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Welcome! The stories I love feel very personal, but they are built on a foundation that is universal. No matter what, I want to find myself in another person's story, so that's what I try to do here, in blog-land and at my gigs. Sure I'm talking about "what happened to me today." But what I'm really talking about is gratitude and fear, joy and loneliness, health and pain, love and loss. You know, a usual day in my world... So stay tuned and thank you for taking some of your precious time and energy to read these words and may you find yourself in these stories too.  Apparently “delegating” is not something we jump through hoops to do. It’s hard for us to admit the obvious, that we can’t do it all. Then again, letting go with clenched fists is not a happy picture either. But since I don’t have a “personal assistant” because I am the personal assistant, there is a mountain of stuff that I, and I alone, have to do. Let’s start with my desk—the papers, the projects, the files, the post-it reminders, the computer... Now that’s the land of “ain’t no delegating here.” Not long ago an interesting time-and-grief-saving strategy whooshed into my life. Apparently this is what some people, smart people do to tackle the myriad of tasks before them, without getting all burned out and exhausted. What is it? Do one thing for twenty-five minutes. No more, no less, no cheating. So on a day that is especially packed with disparate tasks, I decide to give it a try. I set the oven timer for 25 minutes and get to work focusing on one thing. Email. When it dings, I take a little break, reset the timer and move onto the next task, gathering the receipts for our taxes. Ding. Practice the ukulele. Ding. More email. Ding. Marinate the chicken and make a salad. Ding. Return phone calls. Ding. This is proceeding especially well as I thunder through the piles of stuff on my desk. I am totally amped and energized. I pay all the bills and it is actually fun because I only have to “do it” for twenty-five minutes. Not forever. Until I glance at our little “out box” next to the front door where I swear I left the clutch of envelopes to be mailed. But they aren’t there. Where did they go? Did they grow legs and run away? I try to blame my husband. But he has just walked in, so that doesn’t fly. Suddenly my bones go glacier. Could I have recycled the bills? You see, it is during one of my “breaks” in between those 25-minute work sprints that I haul the basket of recycled papers downstairs. I must have stuffed the bills in with the rest of the frayed and shredded stuff, maybe because I WASN’T PAYING ATTENTION? One more time my mind is doing one thing and my body is doing something else. Suffice it to say, I have to dumpster dive to retrieve the bills. That takes twenty-five minutes. As they say, life is a mystery to be lived, not solved. No “owner’s manual” here. It’s a wonder, a miracle that all this--the stuff that makes sense, the stuff that doesn’t--seems to come out of nowhere. The whole wonderful mess of life. Ours to enjoy until it disappears again. Feburary 6, 2012 -- Asking for Help For those of us who are spinning too many plates or burning too many candles at all ends or giving up altogether and devoting their lives to working Sudoku puzzles…and the hell with it… Delegate! It takes a village. Why not call on people for help, especially when it’s a win-win for everyone. Why didn’t I learn this lesson in kindergarten? So one baby step at a time I am stepping into the world of mutual blessing. Starting with my website. Yes I do it myself and of course enjoy the process, spending hours tweaking the snappy text, piling in pictures and links (that actually link), airbrushing the whole thing in hot pink and green. But the truth is I don’t know squat about web design, actually any design. And I know even less “computer language.” Years ago I got lucky and began this website detour in my life using a freebie program called Netscape with it’s basic instructions that are written for first graders. Then one day, in the recent past, Netscape disappeared and took my website with it. Well not quite. My humble billboard in the sky became frozen in space. I couldn’t make any changes to it, and as we know, life is all about change. Whether we like it or not. I remember that “frozen website day.” While I was hiding in the bedroom, curled up in the fetal position, seeing my life pass before me, my husband found a Netscape chat room online and described the situation, including my current mental condition, to the international community. Not long after, a nice man in Germany emailed back suggesting we download some program call KompoZer. It’s free, compatible with Netscape and best of all, works! My husband restores my website. And my life. But once I can feel my toes again, I realize the time has come for some serious “letting go.” Enter Miss Amy Pace, an uproariously talented designer who created my husband's very cool website and the artwork for his latest CD. Plus, she’s a computer genius. So many gifts wrapped up into one lovely woman. She is making “delegating” easy. And a pleasure. So, let the artist “art” and let the ukulele player “uke.” Right now Amy and I are in constant email communication (she lives in Wisconsin) as she builds a new website for me. There will be videos (finally, because I never learned how to do that myself) and a new home for my blog where you can post your responses and we can share the tears and cheers together. I’ll have a new page for The CC Strummers, my ukulele group, and all things ukulele. Amy and I have a long ways to go, so for now my home-sewn website is alive and well and a click away. I’ll keep you updated about the “birthing process.” Oh by the way, the new website will be all hot pink and green. Just because… Delegating #2 Speaking of The CC Strummers… Our little group is growing like beautiful bougainvillea in the California sun and is blossoming into an ohana, a family. I am ready to add one more task to my “to do” list by creating a contact list so our ukulele family members can email or phone each other directly. Then I suddenly remember my new mantra: Delegate. Enter Ray, a loveable bear of man, generous and one fabulous musician too. Ray used to work for the government. Our government. In aerospace. You know, rockets, satellites and all that stuff. During those space-race days, he was granted the highest security clearance because apparently Ray is a man who can keep a secret. So The CC Strummers can trust him with our email addresses, by golly. He now appears in class with color-coded forms for us to fill out. This job is in very good hands indeed. Delegating #3 Then there is my mother, who is descending deeper and deeper into her own world of dementia with its wild array of prickly behaviors. Day by day, she is losing "her story." Our story. Thankfully, her care is being delegated. But… Today I drop by her home with my banjo ukulele and together we sing songs from the good old days. Everything, even this, goes down a little easier with music. I’ve heard it said that we pay attention to what we value and we value what we pay attention to. It’s an interesting exercise to really look at that, unflinchingly. So I’m looking and listening and making every effort to embrace each moment as it comes. And delegate. Coming Next: 25 Minutes At A Time Feburary 3, 2012 -- Learning to Delegate “Blogland” has been a distant star for me the last couple of months. That’s what happens when you sink into the abyss of “overwhelm.” Like many of us, I feel like the guy who appeared on the old Ed Sullivan show keeping all those plates spinning in the air. When one begins to wobble and head south this desperate man rushes to the rescue, only to be distracted by a new wobbler at the end of the row. I love my life and what I do and the glorious people I get to hang out with day after day. I say “yes” because “yes” means life to me. But too much of a good thing is not a good thing. The flu caught me around Thanksgiving and just this week, the first week in February, gave up its buggy grip. That’s a long run and through the busy holidays too. I show up for my gigs in December, all thirty of them. “Charm rather than perfection” comes in handy when your voice sounds like car tires over gravel. I don’t have enough oomph leftover to open the snail mail, or email, or check in on Facebook like the all-purpose entrepreneur I am supposed to be. Or return the phone calls from my family and friends. What I do is Sudoku. At night as I lay next to my sleeping husband, I pull the bedspread over my head, perch the tiny LED flashlight under my chin and chip away at the daily Sudoku I clip from the The Los Angeles Times every morning. Once in a while I defeat the "diabolical" ones but mostly feel defeated by the "gentle" puzzles. Whatever the outcome, it doesn’t matter because just doing it is my sinful delight. It’s an easy distraction. Plus all that brain activity inexplicably puts me to sleep. Apparently irony is alive and well around here. So today I’m still spinning the plates but at least I am feeling better. And I’m realizing it’s time to delegate, to hand over some plates to someone else even though I am insanely fond of “doing-doing-doing,” whatever that "doing" is. I even love making lists of "things to do." Surprise, surprise... The problem is there are only twenty-four hours in a day and this time, next century, none of us will be here. So how do we work joyfully? And smart? Delegate… Coming Next: Asking For Help January 17, 2012 -- "Uke Can Change The World" My ukulele group, The CC Strummers, enjoyed an extra special treat on Monday. And I mean extra special! "Jumpin'" Jim Beloff, one the of seminal figures in the modern-day renaissance that is “ukulele,” visited the Culver City Senior Center for a teach-a-thon, storytelling and kanikapila (which means we all get to sing and play along). Years ago, Jim and his wife Liz sensed something special about this humble little instrument, trusted their instincts and let that intuition guide them forward. So what do we have today? Their fabulous music books, Fluke & Flea Ukuleles and a world-wide presence, teaching and spreading ‘dem good ukulele vibes from “Down Under” to “Up Over.” The ukulele has swept them into so many different circles of people. They have connected with hundreds of ukulele groups as well as with the iconic figures in music who happen to embrace the ukulele too. The list is long and Jim shares a couple stories with us. This one especially resonates with me: Enter Bette Midler. Although she was born and raised in O’ahu, she never learned to play the ukulele or any instrument for that matter. She began her career as the “girl singer” and of course grew into the extraordinary entertainer we know today. But since she could not accompany herself, she is dependent on other musicians to play for her as she performs. She is already an icon, a star when she contacts Jim to give her lessons on the ukulele. He doesn’t give private lessons but laughs and says to us “when Bette Midler calls, you say YES.” This woman is such a pro and knows that what “looks easy” on stage actually takes a lot of work and she is willing and ready to put in the time and effort to learn a few chords and strums on the uke. By the third lesson, she excitedly brings Jim into her house, sits him down across from her and she sings AND plays the Beatle song “With A Little Help From My Friends.” As Jim describes this sunshine moment he tells us that he sees that look in her face that he has seen a thousand times. It happens when a person picks up the uke, strums and sings a song, at the same time, for the first time. Ever. Whether we are a Bette Midler or not. It doesn’t matter. The feeling and the joy of it all are the same. May we never lose that thrill and wonder, no matter what that first time is… 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. His life was all about music—playing it, writing it, teaching it, living it, breathing it. I marvel at the infinite ways life appears—as you and me, as someone like Bill whose work brought so much joy to others and surely contributed to his remarkable longevity and vibrant spirit. One of my teachers reminded me often that the audience won’t remember what you sing, or say, or play, but they will remember how you make them feel. My husband Craig and I spent an evening with Bill Tapia last August. We drove with him from his home in Fountain Valley, California south to Carlsbad for the Thursday gathering of the Ukulele Society of America. He was charming, feisty, impeccably dressed and a master storyteller who spiced up his tales with the kind of salty language that I find utterly endearing. Here’s a man who has seen the parade, who was the parade, who met and mingled and made music with the greats. And that long history is siphoned into his performance that night. He sings the song “Young At Heart.” He no longer can play the fancy chords on the uke and is more talk-singing than singing, but he is speaking and playing the truth. His truth. There isn’t a drop of artifice there. He is telling me how it feels to be young at heart, even when the body is going to hell. And that is what I shall remember. “Success” means different things to different people, but for me, it is doing what you love to do, for as long as you can and finding a way to get paid for it. That means Bill was a rollicking success! He lived to be 103 years and 11 months. I would say that is a great run. Thanks Bill for showing us what is possible -- that music keeps us young. November 25, 2011 -- Thanksgiving's Twilight Zone Marathon The flu makes its rounds ‘round this time and I’ve been feeling something coming on for a few days now, so I gobble down vitamin C, drop dose after dose of echinacea and goldenseal on my tongue, suck on sugary Oscillococcinum, gargle with salt water and slurp chicken soup. Sometimes all this herbal voodoo works. Unfortunately on this Thanksgiving, it does not. My husband and I have big plans after all, to spend the holiday with our adopted family. There’s a grandma and grandpa, new mom and dad, soon-to-be mom and dad, the hugely ribald brother (my husband’s best friend) and the one-year-old baby boy. These wonderful people trust me to bring the everything-but-the-kitchen-sink salad. And I trust them to bring the real stuff! That would be turkey, vegetables and for me, the wondrous potato in any form, sublime apple-something desserts, vivid conversation, big laughs and those good “we-are-family” vibes. Spreading nasty germs is not good manners on Thanksgiving so regrettably we have to cancel. The salad remains unmade in the fridge. I climb into bed, pull the covers over my head and go back to sleep. But not for long. Sometimes I feel so wasted that all I can do is turn on the television and let the blather wash over me. So I flip through the channels and soon land on The Twilight Zone Marathon. Creator-genius, Rod Serling, had his writer’s stethoscope pressed against the heart of human nature and could wrap this stuff into a good story. How else can you explain the show’s deep resonance that continues to reverberate over the generations. He knows what scares us. Let me rephrase that. He knows what scares me. When I was a little girl, I’d watch the Twilight Zone with my parents which is sort of like swinging on a trapeze with a sturdy net below because the episodes generally scared the hell out of me, but mom and dad were there to say “it’s okay, it’s okay.” Nevertheless, certain episodes left indelible grooves in my memories. Like when a little girl hears a strange voice coming from the wall. She climbs under the bed, following the sound, and falls through, oh I don’t know, an opening into another dimension, and disappears into the wall. I’m watching this and hyperventilating already, especially when her father, her daddy, risks life and limb, barreling through the wall into this murky world of woo-woo. He grabs the girl and together they jump back into her bedroom, just as the time-space hole closes. Forever. At least that is how I remember it... Yes I know. This is just a T.V. show. But I confess, even after all these years, decades, when I bend down and look under a bed, a chilly feeling soaks through me. I’m not kidding. I’m not proud of this either. I talk myself through it. “Come on Cali, it’s just a wall.” But let it be known, I don’t spend a lot of time looking under beds. So on this long Thanksgiving weekend, I’m grateful for the whole gestalt of it all. The Twilight Zone moments, The Andy Griffith Show moments. It’s all there in this great big sprawling show that is life. November 14, 2011 -- That Woman Can Swing My friend Betty Bryant is a loyal member of The CC Strummers, our ukulele group at the Culver City Senior Center. Cane in hand, she pads into the Thursday class just before “the bell,” looking gloriously put-together and ready to make music. It’s ten o’clock in the morning, an ungodly time of day for a professional musician. Like many newbies to the ukulele, certain chords still trip her up and tie her fingers in knots. A “G” seems innocuous enough, but we start off with the “diet” version of that chord and for some people that abbreviated form will be as good as it gets. And that is good enough. The baby finger on Betty’s left hand, her chord-forming hand, is limp and virtually useless, so she has certain physical challenges when it comes to playing a fretted instrument, such as a uke. And if that isn’t enough, she is legally blind in her right eye. We joke about that, Betty and I, since I am legally blind in my left eye. We would make quite a pair tripping down the street. Whatever the issues for those of us with bodies-- arthritis, numb fingers, missing parts, big-time illness--we somehow, still, move around the obstacles and shudder forward.  My husband and I just returned from Betty’s Birthday Bash and CD Release Party at the acclaimed Catalina Jazz Club here in Los
Angeles. You see, our Betty has been declared a living jazz
legend. She plays a smokin’ piano, hot and sexy. With nine
fingers! And she sings and swings, really swings,
because this music, jazz, is in her body. She is 82 years old and
has been playing the piano since she was four and has worked as a
musician and recording artist since her early twenties.Well into old age, Dizzy Gillespie declared that it has taken him this long to learn what notes to leave out when he is playing. One of my friends who plays classical piano reminds me that, in music, silence is just as important as the notes. A great artist like Betty honors both sound and silence. Just after she is introduced, she moves carefully across the stage, supported by that glitzy cane and takes her seat at the Yamaha Grand. She brings a lifetime to her performance—all the late nights, early mornings, road gigs, the applause, the rejections, all the circles of musicians, of friends, of lovers, of family—it’s all there in every note. The result is magic and today, a love-fest. The band is in the zone and pulls us in too. I lean forward in my chair and think to myself how proud I am of Betty for taking on a whole new instrument at the ripe age of 80. It is humbling, for anyone, to tackle a new language and issues of dexterity, even for something as puppy-like as a ukulele. But here is Betty, week after week, struggling like everyone else to nail those chords and strums but getting swept into the joy of it anyway. When musicians play together, when audiences gather to listen, something wonderful happens, something bigger than you and me. It’s the mojo of “us.” We are lifted out of ourselves. It happens on stage today at the jazz club. It happens when The CC Strummers gather in the Craft Room at the Senior Center on Mondays and Thursdays. Two years ago Betty became a grandmother. For the first time. Twins. They were at the jazz club too, with mommy and daddy. It’s never too early, nor too late, to get that fabulous music into our body. Happy Birthday Betty. Congratulations on your new CD, “Together,” and thank you for the great music you share with us. November 4, 2011 -- Of Birthdays, Big and Small Whether we live long, short, or somewhere in-between, it’s a quick visit. Over in the blink of an eye. We are, after all, just passing through. So when I actually wake up in the morning, any morning, it feels very “birthday-ish” to me. Special. I’m still here. The people I love and care about are still here. As I like to say, “we’re breathing and the rest is details.” But then again, who doesn’t enjoy a hug, a piece of cake and a big “yahoo” because it’s your birthday. Well that is what happens to me. I just had a birthday. A big one. As if all of them aren’t big? While I don’t talk about it, I still want the attention. While I declare to myself, “oh it’s just another day,” my smile grows exponentially larger as the Facebook birthday wishes pile in. I have this most un-special, special day mapped out in advance. After teaching my ukulele class in the morning I will swing by Smart and Final for some Formula 409, the giant bag of my favorite Lifesavers Wintergreen candies and a couple gallons of Arizona Ginseng Ice Tea which I pour into a small canister and take to my gigs, reporting to the audience that it’s vodka… Then I'll pick up more foodie-essentials at Trader Joe’s and finally go home to work on music. Just another miracle of a day in my world. Was it John Lennon who said “life is what happens between the plans you make?” So The CC Strummers and I are practicing a couple new songs when all at once my husband appears. My husband, who is supposed to be teaching third period world history just about now. At school. To tenth graders. He’s wearing a Technicolor Hawaiian shirt, a big smile, I mean BIG, and holding a birthday cake with one shimmering candle. Oh my God, I’m one! Suddenly the class sings and plays Happy Birthday to me! It’s a Twilight-Zone-out-of-the-body string of moments. So wonderfully unexpected and utterly joyful because it is shared. Craig loves to surprise me and it’s quite easy to do since I was born with a limited capacity for guile. He orders the cake from our local gluten-free bakery because I cannot eat wheat and it is sweet and mouthwatering. After class we all dig in and munch on cookies that one of my students, Dianne, bakes herself. Apparently, some people know it is my birthday, after all. Craig and I hang with our ukulele family, later we sit in with the sing-along group at the Culver City Senior Center, then he takes me to lunch at our neighborhood Japanese restaurant, Sakura. Let’s put it this way, my cuisine choices on this day consist of birthday cake, miso soup, teriyaki, sushi and more birthday cake. God forbid I eat anything that resembles a vegetable. Much later, I do make it to Trader Joe’s and that evening we settle in for our blessed life. Simple and stupendous. Yes there are sweet cards and telephone calls. It is a wonderful thing to be acknowledged because we are here, in this place at this time and in a way, we carry the essence of each other in our hearts. One person’s birthday is every one’s celebration. We all know it will end someday and that makes this moment all the more precious. October 15, 2011 -- The Doggie-Doo Blues Once upon a time I was a “doggie person” and took Chewbacca, my beloved bundle of mixed-mutt-joy, on his thrice-daily walks around the neatly groomed pastures of my condo homeland. I carried a couple extra baggies to pick up the you-know-what. But here’s the thing… My explorer dog preferred to deposit his treasures in the lush over-grown ivy. I know, I know... Rules are rules and you are supposed to scoop the poop, wherever the poop pops. But I was very immature at the time (there hasn’t been much improvement, really), and I just couldn’t motivate myself to trudge through the thickets of ivy when I couldn’t even see the pile of doo-doo anyway. So once the deed was done, we would keep right on walking, Chewbacca and me, trusting that soon enough nature will transform his dung-delight into rich fertilizer. Well that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. In fact I even wrote a song about the whole subject of #2 and call it “The Doggie-Doo Blues.” The tune, enhanced with dog howls, is the third selection on my comedy album, “Cali Rose Gets Goofy.” But another song on the CD, “It’s a P.M.S. Kind of Day,” became the big hit, thanks to Dr. Demento, and the story of dog poop got relegated to the compost pile. Or so I thought… A couple months ago I receive a call from Mrs. Warren Eckstein. Denise. And she asks if I’m the “Doggie-Doo Lady.” Like how do you answer that? And by the way nice person, who are you? These days I am no longer in the doggie-kitty-horsey-bunny-lizard-hamster-birdy-fishy loop, so Denise brings me up to speed. Warren Eckstein is an internationally renowned animal expert and activist, having written several books such as “How To Get Your Dog to Do What You Want.” (Maybe this stuff works on two-legged animals too…). He appears on television and hosts a weekly syndicated radio program, “The Pet Show.” Denise continues, “Warren plays The Doggie-Doo Blues on his shows. You have quite a following. We’ve been playing your song since 1996.” At this point I need to sit down and breathe some extra oxygen. Then she asks me if I’d like to sing The Doggie-Doo Blues at the big Pet Memorial Day and Animal Blessing in Calabasas, California this October. Okay…. And that’s how I end up at the pet cemetery a couple weeks ago, singing about dog poop as people line up with their beloved pets to get blessed by the assorted clergy folk who do such things. Amid the swaying willow trees and hundreds of petite graves marked with colorful arrays of plastic bouquets, near the rows of booths that sell everything from doggie cupcakes to doggie booties, I perch myself on the small stage under a canopy that has already blown over twice by surprise wind gusts. And to think I was worried that a testy terrier would pee on my ukulele… I know you just can’t wait to see how all of this turns out. Fortunately, my husband and super-good-sport, captures the three minutes of poo-poo-licious fun on video. And now, thanks to YouTube, “The Doggie-Doo Blues” belongs to the world. Click here to check it out. If you are compelled to add this song to your music library or iPod (Thank You Steve Jobs), here’s the good news: You can download “The Doggie-Doo Blues” on CD Baby, Amazon and iTunes, along with other tracks from my comedy CD too. Please visit my online store for a fabulous “two-fer deal.” And for all the animal lovers out there, you can listen to Warren Eckstein in your home town or on his website. Here in Los Angeles “The Pet Show” is heard every Saturday, from 11:00 A.M. to 1:00 P.M. on KRLA, 870 A.M. So let’s raise a doggie-biscuit to life! All of it. September 25, 2011 -- All in the Family  My husband and I don’t have kids, but we do have house plants. And ukuleles. Craig
left a lifetime of guitar playing behind to devote himself to this
four-string wonder. While I sing and strum the uke like a
drummer, he is drawn towards lush instrumental chord melodies. Same instrument, different paths. But alas, we have found a way to meet in middle. “Try To Remember” is Craig’s second ukulele collection on CD and we have just unleashed it on the world. I sing on two and a half songs. We worked up a delicious arrangement for “Watch What Happens” and my own song “Daydream.” The halfer? “A Man and A Woman.” On the original recording from 1966, the chorine sings “Dubba dubba, duh. Dubba dubba duh…” It’s very retro and sexy. Flash forward to Sunburst Recording (owned and operated by the incomparable Bob Wayne), right here in Culver City, where Craig and I dubba-dub in perfect unison. Add a few airy oo’s and ah’s over his sparkling ukulele playing and you get a very cool remake of a classic.  More than anything, this CD is a musical homage to Craig’s mentor. Howard Heitmeyer
is a genius that hardly anyone has heard of. He is a guitarist
who thinks like a piano player and his arrangements are thick and sweet
like molasses. Howard is also old school. Very old
school. Once upon a time, he was the go-to studio guitarist in
Hollywood. You name the famous singer or movie score and Howard
records with him, or her or them. Then the Beatles arrive on the
scene and pop music changes almost overnight. Howard is really
pissed off. So what does he do? He stops recording, opens a music store in town and begins his long career as a teacher. In guitar circles he is a living, breathing guru who welcomes true devotees onto his “mountaintop,” which in this case is the burbs of North Hollywood. Craig has been making that pilgrimage for many years. Then suddenly the ukulele comes into our lives and that is our “Beatles” moment. Goodbye guitar. Craig presents Howard with a proposition. How about writing an arrangement for the ukulele? Howard is apprehensive and grumbles a bit. He is a lovable curmudgeon, after all, and does not play ukulele, but hey, when you are a genius and can visualize the notes on the fretboard and identify chord patterns like a savant sees animal shapes in every angle of a starry sky, anything is possible.  By
now, Howard has written a truckload of fabulous arrangements for the
ukulele and you will hear a few of them on this new CD. We
invited two marvelous musicians to the party. Denny Croy plays
(and teaches) bass. He is laugh-out-loud hilarious, tall, bald
and bespeckled. Like my husband. It’s almost a
“separated-at-birth” kind of thing.  Percussionist,
Craig Fundyga hauls half his furniture to the back door of the
studio. Let me tell you, the warm smooth vibraphone weighs about
as much as a baby elephant and comes in two pieces. Unlike an
elephant. It takes two guys to set the thing up. But oh…the
sound is so sweet.Well-known stores are carrying “Try to Remember” including Jim Beloff’s Flea Market Music, Elderly Music, CD Baby, iTunes, Amazon. At Craig’s online store, if you purchase this CD for $10, you get his first CD, “Tenderly” for only $5.00 more. What a deal! A popular online store in Japan sells his albums too. The ads look terrific. There are big splashes of color and lots of writing, which we can’t read because it’s in Japanese. But we do know they sold out the first order and we just shipped another big box of CD’s this week. Ukulele music is the happening thing in Asia these days.  As
for Howard Heitmeyer, he still mails us new ukulele arrangements
for a standard or pop song or classical piece and writes originals
tunes for the uke as well. He even gave Craig an arrangement
of…gasp…“Norwegian Wood.” The Beatles. When does he sleep? This man who will be eighty-eight years old in October? May we all live as long and wide as Howard. September 6, 2011 -- Old Guys Rule They are called The Ukulele Society of America. USA! This group of warm, fun-loving and big-hearted ukulele players meet every Thursday evening in a glorious rotunda of a room in downtown Carlsbad, California. The last meeting of every month is extra special because there is food. A steamy buffet of it. And guest ukulele artists too. That would be my husband Craig and me. Pat Enos, who resides over the group not only as the MC but the singer and player who leads the strummers from one song to another, invites us to share the evening. Pat Palika Enos and his wife Nancy, are the very embodiment of Aloha Spirit. He insists on driving us part of the way, which really helps since the round trip from Culver City to Carlsbad is almost 200 miles. So Craig and I head to Fountain Valley and pull up besides a lovely suburban California home. We grab our ukes and a box of etc. from the car and head inside where we are greeted by the “Duke Of Uke” himself, Bill Tapia. Like what? Let me tell you a little bit about this feisty ukulele master who proclaims, in bold bumper sticker print, that Old Guys Rule. He is a legend in the ukulele world. Pure and simple. Little Bill bought his first ukulele in his hometown, Honolulu, for seventy-five hard-earned cents, which was a lot of money circa 1915ish. By the time he was 10, he turned professional and has played with the veritable who’s-who of popular music ever since. And here we are, at his house. In recent months, Bill has had major health issues and is now confined to a wheelchair, but at a toasty 103, he is ever vibrant and thinking, always thinking, about the next song to play, or learn, or write. He’s the first thing I see as I walk into the house. A whimsical leprechaun of a man, dressed to the nines in his salmon-colored pants, matching tie, plaid shirt (with salmon stripes) and a white captain’s hat with a matching, you guessed it, salmon-colored brim. He’s a “brand” by golly and he knows how to work it. After we are introduced, I can’t help myself and tell him he's really cute. He looks up at me with those big impish eyes and declares quickly “I’m harmless.” “Whoa, what a relief,” I’m thinking to myself very loud. “I was kind of worried there…” Pat and Nancy tend to his needs and graciously roll with the vagaries that come with living long and being famous, to boot. When you are 103, looking this spiffy takes many hands.  So the five of us
limo south to the big Kanikapila. Yes, this is a big group that
embraces being big. Let me give you an example. In my
ukulele group, The CC Strummers, we have a songbook of 36 songs.
