Music Teacher

My brother grilled some hamburgers last Sunday for our weekly family dinner. I brought Mom, which wasn't easy. She had not gotten dressed to go out and expected me to help her.

If and when the time comes that there is no way for Mom to get dressed without our help, I will do it. But she is paying big money to stay in this assisted living facility where dressing the tenants is among the things the employees are paid for. Mom said that they were short-handed that day.

A couple of the employees here don't do their jobs very well and I have made it my mission in life to be a pain in the ass until they either shape up or get fired. So, knowing that at least one of these two was on duty, I marched down to the assisted living office. Sure enough, one employee was loading the medication cart while another just stood there chatting with her. I asked if one of the could help my mother get dressed.

In these places, you don't always get what you pay for unless you demand it.

So Mom got dressed, got her pills for the day, and off we went.

We dined al fresco in cooler weather than we had expected. We asked Mom if she wanted to go inside, but she said no. The steps into my Brother's house are challenging for her, so I think she assessed the time it would take and the time she would spend in there and decided it wasn't worth it. So as it got dark, we wrapped Mom in a blanket and brought out a portable DVD player to show her our collected performances, both as The canaries and as solo artists.

My mother, by the way, had once planned to study opera. Then WWII intervened and she left college to stay with her mother. Grandpa had enlisted in the navy (he also served in WWI).

Her voice matured while she was very young. In junior high school she already possessed a mature soprano voice. My siblings and I inherited this trait, except my brother and I went baritone, of course. At thirteen, I looked younger but sounded older.

During her own pre-teen years, Mom performed in recitals and became known locally for her voice. Not quite a child star, but advanced.

So on the way home she, inspired by hearing her grandson singing (the kid's fearless and self-taught), she reminisced about a thing that happened between her and her junior high school music teacher.

The teacher had handed out grades for the semester. She sat with a smile on her face as she watched my Mom open her report card.

Mom's jaw dropped as she saw the "B" the teacher had given her. The teacher then walked up to her and said "What cost you your "A" was the fact that you did not invite me to your recital last week."

Angry, Mom left the classroom.

When Mom got home, she was greeted by her mother and the same music teacher, who had come by to apologize for her actions and said that she had changed the grade to an "A."

As Mom told this story, I could hear the same anger she must have felt at the time bubbling up from inside her.

A Lifetime in Stuff

My mother has Parkinson's Disease and is living in an assisted living facility and we're trying to clean up her house for rental. The extra income will give her some disposable income--not to mention more money to cover expenses should her level of care increase.

She lived in her home for 50 years and she and my father had, in all of that time, one garage sale. So, needless to say, there is a lot of stuff there.

Mom has been a collector. Among the things she has collected: Teddy Bears, these little wooden building thingies, demis tas (French for tiny cups and saucers), pitchers, dolls. Yesterday, I tried to sort some of these things out--in retrospect, I'm not sure why. I'm not sure of there sale value or that Mom will even want to sell any of them.

Mom is also a hoarder. All of her kids have inherited this trait. I alone of my siblings am in recovery. I throw things away or donate them to Goodwill. I don't have a lot of stuff that I save, unless it has some sentimental value.

I'm not consistent about this. But I try. I really try.

I also sifted through all of the old bills and check stubs that my mother has kept from the last century. I started to be ruthless at first, but quickly realized that hidden amongst this useless stuff Mom had put old photographs, letters and drawings from her grandchildren, and other stuff that she will want to go through herself.

One of our tasks is to find an old manila envelope with pictures of a policeman the father of her high school sweetheart who had been killed in the line of duty back in the late 30's, when this town was still a sleepy small town. She had dug this out a couple of years ago and left it out on the dining room table. We don't know what happened to it. I have found scores of manila envelopes in every drawer or closet and all of them have been something else.

The demis tas collection comes from her grandmother. We found them in a cupboard in an old Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket. Some of them are broken. Some are in excellent condition. I don't know where any of them came from.

Mom had an old silver set that we thought she had tucked under a hutch cupboard. It had belonged to her mother. When we pulled it out, we found that a lot of pieces were missing. Mom says that some of it was scattered inside the hutch, but we haven't found them. We suspect one of her living assistants who attended her when she still lived in the house may have taken those pieces.

Before I left put some towels in her washing machine out on the patio that had been built by my father. In one corner of the floor, you can see where my brother, sister, and I had put our hand and foot in the wet cement as children. Next to our imprints, you can see those of our beloved one-eyed dog Inky.

A swallowtail had found its way into the patio and fluttered against the screen, trying to escape. I took a closer look and saw that this butterfly's wings had become tattered. I managed to trap it in my hand without having to hold the wings. I kicked the door open and released it.

Vespa or Electric Car

My old friend Curt has this electric car. While it is approved for driving on surface streets, it looks like a four-seated golf cart. It can only go up to 40 mph, so it wouldn't be appropriate to drive on the freeway, but he and his wife drive it around town on short trips. I think the charge is good for 24 miles round trip.

It made me think about my own commute to work and alternatives my current driving habits. I hate the idea of carpooling. Of my colleagues who have carpooled, there always seemed to be the problem of what time to arrive at work and, more important, what time to leave. I don't like having to live around someone else's schedule.

My car is a hybrid, but not a mega-mileage hybrid. It gets decent mileage, but not great mileage.

One reason for my musing about this has more to deal with the ethics of living in the current war-monger atmosphere and fighting in wars that have more to do with giving big oil companies control over oil prices. The less money I spend on gas, the less tainted I feel. I have no delusions about bringing down the oil companies, but I can choose where my money goes.

I don't want a motorcycle because I don't plan on going on any long trips. I just would want something to get to work and back and use for short errands.

Public transportation is undependable around here, so it's not an option for getting to work.

The pros for either a Vespa or electric car are not that different. The cons are greater. In both cases, other motorists would probably show me little respect and I'd have to be extra careful on the road. For an electric vehicle, there is the question of sized and overcrowding my garage. A Vespa would leave me more vulnerable to other motorists, as well as the weather and road conditions. Of course, this is California, so the weather doesn't change that much.

I the price difference is also significant.

So I brought this up while dining with my brother, my SiL, and my mother. The Bro and SiL thought it was laughable to get a Vespa. But most passersby I asked (my friend Curt, Blowhard Canary and his GF, and Zoe all thought the Vespa would be better).

Anyway, I'm far from having the disposable income right now, but am just thinking about it.

Disney Fruit

I go to Disneyland and I see evil.

This started a little while after Walt died and the rumors of his being frozen until they could find a cure for the cancer that afflicted him had begun. Throw in the fact that, even after he died, he was still somehow able to show up as host to Walt Disney's Wonderful World of Color (how was I to know it was filmed for broadcast in advance?), and you've got all of the evidence of pure evil that you need.

A long time ago, post-Walt, I bought this environmentalist magazine that had an article about how the Disney company was planning to expand its theme park operation to Yosemite National Park. The lead picture was a scene of Yosemite decorated with images of Mickey, Goofy, and the gang cavorting amongst the trees. The thought horrified me.

So imagine my horror while shopping for produce at a local supermarket and, while testing a peach for ripeness, Donald Duck smiled up at me from the tiny packing sticker.

I knew that a long time ago Donald came out with his own brand of Orange Juice. But this was new.

I dropped the Peach and gasped as I saw before me piles and piles of peaches with Disney characters stuck to their fuzzy skin, each smiling happily. Each sticker proclaimed the guaranteed ripeness of its piece of fruit.

Peaches are one of those fruits that, around here, can be iffy. When ripe, the aroma seduces, the flavor intoxicated. And these peaches were aromatic.

But I couldn't bring myself to buy them.

So, I moved on to the plums, which also promised succulence and flavor. There to tiny Disney faces greeted me. They seemed to be everywhere. I half expected to find them on the blueberries.

I returned to the peaches and began sorting through them carefully. Indeed, I could find some that had stickers from Disney competitors, so I bought those. Likewise with the plums.

It's just my way of sticking it to the mouse.

Mad-Dogged at the Folk Center

Standing in line, waiting for the Folk Center doors to open and Open Mike to ensue, Billy C and I stood in line, chatting and passing my Oscar Schmidt back and forth. Neither of us did this on purpose, nor did either of us realize what the other saw, but we casually gazed over across the street where we saw this rail thin man in a dirty sports coat adjusting his jeans and shirt looking over--nay, staring at us. Probably a homeless guy, I thought, probably planning to walk over and ask for change.

I turned back and continued chatting with Billy C and others, but I could see through the corner of my eye that he now walked across the street and seemed headed for us. But I didn't look directly at him. Billy thought he was looking at him, but I don't know. Soon, he was inches away, his face close to mine. I turned and met his gaze--the cold stare of a man there...but not there. Just as I looked at him, he turned and walked up the street. Three people ahead of simultaneously turned and looked at me, having themselves noticed that he had singled me out.

I said, "I hope you guys have got my back if he sneaks up behind me."

PJ showed up at one point with his new squeeze. He didn't come for the Open Mike. He and Squeeze had just left some lecture (it's a college town, for all of you outsiders).

This character who had appeared at an earlier Open Mike showed up with his mother. Let's refer to him as Asshole Profundo (AP, for short). He has a deep voice that sounds like a bad faux Paul Robeson and pasty white skin. The first time he and his mother appeared, I couldn't tell if they were husband and wife, brother and sister, or mother and son. And I had the odd feeling that it might not matter.

