4 Jan 2016

FLOATERS

images I can’t see the big “E” on the eye chart that hangs in the eye doctor’s office. With my left eye, that is. Actually I can’t even see the chart. I was a little girl when they first discovered my goofy left eye. Was it because I walked into walls now and then?

Like most folks who have only one workable eye, I have adapted. I drive my car with ALL mirrors on high alert. I wear a headset microphone when I perform so I can use my good eye to see the ukulele fretboard. I’m almost sure that my depth perception and your of depth perception are not the same. For a short time I took a softball class at the local junior college. I remember the P.E. teacher groaning loudly as I’d swing the bat. Way before the ball arrived at the plate. Maybe she thought I was on drugs or would do better with T-Ball. Or no ball at all.

I bring this up because I worry about something happening to my good eye. My right eye. Because I don’t have a spare. And that’s how I end up in the Emergency Room at U.C.L.A. The day before New Years. It’s our second trip to the E.R. in 2015.

I’m having a lovely day, doing errands. I like doing errands. I like watching my fellow people behaving in interesting ways in our natural habitat. Stores. Here I am at Target and I like Target. The lights cast a yellowish “buy me” glow from above. Not like outside. And that is when I notice a throng of tiny gnats swarming in front of me. And a miniature Medusa head, tendrils and all, zigzagging to my right. Long waving filaments glistening to my left and a little puddle of goo straight ahead. What the hell kind of promotion are they doing in Target today? Then I realize I am experiencing my own private light show. In my good eye.

I flash to the last time I visited my ophthalmologist. Before my eyes totally dilate, I am staring down the poster on the wall in the darkened waiting room. It’s a “bad news” poster: If you have these symptoms, get your ass to the doctor right NOW because you are screwed! Or something like that. Standing in the express line at Target, I am seeing BAD NEWS and other stuff you might watch swim by in a dirty aquarium.

Lots of us have “floaters” in our eyes. Little knots of diaphanous pebbles that dance around the visual field. I’ve had them for years. They come and mostly go or else my brain gives up and ignores them. But today in Target this is different. WAY different.

And that’s why I’m in the Emergency Room and very embarrassed because, come on, it’s not like I’m having a heart attack or I broke some bones, like my husband did a few months ago. I apologize from the get-go to anyone who will listen. “Maybe it’s just floaters…but this is my only good eye…” I whimper.

But a generosity of kindness and goodwill pervade the E.R. on this pre-holiday afternoon. The doctors and nurses reassure me that I did the right thing. What if this is a worst-case scenario? What if my retina is detaching or tearing, even a little? Then time is of the essence to save my vision.

They begin with an ultra-sound of my right eye. Wow, I didn’t know there was such a thing? The doctor rubs the ultra-sound wand across my covered eye. Back and forth. She doesn’t see a retina tear but calls in the expert anyway. A few minutes later an ophthalmology resident appears and dilates my eyes with an assortment of drops.

I’ve never had an eye exam like this before. He warns me about the bright light he’ll shine directly into my dilated eye and the “poking and pushing.” Ladies let’s just say it’s like having a mammogram on your eye. Okay? And it goes on and on. Like ten years worth of mammograms in one flesh-squashing session.

Well I applaud the guy for his thoroughness and my husband for not keeling over. With his super-duper light probe, the doctor circles my retina as I aim my eyes at an imaginary clock on the ceiling. One O’ Clock, Two O’Clock, Three O’Clock…

“I have good news for you,” he finally says… Unknown

The gel in our eyes is called the vitreous and it’s supposed to stay jello-like; but as we get older the gel begins to shrink and detach from its moorings. The retina. The official name for this is Posterior Vitreous Detachment.

goofyeyes1

Apparently I’m okay for now, although this is an interesting way to begin a new year—watching spots and goo dance across the computer screen as I write this blog. I have a feeling my new ophthalmologist and I will be having regular meet and greets from now on. Maybe the flotilla of wiggling stuff will recede. Maybe not.

So I’m keeping an eye on things. And that is not a pun. So no groaning. I’m on the lookout for fireworks (not just a little sparkler but the grand finale of the July 4th Show) and a black curtain rolling down across my visual field. That could be bad news indeed—a detached retina.

But why should I, or anyone, be surprised. Everything changes. Our points of view, our body parts… I’m grateful I can still see and do and eat and love and be loved in return.

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PROGRAM NOTE FOR MY LOS ANGELES FRIENDS

Both my ukulele classes begin Saturday, January 23, 2016 at Boulevard Music in Culver City, CA. I teach Ukulele For Beginners, which is a five-week workshop and our four-week OnGoing Ukulele Workshop & Jam where we strum, fingerpick and learn a lot of new cool stuff. Please scroll down to see the flyers.

BEGINNERS CLASS FLYER:Jan 2016

ONGOING FLYER:Jan 2016

POSTSCRIPT

I am still receiving the most interesting responses to my last blog (THIS IS MY SEAT) about Frank Sinatra. Thank you! My neighbor’s father was a well-known and respected photographer. He took this iconic picture of Frank at the Hollywood Bowl in 1943. Apparently Sinatra didn’t like photographers either but he wanted a copy of this shot.

frankathollywoodbowl

27 Dec 2015

THIS IS MY SEAT

When I saw Frank Sinatra perform at The Universal Amphitheatre in Los Angeles, the whole aroma of the evening burrowed into my memory. The theater is gone now and so is Frank. But after all these years I can still smell the evening.

I was one of thousands ensconsed in the darkness of this gigantic space, my eyes focused on the lone spotlight that Sinatra inhabited like he owned the sun, and when he turned his head in my direction and sang “Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you,” magic happened. Every other person in that audience disappeared. I mean “whoosh.” All that was left was Frank and me. He was singing to me. Just me.

