{"id":3567,"date":"2018-07-05T17:43:00","date_gmt":"2018-07-06T00:43:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/calirose.com\/wackyworld\/?page_id=3567"},"modified":"2018-07-05T17:43:00","modified_gmt":"2018-07-06T00:43:00","slug":"posts-from-2011","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/calirose.com\/wackyworld\/posts-from-2011\/","title":{"rendered":"Posts from 2011"},"content":{"rendered":"
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December 3, 2011 — A Life Lived Well — Bill Tapia, “The Duke of Uke”<\/span><\/p>\n

“Music
\nis enough for a lifetime, but a lifetime is not enough for
\nmusic.” So says the noted Russian composer, Sergei Rachmaninoff.
\nWhether we live long or not-so-long, in the scheme of things, it’s
\nstill a short visit. “Just passing through,” as they say.<\/p>\n

We lost a ukulele legend this week: The “Duke of Uke,” Mr. Bill Tapia<\/a>
\nHe passed away quietly in his sleep. His life was all about
\nmusic\u2014playing it, writing it, teaching it, living it, breathing
\nit.<\/p>\n

I marvel at the infinite ways life appears\u2014as you
\nand me, as someone like Bill whose work brought so much joy to others
\nand surely contributed to his remarkable longevity and vibrant
\nspirit. One of my teachers reminded me often that the audience
\nwon’t remember what you sing, or say, or play, but they will remember
\nhow you make them feel.<\/p>\n

My husband Craig and I spent an evening with Bill Tapia<\/a> last August. We drove with him from his home in Fountain Valley,
\nCalifornia south to Carlsbad for the Thursday gathering of the Ukulele
\nSociety of America. He was charming, feisty, impeccably dressed
\nand a master storyteller who spiced up his tales with the kind of salty
\nlanguage that I find utterly endearing. Here’s a man who has seen
\nthe parade, who was<\/span> the parade, who met and mingled and made music with the greats.<\/p>\n

And
\nthat long history is siphoned into his performance that night. He
\nsings the song “Young At Heart.” He no longer can play the fancy
\nchords on the uke and is more talk-singing than singing, but he is
\nspeaking and playing the truth. His truth. There isn’t a
\ndrop of artifice there. He is telling me how it feels to be young
\nat heart, even when the body is going to hell. And that is what I
\nshall remember.<\/p>\n

“Success” means different things to different
\npeople, but for me, it is doing what you love to do, for as long as you
\ncan and finding a way to get paid for it. That means Bill was a
\nrollicking success! He lived to be 103 years and 11 months.
\nI would say that is a great run. Thanks Bill for showing us what
\nis possible — that music keeps us young.
\n
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

\n


\nNovember 25, 2011<\/span><\/span> — Thanksgiving’s Twilight Zone Marathon<\/span><\/p>\n

The flu makes its rounds \u2018round this time and I’ve been feeling something coming<\/span> on for a few days now, so I gobble down vitamin C, drop dose after dose
\nof echinacea and goldenseal on my tongue, suck on sugary
\nOscillococcinum, gargle with salt water and slurp chicken soup.
\nSometimes all this herbal voodoo works. Unfortunately on this
\nThanksgiving, it does not.<\/p>\n

My husband and I have big plans after all, to spend the holiday with our adopted family<\/a>.
\nThere’s a grandma and grandpa, new mom and dad, soon-to-be mom and dad,
\nthe hugely ribald brother (my husband’s best friend) and the
\none-year-old baby boy. These wonderful people trust me to bring
\nthe everything-but-the-kitchen-sink<\/span> salad. And I trust them to bring the real stuff! That would
\nbe turkey, vegetables and for me, the wondrous potato in any form,
\nsublime apple-something<\/span> desserts, vivid conversation, big laughs and those good “we-are-family” vibes.<\/p>\n

Spreading
\nnasty germs is not good manners on Thanksgiving so regrettably we have
\nto cancel. The salad remains unmade in the fridge. I
\nclimb into bed, pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep.<\/p>\n

But not for long.<\/p>\n

Sometimes
\nI feel so wasted that all I can do is turn on the television and let
\nthe blather wash over me. So I flip through the channels and soon
\nland on The Twilight Zone Marathon. Creator-genius, Rod Serling,
\nhad his writer’s stethoscope pressed against the heart of human nature
\nand could wrap this stuff into a good story. How else can you
\nexplain the show’s deep resonance that continues to reverberate over
\nthe generations. He knows what scares us. Let me rephrase
\nthat. He knows what scares me.<\/p>\n

When I was a little
\ngirl, I’d watch the Twilight Zone with my parents which is sort of like
\nswinging on a trapeze with a sturdy net below because the episodes
\ngenerally scared the hell out of me, but mom and dad were there to say
\n“it’s okay, it’s okay.” Nevertheless, certain episodes left
\nindelible grooves in my memories. Like when a little girl hears a
\nstrange voice coming from the wall. She climbs under the
\nbed, following the sound, and falls through, oh I don’t know, an
\nopening into another dimension, and disappears into the wall. I’m
\nwatching this and hyperventilating already, especially when her father,
\nher daddy, risks life and limb, barreling through the wall into this
\nmurky world of woo-woo<\/span>.
\nHe grabs the girl and together they jump back into her bedroom, just as
\nthe time-space hole closes. Forever.<\/p>\n

At least that is how I remember it…<\/p>\n

Yes
\nI know. This is just a T.V. show. But I confess, even after all
\nthese years, decades, when I bend down and look under a bed, a chilly
\nfeeling soaks through me. I’m not kidding. I’m not proud of
\nthis either. I talk myself through it. “Come on Cali, it’s
\njust a wall<\/span>.” But let it be known, I don’t spend a lot of time looking under beds.<\/p>\n

So
\non this long Thanksgiving weekend, I’m grateful for the whole gestalt
\nof it all. The Twilight Zone moments, The Andy Griffith Show
\nmoments. It’s all there in this great big sprawling show that is
\nlife.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n


\nNovember 14, 2011<\/span><\/span> — That Woman Can Swing<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My friend Betty Bryant<\/a> is a loyal member of The CC Strummers, our ukulele group at the Culver
\nCity Senior Center. Cane in hand, she pads into the Thursday
\nclass just before “the bell,” looking gloriously put-together and ready
\nto make music. It’s ten o’clock in the morning, an ungodly time
\nof day for a professional musician.<\/p>\n

Like many newbies to
\nthe ukulele, certain chords still trip her up and tie her fingers in
\nknots. A “G” seems innocuous enough, but we start off with the
\n“diet” version of that chord and for some people that abbreviated form
\nwill be as good as it gets. And that is good enough.<\/p>\n

The
\nbaby finger on Betty’s left hand, her chord-forming hand, is limp and
\nvirtually useless, so she has certain physical challenges when it comes
\nto playing a fretted instrument, such as a uke. And if that isn’t
\nenough, she is legally blind in her right eye. We joke about
\nthat, Betty and I, since I am legally blind in my left eye. We
\nwould make quite a pair tripping down the street. Whatever the
\nissues for those of us with bodies– arthritis, numb fingers, missing
\nparts, big-time illness–we somehow, still, move around the obstacles
\nand shudder forward.<\/p>\n

\"\"My husband and I just returned from Betty’s Birthday Bash and CD Release Party at the acclaimed Catalina Jazz Club here in Los
\nAngeles. You see, our Betty has been declared a living jazz
\nlegend. She plays a smokin’ piano, hot and sexy. With nine
\nfingers! And she sings and swings, really swings<\/span>,
\nbecause this music, jazz, is in her body. She is 82 years old and
\nhas been playing the piano since she was four and has worked as a
\nmusician and recording artist since her early twenties.<\/p>\n

Well into old age, Dizzy Gillespie declared that it has taken him this long<\/span> to learn what notes to leave out<\/span> when he is playing. One of my friends who plays classical piano
\nreminds me that, in music, silence is just as important as the
\nnotes. A great artist like Betty honors both sound and<\/span> silence.<\/p>\n

Just
\nafter she is introduced, she moves carefully across the stage,
\nsupported by that glitzy cane and takes her seat at the Yamaha
\nGrand. She brings a lifetime to her performance\u2014all the late
\nnights, early mornings, road gigs, the applause, the rejections, all
\nthe circles of musicians, of friends, of lovers, of family\u2014it’s all
\nthere in every note. The result is magic and today, a
\nlove-fest. The band is in the zone<\/span> and pulls us in too.<\/p>\n

I
\nlean forward in my chair and think to myself how proud I am of Betty
\nfor taking on a whole new instrument at the ripe age of 80. It is
\nhumbling, for anyone, to tackle a new language and issues of dexterity,
\neven for something as puppy-like as a ukulele. But here is Betty,
\nweek after week, struggling like everyone else to nail those chords and
\nstrums but getting swept into the joy of it anyway.<\/p>\n

When
\nmusicians play together, when audiences gather to listen, something
\nwonderful happens, something bigger than you and me. It’s
\nthe mojo of “us.”<\/span>
\nWe are lifted out of ourselves. It happens on stage today at the
\njazz club. It happens when The CC Strummers gather in the Craft
\nRoom at the Senior Center on Mondays and Thursdays.<\/p>\n

Two
\nyears ago Betty became a grandmother. For the first time.
\nTwins. They were at the jazz club too, with mommy and
\ndaddy. It’s never too early, nor too late, to get that fabulous
\nmusic into our body. Happy Birthday Betty. Congratulations
\non your new CD, “Together,” and thank you for the great music you share
\nwith us.<\/p>\n

\n


\nNovember 4, 2011<\/span><\/span> — Of Birthdays, Big and Small<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Whether
\nwe live long, short, or somewhere in-between, it’s a quick visit.
\nOver in the blink of an eye. We are, after all, just passing
\nthrough. So when I actually wake up in the morning, any morning,
\nit feels very “birthday-ish” to me. Special. I’m still
\nhere. The people I love and care about are still here. As I
\nlike to say, “we’re breathing and the rest is details.”<\/p>\n

But then again, who doesn’t enjoy a hug, a piece of cake and a big “yahoo” because it’s your<\/span> birthday. Well that is what happens to me. I just had a
\nbirthday. A big one. As if all of them aren’t big<\/span>?
\nWhile I don’t talk about it, I still want the attention. While I
\ndeclare to myself, “oh it’s just another day,” my smile grows
\nexponentially larger as the Facebook birthday wishes pile in.<\/p>\n

I have this most un-special, special day<\/span> mapped out in advance. After teaching my ukulele class in the
\nmorning I will swing by Smart and Final for some Formula 409, the giant
\nbag of my favorite Lifesavers Wintergreen candies and a couple gallons
\nof Arizona Ginseng Ice Tea which I pour into a small canister and take
\nto my gigs, reporting to the audience that it’s vodka\u2026 Then I’ll pick
\nup more foodie-essentials at Trader Joe’s and finally go home to work
\non music. Just another miracle of a day in my world.<\/p>\n

Was it John Lennon who said “life is what happens between the plans you make?”<\/p>\n

So
\nThe CC Strummers and I are practicing a couple new songs when all at
\nonce my husband appears. My husband, who is supposed to be
\nteaching third period world history just about now. At
\nschool. To tenth graders. He’s wearing a Technicolor
\nHawaiian shirt, a big smile, I mean BIG, and holding a birthday cake
\nwith one shimmering candle. Oh my God, I’m one!<\/p>\n

Suddenly the class sings and plays Happy Birthday to me<\/span>!
\nIt’s a Twilight-Zone-out-of-the-body string of moments. So
\nwonderfully unexpected and utterly joyful because it is shared.<\/p>\n

Craig
\nloves to surprise me and it’s quite easy to do since I was born with a
\nlimited capacity for guile. He orders the cake from our local
\ngluten-free bakery because I cannot eat wheat and it is sweet and
\nmouthwatering. After class we all dig in and munch on cookies
\nthat one of my students, Dianne, bakes herself. Apparently, some<\/span> people know it is my birthday, after all.<\/p>\n

Craig
\nand I hang with our ukulele family, later we sit in with the sing-along
\ngroup at the Culver City Senior Center, then he takes me to lunch at
\nour neighborhood Japanese restaurant, Sakura. Let’s put it this
\nway, my cuisine choices on this day consist of birthday cake, miso
\nsoup, teriyaki, sushi and more birthday cake. God forbid I eat
\nanything that resembles a vegetable.<\/p>\n

Much later, I do make it to Trader Joe’s and that evening we settle in for our blessed life. Simple and stupendous.<\/p>\n

Yes
\nthere are sweet cards and telephone calls. It is a wonderful
\nthing to be acknowledged because we are here, in this place at this
\ntime and in a way, we carry the essence of each other in our
\nhearts. One person’s birthday is every one’s celebration.
\nWe all know it will end someday and that makes this moment all the more
\nprecious.
\n
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

\n


\nOctober 15, 2011 — The Doggie-Doo Blues<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Once
\nupon a time I was a “doggie person” and took Chewbacca, my beloved
\nbundle of mixed-mutt-joy, on his thrice-daily walks around the neatly
\ngroomed pastures of my condo homeland. I carried a couple extra
\nbaggies to pick up the you-know-what<\/span>.
\nBut here’s the thing\u2026 My explorer dog preferred to deposit his
\ntreasures in the lush over-grown ivy. I know, I know…
\nRules are rules and you are supposed to scoop the poop, wherever the
\npoop pops. But I was very immature at the time (there hasn’t been
\nmuch improvement, really), and I just couldn’t motivate myself to
\ntrudge through the thickets of ivy when I couldn’t even see the pile of
\ndoo-doo anyway. So once the deed was done, we would keep right on
\nwalking, Chewbacca and me, trusting that soon enough nature will
\ntransform his dung-delight into rich fertilizer.<\/p>\n

Well that’s my
\nstory and I’m sticking to it. In fact I even wrote a song about
\nthe whole subject of #2 and call it “The Doggie-Doo Blues.” The
\ntune, enhanced with dog howls, is the third selection on my comedy
\nalbum, “Cali Rose Gets Goofy.” But another song on the CD, “It’s
\na P.M.S. Kind of Day,” became the big<\/span> hit, thanks to Dr. Demento, and the story of dog poop got relegated to the compost pile.<\/p>\n