Anyway, the reason I harp on this is because Billy C and I sat behind them. While the crowd filed in, during which time most of us self-actualize, AP kept turning around, and looking at my notebook and singing which ever song I had it opened too, tainting it for the evening. Tucked in the inside flap were a couple of poems by Maria Ranier Rilke, handouts from last weeks writers' conference. One poem included the original German version next to the English translation. AP proceeded to read the whole thing in German to me, thinking it quite clever. I began to explain who and what it was and then thought, Nah, I don't even want to talk to this guy.

I mean, he and his mom really give me the creeps.

Really.

House lights down. Stage lights on.

As the first act walked up on the stage, AP became anxious and Mom/Sis/Mrs. AP turned and asked Billy C if he had a pencil. AP also looked around for a pencil. As the first act began, he got up with his notebook full of music and walked out, presumeably to look for a pencil.

When he came back, having found a pencil and having satisfied his penculiar needs, he continued to mumble smart comments about other performers, harmonize to himself, and just generally be annoying.

He spent most of his set, fumbling with his music, tuning his guitar, and trying hard to be funny. He sang an aria from an opera entitled "The Jew."

Never heard of it.

But there was something about the way he introduced it that, again, reaffirmed his creepiness.

I gathered from his performance at the last Open Mike, that he and Mom/Sis/Mrs. AP belonged to some sort of cultish religious group.

After intermission, as the lights went down again and I could see which empty seats would likely remain empty, I moved to the other side, sitting next to one of the regular performers.

Highlights of the evening:

Bebe, she of the Koto-like Chinese instrument, played. Billy C and I wondered aloud on the drive home whether she was really that good, or just good to us because we have never seen anyone else a Koto-like Chinese instrument. She rocked my limited Koto-like Chinese world.

Then, the store's owner, Musical phenom Ben Harper, a successful singer-songwriter and grandson of the store's original owner Charles Chase, played two songs.

Billy C and I both saw him outside with his wife, Laura Dern (the actress from the original Jurassic Park and daughter of Bruce Dern).

Anyway, he played two songs and was really excellent.

For a dollar admission, that was a pretty good deal by itself.

The woman who followed him had the best pipes in the universe.

Adventures with Bobs

I met Bob at the first of two job interviews at a school where I taught for 9 years. I didn't get the job that time, but did on the second job interview a few months later, where Bob sat again on the interview committee. I got the job this time in part because Bob and some friends had seen me the previous night in a performance of Threepenny Opera, in which I played Mr. Peacham.

Like so many of the teachers I worked with then, Bob is a fascinating character loaded with quirkiness. I regard him as one of my best friends--probably the best friend acquired in this phase of my life.

Bob's mother has alzheimer's and he and his wife have begun the process of finding a place where she can stay and get the kind of care she needs. He and I got together to talk about what I have learned about some of the facilities locally, since my family and I have already moved our mother into one of them.

We met in this local independent coffee place and talked awhile, sampling some of their sugar-free and sugar-loaded sweets (I eschewed the latter, I'm trying to be good). We both had on rust-colored t-shirts, so we looked like either a couple of aging twin brothers or an aging gay couple.

Bob and I are both diabetics--his, I believe being more advanced than mine. Bob is more of a compulsive personality than I, so he often acts on what he wants in the moment, which can be amusing and can also be exasperating.

We decided to go on a drive-by tour of some places I had checked out, while I gave him what I knew of the low-down on each.

We stopped at one and Bob decided he wanted to go in and check it out, so he stopped right in front of the entry-way--in a red zone (I mentioned this a couple of times, but it didn't matter to Bob)--got out of the car, and walked into the building--passing the check-in desk and making a beeline into one of the hallways, stopping to chat with residents, pausing to inspect the dining room and other gathering places. We were in and out in five minutes.

On the way to the next place, I ran down the positives and negatives of this place as Bob listened thoughtfully while driving and dialing his wife up on his cell phone--all the while trying to drive, weaving between lanes and stopping a little bit to quickly at red lights, unless he decided to try to beat it--so she could talk to me about living trusts and so I could talk her out of buying tickets to a production called Sleeping Beauty put on by Junior University (a local children's theater known for its four-hour-long productions and hard metallic seating) to which they had planned on taking their seven-year-old grandson. All the while. I think I did a public service here.

At another home, this one an independent facility, we drove down to the end of the ample parking lot down this alley that looked to Bob like it might circle around the building but instead turned into a green walking path for residents. We stopped at the start of the path and walked the distance around the path to inspect the outside of the building--I, of course mentioned that we had parked illegally--Bob of course not being concerned with that.

We walked into the reception room where Bob asked questions, took a flyer, as well as piece of candy, chatted with a lady about the food served at this place, marched outside and down the alley where he had parked the car. As we backed out, he asked me to watch and let him know if he was about to hit the wall which to me looked like he almost did several times.

We decided to get dinner at Panera, where we evaluated the day's adventure thus far. I had the half-sandwich/bowl of soup combo, with a fruit salad and diet coke while he had an Italian sandwich and a bag of chips with a jumbo diet coke. We decided to go see Clerks II, so Bob refilled his jumbo soft drink cup with coffee and we took off for the new theater in MoVal. As I checked the movie section of the newspaper for times, Bob steered with one hand, held his jumbo coffee-filled soft drink cup in his other hand and tried to manage a leak in the bottom of said cup with his third hand which of course he doesn't actually have so I guess each of his hands was operating at each task at only about 66% capacity. I asked him if he wanted me to hold his cup. He said, "That's ok, I've got it."

I pulled a napkin out of my back pocket and gave it to him so he could catch the leak, which helped him better control both the cup and the driving.

We got into Clerks II just as it started. The theater was full enough that we could only find seats in pairs. We're both big guys, so we usually sit with seats between us, but couldn't find a row to accommodate this. I think, subliminally, what with the same-colored t-shirt thing, we wanted to play down the aging gay couple thing. So, we each took an aisle seat, one behind the other.

OK. I admit that Jay and Silent Bob are a kind of guilty pleasure of mine. I don't always like the gross humor, but there is a certain heart to many of Kevin Smith's films that I like. Values like love and friendship always seem to triumph against the backdrop of glandular humor. I can appreciate that.

Aside from the tastelessness of some of the gags, the one thing I think he misses is in the character of Silent Bob, who usually speaks in only one or two scenes, often to spout the wise lesson of the film. Silent Bob is like Bill the Cat from the Bloom County, Outland, and now Opus comic strips. Bill says little. So, when he does, it should be brief, to the point, and either hilarious or deeply profound. If he says too much, the magic is destroyed.

Likewise with Silent Bob. Kevin Smith too often crosses the line between what would be just right and too much. The first line he speaks is hilarious. But then he responds to some comment from Jay and ruins the magic. If he is truly Silent Bob, his words should be economical and precise. All else should be silence. Anything more becomes self-indulgent.

New Specs

As I said before, while in Taos, while cleaning my glasses, I was overcome with a surge of Herculean strength and twisted my glass frames so that one of the thingies became noticeably wobbly. I tried to be careful with them for the rest of the week, but the thingy broke off in the middle of a workshop session. Several people scrambled to find glass repair tools in their purses or bags. But,alas, it was for naught. The problem wasn't a lost screw, but structural damage. So I spent the rest of the week holding my glasses up to my face so I could read.

I had an old pair with me, but they didn't help much with the reading.

Just before I left for Taos, I got a prescription for a new pair and I knew they would be ready when I got home, so no Biggs.

I picked them up today. There was a family ahead of me that was picking up a new prescription for one of their little girls--her first pair. She was a pretty little girl, 11 or 12. When she tried her new glasses on and looked in the mirror, tears filled her eyes and she began crying silently. She hated the way she looked with glasses. Her mother and the girl at the counter tried to comfort her. The lady helping me had the same prescription, so she also turned to comfort the girl. The mother began explaining to her that, if she earned the money, she could get contacts and show her how to put them in. But, in the meantime, she would have to wear the glasses.

The counter lady offered to go back and have them tinted for her. When she came back, the girl liked them better that way and stopped crying.

Ah, how fragile the psyche of the pre-teen. Oh, the pain of growing up.

In Dreams

One thing I didn't mention earlier about my Taos stay is that I stayed at the Sagebrush Inn, which is where Georgia O'Keefe stayed when in Taos painting her vagi-flowers. I stayed in what I think must be one of the original rooms. It was upstairs and relatively secluded an close to the lobby and restaurant. It also had to bedrooms with king beds, a fridge, and fireplace--which I didn't need. I only had two neighbors--one next door and one downstairs. I checked to make sure that I wasn't getting charged for the extra room and the clerk assured me that I wasn't. I guess they just ran out of singles and I lucked out.

I didn't much care about the extra bed, but the extra room gave me a place to work and practice my ukulele without having my neighbor pounding on the walls next door.

I don't hold with a lot of the new-agers who believe that Taos has some magical quality (the mountains humming and all that). It could be true, but I'd rather concentrate on the explainable.

One thing I did notice was the frequency and intensity of my dreams. Our fiction workshop leader mentioned this too. He had several nightmares while in Taos. I didn't have nightmares, but each night I would have an intense dream full of archetypal goings-on. I would awake, then fall back asleep, have another dream, wake up again, fall back asleep again, have yet another dream, and so on until morning. I probably had at least three such dream per night. I would have written them all down, but I would never have gotten any sleep.

A product of the Taos hum? Maybe. But it could have been the altitude. It could have been a product of the intense weather. It could have been because I kicked in full gear with the creative process all week and my subconscious just wanted to join me.

On a practical note, when cleaning my glasses, I forgot my strength and twisted the frame, which threatened to just break for the first half of the week and then finally did on Wednesday. So I spent the last three days having to hold my glasses to face so I could read.

