Hey, Baby, It's the Fourth of July!

By the way, Dave Alvin formerly of the Blasters, is playing at the Folk Center. I've got a ticket. Saw him several years ago, just after he left the Blasters. One of the best concerts I ever attended.

I spent my 4th of July at My friend Curt's hill-top home. Curt is a friend of mine, going back to before kindergarten. We've known each other for almost fifty years. Fell out of touch for awhile and have lately been re-connecting.

I used to spend my 4th's at the church where I grew up. My mother has been a member there since she was a teenager. Maybe longer.

Around here, the big fireworks display comes from atop Mt. Rube, a local landmark. Across a small valley, on another hill, sits the church, its parking lot and playground facing the Mountain. It's probably not a distance of even two miles. So the congregation gathers around and has a big potluck, culminating in the fireworks display. The fireworks are only one of the attractions-the other being the suspense of when one of the sparklers explodes too close to the ground and sets the side of the mountain ablaze. Last Monday, there were two fires-one of which spread pretty quickly before the fire department got to it.

The fire department is always on the ready, by the way. They have got it down to a science, allowing for just enough inferno to entertain without putting anyone in danger.

My friend's house sits at the top of another hill across the wider valley of Riverside. The fireworks aren't nearly as close as they are to the church. But, what you get in addition is almost an even trade-off. Sitting high atop the hill, gazing across the valley at the mountain, you can see all of the individual, illegal, fireworks displays going on in people's backyards. As time for the big display approaches, these smaller displays begin. Each sparkler jumps into the sky like a trout leaping out and diving back into a lake. When the big display gets going, the experience takes on a three-dimensional affect, with the smaller fireworks exploding a few yards in front of you, a half-mile away, a mile, and on, in all directions. From all angles, bursts of color that glow and dissipate into the dark.

Not a bad evening.

Coming Together, Parting Ways

The sis and family arrived today from PA. It is good to see them. Unfortunately, I leave on Thursday morning for Taos, NM. I will try to abbreviate my trip as much as possible, but I find more and more that driving that kind of distance needs to be paced out over a couple of days. I have the stamina, but not the will to drive that distance in one day.

So, tonight, I took three of my ukuleles to Mom's house, where sis and fam are staying, I brought two in and, when I had turned my back, they were in use. I brought a third in later for myself.

Billy Canary and Nephew Mike the Bassist were both noodling away. I had brought a few song books and left them there. When I leave for Taos, I will leave a couple of ukes there. The plan being that Nephews and/or nieces pick them up and learn to play them. I have about five non-relative converts to my credit and am aiming for at least two more from my family. Nephew Mike, as I have said, is a bassist. Nephew Liam is a percussionist, primarily, but plays several instruments. He actually purchased a baritone ukulele awhile back and has learned some songs. I guess my strategy here is to make my presence felt even when I'm not there.

I am torn about leaving just when they arrived. But this Taos Writers' Conference is something that I have been planning since attending in 2004. It is a great get-away. And this year, more than most, I need a get-away. I have learned that one essential element for a successful retreat is knowing what you are retreating from. I need time away from my mother and her illness. She has Parkinson's. And it has been difficult for all of us. If you have ever seen what Parkinson's can do to a person, then you know why I support stem cell research.

So, Thursday Morn, I will pack up all my cares and woes, and a couple of travel-worthy ukes, and head for Taos. There, I will attend a weekend poetry workshop and week-long fiction workshop. And, when not workshopping, I will be writing, reading, reflecting, and playing my ukes. That, and wining and dining at some of the fine restaurants there.

I got a new laptop and, assuming that I get connected to the internet, will report any progress I make. If I don't, you can bet that it will be because I am having too much fun.

Reflections after Having Seen Revenge of the Sith

To take my mind off the fasting I had to do before my butt-oscopy (see Journey to the Center of My Colon), I decided to take in a movie-one that I wouldn't have to think too much about. I hadn't seen the Revenge of the Sith, and am a Star Wars fan (note: not obsessed, just a fan-otherwise, I wouldn't have waited so long to see it).

I liked it much more than the two previous ones. Jar-jar, luckily, made only a brief, silent appearance. Padame, or whatever her name was, had a pretty thankless waiting-at-home kind of part. Her death, as well as Anakin's conversion, was hard to believe. I actually felt like they could have left out the first episode and most of the second and just fleshed out this episode more. It would have made a better trilogy. That, and I wouldn't have to keep thinking about how Anakin and Padame met when she was queen and he was a small boy. Something about that is just creepy.

The action was good, but, anytime the characters started talking, I got kind of bored.