Or so I thought\u2026<\/p>\n

A couple months ago I receive a call from Mrs. Warren Eckstein. Denise. And she asks if I’m the “Doggie-Doo Lady.”<\/span> Like how do you answer that? And by the way nice person, who are you?<\/p>\n

These
\ndays I am no longer in the
\ndoggie-kitty-horsey-bunny-lizard-hamster-birdy-fishy loop, so Denise
\nbrings me up to speed. Warren Eckstein<\/a> is
\nan internationally renowned animal expert and activist, having written
\nseveral books such as “How To Get Your Dog to Do What You Want.”
\n(Maybe this stuff works on two-legged animals<\/span> too\u2026). He appears on television and hosts a weekly syndicated radio program, “The Pet Show.”<\/p>\n

Denise
\ncontinues, “Warren plays The Doggie-Doo Blues on his shows. You
\nhave quite a following. We’ve been playing your song since
\n1996.”<\/p>\n

At this point I need to sit down and breathe some
\nextra oxygen. Then she asks me if I’d like to sing The Doggie-Doo
\nBlues at the big Pet Memorial Day and Animal Blessing in Calabasas,
\nCalifornia this October.<\/p>\n

Okay\u2026.<\/p>\n

And that’s how I end up
\nat the pet cemetery a couple weeks ago, singing about dog poop as
\npeople line up with their beloved pets to get blessed by the assorted
\nclergy folk who do such things. Amid the swaying willow trees and
\nhundreds of petite graves marked with colorful arrays of plastic
\nbouquets, near the rows of booths that sell everything from doggie
\ncupcakes to doggie booties, I perch myself on the small stage under a
\ncanopy that has already blown over twice by surprise wind gusts.
\nAnd to think I was worried that a testy terrier would pee on my ukulele\u2026<\/p>\n

I
\nknow you just can’t wait to see how all of this turns out.
\nFortunately, my husband and super-good-sport, captures the three
\nminutes of poo-poo-licious fun on video. And now, thanks to
\nYouTube, “The Doggie-Doo Blues” belongs to the world. Click here to check it out.<\/a><\/p>\n

If
\nyou are compelled to add this song to your music library or iPod (Thank
\nYou Steve Jobs), here’s the good news: You can download “The
\nDoggie-Doo Blues” on CD Baby<\/a>, Amazon<\/a> and iTunes, along with other tracks from my comedy CD too. Please visit my online store<\/a> for a fabulous “two-fer deal.”<\/p>\n

And
\nfor all the animal lovers out there, you can listen to Warren Eckstein
\nin your home town or on his website. Here in Los Angeles “The Pet
\nShow” is heard every Saturday, from 11:00 A.M. to 1:00 P.M. on KRLA, 870 A.M.<\/a><\/p>\n

So let’s raise a doggie-biscuit to life! All of it.
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

\n


\nSeptember 25, 2011 — All in the Family<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"My husband and I don’t have kids, but we do have house plants. And ukuleles. Craig<\/a> left a lifetime of guitar playing behind to devote himself to this
\nfour-string wonder. While I sing and strum the uke like a
\ndrummer, he is drawn towards lush instrumental chord melodies.<\/p>\n

Same instrument, different paths. But alas, we have found a way to meet in middle.<\/p>\n

“Try
\nTo Remember” is Craig’s second ukulele collection on CD and we have
\njust unleashed it on the world. I sing on two and a half
\nsongs. We worked up a delicious arrangement for “Watch What
\nHappens” and my own song “Daydream.” The halfer? “A Man and
\nA Woman.” On the original recording from 1966, the chorine sings
\n“Dubba dubba, duh. Dubba dubba duh\u2026” It’s very retro and
\nsexy. Flash forward to Sunburst Recording<\/a> (owned and operated by the incomparable Bob Wayne), right here in Culver City, where Craig and I dubba-dub<\/span> in perfect unison. Add a few airy oo’s<\/span> and ah’s<\/span> over his sparkling ukulele playing and you get a very cool remake of a classic.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

More than anything, this CD is a musical homage to Craig’s mentor. Howard Heitmeyer<\/a> is a genius that hardly anyone has heard of. He is a guitarist
\nwho thinks like a piano player and his arrangements are thick and sweet
\nlike molasses. Howard is also old school. Very old
\nschool. Once upon a time, he was the go-to studio guitarist in
\nHollywood. You name the famous singer or movie score and Howard
\nrecords with him, or her or them. Then the Beatles arrive on the
\nscene and pop music changes almost overnight. Howard is really
\npissed off.<\/p>\n

So what does he do? He stops
\nrecording, opens a music store in town and begins his long career as a
\nteacher. In guitar circles he is a living, breathing guru who
\nwelcomes true devotees onto his “mountaintop,” which in this case is
\nthe burbs of North Hollywood. Craig has been making that
\npilgrimage for many years.<\/p>\n

Then suddenly the ukulele comes into
\nour lives and that is our “Beatles” moment. Goodbye guitar.
\nCraig presents Howard with a proposition. How about writing an
\narrangement for the ukulele?<\/p>\n

Howard is apprehensive and grumbles
\na bit. He is a lovable curmudgeon, after all, and does not play
\nukulele, but hey, when you are a genius and can visualize the notes on
\nthe fretboard and identify chord patterns like a savant sees animal
\nshapes in every angle of a starry sky, anything is possible.<\/p>\n

\"\"By
\nnow, Howard has written a truckload of fabulous arrangements for the
\nukulele and you will hear a few of them on this new CD. We
\ninvited two marvelous musicians to the party. Denny Croy plays
\n(and teaches) bass. He is laugh-out-loud hilarious, tall, bald
\nand bespeckled. Like my husband. It’s almost a
\n“separated-at-birth” kind of thing.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Percussionist,
\nCraig Fundyga hauls half his furniture to the back door of the
\nstudio. Let me tell you, the warm smooth vibraphone weighs about
\nas much as a baby elephant and comes in two pieces. Unlike an
\nelephant. It takes two guys to set the thing up. But oh\u2026the
\nsound is so sweet.<\/p>\n

Well-known stores are carrying “Try to
\nRemember” including Jim Beloff’s Flea Market Music, Elderly Music, CD
\nBaby, iTunes, Amazon. At Craig’s online store<\/a>, if you purchase this CD for $10, you get his first CD, “Tenderly” for only $5.00 more. What a deal!<\/a><\/p>\n

A popular online store in Japan sells his albums too. The ads look terrific<\/a>.
\nThere are big splashes of color and lots of writing, which we can’t
\nread because it’s in Japanese. But we do know they sold out the
\nfirst order and we just shipped another big box of CD’s this
\nweek. Ukulele music is the happening thing<\/span> in Asia these days.<\/p>\n

\"\"As
\nfor Howard Heitmeyer, he still mails us new ukulele arrangements
\nfor a standard or pop song or classical piece and writes originals
\ntunes for the uke as well. He even gave Craig an arrangement
\nof\u2026gasp\u2026”Norwegian Wood.”<\/p>\n

The Beatles.<\/p>\n

When
\ndoes he sleep? This man who will be eighty-eight years old in
\nOctober? May we all live as long and wide as Howard.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n


\nSeptember 6, 2011 — Old Guys Rule <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

They
\nare called The Ukulele Society of America. USA! This group
\nof warm, fun-loving and big-hearted ukulele players meet every Thursday
\nevening in a glorious rotunda of a room in downtown Carlsbad,
\nCalifornia. The last meeting of every month is extra special
\nbecause there is food. A steamy buffet of it. And guest
\nukulele artists too. That would be my husband Craig and me.<\/p>\n

Pat Enos, who
\nresides over the group not only as the MC but the singer and player who
\nleads the strummers from one song to another, invites us to share the
\nevening. Pat Palika Enos<\/a> and his wife
\nNancy, are the very embodiment of Aloha Spirit. He insists on
\ndriving us part of the way, which really helps since the round trip
\nfrom Culver City to Carlsbad is almost 200 miles.<\/p>\n

So
\nCraig and I head to Fountain Valley and pull up besides a lovely
\nsuburban California home. We grab our ukes and a box of etc. from
\nthe car and head inside where we are greeted by the “Duke Of Uke”
\nhimself, Bill
\nTapia<\/a>.<\/p>\n

Like what?<\/p>\n

Let
\nme tell you a little bit about this feisty ukulele master who
\nproclaims, in bold bumper sticker print, that Old Guys Rule. He
\nis a legend in the ukulele world. Pure and simple. Little
\nBill bought his first ukulele in his hometown, Honolulu, for
\nseventy-five hard-earned cents, which was a lot of money circa
\n1915ish. By the time he was 10, he turned professional and has
\nplayed with the veritable who’s-who of popular music ever since.
\nAnd here we are, at his<\/span> house.<\/p>\n

In recent months, Bill has had
\nmajor health issues and is now confined to a wheelchair, but at a
\ntoasty 103, he is ever vibrant and thinking, always thinking, about the
\nnext song to play, or learn, or write.<\/p>\n

He’s the first thing I
\nsee as I walk into the house. A whimsical leprechaun of a man,
\ndressed to the nines in his salmon-colored pants, matching tie, plaid
\nshirt (with salmon stripes) and a white captain’s hat with a matching,
\nyou guessed it, salmon-colored brim. He’s a “brand” by golly and
\nhe knows how to work it. After we are introduced, I can’t help
\nmyself and tell him he’s really cute<\/span>. He looks up at me with
\nthose big impish eyes and declares quickly “I’m harmless.”<\/p>\n

“Whoa, what a relief,” I’m thinking to myself very loud. “I was kind of worried there\u2026”<\/p>\n

Pat
\nand Nancy tend to his needs and graciously roll with the vagaries that
\ncome with living long and being famous, to boot. When you
\nare 103, looking this spiffy takes many hands.<\/p>\n

\"\"So the five of us
\nlimo south to the big Kanikapila. Yes, this is a big group that
\nembraces being big. Let me give you an example. In my
\nukulele group, The CC Strummers, we have a songbook of 36 songs.
\nThe Ukulele Society of America’s songbook contains over 500 tunes and
\narrangements. You need a U-haul to carry the book<\/span> along, so
\ninstead they project each song onto a big screen that can be seen by
\nthe guy trimming the hedge outside the windows. It’s pure
\ngenius!!!<\/p>\n

Pat sings and plays a few songs, Craig and I
\ndo our thing (you can watch our short set on
\nYouTube)<\/a>, there’s a
\npee-break, then the whole community of players join in. You just
\ngotta take my word for it\u2026 Something happens that is positively
\nspiritual when people strum the ukulele and join together in
\nsong. Gals from the hula-branch of the club dance
\nalong.<\/p>\n

The final encore is none other than Bill
\nTapia himself, performing the song “Young At Heart.” The years
\nhave reduced his dexterity, but increased his charisma and ability to
\ncommunicate the emotional taproot of a song. He is singing his
\ntruth<\/span>. He phrases the words with the maturity of a man who
\nknows<\/span>. And that, in itself, is an honor to witness.<\/p>\n

Not
\nto be overlooked is Pat Enos who is a sublimely talented musician and
\nperformer with a generosity of spirit that is as big and warm as his
\nvoice. Pat is the real deal which is why he works all the time
\nwith his Hawaiian band or just him and his uke. Sure I sing
\n“Aloha \u2018Oe,” but I do it like the SoCal girl I am. On the other
\nhand, Pat really<\/span> sings it, because it’s in his DNA. He is
\ncarrying on the tradition that Bill Tapia and his peers began so many
\nyears ago.<\/p>\n

The whole evening is positively smile-inducing.
\nFOOD plus FUN plus FRIENDS plus FABULOUS UKULELE. A winning
\nrecipe that adds sweetness to our lives. Just when we need it
\nmost.
\n
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

\n


\nSeptember 1, 2011 — Ukulele Rocks Fiest La Ballona<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Every
\nAugust, Culver City, home-sweet-home for me, puts on a very big
\nparty. Imagine that, right in the middle of Los Angeles, a
\nmegalopolis if ever there is one, we have our very own county fair and
\nget to pretend, for one weekend, that we are small town America<\/span>.<\/p>\n

The
\ncelebration is called Fiesta La Ballona and there are vertigo-inducing
\nrides for the thrill seekers, arts and crafts for collectors and
\ndecorators, a cornucopia of food booths and trucks for the hungry and
\nadventurous. Local merchants promote their services and wares,
\nDisney does Disney, Sony does Sony, and there is music. Oh, the
\nmusic.<\/p>\n

Fiesta La Ballona is grand enough to support two
\nstages. Big name (and paid!) groups share their music on the
\nlarge stage. The audience cheers, claps along and shakes their
\nbooties on a sprawling dance floor in front of the stage.<\/p>\n

Then there is the other<\/span> stage.<\/p>\n

The
\nCommunity Stage. Where the audience sits on the shaded bleachers
\nbeneath a grove of oak trees and enjoy the karate demonstration,
\nline-dancers, little girl gymnastics and even some bluegrass
\nmusic. On this particular Saturday, August 27, 2011 it feels like
\n150 degrees outside with 100% humidity. Needless to say, our
\nshady corner of the world is very attractive at 1:30 in the afternoon
\nas the CC Strummers begin the show and the Community Stage gets rockin!<\/p>\n

The CC Strummers is the ukulele group that has grown out of the
\nfirst “Ukulele For Beginners” class I offered at the Culver City Senior
\nCenter last year. We spend many happy hours in the “craft room,”
\nlearning new songs and strums and chords and generally having such a
\ngood time that people, people we don’t know, gather outside the door,
\nenchanted by the music and all that wonderful laughter.<\/p>\n

Fiesta
\nLa Ballona is our second show. Ever. And the first one
\noutside the Senior Center. We have rehearsed the songs on our set
\nlist over and over, contemplated everything that could go wrong, decide
\nit doesn’t matter anyway because playing the ukulele is so fun, who
\ncares. We all arrive on time, with our music and music stands,
\nbottles of water, flowers in our hair, aloha shirts and great big
\nukulele smiles. We are ready to do it<\/span>. And do it<\/span> in a very big way.<\/p>\n