Among the topics for the week-long workshops, for those who are interested: Writing Poetry that Matters, Writing for Change (non-fiction), Writing Your Family Story, Writing a Screenplay, Mystery Writing.

The website: Taos Writers's Conference


As long as I'm in the linking mood, here is a picture of last year's fiction workshop.

The guy next to me with the up-turned baseball cap is Dan Meuller, the workshop leader both this year and last year. He wrote a book of short stories called How Animals Mate. The girl in front of me was in both last year's workshop, as was the short guy on the end. But he isn't as cute.

Taos and Back

I just got back from Taos, New Mexico this afternoon. This is my third year attending the Taos Writers' Conference and I always feel refreshed when I get back.

I drove across the desert from Mo Val to Taos. My original plan was to drive the whole distance like I did last year, but that plan changed as I drove into Arizona at about midnight and saw the thunderclouds in the distance. They were amazing to behold, but the rain they brought with them made me decide to play it safe and check into a motel in Kingman. Didn't need the extra challenge of rain coming down in the dark.

It rained off and on the whole trip and. When I arrived Friday Night, it began to rain pretty hard and kept up the whole weekend--stopping on Monday. Usually, Taos is sunny and hot, with the occasional winds or showers. But this was a constant downpour.

I took a weekend poetry workshop during which time we wrote about four poems each. Rough drafts, of course--but I felt that each had possibilities and plan on revising them this week. The workshop group met in an upstairs meeting room. Strange thing was that we had two participants out of the 12 who had major injuries that made walking up stairs difficult for them. One young lady had some kind of leg injury and used a crutch. The other injured was this poor woman who looked like she must have had some major car accident or something. She wore a neck brace, had to pad her chair with special cushions, and used a walker to get around. The hotel provided assistance for her, but I was surprised that no one offered to change meeting rooms to accommodate her.

The week-long workshop was for fiction. That focused primarily on stories we had brought with us. We spent the week reading one another's stories and critiquing them. The participants ranged from amateurs, like me, to published authors. One 72-year-old lady had written one book, her memoirs, and gotten them published. Another woman had just signed a three-book deal with a publisher and was in the process of re-writing the first one.

Didn't do much of the touristy stuff. I've already done most of that in Taos. When I wasn't meeting with my workshop, I was either reading, writing, or walking. There are lots of walking paths behind the hotel, but there are also packs of wild dogs that lurk there. One lady told me of her encounter with three dogs who weren't very friendly. So I just created a civilized trail for myself at Kit Carson Memorial Park and environs and walked that every day.

Anyway, I'll post some of the stuff once I've had a chance to revise it.

My Short Hiatus Explained

It has been difficult this summer to do many of the things that I have vowed to do because of outside stuff, some of which has been worthwhile, some of which has not. In spite of everything, I have managed to eat better, exercise almost every day, and write almost every day (mostly on this blog).

The reason I haven't written anything here for the past four days has been because I have been working on a short story and trying to get it finished in time for the writers' conference that's coming up.

I had one in the can from a while back, but decided that I should come up with something new. It started out to be very short, but, after working on it, it has grown to almost 13 pages.

I haven't written much short fiction. I didn't used to think I had any ideas. Recently, I have discovered that our memories are our ideas. We all have stories to tell.

Anyway, that's about as much writing about writing as I can do. I'll probably either post what I've got here or send it to those of you who might want to see it.

Singers Who Can't Sing Goes Broadway

Now that I think of it, how many actors who have won acclaim and/or awards for their performances in musical theater did so without being able to sing? I can think of a few people who created their roles in original Broadway productions, yet their singing ability was not technically good. They depended more on their ability to sell the song as a part of the characters they portrayed.

1. Carol Channing comes to mind. She played Dolly in "Hello Dolly, as did

2. Pearl Bailey. Those of you who remember her might disagree, but, while she could project, I'm not sure her voice was all that good. But she had the ability to infuse her energy into a song.

3. Zero Mostel in Fiddler and A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.

4. Yul Brynner in the King and I.

5. Richard Burton in Camelot.

6. Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady.

7. Mel Ferrer in Man of La Mancha.

8. Peter O'Toole in the film version of Man of La Mancha. I know they dubbed another singer into that one, but he couldn't sing either.

10. Sophia Loren in the same film. She wasn't dubbed, but who cares?


Maybe those last three don't really count. But I needed at least ten to feel complete.

Singers Who Can't Sing

A recent post on Howlin' Hobbit's
blog made me think about all of the singers that I like who can't really sing. I have gotten into heated arguments with friends and family over some of these. People in their fan base love their music so much that they just can't hear the fact that their actual singing isn't very good, but it somehow makes the music work. Still, from a purely aesthetic standpoint, their voices are not "good" singing voices. If you were a teacher in a music class and one of these guys enrolled incognito and then sang for you, you would probably choke.

That does not mean that they shouldn't sing. In fact, many of these performers have a genuine drama in their voices that recreates the song anew.

When I was in musical theater, there were always people in the cast who, when they got a solo, would go "pretty" with it every time, instead of going "character." As a result, their solo would just sound horribly wrong.

Even guys like Frank Sinatra or Tony Bennett, after their voices have long lost the youthful timbre that made them stars, still manage to carry the song with the shear drama of their voices coupled with their ability to interpret.

Here is my top ten list of singers who can't sing but should nonetheless keep singing. If you disagree, just try to imagine each of them singing "Some Enchanted Evening" and tell me it would sound as good as Enzio Pinza. Or, on the other hand, try to imagine Enzio Pinza singing "Walk on the Wild Side" or "Vertigo."

1. Louis Armstrong (of course he can't keep singing because he's dead
2. Moms Mabley (see Louis)
3. Sonny Bono (see Moms)
4. Bono (Okay, I admit I included Sonny Bono just so I could follow him with Bono)
5. Lou Reed
6. Neal Young
7. Marianne Faithful (the older version)
8. Bob Dylan
9. Mick Jagger (Okay, maybe he should stop now)
10. Tom Waits
11. Muddy Waters
12. Carol Channing
13. Johnny Rotten
14. As long as I mention Johnny, why not Joe Strummer?
15. Van Morrison
16. Johnny Cash
17. Leon Russel

Okay, so that's seventeen.

Folk Fest haiku

When I arrived at the Folk Fest and finally got my tent up. I folded out my lounge chair and watched the sun set. As background music, all coming from different directions and distances, I had various camp jam sessions, the band at the contra dance, and a group of fiddlers at the outdoor concert stage playing at the same time. The music was both cacaphonous and melodic, kind of like a piece by Charles Ives.

The next morning, I sat watching the horizon again as the sun rose higher from behind me.

But the first haiku was inspired by this bird who kept attacking my window at school.

junkyard landscape:
oriole perches on fence
then flies into window

red sun sinks behind mountain
owl’s silhouette glides across horizon
at dusk

a thousand frogs croaking at night
I lean over the bridge silence

vulture’s circle
an airplane cuts a straight line
across the sky

Mt Rub Haiku

When I walk the Rub with Do, or anyone else, we usually talk. But when I walk alone, I try to be open to noticing something new. These haiku are products of the alone walks. You may have read the images elsewhere in this blog.

red-tailed hawk
perches atop dying tree
studies hikers below

hummingbird grasps branch
nape and throat shimmer ruby and green
no escape

the mountain top:
we watched the rain
spray the valley

wind blows my hat off
sunset colors the clouds
trapped by the mountain range

hiker reaches the peak
chats on his cellphone
spectacular view

rain fills river bottom
the water’s shimmering v’s
birds fly in formation

dabs of cloud
drift across cobalt sky
hide, then reveal random stars

2/3's of the Canaries

Open Mike again. A small crowd, due in part to the heat and maybe in part to the earlier start and maybe in part because people are on vacation.

A lot of new folk there. A lot of youngsters, a lot of whom either knew each other or were just very entertained by many of the performers.

UF sang a song with the word "Motherfucker" in it. I think it rhymed with something. Both of his songs excelled.

This one guy who will remain nameless at one point began beating the time on his guitar case when other people sang. That annoyed me. I kept thinking of something the teacher of my bones workshop said yesterday. Just because you can find the beat doesn't mean you should invite yourself to play along. Percussion is supposed to decorate the song. This guy has also taken to making comments to the performers that aren't especially funny.

A lot of talent once again. This guy named Spiro (like the Agnew) especially wowed the audience. I know he had some fans there because some ladies behind me knew his songs.

Billy C got there late and had to be coerced by me to go ahead and play the two songs he had brought with him.

I sang Quinn the Eskimo and America, Here's My Boy. I used a cheat sheet. Neither were songs I had originally planned on performing. I decided at the last minute to perform them because I wasn't secure about the two I had originally wanted to do. Next time. I kind of knew these two songs, but never really commited them to memory, hence the cheat sheet.

A young man and his daughter performed a song with her singing and him playing the mandolin. She was very young and very nervous. The audience began clapping along, which I think both made her more nervous and also made it difficult for her to establish her own pace. Anyway, she was cute and the audience loved her.

Special Ed--who usually gets there early, sets his guitar at the door before it opens, and then leaves until the just before the door does open and claims first place in line--got there late because he didn't get the memo about the earlier start time. He usually plays and then leaves. Tonight, he had to play towards the end, which meant that he had to wait for others to perform.

I have a problem with people who play and leave all of the time, unless they are really really good. It disrupts the community feeling.

Billy C sang two really good songs: I Go to Pieces and No One Cares for Me.

It was a good night.

