to take is “Tap Dancing for Beginners.” So I ride my bicycle to the original Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica, when it was still a street, with cars and sidewalks. Nestled between Newberry’s and Sol’s Fabric is a small store that sells ballet shoes, tutus and of course those nifty black patent leather taps. We start off nice and easy at my junior college tap class: Heel, toe, brush brush. Good Lord! I can actually do that. But I have to practice and there are no rooms at the school to do the requisite grunt work. My only option is the linoleum floor in the small kitchen of my upstairs studio apartment. I am mindful of my neighbor below and make every effort to heel/toe when she isn’t home. But I learn quickly that I'm not a good judge of her daily regime. She pounds her ceiling with the end of a broomstick to register her displeasure. At first it scares the hell out of me but after that it’s just plain demoralizing. Suffice it to say, I don’t last very long in my tap class. The day we learn to “Shuffle Off To Buffalo,” I shuffle out the door, hang up my patent leathers and sadly transfer into softball class. The teams are already picked and the women are playing. With my first turn at bat, it becomes abundantly clear that I will make a mighty fine bench warmer. I swing furiously at that white thing hurling my way, but it just keeps going, pitch after pitch. Then they hand me a mitt, send me to right field and watch in horror as the fly ball drops at my feet. I do pick it up and throw it to the pitcher, but unfortunately the ball lands in the bleachers. I’m happy to report that no one is injured. I’m legally blind in my left eye and softball class is just another example of how life experience meets physical limitation, head-on. I have no excuse for having two left feet, but cockeyed depth perception is another matter altogether. Thankfully playing the piano and ukulele does not involve hitting balls with a stick. That said, if I lived closer to "NoHo" and had my Monday nights free, I would sign up for tap in a minute. One of the blessings of getting older is that I don’t take myself nor others quite so personally. I think if I took Janet’s class, I’d fall on my ass, I’d tap right when everyone else tapped left and my “Shuffle Off To Buffalo” would look more like a real buffalo galloping across the Great Plains. But I don’t care. That’s the big difference between then and now. I would stick it out, by golly, and have a really really really good time. February 4, 2010 -- "Almost" A Winner The Hawaiian Music Awards just announced the winners today and alas, I'm a winner only in my own mind, which is where it counts anyway, kids! Congratulations to the group "Don Tiki" which won in "my" category "Best Adult Contemporary Album" and to all the winners and nominated artists. Well I'm a little disappointed, but I'm sure this will pass within the next 24-hour news cycle, just like everything else. My immensely talented producer, Rick Cunha--a man who is old school and treasures music that is honest and real--gave me some good advice. He said that once UPS delivers the boxes of CD's to my front door, I have to let them go, so they can find their own way in the world. Sure we promote our stuff and toot our own horns, but mystery prevails. No one ever knows what's going to happen, even five minutes from now. I never expected to be nominated for a Hawaiian Music Award and alas this brief journey has exposed my music to a brand new audience. Who would have "thunk" that? But here's the big kahuna for me: I received many warm emails from you, supporting my work. I heard from people all over the world who enjoy my music and cast their votes as well. Feeling part of a community, be it local or global, is what it's all about for me and I thank you being there.  February 1, 2010 -- Pumping Iron -- Part 2 A few months ago I blogged about my ongoing travails with chronic back pain and I was not in a good mood. As you recall, a friend of a friend suggested I see a new chiropractor whose “drug of choice” is exercise, of all things. I just want to get whacked and go home. But no-o-o-o. He escorts me into his office gym and puts me on an exercise regime that will strengthen those slumbering back muscles. One of the exercises is vintage Jack Lalanne: The chin-up. When I wrote you last, I had successfully hung from the bar…for five seconds. This may not sound like a lot, but I’ve never hung by my hands, ever, so it's quite an accomplishment. The Doc encourages me like an Olympic coach. “You’ll be doing a chin up in a few