The Ukulele Society of America’s songbook contains over 500 tunes and
arrangements. You need a U-haul to carry the book along, so
instead they project each song onto a big screen that can be seen by
the guy trimming the hedge outside the windows. It’s pure
genius!!! Pat sings and plays a few songs, Craig and I do our thing (you can watch our short set on YouTube), there’s a pee-break, then the whole community of players join in. You just gotta take my word for it… Something happens that is positively spiritual when people strum the ukulele and join together in song. Gals from the hula-branch of the club dance along. The final encore is none other than Bill Tapia himself, performing the song “Young At Heart.” The years have reduced his dexterity, but increased his charisma and ability to communicate the emotional taproot of a song. He is singing his truth. He phrases the words with the maturity of a man who knows. And that, in itself, is an honor to witness. Not to be overlooked is Pat Enos who is a sublimely talented musician and performer with a generosity of spirit that is as big and warm as his voice. Pat is the real deal which is why he works all the time with his Hawaiian band or just him and his uke. Sure I sing “Aloha ‘Oe,” but I do it like the SoCal girl I am. On the other hand, Pat really sings it, because it’s in his DNA. He is carrying on the tradition that Bill Tapia and his peers began so many years ago. The whole evening is positively smile-inducing. FOOD plus FUN plus FRIENDS plus FABULOUS UKULELE. A winning recipe that adds sweetness to our lives. Just when we need it most. September 1, 2011 -- Ukulele Rocks Fiest La Ballona Every August, Culver City, home-sweet-home for me, puts on a very big party. Imagine that, right in the middle of Los Angeles, a megalopolis if ever there is one, we have our very own county fair and get to pretend, for one weekend, that we are small town America. The celebration is called Fiesta La Ballona and there are vertigo-inducing rides for the thrill seekers, arts and crafts for collectors and decorators, a cornucopia of food booths and trucks for the hungry and adventurous. Local merchants promote their services and wares, Disney does Disney, Sony does Sony, and there is music. Oh, the music. Fiesta La Ballona is grand enough to support two stages. Big name (and paid!) groups share their music on the large stage. The audience cheers, claps along and shakes their booties on a sprawling dance floor in front of the stage. Then there is the other stage. The Community Stage. Where the audience sits on the shaded bleachers beneath a grove of oak trees and enjoy the karate demonstration, line-dancers, little girl gymnastics and even some bluegrass music. On this particular Saturday, August 27, 2011 it feels like 150 degrees outside with 100% humidity. Needless to say, our shady corner of the world is very attractive at 1:30 in the afternoon as the CC Strummers begin the show and the Community Stage gets rockin! The CC Strummers is the ukulele group that has grown out of the first “Ukulele For Beginners” class I offered at the Culver City Senior Center last year. We spend many happy hours in the “craft room,” learning new songs and strums and chords and generally having such a good time that people, people we don’t know, gather outside the door, enchanted by the music and all that wonderful laughter. Fiesta La Ballona is our second show. Ever. And the first one outside the Senior Center. We have rehearsed the songs on our set list over and over, contemplated everything that could go wrong, decide it doesn’t matter anyway because playing the ukulele is so fun, who cares. We all arrive on time, with our music and music stands, bottles of water, flowers in our hair, aloha shirts and great big ukulele smiles. We are ready to do it. And do it in a very big way. I am so proud of all 21 CC Strummers who play today. I am proud of the ones who sit in the front row and I’m proud of the ones who don’t. I am proud of the ones who get so nervous their minds go blank, but they climb up on stage anyone. They play the ukulele, sing and make joy, for themselves, for each other and for every person in the audience. My husband captures the show on video and I have posted four excerpts that you will enjoy watching: We have our very own theme song and it is aptly named “CC Strummers.” Oh sure, Tony Bennett has that tune about San Francisco, but in our song, we are “funky, classy, sweet and sassy.” And we rock it too. With our very own version of “Proud Mary.” We have enough guys in the class to brighten the “bottom” with some tasty baritone “rollin’, rollin’.” Listen close and you’ll hear it. 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. “This Little Light of Mine” is one of our favorites. It’s a hand-clappin’, foot-stompin’ sing-along that is irresistible. Enjoy! August 12, 2011 -- The Simple Life -- Loving Kaua'i/Chapter 9 THE LAST CHAPTER Some folks “do” vacations. It’s about let’s do this. Let’s do that. Let’s see this. Let’s go there. And when all is said it done, you need a vacation to recover from your vacation. Our idea of vacation is not to do. Which of course is a whole lot easier said than done. But as each day passes it gets easier and less guilt-wrenching to actually settle into the softness of this moment. That means putting the “to do” list away, at least temporarily. But we slip into routine anyway. A simple-life routine that does not include going to work, driving freeways, paying bills. Vacation, indeed.  Craig
and I walk into Hanalei. It is eight minutes of breathing fresh,
sweet air. Of hearing the roosters cock-a-doodle doo. Eight
minutes of big puffer clouds skittering across the blue sky. Of
watching gentle white mist drape the top of the mountains. Eight
minutes of counting the number of waterfalls cascading down those
mountains. The more rain, the more waterfalls.Every morning we land at the Ching Young Village local hangout for breakfast. Musubi (sushi a la spam) for me, regular old scrambled eggs and toast for Craig. We buy today’s local newspapers, The Garden Island and the Honolulu Star Advertiser, spread our food and reading materials on the well-worn picnic table outside the little diner and do our thing. I read the paper and Craig does the crossword puzzles. Do that every morning, even for a few days, and the locals begin to notice and nod their heads as they walk by. Remember, the people who actually live here see the ever-changing parade of visitors who are here today, and often gone today. So the two amorphous groups seldom mingle, except in a polite, touristy way. Which is why we are delighted that a grizzled old fellow walks up to Craig, points to the crossword and tells him how hard it was yesterday. He couldn’t figure out the word “zits.” Then he laughs. Big and hearty. After that, we talk, the three of us, a little more everyday. Finally I introduce myself and ask his name. "Afuk." I know this because I ask him to spell it. Please, don’t go there… For the record, this is how he pronounces it: “Ah-fook.” He is a taro farmer. Hanalei Valley is one of the largest producers of taro and the fields look like checkerboards of green across the landscape. “I am at the Hanalei Pier every night at six, with beers. Come join me,” he smiles.  Years
ago, I read the book “Tuesdays with Morrie.” This is the story of
a remarkable man, living with a horrendous disease (ALS). Day by
day his body does less and less. His mental prowess remains
however, intact and in Technicolor. When someone asks him to
describe a perfect last day, he unfurls a moving collage of simple things, shared with the people he loves. I remember wondering why he doesn’t describe a day of big adventure instead: “Oh, I climb Mount Everest. In the morning. Lunch by the Eifell tower. Spend the afternoon white-water rafting on the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. Swing by Vegas for a few rounds of blackjack at The Bellagio, dinner at sunset, on the Lido Deck of the Ocean Princess as it cruises into Cabo San Lucas." Something like that. But you know what. Now I get it. Can’t explain it, but I get it. Just sitting here, back in our little island nest, with the laptop resting on my thighs, my husband, perched in a nearby lounger chair, all tiki-adorned, still working on today’s crossword, the music of exotic bird songs mixing with the soft whoosh of the Tradewinds. It’s a kind of simple “nothing” that is filled to the brim. Wherever you are… Mahalo and thank you for coming along with us on our trip to Kaua’i. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Pineapple (You Can Grow This At Home) Update: Jill Landis writes "The roots are incredibly long!" We're at one month and counting now. Longan (Try "Dem" Nuts) Update: With an impish smile, June S. from The CC Strummers hands me a brown paper bag before class today. I peek inside and nearly collapse into a puddle of joy. It's a ziplock of golden treasure--longan. And the best news of all, June bought them right here in Los Angeles. Gardena, to be exact, at 99 Ranch Market. I'm SO happy. You may have an Asian grocery store in your neighborhood too, so check it out! August 7, 2011 -- You Can Grow This At Home -- Loving Kaua'i/Chapter 8  ‘Tis
the season for beefy, beautiful fresh pineapples and I snag a couple
winners at the Foodland Grocery Store in Princeville on the north shore
of Kaua'i. Being a city girl to the core, when I think
“pineapple,” I think Dole and I think cans, which is why I deliver
these two beauties to Jill Landis, the Beach Bum Bungalow
Missus. I don’t know what to do with the “real thing.” She
removes a very large knife from the drawer and in one graceful ballet
move, decapitates the frond stem from the yellow meaty stuff, then
whacks away the extraneous green tendrils that are hanging on for dear
life. She presents this living, breathing souvenir to me after I
ask her to sign and date the little tag that accompanies each globe of
fruit.I rush it back to our upstairs nest and sink it into a glass of water. How many of us have taken a sweet potato, jammed its sides with toothpicks and let it soak in water until roots fill the glass? Did you know you can do that with a pineapple? (Minus the toothpicks). I am happy to report that five days later, little nubs are already bursting open and real roots will soon appear. Once they grow bushy, Jill will transplant the whole thing to a big pot where it will get lots of sunny attention. A year later, a real pineapple will rise from the fronds. Maybe she'll send me a "baby" picture or two along the way, so I can enjoy the perks of inter-species motherhood. From afar. 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
dies. Remember that the next time you put anything "pineapple" in
your mouth.Yes, Jill knows her pineapples. She knows hula too and practices three times a week with her hula sisters. And Miss Jill Marie Landis is a best-selling author. Many years ago, she and her husband Steve taught school in Long Beach, California. High school for him. Kindergarten for her. She loves the kids and loves taking a break from the kids. By reading romance novels. Then one day it hits her, “I can write a romance novel too.” The time between that life-changing call to action and the actual publication of her first book is remarkably short. And this has been a week of big celebrating for our cleaver-wielding-hula-dancing-scribe. Amazon just published her umpteenth book, “Mai Tai One On,” as an e-book/Kindle special for 99 cents. Just like they did for Lady Gaga! {Note to time-travel readers, the price has since gone up}. Twenty-four hours after its debut, her book is #2 in, get this, the “Mystery-Woman’s-Sleuth” category. And of every book in the universe that Amazon offers to Kindle readers, her tale of tiki madness comes in at a jaw-dropping #32. So why not find a cushy Barcalounger, mai tai (or Martinelli Sparkling Apple Cider) one on and watch the pineapples grow. Postscript: Almost one month later, the roots on the Foodland pineapple are going strong. Three inches and growing! August 5, 2011 -- Love "Dem" Nuts -- Loving Kaua'i/Chapter 7 Every Saturday morning at the crack of 9:30 A.M., a swarm of people, ripe with anticipation, rush the Farmers’ Market in Hanalei, on the north shore of Kaua'i. Nestled against the tall, velvet green Makaleha Mountains, it’s a most bucolic setting and feast for all the senses. As a lone guitarist sings and plays Hawaiian songs under a nearby canopy, artisans sell their wares and folks line of up for exotic juices (my favorite is a concoction of cucumber, mint and pineapple). Island pastries are snatched up quickly and we haven’t even gotten to the fruit and vegetable stands yet. Suffice it to say, I’m grabbing the gigando avocados. I mash one in a bowl and add a generous shake-a-shake of the Jane’s Original Mixed-Up Salt I find in the Beach Bum Bungalow pantry. Our guacamole is simple and sumptuous. I buy a couple golden papaya from a guy who looks like Christopher Atkins from the movie “Blue Lagoon, all grown up and happily raising fruit and nuts on his little farm somewhere on Kaua’i. He has that sun-kissed, not-a-care-in-the-world look about him and big messy blond curls that fall just so around his neck. He is definitely the person you want to buy tree fruit from!  “Have
you tried one of these?” he asks, pointing at a walnut shaped nut,
bronze and a little stubbly. I’m scared. I wouldn’t know
what to do with it, much less put the thing in my mouth. He
quickly pinches one open and gently warns me there is a seed inside and
please don’t eat it. ("Why?" I wonder to myself. "Will it kill
me?") Tentatively, I take petite little bites, much like you would chew
at the miniature corn on the cob they put in salads. One tiny
kernel at a time.Until I discover, this thing has to be the most delicious unknown piece of food I have ever eaten. It is impossibly sweet, with the texture of a gooey grape and has a name, longan. The lychee nut is a close relative. And wouldn’t you know, just as I have fallen madly in love, I discover this will be one quickie romance. I Google “longan” as fast as you can say “gimme gimme.” Well actually, I Google “longan, Los Angeles,” since that is where I live and eat. Let’s put it this way, there is stuff for “longan,” but it isn’t about food. So next time you visit Thailand, India, Vietnam, the Philippines. Or Hawaii. Give yourself a sugar high to remember. Buy a bag of longan and go wild. August 3, 2011 -- Floating -- Loving Kaua'i/Chapter 6 We all have our issues, sometimes grand, mostly small. One of my itty-bittsies is that I can’t stand being immersed in cold water. Not that I go out of my way to do that. But every once in a while when the hot water goes down in our condo, I see my life pass before me at the prospect of taking a cold shower. What a wimp, I know. And aren’t I lucky to have running water anyway, any temperature, considering what is happening in other parts of the world? Yes I know. But knowing that doesn’t change a body that flails at cold. So here were are in heavenly Hanalei. Basted in sun block, SPF 40,000, it’s time to go for a swim in the ocean--the beautiful, and what feels to me, cold ocean. My husband, who embraces cold like a sturdy salmon, is already swimming that-a-way, whereas I am standing knee-deep in the stuff and reporting to all who can hear that “I can’t do it.” Little children, very old people and all sorts in between are frolicking happily in what, in truth, is mildly warm ocean water. But I’m going through my usual process of self-torture. What I do is move forward into deeper waters, one teeny-tiny step at a time. In previous years, my husband has splashed water on me in a veiled attempt to move the process along. My response to that has been to go doberman pinscher on him. So he stays away now and let’s me do what I have to do. Eventually, and I mean eventually, I do make it to the promised land and morph into amphibious Cali. You may find it hard to believe, but I am a really good swimmer. My parents threw me into the neighborhood YWCA pool way back when for the post-toddler class. It didn’t take long for me to paddle the length of the Olympic-sized pool and earn my “little-girl” swimming badge. I do the butterfly, breath and back strokes too. I swim underwater, happily, and do dolphin turns at the end of the lane. As long as the pool is 150 degrees!!! So today, on this toasty afternoon, I swim back and forth, in plain view of the lifeguard station. The currents are strong and it feels like I’m swimming in place, except for all the huffing and puffing afterwards. Now, it’s time to stop. And float. I trust the water and let my body rest on it. Rock on it, melt into it. My ears are submerged enough that the sounds of “peopling” on the shore disappear into a calm “shoooooooooooshshshsh.” The clouds slide across the sky, forming blobby shapes that appear and disappear in a heartbeat. Movement. Movement everywhere. The ocean, my arms and legs, the air, the clouds. Yet, as my body floats and my ever-chattering mind goes quiet, the whole world feels remarkably still. And wonderful. August 2, 2011 -- If The Walls Could Talk -- Loving Kaua'i/Chapter 5 Koloa, a delightful hamlet of stores and sturdy little homes, beckons us from the North Shore. It’s a round trip of eighty-plus miles, but my husband, Craig and I, live and drive in Los Angeles, so we’re used to that. Even though the folks on Kaua’i stay close to home and rarely venture into other parts of the island, except for special occasions or work, we are ready, willing and able to put the flip-flop to the pedal. And that’s how we make the left turn off the main highway and drive, in hushed silence, through the Tree Tunnel. Some 150 years ago, a Scotchman found his bliss as a cattle rancher in South Kaua’i. Along with cows, he liked eucalyptus trees and today they form a cathedral-like canopy over the highway. We are paying a visit to Georgine, the Ukulele Mama of Koloa, at her warm, wonderful and only ukulele store in the neighborhood. This woman is a beacon of good cheer and aloha spirit. Recognizing us from past visits, she greets us with big hugs and a “welcome home.”  But
you have to know that she greets everyone with this kind of joy.