Jammin' with the Big Boys

Just got back from the Folk Fest. Due to plans to cancel it, followed by a last-minute influx of funding, followed by a rushed scheduling of acts and workshops, attendance was lighter than last year. Last year, I got there late and almost didn't find a place to camp. This year, I got there close to the same time and practically had my choice of sites. Fewer vendors showed up this year, which only matters kinda. I like to browse, but don't like the temptation.

A lot of good workshops. A beginners' marimba workshop looked like the surprise hit. 10 minutes after it began, music from these multi-sized marimbas ensued with abandon. They played bass marimbas, soprano marimbas, tenor marimbas, all kinds. Whomever ran the workshop provided them. And let me tell you, the participants had a wild time. A few of these workshops tend to be pedantic, like the one I started the hour with. I left and followed the music. I would have joined in, but the line was too long and the marimbas were too few. Sad that they only gave one workshop.

When I say that some workshops are pedantic, that doesn't mean that I don't learn anything. Almost every workshop leader had me making music before the workshop ended. But each leader spent a little too much time on history or personal anecdotes.

The big news is that I took my Fluke and sat in on a blues jam. At one corner of the fest, they schedule different styles of jams. I decided that I would go to this one and sit and listen and maybe join in.

I sat in the outside circle, where the less experienced usually sit while the pros in the inner circle take turns soloing.

I was the only ukulele. For the most part, when the leader shouted out the song and the key, I worked it out. Most of the songs had only three or four chords and I didn't solo and they didn't ask me to leave. Yahoo!

Your Baggage Has Been Delayed

I swear that my training as a world traveler--that which has always begun with the mantra "pack light, pack light, pack light"--should have kicked in before I left for Pennsylvania. But, like so many accidents and mishaps in life, I instead listened to the little voice that said "Don't worry about it." I took three bags: my fluke in its case, my laptop, and a bag with clothes and stuff.

I could have just bee-lined for a music store or pawn shop and bought either a cheap uke or a really nice one and played that during my visit. I could have left it there for my nephew and whomever to mess with. Or, if it had been a collectible, I could have figured out a way to carry it with me on the return flight. Either way, someone would have ended up with a ukulele.

I could have gone a week without my own computer. But the reason I bought the laptop was so I could take it with me and write, which would have been difficult on the one computer at my sister's house, since everyone uses that all of the time.

I could have just packed bare necessities and combined uke with regular travel stuff.

Anyway, the marginally positive thing about it is that, if I had bought one of those vintage ukes at Buck's County Music, I would have probably had to pack either that or my fluke and checked it in with my other bag, which got lost. I don't know how they lost it. It was a non-stop flight. All they had to do was put it on my plane and there it would be--no stop-overs where they could transfer it to the wrong plane.

Next time, I won't pack anything I can't carry on.

The Hiker and the Bass Player

I spent a week in Downingtown, PA visiting my sister and her family for the occasion of my eldest niece's high school graduation-that, and the fact that it might be the last time I could count on everyone being together for any length of time in the future. Of course, since all of the kids are teenagers with jobs and active social lives, we rarely were all together at the same time anyway. But I did get valuable face time with each of them.

Downingtown is a small town and there isn't much to do. But it also has some beautiful scenery, so I used that as an excuse to walk for about an hour almost every day. My sense of discipline was in high gear and it paid off--at least as far as my blood pressure goes, as it was way down. Today, for example, it was 107/71 which is a significant drop.

Mt. Rub is nice, but nothing compared to walking the Strubel Trail that runs parallel to the Brandywine River. Lots of green. Lots of shade. One day, while walking with my sister, my younger niece, and their dog, we actually saw a deer wander out on the trail.

On Saturday morning, I awoke especially early. It was the day of my return flight and I slept little. So, around 7 AM, I figured that I may as well get one last walk in before I left. I could sleep on the plane that afternoon if I needed to.

I discovered a variation on my standard route and followed it, not sure if I would get lost--but it's pretty hard to get lost in Downingtown. Keep your eye on a couple of prominent landmarks and you can find your way.

As I finished my walk and returned to my sister's house, I passed some apartments in the area--old apartments that could use some refurbishing. Outside of one, a man carried a large case with a stand-up bass in it that it looked like he was going to try to fit into a car that looked to small. He set it down to bring out some sound equipment.

As I passed, he greeted me and asked "Are you a hiker?"

I said "No, I'm a walker. Are you a bass player?"

"Yeah," he said. "Do you play?"

"Not bass. My axe is the ukulele."

"Alright," he replied. "Do you play around here?"

"No, I just play around the house."

"Well, that's cool too."

"Yeah, my brother and I sometimes play at open mikes back home along with my nephew."

"Hmmmm, I oughta look into getting me one of those."

The Canaries at the Backstreet

For a Mom's-eye review, check out Vivage.

The three of us arrived at the Backstreet, a local one-of-kind sandwich shop, where our friend Luigi Canario plays ambient guitar music on Wednesday nights. Luigi is a classical guitarist who used to play in a band called Sterno and the Flames when we was kids. A lot of local folk of legend were involved with that band.

So, aside from listening to Luigi's musical stylings, we knew that he would let us do something during one of his breaks. We each did a song. Billy C sang I Go to Pieces. I sang I Wanna Be Like You. Blowhard Canary sang Don't Think Twice. Then, we sang I Shall Be Released. The crowd ate it up.

Princess Canary then came up and wanted to sing Amazing Grace with us. We had sung this a capella at one of our rehearsal's at Mom's apartment. We tried playing our instruments this time, but we were not tuned and we couldn't agree who the culprit was. I tuned my uke to Billy's (my uke was losing its tuning because the pegs need to be adjusted), but things were still not happening. Blowhard sounded out of tune to me. But what we really need to do is rehearse these things. Also, Princess needs to join us more because she has a really sweet voice.

My childhood friend Curt (not a Canary) came in with his lovely wife Joanie and an older couple after we had finished the songs we sang well. During Amazing Grace, the older gentleman walked up to the stage and began clapping either with us or for us, I'm not sure.

Later, when I joined their table, he began talking to me and I learned that he was from Denmark. I couldn't figure out much of what he was talking about beyond that. It wasn't a language barrier. Rather, he had trouble putting his thoughts together. At one point, he had me touch the side of his head, where, under his hair, I felt a pronounce dent. It became clear that he had had a severe head trauma of some sort and that he had been explaining to me how it happened and how the doctors had treated it. At that point, his wife asked whether I understood that her husband was a stroke survivor and his head injury took place when he fell from said stroke and that he had to re-learn how to speak and do almost everything else.

I then learned that he had been the most prominent architect in town and had signed the plans of almost every major building project in town, including the cross at the top of Mt. Rub, most of the schools in town, the refurbishing of Mission Inn, the Museum of the Desert, and many many more.

I sat and talked (actually listened) to him for at least an hour--having to really work my deciphering antennae extra hard. In addition to talking in numbers (he had been an excellent mathematician), he also had a problem with gender referents. When Curt had left to go talk to Luigi and the other Canaries, he asked Joanie, "Where is your wife going?"

There were times when I don't know what he was saying at all. But he was a nice man--very cheerful. His wife even said that, although he sometimes made her crazy, he was always so sweet to her, both before and after his stroke, that she felt lucky. Sometimes stroke victims' change of personality can bring out the worst in them.

I capped off the night by taking a look at Curt's electric car. It's a Ford Think, which has been discontinued for a long time now. He bought it from a car dealer in San Diego. It looked like a golf cart. Good for surface streets, but not allowed on the freeway--but, these days, getting on the freeways doesn't get you anywhere very quickly anyway.

An Autistic Classroom

My sister invited me to her classroom recently. She is an instructional aide working with autistic kids. The regular teacher has been out for quite awhile, due to a medical emergency that became more complicated when they tried to treat it, so they have had a couple of long-term substitutes. So, in reality, the instructional aides have been running things and my sister is the senior-most instructional aide.

The deal was that I could come to her class on their last day of school and play my ukulele for them. Each student's program is highly individualized, so their aren't many times during the day that all of the students gather as one class. Instead, each student usually does their own thing. As opposed to the usual room filled with desks in rows, this class room is set up with activity centers, with lots of cubicles to help the students concentrate. I noticed that, even when they are all gathered in the play area, each student seems disengaged from the other students, unless one ventures into another's space.

So, most of the time, I provided ambient music. I practiced mostly the more difficult songs that I have been learning.

There are seven elementary school-aged boys in this class and almost as many adults to see to their needs and intervene if any of them act out inappropriately. Trust me, each instructional aide and teacher that enters this classroom has their work cut out for them.

Eric was the first student in the door. He was to receive an award for being promoted to the middle school next year, as well as one for art. I offered my hand to shake. He took it and shook it for a while. Sis had to cue him to stop. Eric was a pretty calm kid otherwise. My sister says his artwork is pretty wonderful.

Joey reminded me a little of Eeyore. He spoke with a slow, forlorn cadence of one for whom life had been a struggle. When my sister introduced me, she mentioned that I had diabetes (type 2). I asked him if he had diabetes, to which he replied, "unfortunately yes." Joey blood sugar needs to be monitored pretty carefully by the staff.

My sister later told me a Joey story, where the class had gone to a place called Rita's to get some Italian Ice stuff, what ever it's called. She told Joey that he cold have some, but he'd have to get two "mosquito bites" (insulin shots). Joey thought for awhile and finally said that he'd take both the mosquito bites and the ice. Later, my sister asked him if it was worth it, to which Joey replied "You bet."

Joey has to get his blood tested before he gets on the bus for home because, if it's too high or too low, he could have a serious problem. The day I visited, Joey tested low. The nurse at the office gave him a couple of sugar tablets and tested him again and his blood sugar was even lower. It took awhile to get it right.