Frank Sinatra had that ineffable “thing.” I saw it and felt it that night and certainly hear it today in his recordings. It’s like he’s talking to me and it feels like I’m part of the conversation. This is an astonishing gift of inclusion.

He is my favorite singer. That said, I would not have wanted to take him to lunch.

This is a tough one for me… Living with ambiguity, residing in the uncomfortable gray zone of life. We are all a mixed-bag of stuff and Frank certainly exemplified this. He had that enormous talent. He could be astonishingly generous but he also treated people miserably. I have read the stories and I’ve heard a couple first hand. He is not someone I would have wanted to hang out with.

I bring this perplexing contradiction of emotions to Party Night at the Saban Theater in Beverly Hills. It’s Saturday, December 12 and this night is Frank Sinatra’s 100th Birthday. His son, Frank Jr., is singing with a 32-piece orchestra and telling stories about dear old dad.

frankandjunior

I saw the advertisement for this show six months ago.

“You want to go with me?” I ask my husband.

He laughs and says “have a good time.”

So I get online, study the seating chart and claim MY SEAT. It’s second row mezzanine, as center as center can be.

mezzanineview — My view from the mezzanine. During intermission some of the musicians took selfless before running backstage to pee.

The night finally arrives and with my hot ticket in hand I am swallowed in a crush of L.A.’s beautiful people. This audience is inter-generational. Young ladies are wrapped in mink stoles. Older women are wearing high heels and fashionable ensembles with expensive fabric and arrays of fancy jewelry around their necks and wrists.

I am not one of them.

I hunker down in MY SEAT, brush the lint off my jeans (well…they are nice jeans…and clean), push my unhip but totally utilitarian backpack purse under the seat, and arrange my jacket just so…like a warm pillow against my back. My nest is feathered.

I am one person in a sea of couples and groups. That’s when “they” arrive at my row. The very tall woman with the short cropped blond hair and hip blue glasses looks down at me and with stunning hubris announces that “my husband and I want to sit together. Please move over one seat.”

Are you picturing this? They purchased one ticket to my left and one ticket to my right and she wants me to move.

This is one of those moment… Too often in my life I back down, acquiesce and later flog myself for doing so. Then again, what’s the big deal, moving over one seat?

These two opposing thoughts rush through my head. But this woman has such a haughty air of entitlement that she pisses me off.

“No,” I say.

“Why not?” She snaps back.

“Because this is MY SEAT.”

In a huff, she sits to my left as her husband settles to my right and I pull my arms close to my body like a figure skater beginning her spin. I’m thinking to myself “this is going to be a LONG night.”

But the husband is an amiable guy. After a few uncomfortable moments he turns to me and asks if I know what’s going to happen at the show. Do I look like a freaking oracle?

“You like Sinatra?” I ask.

“Well my wife does.”

Oh…so the mister got dragged along for the ride.

“Well at least you are here. My husband is home. Asleep.” I laugh. We laugh. This brief interlude softens the missus and, like that, she and I start chatting. She tells me that her parents played Sinatra records on Sunday mornings during the family breakfast. “All The Way” is her favorite song. She’s a physical therapist and makes house calls.

“What do you do?” she asks.

“I’m a musician and singer.”

“What kind”?

“The kind that gets paid.” I chirp.

She turns out to be an okay person. Not someone I’d hang out with, but okay. Both of them. And I stay in MY SEAT.

The concert begins and the adoring crowd “ooo and ahh” as Frank Jr. sings those iconic songs and the trombone wails on “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” They purr as the pictures of young Sinatra, middle-aged Sinatra and finally Sinatra on the memorial postage stamp appear on the big screen behind the orchestra. It’s a love-in.

But I’m not feeling it.

These days my adoration is tempered with a measure of ambivalence. Truth is messy. People are a complicated concoction of ingredients. We can be kind and cruel. Wise and stupid. Self-centered and open-hearted. The list goes on and on.

I’m not solving this one. Just living it.

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PROGRAM NOTE:

My ukulele group, The CC Strummers, really rocked our holiday party. My idea of a good time is getting the audience in on the fun. I put together a short video of our program. It’s two minutes and forty-eight seconds of joy. Click HERE to watch.

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2016 is looming large. Another 366 days of UNKNOWN. Leap year, it is. What makes you happy? Or content?

Good health for sure… Hanging out with people who feel like sunshine on a cloudy day? Yummy food? Homemade. A job well done, whatever it is? A solid night’s sleep or a deep dreamy afternoon nap? A clear black sky where you see wisps of the Milky Way? The husband you love? Wife? Kids? Friends? Dog? Kitty? Catching all the green lights? A place to call home, with floor, ceiling, walls, heat and pictures on the wall?

I hope you have lots of sweet moments to remember in the New Year.

Frank Sinatra's ukulele he played to "woo" his first wife. As for the next three wives, who knows... — Frank Sinatra’s ukulele he played to “woo” his first wife. As for the next three wives, who knows…

13 Dec 2015

FINDING A WAY

“Come here. Come here quick! YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS.” My husband is shouting from the other room.

At the moment I’m peeing. I AM p-e-e-e-e-e-ing. So thank you very much. And as far as I’m concerned, whatever it is, can wait…

So I’m not the picture of open-heartedness when I finally appear and turn my gaze toward the television set where my husband is pointing. “The banjo player,” he exclaims, “look at his left hand.”

First of all, I see a bluegrass band. Monster musicians, they are. Guitar, fiddle, mandolin, piano, upright bass. The banjo player is hot!

Wait a minute…

I lean into the T.V. for a closer look, so close I feel the heat emanating from the screen. The guy has a thumb and part of an index finger. That’s it for fingers. The rest are nubs, like little toes. But his left hand moves across the neck of the banjo in this crazy beautiful dance.