She isn’t trying to sell anything here, but she will wrangle the wary
visitor from the door, put a beautiful soprano uke in his hand and say
“I just love this one. Try it. Try it.” She knows the
irresistible ukulele will ultimately sell itself.Framed pictures of noted ukulele players decorate the wall as Craig and I “ooh and ah” because we have actually met a couple of them. “I’m putting you on the wall too,” she gushes. “Here, hold this ukulele. Stand over there.” And before we know it, she’s snapping pictures with her iPad camera. This is the first time we’ve made it to “A Wall.” We're busting with pride and savoring the moment. It's fabulous and fun. And fleeting. A few days later we are sitting in with the Pono Kane trio for their Happy Hour set at Tahiti Nui in Hanalei. Steve, the slack key guitarist, takes a moment to point out the framed pictures on the wall of the restaurant—local icons all, past and present. Our eyes follow his finger around the room until it lands on the photo of Elvis Presley. It seems that not long ago, the hunky actor George Clooney was in Hanalei to film scenes from his upcoming movie, “The Descendants.” At Tahiti Nui. The studio's art director perused the restaurant innards and all the pictures on the wall passed muster, except Elvis. Something about copyright infringement. Oh sure they can leave the picture up and use it in the movie, but the bill from Graceland will be $5000. Suffice it to say, Elvis doesn’t make it into the movie. But he’s back on the wall now. Fleeting, but fun. July 30, 2011 -- Meet & Greet In The Big House -- Loving Kaua'i/Chapter 4 My husband Craig and I return to Beach Bum’s Bungalow year after year because we love Hanalei. But that is only the beginning. Our hosts, Jill and Steve, have welcomed us into their studio apartment and into their island ohana. This short, but rich connection with the people of the neighborhood is really what keeps us coming back and we are grateful to them for making this possible. And on this trip, we actually are invited into the Big House. That would be Jill and Steve’s lovely abode, which adjoins our little upstairs tropical nest. Lucky for all of us, the neighbor across the street, an avid fisherman, just caught a 200 pound yellow fin tuna. Yes, you read that right, 200 pounds. Considering that tuna comes in six ounce cans, you do the math. In true aloha spirit, he is sharing a deli-size display with us for a barbecue dinner. All of us, Jill and Steve's new and long-time friends, share local connections to Long Beach, California. Craig grew up in Long Beach and I sang on the Queen Mary for years so our root system includes this community. Suffice it to say, there is much to talk about as we dig into the garden fresh salad and vegetables, Jill's delicious baked beans, loaded with fresh cilantro and brown sugar and of course “Charlie The Tuna,” seared to perfection on the grill. The conversation swings local. Even in paradise there is a murky underbelly that you won’t read about in the colorful brochures at the airport. You’ve probably heard that “good fences make good neighbors.” Here too. There are neighborhood skirmishes and deeply-held suspicions and resentments between native Hawaiians and mainlanders. But sincerity, kindness and in no small measure, a dose of humility wins in the end. Hopefully. Probably everywhere. Then there are the other sentient beings on the island—centipedes, cockroaches, lizards, geckos, frogs and mosquitoes that take no prisoners. Beach Bum’s Bungalow is blessedly free of most biting and crawly critters because the exterminator visits often. On top of that, Steve power bleaches all surfaces several times a year to fend off mold. It’s hard work keeping paradise clean and tidy. Feral pigs live in the swampy land up the Hanalei River. We all know that what goes in must come out. In an ideal world, the “come out” part would become magical pig fertilizer. But no… Here the poo and other assorted stuff can poison the river and run into the ocean. It’s very rare, but that flesh-eating bacteria we hear about has sent more than one island resident on a near-trip to the light at the end of the tunnel. And if that is not enough, the young woman whose story inspired the recently released movie “Soul Surfer” lost her entire arm to a shark, just a few beaches down from here. And then there are tsunamis, massive floods and hurricanes. But you know, every place has its problems. I live in Los Angeles, for heaven sakes, where every other week we are reminded by the smiley faces on the local news, that the “big one” is coming. “Do you have your earthquake kit packed and ready?” They ask. “Do you keep a spare pair of tennis shoes by the bed?” They cajole. Do you practice diving under the IKEA table and kiss your ass goodbye? Oh, that’s MY question… Fortunately the conversation turns global. It seems that all the guests at the gathering (except us) are world travelers and they regale us with hilarious tales of near-disaster and triumph. The mascara I am wearing has drained into small gray streams that meander down my cheeks. That is how hard I am laughing at their stories, which are really, at heart, glorious vignettes about the twisted absurdities of human nature. Although my husband lived in Okinawa, Japan, where he served as a corpsman in the Navy, our idea of world travel is watching House Hunters International on Home and Garden Cable Television, from the comfort of our cushy bed. And grateful we are, for that too. The whole mess of stories that make up all of our lives becomes a wonderful tapestry and on this Tuesday, I get to go along on each person’s ride as each story unfolds. It’s almost like living it myself and that is good enough. Suddenly it’s 9:00 P.M. That is midnight in Hanalei. It’s time to put the dishes away and say our goodbyes. The whole evening, a snapshot in time, is one I shall treasure. July 29, 2011 -- There's No Place Like Home -- Loving Kaua'i/Chapter 3 During our visit to Hanalei last year, I took a private ukulele lesson with Beverly Kauanui, who is a beloved musician and teacher on Kaua’i. She’s been teaching her ukulele class for over nine years and reports, with a big smile, that she "can’t get rid of them." Beverly's strums are fiendishly complex and she sings in the authentic Hawaiian style. This music is in her bones. Once a month her ukulele class moves into public domain, in the heart of Hanalei at The Tahiti Nui, one of those half-inside, half-outside island bar and grills. There is a little stage where she plays her well-worn Kamaka eight-string uke. Her husband Pat strums guitar and stands sentry, like the old Vietnam Vet he is. Grace thumps her cool stand-up bass and silver-haired Dave fills in the middle with his tipple playing. Craig and I get lucky and are here as well, the second Tuesday in July. We grab our ukuleles and jump right in, along with Beverly's other students who have now nestled at the small tables. Most of the songs are very Hawaiian and unfamiliar to us, but one of the great things about playing the ukulele is you get to practice the art of “hit and miss.” Whatever you play, it’s pretty much okay. Just keep smiling and have a good time. “Welcome home Cali and Craig,” Beverly says, right into the microphone. We try to come to Hanalei every year because, by now, it’s positively medicinal, but I haven’t really thought of it as “home.” Then again, isn’t home where the heart is? And isn’t the heart basically where the ass is (or nearby). And here we are, at this moment, in this place, being welcomed into the Hanalei ohana, the family. Whether this is true or not is almost irrelevant. I am warmed all over by her aloha spirit.  During
the class, several of her hula students take their places near the
crowded stage and perform their well-choreographed routines. Most
of the dancers are, shall we say, AARP kind of gals, but joy is not
age-specific. You just have to smile at it all, like a big
heave-ho of “ah-h-h-h” and watch the sweet display unfold. Tourists and locals alike fill the main room, stand at the bar and lean in from the outside patio to watch the show. This is what community looks like in Hanalei. It is a very small town on the wet north shore of Kaua’i where there is only one road in and out, across a one-lane bridge at that, and the folks here know that when the emergency sirens wail or some other disaster hits, big or small, they can rely on each other to survive. Beverly tells the audience that Craig and I are visiting from “The Big Island.” That would be the very big island of North America. I mean, why not? It’s good to be reminded that community is everywhere. Everywhere the heart is. July 27, 2011 -- Chip Clips -- Loving Kaua'i/Chapter 2 It’s hot and very humid in Hawaii and the first day or two in Hanalei the tropical climate wrecks havoc on my body chemistry. But it’s a stealthy tango because I don’t know it’s even happening--that I’m sweating. Sweating buckets. It just feels…well…wet and toasty. The story in my bloodstream is more insidious however. Electrolytes are going wildly out of whack. I begin taking offensive action immediately by drinking more water and downing Gatorade in large gulps, but it’s never enough and I brace myself for the inevitable goo-goo talk, brain-fog and leg cramps. It creeps up on me, for sure. We are at the Big Save Market in the Ching Young Village Shopping Center, stocking up on life-saving supplies like bags of Santitos Tortilla chips. I want to buy “chip clips” too, to keep them fresh and crispy. The muggy weather turns crunchy into soggy slush very quickly. So I’m trundling up and down the grocery isles, gasping at prices, oohing at this and that, but alas not finding any chip clips. So I corral a lovely store clerk, “excuse me,” I ask, “do you have ‘nip bips.’ Oh I mean ‘thip hips.’ Um ‘kip zips?’” At least I am getting closer. “You know, the snappy thingies that keep your bag of 'chippy crunchy stuff' fresh like this?” By now I’m resorting to pantomime and making large hand gestures. It should be no surprise that she says “no.” Anyone in their right mind would say “no.” Furthermore, she is probably hoping the friendly idiot ‘fip-gip’ lady will please stop talking, buy the two papayas in her basket and leave. The lesson here is take care of your body. Because, as you know, it takes care of you. One way or another… July 25, 2011 -- Lahaina Noon -- Loving Kaua'i/Chapter 1 Twice a year something happens in Hawaii that doesn’t happen anywhere else in the 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
casts no shadow on vertical objects, such as telephone poles, husbands
and wives. Craig and I are winging our way across the Pacific on Hawaiian Airlines when Lahaina Noon happens in Lihue, on the island of Kaua’i, our vacation destination. We will spend the next ten days nesting on the North Shore in the charming hamlet of Hanalei. We come here to this beautiful place because the air, the water, the mountains, the trade winds, the warmth of the people, taken together, become a mysterious brew of calm. We don’t know how over-buzzed we are, stressed about everything from global warming to the bathroom door that won’t close because the hinge is rusting out. We get lulled into thinking that multi-multi-tasking, racing here, rushing there…is normal. Until we unpack our tee-shirts, shorts and swimsuits in our little studio apartment, Beach Bums Bungalow, and are reminded once more (because we always forget) that living like a rat in a maze is not normal. Now I’m not saying I know what normal is. But for me, I get so drawn into the whirlwind of being busy that, are you ready for this? I forget I have a body. My head is doing all the work and my body comes along for the ride, because, well my body does keep my head off the ground. So being in Hanalei, even for only a few days, helps me remember the wholeness of what I am. What we all are. That said, it doesn’t happen overnight. Granted, my husband and I “sit” our way from Los Angeles to Honolulu and then onto Kaua’i, and it’s not like we have to flap our arms to keep the plane in the air, but we are just plain exhausted and testy. Not a good combination for married people. By the time we have rented our blue Nissan from Budget and pulled into the Foodmart for groceries, we are about ready to tear each other’s eyeballs out. The proverbial Lahaina Noon is roasting us alive. I’d like to tell you that we kiss and make up before falling into bed, but that doesn’t happen either. He rolls east, I roll west. We sleep for twelve hours. The next morning, we step gingerly back into the world of civility. My husband admits that he was very angry yesterday, but it was more like a non-specific kind of rage, and he took it out on me. And quite honestly, I was doing the same thing. Oh the angst we store in the cells of our bodies. Then we find someone, usually a someone we love, to a wail on. That doesn’t sound like normal to me. Already Hanalei is bringing me back to myself. July 13, 2011 -- I Wish I Was A Cowgirl  Once
upon a time, I am trapped in afternoon rush hour traffic, inching
forward on the Santa Monica Freeway towards the East L.A.
interchange. The sky is a murky gray-green-purple. Even
though my windows are rolled up tight and the air conditioning is
pumping cool onto my face, I still smell the outside and it hangs over
me like a musty old coat. Smog alert weather indeed.I study the faces of my fellow drivers, sheathed, all of us, in our virtual car worlds, yet sharing, at the same time, this communal experience of utter dissatisfaction. No one appears to be a happy camper. Including me. In fact, the thought “get me out of here” freezes in my brain. “Get me out of here. Get me out of here.” Like am I going to levitate or something? But then a melody appears, as if a magician, a sorcerer waves a wand. I don’t know how this happens, but I hear it. There are words too: “I Wish I Was A Cowgirl.” I reach for paper, pencil, rest them on the steering wheel and begin scribbling. Creating something out of nothing is such a mystery. We all do it. Our thoughts, our words, our feelings, our recipes, our drawings, poems, crocheted hats, sandcastles and skyscrapers. They appear. For a while. When I am writing, I usually wallow and fret, re-write and re-write. Then I let the thing get cold for a few days and rewrite some more. But not in this case. The song appears and essentially writes itself. Speaking of wishing… I wish they were all like that… So what is this song about, this ode to “get me out of here”? Well it’s a fantasy—that there is a way to escape this moment, that there is somewhere better. The song describes that somewhere. There are mountains that stretch forever, there is a horse, my horse, and we ride and ride until time doesn’t matter any more. There is a log cabin with a rocking chair. The perfect rocking chair. There is a window that is so big and clear that you don’t know where the inside ends and the outside begins. And oh the quiet. It’s the kind of stillness that makes you feel whole. Maybe that place does exist and maybe it’s right here, after all. You be the judge. I did a video that combines an excerpt from the studio recording of "I Wish I Was A Cowgirl" with a live performance where I accompany myself on the piano. You can watch it on YouTube. And if you totally love this song, you can purchase and download a copy at iTunes, Amazon and CD Baby. The CD single, that includes the song, piano sheet music, a ukulele chart and another video that features my ukulele version, is available at my website store. Thanks for listening all you cowgirls and cowboys. July 5, 2011 -- Finding Family - Part 3 Venice Beach is quintessential SoCal. Sun, surf, sand, skateboards, skinny bikinis, sassy street performers, shopping, sights to see and smell. Venice Beach is shrill and shining! We have a lot of serious issues in Los Angeles, but I marvel nonetheless, how Angelinos manage to hang together and let it hang out at the same time and this is never more evident than on a Saturday afternoon in Venice Beach. What awaits us are blocks and blocks of little shops, mom and pop food booths, artists making and selling their wares. California beach bunnies and muscle-bound hunks mingle amiably with visitors from every point on the compass. The people-watching is primo. My cousins have gifts to buy and the first t-shirt store on the way draws them in like a powerful magnet, and so it goes. We buy necklaces, bracelets, street art, matching dresses and a patchwork coat. Nothing is expensive and we feel that, in our own way, we are supporting the arts. Occasionally people gather at Venice Beach to express their different points of view, often at the same time. For example, we witness a very attractive fellow, wearing only a loin cloth, a straw hat and a couple rubber snakes. He is surrounded by some lovely folks who are carrying big yellow signs that implore us to “Seek The Lord Jesus.” The snake guy insists, with a big smile, that we are all naked in the eyes of the Lord. The thing is, this scene is so normal on Venice Beach that hardly anyone even notices or cares. Not when there are earrings to buy at the $2.00 table… No quicky trip to Los Angeles is complete without a cruise down Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. Along with everyone else and their mother, I might add. Enough of these crowds and Louis Vuitton. We drive into the canyons above Sunset Boulevard, the land of enormous mansions, very tall walls and camera decorated cast-iron gates. I don’t think they have a lot of neighborly Tupperware Parties in this zip code. We see a couple people standing outside their car snapping pictures of a palatial estate, with a very ornate garage entrance. My cousins lean out the window, confess they are tourists and wonder aloud, like, why are you taking pictures here??? Oh…it’s Michael Jackson’s house. Just then a “See-Where-The-Stars-Live” tour bus slows and inches by, then another appears and another. Welcome to the circus!!! So we decide to follow the next one that rounds the bend. We have no idea 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.
An old Italian proverb comes to mind: “After the game, the king
and pawn go into the same box.” But oh, what a game…My cousins remind me often during this trip how fortunate I am to live in Los Angeles. It’s so clean, they say. And new (remember they are from Baltimore). The fruit and vegetables are so fresh and delicious. The people are really nice. On Sunday morning, we have a little extra time before I take them to the airport, so we scoot over to Playa del Rey and walk west along the jetty where I take this picture. Just look at their faces. I think California sunshine has melted into their bones. May we all feel the kiss of sunshine in our lives. Wherever we are. July 3, 2011 -- Finding Family - Part 2  When
we moved to California from suburban Washington D.C., my parents and I
settled in Hollywood. My first impression of the neighborhood was
that we had landed on the west-facing side of Neptune.
Unbeknownst to us, our budget apartment was in an artist enclave.
Well, let me rephrase that, a starving artist enclave. Never mind that our next door neighbor was a shy, struggling actor who introduced himself as Fess Parker.As far as I was concerned, Hollywood Boulevard was a freak show, which I suppose is part of its charm. Little has changed since those days, although now it’s a more sanitized and spruced-up freak show. Bring your camera and credit cards. Which is what my cousins Halaine, Laura and I do as we begin our L.A. Tourist Excursion. I have two days to hit the hot spots with my new “they-feel-like-sisters.” Grauman’s Chinese and the Hollywood Sign are at the top of their “wish list.” So here we are, snagging the cheap parking ($8.00) at the Fresh & Easy Grocery Story, and walking a couple blocks to “Wacka-Doo-Central.” That would be Grauman’s Chinese Theater. Even though my husband and I live about ten miles away, I don’t think I’ve visited the theater since, gasp, the 1980’s. I’m happy to report that cement holds up well. I guess that’s why it’s cement. Artifacts from old stars mix amicably with the newer movie royalty and not surprisingly, visitors from near and far press their hands and feet into the big gray squares to compare body parts. When you think about it, this may have been one of California’s first “interactive” exhibitions. When we lived in Hollywood, I remember one of the neighborhood “characters,” a cantankerous old codger who paraded up and down Hollywood Boulevard wearing nothing more than a two-sided placard that warned “The End Is Near.” It scared the hell out of me until my parents reassured me that not everyone shares his world view. Today, on this sun-kissed morning, all I see are Darth Vader, an Empire Stormtrooper, a Dominatrix and Spider Man. Hey, it’s a living. For a five-dollar tip we pose several times with our fantasy men from Star Wars. I might add that Darth definitely gets into it, rubbing our backs and informing us, in his perfect James Earl Jones voice, that the force is really really strong in you. He is quite convincing and I believe him, because well, he is wearing a uniform… The force is also reminding me that we have to skedaddle back to Culver City to catch the Sony Pictures Studios Tour at 2:30. You can do the “bells and whistle” tour at Universal City if you want, but when it comes to up close and personal, you can’t beat Sony. This is a working studio and we get to watch them at work. Before the tour begins, a Sony photographer places the three of us in front of a green screen and snaps a picture that will be super-imposed against the “Wheel of Fortune” set.  The
picture is a freebie. In fact, everyone gets a prize from Will,
our tour guide, for answering movie and T.V. trivia questions—whether
the answers are right or not. During the tour, he sets up an
impromptu movie scene outside an office building facade. He
chooses a sweet faced-teenager to be my niece and, as “extras,” we
saunter past the pretend camera and have a pretend conversation, as
the" main characters" deliver their lines to each other. Just
like real life. The rest of the group applauds our efforts and we move onto the Foley studio where they do sound effects. Will chooses yet another “volunteer” to rattle a plastic tarp (for thunder) and roll an empty water bottle in her hand (crackling fire). Then he tells us that Foley artists make $1900 an hour. We all groan at the same time, and that is not a sound effect. We see the Barbara Streisand Recording Studio, the second largest in the world, the Jeopardy set and oh my, the sound stage where they built the Emerald City in the Wizard of Oz and the actual trap door that Margaret Hamilton dropped through as the Wicked Witch. You know what? This is cool.  But
the coolest part of the day is after dinner when the three of us
stretch out on our living room floor and look at old pictures. My
cousins have brought several along and I have a grocery bag full of
black and white snapshots from the past. A lot of mysterious
stuff has gone down in our family and here we are, gazing into the
faces of grandparents (we think), uncles (maybe), aunts (could be),
searching for a clue, a sign, a certain demented glance. The
pictures smell like the old trunk where they have been residing for
decades. Our curiosity is on fire and answers are thwarted photo
after photo. We call out to these dead people, across the
generations, “why the hell didn’t you fricking write the names on the
back of the fricking picture so we would know who the hell you
are?” Or something like that.But we marvel at the images of our Aunt Helen, the ancestor goddess in our lives. As a young girl, she is luminous, with big dark eyes, sensuous lips and a gaze that is at once ephemeral and lusty. She grows up to be a no-nonsense business woman, feisty, opinionated…and well…married three times. It isn’t until we cousins share our stories that we discover Aunt Helen taught all of us how to play the piano and sew. She taught us that it’s okay to be a woman ahead of her time. As our Los Angeles adventure continues, we embrace the present--our girls-weekend-out. We embrace the past--our shared past. And look forward to the future, because now we have each other in it. What’s next? Venice Beach. Of course… June 30, 2011 -- Finding Family - Part 1  We
meet on Facebook, my newly-discovered cousins and me. Like most
families, our so-called family tree is more like a bewildering, and
sometimes haunted, forest of saplings, evergreens and shrubs.
Because of various dramas, or shall we say “misunderstandings,” and
geographic escapes to greener pastures, I have lost connection with
just about everyone that can be called kin.But over the years I hear stories. You know those stories. Part myth, part grandiosity and maybe a little sliver truth. One of the stories is about my great-uncle Sidney, the musical prodigy of the family, who for reasons that remain a mystery to this day, estranged himself from the family and in my world, is never heard from again. But today we have Google, and Facebook, and if you can turn a computer on, and type, there is a chance you can scratch at the bark of some ancient family trees. And so it happens to me. I learn that my Uncle Sidney moved to the Midwest from ground zero (which would be Baltimore), marries a fellow musician and has five children, all musicians themselves. Of course his grown children and I “friend“ each other on Facebook. But that is just the beginning. Soon I receive an email from yet another mystery cousin. A Facebook friend of a friend. Her name is Laura and she lives in Baltimore too. Her mother and Sidney were sister and brother. My grandmother was their older sister. Do you need a flow-chart to follow this? I do and thankfully they make me one. Within days Laura’s sister, Halaine, emails me too. We set a date to have a three-way conversation on our cell phones and within seconds of saying “hello” something in all three of us clicks and a connection is made. I grew up an only child. My parents and I left every trace of “family” behind when we moved from Washington D.C. to Los Angeles, so even the slightest possibility of connecting with those who share a family history leaves me almost giddy. Now of course it’s one thing to say “let’s get together.” But Laura and Halaine actually make plane reservations on Southwest Airlines. So that is how I get to meet my fabulous new cousins and we just spent the most dizzying and remarkable two and half days together. They fly in for the weekend. That’s all. Just two and a half days. Of course we do the L.A. tourista things and I get to play goodwill ambassador for my adopted home. But there is so much more. We sacrifice sleep-time, for talk-time, as we unravel our pasts together, gingerly stepping into the quicksand, also known as “family secrets,” until we trust each other enough to let ourselves sink into the whole mess of it. And what a mess! But then again who does not understand family mess? As Plato says, “be kind, for everyone is having a hard battle.” Our first foyer out into the wilds of Los Angeles is the scenic overlook near our home in Culver City, with its birds-eye view from the Pacific Ocean to downtown and beyond. It’s still early and a gray mist lies across the landscape. We can’t even see the Hollywood Sign, which under sunnier conditions would be the familiar beacon that my cousins are especially excited about seeing. Nevertheless, I am reminded once more that in this big sprawling city, people are gracious and friendly. In fact, during our entire visit together we will experience the warm spirit of my fellow Angelinos again and again. At the top of the overlook, Halaine asks two lovely women to take our picture. They insist on posing us just so and do not easily relinquish the camera. “Let me take another one…wait a minute…stand over there.” They really look at us, with fresh eyes and declare that we have a strong family resemblance. “Your jaw lines are the same,” they agree. Halaine, Laura and I laugh in surprise, a little embarrassed maybe, and glance at each other like we are looking into each other’s faces to learn something new about ourselves. Perhaps we would have noticed the resemblance, eventually, but Tracy and Simone see it first. I have heard a philosopher say that the purpose of his whole life has brought him to this moment and then this moment. That whatever is happening right now, whatever I am encountering and with whom, it is the whole of my life. This moment. And here we are standing on an urban mountaintop, four women, from four different backgrounds, coming together, so briefly, and stretching the fabric of this very moment into something special. And soon the moment passes, we climb back into the car, wend our way back down into the city and follow the freeway signs to Hollywood. Stay tuned... May 30, 2011 -- Shredding My Life Away  What do we have here?Box after box. Bag after bag. Of old tax returns and other assorted goodies. Starting with the year 1990. I bet there are people who think 1990 is when the dinosaurs trundled west on Wilshire Boulevard. 