A student named King was one of the most interesting students. He was a cute kid, skinny with buck teeth. He had one man, Mr. Tom, who spent the whole day monitoring just him. King sometimes would invade other people's space and had a problem with biting people at one time. King also had very poor communication skills and severe Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. My sister told me that there would be times that King would just get locked into an OCD cycle that he could not get through and would just roll around on the floor until it passed.

Mr. Tom brought King over to me and said "King really likes music." King's toothy smile told me as much. I then noticed his two dinosaurs that he had with him. The whole time we were in the classroom, King would alternate between dinosaurs, clicking one against his teeth three times, putting it in his pack, then taking the other out, clicking that with his teeth, walk around the room, then go back to his pack and repeat the process. At one point, King approached me, holding the dinosaur close to his face and, just inches from my face, whispered "Grrrr," clicked the dinosaur against his teeth, and scrambled back to exchange it with the one in his pack.

At the awards assembly, King suddenly jumped up and got really close to a random man in the audience. Mr. Tom quickly followed King and gently guided him back to his seat.

Like most people, Most of what I knew about autism I got from "Rainman." I had also read the novel The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, a novel told from the point of view of an autistic kid.

But I had never seen autism in real time before. The day left me feeling proud of my sister and the work she does.

Dream #5

I was leaving the Riverside Brewery. I had parked my car under a bridge on a busy street. As I walked out, I saw this guy climbing into a burgendy colored van. He had to squeeze between my car and his because our cars were right next to each other. There was no room for him to be getting in between the two cars, so I was amazed that he could do it. Once he got in his car, he purposely slammed his door into the side of my car and he and these other two guys laughed and began to drive off.

I ran to my car and somehow, even though the car had sped off, the guy in the back, who looked like a former student of mine, a big football player, was able to stick his head out and get in my face, telling me "You better check your car. These guys ripped you off. If I was you, I'd stop the traffic."

Sure enough, they had broken into my car. Nothing was gone. But the dashboard was torn up and lots of junk was scattered around. As I closed the car door, I noticed that, while not scratched or dented, the door was smeared with burgundy paint.

The Flat Tire Principle

Once they had started boarding the flight, Nick allowed a nervous looking woman to go ahead of him, which he immediately regretted when he noticed her dragging a huge carry-on with wheels. As he followed her through the tunnel to the plane, he noticed her unsteady shuffle, as if perhaps she had been drinking before the flight. As he followed. She weaved a bit and, just as she was about to enter the plane, took an unexpected turn, tipping her carry-on over on its side. She apologized and righted her bad with his help. Yeah, she had been drinking alright.

He found that they were to be aisle-mates at the bulkhead as she stopped in front of him.

The flight attendant took one look in her bag and said, "That's too big, honey. We have a full flight and won't be able to stow that in the overheads. You'll have to check it in."

"I'm NOT going to check it in," she replied.

"Well, I don't we're going to have enough room."

A nice man took a bag out of the overhead and stowed it under his seat so she'd have more room.

"Excuse me, sir," she said, "but would you mind helping me with my bag? It's too heavy for me to lift."

Nick knew that she was talking to him. But he had already decided that he didn't want anything to do with her. She had already proven that she was going to be a pain in the ass to anyone who dealt with her. So why should he get involved. Besides, he thought, if you can't lift it, you shouldn't carry it on the plane. That's why they call them carry-ons.

Nick pretended he didn't hear her. Five times.

Someone finally helped her and she sat down.

Nick inventoried his flight-gear-not because he could do anything to change it if he had forgotten something, but because he needed the reassurance that he had remembered everything. He had worn his all-cotten longsleeved shirt and pants, for when the plane went down. Cotten, because it would burn before your skin, giving you a better chance for survival, long sleeves and pants for full body protection. Boots instead of shoes or sandals, because you never knew what you might step on or trip over in a falling airplane. His lucky hat, for luck. A long work of classic fiction because he knew the plane would never go down if hadn't yet finished the book he was reading.

The lady across the aisle swiped her credit card to access the television service. placed the headphones over her ears and began nervously working a crossword puzzle. Multitasking to take her mind off her fear.

Nick could sense her madness.

She sat alone in her row. Nick had one other rowmate, with a seat between them.

"I guess we really lucked out," she said, clutching her armrests. "I never get to sit alone. We'll probably crash."

Nick couldn't believe his ears. Why did she have to go and jinx the flight like that? Didn't she know about the "Flat Tire Principle?"

Nick thought back to when he first learned of the Flat Tire Principle as a young boy. He and his family were going to Disneyland. They had happily been playing the alphabet game, when his mother said, "This has really been a fun drive so far."

"Yeah," Nick said, "I sure hope we don't get a flat tire."

Just then, a small explosion took place right behind where Nick was sitting. The car swerved a little to the right of the road and several other drivers honked their horns in agitation. Nick could hear the flip-flopping of the rear tire.

"Now why did you have to go and say that?" Nick's Dad asked him. "You know that's how people get flat tires. You never even think of flat tires when you're driving, boy. Ain't you got sense?"

Nick locked his seatbelt and the plane began to approach the runway. As it picked up speed, the cabin shook and Nick thought about how primitive airflight was. As the engines whistled and the plane took off, he turned to the woman and said "You know, if we all die tonight, it's your fault."

Dream # 4

I'm not sure how much I'll remember except that there was some kind of science fair going on in the school gym and several of my students were involved. But the science wasn't really science. It was more like the students had each perfected some sort of magic trick.

I found my self in my classroom, except it was angular and dreamlike, not at all practical for desks or students. Not many students were there. I eventually figured out that most of them were at the science fair.

My friend Bob appeared from out of nowhere, his beard trimmed down to the stubble, his waistline down to what it was probably 10 years ago (he's a big guy). He had a worried look on his face, like he had just witnessed something horrible. When he told me what was wrong, it didn't seem like a big deal to me.

The only reason I remember any of this is because Bob looked so deathly afraid of something.

Dream #3 : The Diddies

We drive a van down Mission Inn Blvd past the Unitarian and Congregational Churches. From the directions of both the Public Library and Municipal Museum, a mob has taken over the streets. Billy C shouts, "It's the Diddies!"

Who and what the Diddies are is unclear, but they look like regular people. Among the faces of the Diddies I see former students. They are throwing rocks and sticks at passing cars, stopping as many as they can and pulling the passengers out and attacking them, though they don't seem to do anything more than robbing them and scaring them.

The other passengers in my car are horrified when the Diddies manage to stop our van. They pull us out. My briefcase hangs from a strap on my shoulder. A young, unshaven man with curly hair glasses rushes from behind me and attempts to take my bag. Instead, I grab the gym bag he carries and manage to pull it away from him.

The Diddies and their victims stop in silence and watch us. I walk over to the library fountain and threaten to drop his bag in it. He is frightened and tries to bargain with me to get me to promise not to drop it in the fountain.

After some discussion, I agree not to drop it in the fountain. Then, I turn to another nearby fountain and drop his bag in that instead.

Everyone is shocked at what I have done. I then give a speech which I cannot hear but must be on the level of the Sermon on the Mount, because almost everyone stops the violence.

I walk away, but am followed by four angry white men who are dressed like cholos. They intend to sneak up on me and attack me. I think they mean to kill me. Fortunately, I am very aware of them and swing my bag around to frighten them away. But they always come back.

I wake up.

There is no "I" in Canary

At tonight's open mike, the canaries reunited for a two-song set: "I Shall Be Released" and "Don't Think Twice." On the first, we each took a verse and harmonized on each chorus. Vocally, it sounded good. Instrumentally (Billy C and I on ukes, Blowhard C on guitar), I think we were a little more shaky. While it was mainly due to our rehearsal ethic, it was also due to the fact that we are playing the easy three-chord version when we need to learn the version I found on the internet that has more chord changes. Our instincts tell us that our fingers should be moving around more, but we don't know where exactly. I don't think anyone noticed this because the vocals sounded so good.

You may recall the last time we played "Don't Think Twice" with me on uke, Billy on ouvre, and Blowhard on vocals. I was going to play uke with Liam playing guitar this time, but the version he has taught himself throws in a few chords that my version didn't have and we didn't have time to rehearse it, so I just did a bodhrain thing on this hand drum Billy C had on hand. Funny thing is, again, my fingers have always told me that my version was missing some chords, but my brain didn't know what they were. I guess I don't have a jammin' instinct yet.

By the way, the reason I call him "Blowhard" Canary is in part because my nephew is a minor and I want to respect his anonymity and in part because, when the three of us attended that harmonica workshop, during one of the instances where we actually took out our harmonicas, he startled me with how well he could play the thing. So "Blowhard" is intended as a compliment.

The MC Jerry and another Folk Center employee broke out a couple of ukes and did a fine rendition of "Fisherman's Blues" with a cool little uke solo thrown in. That's the first song I did at open mike a couple of years ago when I was still pretty new at it. Jerry said he found the song on my blog, where I published my set list. Then he said that I should come down and we should play together some time.

I am always flattered when a real musician asks me to jam.

The Amazing Theo played tonight. The songs were a little more family friendly than in past appearances. Only two or three obscenities. Perhaps it was because some children were in the audience.

Speaking of which, this one young man brought his young daughter with him and she danced in front of the stage as he played an instrumental. When I say danced, I mean she twirled and jumped around, stopping occasionally when she felt self-conscious. It was pretty adorable.

UF played two songs: one about a dead goldfish and another about standardized testing. I hear him play his songs all of the time at school, but don't get to really hear them. They are both good songs. Of the nights I have heard him here, this was the best.

The variety of instruments tonight was quite high tonight: fiddles, mountain dulcimers, rain sticks, guys singing in french (I know that's not an instrument, but it was different), fiddles.