His name is Barry Abernathy and he has found a wondrous, unorthodox way to position his left hand so he can play. A quick Google search reveals that he gravitated towards players in his bluegrass neighborhood, asked them to show him a lick, then he figured out how to play it.

His way.

Then there’s gypsy jazz guitarist Django Reinhardt. His whole life changed when he was 18 years old and severely burned in a fire. The doctors said he would never play guitar again. But he developed a unique style, using the two good fingers on his right hand and the scarred ones on his left. His enormous talent and innovation resonate with players today.

In his early thirties, Les Paul nearly died in an automobile accident. His right arm was crushed and it was bad, bad, bad. The doctors wanted to amputate. But they set the arm instead, at a permanent 90 degree angle, so he could still strum the guitar. It took him two years to recover AND adapt. But he did. And he continued to perform well into “elderhood.” And invent cool stuff like multi-track recording and the iconic Gibson Les Paul Guitar.

One of our CC Strummers, Betty Bryant, is a renowned jazz pianist and singer. She has made a living playing, recording and touring. With nine good fingers…

In my ukulele classes we do hand exercises. This little act of rubbing and stretching is a reminder that our body parts matter. They are precious. The exercises encourage me to get out of my head, where I usually live, and check in with my fingers and hands, my back and front, top and bottom. Yes that means accepting the truth that our bodies get tired, hurt, stiff, worn-out and out-of-whack, in one way or another.

But we find a way. That’s all. We find a way.

xmas — The CC Strummers at our 2014 Holiday Show

The CC Strummers and I are presenting our Ukulele Holiday Show Tuesday, December 22, 2015, from 1:00 to 2:00 P.M. at the Culver City Senior Center. If you live in Los Angeles and need a bolus of joy or an hour off from the holiday rushy-rushy , please join us. You will have a blast!

Flyer

11 Oct 2015

NAME THAT THING AND OTHER WONDERS OF ENGINEERING

“…a new kind of engineer…who can think broadly across disciplines and consider the human dimensions that are at the heart of every design challenge.”

Holistic Engineering Education: Beyond Technology, pg. 234

CAN YOU NAME THAT THING?

1. A hair brush I bought at The 99 Cent Store

2. New fangled divining rod that finds water in Southern California or buried coins on the beach

3. Clandestine CIA reconnaissance device with built-in traffic Sigalert Function

4. 3-D weather barometer. “Pull my finger…oo…high pressure…”

5. Pacific Crest Trail built-in compass that also predicts the future

6. Your own personal cell phone tower

Have you figured it out?

This thing is the newest member of our family. It lives in my husband’s right wrist and Craig is playing heavy-metal ukulele these days whether he likes it or not. We have one final appointment with Dr. Kodi Azari, the hand surgeon, and it is the same routine one expects at a teaching hospital like U.C.L.A. First to appear is the new resident doing ortho rounds. She enters with a burst of warm exuberance and tells us that her name is Ro-Q-Something-Something… “But you can call me Rocky,” she exclaims.

“Well let’s see your wrist.” She is mightily impressed with Craig’s range of motion. My musician husband is very motivated… “I wish all our patients were doing this well. Let’s look at your X-Rays.” As she tappity-taps on the computer keyboard the newest films, taken ten minutes earlier, appear. She zooms in for a closer look. And so do we. Like what the hell is that? For the first time we get an IMAX view of the “thing” the surgeon cajoled into the bones of my husband’s wrist.

“Beautiful,” she exhales. “No, it’s genius!” She turns to Craig and says “I remember you. I observed your surgery and kept thinking to myself this surgeon is a genius, an artist.” Well who wouldn’t believe a woman named “Rocky.”

All smiles, Dr. Azari joins the party and announces that he’s very pleased with Craig’s progress. And relieved. Because the damage was so extensive. Now it’s on to physical therapy for the next few months. If his wrist appears in one of those fancy orthopedic journals, I’ll let you know. He is only the third patient to receive this metal sculpture. It goes without saying that we are extremely grateful that Craig has excellent medical insurance through his work and by sheer luck, we landed in Dr. Azari’s office.

And…

May remind you that all this happened because Craig tripped on a plane-jane sidewalk in front of our busy post office in Culver City. Some sidewalks in Los Angeles arch upward like an A-frame roof on a ski chalet. In earthquake country… You see them coming and walk thoughtfully over the hills and valleys. But the sidewalk panel that is just a teeny-tiny bit displaced from its neighbor panel…that’s the one to stare down.

So here is a big shout-out to the scientists, future scientists and the insatiably curious people in the world who find a need and then find a way to fill it, build it, discover the cure, unlock the mystery.

I meet one of these people at The Los Angeles International Ukulele Festival at the merchandise booth. His name is Jason.

Teachers and performers who inform and entertain at festivals also want to sell stuff. Like our music…our DNA that we have spread onto a compact disc like butter. But we are off teaching or performing. What to do? Thank goodness high school kids in Los Angeles have to put in so many hours of volunteer work in order to graduate. A swarm of them from Torrance appear on the scene wearing matching blue shirts, bright morning smiles and are ready to do what needs to be done.

I’m getting the impression they take their work today very seriously. They emit an air of gravitas that I associate more with tired middle-aged folks with a 30-year mortgage, car payments and children.

About a half dozen oversee their slivers of space at the long merchandise tables and sell sell sell. They already have my undying admiration since the last thing I want to do on this planet is sell, sell, sell.

After The CC Strummers and I open the festival on the big stage in the plaza, I run back to the merchandise table and that’s when I meet Jason. He is leaning into a stack of my “Smile, Smile, Smile” CD’s and arranging it in a beautiful swooping geometric form. Earlier I had plunked them down on the table and disappeared, but Jason, he fills the void. And with stunning attention to detail. I’m thinking he might pull out a tape measure any second to get the width, depth and height just right. This young man stands at the intersection of art AND science.