weeks!” Rah! Rah! Rah! Well, it’s been several months now and progress is slow, but steady. I’m able to hoist my body a whopping two inches. Since all you map readers know that an inch equals one mile (wink wink), two inches is halfway to heaven in my world. But I’ve found another way to eyeball that damned chin-up bar and call it “Cali’s Monkey Chin-Up.” I climb my big feet up the non-skid surface on the wall and lift my body towards the ceiling. It’s thrilling for me and rather impressive when seen from afar. One woman, who was striding on the treadmill at the opposite end of our humble condo gym, remarked how agile I am. I’m not used to getting compliments for “being fit” so I’m taking that one to the gym bank. I am happy to report the back pain has vanished. Poof! It took three weeks of earnest and relentless work, mind you. Come hell or high  water, I pumped iron every other day for a whopping twenty minutes a session and right now I feel SO good.For someone who would find every which way to weasel out of P.E., exercising thirty minutes a day has become a top priority. I mix it up with weights, treadmill, walking, dancing, yoga. I’m doing it for my health, for my life. I want to sing and play until I’m an old lady because old ladies rock. Speaking of gigs, picture this: Last month I wheel my gear into the ornate mirrored elevator at the retirement home in Santa Monica and push the “lobby” button. No one else is in the elevator so of course, I check myself out in the mirror. I’m wearing a sleeveless pink blouse and in the dim, diffuse light notice a big lump on my upper arm. “Oh my God, it’s a tumor. I’m dying.” (I’m all about catastrophic thinking). In a panic, I grab at the thing and realize it’s no tumor. “Whoa! It’s my biceps.” A muscle??!! The only way to confirm this surprising possibility is to grope my other arm. “Oh my God, there’s a biceps there too.” All those monkey chin-ups, thoracic kyphosis rows, dumbbell step-ups and squats, incline bench presses and barbell Romanian deadlifts are paying off. I’m feelin’ pretty in pink! Many of you shared your “chin up” and back-pain stories with me. Thank you for adding your voices to the familiar refrain of being human: We have bodies. They feel good and sometimes they don’t. They keep our head off the ground. And they are wisdom and strength made visible..................... January 19, 2010 -- Vote! Vote! Vote! Just on a wild whim, as in "what the hell do I have to lose?" I submitted my new ukulele CD, "Are You Having Any Fun?" to the fine folks at the Hawaii Music Awards, under the category, Adult Contemporary. My husband had a good laugh over that one. "You mean you're an adult?" he guffawed. Well, surprise surprise, I am one of five "adults" who made the final list of nominees! Sure, maybe they received only five CD's for this category; I don't know and I don't care because, hooray! There's my picture and ain't this fun! When we make a CD, post a blog, come up with a new recipe for chicken thighs or do whatever, that is an expression of what we are, we hope it finds its way and brings a little blessing into the world. So whatever happens at the big Awards Show in O'ahu, I'm thrilled that my work is getting out there. That said, you and you and you and you decide who wins because the Hawaii Music Awards is essentially an online voting proposition. I don't want to say it's a popularity contest because that brings back horrible memories from high school. But let's face it, all the nominated artists are notifying their tribes and saying "pick me, puleeeeese." Anyone and everyone with an email address can vote. There are many talented artists nominated in multiple categories, so please vote your favorites. My category appears first (for "Adult," I guess) and my CD is at the top of the page. Boy did I get lucky. You can vote in as few or as many categories as your want. After you have voted, scroll down to bottom of the page to "submit vote" on the left side and follow the prompts so your vote counts! The website is www.hawaiimusicawards.com and voting ends at the end of January. I congratulate all of the artists who entered and all of us who remain faithful to what we do and who we are. January 8, 2010 -- Getting Sick & Getting Well Our precious bodies…can’t live with them, can’t live without them. I began 2010 throwing up, thank you. It’s a mystery what prickly little bug or viral vermin or foul food dropped-kicked me into the abyss of sickness. Or maybe after a very busy month of shows, my body plotted its crash and burn to coincide with New Year’s Eve. Don’t know. But that