Actually, I couldn't tell if the little girl was playing a violin or fiddle. I could only tell that she was kind of new at this.

UF and I went to the local bar and drank non-alcoholic beverages and had a couple of appetizers before we left. We sat under a speaker that blared out reggae music. I took the opportunity to learn a reggae beat and he and I figured out the chords on the song being played. I think my white boy fingers finally got it.

The evening ended with UF and I standing on an all-but-deserted corner of Yale street at 11PM in front of this American Burger place, practicing my new reggae licks and discussing what a wonderful instrument the uke really is.

As we turned to go our separate ways, I could hear the strumming of his ukulele bouncing off the city streets as it slowly drifted away into the twilight.

Alfred Hitchcock Was Right

It was a quiet, foggy morning in Moreno Valley, CA. My seniors had all checked out of school, leaving me with a free fourth period. Our paperwork for our updated benefits package was due at the District Office, so I left campus to turn mine in and beat the rush.

Upon my arrival at the DO, I parked at the far end of the crowded parking lot, got out of my car, and walked towards the office building. I had to walk under a tree between two hedgerows when, from out of nowhere, I heard this screeching sound and the angry flapping of wings. Tiny claws grabbed the back of my silky grey locks and scratched at the back of my head. I swept the air behind me and it went away, only to sweep down and attack again. The coward attacked from behind, so I had no idea what it was or why it was attacking me, at first. But, after the second attack, I realized that it was a bird of some sort and that it perceived me as a threat.

I turned around after getting away from that tree, and saw a starling
. At least I think it was a starling. I know Psittaciformes
, but not too much about starlings.

That starling sat atop someone's SUV glaring at me and scolding me for encroaching upon its territory.

According to an article I read once, starlings aren't even native to this continent. Some early, wealthy British colonist got it in his head that he should bring all of the birds mentioned in Shakespeare's poetry to populate the New World. I guess the starling was his greatest success in that they were very competitive and aggressively pushed other bird species out of their way. They are the white people of the bird world.

Anyway, I don't like guns or hunting. But those of you who do, feel free to avenge me.

Dream #2

I've had a couple of more dreams. I have awaken from a couple that I thought I would never forget and shortly afterwards forgotten them. I had one that I might take to the conference, but would not share here.

I had one that I forgot that came back to me in fragments as I walked the Rub this evening.

I was in a large, white, unfurnished room. There were several men and women all around me, all in fisherman's gear, all practicing casting with their fly rods. There were hooks on the end and I was worried about getting hooked by one. I asked them to please either stop or be more careful. My tone was more angry than frightened, the way I would be if someone were smoking in a restaurant. They all refused.

10 Sure-Fire Money-Making Booths I'd Like to See at a Street Fair

I stopped by the Orange Blossom Fair on my way home from my Saturday gig because,in part, a student of mine had some paintings hanging at one of the art booths. I didn't see him, but I saw his two paintings. One was a man standing under a moon and a cactus standing under the sun. The other was a thing with a tribal mask and a sideways Kabuki and/or Elvis face hovering over a city-scape, also sideways.

I don't know art.

I also thought I'd get myself a big floppy hat for summertime at this booth Do told me about.

I also thought that I'd check out the fair, since I've never gone.

So I walked around and found the hat place fairly quickly. $20 bucks and full head coverage for those hot, sunny days of summer. It ain't attractive, but it covers my head. Liked it so much I got one for Mom when we take her out in the sun, which doesn't happen often, but it happens.

Soon, I located the booth where Spicoli, my student, said he would be with his art. Before checking the art, I decided to get something to eat.

There was typical fair fare: funnel cakes, corn-on-the-cob, falafels, various types of phallic organ meats.

There was a beer garden of sorts with several micro-breweries on display. I don't drink anymore, but I checked it out for the food possibilities. As I entered, I witnessed one of the many reasons why beer at a public function is a bad idea. This drunken kid and his drunken girlfriend were arguing with this poor rent-a-cop about why they couldn't take their 3/4's full cups of beer with them out onto the main thoroughfare. There were signs going in and signs going out that mentioned that all beer had to stay within the boundaries, and everyone else seemed to understand that, but this guy kept asking the same belligerent questions: "Don't they sell beer in other booths? What's the big deal?"

The big deal is that assholes like this guy should be kept in as confined a space as possible so fewer people have to deal with him.

I stopped by a kabob stand after studying what was being served. I ordered a kabob and was surprised to see that I got just that-a kabob and nothing else. I had to ask for a fork and a napkin. No knives. No side-dishes. No water.

It was a delicious, chicken-flavored charcoal kabob. The problem with most street faire food is that it sounds like a good idea until you bite into it. I wish there were a natural law that said that, when you eat street faire food and find it less tasty, its calories or cholesterol don't count.

Anyway, my top ten ideas for street fair booths that would be sure to make money:

1. A ukulele clinic. I saw a guitar and drum clinic, but there were few people there learning about the guitar or drum because, on a hot, sunny day, they're to hefty to carry around at a large street fair. I think ukuleles would be a better draw. They are small, unthreatening, easy to carry and you could have a kid playing one in no time.

2. A napkin booth. Most Faire food is sloppy food. The kabob I had was smothered in barbecue sauce to accentuate the delightful charcoal flavor. The two napkins I had were gone before I had finished half the kabob. You could charge $5 bucks for a set of six napkins.

3. A food exchange for people who begin to eat their food from another booth and immediately regret buying it. They might be willing to trade theirs in for someone else's mistake.

4. A vomitorium booth for people who eat bad street food. You could use ostrich feathers. In fact you could raise ostriches just for this pupose. After every visit to the vomitorium booth, the guest would once again have an empty stomache ready for the next (hopefully) tastey morsel. Emu feathers for the little'uns.

5. An Ostrich Burger booth for next year if the vomitorium doesn't take off as well as expected.

6. A drunk dunk tank for dealing with obnoxious drunks who don't know how to behave in public. When a person gets drunk, the rent-a-cops could just handcuff them and take them to the drunk dunk tank. This would be the same as a regular drunk tank, except the drunk would be handcuffed and helpless to swim around in the tank. You could have someone recue them before they drowned, if you wanted to.

7. A shade booth.

8. An atheist booth to hand out literature about our isloation in the universe.

9. An agnostic booth.

Every booth with any religious affiliation would have to be placed between an atheist and an agnostic booth. Hey, why should they have it so easy?

10. A panpipe smashing booth. These guys were entertaining when they first start popping up at these faires. But, hey, I've had enough. Give it a rest.

I still like bagpipes, though.

Dream #1

I am going to the Taos Writers' Conference again this summer. I just got letters from both workshop leaders. In these, they usually ask participants to complete specific writing assignments.

The leader for my poetry workshop has asked us to write down two sentences that represent authentic voices of people we know. So, if your a friend of mine and I ask you to repeat something you said and then try to write it down, you know why. Please continue to try to sound authentic.

The other assignment is to write down four dreams we have had. I have been having a little anxiety over this. Other than the dream about the angry bunnies, I can't think of one. Part of that is because I have been asked to. I think, because dreams are of such a personal nature, my subconscious is blocking them. The only thing that comes to mind are the usual flying, falling, swimming type dreams.

By the way, when I fly in my dreams, I am usually flapping my arms and am in an upright position and I need to make a walking motion to go forward. If I stop any of these, I begin to fall.

So, lately, I have had trouble remembering my dreams. If I do remember when I get up, I'm usually in such a hurry to get to school, that I don't take the time to write them down. When I find myself at school behind a desk with a pen and paper, I have already forgotten the dream.

I think also, because I have had trouble getting a full night's sleep lately, I'm just not alseep long enough for a dream to really get going and make an impact on me.

So, last night, I got to bed early and really got a good night's sleep.

Here's my dream before it dissipates into the light of day:

I am at a high school dance. It is outside in kind of a surreal twilight setting. In fact, it seems to be at the church I grew up in, an old, stately building-somber looking and dignified. Students from my school are all dressed up. They are all dancing. They all want to see me dance.

My sisters appears. We begin dancing. The dancers are not doing any contemporary dances. Instead, they are doing ballroom-type dances. In fact, it is a pretty quiet dance for a high school dance. Everyone is dancing on either the lawn or the parking lot, with the church in the background.

So my sister and I are dancing and doing pretty well. We dip towards the end of the dance. Then, as a joke, we continue dipping until we are on our asses. Then, I continue the dip even further, and we are on our backs.

We laugh. Then we start to get up-my sister first. But she can't get up. Every time she tries, she falls back over. She lifts her butt first and tries to steady her legs and just collapses. I notice that her legs are malformed at the knee, kind of long and skinny, and realize that she might never get up again.

Still sitting on the ground, I become very self-conscious of the fact that I too might have trouble getting up. I try very slowly and find my legs indeed are wobbly. After a couple of attempts, I do get shakily up. But it's clear that it isn't easy. In fact, everyone at the dance notices and is concerned. A car drives by and my sister, still having trouble standing, gets in and speeds off.

That's about where I woke up.

When I began this, I thought I'd try analyzing it. But I think I won't-at least not in writing. I believe that dreams are methods used by our brains to resolve issues that we can't resolve in reality. For example, if your boss is an ass, and he treats you like crap, but you need the job and can't really do anything about the problem, your brain tries to take care of it at night so, at least partially, your brain can feel like the problem has been dealt with. In reality, the problem might still exist, but the tension is relieved a little bit as far as your brain is concerned.

