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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 I thank you for taking some of your precious time and energy to read these words and may you find yourself in these stories too.  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. | |