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 kind of experience. Wisdom tells us that we have to let go in order to move on. I know that’s true, but right now, if you ask me, they can take that wisdom and shove it. It’s so easy to pack up the cancelled checks, receipts, old contracts, medical records into a neat cardboard time-capsule, scrawl the year on the outside of the box with a Sharpie pen (which is supposed to be permanent) and squeeze it into a dark corner somewhere. One year of life reduced to pieces of paper, staples and paper clips. Craig and I go through five boxes and five grocery bags in one day. He does the macro sorting and I look at things more closely, deciding what goes into the shredding pile, the recycle pile or the trash. Most of the paper clips are rusted to the paper and rubber bands have almost disintegrated or fused with the documents they are clutching. We are at eyeball level with the undeniable truth that nothing and no one lasts. As go paper clips and rubber bands, so do we… Naively I think we will buzz saw through this task. I mean how interesting are bank statements from two decades ago? But the unexpected usually happens. For example, I find the old contract for one of my favorite gigs, The Queen Mary in Long Beach, and suddenly memories wash over me like a tropical breeze. I have my first “hot flash” in Sir Winston’s, the piano bar lounge just off the Sun Deck, while I am singing “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.” I think I am going to die, but keep singing anyway, mostly because I can’t come up with anything better to do at the time. Calling 911 seems too grandiose even though the piano has caught on fire, the ship is listing at a 45-degree angle and I am ready to throw up. At least that's what is happening in my world as I sing about little cable cars climbing halfway to the stars. Fortunately the estrogen unspikes about the time I finish the song. "What the hell was that?" I wonder, relieved to be alive and hoping no one else noticed. Just then I over-hear the conversation of a couple seated close by, “She really gets into her music doesn’t she…” What happened to the 1990’s anyway? Or the 2000’s? We remember moments, I think, but big chunks of time escape me. The real stuff of my life seems to be hidden in the spaces between the papers, between the images and memories, between the tick-tick of the clock. Office Depot shreds documents for 99 cents a pound. That doesn’t sound like much does it? On the drive over we make a bet, my husband and I. “We have fifty pounds of paper to shred,” I announce. “No way!" He retorts, "twenty-five pounds, tops.” End of discussion. We aren’t in the mood to cash in any chips. Craig and I haul our booty onto a pushcart and roll towards the sweet-faced kid behind the shipping & shredding desk. As for the bet, we are both wrong, although Craig is a whole lot more wrong than me. Office Depot Jeff carefully weighs one Hefty bag after another and in the end the bill comes to $80 for almost 80 pounds of family history. It takes him three hours to shred and load into giant plastic bags which we dump into the local recycling bins on the way home. This morning what sits before us is thirteen years of our life, in words and pictures, that evoke even more words and pictures in our minds. And now it’s all just a colorful mess, bags filled to the brim with little slivers of confetti. As for “letting go…” Well it does feel good to chuck the stuff. Now I’m all revved up to go through more files and drawers and closet shelves looking for things that no longer serve or nurture. But today, I got to revisit the past, from a place that is solidly grounded in the present. Really when all is said and done, what more can I say than “thank you.” And move on… May 5, 2011 -- The Apple Store I am an “Apple” girl from way back. In the dinosaur days, my father purchased a first generation Mackintosh computer--the one that is shaped like a small white doghouse and supposedly has the signatures of the original designers inscribed inside the case. It changed our lives. The computer has changed all of our lives. I have used Apple computers ever since. Love, love, love them. I also love AppleCare because it’s worth it’s paper weight in gold. For a few extra bucks, okay, quite a few extra bucks, this program covers repairs for an extended period of time. Listen, we don’t spill coffee on the keyboard, we don’t dropkick our computer across the living room when the screen freezes. But a few days ago my husband couldn’t get his computer to eject a DVD. The Apple support people answer the phone right away and send us to the nearest brick and mortar store, in Century City, where Craig drops off his umpteen-inch iMac with the crew at what is charmingly referred to as “The Genius Bar,” located in the back of the store. Two days later, the repair is complete and costs us nothing because we have, you know, AppleCare. We machete our way through Friday evening rush hour traffic to pick it up. I tag along this time because, well, we’re going to a shopping mall… Apple stores are wild dens of sounds, flashes of color and frenetic energy. Friends, families, strangers gather around computers at communal tables, immersing themselves in their own virtual worlds. The vibe washes over me too and I soon forget I have a body. It’s all mind candy here. A techie clerk presents us with our computer, all wrapped up in a white diaper bag, and sends us on our way. It’s large and awkward but Craig hoists it under his right arm and we head for the escalator that will take us to the parking garage. I get on first, turn around and watch in horror as my husband, losing his balance, lurches right, then left, before he goes down. Being the loving wife I am, I save the computer first. Okay, cut me some slack here. I do some quick prioritizing and my husband is already laying across the metal slats, but there’s hope for the computer. We ride the escalator down in a heap resembling a human sandwich with the computer resting precariously between us. Miraculously, my husband and I rise to our feet at the bottom, unhurt, the computer never hits the ground and a good Samaritan grabs the paper work that flies from the back pocket of Craig’s jeans. Mercifully, we find our car in the parking lot maze and get home safely, marveling at our good fortune. No broken bones or sheared skin and no cracked computer monitors. Until… Craig plugs the thing in, turns it on and eyeballs a most unfamiliar screen saver. OMG, they gave us the wrong computer! The Apple Store people make nice-nice on the phone, apologizing over and over. They also make things right. Right away. An hour later, a sweet doe-eyed biology major from UCLA, wearing the signature blue Apple Store shirt, arrives at the front door with our computer under his arm. We take it for a test run this time before sending him back to Century City with the other “escalator special.” In the trenches of everyday life, on this day, in this place, corporate America does good by its customer. The delivery kid apologizes one more time and says, with utter sincerity, “I really hope you’ll come back to our Apple Store.” Not to worry. But next time we'll do the elevator. April 25, 2011 -- A Lovely Luau  I love to sing, play the piano and ukulele, do my entertainer thing and write these blogs too. I even like to “swiffer” the floor, clean the toilet, shop at Trader Joe’s and, gasp, drive in L.A. traffic. But the newest and sweetest joy in my life is teaching the ukulele. I didn’t plan on this but “life is what happens between the plans you make.” The idea smacked me in the middle of the night. Why not offer a ukulele class for beginners at my local senior center where I’ve been doing shows for years. Coincidently, I was performing at their monthly birthday party the next day and why not ask Debbie C., the Senior Program Specialist, about teaching a class. I did. She said yes. Within minutes the craft room was booked for two months. Just like that. In didn’t take long for our little band of beginners to decide we shouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t let the fun end after two months, so we christened ourselves The CC Strummers and became the official ukulele group of the Culver City Senior Center. We’ve added newbies along the way, including several from my second Ukulele for Beginners class, which ended in March. About that time Debbie comes up with her own idea. “Let’s do a luau and have the CC Strummers play." We ink it in the calendar. April 21st. At our Thursday morning classes we learn “Hawaiian War Chant,” “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” “Tiny Bubbles” and more. Folks passing by linger near the door of the craft room to enjoy the music. That’s a good sign, wouldn’t you say? Then I happen to glance at the cover of the local Culver City News. The one with the picture of President Obama on the front page. He’s coming. He’s coming to Culver City. April 21st. Our April 21st and he will be attending two fundraisers at Sony Studios that afternoon. My friends, let’s look at the map. The west entrance to Sony Studios (once the iconic home of MGM) is across the street from the parking lot of our Senior Center. As you know, presidents don’t travel light. There are cars and vans and ambulances and helicopters and secret service staff, not to mention news crews, supporters, demonstrators and other assorted pissed-off people. The signs on the main street by the Senior Center are posted a day early. “No parking or You Will Die.” (Okay, slight exaggeration). One of our hearty ukulele band, a woman born with the “promotion & marketing gene” in her DNA, contacts the president’s people, inviting him to our luau. It makes perfect sense of course. He is from Hawaii (“birthers” cover your eyes) and seniors are a very important demographic for him. It’s a win-win situation, right? Never mind that Mr. Obama will have to parachute into the parking lot from Air Force One in order to make it on time and catch our charming rendition of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” The point is, this is the first time The CC Strummers have ever performed in front of an audience. Can you imagine the president of the  United States walking in???Well of course it doesn’t happen. But everyone, including friends, families and audience members find parking, traffic runs smoothly and the show is standing room only. The ukulele guys dress in their aloha shirts, the gals wear leis and flowers in their hair and we make a joyful sound. Yes, The CC Strummers rock the room. The audience is ready to party, applaud hearty and you can feel the good vibes bouncing against the walls. “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” Maya Angelou Our lives are a mixed bag. It rains, the sun comes out and then it rains again. I know that music can feel as soothing as a glass of warm milk at night. Music can give us a second wind, a time-out from the messes and stresses of our lives, a window of opportunity to experience something in a new way. Sometimes music just makes us feel better. For me, the sweet memories of that day linger on and it feels so good. P.S. Wanna feel dem good vibes too? Watch The CC Strummers on YouTube (click the pink): 1) Our opening number “Hawaiian War Chant." 2) The CC Strummers sing and play “Hound Dog" then introduce themselves. April 1, 2011 -- Graduation  Take a strip of paper, give it a quick half-twist, join the two ends to form a loop and voila, you have a Möbius band. In other words, who knows where it begins, who knows where it ends but it is looking pretty darned good right now!Which brings us to “Graduation.” As if there is such a thing because the scenes of our lives seem to melt together into one big Möbius band. But technically speaking, a room full of ukulele newbies graduated this week from our second Ukulele For Beginners Class and with ukes in hand, are ready to conquer the world. With music. Two months ago this hearty band of novices gathered at the Culver City Senior Center. After our first lesson in February we were playing and singing the beloved old chestnuts “The Farmer in the Dell” and “Row Row Row Your Boat” with the magic look-ma-no-left-hand chord of C6. Suddenly people who have never played a musical instrument before are really doing it. Flash forward eight weeks to “graduation.” We had our last class on Monday and breezed through Nat King Cole’s “L-O-V-E” and Don Ho’s “Tiny Bubbles” as smiling bystanders gathered by the door, listening (and watching) ukulele-magic-come-true. Graduation indeed. The newbies learned several user-friendly strums so they can rock and swing and waltz. They learned enough chords to play songs from here to eternity and how to read those chord diagrams on sheet music so they can keep learning. Some will go their own way and I hope they continue to play the ukulele because this world needs all the good vibes it can get. Others are joining our ongoing group, The CC Strummers, and melting into a really good thing. Yeah I know some people think the ukulele is nothing more than a toy and the fact that you can buy one at Toys R Us doesn’t exactly burnish its image, but my friends, this mighty little muse is the real deal (check out Jake Shimabukuro on YouTube if you don’t believe me). Above all the ukulele is a joy-maker. So let’s give each other a pat on the back for a job well done. Then practice and sing some more. P.S. I hope to teach another Ukulele For Beginners Class this September and also offer private uke lessons to get you started on the road to joy! March 15, 2011 -- Collecting Memories  The
man sits comfy against the small sandy embankment. His tan buddha
belly hangs over his khaki shorts and a big droopy hat protects a warm
wizened face from the afternoon sun. He looks friendly enough so
I ask him to take our picture and hand him my camera. He quickly
rises to his feet, arranges my friend and I just so, snaps our picture and heartily welcomes us to Santa Barbara.My friends are gold and I am extraordinarily fortunate to have a treasure-trove. I’ve known “Miss Seattle” for a long time. We are both musicians and closet-philosophers and for years enjoyed regular dinner-dates after my Chatsworth gigs. We untangled the mundane and grappled with the unknowable over Kung Pao and fried rice. But a few years ago she and her husband left the San Fernando Valley and moved to Seattle where they have settled into a wet, but wonderful kind of bliss. Hooray for email, cell phones, Skype! This glorious technology keeps us connected but ultimately it is no match for the real thing: To actually BE with each other. I haven’t seen my friend for a couple years and she is visiting Santa Barbara for a week, so I happily drive a hundred miles up the coast for the chance to spend an afternoon together before she catches her plane home. So here we are, walking along one of Santa Barbara’s magnificent beaches. It’s a beautiful day. Not too cold, not too hot. The sky is almost the same teal-color as the sea anemones we find clinging to a rock. Dozens of dogs--big Irish Setter types, mutts and soaked poodles--are leaping in and out of the surf as their bemused masters, holding the empty leashes in their hands, look on. Folks we pass along the way are friendly and funky. As usual, my friend and I take on the big questions in life then fall into an easy silence that melts into the soft breeze. The waves of the Pacific roll gently onto the shore and lap at our feet with a blast of cold. This is the same water, the same ocean that continues to wreck havoc in Japan, but here, in this place, on this day, it is calm. The birds clamor and cry out. Children laugh. Life goes on. We are having a splendid time and I want to hold onto the memory like most of us want to hold onto the sweet memories in our lives. So I collect them. But it’s not enough to file the story away in my mind. I need a thing too, a material reminder of the special moment. In the past I’ve found a little pebble or tiny twig, a pine cone, feather, a coin. Today it is a twisted mollusk shell that has no symmetry or discernable pattern. The thing is wabi sabi, a perfect mess and calling to me. My friend picks up a shiny crab shell glistening in the sun. Walking back to the car, we hold our treasures in our hands and our hearts. I used to have a wooden bowl where I placed these psychic souvenirs. But an interesting thing happened as the bowl filled up with  stuff, I lost track of what-was-what and who-was-who. “Where did that pine cone come from? Was it Humboldt County or Idyllwild? What was I doing?” Eventually the bowl overflowed and I had to do something, so I recycled the stuff. Because I couldn’t actually let it go, I placed the assorted collection in the big potted plant on the balcony. After weekly watering, rain, wind and infusion of the usual airborne Los Angeles pollutants, the stuff has slowly disappeared into the dirt, even though I know, somehow, it’s still there. Does that make sense? Well, it’s all borrowed anyway--the stuff, the memories--and as hard as I try to hold on, it slips away. The memories turn from Technicolor to sepia, to gray, to ocean mist and the sea-kissed mollusk will eventually lose it’s magic and power to bring back the past. It becomes just another crazy shell. But I keep collecting anyway...and treasuring each moment and the people who make this life worth living. March 12, 2011 -- Troubled Times In our busy lives, it’s so easy to forget that Mama Earth gets the last word. She rules. She rocks. She stresses out and relieves herself in ways that terrify human folk and cause great sorrow. Recent events have jolted me awake. Again. One more time I remember that we’re just hanging by a thread and let’s be honest here, we don’t know for sure what will happen in the next ten seconds. Might as well cop to it. Denial works too. But only for awhile. Until the next earthquake… Here’s the good news. If you’re reading this that means you’re still here. How lovely is that? But my heart goes out to all of us right now, especially those with deep connections to and dear ones in Japan. And Christchurch, New Zealand. And Haiti. And… Well, all of us who suffer and might be experiencing our own personal tsunami. If you can, make a little music today. And I will too. March 6, 2011 -- Baby Boomer Battle Hymn A couple years ago a friend emailed me a video entitled “Baby Boomers Battle Hymn.” This doesn’t exactly sound like a “July 4th” version of the revered patriotic song. I click the link right away and that is how I begin my infatuation with this clever and wickedly funny parody. It is written and performed by an interesting fellow, Bill Dyszel, a Renaissance man if there ever was one. Bad-ass, bald, bodacious and obviously bright, he knows computers and contributes articles to PC Magazine. He sang for the New York City Opera for years and has started his own entertainment eco-system producing one-man musical videos. I don’t know Bill. But I like him and if he ever comes to Los Angeles I hope he’ll let me take him out to lunch. And I really really like his song. Why? It’s right up my absurd and twisted alley. He makes fun and mockery of the very things that scare the hell out of us. Things like feeling that our time has come and went and not even plastic surgery can save us now. Things like freaking out because if we do make it to 93, the money won’t. That kind of stuff. And all to the venerated melody of the "Battle Hymn of the Republic." That said, if you are celebrating a birthday this year, any birthday, there is something in this song for you too. When someone takes a well-known song and changes the lyric to reflect their point of view, that is a parody. I decide from the get-go to sing this song at my gigs but I have to “tweak” Bill’s version and make it my own. Unfortunately that includes excising some of his more colorful language for my PG audiences. Kills me to do that because, as many of you know, I love four-letter words, like sailors love four-letter words. But alas, there’s a time and place… I sang the “Baby Boomers Battle Hymn” last November for a very special audience that really appreciates life’s absurdities and humor. Fortunately I also capture the performance on my video camera which is stationed by itself on a rickety tripod in the back of the room. Check out my version on YouTube. Then check out Bill’s. Either way, a laugh a day keeps the Metamucil away… February 19, 2011 -- A Great Big Little Kindness “It’s a little embarrassing to have spent one’s entire life pondering the human situation and find oneself in the end with nothing more profound to say than try to be a little nicer.” Philosopher Aldous Huxley There is a cool new grocery store in the neighborhood. It’s a cross between Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods except this store has sales. Big bodacious sales and knowing I’ll get a few cents off fresh broccoli crowns acts like a magnetic tracking beam that pulls me in. So here I am at Sprouts happily pushing their tri-level minicart through the automatic glass doors which open onto an arena of gastronomic delights. I toss my pile of canvas bags on the bottom rung of the cart. The five-cent rebate per bag adds up and is incentive enough for me to keep a mess of them in the trunk of my car. Lest you think I have gone totally organic or rabidly vegetarian (neither of which is true) I head straight for the free coffee station where I mix up a brew of “thirds.” That would be one part coffee, one part cream and one part sugar. Yes, within minutes I am bouncing against the walls at Sprouts. This almost explains my “close call” which is about to unfold in the fresh produce department. Ever the multi-tasker, I am holding a bouquet of zucchini and yellow crookneck squash against my chest with my left hand as I forage for the perfect cauliflower with my right. The produce guys and gals at our grocery stores are masters at arranging fruits and vegetables into beautiful pyramids of color and design. Have you noticed? Really what they do is art. Art. And frequently I lament, albeit briefly, the impermanence of it all, before I desecrate their display, rummaging for the one apple that is speaking to me. It is usually the apple on the bottom… And so it is with that particular cauliflower. The one speaking to me. I dig deep into the pile as the bundle of squash is perched precariously in my left arm. And then it happens. Like in slow motion. The cauliflowers lurch free of their little nests and begin to fall forward, like a mighty glacier whose face is calving as the awestruck passengers watch from their safe perch on the observation deck. But just as this mountain of white begins its descent to the floor, a hand, then an arm appear to my right. It finds the exact cauliflower that is leading the charge, snags it mid-air and tucks it back into its place, thus preventing the whole lot of them from becoming disgorged. Is this person a magician? A saint, maybe? “I saw that coming,” smiled the woman shopper who rushed to my aid. Well I didn’t see it coming at all, but stand there marveling at her and her great big little act of kindness. And grace. And timing. I thank her profusely as she rounds the corner and disappears. The way we move in the world can make a mountain of difference to someone else, to a lot of someone else’s. I don’t remember the woman’s face or the sound of her voice, but her kindness leaves a sort of residue that clings to the memory like perfume. Alas there is so much sweetness in the world. Too. And it happens in the little moments that are the whole of my life. February 6, 2011 -- The Overlook Today is Super Bowl Sunday and since my husband and I aren’t really sure what football is, we decide to take an urban hike, to the new Baldwin Hills Scenic Overlook nestled in the chaparral-covered mountains of Culver City. We pass the skateboard park and cut across the ball fields to join up wit  h flocks of Angelenos trekking
up the main switchblade trail. It’s a delicious mix of humanity,
which for me, makes Los Angeles a jewel of a place to live. There are jocks and jock-wannabes, families with kinetic children, young googly-eyed couples, baby boomers clinging to their youth. At the top I see folks doing yoga and Tai Chi. The view is killer. Even with the gray-blue fog that rests like a soft blanket across the landscape, we see Malibu to the left and well past downtown L.A. to the right. My husband is a goal oriented guy and I’m more into sightseeing and enjoying the trip, so it’s hard for us to walk together. At the same pace. At the same time. He forges ahead because the goal is to get to the top as soon as possible. Or else. On the other hand, I kind of bounce along, stopping to talk to people on the way. Maybe this difference is a “gender” thing. At least that’s what he says it is. The good news is that we manage to hang together while giving each other the space to be who we are. At least most of the time… That said, as I stand at the very top of the overlook, gazing at this big broad city I call home, I am struck by the way the currents of life move. It’s almost like life is “living me” rather than the other way around. I had no say in the matter when my parents relocated here from Washington D.C. My father always wanted to live in the sunshine, near a warm blue ocean. He was a scientist, working for NASA, and ready to catch the aerospace tsunami in the early 1960’s that washed over Southern California. Mostly he wanted to get as far away from the in-laws as possible without leaving the continental United States. Like all of us, I’ve had plenty of switchbacks in my life, but standing at the top of the mountain with my fellow Angelenos, I feel so much gratitude because on this day, Super Bowl Sunday, I am here. An unfathomable number of people and events have made this possible. In the end, the only two words that come to mind are thank you. If my father was still here, he’d be camping out by the television, rooting for a good game and glad to be watching it from his home in Los Angeles. January 24, 2011 -- Joshua Tree A couple years ago we met The Doc and his wife, The Nurse, while we were all standing in line for the evening Luau and Concert at the Southern California Ukulele Festival in Cerritos. He may do oral surgery, implants and all that good teethy stuff and she may assist and help keep the office running smoothly, but their hearts belong to the ukulele. That is why every Saturday they leave their home in the high desert near Joshua Tree and drive to Huntington Beach so they can hang with their fellow uke peeps AND take Shirley Orlando’s Intermediate Ukulele Class at Island Bazaar. After some hearty strumming and mingling they head home. The Nurse tells me they stop off at MacDonald’s for burgers and a quick nap in the car before driving the final stretch. That would be 230 miles round trip. They will celebrate their 50th Wedding Anniversary next month. The Doc and The Nurse invite me to entertain at their “Annual Thank-You Party” which they give for the dentists and their office staffs throughout the Coachella Valley as a way of saying thank you for their support and referrals. The room is decorated in festive yellows and blues. There is hand-sliced Filet Mignon, shrimp in creamy asparagus sauce, luscious red potatoes, crazy-good rice, big bowls of fresh salad greens festooned with bouquets of multi-colored cherry tomatoes, cheesecake to die for, a wine bar. It is a feast for the eyes and nose and the rest of ya! There are gift bags filled with delightful goodies for every guest in attendance.  You can feel the sweetness in the room. This lovely couple really walk the gratitude-walk and that is something to behold. The evening belongs to them. For my part, I cajole four slightly inebriated dentists to the front of the room so they can help me with the song “Those Were The Days.” All these guys have to do is sing “La La La La La La.” With choreography. Can you imagine your dentist doing that? Need a second? I love audience participation because it gives us a chance to be spontaneous, to do the unexpected, to be ourselves. The gals who work in the dental offices are grabbing the cameras and doing a fair share of hooting and hollering themselves. I bet it’s not so easy being a dentist. Patients don’t go giddy because today is the day for drilling (or worse). But I wouldn’t want to imagine my life without them or the staff that supports their work. My husband and I visit the Doc and The Nurse in their busy office before heading to the banquet hall a few miles down the road to set up my gear. “Aloha ‘Oe” is playing softly on the sound system and suddenly I feel my body uncoil and relax. Of course I am here for reasons other than gum surgery, but nevertheless it’s a happy surprise to feel the flush of nice-nice at a dentist’s office. Maybe, just maybe, The Doc and The Nurse have created this peaceful space because they have found balance in their own lives. So I say “Ahhhhhhh..." January 9, 2011 -- The Dawning of the Age of Aquarius  We’ve
been plotting, my deliciously outspoken neighbor and me, to see the
Tony-winning Broadway revival of “Hair” ever since we heard it was
brushing into town for a short three-week run. Barely enough time
for the roots to grow out. Diane, who lives at the end of the
hall, ruminated on the joys of live musical theater as we folded our
clothes in the communal laundry room. Actually I was the one who
couldn’t stop talking about the infamous ending of Act One, when, shall
we say, on-stage wardrobe is optional.You may find this hard to believe, but I actually saw the original production of “Hair” when it opened at the Aquarius Theater on Sunset Boulevard near Vine way back in the late 60’s. I was young. Very very young. And I saw it twice. For a while, the music became the soundtrack of my life. Let’s be honest here: I was a nerdy, girl scout of a kid who would cross the Mojave Desert not to ruffle feathers in the family. But I had my fantasies and that’s where “Hair” came in. I would never “do that stuff they do in the show” like drop acid or get laid in festive group settings or even burn my bra (which wouldn’t make much of a fire anyway) but I sure could sing about it. In fact, I learned most of the score from the show by heart and when no one was around, I would perform my favorite songs, to myself, for myself, on the Baldwin Acrosonic piano which sat in the corner of the living room. One time my father caught me in the act, however. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his face turn ashen as I quietly sang the irrepressible tune about, um, “self-gratification.” He must have thought I’d taken the off-ramp to hell. All that aside, the main reason I wanted to see “Hair” was because, well I had heard, the actors and actresses get naked at the end of Act One. Please understand that my immediate family had “body issues.” Like what else is new in this topsy-turvy world? I was barely a teenager, for heaven sakes, and still hadn’t seen a person naked. Except myself of course and frankly that got boring after a while. Remember this was before today’s free-for-all internet where we Google “naked person” and thousands of pictures come up that range from the normal and sublime to “you-have-got-to-be-kidding.” In the olden days, all I had was the Encyclopedia Britannica. So there I am in the rear of the orchestra section, ready to jump out of my skin as the cast launches into the poignant song “Where Do I Go” and disappears under an undulating diaphanous tarp that covers the entire stage. Suddenly the tarp is yanked away by a bemused stagehand and they rise onto their naked feet, standing ramrod straight and still, like marble statues facing the audience. There would be plenty to see, if only the lights were on. But no-o-o-o. The theater turns pitch black except for strobes, which are accompanied by the ear-splitting wail of a police siren. A flash of light hits a body part, then it’s gone…the light and the part. Oh hell this is like viewing a giant mosaic, one piece at a time. It is a brutal disappointment for me and the scene is over before I can exhale. The house lights come on and we are released for intermission. Flash forward to January 2011. Diane and I head to the Pantages Theater, also in Hollywood, a mere ten miles from home and forty-plus years from the late 1960’s. Unlike my solo sojourn last year to see “South Pacific” (remember that blog) with a $20 Hot Tix in hand, we choose to pay full price because, well, watching naked people sing is expensive. From our perch in the mezzanine, we miss some of the audience interaction which is so integral to this show, but the music is grand and the story brings me right back to those times—the Vietnam War, Civil Rights, asking the big questions and settling for little answers or no answers at all. And death. Death of our dreams and the people we love. But through it all, we sing, sing some more and let the sun shine in. My neighbor Diane has never seen the show and this is the fourth time for me, so I know when the naked scene is about to commence. Ever gracious, I hand her the binoculars so she can take a serious gander. There is no tarp, the kids just strip down on stage and the lights are only slightly dimmed. The girls are girls, the boys are boys and the bikini waxers and chest shavers in town are enjoying robust business, at least this month. God bless them, the cast members shake their booties, or whatever’s, in exuberant dance. The scene is over in forty seconds, the house lights come on and the people behind us ask each other if it’s intermission now? Like maybe the Teamster guys, who have begun sweeping the stage floor, are going to tear off their overalls too? 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. On the other hand, I did not cross the Great Plains in a Calistoga wagon. The show opened in 1967 and they sing about what is happening in 1967. My husband, the history teacher, reminds me that each generation thinks history begins with them, so it should be no surprise that we “repeat history” over and over again. Lucky for us, there is a soundtrack too. December 31, 2010 -- Early To Bed On New Year's Eve For the first time in 15 years, I don’t have a gig on New Year’s Eve, which means December 31st translates into just another day (and night) around here. Trust me, it's okay. After a busy month of shows, I need a nap! But I did get to celebrate a “Let’s-Make-Believe-It’s-New-Year’s-Eve” party last night at the retirement home in the valley. This was a great big family affair where all gathered in the sprawling dining room which was festooned with cheery decorations, party favors and colorful balloons. No one got drunk enough to grab one, undo the knot, suck in some helium and do their best Donald Duck imitation. It was a sweet celebration. We start early at 7:00 P.M. and in less than an hour I am leading a conga line around the room as we sing the familiar refrain rollin’, rollin,’ rollin’ down the river from “Proud Mary,” collecting seniors, children and the energetic service staff along the way. One wheelchair-bound woman joins in with gusto, after all, “rolling” can be done sitting down. In fact many wonderful things can be done sitting down. We do sing-a-longs and rock n’ roll until the magic hour of 8:00 P.M. when it's time for some serious make-believe. We imagine being transported to Time’s Square, and since it's our fantasy, we decide it's a balmy 70 degrees in New York City (global warming, perhaps). The giant crystal ball slowly drops as we countdown together “10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Happy New Year!”  Grandmas,
grandpas, sons, daughters, grandchildren, friends, the staff and me—we
blow our horns and sing "Auld Lang Syne." Goodbye 2010!