Bruce Springsteen's "The Pete Seeger Sessions"

Billy C, Princess Canary, and I recently took an expedition to the Folk Center to check out ukes and just hob-nob about the lovely town of Claremont a couple of weeks ago. While there, I bought the latest open mike DVD and some nifty wound soprano uke strings. I thought I would transfer my Nyl-guts to my Oscar Schmidt and put these new honeys on my Harmony.

After our visit, we went the eatery next door and got some fine grub. Then, we adventured over to the Rhino Records store across the street. Billy wanted me to test-drive the new Springsteen CD, "The Pete Seeger Sessions," which has the Boss and a band of musicians jamming to tunes associated with Pete Seeger, the folksinger/shaman of the USA. He had this one song in particular that he wanted me to hear.

The nice tattooed girl at the check-out counter gave me the preview CD and I sauntered over to the listening station, placed the CD in the player, and put on a headset. I got no sound, so I adjusted the nob. Still no sound. I adjusted the nob again. Nothing.

Billy C went over and got a young lady with multiple piercings to come help me. She pointed out that I had the wrong headset on. Someone had put the headsets for my machine on top of the neighboring machine and had put that machine's headset on my machine. So I un-switched them, made a couple of self-deprecating jokes, and put the new headset on.

I couldn't figure out why the Princess and Billy would laugh every time I made a comment about the CD as I was listening to it. Apparently I was doing that thing where you talk loudly when wearing a headset because you forget that you're the only one for whom the music is loud. So, apparently, I was shouting at them and I guess people were staring at me.

But, what the hey, this CD is worth shouting about. It has a snazzy informal, jazzy feel to it. Springsteen pulled a folk music thingy by not just singing the songs, but re-interpreting them, making them contemporary. Heck, he showed how timeless these songs are.

I remember singing songs like "Ol' Dan Tucker" in elementary school, having no idea what it was about. Springsteen takes these and other songs and gives them the feel of news-worthy immediacy they must have had when our folk-fathers first created them. You could imagine Dan Tucker sitting there, clapping his hands and stomping his feet, laughing at what someone had been written about him.

Each rendition is a gem, but the ones that stand out to me are the gospel tune "Mary Don't You Weep" and "The Eerie Canal." Also, the Seeger staple "We Shall Overcome." Every time I hear that song, I get misty-eyed.

The Canaries Rehearse

After dinner tonight, we headed back to Mama C's assisted living apartment and rehearsed "I Shall Be Released" by Bro Bob. Blowhard (the nickname comes from his angelic abilities on the harmonica) C played his guitar, while Billy C played baritone uke and I played my fluke. We each took a verse and harmonized on the chorus, With Blowhard taking melody, Billy C taking tenor, and me singing baritone. Sounded sweet. There was a moment when it looked like we might start on another song, I think "Positively 4th Street," but I asked that we rehearse "I Shall Be Released again." I wanted us to come a little closer to nailing it than we had. Billy and Blowhard had a little more practice on it than I had, so I needed to go over it a few times. So, if we appear as the Canaries again, that will be one of the songs.

Can You Hear Me Now?

Remember the second installment of Star Wars? Not the second episode, but the second installment, The Empire Strikes Back. There was this bald guy who followed Lando Calrisian around. He never spoke and had this electronic gizmo around his head, covering his ears. No one ever explained who he was, what he did, or what the gizmo was. The only time it was ever hinted at who he was and what the gizmo was for was when Lando realized that he had to help Leah and the robots escape aboard the Millenium Falcon because all hell was about to break loose. At that moment, the bald guy and Lando shot one another a knowing look. At that point, I surmised, all of the little lights in the bald guy's head Gizmo started broadcasting instructions into the Millenium Falcon's data base and perhaps notifying all of Lando's loyal friends to get the Hell out of Dodge.

The bald guy and his gizmo were there for these types of emergencies-at least that's what I surmised. I figure now that this gizmo was an old-school futuristic rendition of a cell phone. If the film had been made in this day and age, or if George Lucas could digitally fix it, the bald guy would be wearing one of those ear-pieces that you see on the streets today.

I bring this up because today I am at the RCC Reading and Writing Center and my friend and colleague (The Lee, as I call him), has just introduced me to one of our fellow adjunct instructors. The three of us chatted for awhile and I couldn't help but be distracted by this ear-piece she was wearing. It looked like one of those things Madonna wears onstage, except it had this wire that ran down the front of her blouse and ended at this little tiny microphone that was clipped near her collar.

These devices seem to be the rage. Many people whom I respect, including Billy C, wear these things. There was even this guy at the harmonica workshop
who played a blues harpo and wore one of these things. That just seems weird to me.

I have an old-school cell phone: big, awkward to carry in your pocket, always lost. I sometimes carry it with me. But I only use it grudgingly, since fewer and fewer places seem to have reliable payphones. Few people have the number because I don't want to get interrupted when I'm busy with something else.

I've always had a slight phobia about phones, since my days working retail in the Monkey Wards' Catalog Department. So I try to control their intrusions into my life. I can't imagine why anyone would want one around all of the time.

The first time I realized how behind the times I was occured when I went to grad school at the same university where I had earned my BA 20 years earlier. Back in the day, you would see mostly people walking around talking to each other. But the first thing I noticed in grad school was the number of people walking around talking on their cell phones. As I approached graduation, I began to see people walking around seeming to talk to themselves. These people, of course, had these little wire microphone things so they wouldn't have to hold the cell phone to their heads and get brain cancer.

Now, of course, they have these little ear-piece cell phones that you can just stick in your ear and go forth in a state of constant contact.

Puts a whole new meaning to the phrase "Be Here Now."

The North and The South

I didn't say anything tonight, but during the Mt. Rub walk, my body was talking to me about two different subjects at once.

Normally, since I am diabetic, I try to eat something before I exercise. I'm having to re-train myself in this regard. My afternoon didn't go as I had planned. I ended up in a books store because I ended up with an extra hour to kill. So I went and bought a copy of Emile Zola's GERMINAL, which my teaching partner wanted me to read. I went in the back to the froo-froo coffee place and ordered a lightly sweetened froo-froo coffee beverage and sat down to read for a little while.

When I finished, I figured that the milk and beverage would carry me through the hike, since I had a late lunch.

On my way to Mt. Rub, I got trapped by the usual 6 PM train that seems to always slow to a stop when your in a hurry. So I untrapped myself and went and got a few groceries for my lunch tomorrow. I thought about a preemptive trip to the restroom before my walk, since it takes around an hour and I had just had a froo-froo coffee beverage, but I was a little worried about being too late and Do was waiting and I didn't want to leave her hanging out there alone that close to dark.

When I finally got to the mountain, I was about five minutes late.

The walk went well until we began to round the first bend on our way back down. First, I began to feel nature's call. I thought about stopping somewhere and exercising the male prerogative of urinating at will, but the mountain was busy with walkers and I thought I could hold it for awhile.

Then, I began to feel a little hungry. This gradually built up to full-out bonking (when your blood sugar drops). I keep some energy bars in my car, which was 15 minutes away, so I figured I'd be okay. But, as I got closer, the bonking grew and I began to feel a little wobbly. I didn't say anything because I still thought I would be okay.

At the same time, my bladdular needs were increasingly increasing. It was a race between bodily urges.

I probably should have said something about the bonking to Do, but I didn't. But I did wonder if I would have to linger in my car while the energy bar entered my blood stream. Then I remembered that I had a case of orange juice in my trunk that I had not yet unloaded. So, when I got the car, I chugged that, which took less time to de-bonk me than the energy bar would have.

As far as the other need, let's just say I took care of that soon after.

And, by the way Do, if I seemed like I was losing interest in what you were saying and that I was in a hurry to get away, that's why. I was having a little trouble focusing.

Well, a few minutes with Zola, and I'm out.

Last Night of Class from Hell

I took a celebratory-late night walk up Mt. Rub tonight. I started pretty late, about 7:10 PM. But I had to exercise the polluted feeling I had from taking this damn class on English Language Development. God, it was horrible. And I'm not sure that anyone became a better teacher for it.

So, I'm done.

The walk did me good. It was around 8 when I wound around the mountain and started downhill, so I got to see the city at dusk and the clouds that blew in overhead as the wind swept around me and my fellow hikers.

I'm walking at a pretty brisk pace these days, when I walk alone. I might walk a little slower when walking with Do, but that's because we talk and talking slows one down. When I'm alone, I get going pretty fast. I'm going to try to walk every night this week.

Brother Can You Spare a Dime?

I was looking for the link to the chords and lyrics of "Brother Can You Spare a Dime," and I found the lyrics with the following intro, sans chords. Anybody know what the chords would be?

They used to tell me I was building a dream
And so I followed the mob.
When there was earth to plow or guns to bear,
I was always there, right on the job...

They used to tell me I was building a dream
With peace and glory ahead --
Why should I be standing in line, just waiting for bread?

The Angry Bunnies

This post by Howlin'Hobbit
reminded me of a dream I had about one of my phobias.

I don’t have many fears. In fact, most things that people are afraid of don’t bother me at all. I don’t mind being in an elevator, even when it’s stuck between floors. Heights only bother me a little bit. But I do have one irrational fear. It goes back to when I was a little boy.

When I was three years old, I was brutally attacked by my pet hamster. I remember it as clearly as if it was yesterday. I remember its beady, crazed eyes; its razor sharp teeth; its calm, quiet demeanor before the attack. If only I had known what it had in store for me.