I
\nam so proud of all 21 CC Strummers who play today. I am proud of
\nthe ones who sit in the front row and I’m proud of the ones who
\ndon’t. I am proud of the ones who get so nervous their minds go
\nblank, but they climb up on stage anyone. They play the ukulele,
\nsing and make joy, for themselves, for each other and for every person
\nin the audience.<\/p>\n

My husband captures the show on video and I have posted four excerpts that you will enjoy watching:<\/p>\n

We have our very own theme song and it is aptly named “CC Strummers.”<\/a> Oh sure, Tony Bennett has that tune about San Francisco, but in our song<\/span>, we are “funky, classy, sweet and sassy.”<\/p>\n

And we rock it too. With our very own version of “Proud Mary.”<\/a>
\nWe have enough guys in the class to brighten the “bottom” with some
\ntasty baritone “rollin’, rollin’.” Listen close and you’ll hear
\nit.<\/p>\n

Especially for the phalanx of friends and family who not only attended the show, but will be watching online, The CC Strummers introduce themselves to you.<\/a><\/p>\n

“This Little Light of Mine”<\/a> is one of our favorites. It’s a hand-clappin’, foot-stompin’ sing-along that is irresistible.<\/p>\n

Enjoy!<\/p>\n

\n

August 12, 2011 — The Simple Life —<\/span> Loving Kaua’i\/Chapter 9 THE LAST CHAPTER<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Some folks “do” vacations. It’s about let’s do this<\/span>. Let’s do that<\/span>. Let’s see this<\/span>. Let’s go there<\/span>. And when all is said it done, you need a vacation to recover from your vacation.<\/p>\n

Our idea of vacation is not to do<\/span>.
\nWhich of course is a whole lot easier said than done. But as each
\nday passes it gets easier and less guilt-wrenching to actually settle
\ninto the softness of this moment. That means putting the “to do”
\nlist away, at least temporarily.<\/p>\n

But
\nwe slip into routine anyway. A simple-life routine that does not
\ninclude going to work, driving freeways, paying bills. Vacation,
\nindeed.<\/p>\n

\"\"Craig
\nand I walk into Hanalei. It is eight minutes of breathing fresh,
\nsweet air. Of hearing the roosters cock-a-doodle doo. Eight
\nminutes of big puffer clouds skittering across the blue sky. Of
\nwatching gentle white mist drape the top of the mountains. Eight
\nminutes of counting the number of waterfalls cascading down those
\nmountains. The more rain, the more waterfalls.<\/p>\n

Every
\nmorning we land at the Ching Young Village local hangout for
\nbreakfast. Musubi (sushi a la spam) for me, regular old scrambled
\neggs and toast for Craig. We buy today’s local newspapers, The
\nGarden Island and the Honolulu Star Advertiser, spread our food and
\nreading materials on the well-worn picnic table outside the little
\ndiner and do our thing. I read the paper and Craig does the
\ncrossword puzzles.<\/p>\n

Do that every morning, even for a few days,
\nand the locals begin to notice and nod their heads as they walk
\nby. Remember, the people who actually live here see the
\never-changing parade of visitors who are here today, and often gone
\ntoday. So the two amorphous groups seldom mingle, except in a
\npolite, touristy way.<\/p>\n

Which is why we are delighted that a
\ngrizzled old fellow walks up to Craig, points to the crossword and
\ntells him how hard it was yesterday. He couldn’t figure out the
\nword “zits.” Then he laughs. Big and hearty. After
\nthat, we talk, the three of us, a little more everyday. Finally I
\nintroduce myself and ask his name. “Afuk.” I know this
\nbecause I ask him to spell it.<\/p>\n

Please, don’t go there\u2026<\/p>\n

For
\nthe record, this is how he pronounces it: “Ah-fook.” He is
\na taro farmer. Hanalei Valley is one of the largest producers of
\ntaro and the fields look like checkerboards of green across the
\nlandscape. “I am at the Hanalei Pier every night at six, with
\nbeers. Come join me,” he smiles.<\/p>\n

\"\"Years
\nago, I read the book “Tuesdays with Morrie.” This is the story of
\na remarkable man, living with a horrendous disease (ALS). Day by
\nday his body does less and less. His mental prowess remains
\nhowever, intact and in Technicolor. When someone asks him to
\ndescribe a perfect last<\/span> day, he unfurls a moving collage of simple things, shared with the people he loves.<\/p>\n

I
\nremember wondering why he doesn’t describe a day of big adventure
\ninstead: “Oh, I climb Mount Everest. In the morning.
\nLunch by the Eifell tower. Spend the afternoon white-water
\nrafting on the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. Swing by
\nVegas for a few rounds of blackjack at The Bellagio, dinner at sunset,
\non the Lido Deck of the Ocean Princess as it cruises into Cabo San
\nLucas.”<\/p>\n

Something like that.<\/p>\n

But you know
\nwhat. Now I get it. Can’t explain it, but I get it.
\nJust sitting here, back in our little island nest, with the laptop
\nresting on my thighs, my husband, perched in a nearby lounger chair,
\nall tiki-adorned, still working on today’s crossword, the music of
\nexotic bird songs mixing with the soft whoosh<\/span> of the Tradewinds. It’s a kind of simple “nothing” that is filled to the brim.<\/p>\n

Wherever you are\u2026<\/p>\n

Mahalo and thank you for coming along with us on our trip to Kaua’i.<\/p>\n

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
\n
Pineapple (You Can Grow This At Home) Update<\/span>: Jill Landis writes “The roots are incredibly long!” We’re at one month and counting now.<\/p>\n

Longan (Try “Dem” Nuts) Update<\/span>:
\nWith an impish smile, June S. from The CC Strummers hands me a brown
\npaper bag before class today. I peek inside and nearly collapse
\ninto a puddle of joy. It’s a ziplock of golden
\ntreasure–longan. And the best news of all, June bought them
\nright here in Los Angeles. Gardena, to be exact, at 99 Ranch
\nMarket. I’m SO happy. You may have an Asian grocery store
\nin your neighborhood too, so check it out!<\/p>\n

\n

August 7, 2011 — You Can Grow This At Home — <\/span>Loving Kaua’i\/Chapter 8<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"\u2018Tis
\nthe season for beefy, beautiful fresh pineapples and I snag a couple
\nwinners at the Foodland Grocery Store in Princeville on the north shore
\nof Kaua’i. Being a city girl to the core, when I think
\n“pineapple,” I think Dole and I think cans, which is why I deliver
\nthese two beauties to Jill Landis, the Beach Bum Bungalow
\nMissus. I don’t know what to do with the “real thing.” She
\nremoves a very large knife from the drawer and in one graceful ballet
\nmove, decapitates the frond stem from the yellow meaty stuff, then
\nwhacks away the extraneous green tendrils that are hanging on for dear
\nlife. She presents this living, breathing souvenir to me after I
\nask her to sign and date the little tag that accompanies each globe of
\nfruit.<\/p>\n

I rush it back to our upstairs nest and sink it into a
\nglass of water. How many of us have taken a sweet potato, jammed
\nits sides with toothpicks and let it soak in water until roots fill the
\nglass?<\/p>\n

Did you know you can do that with a pineapple?
\n(Minus the toothpicks). I am happy to report that five days later,
\nlittle nubs are already bursting open and real roots will soon
\nappear. Once they grow bushy, Jill will transplant the whole
\nthing to a big pot where it will get lots of sunny attention. A
\nyear later, a real pineapple will rise from the fronds. Maybe
\nshe’ll send me a “baby” picture or two along the way, so I can enjoy
\nthe perks of inter-species motherhood. From afar.<\/p>\n

Ah, the glorious circle of life, which unfortunately does not always end like a Disney movie. \"\" Once the baby pineapple lands in your fruit salad, the whole plant
\ndies. Remember that the next time you put anything “pineapple” in
\nyour mouth.<\/p>\n

Yes, Jill knows her pineapples. She knows hula too and practices three times a week with her hula sisters. And Miss Jill Marie Landis<\/a> is a best-selling author. Many years ago, she and her husband
\nSteve taught school in Long Beach, California. High school for
\nhim. Kindergarten for her. She loves the kids and loves
\ntaking a break from the kids. By reading romance novels.
\nThen one day it hits her, “I can write a romance novel too.” The
\ntime between that life-changing call to action and the actual
\npublication of her first book is remarkably short.<\/p>\n

And
\nthis has been a week of big celebrating for our
\ncleaver-wielding-hula-dancing-scribe. Amazon just published her
\numpteenth book, “Mai Tai One On<\/a>,”
\nas an e-book\/Kindle special for 99 cents. Just like they did for
\nLady Gaga! {Note to time-travel readers, the price has since gone
\nup}.<\/p>\n

Twenty-four hours after its debut, her book is #2 in, get
\nthis, the “Mystery-Woman’s-Sleuth” category. And of every book in
\nthe universe that Amazon offers to Kindle readers, her tale of tiki
\nmadness comes in at a jaw-dropping #32.<\/p>\n

So why not find a cushy Barcalounger, mai tai (or Martinelli Sparkling Apple Cider) one on and watch the pineapples grow.<\/p>\n

Postscript: Almost one month later, the roots on the Foodland pineapple are going strong. Three inches and growing!<\/p>\n

\n


\nAugust 5, 2011 — Love “Dem” Nuts — <\/span><\/span> Loving Kaua’i\/Chapter 7<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Every
\nSaturday morning at the crack of 9:30 A.M., a swarm of people, ripe
\nwith anticipation, rush the Farmers’ Market in Hanalei, on the north
\nshore of Kaua’i. Nestled against the tall, velvet green Makaleha
\nMountains, it’s a most bucolic setting and feast for all the
\nsenses. As a lone guitarist sings and plays Hawaiian songs under
\na nearby canopy, artisans sell their wares and folks line of up for
\nexotic juices (my favorite is a concoction of cucumber, mint and
\npineapple). Island pastries are snatched up quickly and we
\nhaven’t even gotten to the fruit and vegetable stands yet.<\/p>\n

Suffice
\nit to say, I’m grabbing the gigando avocados. I mash one in a
\nbowl and add a generous shake-a-shake of the Jane’s Original Mixed-Up
\nSalt I find in the Beach Bum Bungalow<\/a> pantry. Our guacamole is simple and sumptuous.<\/p>\n

I
\nbuy a couple golden papaya from a guy who looks like Christopher Atkins
\nfrom the movie “Blue Lagoon, all grown up and happily raising fruit and
\nnuts on his little farm somewhere on Kaua’i. He has that
\nsun-kissed, not-a-care-in-the-world look about him and big messy blond
\ncurls that fall just so<\/span> around his neck. He is definitely the person you want to buy tree fruit from!<\/p>\n

\"\"“Have
\nyou tried one of these?” he asks, pointing at a walnut shaped nut,
\nbronze and a little stubbly. I’m scared. I wouldn’t know
\nwhat to do with it, much less put the thing in my mouth. He
\nquickly pinches one open and gently warns me there is a seed inside and
\nplease don’t eat it. (“Why?” I wonder to myself. “Will it kill
\nme?”) Tentatively, I take petite little bites, much like you would chew
\nat the miniature corn on the cob they put in salads. One tiny
\nkernel at a time.<\/p>\n

Until I discover, this thing has to be the
\nmost delicious unknown piece of food I have ever eaten. It is
\nimpossibly sweet, with the texture of a gooey grape and has a
\nname, longan<\/a>. The lychee nut is a close relative.<\/p>\n

And
\nwouldn’t you know, just as I have fallen madly in love, I discover this
\nwill be one quickie romance. I Google “longan” as fast as you can
\nsay “gimme gimme.” Well actually, I Google “longan, Los Angeles,”
\nsince that is where I live and<\/span> eat. Let’s put it this way, there is stuff for “longan,” but it isn’t about food.<\/p>\n

So
\nnext time you visit Thailand, India, Vietnam, the Philippines. Or
\nHawaii. Give yourself a sugar high to remember. Buy a bag
\nof longan and go wild.<\/p>\n

\n


\nAugust 3, 2011 — Floating — <\/span><\/span> Loving Kaua’i\/Chapter 6<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We
\nall have our issues, sometimes grand, mostly small. One of my
\nitty-bittsies is that I can’t stand being immersed in cold water.
\nNot that I go out of my way to do that. But every once in a while
\nwhen the hot water goes down in our condo, I see my life pass before me
\nat the prospect of taking a cold shower. What a wimp, I
\nknow. And aren’t I lucky to have running water anyway, any
\ntemperature, considering what is happening in other parts of the
\nworld? Yes I know.<\/p>\n

But knowing that doesn’t change a body
\nthat flails at cold. So here were are in heavenly Hanalei.
\nBasted in sun block, SPF 40,000, it’s time to go for a swim in the
\nocean–the beautiful, and what feels to me, cold ocean. My
\nhusband, who embraces cold like a sturdy salmon, is already
\nswimming that-a-way<\/span>, whereas I am standing knee-deep in the stuff and reporting to all who can hear that “I can’t do it.”<\/p>\n

Little
\nchildren, very old people and all sorts in between are frolicking
\nhappily in what, in truth, is mildly warm ocean water. But I’m
\ngoing through my usual process of self-torture.<\/p>\n

What I do is
\nmove forward into deeper waters, one teeny-tiny step at a time.
\nIn previous years, my husband has splashed water on me in a veiled
\nattempt to move the process along. My response to that has been
\nto go doberman pinscher<\/span> on him. So he stays away now and let’s me do what I have to do.<\/p>\n

Eventually,
\nand I mean eventually, I do make it to the promised land and morph into
\namphibious Cali. You may find it hard to believe, but I am a
\nreally good swimmer. My parents threw me into the neighborhood
\nYWCA pool way back when for the post-toddler class. It didn’t
\ntake long for me to paddle the length of the Olympic-sized pool and
\nearn my “little-girl” swimming badge. I do the butterfly,
\nbreath and back strokes too. I swim underwater, happily, and do
\ndolphin turns at the end of the lane.<\/p>\n