didn’t stop me from doing my New Year’s Eve gig, either because I really believe “the show must go on” or I’m an idiot. My sweet husband insisted we go to the emergency room and I insisted he drive me to the gig. I’ve been doing this New Year’s show at the beautiful retirement home in Rancho Palos Verdes every year since 1998 and I wasn’t about to leave these dear people in the lurch. Try finding an entertainer for New Years Eve…ON New Year’s Eve. So my husband chauffeured, loaded and unloaded gear and propped me on the stool in front of the keyboard where I commenced to croak my way through the show. (Yes I tried to keep everyone at arm's length). Thankfully we celebrated New Years at 9:00 P.M. with New York, via CNN, which was projected onto the big screen behind me as we watched the crystal ball drop in Times Square and counted down with the East Coast revelers. We blew our horns, rattled our shakers, kissed and clinked the plastic glasses of champagne and Martinelli’s Sparking Apple Cider. By 9:10 everyone had gone to bed. I am happy to say that my sterling record of having never thrown up in front of my audience remains intact. Mind you, I’ve done almost everything else in front of an audience (use your imagination please), but not that. How did I manage this miracle? I conveniently hurled just before the show and just afterwards, at 9:11 P.M. to be exact. The next three days I spent in bed. Fortunately my husband is a teacher and was home on Christmas break so he could ply me with water, Gatorade, Progresso Chicken and Rice and delicious hot and sour soup from the local Chinese. Slowly, slowly I’m getting better. That said, there is something wildly regenerative about being sick, at least for me. I know that sounds crazy, but here goes. A sick body reminds me who is boss. My mind (which thinks it’s the boss) is into “planning” and “doing” but a lot of good that does when the body can’t move, huh. While my thoughts zoom into the future or rehash the past, the body is always right here and when I get sick, I have a chance to be here too. I really pay attention to the so-called little things that I tend to blow off the rest of the time and let me tell you, they are monumentally grand. I remember what a miracle it is just to be alive (even with a sick body), what a joy to hear the crows squawking outside the window or be able to change the channel on the T.V. with a remote control because I have opposable thumbs and fingers that work. Good golly is there anything better than peeing, when you really have to pee? Come on, you know what I’m talking about. Our precious bodies! Here’s a New Year’s toast to them and you. December 30, 2009 -- Happy New Year! Hooray for you! Hooray for me! We made it -- another spin around the sun. And we’re still here. That’s big mojo in my book. It may feel like some of us will tip-toe forward, while others dive headfirst and a few, maybe, get dragged into that great mystery, also known as the new year. But hey, we get to be here together. My husband, the high school history teacher, reminds me that every generation thinks history begins with them. (His students were born in 1994, so they figure that's when the world began, which sends me running for the mashed potatoes and reruns of Andy Griffith). If I take into account last year and the year before and before that, well, life is a mixed bag! We may very well experience the whole panoply of drama, celebration and emotion in the coming year. That said, no matter what happens moment to moment, I try to remember the cheery words of the great philosopher, Voltaire: “Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.” My friends, sing on and have a joy-full-licious 2010! December 6, 2009 -- Shameless Self-Promotion Well ‘tis the season to toot my own horn, because apparently no one else will! In fact, this one-woman-independent-musician-performer has to wear so many hats, I don’t know why I bother brushing my hair. That’s a joke…sort of. A couple weeks ago I sold three copies of my new ukulele CD “Are You Having Any Fun” to a lovely woman at a retirement home in San Pedro. She phoned the next day and ordered two more as holiday gifts. “I feel so good when I listen to your music,” she said. For me, there are no sweeter words. Sure I woodshed on my instruments (that means practice, practice, practice), vocalize, run through the jokes, write the songs, but ultimately it comes down to how my work makes you feel. Yes, times are tight and are we or aren’t we out of the recession…who knows. But I am so proud of this album and really want to share the “feel good” with you. You can buy or download the album or individual songs at most online stores or purchase a copy at my gigs (where they are one sale for $10!) Now, for a change of pace… Could you use some holiday "ha ha" just about now? A few years back, when I was really stressing out, I wrote my own bah-humbug song “Pooey, Pooey, Pooey, It’s Christmas” which was picked up by Dr. Demento and played all over the world on college radio stations. That said, it's my holiday hit song hardly anyone has heard... But I made a living room video of my ukulele version and you can watch it on YouTube. Like right now! Okay, off with the promotion hat… Time to practice. But I want to wish all of you a heart-full December, no matter what you celebrate or don’t and with whom, or not, it’s a wonderful thing to still be here, breathing in and making a noise. November 21, 2009 -- Giving Thanks Every so often I sing at a sub-acute rehabilitation center in Los Angeles. What is that? The people, well, patients, all need respirators to breath. Many scoot around happily in their wheelchairs or walkers, but there are a few who have drawn the unluckiest cards of all. They survived the auto accident, the fall from the ladder, the overdose or shooting but are paralyzed for the rest of their lives. I remember my first gig, as the staff rolls and pushes the “audience” into the small upstairs activity room. A young man, whose eyes are unblinking and fixed on the ceiling, lays motionless in his bed. Others are more animated and watch with curiosity as I set up my gear for the show. I’ve already had plenty of nasties in my life and know that anything can happen, anytime, but mostly I live in the tenuous state of denial. As you can imagine, there’s no place for denial in a rehab facility. The truth is front and center. The whole experience really shakes me up. But I make it through and have had the good fortune to return many times over the years because I meet people whose courage and good humor inspire me, people like “Richard.” Joy is etched into every line on his expressive face. Except for the thumb on his right hand, Richard is paralyzed from the neck down. That said, a certain light emanates from this man. I can’t explain it, but I sure as hell can feel it. When he tells me he loves Rodgers and Hammerstein music, I throw in a couple songs from “Oklahoma” just for him. His million-dollar smile warms me from the inside out. The next time I visit, Richard is over the moon. He got his dream wheelchair at last. The toggle switch he works with his right thumb allows him to navigate up and down the halls like a New York cab driver. He looks at me with tears in his eyes and says, “I am the luckiest man in the world.” Folks, he means every single word. It’s a “Lou Gehrig” moment. You can taste his gratitude. It fills the room like sweet perfume. “I will neverrrr, everrrr complain about anything again,” I think to myself…not believing it for a second. I knew Richard for about a year and during that time he showed me what gratitude looks like and sounds like and feels like. The staff loved him. The volunteers loved him. The patients loved him and you could feel the heavy pall as it fell over the rehab center when Richard passed away. But he left me a great gift. He showed me that it’s possible to be grateful, grateful for something, no matter what. Everyday is Thanksgiving…Well ‘tis the season to toot my own horn, because apparently no one else will! In fact, this one-woman-independent-musician-performer has to wear so many hats, I don’t know why I bother brushing my hair. That’s a joke…sort of. A couple weeks ago I sold three copies of my new ukulele CD “Are You Having Any Fun” to a lovely woman at a retirement home in San Pedro. She phoned the next day and ordered two more as holiday gifts. “I feel so good when I listen to your music,” she said. For me, there are no sweeter words. Sure I woodshed on my instruments (that means practice, practice, practice), vocalize, run through the jokes, write the songs, but ultimately it comes down to how my work makes you feel. Yes, times are tight and are we or aren’t we out of the recession…who knows. But I am so proud of this album and really want to share the “feel good” with you. Download it at CD Baby or iTunes for $9.99 and Amazon for only $8.99. Purchasing an actual CD costs a little more (unless you come to my gigs where I sell them for $10!). November 13, 2009 -- Doing Chin Ups I’ve been feeling extra “achy” lately. My back and neck muscles are throbbing, and not in a good way. So off to the new chiropractor