Albeit a day early.This is the first year of the second decade of the new millennium. Can you believe it? It’s been a hard year for a lot of people and we want it to be better in 2011. But come on, every year is a mixed bag. Every decision we make has an upside and a downside. I watch the families interact at this party where we are encouraged to “make happy.” But the truth is we struggle sometimes and I figure when all is said and done, we’re just doing the best we can. There’s a kind of poetry in that. Last year I wrote a blog about “Daisy,” one of the residents at this retirement home. She is a wild woman. All 96 years of her. Even though her eyesight is failing and she is more achy and tired these days, she’s still gorgeous, fashion-forward and when she gets out on the dance floor and shakes her booty the older fellas can only wish… She reminds me that life is short, even when we live long. So kick up your heels in 2011 no matter what happens. (To the left, Cali and "Daisy" celebrating an early New Year's) December 15, 2010 -- Jingle Bells and Ho Ho Ho I’ve been a busy holiday elf, doing a sleigh-load of gigs this holiday season and meeting a lot of nifty people who have signed onto my elist. Thank you and welcome to my extraordinary ordinary life. The CC Strummers, our band of intrepid ukulele players who meet the “age requirement” for irreverence, wisdom and membership at the Culver City Senior Center, have gone YouTube wild again! I brought my video camera to class, handed it over to our adopted videographer, Debbie C., the queen of multi-tasking at the Senior Center, and we went to town on “Jingle Bells!” If that isn’t enough, we end the video with a holiday joke where everyone gets to deliver the punch line together. Feel free to “borrow” a little ho ho ho and spread it around. Click this link to watch our video. Over the months we have been learning new songs, chords, strums and sharing stories about our families and friends and summer vacations. Like any group, our ukulele ‘ohana (which is Hawaiian for family) is a microcosm of communities everywhere. Some of us have gotten sick, our hands hurt, we’ve lost loved ones, we’ve boarded airplanes and travelled to exotic places, we’ve stayed close to home, we’ve remodeled a house, cleaned out the clutter and done our twenty minutes on the treadmill every other day. We’ve laughed a lot and I mean a lot. The miracle is that we have each other and we’re loving this sweet instrument, the ukulele, which makes it possible for almost everyone to play music and be part of a convivial group like ours. Life is too hard to do it alone. So during this time of year when we celebrate endings and new beginnings, it’s okay to dance on the ashes, sing through the tears, have an extra cookie and jingle some bells. Happy Holidays to you all! November 27, 2010 -- Alien World of Babies  My
mother was an only child, so was my father, and me, that makes
three. I don’t know squat about babies, human babies that
is. Puppies, yes. But as far as this discussion is
concerned, that is moot. My husband Craig, the teacher, who brags
that he has 170 children, doesn’t know babies either. (That's Craig and I to the left). Growing up in the wilds of northwest Washington D.C., I remember my little girlfriends dressing up their dollies and playing house. I also remember thinking “shoot me now” because that’s the last thing on earth I want to do or play or be. Fortunately today, this contrarian view of motherhood is a bit more acceptable, but believe me I’ve had a bumpy road on the journey of being true to myself. So now you understand why I haven’t crossed into the alien world of babies, even for a brief visit, but this Thanksgiving was different. My husband’s best friend, Steve, is part of a big, robust extended family. During those rough and tumble adolescent years, Steve spent many evenings hanging at Craig’s house. And now, all these years later, Craig and I are hanging out with him and Grandma and Grandpa, the aunties and uncles, nephews and nieces and brand new baby Aaron, who is all of three weeks old.  Of
course this adorable “creature,” as Grandma calls him, is the
centerpiece of the Thanksgiving evening and I find myself fascinated,
almost hypnotized, by the baby stories. It’s like watching a
tennis game. Here’s mama talking about labor, suddenly the baby
makes a noise and we all swing our heads that-a-way.
Daddy speaketh of eleven P.M. feedings and we look back at "the
creature" resting in his vibrating baby hammock. Yes you read
that right. Thanks to the magic of one “D” battery, his whole
world feels like the gentle roll of a choo-choo train. “Why the
hell don’t they make those things for us,”
I ask the new father, who nods in agreement. Sleep deprived and
exhausted, both new parents could probably use one right about now.
(The photo to the right is Uncle Steve, Mama and baby Aaron).Somewhere along the baby story trajectory, I learn that daddy bites the teeny-tiny finger nails of his little boy, so they stay short and tidy. You could have knocked me over with an emery board. They hired a “doula” to help them through the process of labor and all the bodily-function stuff that follows, which apparently includes nail care. (That's daddy and baby, below left). Well I can’t shake this image so it’s front burner in my mind the next day when I visit Maria, my favorite hair stylist at Fantastic Sam’s. My messy mane of red hair grows almost as fast as bamboo, so Maria and I have gotten to know each other very well over the years.  She
is from a big family, eleven sisters, and I figure she knows babies, so
I recount the whole “nail biting story” to her. She laughs and
tells me how she used to bite the finger nails of her two babies until
they were almost a year old. This is what her mother did and her
grandmother and so on. Back, back, back…“What else did you mother do?” I ask. Well, like her mom, when her babies had stomach aches, Maria would rub her own saliva onto their bellies. Thank God I’m sitting down, because like, this is news to me… Now the saliva has to be the “natural kind” which happens before you brush your teeth. Her son is in high school now and reports that when he has a stomach ache, he spits on his hands, rubs the goo on his belly and feels a whole lot better. I don’t know about you, but I’m going to try it the next time I am in gastric distress. “What else? I ask. When her kids started teething and were in obvious discomfort, she’d give them a scallion to chew on and that took care of that. After all, why use drugs, over-the-counter or otherwise, when something like saliva and spring onions will do the trick. And I just put scallions on salad… I recall my high school biology teacher telling the class that we are biologically irrelevant if we don’t reproduce. I admit that I took that personally. For a long time. Even though biologically speaking, it is a legitimate point of view, I like to think of LIFE as one gigantic gestalt where everyone is doing their little part to keep the human/earth thing moving forward. As for me, I am thrilled to be invited into the “baby world” for this brief moment in time. I may be watching from the bleachers, but oh what a sweet show. November 22, 2010 -- More on Mentors and Thanksgiving After I pushed the “send” button on my last blog, “Losing A Mentor,” it didn’t take long for my in-box to fill up with beautiful email responses from you. Oh my goodness, I was really overwhelmed by your heartfelt messages. Thank You. And I want to share a few excerpts with you: I was wondering if you have a picture of your mentor that you could share. Several of you asked about this and I actually laughed out loud because I don’t have a picture. I got nothin’ and it seems ridiculous but here’s the scoop. Miss Laura Hart, who was cute as a button, was not into posing for snapshots nor did she allow her voice to be recorded. In this age where we splatter “everything-about-me” on our Facebook page, her attitude was, shall we say, unusual. I remember one afternoon when I decided to break the “Laura Hart Rule” and secretly tape our lesson. I don’t know what I was thinking because I’m not CIA material and have never been able to pull off anything “sneaky” without getting caught. But I tried anyway, smuggling a cassette recorder in my big purse and turning it on before she entered the room. But the lesson ran long, the off-button snapped and you could hear the dull “thud” echo back and forth against the walls. Laura knew immediately what I had done and at that moment I thought flying monkeys would crash through the windows and carry me off to purgatory. Fortunately I promised never never, ever ever to do that again, gave her the cassette, all was forgiven and we moved on, but now that she is gone, I wish I had that tape to listen to. You’ll never know the joyful lilt in her voice or the deep wisdom in her eyes. The footprint she leaves in this world cannot be captured on paper or iPods. It is pressed into the hearts of her students and those who love her. I have lost many mentors, friends and tormentors over the years! Not an easy part of life. “Tormentors?” I love that. The people who create the most drama in my life (besides me…ha ha) are the ones who push my hot buttons over and over again. Whether they know it or not, they are jamming a mirror right in my face. Most of the time I push the mirror aside and trudge on, but once in a while I get a hard honest look at myself, which brings us to the next email. You've reminded me that friends come and go in our lives and yet the ones we remember most fondly seem to have involved a complicated relationship. My husband and I have just discovered the television show “Mad Men,” albeit three years after everyone else. So we have been Netflixing the last three seasons in one long marathon. The characters are very “complicated” and their relationships are a witch’s brew of honey and arsenic. I can see myself in every one of them. Maybe TV shows are easier to look at than mirrors. Very good reflection on your friend. I too have many, but never thought about it in detail like that. Almost every day I mention "Lew, Mike, Byron, Walt, Bert” and more mentors. Just mentioned them, without thinking. Each one helping me down the road. Didn’t realize how much they meant to me but now I do… This Thursday is Thanksgiving and many of us will share time and food and conversation with people we love and with people we don’t love, with people who get us and with people we hope we never see again. It’s complicated. We bring the “Lew’s and Mike’s and Laura Hart’s and tormentors, galore” to the table too, because they have helped make us who we are. In her song “Prayer 2000,” singer-songwriter Eliza Gilkyson says it this way: "Thank you for my tears, loved ones who forgave me. Thank you for my darkest years, all the sorrow that made me, and the beauty that saved me." Happy Thanksgiving and Thank You… November 14, 2010 -- Losing A Mentor She was singing teacher, she was friend, she was “good mother.” She was my mentor for over twenty years. But that is just a number because she was also “seed planter” and I am astonished how these seeds have taken root and pushed to the surface long after she and I parted ways. Such is the influence of our mentors -- the people who guide and cajole, who lovingly point us left as we lean right and strong-arm us right as we lean left. They endeavor to keep us on the path of our own unfoldment. And if they are extraordinary, they will honor our path and not try to push us down theirs. Her name was Laura Hart and I just found out that she passed away peacefully in her home. She guarded her age like a palace Beefeater protects The Queen so no one knew exactly how old she was at any given time. She didn’t want to be pigeon-holed or categorized according to cultural-bred expectations and I think it was her way of thumbing her nose at the status quo. Laura was a radical vegetarian long before it was hip and enjoyed hanging out with fellow eccentrics like Gypsy Boots. I remember her unbridled joy as she pried open an enormous tin of jumbo-sized cashews delivered to her front door from some exotic country abroad and scooped out a handful for me. She never wavered from her diet and claimed she could smell people who ate meat. Because I admired her so and in my youthful naïveté wanted to be like her, I tried to be a vegetarian too. But my recurring dreams of In & Out burgers finally did me in. Even though I sprayed on an extra whoosh of “Charlie” perfume before a lesson, I was pretty sure she could smell that I had fallen off the vegetarian wagon. She wore polyester stretch pants in pink, yellow or robin egg blue with a matching loose-fitting blouse so she could comfortably work her abdominal muscles as we sang. Her hair was Lucille Ball red and artfully sprayed into a perfect upswept “do” which she decorated with matching bows. I never saw her out of uniform. When she answered the phone, you could hear a smile in the word “hello” as if she was one hundred percent de-e-e-e-lighted you called. But God forbid you telephone before noon because she stayed up late with her lover and her cashew nuts and soy tempeh and slept in while the rest of us joined the morning circus. It was serendipitous that I even met Miss Laura Hart in the first place. One mystery person saw me singing at a piano bar and suggested I give her a call. I was insulted because I thought I was doing just fine, thank you, and don’t need no singin’ teacher, but I kept the piece of paper with her name and number anyway. A few months later another mystery person made the same suggestion and slipped me her name written on a cocktail napkin. Oh what the hell. I called her, set up a lesson and arrived at her doorstep in Sherman Oaks, which is in "The Valley" part of Los Angeles. I played and sang a few songs including ones I had written and she said that she’d like to work with me. I suddenly realized that in fact I had been auditioning for her. “How long will it take to learn how to sing?” I asked. “Fifteen, twenty years maybe,” she smiled sweetly. I thought she was kidding but in retrospect, I wish it had taken only fifteen years. Then she asked me if I planned to be fat the rest of my life. Like what? I wasn’t fat. Pleasantly plump, maybe. Okay, I was a size 14. Laura Hart was blunt and didn’t mince words. I, on the other hand, went mute. No one had ever talked to me like that before. She took a chance that day because I could have easily bailed right then and there. But I didn’t. A week later I returned and we began our long complicated relationship. We spent whole lessons analyzing how Frank Sinatra phrases a song and Nat King Cole pronounces every syllable of every word. We listened to Aretha Franklin wail from her chest voice and tried to imitate her sound. We channeled Mae West in order to hit high notes. We stood in front of the mirror and clapped our hands and shook our bottoms to a rock beat, swing, a cha cha cha. She knew music is a body-felt experience and she wanted me to learn this too. Not in my head. In my body. Laura was from the “talk-singer” school of music. For her, as it is for me, singing is about having a conversation with someone, not singing at them. When we learned a new song, she had me recite the lyric first as if I was speaking to you over a cup of coffee and donuts. She taught me to support my sound from the gut, taking a deep breath and gripping those lower abdominal muscles like a vise. Because I tighten my throat and neck muscles when I get nervous she introduced me to “Herman the Worm,” which I say aloud as I rest my tongue across my lower lip, sounding every bit like Kermit the Frog and slowly I feel the muscles relax. Indeed she was a master vocal technician, but it was her presence that most informed my life. Laura had been an entertainer in her youth and understood how it feels to be a performer, reminding me that I’m not on stage to impress anyone, but rather express and share what I love. Doing a show, singing, writing…it isn’t about me, it’s about us. She was a “good mother” too. I needed positive role models in my life like morning glories needs sunshine and she gave me that at the very time I needed it most. I shared my secrets with her. She listened, fed me rice cakes smeared with almond butter and a sprinkle of Spike on top and she didn’t push me away. She loved me back into the world. She grew me up and that meant that someday I would have to leave. Nothing lasts forever and relationships change. After all those years together, some of her teachings were no longer resonating with me and I wasn’t buying into the whole program. She had brought me onto her path, but the time had come to take what I had learned and forge my own way. We rarely spoke after that. I don't know why. Maybe we were all talked out. The last time I saw Laura I had stopped by the house, just on a whim, to say “hello.” By now I was wearing size 4, doing gigs all the time and finally feeling more comfortable in my own skin. Suddenly she is striding towards me, her arms open wide and we embrace as if all the years have disappeared and we are meeting in some otherworldly place that is beyond time and space and joy and pain. It’s a place where all is well, no matter what. The passing decades have left a gentle dusting on her face, the shoulders tilt slightly forward, but her spirit is ageless. In her long career as a teacher she saw the parade, a revolving door of students who yearned to learn something deeper, almost metaphysical, about singing and acting. Everyday working musicians like me to big Hollywood stars pulled into her driveway and quickly learned that if you enter, you may be transformed. I was one of the few who stayed around long enough for a little magic to happen. Sky, her husband and lover, sent an email last week saying how proud she was of me and that I was loved. These words, coming from a mentor, are like grabbing the brass ring. These same words coming from “the good mother” are succor that lasts a lifetime. The only way I can thank her now is to stay true to myself and continue doing what I do. Her essence is imbedded in every note I sing. As for her age, that superfluous numeral we give to the number of spins we take around the sun, my guess is that Miss Laura Hart made it almost a hundred times. October 14, 2010 -- Open Mike Night This Sunday, October 17, I am doing my “singer-songwriter” thing, as the guest artist at Boulevard Music’s Monthly Variety Night. What exactly does that mean? Well there are eight people who have already signed up to play or sing or do something personal on stage for ten minutes. Because I am the guest artist, I get twenty minutes to do the same thing. I say “bravo” to those brave souls who wander forth into the spotlight to bare their souls to an audience that is not otherwise distracted by alcohol, food, conversation, smart phones or football on the plasma TV. I recall seeing a survey that asked average people like you and me about their greatest fears in life. You would think that something like “dying” would top the list. But no-o-o-o. It’s public speaking. I will include public singing in that too. Okay? Having played open mikes myself and gone catatonic with fear, I know how it feels to want people to like me or at least like what I do. And when that doesn’t happen and I'm on stage by myself and the audience is sending poison darts my way, well my friends, it does feel like dying. That said, there are riches to be found in the land of “kiss your ass goodbye.” I am happy to report there is life after humiliation. A few years back I was hired to do two very different performances for the same awards luncheon. To begin the afternoon, I am alone on stage with my synthesizer playing pretty instrumental music. Stuff like “Moon River.” Soon the hall fills with hundreds of talkative senior citizens who have trouble hearing each other anyway so they talk louder and the room gets noisier. The person in charge asks me to turn down the music, which I do until I can barely hear it myself. By now I have put my fingers on auto-pilot and am just hoping for the best. But people are still holding their hands over their ears and glaring at me. This is not a good sign. A man, who has a strong resemblance to a pissed-off gargoyle, marches right up to the stage and orders me, orders me to “stop da noise. Stop da noise!” Before returning to his table, he turns around and glowers with his beady little eyes. Is he hoping I will vaporize right then and there and suddenly there will be silence? The room is noisy because there are four hundred people talking at the same time but I guess there are occasions when blaming the piano player is the path of least resistance. So after an hour, per the contract, I “stop da noise” and slide out of the convention hall, past the salad carts and disgruntled folks who are looking mighty relieved to see me go. I head straight for my sanctuary, the ladies room, where I ensconce myself within the sacred walls of stall number one. I just breathe. In and out, in and out because I know my job is not done. After the awards are handed out I am back on stage doing my "Let's-Whoop-It-Up" Show for these very same people. Slowly they begin to respond and clap and sing along. Well about half of them do. The rest are carrying on full-throated conversations across the big round tables. I'm not proud to admit that at this point I crank up the volume just to see if anyone in the audience will explode. Finally I sing my last song, congratulate the award winners and much to my surprise, a phalanx of people gather in front of the stage, asking for business cards and telling me how fabulous I am. Like, what??? One moment I suck, the next moment I don’t. That afternoon was a turning point for me because I really got that blame and praise are two sides of the same coin and moving targets at that. I can figure that at any given moment some of my audience like what I do, some don’t, some could care less and alas these opinions can change like the weather. Of course I prefer praise to blame, but both are rather tenuous and built on the shifting sands of personal opinion and preferences and points of view. Here today, gone tomorrow... Ultimately my job as a musician is to share what I love and the rest is none of my business. Well in a perfect world, maybe. But in the face of rejection or “dying” on stage, it takes tremendous courage for all of us to be true to ourselves, moment to moment, to be who we really are and let the chips fall where they will fall. But on the other hand, we don’t exist in a vacuum either. We are connected to each other in big inexplicable ways and our behavior is contagious. I have no answers. A dear friend reminds me that “life is a mystery to be lived, not solved.” So let's sing... Variety Night is Sunday, October 17, 2010 from 8:00 to 10:00 P.M. My set begins at 8:30. Boulevard Music is located at 4316 Sepulveda Blvd., Culver City, CA 90230, which is near the corner of Culver and Sepulveda Blvds. (310) 398-2583. Tickets are $4.00 No reservations necessary, just show up. There is street parking, coffee shops and restaurants nearby. I look forward to seeing you. October 9, 2010 -- All In A Name It all began in May when a gaggle of eager senior citizens gathered for our very first Ukulele for Beginners Class at the Culver City Senior Center. We introduced ourselves and our ukuleles, went over the body parts (of our ukuleles of course), learned to hold our little puppies close to our hearts and played our first song, “Row Row Row Your Boat,” because it has only one chord and alas you can strum all four strings of the uke without doing anything with your left hand and it sounds so sweet. We got our first taste of “uke joy” that very day. The class was supposed to last only two months, but it became apparent, almost from the get-go, that we couldn’t stop ourselves. We were having too much fun.  So what do we call ourselves now that we are an official group? In the spirit of simplicity and a sense of place,
we agreed on the CC Strummers. Of course the “CC” stands for
Culver City but our resourceful group did not stop there.