Anyway, it reminded me of my old friend Larry.

Larry was the kind of guy who gave in easily to his most compulsive behaviors. He smoked too much weed, made huge purchases on impulse, using credit cards, and let his imagination rule when common sense would have served him better. He would go through economic binge and purge cycles. He would buy lots of toys on credit, lose his job, and have to give the stuff back or sell it for cash. The cars and motorcycles useless enough and he didn't need them. But Larry was an aspiring photographer. He would buy elaborate camera get-ups, just begin to be productive, and then lose it all at the end of each cycle so he couldn't ever take pictures, even when people were offering jobs.

The funny thing is, he knew when he was doing something stupid. What's more, I could always tell when he knew. He had this look in his eye, this expression on his face, and this tone in his voice. His favorite expression just before he did something really stupid and self-destructive was "I know what I'm doing." If Larry said that, you knew that what he really was thinking was "I know what I'm doing and it is a big mistake."

I went and saw the very first Star Wars movie with Larry, who was a big Sci Fi TV and movie buff. He loved Star Trek and Star Wars.

Never any books though. Larry didn't read.

Another favorite expression of his was to say that his teachers always told him that he was much smarter than everyone thought he was. One favorite anecdote of his was when our 7th grade English teacher told him "You have the potential for genius-just not the personality for it." I'm not sure if she really said that, or what she might have meant by it, or what it could possibly mean. I just know that Larry had more imagination than brains.

Back to the Star Wars connection. I may have seen the first one twice. I think I may have seen all three of the early films twice each. I liked them. Thought the special effects were cool. But I always felt like George Lucas had trouble coming up with satisfying endings. In fact, this last episode had the strongest ending of all the films, but even this one had a rushed quality about it, story-wise.
For the first three films, I'm pretty sure that each time I saw them, it was with Larry-who saw each of them so many times that he had the dialog memorized.

Larry took the films much too seriously. He felt that they were some kind of quasi-religious experience. He would often say things like "I think that George Lucas has communicated with beings from another galaxy."

What was even more odd was that Larry was a fundamentalist Christian. I don't know how he ever reconciled these two extreme concepts of his.

As I said, Larry had a hard time controlling his impulses. He dropped out of college before the end of his first semester. He held commissioned sales jobs at a couple of department store chains. He eventually worked his way up to department manager. He stole some prints from a wedding he had photographed. He had no money, as usual, and the customers wanted to see the prints and make their order. Got fired. Had to return his car and motorcycle to the dealerships from which he had purchased them.

And, of course, he had to sell his camera equipment.

This sort of thing happened several times before he turned thirty.

The last binge and purge cycle, he had been working at a motorcycle shop. Of course, after a couple of weeks, he had purchased the most expensive motorcycle in the shop. One day, he took a customer out for a test drive. He skipped the usual procedure of taking the guy's driver's license and. The customer hopped on the bike and took off. Larry followed on his own bike. When Larry signaled the customer to head back, the guy kept going and was never seen again.

Larry lost his job, etc.

This was about the third or fourth time this sort of thing happened to Larry. The boss insisted that he had to pay for the stolen bike. Plus, when he tried to return his own bike, the boss found a major ding on it and insisted that he pay for that too.

Larry was rescued by his father, who drove in with Larry's mother from Texas. Larry, Sr. had inherited a ranch in Texas and was doing pretty well. Most of the family followed him there and worked and lived on the ranch.

Larry, Sr. went with Larry to each of his creditors and offered to help make up the debt if they would cut Larry some sort of break. They all turned him down. The last creditor was Larry's ex-boss at the cycle shop.

"God-Dammit!" he said, pounding his desk. "That kid of yours is lucky I don't have him arrested."

The next day, Larry was spirited away to Texas. None of the creditors ever collected another dime.

I was in college as this all took place. I was usually the guy that went with Larry to return his various repossessed goods. Whenever we discussed my life, Larry would always tell me, "You know, I've already been to school-the school of hard knocks."

As I look back, Larry was kind of like an Anakin Skywalker, without the light saber or the Force stuff. That, and he wasn't put on this earth to bring balance back to it.

But, oh, the things he could have accomplished if he had stayed away from all of the crap he brought on himself.

Journey to the Center of My Colon

Why is it that whenever people know that you are going through one of the more stressful moments of your life, other people involved tell you to relax? Without getting too graphic, that's what the nurse kept telling me-that I needed to relax. When the procedure started, I tried to relax. But there is no better way to make sure that someone doesn't relax by telling him or her to relax. She would have been smarter just to give me drugs.