As long as the pool is 150 degrees!!!<\/p>\n

So
\ntoday, on this toasty afternoon, I swim back and forth, in plain view
\nof the lifeguard station. The currents are strong and it feels
\nlike I’m swimming in place, except for all the huffing and puffing
\nafterwards. Now, it’s time to stop. And float.<\/p>\n

I trust the
\nwater and let my body rest on it. Rock on it, melt into it.
\nMy ears are submerged enough that the sounds of “peopling” on the shore
\ndisappear into a calm “shoooooooooooshshshsh.” The clouds
\nslide across the sky, forming blobby shapes that appear and disappear
\nin a heartbeat. Movement. Movement everywhere. The
\nocean, my arms and legs, the air, the clouds. Yet, as my body
\nfloats and my ever-chattering mind goes quiet, the whole world feels
\nremarkably still. And wonderful.<\/p>\n

\n


\nAugust 2, 2011 — If The Walls Could Talk — <\/span><\/span> Loving Kaua’i\/Chapter 5<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Koloa,
\na delightful hamlet of stores and sturdy little homes, beckons us from
\nthe North Shore. It’s a round trip of eighty-plus miles, but my
\nhusband, Craig and I, live and drive in Los Angeles, so we’re used to
\nthat. Even though the folks on Kaua’i stay close to home and rarely
\nventure into other parts of the island, except for special occasions or
\nwork, we are ready, willing and able to put the flip-flop to the pedal.<\/p>\n

And that’s how we make the left turn off the main highway and drive, in hushed silence, through the Tree Tunnel<\/a>.
\nSome 150 years ago, a Scotchman found his bliss as a cattle rancher in
\nSouth Kaua’i. Along with cows, he liked eucalyptus trees and
\ntoday they form a cathedral-like canopy over the highway.<\/p>\n

We
\nare paying a visit to Georgine, the Ukulele Mama of Koloa, at her warm,
\nwonderful and only ukulele store in the neighborhood. This woman
\nis a beacon of good cheer and aloha spirit. Recognizing us from
\npast visits, she greets us with big hugs and a “welcome home.”
\n\"\"But
\nyou have to know that she greets everyone with this kind of joy.
\nShe isn’t trying to sell anything here, but she will wrangle the wary
\nvisitor from the door, put a beautiful soprano uke in his hand and say
\n“I just love this one. Try it. Try it.” She knows the
\nirresistible ukulele will ultimately sell itself.<\/p>\n

Framed pictures of noted ukulele players decorate the wall as Craig<\/a> and I “ooh and ah” because we have actually met a couple of them.
\n“I’m putting you on the wall too,” she gushes. “Here, hold this
\nukulele. Stand over there.” And before we know it, she’s
\nsnapping pictures with her iPad camera. This is the first time
\nwe’ve made it to “A Wall.” We’re busting with pride and
\nsavoring the moment. It’s fabulous and fun.<\/p>\n

And fleeting.<\/p>\n

A
\nfew days later we are sitting in with the Pono Kane trio for their
\nHappy Hour set at Tahiti Nui in Hanalei. Steve, the slack key
\nguitarist, takes a moment to point out the framed pictures on the wall
\nof the restaurant\u2014local icons all, past and present. Our eyes
\nfollow his finger around the room until it lands on the photo of Elvis
\nPresley.<\/p>\n

It seems that not long ago, the hunky actor
\nGeorge Clooney was in Hanalei to film scenes from his upcoming movie,
\n“The Descendants.” At Tahiti Nui. The studio’s art director
\nperused the restaurant innards and all the pictures on the wall passed
\nmuster, except Elvis. Something about copyright
\ninfringement. Oh sure they can leave the picture up and use it in
\nthe movie, but the bill from Graceland will be $5000.<\/p>\n

Suffice it to say, Elvis doesn’t make it into the movie. But he’s back on the wall now.<\/p>\n

Fleeting, but fun.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n


\nJuly 30, 2011 — Meet & Greet In The Big House — <\/span><\/span> Loving Kaua’i\/Chapter 4<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My
\nhusband Craig and I return to Beach Bum’s Bungalow year after year
\nbecause we love Hanalei. But that is only the beginning. Our hosts,
\nJill and Steve, have welcomed us into their studio apartment and into
\ntheir island ohana. This short, but rich connection with the people of
\nthe neighborhood is really what keeps us coming back and we are
\ngrateful to them for making this possible.<\/p>\n

And on this trip, we
\nactually are invited into the Big House. That would be Jill and Steve’s
\nlovely abode, which adjoins our little upstairs tropical nest. Lucky
\nfor all of us, the neighbor across the street, an avid fisherman, just
\ncaught a 200 pound yellow fin tuna. Yes, you read that right, 200
\npounds. Considering that tuna comes in six ounce cans, you do the math.
\nIn true aloha spirit, he is sharing a deli-size display with us for a
\nbarbecue dinner. All of us, Jill and Steve’s new and long-time friends,
\nshare local connections to Long Beach, California. Craig grew up in
\nLong Beach and I sang on the Queen Mary for years so our root system
\nincludes this community.<\/p>\n

Suffice it to say, there is much to
\ntalk about as we dig into the garden fresh salad and vegetables, Jill’s
\ndelicious baked beans, loaded with fresh cilantro and brown sugar and
\nof course “Charlie The Tuna,” seared to perfection on the grill.<\/p>\n

The
\nconversation swings local. Even in paradise there is a murky underbelly
\nthat you won’t read about in the colorful brochures at the airport.
\nYou’ve probably heard that “good fences make good neighbors.” Here too.
\nThere are neighborhood skirmishes and deeply-held suspicions and
\nresentments between native Hawaiians and mainlanders. But sincerity,
\nkindness and in no small measure, a dose of humility wins in the end.
\nHopefully. Probably everywhere.<\/p>\n

Then there are the other
\nsentient beings on the island\u2014centipedes, cockroaches, lizards, geckos,
\nfrogs and mosquitoes that take no prisoners. Beach Bum’s Bungalow is
\nblessedly free of most biting and crawly critters because the
\nexterminator visits often. On top of that, Steve power bleaches all
\nsurfaces several times a year to fend off mold. It’s hard work keeping
\nparadise clean and tidy.<\/p>\n

Feral pigs live in the swampy land up
\nthe Hanalei River. We all know that what goes in must come out. In an
\nideal world, the “come out” part would become magical pig fertilizer.
\nBut no\u2026 Here the poo and other assorted stuff can poison the river and
\nrun into the ocean. It’s very rare, but that flesh-eating bacteria we
\nhear about has sent more than one island resident on a near-trip to the
\nlight at the end of the tunnel.<\/p>\n

And if that is not enough, the
\nyoung woman whose story inspired the recently released movie “Soul
\nSurfer” lost her entire arm to a shark, just a few beaches down from
\nhere. And then there are tsunamis, massive floods and hurricanes.<\/p>\n

But you know, every place has its problems.<\/p>\n

I
\nlive in Los Angeles, for heaven sakes, where every other week we are
\nreminded by the smiley faces on the local news, that the “big one” is
\ncoming. “Do you have your earthquake kit packed and ready?” They ask.
\n“Do you keep a spare pair of tennis shoes by the bed?” They cajole. Do
\nyou practice diving under the IKEA table and kiss your ass goodbye? Oh,
\nthat’s MY question\u2026<\/p>\n

Fortunately the conversation turns global.
\nIt seems that all the guests at the gathering (except us) are world
\ntravelers and they regale us with hilarious tales of near-disaster and
\ntriumph. The mascara I am wearing has drained into small gray streams
\nthat meander down my cheeks. That is how hard I am laughing at their
\nstories, which are really, at heart, glorious vignettes about the
\ntwisted absurdities of human nature.<\/p>\n

Although my husband lived
\nin Okinawa, Japan, where he served as a corpsman in the Navy, our idea
\nof world travel is watching House Hunters International on Home and
\nGarden Cable Television, from the comfort of our cushy bed.<\/p>\n

And
\ngrateful we are, for that too. The whole mess of stories that make up
\nall of our lives becomes a wonderful tapestry and on this Tuesday, I
\nget to go along on each person’s ride as each story unfolds. It’s
\nalmost like living it myself and that is good enough.<\/p>\n

Suddenly it’s 9:00 P.M. That is midnight<\/span> in Hanalei. It’s time to put the dishes away and say our goodbyes. The
\nwhole evening, a snapshot in time, is one I shall treasure.<\/p>\n

\n


\nJuly 29, 2011 — There’s No Place Like Home — <\/span><\/span>Loving Kaua’i\/Chapter 3<\/span><\/p>\n

During
\nour visit to Hanalei last year, I took a private ukulele lesson with
\nBeverly Kauanui, who is a beloved musician and teacher on
\nKaua’i. She’s been teaching her ukulele class for over nine years
\nand reports, with a big smile, that she “can’t get rid of them.”
\nBeverly’s strums are fiendishly complex and she sings in the authentic
\nHawaiian style. This music is in her bones.<\/p>\n

Once a month
\nher ukulele class moves into public domain, in the heart of Hanalei at
\nThe Tahiti Nui, one of those half-inside, half-outside island bar and
\ngrills. There is a little stage where she plays her well-worn
\nKamaka eight-string uke. Her husband Pat strums guitar and stands
\nsentry, like the old Vietnam Vet he is. Grace thumps her cool
\nstand-up bass and silver-haired Dave fills in the middle with his
\ntipple playing.<\/p>\n

Craig and I get lucky and are here as
\nwell, the second Tuesday in July. We grab our ukuleles and jump
\nright in, along with Beverly’s other students who have now nestled at
\nthe small tables. Most of the songs are very Hawaiian and
\nunfamiliar to us, but one of the great things about playing the ukulele
\nis you get to practice the art of “hit and miss.” Whatever you
\nplay, it’s pretty much okay. Just keep smiling and have a good
\ntime.<\/p>\n

“Welcome home Cali and Craig<\/span>,”
\nBeverly says, right into the microphone. We try to come to
\nHanalei every year because, by now, it’s positively medicinal, but I
\nhaven’t really thought of it as “home.” Then again, isn’t home
\nwhere the heart is? And isn’t the heart basically where the ass
\nis (or nearby). And here we are, at this moment, in this place,
\nbeing welcomed into the Hanalei ohana, the family. Whether this
\nis true or not is almost irrelevant. I am warmed all over by her
\naloha spirit.<\/p>\n

\"\"During
\nthe class, several of her hula students take their places near the
\ncrowded stage and perform their well-choreographed routines. Most
\nof the dancers are, shall we say, AARP kind of gals, but joy is not
\nage-specific. You just have to smile at it all, like a big
\nheave-ho of “ah-h-h-h” and watch the sweet display unfold.<\/p>\n

Tourists
\nand locals alike fill the main room, stand at the bar and lean in from
\nthe outside patio to watch the show. This is what community looks
\nlike in Hanalei. It is a very small town on the wet north shore
\nof Kaua’i where there is only one road in and out, across a one-lane
\nbridge at that, and the folks here know that when the emergency sirens
\nwail or some other disaster hits, big or small, they can rely on each
\nother to survive.<\/p>\n

Beverly tells the audience that Craig and I
\nare visiting from “The Big Island.” That would be the very big
\nisland of North America. I mean, why not? It’s good to be
\nreminded that community is everywhere. Everywhere the heart is.
\n
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

\n


\nJuly 27, 2011 — Chip Clips — Loving Kaua’i\/Chapter 2<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It’s
\nhot and very humid in Hawaii and the first day or two in Hanalei the
\ntropical climate wrecks havoc on my body chemistry. But it’s a
\nstealthy tango because I don’t know it’s even happening–that I’m
\nsweating. Sweating buckets. It just feels\u2026well\u2026wet and
\ntoasty. The story in my bloodstream is more insidious
\nhowever. Electrolytes are going wildly out of whack.<\/p>\n

I
\nbegin taking offensive action immediately by drinking more water and
\ndowning Gatorade in large gulps, but it’s never enough and I brace
\nmyself for the inevitable goo-goo talk, brain-fog and leg cramps.<\/p>\n

It
\ncreeps up on me, for sure. We are at the Big Save Market in the
\nChing Young Village Shopping Center, stocking up on life-saving
\nsupplies like bags of Santitos Tortilla chips. I want to buy
\n“chip clips” too, to keep them fresh and crispy. The muggy
\nweather turns crunchy<\/span> into soggy slush<\/span> very quickly.<\/p>\n

So I’m trundling up and down the grocery isles, gasping at prices, oohing<\/span> at this and that, but alas not finding any chip clips. So I
\ncorral a lovely store clerk, “excuse me,” I ask, “do you have \u2018nip
\nbips.’ Oh I mean \u2018thip hips.’ Um \u2018kip zips?'”<\/p>\n

At least I am getting closer.<\/p>\n

“You
\nknow, the snappy thingies that keep your bag of ‘chippy crunchy stuff’
\nfresh like this?” By now I’m resorting to pantomime and making
\nlarge hand gestures.<\/p>\n

It should be no surprise that she
\nsays “no.” Anyone in their right mind would say “no.”
\nFurthermore, she is probably hoping the friendly idiot \u2018fip-gip’ lady
\nwill please stop talking, buy the two papayas in her basket and leave.<\/p>\n

The lesson here is take care of your body<\/span>. Because, as you know, it takes care of you. One way or another\u2026<\/p>\n

\n


\nJuly 25, 2011 — Lahaina Noon — Loving Kaua’i\/Chapter 1<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Twice
\na year something happens in Hawaii that doesn’t happen anywhere else in
\nthe world. It is called Lahaina Noon and this year, on\"\" Monday, July 11 at exactly 12:47 P.M., the sun is directly overhead and
\ncasts no shadow on vertical objects, such as telephone poles, husbands
\nand wives.<\/p>\n