I go. He watches me stand and walk, turn my head, play the ukulele and air piano. He presses his fingers into several nests of hurt. How does he find them so quickly? Being a life-long musician, gravity and my instruments have been pulling my body forward. Apparently the muscles in my “front” are taut and tired, whereas the muscles in my “back” are, well, non-existent. “You mean I have a back?” I ask incredulously. The truth is, I am blissfully unaware of half my body. But hey, it’s not just me, or musicians. You’re reading this on your computer, right? Are you leaning into the screen, like E.T. the Extra Terrestrial? Gravity wins in the end, but I’m going to fight it, one thoracic kyphosis workout at a time. Yes, I’m buffing up my back, or else. The Doc shows me the exercises that will be part of my life from now on. One is the basic “chin up.” FYI, I’m not a jock. I hated P.E. and I don’t hang by my hands, ever. So picture this: Here I am, in our condo gym, doing the new routine for the first time. The “chin up” bar is halfway to heaven. I ponder it nervously, raise my arms high above my head and leap into the air. You can imagine my shock when we actually connect, the bar and me. Do you remember the classic greeting card that features a terrified cat dangling from a branch and the reassuring message, “hang in there”? That’s me. On one hand, it’s a miracle that I am actually hanging. But when I try to gather every watt of energy to lift my body weight one lousy centimeter, absolutely nothing happens, except I let go and flop to the floor. When I report back to The Doc, he assures me that I will be able to do a chin up in a few weeks and it will be very, very, very empowering. I could use some empowering. Couldn’t we all. That said, it’s funny how encouragement arrives in unexpected ways: Just a few days after my first chin up attempt, I am entertaining at a senior community in the San Fernando Valley. One of the residents, whom I shall call Daisy, is one sassy gal. Her back is ramrod straight, as if she is balancing an invisible copy of “The Feminine Mystique” on her head. She is slim, stunningly beautiful and loves to dance. So I sing “Rock Around the Clock” as she sashays around the grand piano in her matching terra-cotta blouse, stretch pants and strappy hooker sandals that she bought last summer on Hollywood Boulevard. Daisy really shakes her bottom and all the men who can, want to dance with her, but she says they cramp her style and she’d rather dance by herself, so the guys have learned to just watch. After the show we have deep conversations about life and death, politics and her extraordinary posture. “The second I realize I’m slouching, I pull myself up, just like that,” she says. “When my shoulders tighten, I relax them and make sure they roll back.” It seems that working on her posture has been a life-long project. She’s been at it for 95 years. November 3, 2009 -- Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday to those of you who happen to be celebrating your special day sometime this year! Have I left anyone out? November is my birthday month and I celebrated big time by going to Disneyland (well actually Disney’s California Adventure) for FREE. Is there a sweeter word in the English language? My dear friend Jamie, who knows every Disney song ever written since the beginning of time and plays them on the grand piano at the hotel in the park, alerted me to this new promotion. All I had to do was sign in online, make a copy of the golden ticket and show up -- on my actual birthday.  When I presented
the crumpled-up ticket to the nice lady in the booth she pushed the
official Disney Birthday Button under the glass, along with a Sharpie I
used to inscribe my name in the ribbon-adorned blank spot. Little did I
know this button would be my passport to fame and adoration. At every
turn, a cheerful Disney employee spied my button and, with unabashed
joy and sincerity, wished me “Happy Birthday!” Oh what the hell, I’ll