Anyway, my yoga and karate training, while not necessarily training me in yoga or karate, did train me to breath properly. So, I breathed my best yoga/karate breathing. That, and I followed the nurse's advice to rub my belly to minimize the discomfort. It all seemed to work.

The procedure I got was the halfway up procedure. It has a long medical name. But it's where they go through your lower colon to see what's there.

I was watching the screen when they turned on the camera that was about to go up my rectum and journey to where no man has ever gone before. The first thing I saw were lighting fixtures. My first thought was that I didn't know that I had lighting fixtures up there. But, or course, they hadn't gone there yet. The lighting fixtures were the ones that hung in the room.

Then, as the camera was directed towards the massive, white mound that I affectionately refer to as "my ass," I couldn't help but think of some of the older rides at Disneyland-especially the Peter Pan ride. As the doors that I affectionately refer to as "my buttocks" opened and the camera sailed in, I could almost here the voice of Peter Pan himself shouting "Okay, kids, here we go!"

The next impression I had was, as I watched the journey begin, how seemingly endless our assholes are.

The camera went round each bend smoothly. As in a Disney ride, I thought about how, around each bend, some villain would appear suddenly causing shrieks among the children. I remembered, during the Snow White ride, how the Evil queen, now transformed into a witch, would suddenly appear, holding that poisoned apple. Of course, no witch appeared with her poisoned apple.

But there was a polyp.

In fact, just after the doctor had reached the end of his journey, just after the nurse had said, "Okay, we're almost done," a little bump in my lower colon appeared onscreen. It looked as pink and healthy as the rest of my lower colon. But the doctor said, "Hmmm, let's get a sample of that polyp."

He then asked me, and I had been asked that earlier by the nurse, "Do you have a family history of colon cancer?"

I told him "No."

"Good," he said.

He took a sample of the polyp. Then another, which pretty much eliminated the polyp from my lower colon.

And, as he finished the procedure, he told me that they would examine the sample and that I would know in about a week-and-a-half whether or not they needed to perform a full colonoscopy.

I have since been told that finding polyps is not that uncommon. That, if it had been an actual cancerous tumor, they would have scheduled surgery immediately. So, that is a little reassuring.

I was also told by my SiL that this news meant that my next half-assed exploration would be in three years instead of five. Also reassuring.

So, I guess I'll hear soon about what the next step will be.

But let me use this experience to remind my eight-or-so faithful readers: colon cancer is one of the most deadly forms of cancer. When it is caught early, it is highly curable. Yes, it's one of the yucky-most forms of cancer to get tested for, but getting tested early is better than some of the alternatives.

Reflections on Mortality

I don't think this will be particularly interesting to anyone, but I am going in on Friday morning to undergo the ass-cam examination. As my faithful readers know, a colleague of mine had this procedure done, being five years younger than doctors recommend, and discovered that he had a tiny tiny tumor growing in his colon. He had it removed, of course. The doctors say that if he had waited those five recommended years, it would have been too late.

So I have to go on a regimen of fasting and flushing starting tomorrow.

I'm supposed to get some bloodwork done also, so I figure I'll do that too. Make one fast work for the whole shebang.

So, wish me luck and keep your sphincters crossed.

Review of the California Traditional Music Society's 23rd Annual Folk Festival

Let me begin with my two main points about this festival: It was one of the most relaxed weekends I have ever spent; the uke community needs to represent next year.

Let me also qualify comments by saying that this undertaking is a massive one. I guess it's one of the largest of its type in the country. I'm sure there are larger festivals that emphasize performers in a concert setting. But as far as festivals where the focus is on teaching and building community, this is pretty huge.

And the setting, Soka University in Calabasas, is a beautiful one. It is secluded, pastoral, and spacious. It's hard to believe that you are in the middle of Los Angeles County. The campground was very informal. People in huge campers parked next to people sleeping out under the stars. If I were going to do anything different next year, I would get there much earlier so as to secure one of the more shaded parts of the campground.

The campground itself is set up as a community. There is a central picnic area where the morning pancake breakfasts and the evening potlucks occur. The people are friendly and the food was good enough. If you didn't want to participate in the communal dining, it is a short drive to town, where there are a few places to eat.

The workshops and programs were diverse enough to suit anyone's tastes. In addition to the variety of musical instrument workshops, there were a variety of dance, storytelling, craftmaking, and childrens' workshops going on.

The only workshop that I attended that was a letdown was the pennywhistle workshop. But that's largely because I had never played before and was a fish out of water. Those who had a little more musical expertise than me seemed to do ok. But I was lost.