Fluffy had just had a litter of baby hamsters. After this miraculous event, I would spend hours staring into her cage as the pink baby hamsters nuzzled her soft white belly fur, suckling on their mother's tiny hamster bazooms. I did not know that you’re not supposed to disturb a mother hamster and her young. They become irrational. My parents had warned me to leave her alone, but I was a curious child and often had to learn for myself. I had reached into the cage to pet Fluffy one too many times. She snapped and bit me on my finger, causing a geyser of blood to gush forth. I cried and screamed. My mother grabbed me and pulled away before it was too late. Blood spurted from my wounded finger, spraying the walls and furniture of our once-pristine home.

Fluffy then turned her back to me and cannibalized her children.

Since that time, I have had a fear of rodents. I won’t run from the room screaming if you show me one, but I do not like to hold them or pet them. I fear their teeth and try to avoid them at all costs.

I even have a recurring nightmare where I am hanging in a tall, narrow room, holding onto a chandelier for dear life. I am barefoot.

On the floor are several angry bunny rabbits (yes, I know that rabbits are not actually rodents, but remember this is an irrational fear). They are huge and their eyes are red with fury. Their teeth are longer and sharper than Fluffy’s were. They are leaping, snapping at my feet. My hands are sweaty, causing my grip to loosen.

But I cannot let go, or the angry, angry bunnies will get me.

My Set List

1. I Wanna Be Like You

2. Bears

3. Brother Can You Spare a Dime

4. Times Like These

5. Wayfaring Stranger

6. Fisherman's Blues

7. Little Red Riding Hood

8. Maggie's Farm

9. Quinn the Eskimo

10. Don't Think Twice, It's Alright

11. Daydream
12. Come on Up to the House

13. Wild Honey


There are probably others.

Works in Progress:

1. Over the Rainbow
2. Song to the Siren
3. Within a Mile from Home
4. Buster Keaton

In Defense of Tofu

This was going to be a reply to a comment from Do, but it turned into another blog entry.

My theory is that, often, it's not the meat, but the stuff we put on it that makes it flavorful. So, in most soy-based meat substitutes, it depends on what you do with it. The flavor, to me, comes from the fruits and vegetables anyway. So instead of ground meat, I put the ground soy substitute in my spaghetti sauce. Infact, my tasty version of spaghetti sauce is this:

1. Saute one chopped-u onion and as many chopped-up cloves of garlic as you can stand.

2. Add one package of soy crumbles and brown.

3. Dump in 1 can of lentil soup, one jar of tomato sauce, and one can of tomato paste.

4. Stir.

5. Simmer.

6. Glob it on some spaghetti or other pasta.

6A. Add some Parmesan cheese.

7. Eat.

8. I also sometimes scramble some eggs or egg substitute or egg whites and use that instead of adding the soy.

9. Either way, I don't miss the meat.

10. In honor of my late great friend Keith R, "That's what she said."

Yes, I am aware that most of us eat much more protein than we need. That's why I surround my protein with fruits and vegetables. And carbs.

Yes, I am aware that we eat far more carbs than we need, so I cut that down too. I'm not sure that I'm ready to go cold turkey on that yet. Or that I need to. My inner jury is still out on that one.

Barry Sears, the Zone guy, says that soy protein is good because it helps regulate your blood sugar (one of my concerns these days).

He also likes cottage cheese.

Cottage Cheese tip: mix about two cups of berries with three and 3/4's cups of cottage cheese and 1/4 cup eggwhite-based protein powder. Sprinkle on some cinnamon (also good for managing blood sugar, so they say) and nuts. MMMMMMMMboy! Try Greek-style yogurt instead of cottage cheese, even better.

When I do crave meat, I go organic, or at least free range. It is better for you and tastier, as is anything organic.

As for Tofurkey, stay away. Stay very away.

What's Good and Bad about Soy Protein

Ok. Before anyone hits me with the line about wanting to enjoy life and eating what tastes good and all of that, let me just say that, health-wise, I've reached a point where my body is saying ouch and I have started listening. I'm not on a diet so much as returning to eating foods that aren't going to kill me. I have never seen "Super-Size Me," but I have been living it for the past couple of years.

And, just so you know, I actually like fruits and vegetables. I also Have always been able to dabble in non-dead-animal types of food and enjoy many of them.

The only thing that has changed is that I am partially abandoning my previous eschewment of "substitutes." That is, I used to insist that any processed food that substitutes for the real thing (i.e. Silk instead of milk, Nice Dreams instead of ice cream), really only reminds you of that which you are doing without and, therefore, most people who try these things will only go back to that which is supposedly bad for you.

So, to lower my cholesterol, I have begun to use some meat substitutes. Maybe not permanently, but for now. Here are my thoughts about the good and bad aspects of each:

The good thing about TOFU is that it is cholesterol free. The bad thing is that it tastes like tofu, so you have to dress it up.

The good thing about SOY PROTEIN POWDER is that if you throw a dash of it into a cup of cottage cheese with lots of fruit and it give it a pudding-like consistency. The bad thing is that it tastes like soy protein powder and ruins the flavor. Egg protein powder has a more neutral flavor that compliments the fruity cottage cheesey concoction.

Soy Italian Sausage tastes ok. But it has a grainy quality and doesn't plump when you cook it.

Soy ground beef substitute is fine in a marinara sauce, which I think makes it a bolognese sauce, but has a more chewy texture.

Soy nuts and endame baked endame are a good source of protein, but soy nuts are a little too crunchy and endame aren't crunchy enough.

Non-soy cooking tip: If you mix egg substitute with egg white, you can make an omelet that looks almost like a normal omelet. If you put the egg white in the pan first and let it begin to cook and then put in the egg subsitute, it really begins to look like a real omelet.

Tofurkey is dressed up tofu. Tofurkey sausage is neither turkey nor sausage.

Oriole Spotting

I'm pretty sure it was an oriole. Black yellow, with a little white thrown in.

My Department Chair came in to ask me to run a meeting the next day, since he was not going to be there. So, while he rattled off stuff he wanted me to cover, my eyes drift the back window. And there, on the fence, sits this beautiful couple of birds. One has a bright yellow breast with oriole type markings. I have never seen one. I'm not sure if orioles even live out here in the Inland Desert. He was there with his girlfriend, who was less colorful-the way of most of our ornithlogical friends.

I shouted, "Look! It's an oriole!"

My DC turns around and looks.

"Yeah, nice. So discuss the new textbook adoption, and if you have time..."

"He's flying towards the window!"

My DC turns around again.

"Hm. Very nice. Then, let people know how much is in our budget...."

There isn't much that's pretty outside my window. A lake is located behind us, but you can't see it. What you do see is debris from the state park. It's an ugly view. But occasionally you see a bird or two.

Once, while lecturing, I saw a redtail hawk sitting on the fence. I've seen quite a few of these in the area, but never outside my window. So, I drop the lecture and say " hey, look, everybody!" and point at the window.

The students turn around, look, someone says "Hm, neat bird," and they turn back towards me.

They couldn't have been less impressed.

Is nature doomed?

Harmonica Workshop

Attended a beginners' harmonica workshop today at the Folk Center. The cost was $20, plus the cost of a harmonica. I couldn't find my Pocket Pal, so I sprung for a Hohner blues Harp, which cost $29.95.

I mean, what the hey.

A local blues harpist guy ran the workshop, which was pretty much a bust. The lesson here is two-fold: 1) Not all talented musicians are good teachers and 2) It is hard to teach a large group of people how to play a tiny instrument that you have to blow air into, or suck air out of, for that matter.

I had a similar experience during a pennywhistle workshop at the Folk Festival last summer. Didn't learn much there either.

At start time, the class was pretty small. The instructor stalled, or so it seemed, until the class size swelled to about 20 people. The attendees ranged from folk like me, who had barely ever attempted to play harmonica, to those who had elaborate harmonica cases, with Multiple harmonicas in different keys. Billy C brought Blowhard Canary with him, as did another father his son. A mother and daughter came. They looked like sisters.

The guy played a pretty good harp. But he spent the first 45 minutes of the two-hour workshop talking about other players, playing cuts from a couple of CD's, and talking about places where you could hear the blues or sit in and jam with the players. Gave us a few handouts that we could have gotten if we had just bought the book he copied them out of.

Most of the rest of the workshop was that way, with a few demonstrations by the teacher, interrupted by the occasional excuse for the class to blow into their own harps.

I mean, the guy could have had us in the palm of his hands if he had shown us how to play a scale. He could have followed that with a couple of progressions or techniques. I don't think people would have cared that they weren't playing any songs, as long as they learned how to move their slobbery lips back and forth a few times. It would have even given the actual players that showed up a chance to show off a bit-maybe even help the newbies out a little.

At the end, one of the players asked that the instructor teach an intermediate class where he shared some of his licks. Translation: teach us how to do something next time and we'll forgive you this time.

I asked Jerry who was teaching the uke workshop. They have never offered uke workshops before. This was for beginners, so I thought it might be a waste of time. But I was interested in taking a more advanced workshop. This workshop was cancelled because of poor turnout, but Jerry suggested that maybe I could teach one as I was farther advanced than the lady who would have taught the cancelled workshop.

I was flattered. Billy C and I talked about it a bit and thought we could co-teach. It would be fun to do it that way.

We had dinner at the Pizza and Such next door. We usually dine at Heroes, a local big food, beer, and wine establishment. By "big food," I mean that the portions are huge, as are the servings of beer and wine. But I have never had anything there that I thought was as good as it was big.

We had eaten at Pizza and Such once before and it tasted good. I had a salad (eating a lot of those these days), as did Virginia Canary. Mine was good and hers looked interesting. Tonight, I had a different salad, which was just as tasty as the other. So, it looks like Pizza and Such will be my future stop for eats on Open Mike Night.

Right now, I'm gonna get my Harmonica for Dummies book and my new blues harp and do some damage.