take it any way I can get it.Jamie and I, the queens of fanny packs (as you can see in the picture), agreed that we would not force each other onto a ride that evoked stark fear or induced back pain. That said, she reluctantly joined me on the “Fun Wheel,” which is Disney’s version of a Ferris Wheel. Jamie doesn’t like this ride at all and once we were seated, immediately closed her eyes and emitted sad groans as the fully-caged-in car rocked like a swing. What could I do? So I started to sing: "Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop. When the wind blows, the cradle will rock..." Thankfully I remembered that the next lines of the song are about the cradle falling out of the tree, so I immediately went back to the beginning and sang the first two lines over and over until the friendly staff beckoned us to disembark and not a moment too soon. Jamie waited patiently as I went solo on the roller coaster. She warned me not to spit on myself when it goes upside-down. My mouth is almost always open, so I knew this would be a problem. I will leave you with that and you can create your own visual. Finally, there is a splendid ride called “Soaring” and it feels like you are flying through the majestic landscape of California. Watching this was thrilling, but mostly it made me grateful: Grateful for my dear friends and family, grateful that my parents moved to California so many years ago and brought me along. And at birthday time, I am especially grateful to be alive. Often I sing and entertain for people who will never get on a Ferris Wheel again, who are afraid or lonely or in pain and the best I can do is greet them with the same joy I felt today. Here’s to friendship and birthdays! October 21, 2009 -- Happy Halloween! Years ago I sang in a bar that had a small piano pushed up against one wall, so technically you could call it a piano bar. The place shall remain nameless, although I fondly referred to it as “the dump.” The manager hid out in the alley and let the joint run itself, which can be a good thing. Or not. I don’t think he knew that the cocktail waitress hated me. In fact it was nuclear fission from day one. We all have these irrational reactions to people sometimes but Cruella (okay, that’s not her real name) seemed to derive perverse pleasure taking aim at me. She was already sliding past her prime and holding onto her kingdom with ferocious tenacity. Maybe I reminded her of some despised person in her past. Maybe I reminded her of herself. Things came to a head Halloween night, wouldn’t you know. I arrived to find that Cruella had done some serious holiday decorating which included encasing the entire piano, ceiling to floor, behind a thick curtain of "spider webs." In the fiberlass filaments--the kind that lodge in your lungs forever--she had artistically woven plastic tarantulas and skulls that hung just right, just right in front of the piano player's face. Boy was I frosted and not about to perform under these circumstances. I glanced at Cruella who was standing near the bartender, hands on hips, her scrawny lips drawn into a gotcha smirk. I looked all over for the manager, stuck my head out the back door and called his name down the alley. "Hey, trick or treat, where are you?" Gone, gone, gone. So I took matters into my own hands. Pulling fold-up scissors from my purse, I stood on top of the piano in my stocking feet, balancing carefully as the curtain (which she had thumbtacked to the ceiling) dropped to the floor one graceful clip at a time. The expression on Cruella’s face was one I never want to see again, on anybody. But the show must go on. I did my four sets of music; the audience grooved with the voodoo vibe; my drink wasn’t poisoned and I didn't get followed home by a crazed waitress. However… The phone rang early the next morning. “What the hell happened last night?” asked the booking agent with feverish intensity. “They want to sue you for desecrating their property, and by the way, you’re fired.” The agent eventually smoothed things out, we averted a frivolous lawsuit (Cali vs. Cruella Z. Meanie) and I soon found another gig where we all got along. As the neighborhood gentrified, the dump, this den of dysfunction served cold with beer and nuts, disappeared into the mist of memory. Today, in the very spot where Cruella stood akimbo, her face drawn and contorted, is a nice Subway sandwich shop, with it’s friendly staff and fresh baked buns. Have a wonderful Halloween! October 12, 2009 -- Sending Songs Into The World! Back in 1948, Nat King Cole recorded an exotic, philosophical song that was written by a yogi-dude (Eden Ahbez) and would you believe, it was a giant hit. "Nature Boy" didn't follow the established rules of songwriting at the time, but something about this tune struck a nerve. Maybe it has to do with the last line of the song: "The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return." Those of us (that would be everybody) who whip something up out of nothing, whether it's a song, a story, a joke, an omelet,
a painting, whatever, I think it's an expression of love made visible.
And we hope someone else will love it too. It feels SO good
when that happens. | |