“Are you an engineering student? I ask. The young ladies hovering close answer “ye-e-e-e-e-s” in surprising unison, like they are his back-up singers or something. This is a treasure of a moment. Oh the sheer beauty of it all and the gifts we bring “literally” to the table. Jason sells lots of CD’s and demonstrates my Rhythm Rings so ukulele players can “shake and play” at the same time.

And I miss the whole thing. But at the end of the day I do manage to scoop up the $$ Jason has neatly arranged (in order or denomination) in my Estee Lauder freebie cosmetic zip bag.

I am convinced that whatever we do, at any given moment, it takes a village. It may not seem that way sometimes, but… Sure I’m writing this blog on my computer. I’m all by myself. But what about the people who designed this computer and built it and the UPS guy who delivered it? What about the folks who keep the electricity running? What about my teachers—all of them—who are present and accounted for in every word I type? What about my husband who has my back?

Community is a marvel. A miracle of engineering.

Attention Southern California Ukulele Lovers…

My next “Ukulele For Beginners” Class starts Saturday, October 17, 2015 in Culver City. Playing this marvelous instrument does the heart good. Sign up at Boulevard Music.

18 Sep 2015

THE LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL UKULELE FESTIVAL

I wish you all lived in Southern California.

At least for one weekend.

Next weekend. Because that’s when Torrance, a neat little town in the South Bay part of Los Angeles, becomes “ukulele central.”

I like Torrance because I like to shop. Well I call it “shopping therapy” and Torrance is bubbling over with glorious opportunities for that kind of feel-good escape. Don’t even have to buy anything. I just run my hand over the hangers and neat stacks at Kohl’s or the swell booties at Designer Shoe Warehouse.

Saturday, September 26, 2015 we can add ukulele music to the mix with The Los Angeles International Ukulele Festival. It’s a double bonus for me because my group, The CC Strummers, is opening the party at 10:00 A.M. on the big stage in the big plaza on what we hope will be a big beautiful California day.

We follow our set with a Strum Along where everyone is invited to play and sing with us. We’ll be doing play-it-by-ear songs like Jambalaya, Dream Baby, Hound Dog and more. In fact, if “C” is the only chord you can play, we’ve got a song for you!

I hope you can join us and Grab a Little Sunshine (which is the name of my song The CC Strummers just performed at our last show). Click here to watch our video on YouTube and sing along.

This festival is a bargain at $35 which includes continuous entertainment on the main stage AND all the workshops you can squeeze into your day! I’m teaching a class,” Let’s Arrange A Song on the Ukulele,” in the afternoon. After my nap…
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Coming soon! Craig’s Bionic wrist update. We visit the surgeon next week to find out how well his bones are knitting rightly with all that metal. “Fingers crossed” the doctor gives him a “thumbs up.”

Recently I did one of those heart stress tests because, well, I’m really stressed out. So I’m sitting there in the lab room as the very young and terribly sweet technician prepares to inject radioactive goo into my arm. She asks me, with all sincerity, “do you have any problem with needles?”

“Oh no,” I retort, “as long as they’re being stuck into somebody else.” Poor little thing. She believes me.

Oh what the hell. Our parts start leaking and wearing out but it sure helps to laugh a little and make music. (And yeah, I’m okay…)

Take care of yourselves!

6 Sep 2015

BIONIC WRIST

I am still responding to all the heartfelt emails I have received after my last blog, Watch Your Step—the one about my sweetie Craig taking a nose-dive in front of our local post office and our visit to the emergency room at U.C.L.A.

Yes I have left you hanging. That is because life as a caregiver (albeit a temporary one), musician, teacher and grocery store shopper sucks up time like my handy Swiffer sucks up dust and yuk.

In the E.R., the young stud resident tries his best to set Craig’s fractured right wrist but a few days later the hand surgeon delivers the lousy news. As he loads the X-Ray images onto the computer screen, we hover behind, craning our necks like E.T. at what is clearly a giant mess in my husband’s wrist.

Two days later he is in surgery, fitted with a cast and sent home with enough narcotics to barely be legal. It’s a tough few days but we are propped up by the support of our friends and our neighbors, cousins who text from thousands of miles away and emails from you.

A couple weeks later we are back at U.C.L.A.’s Orthopedic Hospital, escorted into an examining room with a window view of The Bank of America across the street. I don’t know what it is about me and doctors and hospitals, but when I get placed in a holding cell, er, examining room, the first thing I do is look OUT the window.

This is Craig’s first post-op appointment. Our fabulous doctor, the best of the best, sends in his “trainer doc” first. U.C.L.A. is, after all, an educational institution. So we play along. The resident clicks on the newest X-Rays and immediately exclaims: “Oh…Oh…Oh.” Then he clicks on another view of Craig’s wrist and says it again: “Oh…Oh…Oh Dear.” Only with more intensity and concern. Then he adds the word, WHOA!

So much for the opening act.

Just then the surgeon appears. The resident moves his butt out of the kingly swivel chair and we are given a quick tutorial on how bad things can get… I look at the X-Rays and see a sheath of metal, like a bracelet almost, or a chastity belt for the wrist, with more metal things shooting out of it right and left. The surgeon explains this is a brand new procedure in the annals of hand surgery and my husband is only the third patient of his to get one. He adds, with a slight grin, that Craig may end up in the Orthopedic Journal (or whatever it is called…) We laugh. Sort of. You know, the kind of laugh that really means “you have got to be fricking kidding?

Craig gets fitted with a splint that he can thankfully remove when it’s shower time. And now he can drive. Whoo-Hoo! And appear the first day of the school year (he is a high school social studies teacher).

AND…

He can’t lift anything heavier than an iPad with his right hand. For another six weeks.

UH-OH…

The doc warns him, with discernable gravitas, no lifting buddy, otherwise back to surgery for you.