Craig and I are winging our way across the
\nPacific on Hawaiian Airlines when Lahaina Noon happens in Lihue, on the
\nisland of Kaua’i, our vacation destination. We will spend
\nthe next ten days nesting on the North Shore in the
\ncharming hamlet of Hanalei. We come here to this beautiful
\nplace because the air, the water, the mountains, the trade winds, the
\nwarmth of the people, taken together, become a mysterious brew of
\ncalm.<\/p>\n

We don’t know how over-buzzed we are, stressed
\nabout everything from global warming to the bathroom door that won’t
\nclose because the hinge is rusting out. We get lulled into
\nthinking that multi-multi-tasking, racing here, rushing there\u2026is
\nnormal. Until we unpack our tee-shirts, shorts and swimsuits in
\nour little studio apartment, Beach Bums Bungalow<\/a>,
\nand are reminded once more (because we always forget) that living like
\na rat in a maze is not normal. Now I’m not saying I know what
\nnormal is. But for me, I get so drawn into the whirlwind of being
\nbusy that, are you ready for this? I forget I have a body.
\nMy head is doing all the work and my body comes along for the ride,
\nbecause, well my body does keep my head off the ground.<\/p>\n

So being
\nin Hanalei, even for only a few days, helps me remember the wholeness
\nof what I am. What we all are. That said, it doesn’t happen
\novernight.<\/p>\n

Granted, my husband and I “sit” our way from Los
\nAngeles to Honolulu and then onto Kaua’i, and it’s not like we have to
\nflap our arms to keep the plane in the air, but we are just plain
\nexhausted and testy. Not a good combination for married
\npeople. By the time we have rented our blue Nissan from Budget
\nand pulled into the Foodmart for groceries, we are about ready to tear
\neach other’s eyeballs out. The proverbial Lahaina Noon is
\nroasting us alive.<\/p>\n

I’d like to tell you that we kiss and make up
\nbefore falling into bed, but that doesn’t happen either. He rolls
\neast, I roll west. We sleep for twelve hours. The next
\nmorning, we step gingerly back into the world of civility. My
\nhusband admits that he was very angry yesterday, but it was more like a
\nnon-specific kind of rage, and he took it out on me. And quite
\nhonestly, I was doing the same thing. Oh the angst we store in
\nthe cells of our bodies. Then we find someone, usually a someone
\nwe love, to a wail on. That doesn’t sound like normal<\/span> to me.<\/p>\n

Already Hanalei is bringing me back to myself.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n


\nJuly 13, 2011 — I Wish I Was A Cowgirl<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>Once
\nupon a time, I am trapped in afternoon rush hour traffic, inching
\nforward on the Santa Monica Freeway towards the East L.A.
\ninterchange. The sky is a murky gray-green-purple. Even
\nthough my windows are rolled up tight and the air conditioning is
\npumping cool onto my face, I still smell the outside and it hangs over
\nme like a musty old coat. Smog alert weather indeed.<\/p>\n

I
\nstudy the faces of my fellow drivers, sheathed, all of us, in our
\nvirtual car worlds, yet sharing, at the same time, this communal
\nexperience of utter dissatisfaction. No one appears to be a happy
\ncamper. Including me.<\/p>\n

In fact, the thought “get me out of
\nhere” freezes in my brain. “Get me out of here. Get me out
\nof here.” Like am I going to levitate or something?<\/p>\n

But
\nthen a melody appears, as if a magician, a sorcerer waves a wand.
\nI don’t know how this happens, but I hear it. There are words
\ntoo: “I Wish I Was A Cowgirl.” I reach for paper, pencil,
\nrest them on the steering wheel and begin scribbling.<\/p>\n

Creating
\nsomething out of nothing is such a mystery. We all do it.
\nOur thoughts, our words, our feelings, our recipes, our drawings,
\npoems, crocheted hats, sandcastles and skyscrapers. They
\nappear. For a while.<\/p>\n

When I am writing, I usually
\nwallow and fret, re-write and re-write. Then I let the thing get
\ncold for a few days and rewrite some more. But not in this
\ncase. The song appears and essentially writes itself.<\/p>\n

Speaking of wishing\u2026 I wish they were all like that\u2026<\/p>\n

So
\nwhat is this song about, this ode to “get me out of here”? Well
\nit’s a fantasy\u2014that there is a way to escape this moment, that there is
\nsomewhere better.<\/span> The song describes that somewhere<\/span>.
\nThere are mountains that stretch forever, there is a horse, my horse,
\nand we ride and ride until time doesn’t matter any more. There is
\na log cabin with a rocking chair. The perfect rocking
\nchair. There is a window that is so big and clear that you don’t
\nknow where the inside ends and the outside begins. And oh the
\nquiet. It’s the kind of stillness that makes you feel whole.<\/p>\n

Maybe that place<\/span> does exist and maybe it’s right here, after all. You be the judge.<\/p>\n

I
\ndid a video that combines an excerpt from the studio recording of “I
\nWish I Was A Cowgirl” with a live performance where I accompany myself
\non the piano. You can watch it on YouTube<\/a>.<\/p>\n

And if you totally love this song, you can purchase and download a copy at iTunes<\/a>, Amazon<\/a> and CD Baby<\/a>.
\nThe CD single, that includes the song, piano sheet music, a ukulele
\nchart and another video that features my ukulele version, is available
\nat my website store<\/a>.<\/p>\n

Thanks for listening all you cowgirls and cowboys.
\n
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

\n


\nJuly 5, 2011 — Finding Family – Part 3<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Venice
\nBeach is quintessential SoCal. Sun, surf, sand, skateboards,
\nskinny bikinis, sassy street performers, shopping, sights to see and
\nsmell. Venice Beach is shrill and shining!<\/p>\n

We have a lot
\nof serious issues in Los Angeles, but I marvel nonetheless, how
\nAngelinos manage to hang together and let it hang out at the same time
\nand this is never more evident than on a Saturday afternoon in Venice
\nBeach. What awaits us are blocks and blocks of little shops, mom
\nand pop food booths, artists making and selling their wares. California
\nbeach bunnies and muscle-bound hunks mingle amiably with visitors from
\nevery point on the compass. The people-watching is primo.<\/p>\n

My
\ncousins have gifts to buy and the first t-shirt store on the way draws
\nthem in like a powerful magnet, and so it goes. We buy necklaces,
\nbracelets, street art, matching dresses and a patchwork coat.
\nNothing is expensive and we feel that, in our own way, we are
\nsupporting the arts.<\/p>\n

Occasionally people gather at Venice Beach
\nto express their different points of view, often at the same
\ntime. For example, we witness a very attractive fellow, wearing
\nonly a loin cloth, a straw hat and a couple rubber snakes. He is
\nsurrounded by some lovely folks who are carrying big yellow signs that
\nimplore us to “Seek The Lord Jesus.” The snake guy insists, with
\na big smile, that we are all naked in the eyes of the Lord. The
\nthing is, this scene is so normal<\/span> on Venice Beach that hardly anyone even notices or cares. Not when there are earrings to buy at the $2.00 table\u2026<\/p>\n

No
\nquicky trip to Los Angeles is complete without a cruise down Rodeo
\nDrive in Beverly Hills. Along with everyone else and their
\nmother, I might add. Enough of these crowds and Louis
\nVuitton. We drive into the canyons above Sunset Boulevard, the
\nland of enormous mansions, very tall walls and camera decorated
\ncast-iron gates. I don’t think they have a lot of neighborly
\nTupperware Parties in this zip code. We see a couple people
\nstanding outside their car snapping pictures of a palatial estate, with
\na very ornate garage entrance. My cousins lean out the window,
\nconfess they are tourists and wonder aloud, like, why are you taking
\npictures here??? Oh\u2026it’s Michael Jackson’s house. Just then
\na “See-Where-The-Stars-Live” tour bus slows and inches by, then another
\nappears and another. Welcome to the circus!!!<\/p>\n

So we
\ndecide to follow the next one that rounds the bend. We have no
\nidea why they are stopping at this house or that one, but we pull\"\" over too and soon are drawn into the world of the rich and famous, or rather our fantasy of how it would be to live like that<\/span>.
\nAn old Italian proverb comes to mind: “After the game, the king
\nand pawn go into the same box.” But oh, what a game\u2026<\/p>\n

My
\ncousins remind me often during this trip how fortunate I am to live in
\nLos Angeles. It’s so clean, they say. And new (remember
\nthey are from Baltimore). The fruit and vegetables are so fresh
\nand delicious. The people are really nice.<\/p>\n

On Sunday
\nmorning, we have a little extra time before I take them to the airport,
\nso we scoot over to Playa del Rey and walk west along the jetty where I
\ntake this picture. Just look at their faces. I think
\nCalifornia sunshine has melted into their bones.<\/p>\n

May we all feel the kiss of sunshine in our lives. Wherever we are.<\/p>\n

\n


\nJuly 3, 2011 — Finding Family – Part 2<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"When
\nwe moved to California from suburban Washington D.C., my parents and I
\nsettled in Hollywood. My first impression of the neighborhood was
\nthat we had landed on the west-facing side of Neptune.
\nUnbeknownst to us, our budget apartment was in an artist enclave.
\nWell, let me rephrase that, a starving<\/span> artist enclave. Never mind that our next door neighbor was a shy, struggling actor who introduced himself as Fess Parker.<\/p>\n

As
\nfar as I was concerned, Hollywood Boulevard was a freak show, which I
\nsuppose is part of its charm. Little has changed since those
\ndays, although now it’s a more sanitized and spruced-up freak
\nshow. Bring your camera and credit cards. Which is what my
\ncousins Halaine, Laura and I do as we begin our L.A. Tourist
\nExcursion. I have two days to hit the hot spots with my new
\n“they-feel-like-sisters.” Grauman’s Chinese and the Hollywood
\nSign are at the top of their “wish list.”<\/p>\n

So here we are,
\nsnagging the cheap parking ($8.00) at the Fresh & Easy Grocery
\nStory, and walking a couple blocks to “Wacka-Doo-Central.” That
\nwould be Grauman’s Chinese Theater. Even though my husband and I
\nlive about ten miles away, I don’t think I’ve visited the theater
\nsince, gasp, the 1980’s. I’m happy to report that cement holds up
\nwell. I guess that’s why it’s cement. Artifacts from old
\nstars mix amicably with the newer movie royalty and not surprisingly,
\nvisitors from near and far press their hands and feet into the big gray
\nsquares to compare body parts. When you think about it, this may
\nhave been one of California’s first “interactive” exhibitions.<\/p>\n

When
\nwe lived in Hollywood, I remember one of the neighborhood “characters,”
\na cantankerous old codger who paraded up and down Hollywood Boulevard
\nwearing nothing more than a two-sided placard that warned “The End Is
\nNear.” It scared the hell out of me until my parents reassured me
\nthat not everyone shares his world view. Today, on this
\nsun-kissed morning, all I see are Darth Vader, an Empire Stormtrooper,
\na Dominatrix and Spider Man. Hey, it’s a living. For a
\nfive-dollar tip we pose several times with our fantasy men from Star
\nWars. I might add that Darth definitely gets into it, rubbing our
\nbacks and informing us, in his perfect James Earl Jones voice,
\nthat the force is really really strong in you.<\/span> He is quite convincing and I believe him, because well, he is wearing a uniform\u2026<\/p>\n

The force<\/span> is also reminding me that we have to skedaddle back to Culver City to
\ncatch the Sony Pictures Studios Tour at 2:30. You can do the
\n“bells and whistle” tour at Universal City if you want, but when it
\ncomes to up close and personal<\/span>,
\nyou can’t beat Sony. This is a working studio and we get to watch
\nthem at work. Before the tour begins, a Sony photographer places
\nthe three of us in front of a green screen and snaps a picture that
\nwill be super-imposed against the “Wheel of Fortune” set.<\/p>\n

\"\"The
\npicture is a freebie. In fact, everyone gets a prize from Will,
\nour tour guide, for answering movie and T.V. trivia questions\u2014whether
\nthe answers are right or not. During the tour, he sets up an
\nimpromptu movie scene outside an office building facade. He
\nchooses a sweet faced-teenager to be my niece and, as “extras,” we
\nsaunter past the pretend camera and have a pretend conversation, as
\nthe” main characters” deliver their lines to each other. Just
\nlike real<\/span> life.<\/p>\n

The
\nrest of the group applauds our efforts and we move onto the Foley
\nstudio where they do sound effects. Will chooses yet another
\n“volunteer” to rattle a plastic tarp (for thunder) and roll an empty
\nwater bottle in her hand (crackling fire). Then he tells us that
\nFoley artists make $1900 an hour. We all groan at the same time,
\nand that<\/span> is not a sound effect.<\/p>\n

We
\nsee the Barbara Streisand Recording Studio, the second largest in the
\nworld, the Jeopardy set and oh my, the sound stage where they built the
\nEmerald City in the Wizard of Oz and the actual trap door that Margaret
\nHamilton dropped through as the Wicked Witch. You know
\nwhat? This is cool.<\/p>\n

\"\"But
\nthe coolest part of the day is after dinner when the three of us
\nstretch out on our living room floor and look at old pictures. My
\ncousins have brought several along and I have a grocery bag full of
\nblack and white snapshots from the past. A lot of mysterious
\nstuff has gone down in our family and here we are, gazing into the
\nfaces of grandparents (we think), uncles (maybe), aunts (could be),
\nsearching for a clue, a sign, a certain demented glance. The
\npictures smell like the old trunk where they have been residing for
\ndecades. Our curiosity is on fire and answers are thwarted photo
\nafter photo. We call out to these dead people, across the
\ngenerations, “why the hell didn’t you fricking write the names on the
\nback of the fricking picture so we would know who the hell you
\nare?” Or something like that.<\/p>\n

But we marvel at the images
\nof our Aunt Helen, the ancestor goddess in our lives. As a young
\ngirl, she is luminous, with big dark eyes, sensuous lips and a gaze
\nthat is at once ephemeral and lusty. She grows up to be a
\nno-nonsense business woman, feisty, opinionated\u2026and well\u2026married three
\ntimes. It isn’t until we cousins share our stories that we
\ndiscover Aunt Helen taught all of us how to play the piano and
\nsew. She taught us that it’s okay to be a woman ahead of her
\ntime.<\/p>\n