The first key we learned to play in was “C.” In fact all you need
is one finger to form a “C” chord and we like it so much we’ll do it
again. CC that! We also agreed that “CC” stands for Cute and Cuddly. Maybe we are talking about our ukuleles and maybe we are talking about ourselves. Or maybe it’s “C.” All the above. You decide… Because now you can see and hear us on our brand new music video which we have posted on YouTube. In just a few months we have gone from Rowing our Boat to playing and singing Nat King Cole’s jazz classic, “L-O-V-E.” In fact the title of our music video is “CC Strummers Do L-O-V-E,” which I thought was particularly catchy. I set up our own account on YouTube and was stunned that in all the world, from New Zealand to New York, no one had snagged the name “CC Strummers.” So I did! It’s especially fortuitous when the YouTube channel name is actually who we are! I posted our video last Monday and by the time we met Thursday for class, it had already gotten 75 views! Ray, who always takes his front row seat, confessed he had logged on 10 times. Lou reported that his family members declared he is a virtuoso! And so it goes. This class is about having fun AND learning to play an instrument AND making music together. In the words of the great teacher, Shirley Orlando, of Island Bazaar, learning to play the ukulele is “hit and miss.” We hit a few chords, we miss a few chords and whatever happens is okay. The important thing is that we are here together, at this moment, in this place, practicing joy. September 27, 2010 -- Row Row Row Your Boat “What is reality, anyway? Just a collective hunch.” Lily Tomlin (from “The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe") When my friend is away on vacation, I step in to do music therapy with her client, a woman with Alzheimer’s disease. I sing for groups of people with dementia but working one-on-one with a person who has lost the story of her life, well that is a whole different experience. It is personal and intimate and I’m learning to swim with her, in her ocean, not mine. Many times, I have witnessed how music and rhythm can open a window to memories and emotions. This process is deep and mysterious and primordial. The chattering mind has nothing to do with it. Sure the effect is temporary. But everything is temporary. News Flash! We’re all just passing through. So twice a week I visit “Jane” in her high-rise apartment for our hour of singing and tapping and clapping along. Her caregiver helps her onto a cushy chair then reaches for the small box of make-up and jewelry behind the dining room table where we are sitting and carefully applies lipstick and blush to Jane’s face. Not that Jane needs much help. This woman, who is ninety-something, is stunningly beautiful. Her wedding picture, a snapshot in time of the ebullient couple beginning their long life together, sits on the bookcase behind her. My guess is that Jane always took pride in her appearance and why should that change now? As the caregiver drapes a long strand of green beads around her neck, sets out a glass of cranberry juice along with a tambourine, I perch my mini-keyboard on the table. My fluke ukulele, with its flat bottom, sits within easy reach next to a vase of freshly cut flowers.  We begin with a big hug! I wrap my arms around her until she takes a deep breath, a kind of heave-ho. We do several “hug” breaks like this throughout the hour and I seriously believe that these touchy-touchy moments are as healing as the music. They certainly are for me. I am filled up by her hugs. For a brief moment she becomes the grandmother I didn’t have. I sit as close to her as possible so my tapping foot rests on her foot or against her chair because I want her to feel the rhythm in her body. We human beings are drums after all. Our hearts "buh-buh" away. It never ceases to amaze me how something as basic the “thud thud thud” of a percussive instrument can transport us--body, mind and heart--to some ancient and quiet place inside. Sometimes Jane is so submerged in her world that she doesn’t speak or sing, but she will lightly tap the tambourine. On rare occasions she can’t even do that, so I keep a keyboard base line going with my left hand and hold her hand with my right and together we move to the music. I trust life and I trust the body and I trust that something is registering with Jane even when she doesn’t show it. Then there are times she suddenly “appears” and literally bursts out singing. I swear they can hear her down to the busy street below. She finishes a song with a rousing high note, takes a deep breath and sings the note again. “Row Row Row Your Boat” is one of her favorites. Actually she doesn’t really sing the official words to any song but rather belts out a chorus of nonsense syllables punctuated by a real word or phrase here and there. And this is good enough. One day she may respond to the keyboard and a few days later, the ukulele will lead her out of the fog and back to the present. Her excitement is self-generated and we sing a song over and over and over again. When we finish, her smile lights the room. “That was a good one,” she says. I applaud like a happy child and hold her hand. But mostly her sentences make no sense at all. At least to me. In the beginning, I would soldier on anyway, grabbing a real word like “house,” from the gibberish, and ask her something like “did you live there?” Well that didn’t work. Now when she talks I just smile big and say “yes.” That’s all. “Yes, yes, yes!” I can’t begin to know what’s happening in her head, but I know how “yes” feels to me and I hope that my saying “yes” means that I’m bearing witness to her experience at this very moment, without an agenda to change or fix anything. And who is to say that her experience is any less real than mine anyway. Perhaps the difference is that she alone inhabits her world, along with the images and thoughts that are conjured up in her consciousness. But I share my world, my so-called reality, with millions of others. We have agreed to call “a toaster a toaster.” But does that make it real, or true? There was a time everyone agreed the earth was flat. We know how that turned out. So working with Jane helps me feel a little more comfortable with the whole mystery of it all. The threads of her past are disappearing—the people she loved and lost, the places she called home, the events big and small that brought her joy or scared the hell out of her—going, going, gone. But something remains and I can feel it when I see her beautiful face and I can feel it when we hug and I can even feel it when she is completely lost in the disease. It’s a gossamer presence, a song that is Jane’s and Jane’s alone. And I trust that this is what we really are. September 18, 2010 -- The Wine Country Ukulele Festival -- Being There  It’s
a big word with too many syllables, but “egalitarian” is what the
ukulele community is all about. There is no rigid hierarchy
between the headliners—the virtuoso players and performers—and the rest
of us. We wear jeans and love the ukulele. I feel this connection in the virtual world of the internet where we hook up with each other on ukulele bulletin boards and social networks. But at the Wine Country Ukulele Festival in St. Helena, California, the virtual world meets brick and mortar reality! Moments after my husband and I arrive Saturday morning at Beringer’s Vineyard Winery, folks are nodding “hello” and calling us by name. I’m thinking “who are you, nice person?” Oh-oh, you are a Facebook friend? A YouTube friend? This festival is the intersection between modern technology and a neighborhood block party. Finally I begin putting names and faces together and it’s like meeting old friends again. For the first time. And so it goes throughout the day. But first I get to do my thing on the Promenade Stage. Only a couple days before my friend “The Dominator" invites me to play backup with him during his set. Please don’t get the wrong idea about a man who calls himself “Dominator.” It’s not what you think. Dominic is a monster player who posts miles and miles of tablature arrangements online, for free, so others can play his stuff too. The night before our performance, we meet in his room at the ol’ Calistoga Village Inn and jam on the songs I will be playing. Now here is the thing: I have worked as a solo artist my whole life, because that’s just the way it happened, so rarely do I have the opportunity to play with other musicians, and when I do, it’s like I’m rolling in chocolate because it’s just too yummy. His songs are new and unfamiliar to me and I have to think and play in ways that stretch me as a musician. As I recall, it is the great 
Russian composer Rachmaninoff who said that music is enough for a
lifetime, but a lifetime is not enough for music. There is always
something new to learn, no matter what we do, and working in
collaboration with others is “the ukulele way.” In the picture to the right, Dom and I are playing the fun Hawaiian song “Opihi Man,” along with two mystery hotties (in the black teeshirts) from Santa Cruz. Opihi, a saltwater snail, is a rare and expensive delicacy in Hawaii. It takes a brave man, with a sharp knife and uncanny balance, to pry them off the rocks before the next wave slams to shore. It’s dangerous work and that’s why we don’t find opihi at Trader Joe’s. Of course my husband and I bring the video camera, along with bottles of water, business cards and bags of almonds, but I forget to pack the tripod, which is why the YouTube videos I posted from my set look a little shaky. Craig has to hold ‘er steady for thirty minutes. Hey folks, this is life, unedited. You can check out my songs “It’s Easy To Play The Ukulele” and the theme from The Andy Griffith Show “The Fishing Hole" on YouTube. Let it be known that we are a Two-Ukulele family and Craig gets his turn later on. He is a hugely talented musician, playing jazz and lush chord melodies. Not the kind of stuff one expects to hear on the uke. Our styles are as different as opihi and giraffes, which is why, in order to preserve our marriage, we don’t play together. That said, this summer, after years together, we finally put our artistic differences aside long enough to work on one arrangement together. Oh my God, are we finally growing up? So after lunch, we get cozy in a quiet gazebo away from the action and begin to play that one song, “Watch What Happens.” By the time we finish, an enthusiastic circle of people has gathered around us, smiling and applauding our efforts. The moment is heartwarming and especially nice because Craig and I get to share it together.  At
the end of the day, we’re hot, tired and goofy gleeful, as we head back
to the Calistoga Village Inn where we discover it is teeming with
ukulele players and they have formed a spontaneous group jam out back
by the mineral pools. There is the sassy contingent from Island Bazaar
in Huntington Beach and a raft of Northern California players. As
more and more join in, we pull up extra chairs and chaise
lounges. Some of us perch precariously close to the edge of the
pools or just decide to ditch the uke and soak instead. The air
is warm and sweet, the stars are big enough to snatch from the sky and
it’s one lovely moment after another. Just then, Dominic’s wife, Joanne, flies through the gate, wearing a bathing suit and the big fluffy towel over her arm that she picked up at the front desk for her dunk in the mineral pool. “You won’t believe what the desk clerk just told me?” “What? What did he say?” Whooee, this is getting exciting… He said, “You k-n-o-w what they’re d-o-i-n-g back there, don’t you?” Apparently she doesn’t look like she is one of us and he feels compelled to warn her, or at least prepare her for the shock of seeing a small village of musicians singing and playing the ukulele version of “She’ll Be Comin’ Round The Mountain.” We all enjoy a good laugh over that one but nevertheless there is something telling in the clerk’s remarks. Though perspectives are changing, the ukulele is still seen by many as something you buy at “Toys ‘R Us” and those who play are relegated to the bell curve of “wack-a-doo.” But that’s not my experience at all and while we’re at it, ask financial wizard and longtime ukulele aficionado Warren Buffet to strum a tune for you…because he can. Playing the uke is not so much about ego (I mean, come on—the thing looks like a puppy) but rather expressing the joy of being with one another and making music together, one song at a time.  September 14, 2010 -- The Wine Country Ukulele Festival -- Getting There  Where do I begin? Our trip to the Wine Country Ukulele Festival
is a whirlwind of sights -- vast stretches of exquisitely trimmed
vineyards that wind through the bucolic Napa Valley of California and
up up up the mountainsides. And sounds -- dulcet tones
arising from every nook and cranny where hundreds of people with
ukuleles gather under trees, on lawns, benches and in gazebos,
workshops and performances, in groups of one to several dozen.
This is what “joy” sounds like.And big surprises too! So many that it will take another blog to share all the goodies. But let it be said, ukulele players are the sweetest people in the world and I’m not kidding when I tell you there is a global community that embraces this instrument and we are enormously supportive of each other, no matter where we live or how well we play. Craig and I leave a couple days early because last Thursday was our wedding anniversary and why not celebrate by driving Interstate 5 through the San Joaquin Valley. I’ve heard people liken this excursion to a slow death by roasting, but we stop at the clean travel centers, buy chips and soda and are delighted by the cashier near the cutoff to Bakersfield who invites us back on Sunday afternoon to see “the famous country singer” who will be performing by the fish and tackle department. We have never heard of this singer but then again we don’t live in Bakersfield. We arrive at the Calistoga Village Inn late in the afternoon. You have to know that Napa Valley is the high rent district but this place is off the beaten path and kind of creaky. I prefer "funky" and altogether charming. And affordable. We love it. They have three geothermal mineral pools in the back. One is warm, one is warmer and the last one, well throw some veggies in and a chicken or two and you’ll have soup in about ten minutes… We need to scope out a nice restaurant for our anniversary dinner and what better place to learn the lay of the land than at the two-room Calistoga Public Library where the librarian introduces us to Jack, the man who knows everything about everything in town. He rises from his chair, looking every bit like an elderly Big Bird, towering over my 6’3” husband. He has a big generous smile and gives us the rundown on the restaurants, who owns them, what kind of food they serve, what’s good, what’s not. Then he invites us to his house on Saturday night for his monthly mystery evening party that he gives for neighbors and friends. “But Jack, you don’t even know us,” I sputter. “Well you’re not carrying an axe are you, so I think you’re okay.” We decide then and there that Calistoga people are really cool.  Craig has a way of smelling out the local breakfast hangouts and he finds Cafe Sarafornia
the next morning. Our waitress, the one with the thick
chestnut-brown braid that swings over her butt, tells us about her five
acre ranch nearby where she grows grapes and how the neighbors all
pitch in and help each other through harvest and grape crushing and how
it’s really hard for her to go to Santa Rosa because, oh my, it’s just
too big. At 165,000 people, Santa Rosa is the largest city in
Wine Country. I live in Los Angeles. The local shopping mall here in Culver City is probably the size of Santa Rosa (okay I’m exaggerating a little), but I’ve lived in a small town too and I get what she is saying. I remember the “stillness” in the land and the air and the trees. It’s quiet enough to remember the mystery and wonder of it all. Sure the same stillness is everywhere, including Los Angeles, but let’s face it, the noise and all the whoopee-doo stuff, that’s what grabs my attention these days in the big city. Visiting places like Napa Valley helps me remember, again, what stars feel like when I look into the sky. The next morning, another waitress at Café Sarafornia shows us the picture on her cellphone where she is standing next to the breakfast menu posted on the café wall. It's written in Japanese. Like, huh?  Well
do you remember the movie “Sideways”? It came out a few years ago
and is the story of a couple guys who take a road trip to the Santa
Inez Valley in search of wine and women and of course things don’t turn
out the way they’re supposed to. Last year, big boys with money
decide to remake the movie in Japanese with Japanese actors. They
film in Napa Valley and the female lead plays a waitress at…drum
roll…Café Serafornia. Our waitress, Sally, who lets us in before
the café opens so we can have a cup of coffee, plays an extra in the
movie. Basically she portrays herself, serving dishes of eggs and
hash browns to actor-customers, take after take after take.
Apparently the movie was a blockbuster back home. Now Japanese
tourists stop by Cafe Serafornia for pictures and ask Sally for her
autograph.You never know in this world. Coming next: If you’re going to do a ukulele festival, do it at the beautiful Beringer’s Vineyard Winery in St. Helena September 4, 2010 -- The Wine Country Ukulele Festival Next week we’re off to the vineyards in Northern California for the annual Wine Country Ukulele Festival, Saturday, September 11 through Sunday, September 12. The Promenade Stage will be "ukulele central" for a galaxy of performers who will entertain both days. I snagged the early bird slot: Saturday at 11:15 A.M. This is pretty darned exciting. I’ve entertained in many different places--behind a hedge, standing on a table, in the middle of a parking lot and a meadow, on big stages and small, in a kitchen, restaurant booth and the crammed waiting area at Nate and Al’s Deli in Beverly Hills. But I’ve never played at a ukulele festival. So whooo-whooo! The whole extravaganza takes place at the Beringer Vineyards Winery in St. Helena. It doesn’t occur to me to use the words “wine” and “ukulele” in the same sentence, but apparently it will be a very “joyful” event and I figure people will be so pleasantly buzzed that I could stand on the stage with a grass skirt, coconut bra and sing “Stairway to Heaven” and we’d all be happy. Beautiful Northern California was my home for two years. I went to Humboldt State University, behind the redwood curtain, a few miles north of Eureka.  Speaking of Eureka,
let’s put it this way, the number one cash crop in Humboldt County is
NOT tourism. Apparently they grow the best marijuana in the
universe in those damp misty hills. Not that I would know.
Actually I didn’t find out until years later, long after I
graduated. Yes I missed the whole party. I often wondered
how some students seemed to handle the stresses of college life with
such grace. I ate cake, put on thirty pounds and yelled at people
who yanked my clothes out of the dryer before they were done. My
dorm mates took long walks through the redwood forests and returned
with big smiles on their faces. And I thought they were just
having sex…I did get drunk. Once. It happened at the house of my La Raza History professor. He threw an end-of-the-semester party for his students. On a large ornate table were plates of delicious homemade guacamole, chips and a huge bowl of frothy Sangria wine with various fruity things floating on the surface. The concoction tasted like fancy Hawaiian Punch so I helped myself at the trough. Several times. The last thing I remember is smearing guacamole across the front of my white sweater because apparently I could not locate my mouth. It’s a short drive on the interstate from his home in Eureka to the campus and I would say one of the luckiest breaks in my life is that my drunk girlfriend and I made it back without killing someone or ourselves or getting hauled off to jail. However I did want to die the next morning. Somehow I managed to drag my body up the slippery wet steps to La Raza class. Everything looked kind of gray and tasted like wine and smelled like an old bar. Oh, that’s me. The prof asked if I was okay and made some allusion to “the guacamole thing.” There were a few chuckles in the room. I decided then and there that drinking is not for me. Ironically, I learned how to be a good entertainer singing in bars, piano bars, and often customers offered to buy me drinks. I'd smile sweetly and ask for cranberry juice. “You’re no fun,” they’d say. So those wine tasting tables at the big ukulele festival will be wasted on me. This time it’s all about the music! August 23, 2010 -- No Bugs M'Lady  One more tale from the North Shore...Grace, the bass player, picks us up in her jeep en route to the music jam near Ha’ena, along the gorgeous road that dead ends at the majestic Na Pali coast on the north shore of Kaua’i. We’re heading to Dave’s house and thankfully Grace is driving because we’d never find his place on our own as it’s located on a blind curve and partially obscured by curtains of tropical vegetation. “Oh, a spider house,” I purr. That’s my nickname for a home that is built on stilts. In fact Dave’s house doesn’t start until the second floor, but he’s turned the covered ground level into the band rehearsal plaza, complete with speakers, amplifier, comfy chairs and a communal music stand. It’s lush, jungle-like and damp in these parts, but not as soppy as Mount Wai’ale’ale, the volcano a few ridges over that is the wettest spot on earth. “How long does your equipment last in this weather,” I ask Dave. “About three years.” But that’s only half the story. Apparently geckos are attracted to amplifiers too. It’s not the music. Amps are toasty and an appealing hideaway for love-making. Dave has pried open a crackly amp only to find two geckos, fried and preserved in their final love tryst. The only gecko I know is in the Geico Insurance commercials and I’m pretty sure that little guy is neutered… Both my husband and I are strumming our ukuleles, Dave plays a tiple, which looks like a small guitar but is tuned like a uke and sounds festive and sparkly. Bruce adds his excellent lead guitar and petite Grace is playing the big electric bass. We jam our way through their songbook of 60’s rock which includes a bounty of Bob Dylan and Elvis tunes. Suddenly Grace screams CENTIPEDE !!!!!!! Everybody stops as Dave quickly sets down his tiple and runs in front of me towards the biggest mo-fo bug I have ever seen in my life. I hear the word “centipede” and think of a cuddly caterpillar, butterfly-bound, but apparently that is not how things work around here. In the jungle. This bug is about 8 inches long, pudgy-thick and from my vantage point, looks like it has a thousand legs as it scurries across the cement floor towards my husband. Dave is a big man with big feet and he stomps the thing over and over again. I’m speechless. At home, I’m the one who captures each bee that flies into our condo through the open screen door. I trap it against the wall with a Dixie cup, cover the opening with an index card and release it back into the wilds of Culver City. Furthermore, my idea of “doing jungle” is running my hand over the bamboo cutting boards at Bed Bath and Beyond. After the initial stomping, the centipede is only momentarily stunned so Dave grabs a kayak paddle off the wall and begins whacking the hell out of it some more. “You can’t kill them. Cut them up into little pieces and they’re still alive,” Grace calmly chimes in as Dave scoops up the squirming remains and dumps it in the backyard, which is basically the beach. “Are they like, poisonous?” I ask, once I find my voice again. “If one bites you, you won’t die, but you’ll wish you were dead because it hurts so damned bad,” Bruce laughs. Dave soon returns, picks up his tiple and we play “Love Me Tender.” Aloha... August 18, 2010 -- Hunting Wild Boar On Kaua'i  There
is big mojo on the north shore of Kaua’i, which is why my husband and I
return again and again. You can see a thousand shades of green in
the trees and taro fields. Just count them. The island-fresh air is a healing balm as I breathe in and out. In the summertime, Hanalei Bay, an undulating palette of turquoise and azure, is calm and warm. After it rains, waterfalls appear like silver ribbons unfurling down the tall mountains that wrap around Hanalei Valley. And of course, there are the people of the north shore. We stay at Beach Bums Bungalow, a lovely studio apartment built over the garage that belongs to Jill & Steve Landis who are transplants from Long Beach, California. She is a teacher turned successful romance novelist and is so cute you want to pinch her cheek. Steve is a teacher turned actor, slack-key guitar player and is one buff “sixty-something” who just won First Prize with his paddling team of “older fellas” beating out the favorites from O’ahu and the Big Island in the State Championship Race. They have a giant avocado tree in their backyard that produces fruit the size of a small chicken. We did our food shopping at the Big Save in Hanalei’s Ching Young Village and a bag of tortilla chips took us through several big bowls of homemade guacamole. Did I mention the papayas that I snagged at the local Farmers Market? Four beauties for five bucks and they are fresh off the tree. Are you tasting the sweetness. Just a little?  Over
the years Jill and Steve have welcomed us into their Kaua'i family of
friends and that’s how we met Uncle Pat and Auntie Bev.Pat and Bev have been married forever and live with their extended family in an area on the island that is reserved for native Hawaiians. In this economy, especially, they are struggling, so on weekends, Pat, his friends and the hunting dogs head off to some secret wilderness on the island and hunt wild boar. I’m such a city girl. My idea of hunting is catching the early shift at Trader Joes. As Pat describes a recent hunt, it’s like I’m watching a National Geographic special on cable. He mentions the words, “juggler vein,” several times and informs us that his dogs have GPS hooked onto their collars just in case the boar drags them off into the jungle, which apparently happened last week. “Wild boars are very healthy and delicious. If they get sick, they know what plants to eat to get well. They eat stones too.” Bev adds. “Stones! They eat stones???” Suddenly a childhood memory tumbles out of my mouth: “Oh my God, I used to eat paper bags!” Everyone looks at me like I’m fricking nuts. Which of course I am. “Yeah, when I was little. I helped my mom carry the grocery bags from the market and nibbled at the serrated tops on the way home. I wonder what disease I was staving off. Maybe family dysfunction. Is that a disease?” They had no answer. Pat did three tours in Viet Nam and hasn’t worked since. He’s a walking medical miracle, lifting his shirt and proudly showing off his battle scars. His chest and belly look like a road construction zone and imbedded near his right shoulder are a pacemaker AND a defibrillator which fires if his pulse goes over 138 beats per minute, which apparently happens often (I mean considering hunting boar and all that). When it does happens someone yells “Pat is down” and administers nitroglycerin. When we walked into the backyard, I put my arms around his waist and said “Pat you are SO tall!” “No you are short,” he laughed. We’re both right. He was 6’8” until the auto accident when their car was smashed by a tour bus in front of the famous Coco Palms (yes, where Elvis filmed ‘Blue Hawaii’), and he lost 2 inches after the spine operations. But he’s like the Ever-Ready Bunny, plugging along, and I like him very much.  Bev,
who comes from a family of famous Hawaiian musicians and songwriters,
carries on the local traditions and indigenous music. On the
island of Kaua’i, she teaches hula and music in classes that include
mostly non-Hawaiians now. Beverly also sings with that exquisite
Hawaiian falsetto style and plays the ukulele with extraordinary
skill. Over the years, I’ve watched her perform and tried to
figure out what the hell she is doing on the uke. Well this
time, I bought a lesson with the master herself and that’s when she and
Pat showed up at the “Tiki Lounge” (also known as the carport at Beach