Craig is playing ukulele a couple days after his surgery.

And that is where we are now. So far so good. My musician husband can play the ukulele in short spurts. And that is sweet news indeed. Thankfully he is a finger-picker and his fingers are okay. Hopefully he will begin physical therapy at the end of September but the process of recovery will be a long haul.

And all this because one sidewalk panel in front of our post office was displaced from it’s neighbor panel by one lousy inch, which caught the toe of my husband’s tennis shoe and sent him crashing to cement earth.

But kindness and good karma are present too. I teach ukulele at a music store in Culver City and the owner does something, or says something and within days, that sidewalk is shaved even-steven, so no one else will get hurt. And because I don’t have time to cook (which is probably a good thing, considering…), we discover Ono Hawaiian BBQ right down the street. And because Craig can’t eat dinner laying down in our bed, which has been our M.O. for like forever, we gussy up the little tile perch near the kitchen sink and have dinner there. Sitting in chairs like normal people. Talking to each other about our day… Instead of chowing down in bed as House Hunters International blares on the T.V.

Oh the simple…little…things…that bring such joy and relief into our lives. And I forget them. I forget all the time. Like having two wrists that work. Like being able to drive a car. Or eat Hawaiian BBQ chicken even when I don’t have a coupon. And make music. Every moment there is room for one itty-bitty “thank you.”

31 Jul 2015

WATCH YOUR STEP

We call it a “working vacation” which I think, in retrospect, are two words that don’t belong in the same sentence. Hubby Craig and I embark on a whirly-windy ukulele tour that takes us from Modesto and Sacramento to San Jose where I re-discover, not for the first time, that I don’t really, REALLY, relax until the “gigs” are done. This leaves us a day and a half of “ahhhhh,” hunkered down in an oak-filled canyon somewhere near California’s only nuclear power plant.

So we are plenty exhausted when we roll into Culver City in our rented Hyundai Elantra. Before we get home I take a quick detour to our local post office to pick up the mail in my P.O. Box. I suppose I could have waited. And truth be told, I wish I had waited, but a prophet I am not…

I did a retirement home gig several months ago and they still haven’t paid me so I’m anxious to see if my money arrived. And pissed off. I hate chasing after checks–making the calls, sending the emails. Making more calls, sending more emails. I bring the subject up periodically on our working vacation. “Those bastards…” is usually how I start the conversation…

I send Craig into the post office as I wait in the idling car and a few seconds later he appears waving the check over his head. Elation turns to shock as he tumbles face down onto the sidewalk. I wait for him to get up. He always gets up.

He doesn’t get up.

I leap from the car and run to this sweet man, sprawled on the cement, unable to lift himself with his arms. A kind gentleman passing by helps me get my big 6’3” husband to his feet and back into the car. His right wrist is askew; his left arm is throbbing. My husband was a corpsman in the Navy. “It’s broken,” he moans.

We turn the car north and head to U.C.L.A. I have no idea where the emergency room is. U.C.L.A. is crazy big, like a little city. And it seems like they are always building some new building. I break my personal “don’t do it” decree and make a call on my cell phone while I’m driving. I punch in 911. It rings and rings but finally I am connected to a very nice fireman who gives me the address of the ER and adds that he has no idea where it is… All this as I am negotiating our rental car through some of the busiest intersections in the whole damned United States of America.

Right after I yell at a defenseless valet guy at the first wrong U.C.L.A. building I pull into, we find our way to the Emergency Room—during an afternoon lull. Before the rush hour bedlam begins. They take Craig in right away. I ask the admitting clerk if a lot of people come to the ER because they tripped on a sidewalk and she guffaws at her computer screen because, apparently, our crumbling pedestrian infrastructure in Los Angeles keeps the ER docs busy setting bones 24/7.

We are quickly escorted to a small examining room. The attending physician orders X-Rays and then we wait. And wait. What to do? Now here is where the story goes all baby-boomer weird. This is where we see, first-hand, how social media has reprogrammed our brain synapses.

Emergency Room at U.C.L.A. Cell phone attached to hand.

I take Craig’s fricking picture with my cell phone camera. “Post it on Facebook,” he says. And I do, like that’s the most normal thing in the world. What have we come to? My husband, a musician, facing the prospect of a broken wrist, another broken arm, wants to “report” our travails to our FB friends as they are unfolding. And me, I go—hey good idea!

Let me back up a little…

We don’t have kids. Craig’s parents are gone as is my father. My mother has dementia. So we reach out to our tiny circle of friends and far-away family. We don’t like to ask for help. (I bet most of us don’t.) So Craig and I, we rely on each other. But people text and call back–with good wishes, offers to bring food, to drive us, to do whatever. It’s a revelation.

Then the circle widens. Facebook. We have lots of FB “friends” because we are active in the ukulele cyber world. But most of these people–I will never meet them. Ever. Then again, I HAVE met a few of them, on this trip even. And they are kind and warm and have stories that are engaging and interesting. And almost immediately there begins a cascade of responses to the picture we posted. They offer support and good thoughts, prayers. The comments help us feel a whole lot better as we sit in this dreary, cheerless room… They make us feel not so alone.

Years ago I worked in an emergency room and those three years on the graveyard shift changed my life. The stuff, the bad stuff we see on the local news, it played out in the bowels of this place. I got it. Into the marrow of my bones. We are all just hanging by a thread? Do we really know what’s going to happen in the next ten seconds? For sure? Our lives can change in the time it takes to breathe in.

It’s scary to think about. And in all honesty, when I hear about someone else’s troubles, I feel badly for them, terrible sometimes. AND I’m grateful that it didn’t happen to me. AND I’m also afraid that someday it will. I feel a little tug of OMG in my stomach. Maybe I’m super neurotic. Or just human. Well…both. My husband has traipsed across the uneven sidewalk in front of the post office thousands of times. Up to last Thursday afternoon his record of safe passage was spotless.