As our Los Angeles adventure continues, we embrace
\nthe present–our girls-weekend-out. We embrace the past–our
\nshared past. And look forward to the future, because now we have
\neach other in it.<\/p>\n

What’s next? Venice Beach. Of course\u2026
\n
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

\n


\nJune 30, 2011 — Finding Family – Part 1<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"We
\nmeet on Facebook, my newly-discovered cousins and me. Like most
\nfamilies, our so-called family tree is more like a bewildering, and
\nsometimes haunted, forest of saplings, evergreens and shrubs.
\nBecause of various dramas, or shall we say “misunderstandings,” and
\ngeographic escapes to greener pastures, I have lost connection with
\njust about everyone that can be called kin<\/span>.<\/p>\n

But
\nover the years I hear stories. You know those stories. Part
\nmyth, part grandiosity and maybe a little sliver truth. One of
\nthe stories is about my great-uncle Sidney, the musical prodigy of the
\nfamily, who for reasons that remain a mystery to this day, estranged
\nhimself from the family and in my world<\/span>, is never heard from again.<\/p>\n

But
\ntoday we have Google, and Facebook, and if you can turn a computer on,
\nand type, there is a chance you can scratch at the bark of some ancient
\nfamily trees.<\/p>\n

And so it happens to me. I learn that my
\nUncle Sidney moved to the Midwest from ground zero (which would be
\nBaltimore), marries a fellow musician and has five children, all
\nmusicians themselves. Of course his grown children and I “friend”
\neach other on Facebook. But that is just the beginning.<\/p>\n

Soon
\nI receive an email from yet another mystery cousin. A
\nFacebook friend of a friend. Her name is Laura and she lives in
\nBaltimore too. Her mother and Sidney were sister and
\nbrother. My grandmother was their older sister. Do you need
\na flow-chart to follow this? I do and thankfully they make me
\none. Within days Laura’s sister, Halaine, emails me too. We
\nset a date to have a three-way conversation on our cell phones and
\nwithin seconds of saying “hello” something in all three of us clicks
\nand a connection is made.<\/p>\n

I grew up an only child. My
\nparents and I left every trace of “family” behind when we moved from
\nWashington D.C. to Los Angeles, so even the slightest possibility of
\nconnecting with those who share a family history leaves me almost giddy.<\/p>\n

Now of course it’s one thing to say<\/span> “let’s get together.” But Laura and Halaine actually make plane reservations on Southwest Airlines.<\/p>\n

So
\nthat is how I get to meet my fabulous new cousins and we just spent the
\nmost dizzying and remarkable two and half days together. They fly
\nin for the weekend. That’s all. Just two and a half
\ndays. Of course we do the L.A. tourista things and I get to play
\ngoodwill ambassador for my adopted home. But there is so much
\nmore.<\/p>\n

We sacrifice sleep-time, for talk-time, as we unravel our
\npasts together, gingerly stepping into the quicksand, also known as
\n“family secrets,” until we trust each other enough to let ourselves
\nsink into the whole mess of it. And what a mess! But
\nthen again who does not understand family mess?<\/p>\n

As Plato says, “be kind, for everyone is having a hard battle.”<\/p>\n

Our
\nfirst foyer out into the wilds of Los Angeles is the scenic overlook
\nnear our home in Culver City, with its birds-eye view from the Pacific
\nOcean to downtown and beyond. It’s still early and a gray mist
\nlies across the landscape. We can’t even see the Hollywood Sign,
\nwhich under sunnier conditions would be the familiar beacon that my
\ncousins are especially excited about seeing.<\/p>\n

Nevertheless, I am
\nreminded once more that in this big sprawling city, people are gracious
\nand friendly. In fact, during our entire visit together we will
\nexperience the warm spirit of my fellow Angelinos again and
\nagain.<\/p>\n

At the top of the overlook, Halaine asks two lovely women to take our picture. They insist on posing us just so<\/span> and do not easily relinquish the camera. “Let me take another
\none\u2026wait a minute\u2026stand over there.” They really look at us, with
\nfresh eyes and declare that we have a strong family resemblance.
\n“Your jaw lines are the same,” they agree. Halaine, Laura and I
\nlaugh in surprise, a little embarrassed maybe, and glance at each other
\nlike we are looking into each other’s faces to learn something new
\nabout ourselves. Perhaps we would have noticed the resemblance,
\neventually, but Tracy and Simone see it first.<\/p>\n

I have heard a
\nphilosopher say that the purpose of his whole life has brought him to
\nthis moment and then this moment. That whatever is happening
\nright now, whatever I am encountering and with whom, it is the whole of
\nmy life. This moment. And here we are standing on an urban
\nmountaintop, four women, from four different backgrounds, coming
\ntogether, so briefly, and stretching the fabric of this very moment<\/span> into something special.<\/p>\n

And
\nsoon the moment passes, we climb back into the car, wend our way back
\ndown into the city and follow the freeway signs to Hollywood.<\/p>\n

Stay tuned…<\/p>\n

\n


\nMay 30, 2011 — Shredding My Life Away<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"What do we have here?<\/p>\n

Box
\nafter box. Bag after bag. Of old tax returns and other
\nassorted goodies. Starting with the year 1990. I bet there
\nare people who think 1990 is when the dinosaurs trundled west on
\nWilshire Boulevard.<\/p>\n

My husband and I need to get rid the STUFF and what better time to do it than Memorial Day weekend because this is a memorable<\/span> kind of experience. Wisdom tells us that we have to let go in order to move on<\/span>. I know that’s true, but right now, if you ask me, they can take that wisdom and shove it.<\/p>\n

It’s
\nso easy to pack up the cancelled checks, receipts, old contracts,
\nmedical records into a neat cardboard time-capsule, scrawl the year on
\nthe outside of the box with a Sharpie pen (which is supposed<\/span> to be permanent) and squeeze it into a dark corner somewhere. One
\nyear of life reduced to pieces of paper, staples and paper clips.<\/p>\n

Craig and I go through five boxes and five grocery bags in one
\nday. He does the macro sorting and I look at things more closely,
\ndeciding what goes into the shredding pile, the recycle pile or the
\ntrash. Most of the paper clips are rusted to the paper and rubber
\nbands have almost disintegrated or fused with the documents they are
\nclutching. We are at eyeball level with the undeniable truth that
\nnothing and no one lasts. As go paper clips and rubber bands, so
\ndo we\u2026<\/p>\n

Naively I think we will buzz saw through this task.
\nI mean how interesting are bank statements from two decades ago?
\nBut the unexpected usually happens. For example, I find the old
\ncontract for one of my favorite gigs, The Queen Mary in Long Beach, and
\nsuddenly memories wash over me like a tropical breeze. I have my
\nfirst “hot flash” in Sir Winston’s, the piano bar lounge just off the
\nSun Deck, while I am singing “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.”
\nI think I am going to die, but keep singing anyway, mostly because I
\ncan’t come up with anything better to do at the time. Calling 911
\nseems too grandiose even though the piano has caught on fire, the ship
\nis listing at a 45-degree angle and I am ready to throw up. At
\nleast that’s what is happening in my world as I sing about little cable cars climbing halfway to the stars<\/span>. Fortunately the estrogen un<\/span>spikes
\nabout the time I finish the song. “What the hell was that?” I
\nwonder, relieved to be alive and hoping no one else noticed. Just
\nthen I over-hear the conversation of a couple seated close by, “She
\nreally gets into her music doesn’t she\u2026”<\/p>\n

What
\nhappened to the 1990’s anyway? Or the 2000’s? We remember
\nmoments, I think, but big chunks of time escape me. The real
\nstuff of my life seems to be hidden in the spaces between the papers,
\nbetween the images and memories, between the tick-tick of the clock.<\/p>\n

Office
\nDepot shreds documents for 99 cents a pound. That doesn’t sound
\nlike much does it? On the drive over we make a bet, my husband
\nand I. “We have fifty pounds of paper to shred,” I
\nannounce. “No way!” He retorts, “twenty-five pounds,
\ntops.” End of discussion. We aren’t in the mood to
\ncash in any chips. Craig and I haul our booty onto a pushcart and
\nroll towards the sweet-faced kid behind the shipping & shredding
\ndesk.<\/p>\n

As for the bet, we are both wrong, although Craig
\nis a whole lot more wrong than me. Office Depot Jeff carefully
\nweighs one Hefty bag after another and in the end the bill comes to $80
\nfor almost 80 pounds of family history. It takes him three hours
\nto shred and load into giant plastic bags which we dump into the local
\nrecycling bins on the way home.<\/p>\n

This morning what sits
\nbefore us is thirteen years of our life, in words and pictures, that
\nevoke even more words and pictures in our minds. And now it’s all
\njust a colorful mess, bags filled to the brim with little slivers of
\nconfetti.<\/p>\n

As for “letting go\u2026” Well it does feel good to
\nchuck the stuff. Now I’m all revved up to go through more files
\nand drawers and closet shelves looking for things that no longer serve
\nor nurture.<\/p>\n

But today, I got to revisit the past, from a place
\nthat is solidly grounded in the present. Really when all is
\nsaid and done, what more can I say than “thank you.” And move
\non\u2026<\/p>\n

\n


\nMay 5, 2011 — The Apple Store<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I
\nam an “Apple” girl from way back. In the dinosaur days, my father
\npurchased a first generation Mackintosh computer–the one that is
\nshaped like a small white doghouse and supposedly has the signatures of
\nthe original designers inscribed inside the case. It changed our
\nlives. The computer has changed all of our lives.<\/p>\n

I have
\nused Apple computers ever since. Love, love, love them. I
\nalso love AppleCare because it’s worth it’s paper weight in
\ngold. For a few extra bucks, okay, quite a few extra bucks, this
\nprogram covers repairs for an extended period of time. Listen, we
\ndon’t spill coffee on the keyboard, we don’t dropkick our computer
\nacross the living room when the screen freezes. But a few days
\nago my husband couldn’t get his computer to eject a DVD.<\/p>\n

The
\nApple support people answer the phone right away and send us to the
\nnearest brick and mortar store, in Century City, where Craig drops off
\nhis umpteen-inch iMac with the crew at what is charmingly referred to
\nas “The Genius Bar,” located in the back of the store.<\/p>\n

Two days later, the repair is complete and costs us nothing because we have, you know, AppleCare<\/span>.
\nWe machete our way through Friday evening rush hour traffic to pick it
\nup. I tag along this time because, well, we’re going to a
\nshopping mall\u2026<\/p>\n

Apple stores are wild dens of sounds,
\nflashes of color and frenetic energy. Friends, families,
\nstrangers gather around computers at communal tables, immersing
\nthemselves in their own virtual worlds. The vibe washes over me
\ntoo and I soon forget I have a body. It’s all mind candy here.<\/p>\n

A
\ntechie clerk presents us with our computer, all wrapped up in a white
\ndiaper bag, and sends us on our way. It’s large and awkward but
\nCraig hoists it under his right arm and we head for the escalator that
\nwill take us to the parking garage.<\/p>\n

I get on first, turn around
\nand watch in horror as my husband, losing his balance, lurches right,
\nthen left, before he goes down. Being the loving wife I am, I
\nsave the computer first. Okay, cut me some slack
\nhere. I do some quick prioritizing and my husband is already
\nlaying across the metal slats, but there’s hope for the computer.<\/p>\n

We
\nride the escalator down in a heap resembling a human sandwich with the
\ncomputer resting precariously between us. Miraculously, my
\nhusband and I rise to our feet at the bottom, unhurt, the computer
\nnever hits the ground and a good Samaritan grabs the paper work that
\nflies from the back pocket of Craig’s jeans.<\/p>\n

Mercifully, we find
\nour car in the parking lot maze and get home safely, marveling at our
\ngood fortune. No broken bones or sheared skin and no cracked
\ncomputer monitors.<\/p>\n

Until\u2026<\/p>\n

Craig plugs the thing in, turns it on and eyeballs a most unfamiliar screen saver. OMG, they gave us the wrong computer!<\/p>\n

The
\nApple Store people make nice-nice on the phone, apologizing over
\nand over. They also make things right. Right
\naway. An hour later, a sweet doe-eyed biology major from
\nUCLA, wearing the signature blue Apple Store shirt, arrives at the
\nfront door with our<\/span> computer under his arm. We take it for a test run this time
\nbefore sending him back to Century City with the other “escalator
\nspecial.”<\/p>\n

In the trenches of everyday life, on this day, in
\nthis place, corporate America does good by its customer. The
\ndelivery kid apologizes one more time and says, with utter sincerity,
\n“I really hope you’ll come back to our Apple Store.”<\/p>\n

Not to worry. But next time we’ll do the elevator.<\/p>\n

\n


\nApril 25, 2011 — A Lovely Luau<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\" I love to sing, play the piano and ukulele, do my entertainer<\/span> thing and write these blogs too. I even like to “swiffer” the
\nfloor, clean the toilet, shop at Trader Joe’s and, gasp, drive in L.A.
\ntraffic. But the newest and sweetest joy in my life is teaching
\nthe ukulele. I didn’t plan on this but “life is what happens
\nbetween the plans you make.”<\/p>\n

The idea smacked me in the middle
\nof the night. Why not offer a ukulele class for beginners at my
\nlocal senior center where I’ve been doing shows for years. Coincidently<\/span>,
\nI was performing at their monthly birthday party the next day and why
\nnot ask Debbie C., the Senior Program Specialist, about teaching a
\nclass. I did. She said yes<\/span>. Within minutes the craft room was booked for two months. Just like that.<\/p>\n

In
\ndidn’t take long for our little band of beginners to decide we
\nshouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t let the fun end after two months, so we
\nchristened ourselves The CC Strummers and became the official ukulele
\ngroup of the Culver City Senior Center. We’ve added newbies along
\nthe way, including several from my second Ukulele for Beginners class,
\nwhich ended in March.<\/p>\n