Bums Bungalow). As Bev and I played through several songs together, she unraveled the mysteries of her island strums. I will not forget her joyous laugh and warm generosity of spirit. I feel like a musical archeologist, mining for strands of technique that have grown indigenous in Kaua’i and are new discoveries for me. As a musician, I bring “my story” to each performance. That includes my big-city-girl aesthetic, my connections with family and friends, what I value and don’t. It all plays out in my music and now I can add a little bit of Kaua’i to the mix. I will never play like Bev, but what is important is to be true to who I am. Isn’t that the work of a lifetime? To finally feel comfortable in our own skin?  August 14, 2010 -- We Didn't Crash! For me, vacation starts the moment the taxi arrives to take us to the airport and doesn't end until another taxi delivers us back to our front door. It helps that we fly Hawaiian Airlines. With their lilac/pink-lit interiors, luau music piped through the speakers, wahine flight attendants who wear big flowers in their hair and the sweet aroma of plumeria wafting through the cabin, we’re already falling under the spell of aloha. Our flight to Honolulu is sublime. That said vacations don’t always go as planned, in fact they rarely do. We never know what will happen next, really, whether we stick to the same square mile of “home” or venture forth. And fly. I guess dem big airplanes are like airborne buses these days, roaring along the gigantic freeways in the sky. We take Flight “HA1” from LAX to Honolulu, which immediately is relieved of its passengers and cargo, then restocked, reloaded and gussied up for the return flight. Ah the circle of life, at least in the airline-industry world. The engines barely stop whizzing before new passengers buckle in and prepare for the flight, now called “HA2,” back to Los Angeles. So we expect to see our beautiful airplane at the gate waiting for us when we arrive at the airport in Honolulu, refreshed from our vacation and ready (almost) to go home. Instead, there is a big sad empty space and a flashing sign that indicates the incoming flight has been delayed a couple hours so our flight back to LA is also delayed. I ask the nice lady at the desk “is there a problem with the plane?” Her response includes these words: “something mechanical.” Do you wonder what that means? I wonder what that means. But right on time, two hours late, the plane arrives from its first leg. My fellow passengers applaud and I soon forget (or go into denial) about this mechanical stuff even though I press my face against the big window peering eye-level into the cockpit where a mechanic is poking around. I watch the captain do a walk-about on the tarmac, checking the tires, perusing the engines, but we are soon buckled into our seats and I’m doing my usual ritual of memorizing where the nearest exit is. At the airport in Honolulu, the plane taxies for what feels like forever, as if it’s on a scenic tour, past rivers and golf courses. My husband comments “are we driving home?” Finally it’s our turn to take off. But you know something is wrong when the plane should be moving and it’s not. Like isn’t it time for him to put the pedal to the metal? What we hear instead is the crackle of the intercom and the captain reporting there is a warning light and he’d rather be safe than sorry so we’re going back to the terminal. That’s when he makes a sharp U-Turn, big-plane style, on a teeny-weeny circular road, right off the runway. I bet the captain can parallel park an eighteen-wheel semi too. We fidget in our seats as the mechanics in their elevator trucks surround the plane and the flight attendants move quickly, very quickly, through the cabin. We learn later that this “warning light” business probably caused the initial delay out of Los Angeles and the captain is having no part of it again. All this waiting makes people want to go to the bathroom. Have you noticed? And the lines get longer in front of the lavatories. But soon we are solemnly filing out of the airplane and returning to Gate 27, The Holding Pen, as a sweet-faced Hawaiian Airlines manager updates us every few minutes over the intercom. I’m happy to say that my fellow travelers are pretty well-behaved, albeit concerned and frustrated. Finally we are told a new plane is ready, but a fresh crew won’t arrive for five hours. The dinner vouchers help soothe us, although a palpable groan fills the hall when it is reported the $15 gift certificate will not cover alcoholic beverages. My husband and I become intimately acquainted with the bustling food court at the airport. I love freebies and am embracing this whole thing as a grand adventure (after all, we are still on vacation). This sort of equanimity is not always my default, but we have just spent over a week on Kaua’i and that will change your attitude or else your innards are made of cardboard. Later the staff of Hawaiian Airlines offers us more apologies, water, juice and $200 travel vouchers per passenger. The weary travelers break into spontaneous applause as the three-man cockpit crew rolls in an hour before take-off. By then our disparate group of some 250 people has already bonded in mysterious ways, after all, we have been hanging together for several hours now. Strangers talk and laugh together, others stretch out on the floor, as if they are home and don’t care who sees their ass hanging out of their shorts. The younger ones plug their assorted techno toys into the wall sockets, creating small Wi-Fi enclaves. When the plane actually lifts into the air, we applaud again. Later the captain announces that those with a window seat can view the Perseid meteor shower tonight. That would be me! I set up my own dark-out curtain with the blanket wrapped around the window as I watch shooting stars streak across the black sky. The best way to view this annual event is to get out of the city. Talk about good timing... By 7:00 A.M. my husband and I are watching the dazzling array of bags drop onto Carousel #1 at LAX and we are hopeful ours will soon appear too, just as the baggage manager had promised back in Honolulu, but a woman standing to my left groans on. Her nasally voice sounds like she does helium inhalers. “I better get my bag. I can’t stand it if something else goes wrong. I mean nothing has gone right with this flight.” Yes we're all exhausted, haven't slept for over 24 hours and are pissed off because our plans are shredded like confetti and some people have missed connecting flights, but let's look at the big picture here... “Hey our plane didn’t frickin’ crash and I would say that’s a good thing.” My retort is oozing passive-aggressive niceness. She nods in agreement and without missing a beat, continues to bitch until her suitcase slides down the chute. Here’s the way I see it. These aircraft have millions of parts that have to work together “just so” and stuff wears out, wires short circuit, spark plugs fizzle and frankly it’s a long way down from 38,000 feet. This time I’m damned grateful our pilot erred on the side of caution. We arrived safely, so did our luggage and with those nifty travel vouchers in hand, my husband and I are already planning our next trip to the land of aloha. July 28, 2010 -- Variety, Vaudeville & Va-Va-Va Voom Forget the “June Gloom” in July, it’s been quite an exciting month for me in my famously bifurcated career. Besides entertaining my beloved senior citizens and teaching a ukulele class for beginners, I put on my “singer-songwriter-hat” and did three concerts du jour. It was all ukulele and fun at Island Bazaar in Huntington Beach where I was part of their first ever Ukulele Variety Show. Folks, it was a sell-out (and then some) which is why the powers-that-be had fingers crossed the fire department wouldn’t show up. Variety means there’s a little something for everybody. Maybe vaudeville is back! Don’t believe me? Just spend an hour on YouTube… Gary Mandell’s extra fine Boulevard Music Summer Festival in Culver City hosted another cavalcade of acoustic acts, ten minutes at a time and it was a blast to be the only chick uke player. Folks in the audience set up tents, lounge chairs, laid towels on the grass and with their coolers of food and exciting drink enjoyed a whole afternoon of music. There were enough eclectic acts to sate the senses. Despair not; acoustic music is alive and well. (Check out accousticmusic.com) But for every yin, there’s a yang and this July, I was “yanging” at The Kahnmanpalooza Comedy Show in Long Beach. Yes variety reigned supreme here too. The guys sang about boobs, butts and relationship issues (which involve boobs and butts). I was the only girl in this land of “mook” humor and opened the show with my rather tame (in comparison) set of humorous originals. One might wonder why I was even there since my stuff is relatively PG, but apparently several of my goofy songs are played in these comedy circles, which is news to me. But I found out. Take “Dino-Mike,” a tousled-haired cutie-pie in ragged jeans who followed my set with a song about a particular body function issue: Apparently he (or someone very much like him) can’t pee in the men’s room when someone else is in there too. The next day, when we “friended” each other on Facebook, I told him this has happened to me (in the ladies room, that is). It’s nice to know I’m not the only one! What a relief. (No pun). Then this adorable twenty-something said he’s been listening to my comedy album (“Cali Rose Gets Goofy”) for years. YEARS! And knew every word to “It’s A P.M.S. Kind of Day.” Did I see him singing along at the show? Um, no… But my husband captured this very performance on video, which I posted on "You-Vaudeville-Tube" so you can sing along too, just like Dino-Mike. Bet you’ve been waiting all day to do that. Thank you for supporting my work and live music everywhere, after all, variety IS the spice of life. July 5, 2010 -- South Pacific The husband and I had a wingding of a fight a couple days ago. It happens. Or it better happen because I don’t think it’s possible to live with someone without a “blow-up” now and then. If you don’t agree with me, well, how are things going for you in fantasyland? So, I need to get the hell out of the house and why not spend the afternoon at the theater by myself, alone, with two thousand other people. I end up downtown, at the Ahmanson, for the matinee performance of “South Pacific.” Eventually I locate the ticket booth and cross my fingers. Yes there is a Hot Tix for one and I gleefully shove a crisp twenty-dollar bill through the slot in the glass window. I’m in! It’s a long show so I do a quick pit stop before climbing the stairs to the next level where I show my ticket to the usher. He points upward to another set of stairs. “Oh, okay,” I chirp. The baby-faced usher at the top directs me still higher. “Oh-oh, more stairs?” Apparently my seat is located halfway to heaven. Back row, center, to be exact. That’s what binoculars are for. Ever prepared, I am carrying my father’s old Bushnell’s. Good enough for planets, good enough for “stars.” Fortunately my view of the stage (the very little stage from this altitude) is unobstructed by heads or big hair or hats. My husband and I are really busy and we don’t make time to go to the movies or, dare I say, the theater or concerts, so this is an extraordinary event for me, from any view. When the orchestra begins the overture, that magnificent Rodgers and Hammerstein score — Bali Ha’i, Some Enchanted Evening, Younger Than Springtime, Happy Talk, This Nearly Was Mine, I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out Of My Hair, There Is Nothing Like a Dame — I get all teary and don’t stop dripping for the next three hours. I grew up on this kind of music and can feel the cells in my body open like buttercups open to the sun. It’s funny… Even though I am a professional musician, sometimes I forget the power of music in my own life. But here I am and here it is, resonating as if this building is a great big drum and I forget where the chair ends and my body begins. From the pit musicians and the sign language guy and gal who act out the entire libretto perched on their stools near the stage to the jaw-dropping performances, I know how lucky I am to be here, breathing the same air as these talented people who have put in their 10,000 hours or so of practice and rehearsal and sweat to grow into consummate artists. At the end of the show, Emile de Becque, the mysterious Frenchman, and Ensign Nellie Forbush, the “hick” nurse from Little Rock, grasp hands beneath the dinner table. This gesture signals that she has risen above the prejudices of her southern upbringing to embrace her “soon-to-be” family, in all its ethnic diversity. (Wow, it only takes three hours to overcome early childhood conditioning!) And it is mighty good news that Emile actually survives his potentially suicidal mission to rid the islands of enemy militia. It does appear he will soon get laid, I might add. The music rises to a glorious crescendo as folds of Polynesian bamboo curtains unfurl to the stage floor. There is thunderous applause as we rise to our feet, whooping and whistling. By now my face is awash with tears and I’m asking myself one more time “why don’t I wear waterproof mascara?” South Pacific is based on James Michener’s “Tales of the South Pacific.” After the cast members take their final bows the last paragraph of his book is projected onto the bamboo curtains that now rest on the stage. Squinting through tears and mascara I am left only with a sense of what he has written — something about how all the events of our lives, the people, the stories, the history, eventually fade into the mists of memory until they disappear forever. Much lip service is paid to “being here now” but I need look no farther than my own life to see how much has already disappeared. After I get home from the show, my husband and I kiss and make up. We don’t know how long we have together or anyone has together and there is no time to waste on anger or petty resentment. We are surrounded by mist. And music. June 29, 2010 -- Living Aloha At Island Bazaar Would you like to take a mini-vacation to Hawaii without boarding a plane or a really big boat? Well there is an island oasis right in the middle of Surf City, USA where four entertaining ukulele artists will enchant the kanes and wahines (guys and gals) of SoCal. It all happens Saturday evening, July 10, 2010 at 8:00 P.M. I’m talking about the world-famous Island Bazaar in Huntington Beach and am tickled to be part of the line-up for their first-ever Ukulele Variety Concert. The rocking, frolicking night includes Ukulele Bartt (who has the greatest hair in the ukulele kingdom), Pat Enos (who is a beloved player and performer) and King Kukulele (who keeps the little ones and big ones laughing and singing along at Disneyland). I’ll be strumming and singing and telling my wacky stories too. Island Bazaar is located at 16582 Gothard St., Suite #R, Huntington Beach, CA 92647. Parking is plentiful and free. Tickets are $20 and you can order by phone at 714-843-9350. I’ve been told this concert is getting “buzz” and I’m not talking bees. They are expecting a sell-out crowd, so you may want to buy tickets, like now… All this horn-tooting aside, I want to tell you about Island Bazaar. It is the love and passion of Shirley Orlando and Danno and Beach Bum Tom and several others who invest their heart and soul in this very special place. You can taste “aloha spirit” the minute you step in the front door. Ukuleles of every size and color and design hang from the walls. If ukes could smile, they’d be grinning like Cheshire Cats. Colorful Hawaiian doo-dads beckon the visitor to “touch me, touch me.” It feels like home. Those of you who follow my blogs know how I rhapsodize over the power of the ukulele to bring people together. There are several groups at Island Bazaar that play and perform in the community. Last year Shirley invited me to be a “guest artist” at their Thursday Ukulele Jam where I got to share a few songs. But the real joy of the evening was playing along with these lovely people as they rehearsed for an upcoming show. Shirley is a force of nature as she leads us from chord to chord, strum to strum, ever the cheerleader and coach. That evening was a real turning point for me, although I didn’t know it at the time. A few months later when an opportunity suddenly arose for me to teach beginning ukulele to senior citizens in Culver City, I said “yes, yes, yes,” because I saw Shirley do it and while I know I have tons to learn about teaching the ukulele, the joy of that evening is what stays with me and that is what I try to share with my students. So Shirley and her crew will move the racks of ukes to the back of the store, set up a hundred chairs, or so, facing the stage and prepare for the big show! I thank her for supporting live music in this YouTube Age and for supporting local artists, like myself. Please join us for this special evening of aloha, music and fun! June 13, 2010 -- Making Mistakes Ukulele For Beginners Lesson 6 Thursday Morning Culver City Senior Center The class was supposed to end at the end of June, but damn it, we’re having too much fun to stop now. I tell my students there is no graduation, so get over it. When it comes to playing a musical instrument, there’s always more to learn. So we’re going to keep on strumming! Time to get started with a new song, the great Nat King Cole classic, “L-O-V-E.” They make it through with gleeful smiles and almost sonorous tones. Suddenly these words burst from my lips: “We’re going to do this song in a show!” “Next year, maybe…” comes the reply. “Uh-uh, this year!” I retort, a second or two before realizing the depth of commitment I just made. Perhaps it’s human nature that we need an end goal to work towards. My father was a writer and his creativity burst into full bloom as deadlines approached. I don’t want to put that kind of pressure on anyone, especially senior citizens who have never played music, except on the radio, but just the idea, the scent of something exciting like singing and playing for other people, is a game changer. So I decide to try something radical. We revisit our first two-chord song, “Polly Wolly Doodle,” playing and singing through it a couple times. Then I ask them to turn their music over so they can't see the words or chords. We're going to play this song BY EAR. You’d think I asked them to steal a car. “Relax my lovelies. There are only two choices. C, G7, C, G7! Now make lots of mistakes!" I want them to begin to feel the chord changes in their bodies. When I goof up at a gig, I tell the people in the audience "that was jazz." Ha Ha Ha! I recount this story before we begin because I am hopeful that sharing my musician tricks will buoy their spirits. Thankfully, the ukulele is a very forgiving instrument. Even if you are just in the ballpark or even the ballpark parking lot, it still sounds pretty good. These feisty seniors get through it, the song actually resembles “Polly Wolly Doodle” and of course they make lots of mistakes. I am so proud of them I’m jumping up and down now. The marvelous jazz singer and pianist Betty Bryant is in my class. Her son gave her a ukulele for Mother's Day and she's determined to learn a few songs but struggles with that dreaded G7 chord like most of the others. After we run "Polly Wolly Doodle" into the ground, she shares her music trick with us. When she hits a "wrong" note on the piano, she goes out of her way to make the same mistake three more times so the audience will think it’s part of the arrangement. Isn’t that wonderful? "Charm, rather than perfection." That's my motto. At the end of class, Betty rises to her feet with palpable pride and announces she’s a grandma! Twins! Look at the picture of the baby girl and boy she copped from her Facebook page. This beautiful woman has waited 80 years to become a first time grandmother. There is much oo-ing and ah-ing. It’s a display of shared joy that is known only within the secret society of grandparents. Our lives are such a mixed bag, aren’t they? The oil is spilling in the Gulf of Mexico and we have our own mini-catastrophes and losses that spew and roil and change everything. We learn a fun song to play and sing. We welcome new babies into our world. We make mistakes, tons of mistakes, but somehow the earth keeps spinning 'round the sun. All is well, even when it’s not. May 28, 2010 -- Harry Rocks It’s still May and every year around this time, I entertain for the Volunteer Luncheon at a very special senior community in San Pedro. The building itself, inside and out, is lovely. Much thought has gone into design and color and ambience. There's whimsy too! Hanging just to the right of a hand-painted wall-to-ceiling fresco of a quaint Italian village scene is this sign: “Home of Pick Pockets and Loose Women.” “Loose women? Pick Pockets? I had no idea,” I declare to a charming silver-haired resident standing nearby. “Dear, it’s about time you know the truth about us,” she giggles and tiptoes away. Volunteers gather for their pre-show celebration. There are slices of sticky coffee cake, fresh fruit and enough cappuccino to keep the entire population of this beachfront town buzzing into June. Members of the staff have worked here for years and consider this retirement home just that, home, and the residents, the families, the visitors and the volunteers are regarded as cherished members of the family. Volunteers teach Spanish (very s-l-o-w-l-y), bring four-legged smoochy dogs to pet, they sew on buttons and give beloved garments from the 1970’s another year of life, they lead sing-a-longs and mini-church services. And then there is Harry, looking every bit like a Christmas elf with his sly smile and slightly crooked posture. Harry plays the violin--very well--and has a hot date with the retirement home crowd every Tuesday afternoon as he captivates them with sweet music and a little soft shoe. He also has a steady gig at the local pub. Pretty impressive, I would say. Harry is 97 years old. Harry always attends the Volunteer Luncheon and happily accepts his box of cookies, raffle prize and heartfelt thanks for a job well done. But this year, we put Harry to work. He has to earn his damned cookies by playing violin with me! I’ll tell you friends, you haven’t lived until you’ve heard “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” on piano and Stradivarius! When I grab the ukulele, it’s time for Harry and me to get up close and personal. Hey it's just like Las Vegas: “What happens in San Pedro, stays in San Pedro.” Harry is up for a quick chorography mish-mash and suddenly we are swinging our hips in unison to “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.” A little bump here, a big grind there. No script. No rehearsal. We're like two kids in the sandbox. Never mind that I’m dodging Harry’s crazy bow that flies this way and that. He’s the fiddler on the roof...er...rug. But it’s glorious fun, no one is hurt during filming and the ladies in the front row are almost purring. After the show Harry shoves off quickly. He’s a busy man, after all, and his parking meter is about to run out. Oh yes, Harry drives… Playing an instrument is good medicine for our bodies and hearts and minds. And if we’re really lucky, we get to share our music with others. Doing that has kept Harry young, effervescent and I might add, a little wild. I’ve heard it said that in the end, what really matters is that we have loved well. For me, love looks just like Harry! May 11, 2010 -- Ukulele For Beginners--Lesson One I pull into the parking lot at the Culver City Senior Center and unload the giant canvas bag my husband gave me a few birthdays back. It’s personalized with my name embroidered in maroon script (just in case I forget who I am), and stuffed to the gills with extra ukuleles and handouts for everyone. It’s our first class, “Ukulele For Beginners,” and I figure ten people will show up because ten people have already phoned me to ask a few questions and probably make sure I'm not a crazy person. I tape the “UKULELE” sign to the door, arrange the handouts and ukuleles on a long desk at the front of the classroom and wait. “Oh God, what if no one shows up? What if everyone in the neighborhood shows up? What if a plane crashes into the roof?” I’m sorry about that last one but this is how I think sometimes, especially when I’m nervous, which I am, because doing this "teacher thing" is new and scary and I might add, exciting. Suddenly ten people arrive. And they keep coming, bearing ukuleles of all sizes and shapes. 25 eager senior citizens in all. The chairs fill up, I run out of handouts and when we began, everyone is staring at me. Maybe because I am the only one standing up? Oh-oh, it’s because I’m the teacher… Well this is rather un-nerving, so I begin by telling them about the wacky dream I had this morning: The class has gathered early, not in the classroom, but in my bedroom (is that Freud on line two?). They are waiting for me to wake up and begin the class, already. I am terrified as I leap out of bed, looking ever so frightful in my ragged teeshirt and tired old pajama bottoms. What's more, I have to pee. At that point, fortunately, I really do wake up. I’ve had dreams like this for a long time. Same theme, different setting and I suspect it has something to do with fear—that I’m not prepared or up to the job or good enough. Sound familiar? I share this with you because I suspect this fear is epidemic in our culture. It’s not just me. In fact, I bet there are people in the class today who are afraid too—afraid that they will never “get it” or “keep up” and be able to play a real musical instrument. And what about the arthritic fingers and the memory that resembles swiss cheese? But you know what? We all do the best we can. By the end of the class those dear people are strumming ukuleles that are pretty much in tune (well good enough), playing a one-chord song (“Row Row Row Your Boat”) AND singing along. It is beautiful to see and outstanding to hear. The smiles on their faces would melt butter. Learning to play an instrument, at any age, is good for our mind, body, spirit and this class made a believer out of me! The ukulele is like puppy. You want to hold it. You want to pet it...er...I mean strum it and like magic a “C6” chord appears without doing much of anything and suddenly we are playing and singing together. There are so many nasties in this world and we need all the ukulele players we can get to pump 'dem good vibes back into the air. So when are you going to learn to play the uke? April 26, 2010 -- Teaching Ukulele and The Andy Griffith Show Years ago, my treasured music mentor and dear friend, Bill Wyckoff, told me that he didn't really learn about the guitar until he began teaching students how to play jazz. At age eighty-something he can still play rings around 99% of the guitar-playing population. The truth is, we really begin to "get it" when we have to explain the what, where, why, when and how of "it" to someone else. Bill understands and appreciates the benefit of sharing his experience with others. “Paying it forward,” so to speak. For me, desire to do this too and the opportunity to actually “do it” have suddenly merged into one delicious confection, right here in my own backyard. I will be teaching Ukulele For Beginners at the Culver City Senior Center every Thursday morning, from 10:00 to 11:00 A.M. in May and June (we meet eight times). Just show up. No reservations necessary and are you ready for this? Are you sitting down? Each session is only three bucks! There are some “restrictions” though, so this isn’t exactly a three-for-all. You have to be 50 years or older, a member of the C.C. Senior Center and don’t forget to B.Y.O.U. (Bring Your Own Ukulele). We will start from the very beginning, like learning the anatomy and physiology of thy uke, holding your baby, strumming, what is a chord anyway, rhythm, melody, and quick as a wink, how to play and sing a song. I am passionate about this little instrument. It makes “happy” and inspires a sense of “community.” The uke is fun to play by yourself but even more fun to play with other people. The good news is that it’s not difficult to learn the basics so we can play and sing in no time. The first class begins Thursday, May 6, so be there or be square. The center is located at 4095 Overland Ave, Culver City, CA 90232, which is the northwest corner of Overland & Culver Blvds. Their phone is 310-253-6700. And speaking of the Andy Griffith Show… Last week I did a really fun show for the Culver City Historical Society but such a presentation, for serious "history buffs," called for some scholarly research. Several nights I abandoned my husband for Google (don't feel bad because he abandons me for Facebook) and uncovered the most interesting stories and songs that are home-grown musical gems. "Like what, you ask?" One of my favorite tunes to sing and play on the ukulele is "The Fishing Hole" from The Andy Griffith Show (which today is my preferred viewing option to “the evening news”). Fortunately this song has words because my whistling will clear a room. I actually know people who speak wistfully of retiring someday, moving to Mayberry and, well, fishing. Okay, we all know that “Mayberry” is a state of mind. But geographically speaking, Mayberry IS Culver City. Yes, the show was filmed at Desilu Studios (which today is Culver Studios, right across the street from Trader Joes). Many of the outdoor scenes were shot at Forty Acres, the present-day eastern, industrial tract of Culver City. I find this altogether thrilling. So look at it this way: You can learn how to play the ukulele in Mayberry! Does it get any better than that? Strum on! April 19, 2010 -- Cali Rose Gets "Historical" This Wednesday! Culver City, home of the game shows Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, the old Desilu Studios and of course, MGM, where the Munchins welcomed Dorothy to the Land of Oz, Fred and Ginger tapped across the sound stages and Gene Kelly did his best as an American in Paris… Yes “that” Culver City is also "my" home. I’ve lived here for umptity-ump-ump years, so I guess I’m feeling a bit historical too. That said I will be doing a free show this Wednesday night, April 21, 2010 at 7:30 P.M., for the Culver City Historical Society AND the public is invited. Singing and accompanying myself on the keyboard and ukulele, I will draw on the music “From The Heart of Screenland,” which is how Culver City sees itself. Eat that, Hollywood… Please join us in the Multi-Purpose Room in the Veterans Memorial Building at 4117 Overland Ave in Culver City. Enter through the back of the building near the parking lot (which is also free). You know me… The hour show will be fun with lots of songs, stories and audience participation. Did I mention IT’S FREE!!!! Everyone is invited; no reservations are necessary (just show up) and I look forward to seeing you. March 13, 2010 -- Railroad Randy and Miss Wong I met "Railroad Randy" at a piano bar gig in Santa Monica, long before personal computers and cell phones. We became instant friends and he’d drive to wherever I was playing, near or far, to have a drink and enjoy the music and what, I hope, is my irreverent humor. "Like attracts like," of course, and Railroad Randy is pretty irreverent himself. He was, is, and will always be an Amtrak guy and worked as a mechanic on those behemoth train engines until he retired last year. One evening during a break at my Embassy Suites gig in El Segundo, R.R. confided that he had installed a real, honest-to-god train whistle under the hood of his car. Like, isn’t that against the law? I thought it was bunch of hooey and dared him to blast the thing. His sneaky, satisfied grin kind of scared me. After the gig, he followed me home. Going north on Sepulveda we entered the long tunnel, which above, is the south runway of L.A. International Airport and damned if he didn’t blast that train whistle, which