The lyric from Monty Python’s “Always Look On The Bright Side of Life” has been playing in my head as if the needle is stuck in an acetate groove.

You’ll see its all a show,
keep ’em laughin’ as you go.
Just remember that the last laugh is on you. Ha ha ha…

In the big picture, none of us are on stage for very long… Things get goofy and awful, boring and beautiful. And if we are lucky, there are circles upon circles of dear ones, of friends, to share the whole mess of it.

Recovery Room after Craig's surgery. Cell phone attached to hand. — Recovery Room after Craig’s surgery. Cell phone attached to hand.

Medical Post Script: Craig’s broken left elbow is healing quickly. Unfortunately my right-handed sweetheart crushed his right wrist and spent two hours in surgery. We are so lucky to have U.C.L.A.’s best hand guys “on hand.” Craig gave them both a copy of his new ukulele CD at our initial consultation. A not-so-subtle reminder that this is the wrist of a musician… We hear later that they played the CD in the operating room during his surgery. Ukulele is everywhere these days…

"Somewhere." Craig's new ukulele instrumental CD. A hit in operating rooms too... — “Somewhere.” Craig’s new ukulele instrumental CD. A hit in operating rooms too…

26 Jun 2015

GOT GAS?

Oh dear. I know my semi-regular blogs have been, well, not… What can I say? It’s busy-busy here in Culver City. But then something happens that I just have to write about.

I go to Costco for gas.

And my whole psychological spooky house loses a couple walls…

It’s early, before the big store rolls up the corrugated steel doors and a knot of eager shoppers push in with their giant carts. It’s when the gasoline station is usually, shall we say, mellow.

All the years I’ve been driving my Saturn (yes a Saturn…), I still have to look at the dash to remind myself which side the fuel tank is on. Oh yeah…the right. Plenty of times I pull into the “other” lane and have to thread the gasoline thingy behind the rear antenna across the trunk to reach the hole. As I stand there, babysitting the handle, making sure a passing car doesn’t squash my bottom, it’s obvious to me that I could have thought this through a little better.

So here I am one more time carefully weighing my options, remembering which side is which and divining which line of cars is the shortest. So I hesitate a little before taking aim at the “leftist” lane. JUST AS A GUY IN A BIG BLACK TRUCK RIPS OUT OF NOWHERE AND CUTS IN FRONT OF ME.

Yes in the scheme of things, in a world that is rife with despair and people doing awful things to each other, this burst of mean-spiritedness is a non-starter. But at the picnic of life, it’s not so much the bears that get me. It’s the ants…

Almost immediately he pulls up to a pump. MY PUMP. As I wait MY turn. I glare at him. I want to burn him up with my eyes. I am on fricking fire.

And he is glaring at me too. At ME! I watch him open his door…glare…walk to the pump…glare…do the credit card dance and gas up…glare. I watch my angry mind question his worthiness as a human being. His right to breathe air. But mostly I smash into the wall of my own psychology. My M.O. When I feel wronged, when I feel like someone has treated me in a rude, snarky way, I feel terrible. Terrible, terrible, terrible.

But here’s what usually happens: I back off. I want to make nice. I want everyone to get along. This is my M.O. too. I swallow that mouthful of anger and stuff it into my gut. As if getting it out of my face is my ticket to Happy Land.

Not this time…

I look the guy straight in the eyes and say “you cut in front of me and that was very unkind.”

“I disagree.” He retorts.

I disagreeeeee?

Uh-oh… Was he the star on his college debate team? Was he from a big family where it was dinnertime sport to argue your case over mom’s pot roast and mashed potatoes?

And he’s not done… Now he makes it about me. That I was hesitating and didn’t know which lane I was going to, so of course he drove around me. In other words, it is my fault.

Oh, he’s a spin doctor too? He’s off the hook, by golly, because I made him do it. By now my rational mind is missing in action. My head has turned into a drunk party.

One voice says “yeah, it’s all your fault…bad girl.”
Another interrupts “nuh-uh, he’s a jerk.”
Another chimes in “but the guy has a point.”
“Yeah…maybe…but he won’t even say ‘I’m sorry’.’”
“Shut up.”
“No, YOU shut up…”

The conversation blares on.

If it was possible to lean a microphone against our heads and broadcast the internal conversations we have with ourselves, I think most of us would all be in jail.

At least overnight…

I say nothing more to this man. Continuing our “discussion” would be an exercise in futility but I’m sure my face registers utter dismay. A poker player I am not. I watch him roar out of the parking lot and tear down the street. Maybe he’s late for work. Maybe his kid is in the hospital. Maybe he’s a horse’s ass. His left brake light is out and maybe he’ll get pulled over by a cop and get a ticket. A really expensive ticket…

Maybe today I am taking things too personally.

Towards the end of his life, philosopher Aldous Huxley wrote, “It’s a little embarrassing that after forty-five years of research & study, the best advice I can give people is to be a little kinder to each other.”

Mr. Huxley died in Los Angeles. In 1963. B.C. Before Costco.

How do I respond to this moment…and this one…and this one? How can I know until it happens? How can I know if the answer is kindness? Or fire? Or both? If only I can remember to check in with my heart FIRST.

If only I can remember where the fuel tank is…

______________________________________________

PROGRAM NOTE for our California friends:

My husband Craig and I are doing a mini-ukulele tour (and mini-vacation) through Central California in mid-July:

Friday, July 17, 2015: Morning workshop with the super fun Funstrummers in Modesto. Everyone is welcome.

Saturday, July 18, 2015: Workshop and concert at the house of ukulele love,The Strum Shop, in Roseville.