About that time Debbie comes up with her
\nown idea. “Let’s do a luau and have the CC Strummers play.”
\nWe ink it in the calendar. April 21st. At our Thursday
\nmorning classes we learn “Hawaiian War Chant,” “Somewhere Over the
\nRainbow,” “Tiny Bubbles” and more. Folks passing by linger near
\nthe door of the craft room to enjoy the music. That’s a good
\nsign, wouldn’t you say?<\/p>\n

Then I happen to glance at the cover of
\nthe local Culver City News. The one with the picture of
\nPresident Obama on the front page. He’s coming. He’s coming
\nto Culver City. April 21st. Our<\/span> April 21st and he will be attending two fundraisers at Sony Studios that afternoon.<\/p>\n

My
\nfriends, let’s look at the map. The west entrance to Sony Studios
\n(once the iconic home of MGM) is across the street from the parking lot
\nof our Senior Center.<\/p>\n

As you know, presidents don’t travel
\nlight. There are cars and vans and ambulances and helicopters and
\nsecret service staff, not to mention news crews, supporters,
\ndemonstrators and other assorted pissed-off people. The signs on
\nthe main street by the Senior Center are posted a day early. “No
\nparking or You Will Die.” (Okay, slight exaggeration).<\/p>\n

One
\nof our hearty ukulele band, a woman born with the “promotion &
\nmarketing gene” in her DNA, contacts the president’s people, inviting
\nhim to our luau. It makes perfect sense of course. He is
\nfrom Hawaii (“birthers” cover your eyes) and seniors are a very
\nimportant demographic for him. It’s a win-win situation,
\nright? Never mind that Mr. Obama will have to parachute into the
\nparking lot from Air Force One in order to make it on time and catch
\nour charming rendition of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”<\/p>\n

The
\npoint is, this is the first time The CC Strummers have ever performed
\nin front of an audience. Can you imagine the president of the\"\" United States walking in???<\/p>\n

Well
\nof course it doesn’t happen. But everyone, including friends,
\nfamilies and audience members find parking, traffic runs smoothly and
\nthe show is standing room only. The ukulele guys dress in their
\naloha shirts, the gals wear leis and flowers in their hair and we make
\na joyful sound. Yes, The CC Strummers rock the room. The
\naudience is ready to party, applaud hearty and you can feel the good
\nvibes bouncing against the walls.<\/p>\n

“People will forget what you
\nsaid, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how
\nyou made them feel.” Maya Angelou<\/p>\n

Our lives are a mixed
\nbag. It rains, the sun comes out and then it rains again. I
\nknow that music can feel as soothing as a glass of warm milk at
\nnight. Music can give us a second wind, a time-out from the
\nmesses and stresses of our lives, a window of opportunity to experience
\nsomething in a new way. Sometimes music just makes us feel better.<\/p>\n

For me, the sweet memories of that day linger on and it feels so good.<\/p>\n

P.S. Wanna feel dem<\/span> good vibes too? Watch The CC Strummers on YouTube (click the pink):<\/p>\n

1) Our opening number “Hawaiian War Chant.”<\/a>
\n2) The CC Strummers sing and play “Hound Dog”<\/a> then introduce themselves.<\/p>\n

\n


\nApril 1, 2011 — Graduation<\/span>
\n\"\"<\/p>\n

Take a strip of paper, give it a quick half-twist, join the two ends to form a loop and voila, you have a M\u00f6bius band<\/span>. In other words, who knows where it begins, who knows where it ends but it is looking pretty darned good right now!<\/p>\n

Which
\nbrings us to “Graduation.” As if there is such a thing because
\nthe scenes of our lives seem to melt together into one big M\u00f6bius
\nband. But technically speaking, a room full of ukulele newbies
\ngraduated this week from our second Ukulele For Beginners Class and
\nwith ukes in hand, are ready to conquer the world. With
\nmusic.<\/p>\n

Two months ago this hearty band of novices
\ngathered at the Culver City Senior Center. After our first lesson
\nin February we were playing and singing the beloved old chestnuts “The
\nFarmer in the Dell” and “Row Row Row Your Boat” with the magic look-ma-no-left-hand<\/span> chord of C6. Suddenly people who have never played a musical instrument before are really doing it<\/span>.<\/p>\n

Flash
\nforward eight weeks to “graduation.” We had our last class on
\nMonday and breezed through Nat King Cole’s “L-O-V-E” and Don Ho’s “Tiny
\nBubbles” as smiling bystanders gathered by the door, listening (and
\nwatching) ukulele-magic-come-true. Graduation indeed.<\/p>\n

The
\nnewbies learned several user-friendly strums so they can rock and swing
\nand waltz. They learned enough chords to play songs from here to
\neternity and how to read those chord diagrams on sheet music so they
\ncan keep learning.<\/p>\n

Some will go their own way and I hope they
\ncontinue to play the ukulele because this world needs all the good
\nvibes it can get. Others are joining our ongoing group, The CC Strummers<\/a>, and melting into a really good thing<\/a>.<\/p>\n

Yeah
\nI know some people think the ukulele is nothing more than a toy and the
\nfact that you can buy one at Toys R Us doesn’t exactly burnish its
\nimage, but my friends, this mighty little muse is the real deal (check out Jake Shimabukuro on YouTube if you don’t believe me<\/a>). Above all the ukulele is a joy-maker.<\/p>\n

So let’s give each other a pat on the back for a job well done. Then practice and sing some more.<\/p>\n

P.S.
\nI hope to teach another Ukulele For Beginners Class this September and
\nalso offer private uke lessons to get you started on the road to joy!
\n
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

\n


\nMarch 15, 2011 — Collecting Memories<\/span> <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"The
\nman sits comfy against the small sandy embankment. His tan buddha
\nbelly hangs over his khaki shorts and a big droopy hat protects a warm
\nwizened face from the afternoon sun. He looks friendly enough so
\nI ask him to take our picture and hand him my camera. He quickly
\nrises to his feet, arranges my friend and I just so<\/span>, snaps our picture and heartily welcomes us to Santa Barbara.<\/p>\n

My friends are gold<\/span> and I am extraordinarily fortunate to have a treasure-trove. I’ve
\nknown “Miss Seattle” for a long time. We are both musicians and
\ncloset-philosophers and for years enjoyed regular dinner-dates after my
\nChatsworth gigs. We untangled the mundane and grappled with the
\nunknowable over Kung Pao and fried rice. But a few years ago she
\nand her husband left the San Fernando Valley and moved to Seattle where
\nthey have settled into a wet, but wonderful kind of bliss.<\/p>\n

Hooray
\nfor email, cell phones, Skype! This glorious technology keeps us
\nconnected but ultimately it is no match for the real thing: To
\nactually BE with each other. I haven’t seen my friend for a
\ncouple years and she is visiting Santa Barbara for a week, so I happily
\ndrive a hundred miles up the coast for the chance to spend an afternoon
\ntogether before she catches her plane home.<\/p>\n

So here we are,
\nwalking along one of Santa Barbara’s magnificent beaches. It’s a
\nbeautiful day. Not too cold, not too hot. The sky is almost
\nthe same teal-color as the sea anemones we find clinging to a
\nrock. Dozens of dogs–big Irish Setter types, mutts and soaked
\npoodles–are leaping in and out of the surf as their bemused masters,
\nholding the empty leashes in their hands, look on. Folks we pass
\nalong the way are friendly and funky.<\/p>\n

As usual, my
\nfriend and I take on the big questions in life then fall into an easy
\nsilence that melts into the soft breeze. The waves of the Pacific
\nroll gently onto the shore and lap at our feet with a blast of
\ncold. This is the same water, the same ocean that continues to
\nwreck havoc in Japan, but here, in this place, on this day, it is
\ncalm. The birds clamor and cry out. Children laugh. Life goes on.<\/p>\n

We are having a splendid time and I
\nwant to hold onto the memory like most of us want to hold onto the
\nsweet memories in our lives. So I collect them. But it’s
\nnot enough to file the story away in my mind. I need a thing<\/span> too, a material reminder of the special moment. In the past I’ve
\nfound a little pebble or tiny twig, a pine cone, feather, a coin.
\nToday it is a twisted mollusk shell that has no symmetry or discernable
\npattern. The thing is wabi sabi<\/a>,
\na perfect mess and calling to me. My friend picks up a shiny crab
\nshell glistening in the sun. Walking back to the car, we hold our
\ntreasures in our hands and our hearts.<\/p>\n

I used to have a wooden
\nbowl where I placed these psychic souvenirs. But an interesting
\nthing happened as the bowl filled up with\"\" stuff, I lost track of what-was-what<\/span> and who-was-who<\/span>. “Where did that pine cone come from? Was it Humboldt County or Idyllwild? What was I doing?”<\/p>\n

Eventually
\nthe bowl overflowed and I had to do something, so I recycled the
\nstuff. Because I couldn’t actually let it go, I placed the
\nassorted collection in the big potted plant on the balcony. After
\nweekly watering, rain, wind and infusion of the usual airborne Los
\nAngeles pollutants, the stuff has slowly disappeared into the dirt, even though I
\nknow, somehow, it’s still there. Does that make sense?<\/p>\n

Well,
\nit’s all borrowed anyway–the stuff, the memories–and as hard as I try
\nto hold on, it slips away. The memories turn from
\nTechnicolor to sepia, to gray, to ocean mist and the sea-kissed mollusk
\nwill eventually lose it’s magic and power to bring back the past.
\nIt becomes just another crazy shell.<\/p>\n

But I keep collecting anyway…and treasuring each moment and the people who make this life worth living.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n


\nMarch 12, 2011 — Troubled Times<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In
\nour busy lives, it’s so easy to forget that Mama Earth gets the last
\nword. She rules. She rocks. She stresses out and
\nrelieves herself in ways that terrify human folk and cause great sorrow.<\/p>\n

Recent
\nevents have jolted me awake. Again. One more time I
\nremember that we’re just hanging by a thread and let’s be honest here,
\nwe don’t know for sure what will happen in the next ten seconds.
\nMight as well cop to it. Denial works too. But only for
\nawhile. Until the next earthquake\u2026<\/p>\n

Here’s the good news. If you’re reading this that means you’re still here. How lovely is that?<\/p>\n

But
\nmy heart goes out to all of us right now, especially those with deep
\nconnections to and dear ones in Japan. And Christchurch, New
\nZealand. And Haiti. And\u2026 Well, all of us who
\nsuffer and might be experiencing our own personal tsunami.<\/p>\n

If you can, make a little music today. And I will too.<\/p>\n

\n


\nMarch 6, 2011 — Baby Boomer Battle Hymn<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A
\ncouple years ago a friend emailed me a video entitled “Baby Boomers
\nBattle Hymn.” This doesn’t exactly sound like a “July 4th”
\nversion of the revered patriotic song. I click the link right
\naway and that is how I begin my infatuation with this clever and
\nwickedly funny parody.<\/p>\n

It is written and performed by an
\ninteresting fellow, Bill Dyszel, a Renaissance man if there ever was
\none. Bad-ass, bald, bodacious and obviously bright, he knows
\ncomputers and contributes articles to PC Magazine. He sang for
\nthe New York City Opera for years and has started his own entertainment
\neco-system producing one-man musical videos.<\/p>\n

I don’t know
\nBill. But I like him and if he ever comes to Los Angeles I hope
\nhe’ll let me take him out to lunch. And I really really like his
\nsong.<\/p>\n

Why?<\/p>\n

It’s right up my absurd and twisted<\/span> alley. He makes fun and mockery of the very things that scare the
\nhell out of us. Things like feeling that our time has come
\nand went<\/span> and not even
\nplastic surgery can save us now. Things like freaking out
\nbecause if we do make it to 93, the money won’t.<\/p>\n

That
\nkind of stuff. And all to the venerated melody of the “Battle
\nHymn of the Republic.” That said, if you are celebrating a birthday
\nthis year, any birthday<\/span>, there is something in this song for you too.<\/p>\n

When
\nsomeone takes a well-known song and changes the lyric to reflect their
\npoint of view, that is a parody. I decide from the get-go to sing
\nthis song at my gigs but I have to “tweak” Bill’s version and make it
\nmy own. Unfortunately that includes excising some of his more
\ncolorful language for my PG audiences. Kills me to do that
\nbecause, as many of you know, I love four-letter words, like sailors
\nlove four-letter words. But alas, there’s a time and place\u2026<\/p>\n

I
\nsang the “Baby Boomers Battle Hymn” last November for a very special
\naudience that really appreciates life’s absurdities and humor.
\nFortunately I also capture the performance on my video camera which is
\nstationed by itself on a rickety tripod in the back of the room.<\/p>\n

Check out my version<\/a> on YouTube.
\nThen check out Bill’s<\/a>.<\/p>\n

Either way, a laugh a day keeps the Metamucil away\u2026
\n
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

\n


\nFebruary 19, 2011 — A Great Big Little Kindness<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

“It’s
\na little embarrassing to have spent one’s entire life pondering the
\nhuman situation and find oneself in the end with nothing more profound
\nto say than try to be a little nicer<\/span>.” Philosopher Aldous Huxley<\/p>\n

There
\nis a cool new grocery store in the neighborhood. It’s a cross
\nbetween Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods except this store has sales.
\nBig bodacious sales and knowing I’ll get a few cents off fresh broccoli
\ncrowns acts like a magnetic tracking beam that pulls me in.<\/p>\n

So here I am at Sprouts<\/a> happily pushing their tri-level minicart through the automatic glass
\ndoors which open onto an arena of gastronomic delights. I toss my
\npile of canvas bags on the bottom rung of the cart. The five-cent
\nrebate per bag adds up and is incentive enough for me to keep a mess of
\nthem in the trunk of my car.<\/p>\n

Lest you think I have gone totally
\norganic or rabidly vegetarian (neither of which is true) I head
\nstraight for the free coffee station where I mix up a brew of
\n“thirds.” That would be one part coffee, one part cream and one
\npart sugar. Yes, within minutes I am bouncing against the walls
\nat Sprouts.<\/p>\n