echoed and reverberated along the cement innards of the tunnel with ear-piercing ferocity for what felt like eternity. I nearly leaped out of my skin and can only imagine the other drivers were scared back to their previous lives. At least I had a sense of what was coming. As if that helped… As often happens, Railroad Randy and I lost touch over the years, but we reconnected this week over a couple Grand Slam Specials at Denny’s. There was much catching up to do—a divorce (his), kids growing up and getting married (his), driving & railroad trips to 49 states (his). Frankly, my life seems dull in comparison. Then he tells me about Anna May Wong. "Whooze that"? I ask. Railroad Randy happened to catch the last part of a PBS series on Chinese-Americans and became mesmerized, no, obsessed, with Miss Wong who was born right here in 1905. She became the first Chinese American movie star and the first Asian American to enjoy international acclaim. He Googled and researched and networked. He learned that she is buried in a cemetery near downtown L.A. and every Thursday, rain, shine or freeway gridlock, he drives to that cemetery and sweeps the broken twigs and dirt from her gravesite and carefully arranges the gifts of endearment--framed pictures, flowers--left by strangers. R.R. isn’t Chinese and his rabid interest in a historical figure, an Asian woman, makes no sense. Some of his friends think he’s off his rocker. But I don’t. We are swimming in mystery, you and me and Railroad Randy. A few of us actually have the courage to act on that, even when it appears we’ve fallen into the deep end. My friend is honoring, in word and deed, an inexplicable connection. And maybe, just maybe, when something that mysterious rocks our world, we’re really connecting with some deeper mystery in ourselves. I say "swim on Railroad Randy!" February 16 , 2010 -- Tap is Back! One of my friends is a talented dancer, director and choreographer with a hit show on her hands, “The Marvelous Wonderettes.” She has won awards and accolades for her work, but what Janet Miller really loves is hanging with her peeps in North Hollywood, California. So in the spirit of good fun and wickedly aerobic exercise, she is offering her internationally famous “Tap Is Back” class for us regular folks. When I received her email invitation, memories of my first (and only) tap dancing class came flooding back…in vivid Technicolor and Lucas Sound. Those of you who are familiar with my blogs know that I’m not “athletically-inclined” and would do everything humanly possible to ditch the mandatory P.E. classes that were the law of the land when I attended Santa Monica College. Yes kids, there was a time you had to take physical education in junior college. On the short list of acceptable alternatives to the dreaded softball class I am slated to take is “Tap Dancing for Beginners.” So I ride my bicycle to the original Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica, when it was still a street, with cars and sidewalks. Nestled between Newberry’s and Sol’s Fabric is a small store that sells ballet shoes, tutus and of course those nifty black patent leather taps. We start off nice and easy at my junior college tap class: Heel, toe, brush brush. Good Lord! I can actually do that. But I have to practice and there are no rooms at the school to do the requisite grunt work. My only option is the linoleum floor in the small kitchen of my upstairs studio apartment. I am mindful of my neighbor below and make every effort to heel/toe when she isn’t home. But I learn quickly that I'm not a good judge of her daily regime. She pounds her ceiling with the end of a broomstick to register her displeasure. At first it scares the hell out of me but after that it’s just plain demoralizing. Suffice it to say, I don’t last very long in my tap class. The day we learn to “Shuffle Off To Buffalo,” I shuffle out the door, hang up my patent leathers and sadly transfer into softball class. The teams are already picked and the women are playing. With my first turn at bat, it becomes abundantly clear that I will make a mighty fine bench warmer. I swing furiously at that white thing hurling my way, but it just keeps going, pitch after pitch. Then they hand me a mitt, send me to right field and watch in horror as the fly ball drops at my feet. I do pick it up and throw it to the pitcher, but unfortunately the ball lands in the bleachers. I’m happy to report that no one is injured. I’m legally blind in my left eye and softball class is just another example of how life experience meets physical limitation, head-on. I have no excuse for having two left feet, but cockeyed depth perception is another matter altogether. Thankfully playing the piano and ukulele does not involve hitting balls with a stick. That said, if I lived closer to "NoHo" and had my Monday nights free, I would sign up for tap in a minute. One of the blessings of getting older is that I don’t take myself nor others quite so personally. I think if I took Janet’s class, I’d fall on my ass, I’d tap right when everyone else tapped left and my “Shuffle Off To Buffalo” would look more like a real buffalo galloping across the Great Plains. But I don’t care. That’s the big difference between then and now. I would stick it out, by golly, and have a really really really good time. February 4, 2010 -- "Almost" A Winner The Hawaiian Music Awards just announced the winners today and alas, I'm a winner only in my own mind, which is where it counts anyway, kids! Congratulations to the group "Don Tiki" which won in "my" category "Best Adult Contemporary Album" and to all the winners and nominated artists. Well I'm a little disappointed, but I'm sure this will pass within the next 24-hour news cycle, just like everything else. My immensely talented producer, Rick Cunha--a man who is old school and treasures music that is honest and real--gave me some good advice. He said that once UPS delivers the boxes of CD's to my front door, I have to let them go, so they can find their own way in the world. Sure we promote our stuff and toot our own horns, but mystery prevails. No one ever knows what's going to happen, even five minutes from now. I never expected to be nominated for a Hawaiian Music Award and alas this brief journey has exposed my music to a brand new audience. Who would have "thunk" that? But here's the big kahuna for me: I received many warm emails from you, supporting my work. I heard from people all over the world who enjoy my music and cast their votes as well. Feeling part of a community, be it local or global, is what it's all about for me and I thank you being there.  February 1, 2010 -- Pumping Iron -- Part 2 A few months ago I blogged about my ongoing travails with chronic back pain and I was not in a good mood. As you recall, a friend of a friend suggested I see a new chiropractor whose “drug of choice” is exercise, of all things. I just want to get whacked and go home. But no-o-o-o. He escorts me into his office gym and puts me on an exercise regime that will strengthen those slumbering back muscles. One of the exercises is vintage Jack Lalanne: The chin-up. When I wrote you last, I had successfully hung from the bar…for five seconds. This may not sound like a lot, but I’ve never hung by my hands, ever, so it's quite an accomplishment. The Doc encourages me like an Olympic coach. “You’ll be doing a chin up in a few weeks!” Rah! Rah! Rah! Well, it’s been several months now and progress is slow, but steady. I’m able to hoist my body a whopping two inches. Since all you map readers know that an inch equals one mile (wink wink), two inches is halfway to heaven in my world. But I’ve found another way to eyeball that damned chin-up bar and call it “Cali’s Monkey Chin-Up.” I climb my big feet up the non-skid surface on the wall and lift my body towards the ceiling. It’s thrilling for me and rather impressive when seen from afar. One woman, who was striding on the treadmill at the opposite end of our humble condo gym, remarked how agile I am. I’m not used to getting compliments for “being fit” so I’m taking that one to the gym bank. I am happy to report the back pain has vanished. Poof! It took three weeks of earnest and relentless work, mind you. Come hell or high  water, I pumped iron every other day for a whopping twenty minutes a session and right now I feel SO good.For someone who would find every which way to weasel out of P.E., exercising thirty minutes a day has become a top priority. I mix it up with weights, treadmill, walking, dancing, yoga. I’m doing it for my health, for my life. I want to sing and play until I’m an old lady because old ladies rock. Speaking of gigs, picture this: Last month I wheel my gear into the ornate mirrored elevator at the retirement home in Santa Monica and push the “lobby” button. No one else is in the elevator so of course, I check myself out in the mirror. I’m wearing a sleeveless pink blouse and in the dim, diffuse light notice a big lump on my upper arm. “Oh my God, it’s a tumor. I’m dying.” (I’m all about catastrophic thinking). In a panic, I grab at the thing and realize it’s no tumor. “Whoa! It’s my biceps.” A muscle??!! The only way to confirm this surprising possibility is to grope my other arm. “Oh my God, there’s a biceps there too.” All those monkey chin-ups, thoracic kyphosis rows, dumbbell step-ups and squats, incline bench presses and barbell Romanian deadlifts are paying off. I’m feelin’ pretty in pink! Many of you shared your “chin up” and back-pain stories with me. Thank you for adding your voices to the familiar refrain of being human: We have bodies. They feel good and sometimes they don’t. They keep our head off the ground. And they are wisdom and strength made visible..................... January 19, 2010 -- Vote! Vote! Vote! Just on a wild whim, as in "what the hell do I have to lose?" I submitted my new ukulele CD, "Are You Having Any Fun?" to the fine folks at the Hawaii Music Awards, under the category, Adult Contemporary. My husband had a good laugh over that one. "You mean you're an adult?" he guffawed. Well, surprise surprise, I am one of five "adults" who made the final list of nominees! Sure, maybe they received only five CD's for this category; I don't know and I don't care because, hooray! There's my picture and ain't this fun! When we make a CD, post a blog, come up with a new recipe for chicken thighs or do whatever, that is an expression of what we are, we hope it finds its way and brings a little blessing into the world. So whatever happens at the big Awards Show in O'ahu, I'm thrilled that my work is getting out there. That said, you and you and you and you decide who wins because the Hawaii Music Awards is essentially an online voting proposition. I don't want to say it's a popularity contest because that brings back horrible memories from high school. But let's face it, all the nominated artists are notifying their tribes and saying "pick me, puleeeeese." Anyone and everyone with an email address can vote. There are many talented artists nominated in multiple categories, so please vote your favorites. My category appears first (for "Adult," I guess) and my CD is at the top of the page. Boy did I get lucky. You can vote in as few or as many categories as your want. After you have voted, scroll down to bottom of the page to "submit vote" on the left side and follow the prompts so your vote counts! The website is www.hawaiimusicawards.com and voting ends at the end of January. I congratulate all of the artists who entered and all of us who remain faithful to what we do and who we are. January 8, 2010 -- Getting Sick & Getting Well Our precious bodies…can’t live with them, can’t live without them. I began 2010 throwing up, thank you. It’s a mystery what prickly little bug or viral vermin or foul food dropped-kicked me into the abyss of sickness. Or maybe after a very busy month of shows, my body plotted its crash and burn to coincide with New Year’s Eve. Don’t know. But that didn’t stop me from doing my New Year’s Eve gig, either because I really believe “the show must go on” or I’m an idiot. My sweet husband insisted we go to the emergency room and I insisted he drive me to the gig. I’ve been doing this New Year’s show at the beautiful retirement home in Rancho Palos Verdes every year since 1998 and I wasn’t about to leave these dear people in the lurch. Try finding an entertainer for New Years Eve…ON New Year’s Eve. So my husband chauffeured, loaded and unloaded gear and propped me on the stool in front of the keyboard where I commenced to croak my way through the show. (Yes I tried to keep everyone at arm's length). Thankfully we celebrated New Years at 9:00 P.M. with New York, via CNN, which was projected onto the big screen behind me as we watched the crystal ball drop in Times Square and counted down with the East Coast revelers. We blew our horns, rattled our shakers, kissed and clinked the plastic glasses of champagne and Martinelli’s Sparking Apple Cider. By 9:10 everyone had gone to bed. I am happy to say that my sterling record of having never thrown up in front of my audience remains intact. Mind you, I’ve done almost everything else in front of an audience (use your imagination please), but not that. How did I manage this miracle? I conveniently hurled just before the show and just afterwards, at 9:11 P.M. to be exact. The next three days I spent in bed. Fortunately my husband is a teacher and was home on Christmas break so he could ply me with water, Gatorade, Progresso Chicken and Rice and delicious hot and sour soup from the local Chinese. Slowly, slowly I’m getting better. That said, there is something wildly regenerative about being sick, at least for me. I know that sounds crazy, but here goes. A sick body reminds me who is boss. My mind (which thinks it’s the boss) is into “planning” and “doing” but a lot of good that does when the body can’t move, huh. While my thoughts zoom into the future or rehash the past, the body is always right here and when I get sick, I have a chance to be here too. I really pay attention to the so-called little things that I tend to blow off the rest of the time and let me tell you, they are monumentally grand. I remember what a miracle it is just to be alive (even with a sick body), what a joy to hear the crows squawking outside the window or be able to change the channel on the T.V. with a remote control because I have opposable thumbs and fingers that work. Good golly is there anything better than peeing, when you really have to pee? Come on, you know what I’m talking about. Our precious bodies! Here’s a New Year’s toast to them and you. December 30, 2009 -- Happy New Year! Hooray for you! Hooray for me! We made it -- another spin around the sun. And we’re still here. That’s big mojo in my book. It may feel like some of us will tip-toe forward, while others dive headfirst and a few, maybe, get dragged into that great mystery, also known as the new year. But hey, we get to be here together. My husband, the high school history teacher, reminds me that every generation thinks history begins with them. (His students were born in 1994, so they figure that's when the world began, which sends me running for the mashed potatoes and reruns of Andy Griffith). If I take into account last year and the year before and before that, well, life is a mixed bag! We may very well experience the whole panoply of drama, celebration and emotion in the coming year. That said, no matter what happens moment to moment, I try to remember the cheery words of the great philosopher, Voltaire: “Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.” My friends, sing on and have a joy-full-licious 2010! December 6, 2009 -- Shameless Self-Promotion Well ‘tis the season to toot my own horn, because apparently no one else will! In fact, this one-woman-independent-musician-performer has to wear so many hats, I don’t know why I bother brushing my hair. That’s a joke…sort of. A couple weeks ago I sold three copies of my new ukulele CD “Are You Having Any Fun” to a lovely woman at a retirement home in San Pedro. She phoned the next day and ordered two more as holiday gifts. “I feel so good when I listen to your music,” she said. For me, there are no sweeter words. Sure I woodshed on my instruments (that means practice, practice, practice), vocalize, run through the jokes, write the songs, but ultimately it comes down to how my work makes you feel. Yes, times are tight and are we or aren’t we out of the recession…who knows. But I am so proud of this album and really want to share the “feel good” with you. You can buy or download the album or individual songs at most online stores or purchase a copy at my gigs (where they are one sale for $10!) Now, for a change of pace… Could you use some holiday "ha ha" just about now? A few years back, when I was really stressing out, I wrote my own bah-humbug song “Pooey, Pooey, Pooey, It’s Christmas” which was picked up by Dr. Demento and played all over the world on college radio stations. That said, it's my holiday hit song hardly anyone has heard... But I made a living room video of my ukulele version and you can watch it on YouTube. Like right now! Okay, off with the promotion hat… Time to practice. But I want to wish all of you a heart-full December, no matter what you celebrate or don’t and with whom, or not, it’s a wonderful thing to still be here, breathing in and making a noise. November 21, 2009 -- Giving Thanks Every so often I sing at a sub-acute rehabilitation center in Los Angeles. What is that? The people, well, patients, all need respirators to breath. Many scoot around happily in their wheelchairs or walkers, but there are a few who have drawn the unluckiest cards of all. They survived the auto accident, the fall from the ladder, the overdose or shooting but are paralyzed for the rest of their lives. I remember my first gig, as the staff rolls and pushes the “audience” into the small upstairs activity room. A young man, whose eyes are unblinking and fixed on the ceiling, lays motionless in his bed. Others are more animated and watch with curiosity as I set up my gear for the show. I’ve already had plenty of nasties in my life and know that anything can happen, anytime, but mostly I live in the tenuous state of denial. As you can imagine, there’s no place for denial in a rehab facility. The truth is front and center. The whole experience really shakes me up. But I make it through and have had the good fortune to return many times over the years because I meet people whose courage and good humor inspire me, people like “Richard.” Joy is etched into every line on his expressive face. Except for the thumb on his right hand, Richard is paralyzed from the neck down. That said, a certain light emanates from this man. I can’t explain it, but I sure as hell can feel it. When he tells me he loves Rodgers and Hammerstein music, I throw in a couple songs from “Oklahoma” just for him. His million-dollar smile warms me from the inside out. The next time I visit, Richard is over the moon. He got his dream wheelchair at last. The toggle switch he works with his right thumb allows him to navigate up and down the halls like a New York cab driver. He looks at me with tears in his eyes and says, “I am the luckiest man in the world.” Folks, he means every single word. It’s a “Lou Gehrig” moment. You can taste his gratitude. It fills the room like sweet perfume. “I will neverrrr, everrrr complain about anything again,” I think to myself…not believing it for a second. I knew Richard for about a year and during that time he showed me what gratitude looks like and sounds like and feels like. The staff loved him. The volunteers loved him. The patients loved him and you could feel the heavy pall as it fell over the rehab center when Richard passed away. But he left me a great gift. He showed me that it’s possible to be grateful, grateful for something, no matter what. Everyday is Thanksgiving…Well ‘tis the season to toot my own horn, because apparently no one else will! In fact, this one-woman-independent-musician-performer has to wear so many hats, I don’t know why I bother brushing my hair. That’s a joke…sort of. A couple weeks ago I sold three copies of my new ukulele CD “Are You Having Any Fun” to a lovely woman at a retirement home in San Pedro. She phoned the next day and ordered two more as holiday gifts. “I feel so good when I listen to your music,” she said. For me, there are no sweeter words. Sure I woodshed on my instruments (that means practice, practice, practice), vocalize, run through the jokes, write the songs, but ultimately it comes down to how my work makes you feel. Yes, times are tight and are we or aren’t we out of the recession…who knows. But I am so proud of this album and really want to share the “feel good” with you. Download it at CD Baby or iTunes for $9.99 and Amazon for only $8.99. Purchasing an actual CD costs a little more (unless you come to my gigs where I sell them for $10!). November 13, 2009 -- Doing Chin Ups I’ve been feeling extra “achy” lately. My back and neck muscles are throbbing, and not in a good way. So off to the new chiropractor I go. He watches me stand and walk, turn my head, play the ukulele and air piano. He presses his fingers into several nests of hurt. How does he find them so quickly? Being a life-long musician, gravity and my instruments have been pulling my body forward. Apparently the muscles in my “front” are taut and tired, whereas the muscles in my “back” are, well, non-existent. “You mean I have a back?” I ask incredulously. The truth is, I am blissfully unaware of half my body. But hey, it’s not just me, or musicians. You’re reading this on your computer, right? Are you leaning into the screen, like E.T. the Extra Terrestrial? Gravity wins in the end, but I’m going to fight it, one thoracic kyphosis workout at a time. Yes, I’m buffing up my back, or else. The Doc shows me the exercises that will be part of my life from now on. One is the basic “chin up.” FYI, I’m not a jock. I hated P.E. and I don’t hang by my hands, ever. So picture this: Here I am, in our condo gym, doing the new routine for the first time. The “chin up” bar is halfway to heaven. I ponder it nervously, raise my arms high above my head and leap into the air. You can imagine my shock when we actually connect, the bar and me. Do you remember the classic greeting card that features a terrified cat dangling from a branch and the reassuring message, “hang in there”? That’s me. On one hand, it’s a miracle that I am actually hanging. But when I try to gather every watt of energy to lift my body weight one lousy centimeter, absolutely nothing happens, except I let go and flop to the floor. When I report back to The Doc, he assures me that I will be able to do a chin up in a few weeks and it will be very, very, very empowering. I could use some empowering. Couldn’t we all. That said, it’s funny how encouragement arrives in unexpected ways: Just a few days after my first chin up attempt, I am entertaining at a senior community in the San Fernando Valley. One of the residents, whom I shall call Daisy, is one sassy gal. Her back is ramrod straight, as if she is balancing an invisible copy of “The Feminine Mystique” on her head. She is slim, stunningly beautiful and loves to dance. So I sing “Rock Around the Clock” as she sashays around the grand piano in her matching terra-cotta blouse, stretch pants and strappy hooker sandals that she bought last summer on Hollywood Boulevard. Daisy really shakes her bottom and all the men who can, want to dance with her, but she says they cramp her style and she’d rather dance by herself, so the guys have learned to just watch. After the show we have deep conversations about life and death, politics and her extraordinary posture. “The second I realize I’m slouching, I pull myself up, just like that,” she says. “When my shoulders tighten, I relax them and make sure they roll back.” It seems that working on her posture has been a life-long project. She’s been at it for 95 years. November 3, 2009 -- Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday to those of you who happen to be celebrating your special day sometime this year! Have I left anyone out? November is my birthday month and I celebrated big time by going to Disneyland (well actually Disney’s California Adventure) for FREE. Is there a sweeter word in the English language? My dear friend Jamie, who knows every Disney song ever written since the beginning of time and plays them on the grand piano at the hotel in the park, alerted me to this new promotion. All I had to do was sign in online, make a copy of the golden ticket and show up -- on my actual birthday.  When I presented
the crumpled-up ticket to the nice lady in the booth she pushed the
official Disney Birthday Button under the glass, along with a Sharpie I
used to inscribe my name in the ribbon-adorned blank spot. Little did I
know this button would be my passport to fame and adoration. At every
turn, a cheerful Disney employee spied my button and, with unabashed
joy and sincerity, wished me “Happy Birthday!” Oh what the hell, I’ll
take it any way I can get it.Jamie and I, the queens of fanny packs (as you can see in the picture), agreed that we would not force each other onto a ride that evoked stark fear or induced back pain. That said, she reluctantly joined me on the “Fun Wheel,” which is Disney’s version of a Ferris Wheel. Jamie doesn’t like this ride at all and once we were seated, immediately closed her eyes and emitted sad groans as the fully-caged-in car rocked like a swing. What could I do? So I started to sing: "Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop. When the wind blows, the cradle will rock..." Thankfully I remembered that the next lines of the song are about the cradle falling out of the tree, so I immediately went back to the beginning and sang the first two lines over and over until the friendly staff beckoned us to disembark and not a moment too soon. Jamie waited patiently as I went solo on the roller coaster. She warned me not to spit on myself when it goes upside-down. My mouth is almost always open, so I knew this would be a problem. I will leave you with that and you can create your own visual. Finally, there is a splendid ride called “Soaring” and it feels like you are flying through the majestic landscape of California. Watching this was thrilling, but mostly it made me grateful: Grateful for my dear friends and family, grateful that my parents moved to California so many years ago and brought me along. And at birthday time, I am especially grateful to be alive. Often I sing and entertain for people who will never get on a Ferris Wheel again, who are afraid or lonely or in pain and the best I can do is greet them with the same joy I felt today. Here’s to friendship and birthdays! October 21, 2009 -- Happy Halloween! Years ago I sang in a bar that had a small piano pushed up against one wall, so technically you could call it a piano bar. The place shall remain nameless, although I fondly referred to it as “the dump.” The manager hid out in the alley and let the joint run itself, which can be a good thing. Or not. I don’t think he knew that the cocktail waitress hated me. In fact it was nuclear fission from day one. We all have these irrational reactions to people sometimes but Cruella (okay, that’s not her real name) seemed to derive perverse pleasure taking aim at me. She was already sliding past her prime and holding onto her kingdom with ferocious tenacity. Maybe I reminded her of some despised person in her past. Maybe I reminded her of herself. Things came to a head Halloween night, wouldn’t you know. I arrived to find that Cruella had done some serious holiday decorating which included encasing the entire piano, ceiling to floor, behind a thick curtain of "spider webs." In the fiberlass filaments--the kind that lodge in your lungs forever--she had artistically woven plastic tarantulas and skulls that hung just right, just right in front of the piano player's face. Boy was I frosted and not about to perform under these circumstances. I glanced at Cruella who was standing near the bartender, hands on hips, her scrawny lips drawn into a gotcha smirk. I looked all over for the manager, stuck my head out the back door and called his name down the alley. "Hey, trick or treat, where are you?" Gone, gone, gone. So I took matters into my own hands. Pulling fold-up scissors from my purse, I stood on top of the piano in my stocking feet, balancing carefully as the curtain (which she had thumbtacked to the ceiling) dropped to the floor one graceful clip at a time. The expression on Cruella’s face was one I never want to see again, on anybody. But the show must go on. I did my four sets of music; the audience grooved with the voodoo vibe; my drink wasn’t poisoned and I didn't get followed home by a crazed waitress. However… The phone rang early the next morning. “What the hell happened last night?” asked the booking agent with feverish intensity. “They want to sue you for desecrating their property, and by the way, you’re fired.” The agent eventually smoothed things out, we averted a frivolous lawsuit (Cali vs. Cruella Z. Meanie) and I soon found another gig where we all got along. As the neighborhood gentrified, the dump, this den of dysfunction served cold with beer and nuts, disappeared into the mist of memory. Today, in the very spot where Cruella stood akimbo, her face drawn and contorted, is a nice Subway sandwich shop, with it’s friendly staff and fresh baked buns. Have a wonderful Halloween! October 12, 2009 -- Sending Songs Into The World! Back in 1948, Nat King Cole recorded an exotic, philosophical song that was written by a yogi-dude (Eden Ahbez) and would you believe, it was a giant hit. "Nature Boy" didn't follow the established rules of songwriting at the time, but something about this tune struck a nerve. Maybe it has to do with the last line of the song: "The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return." Those of us (that would be everybody) who whip something up out of nothing, whether it's a song, a story, a joke, an omelet,
a painting, whatever, I think it's an expression of love made visible.
And we hope someone else will love it too. It feels SO good
when that happens. | |