Monday, July 20, 2015: Workshop and concert in San Jose at Atria Willow Glen. Workshop is 2:00 to 3:00 and Concert from 3:30 to 4:30 P.M. Everyone is welcome (Email me for details).

Please join us. We would LOVE to see you and make music together.

_______________________________________________________

So I happen to glance at my horoscope for Wednesday, June 24, 2015 in the Los Angeles Times, just as I’m composing this blog and it’s like…really? The comedy just writes itself…

20 May 2015

OO-KOO-LAY-LAY

Way back when, I remember mastering three chords on the ukulele–in the blessed key of C–so I could sing and play a few songs for the injured veterans at my local VA Hospital. I am in nursing school and my fellow students and I are doing our first semester clinical rotation, learning all we can about giving sponge baths to naked men…

During our lunch break I grab my little soprano what-ever-it-is ukulele and serenade a ward of guys, imprisoned in their hospital beds…maybe for the duration. The music is a lovely respite for them, albeit fleeting. And I like how I feel doing it.

Good-bye nursing school.

I cobble together a music career, playing piano and guitar, but never forget that sweet little ukulele. It has called to me over the years. Come back lady…come back.

Then one day my husband Craig adopts one and brings it home. Like a new puppy or something. Soon enough I get my own, strap on a leash and take it to my gigs. Just like that, Craig and I fall madly in love with the ukulele. What was once a curiosity, a passing fling, has become the hot spot in our lives.

What is it about the ukulele that makes it SO friendly, SO joyful to play? This humble little thing, with it’s plastic strings–only four of them–that can snap you out of a bad mood or give you a second wind when it feels like your life is grinding into the dirt. What is it about the ukulele that gets big people singing along and little people discovering they can sing along? Maybe for the first time.

I have asked myself this question over and over and finally decided the ukulele is a mystery to be played, not solved! So why not write a song about it? Put those feelings of “ahhh” into words and music. And here it is:

“OO-KOO-LAY-LAY”

This tune is from my first ukulele album “Are You Having Any Fun?” A couple months ago I did an arrangement for my ukulele class, The CC Strummers. Thank God they liked it (I mean, you never know…) and we gleefully learned it together. Then I started getting reports from the grandmoms and granddads in our classes how they are singing the song and teaching it to their little ones…and big ones. Then they show me the home videos on their smart phones, the spontaneous duets, and my heart just goes “ahhh.”

The CC Strummers and I debuted “OO-KOO-LAY-LAY” at The Santa Monica Ukulele Festival last month. My husband Craig shot the video and I had more fun than is legal adding the lyrics so you can sing along, kind of like watching the bouncing ball. CLICK HERE to see the whole spectacle and to “put a smiley, smiley, smiley in your day-ay.”

I want you to learn this song and take it to the streets! So I’ve attached the ukulele chart below. It’s a gift that I hope will keep on giving.

Of course I’d love for you to download the song from iTunes, Amazon or CD Baby so I can make a whopping 70 cents! You know the old joke: How do you make a million dollars playing the ukulele? You start with two million dollars.

You may want to check out my album “Are You Having Any Fun?” too. Listening to it will make you feel mighty fine!

And a little of THAT goes a long way!

12 Apr 2015

SANTA MONICA

My first apartment!

It’s tiny—one room—eight blocks from the beach in Santa Monica. My own four walls. Literally. I climb the freshly painted white steps to the door that opens because I have the key. Oh-Oh! There is space enough for my piano, a sofa-bed, a desk, dresser and not much else. But it’s mine. Well for a price. I think the rent was $185 a month which in today’s market wouldn’t get you a floor. Or a roof.

I am SO happy. Now I can play the piano and sing and not have my mother yelling at me because she wants to watch T.V.

Free at last!

Until I meet my downstairs neighbor. Well I hear her first… Pounding a broomstick against her ceiling–my floor–as I play a cheery melody on the piano. The first time this happens it scares the hell out of me. I learn that she is a book editor and values silence–probably more than air.

I try to be respectful and considerate. Well as thoughtful as an emotionally stunted, immature twenty-one year old can be… I don’t play early. Or late. I cover the piano with a heavy blanket and weave strips of felt between the hammers and strings so the keys go thud, thud, thud. I play with the soft pedal. Always. But nothing satisfies her.

I like to sing in the shower too…until she starts banging a skillet against her wall. It is demoralizing. I want to be a professional musician. Well that’s my dream! But in reality I am floundering after graduating from college and take a job in a local emergency room. On the graveyard shift. As the admitting clerk. I don’t have a car so I ride my bicycle to work at 10:30 at night and back home through rush hour traffic in the morning.

I’m lucky to be alive. But that job… That job saves me. If you want to learn something profound about life itself, about…say…keeping things in perspective, then spend some quality time in an emergency room. It takes three years of real-world education to “right myself.” To move to another apartment in Santa Monica, on the ground floor, behind a tortilla factory, to leave my job in the ER and drop out of nursing school to sing in a seedy piano bar near downtown Los Angeles. It’s my first gig. The first of thousands…

I buy a car…

Santa Monica is only six miles from where I live now, but it seems a world away. The memories nibble at the edge of my thoughts as I drive west towards the ocean.

I’m making that sojourn Saturday, April 18th for the first ever Santa Monica Ukulele Festival located on the campus of Santa Monica High School. Just say “Samohi,” like the locals…

My ukulele group, The CC Strummers, perform a set of fun, sing-a-long songs in the outdoor Greek Amphitheater at 1:00 P.M. Later in the afternoon my husband Craig Brandau and I teach a strumming/fingerpicking workshop. Time for a pit stop as food trucks dish their goodies before the evening concert! A galaxy of ukulele performers (Craig and me too) play and share the stage with student musicians from Samohi. This festival is a fund-raiser for their music department. The audience is invited to bring their ukes and play along at the concert.