This almost explains my “close call” which
\nis about to unfold in the fresh produce department. Ever the
\nmulti-tasker, I am holding a bouquet of zucchini and yellow crookneck
\nsquash against my chest with my left hand as I forage for the perfect
\ncauliflower with my right.<\/p>\n

The produce guys and gals at our
\ngrocery stores are masters at arranging fruits and vegetables into
\nbeautiful pyramids of color and design. Have you noticed?
\nReally what they do is art. Art. And frequently I lament,
\nalbeit briefly, the impermanence of it all, before I desecrate their
\ndisplay, rummaging for the one apple that is speaking to me<\/span>. It is usually the apple on the bottom\u2026<\/p>\n

And so it is with that<\/span> particular cauliflower. The one speaking to me. I dig deep
\ninto the pile as the bundle of squash is perched precariously in my
\nleft arm. And then it happens. Like in slow motion.
\nThe cauliflowers lurch free of their little nests and begin to fall
\nforward, like a mighty glacier whose face is calving as the awestruck
\npassengers watch from their safe perch on the observation deck.<\/p>\n

But
\njust as this mountain of white begins its descent to the floor, a hand,
\nthen an arm appear to my right. It finds the exact cauliflower
\nthat is leading the charge, snags it mid-air and tucks it back into its
\nplace, thus preventing the whole lot of them from becoming
\ndisgorged. Is this person a magician? A saint, maybe?<\/p>\n

“I saw that<\/span> coming,” smiled the woman shopper who rushed to my aid. Well I
\ndidn’t see it coming at all, but stand there marveling at her and her
\ngreat big little act of kindness. And grace. And timing<\/span>. I thank her profusely as she rounds the corner and disappears.<\/p>\n

The
\nway we move in the world can make a mountain of difference to someone
\nelse, to a lot of someone else’s. I don’t remember the woman’s
\nface or the sound of her voice, but her kindness leaves a sort of
\nresidue that clings to the memory like perfume. Alas there is so
\nmuch sweetness in the world. Too. And it happens in the
\nlittle moments that are the whole of my life.
\n
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

\n


\nFebruary 6, 2011 — The Overlook<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Today
\nis Super Bowl Sunday and since my husband and I aren’t really sure what
\nfootball is, we decide to take an urban hike, to the new Baldwin Hills Scenic Overlook<\/a> nestled in the chaparral-covered mountains of Culver City. We
\npass the skateboard park and cut across the ball fields to join up wit\"\"h flocks of Angelenos trekking<\/span> up the main switchblade trail. It’s a delicious mix of humanity,
\nwhich for me, makes Los Angeles a jewel of a place to live.<\/p>\n

There
\nare jocks and jock-wannabes, families with kinetic children, young
\ngoogly-eyed couples, baby boomers clinging to their youth. At the
\ntop I see folks doing yoga and Tai Chi. The view is killer.
\nEven with the gray-blue fog that rests like a soft blanket across the
\nlandscape, we see Malibu to the left and well past downtown L.A. to the
\nright.<\/p>\n

My husband is a goal oriented guy and I’m more into
\nsightseeing and enjoying the trip, so it’s hard for us to walk
\ntogether. At the same pace. At the same time. He
\nforges ahead because the goal is to get to the top as soon as
\npossible. Or else. On the other hand, I kind of bounce along<\/span>,
\nstopping to talk to people on the way. Maybe this difference is a
\n“gender” thing. At least that’s what he says it is.
\nThe good news is that we manage to hang together while giving each
\nother the space to be who we are.<\/p>\n

At least most of the time\u2026<\/p>\n

That
\nsaid, as I stand at the very top of the overlook, gazing at this big
\nbroad city I call home, I am struck by the way the currents of life
\nmove. It’s almost like life is “living me” rather than the other
\nway around. I had no say in the matter when my parents relocated
\nhere from Washington D.C. My father always wanted to live in the
\nsunshine, near a warm blue ocean. He was a scientist, working for
\nNASA, and ready to catch the aerospace tsunami in the early 1960’s that
\nwashed over Southern California. Mostly he wanted to get as far
\naway from the in-laws as possible without leaving the continental
\nUnited States.<\/p>\n

Like all of us, I’ve had plenty of
\nswitchbacks in my life, but standing at the top of the mountain with my
\nfellow Angelenos, I feel so much gratitude because on this day, Super
\nBowl Sunday, I am here. An unfathomable number of people and
\nevents have made this possible. In the end, the only two words
\nthat come to mind are thank you<\/span>.<\/p>\n

If
\nmy father was still here, he’d be camping out by the television,
\nrooting for a good game and glad to be watching it from his home in Los
\nAngeles.<\/p>\n

\n


\nJanuary 24, 2011 — Joshua Tree<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A
\ncouple years ago we met The Doc and his wife, The Nurse, while we were
\nall standing in line for the evening Luau and Concert at the Southern
\nCalifornia Ukulele Festival in Cerritos. He may do oral surgery,
\nimplants and all that good teethy stuff and she may assist and help
\nkeep the office running smoothly, but their hearts belong to the
\nukulele. That is why every Saturday they leave their home in the
\nhigh desert near Joshua Tree<\/a> and drive to Huntington Beach so they can hang with their fellow uke
\npeeps AND take Shirley Orlando’s Intermediate Ukulele Class at Island Bazaar<\/a>.
\nAfter some hearty strumming and mingling they head home. The
\nNurse tells me they stop off at MacDonald’s for burgers and a quick nap
\nin the car before driving the final stretch. That would be 230
\nmiles round trip. They will celebrate their 50th Wedding
\nAnniversary next month.<\/p>\n

The Doc and The Nurse invite me to
\nentertain at their “Annual Thank-You Party” which they give for the
\ndentists and their office staffs throughout the Coachella Valley as a
\nway of saying thank you for their support and referrals. The room
\nis decorated in festive yellows and blues. There is hand-sliced
\nFilet Mignon, shrimp in creamy asparagus sauce, luscious red potatoes,
\ncrazy-good rice, big bowls of fresh salad greens festooned with
\nbouquets of multi-colored cherry tomatoes, cheesecake to die for, a
\nwine bar. It is a feast for the eyes and nose and the rest of
\nya! There are gift bags filled with delightful goodies for every
\nguest in attendance.<\/p>\n

\"\"
\nYou can feel the sweetness in the room. This lovely couple really walk the gratitude<\/span>-walk
\nand that is something to behold. The evening belongs to
\nthem. For my part, I cajole four slightly inebriated dentists to
\nthe front of the room so they can help me with the song “Those Were The
\nDays.” All these guys have to do is sing “La La La La La
\nLa.” With choreography. Can you imagine your<\/span> dentist doing that? Need a second?<\/p>\n

I love audience participation because it gives us a chance to be spontaneous, to do the unexpected, to be ourselves<\/span>.
\nThe gals who work in the dental offices are grabbing the cameras and
\ndoing a fair share of hooting and hollering themselves.<\/p>\n

I bet
\nit’s not so easy being a dentist. Patients don’t go giddy because
\ntoday is the day for drilling (or worse). But I wouldn’t want to
\nimagine my life without them or the staff that supports their
\nwork. My husband and I visit the Doc and The Nurse in their busy
\noffice before heading to the banquet hall a few miles down the road to
\nset up my gear. “Aloha \u2018Oe” is playing softly on the sound system
\nand suddenly I feel my body uncoil and relax. Of course I am here
\nfor reasons other than gum surgery, but nevertheless it’s a happy
\nsurprise to feel the flush of nice-nice<\/span> at a dentist’s office. Maybe, just maybe, The Doc and The Nurse
\nhave created this peaceful space because they have found balance in
\ntheir own lives.<\/p>\n

So I say “Ahhhhhhh…”<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\n


\nJanuary 9, 2011 — The Dawning of the Age of Aquarius<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"We’ve
\nbeen plotting, my deliciously outspoken neighbor and me, to see the
\nTony-winning Broadway revival of “Hair” ever since we heard it was
\nbrushing into town for a short three-week run. Barely enough time
\nfor the roots to grow out. Diane, who lives at the end of the
\nhall, ruminated on the joys of live musical theater as we folded our
\nclothes in the communal laundry room. Actually I was the one who
\ncouldn’t stop talking about the infamous ending of Act One, when, shall
\nwe say, on-stage wardrobe is optional.<\/p>\n

You may find this hard to
\nbelieve, but I actually saw the original production of “Hair” when it
\nopened at the Aquarius Theater on Sunset Boulevard near Vine way back
\nin the late 60’s. I was young. Very very young. And I
\nsaw it twice. For a while, the music became the soundtrack of my
\nlife. Let’s be honest here: I was a nerdy, girl scout of a
\nkid who would cross the Mojave Desert not to ruffle feathers in the
\nfamily. But I had my fantasies and that’s where “Hair” came
\nin. I would never “do that stuff they do in the show” like drop
\nacid or get laid in festive group settings or even burn my bra (which
\nwouldn’t make much of a fire anyway) but I sure could sing about
\nit. In fact, I learned most of the score from the show by heart
\nand when no one was around, I would perform my favorite songs, to
\nmyself, for myself, on the Baldwin Acrosonic piano which sat in the
\ncorner of the living room. One time my father caught me in the
\nact, however. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his face turn
\nashen as I quietly sang the irrepressible tune about, um,
\n“self-gratification.” He must have thought I’d taken the off-ramp
\nto hell.<\/p>\n

All that aside, the main reason I wanted to see “Hair”
\nwas because, well I had heard, the actors and actresses get naked at
\nthe end of Act One. Please understand that my immediate family
\nhad “body issues.” Like what else is new in this topsy-turvy
\nworld? I was barely a teenager, for heaven sakes, and still
\nhadn’t seen a person naked. Except myself of course and frankly
\nthat got boring after a while. Remember this was before today’s
\nfree-for-all internet where we Google “naked person” and thousands of
\npictures come up that range from the normal and sublime to
\n“you-have-got-to-be-kidding.” In the olden days, all I had was
\nthe Encyclopedia Britannica.<\/p>\n

So there I am in the rear
\nof the orchestra section, ready to jump out of my skin as the cast
\nlaunches into the poignant song “Where Do I Go” and disappears under an
\nundulating diaphanous tarp that covers the entire stage. Suddenly
\nthe tarp is yanked away by a bemused stagehand and they rise onto their
\nnaked feet, standing ramrod straight and still, like marble statues
\nfacing the audience. There would be plenty to see, if only the lights were on.<\/span>
\nBut no-o-o-o. The theater turns pitch black except for strobes,
\nwhich are accompanied by the ear-splitting wail of a police
\nsiren. A flash of light hits a body part, then it’s gone\u2026the
\nlight and<\/span> the part.
\nOh hell this is like viewing a giant mosaic, one piece at a time.
\nIt is a brutal disappointment for me and the scene is over before I can
\nexhale. The house lights come on and we are released for
\nintermission.<\/p>\n

Flash forward to January 2011. Diane and I
\nhead to the Pantages Theater, also in Hollywood, a mere ten miles from
\nhome and forty-plus years from the late 1960’s. Unlike my solo
\nsojourn last year to see “South Pacific” (remember that<\/span> blog<\/a>) with a $20 Hot Tix in hand, we choose to pay full price because, well, watching naked people sing is expensive.<\/p>\n

From
\nour perch in the mezzanine, we miss some of the audience interaction
\nwhich is so integral to this show, but the music is grand and the story
\nbrings me right back to those times\u2014the Vietnam War, Civil Rights,
\nasking the big questions and settling for little answers or no answers
\nat all. And death. Death of our dreams and the people we
\nlove. But through it all, we sing, sing some more and let the sun shine in.<\/span><\/p>\n

My
\nneighbor Diane has never seen the show and this is the fourth time for
\nme, so I know when the naked scene is about to commence. Ever
\ngracious, I hand her the binoculars so she can take a serious
\ngander. There is no tarp, the kids just strip down on stage and
\nthe lights are only slightly dimmed. The girls are girls, the
\nboys are boys and the bikini waxers and chest shavers in town are
\nenjoying robust business, at least this month. God bless them,
\nthe cast members shake their booties, or whatever’s, in exuberant
\ndance. The scene is over in forty seconds, the house lights come
\non and the people behind us ask each other if it’s intermission
\nnow? Like maybe the Teamster guys, who have begun sweeping
\nthe stage floor, are going to tear off their overalls too?<\/p>\n

As we are driving home, it strikes me that “Hair” is a period piece, like a western is a period piece, except I lived through it.<\/span>
\nOn the other hand, I did not cross the Great Plains in a Calistoga
\nwagon. The show opened in 1967 and they sing about what is
\nhappening in 1967. My husband, the history teacher, reminds me
\nthat each generation thinks history begins with them, so it should be
\nno surprise that we “repeat history” over and over again. Lucky
\nfor us, there is a soundtrack<\/span> too.<\/p>\n

< older posts<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

December 3, 2011 — A Life Lived Well — Bill Tapia, “The Duke of Uke” “Music is enough for a lifetime, but a lifetime is not enough for music.” So says the noted Russian composer, Sergei Rachmaninoff. Whether we live long or not-so-long, in the scheme of things, it’s still a short visit. “Just passing through,” as they say. We lost a ukulele legend this week: The “Duke of Uke,” Mr. Bill Tapia He passed away quietly in his sleep. … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_seopress_robots_primary_cat":"","_seopress_titles_title":"","_seopress_titles_desc":"","_seopress_robots_index":"","kt_blocks_editor_width":"","_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-3567","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"taxonomy_info":[],"featured_image_src_large":false,"author_info":{"display_name":"boss","author_link":"https:\/\/calirose.com\/wackyworld\/author\/calbranadmin\/"},"comment_info":0,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/calirose.com\/wackyworld\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/3567","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/calirose.com\/wackyworld\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/calirose.com\/wackyworld\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/calirose.com\/wackyworld\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/calirose.com\/wackyworld\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3567"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/calirose.com\/wackyworld\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/3567\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3568,"href":"https:\/\/calirose.com\/wackyworld\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/3567\/revisions\/3568"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/calirose.com\/wackyworld\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3567"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}