Please check out the Santa Monica Ukulele Festival Website for details and join us as we bring aloha spirit to Los Angeles.

I suspect my old neighbor—the one with the broomstick and skillet—is long gone. But she taught me something SO important. To hang in there. Even when no one is cheering you on. And because I did, this trip to Santa Monica will be especially sweet.

mondayclass — The CC Strummers. Monday Beginners Class as we practice for the show.

thursday — The CC Strummers, Thursday Intermediate Class play throughout our set list.

22 Mar 2015

LIFE IS A MARATHON

All the “kids” in my ukulele group, The CC Strummers, are living courageous and Technicolor lives, whether they (or we) know it. The truth is I could write a blog about every one of them. I could write a blog about YOU and I bet I’d be plenty inspired.

Well let me introduce you to Miss Isabelle.

She walks into our ukulele class and brings a swath of sunshine with her. This woman. Like two allowance-challenged teenagers, she and I commiserate about the latest colorful frock we snagged at The Goodwill. Just about everything she wears looks good on her.

Including her latest medal…

Isabelle ran in the L.A. Marathon this month. And Isabelle FINISHED the L.A. Marathon. Did I mention it was a thousand degrees that day. Okay I am exaggerating. It was in the 90’s. NOT marathon weather. People were falling over or at least stopping and staying “stopped.” Men and women who are much younger than Isabelle gave in and gave up.

Happy 80th Birthday Isabelle!

She was determined to finish the race. All 26.2 miles! It took her almost 9 hours. Yes she stopped and rested a few minutes here and there… After mile 17 she decided to walk instead of trot. She took her time and enjoyed the scenery.

Did I tell you that she has completed lots of marathons and has the hardware and ribbons to show for it? The class gave her a big round of applause.

I walk my “marathon” three times a week. That would be a mile and half or 25 minutes (whatever comes first) around my neighborhood. Then I sprint up four flights of stairs to our condo. I’m winded and pooped. A jock I am not. Never have been. And then I think of beautiful Isabelle and…I go back to sleep.

It’s treacherous waters, comparing ourselves with others, so I give myself a metaphorical pat on the back for just doing what I do. “Consistency” is good enough in my air space.

But Isabelle does more than run… She flies. She goes to places that I happily visit on the National Geographic Channel but know I will never see in person. Last year she and her tennis shoes explored Machu Picchu in Peru. A couple years back she made it to the base camp of Mt. Everest. 17,000 feet UP.

“Where do you go to the bathroom”? I ask her. Because I always ask that question. Because if I go anywhere, I need a bathroom that is fully furnished, functional and private with a toilet that flushes. End of story. Isabelle tells me she squats over a hole in the ground. She describes the scene with such equanimity that joy washes over her face.

I tried squatting over my toilet once, just for fun. Just to see if I could do it. I sure “felt it” in my thigh and calf muscles. And other places. “Wow, this is good exercise,” I groaned to myself, just before giving up.

Ah, exercise….

Which brings us back to running our own marathon–saying “yes” to a body that keeps us moving along the asphalt highways of our life. Thank you Isabelle for loving the scenery and for showing us what is possible. At any age!

3 Feb 2015

WHEN I’M SIXTY-FOUR

I saw an article about a guy who entertains at retirement homes. Of course it catches my eye because I too rove from senior community to senior clubs shaking things up with familiar songs and sing-a-longs.

So this guy tells his airport story. The one where he sees Sir Paul McCartney in the crowd of travelers. THE Paul McCartney. This is a moment, the close-encounter-kind of moment you throw yourself at…or else you regret that you didn’t. For the rest your life.

I had a similar OMG moment many years ago when I saw my fantasy doll and secret love, Yul Brynner, picking out green beans in the canned vegetable aisle at a local grocery store. Suddenly I’m a little girl again, watching him dance Deborah Kerr across the movie screen in “The King And I.” A moment in time that is seared into my bones.

So there I stand. Frozen. Gripping the grocery cart so I won’t fall over. I can’t move. I can’t talk. Thankfully my body keeps breathing because I have forgotten how you do that. Yul Brynner squats low, snatches a can of beans from the bottom shelf, rises to his feet with the feline grace of a ballet dancer and walks away. The other way.

I’m kicking myself, still, for not saying something like “thank you, thank you Mr. Brynner for your work; it has meant the world to me…” But that same day I promise myself that if I ever have another opportunity to thank someone for their contribution to my overall well-being, I will jump on it!

So I am happy this guy in the airport grabs his brass-ring moment and thanks Sir Paul for all the great music. But the guy doesn’t stop there. He offers a “back-story” to the master songwriter, telling him that he plays for senior citizens and that they love to sing along with the Beatles’ tunes, especially “When I’m Sixty-Four.”

But…but…but…he has to change the words to “When I’m EIGHTY-FOUR.”

According to this fellow, Sir Paul laughs and says he probably should have written the song that way in the first place. Considering Mr. McCartney will turn 73 this year, you do the math.

So in the spirit of aging gracefully, I am sharing The CC Strummers’ ukulele version of “When I’m Sixty-Four” with you. This is our first Farmers’ Market gig and we have no idea what to expect. Will people sit for a while and listen? Will they throw organic tomatoes at us? We are pleasantly surprised when a crowd of mommies and daddies, little ones, grandmothers and grandfathers, Boomers, Millennials and Gen Xers gather around and applaud us through our hour-long show.

It’s all captured on this video including my irreverent comments along the way. What can I say…the comedy writes itself. CLICK HERE and enjoy.

Hubby Craig and I hope to see some of you at The Palm Strings Ukulele Festival this weekend, Friday, February 6th to Sunday, Feb 8th, 2015 in beautiful Palm Springs, California. We are going to party in the warm desert sun! All ages welcome.

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Author Archives: Cali Rose