I attended a bodrahn bootcamp and a couple of other bodrahn workshops and was playing in no time at all. Granted, my skill level is at the beginner level, but I know how to hold the tapper and can drum out a jig or reel.

I missed one of the two uke workshops. But it was a Jumpin' Jim workshop and I had taken the first one several times now. The intermediate workshop was fun and I was surprised at the number of ukesters there. One of the organizers told me that there had been a couple of other uke workshops scheduled, but the teachers had to cancel at the last minute. Beloff's workshops are always fun, so I can't complain.

On both Friday and Saturday evening, there were concerts and dance parties. Both nights offered contra dancing for $10. I did not participate in that, but those who did were having a grand time.

Friday night offered a storytelling concert. I was not there, but informal reviews from other participants made it sound wonderful.

I attended Saturday night's concert, which featured Club Carrefour and the duo of Liz Carrol and John Doyle. An exciting concert.

next year, to save some money, I plan on being a volunteer. Participants pay up to $25 per day, but volunteers work a four hour shift and get entrance to the festival for both days for free. Camping is $35 per car for the whole weekend.

I should add that you do not have to camp out if you don't want to to. There are hotels nearby. For that matter, if you live close enough, you could always drive in from home and park on the premises. Parking passe are $5.

Autobiography? I Ain't Got No Stinkin' Autobiography!

Just got back from the Summer Solstice Folk Festival. Had a great time. More on that later. But, for those of you who can't wait, in a nutshell: I now can call myself a multi-instrumentalist because I learned how to play the bodrahn at least as well as the five-year-old girl sitting next to me at the workshop; they need to have more uke workshops; I camped out an slept amazingly well, considering; it is really hard to learn to play pennywhistle first thing in the morning when you haven't even showered; french guys could avoid a lot of arguments if they would learn English with an Irish accent.

I got an e-mail from the leader of my weekend workshop in the upcoming Taos writer's workshop. He wants us to send a sample of our poetry and a brief statement about ourselves and our writing influences.

I am going to send these two poems:

Waiting

Dusk: the dim lamp, a halo.
Your head, bowed in dizzy reflection.

We pick at a plate of cookies.
You sweep away pills that will not save you.

I feel the edge of my tongue
and bite into the isolated sweetness.


Faith

Some saints believe they can walk across
a sea of blood and still enter Heaven.
No Christ stands on the horizon,
No hand waves for them to follow, no voice
calls them. But, they insist it’s true. Asked why
they don’t just try it if they’re so sure, they
say “We wait for the Lord. He’ll go first, to
set the example.” Then, one by one, they’ll
join him.
For now, they wait for a sign,
huddled in their yachts, gazing as waves swell,
as clouds gather. Some notice fingers–
for waves have become hands, poised to
grab the ankles of the first, the second–
to drown each in these waters they have built.

Also, I will probably send the poem from my first post. Let me know what you think.

The hard part is the part about me and my influences. When someone asks me to do that sort of thing, I freeze. There isn't that much to say about me and I'm not sure that there are any influences. When I finally do respond to this sort of prompt, I always write something that I regret, because it seems so stodgy and dull.

There are writers that I like a lot. Hemingway is at the top of that list. Walt Whitman and Kenneth Patchen are both poets that I like, but I don't know that I could trace any influence.

Of course, I love Don Quixote and almost anything by Shakespeare. But their influence on anyone goes without saying, even for those who have never read them.

The artists who have influenced my thinking more than anyone would be the great slapstick comedians of the early sound era: The Marx Brothers, WC Fields, and Laurel and Hardy. I think more than anyone, these people influenced my sense of humor, my sense of language, and my sense of humanity. I think that it's possible to learn everything you need to know about life from these guys.

I'd probably have to add the Wizard of Oz and Mary Martin's TV broadcast of Peter Pan also. What more could anyone teach you about the frustration of humanity-about never wanting to grow up and always yearning for something better than what you have?

Adventures in Polyrhythm

Broke out my old copy of Jumpin' Jim's 60's Uke-in and went over some songs that I tried when I was brand new. I may be easily amazed, but I am always amazed at how songs that once seemed really difficult are suddenly easy after the passage of time.

One song that I tried early one was Dock of the Bay. That's a song of my generation that I have always liked, but it had the dreaded E Major, a chord that, in it's first form, is train-wreck for my fingers.

Since learning the magic of the barred chord, I found Dock of the Bay much easier today. If you bar the chords, the whole song becomes much easier. I'm all about what's easy.

One thing that still throws me is when I try a song where the rhythm of the strumming and the rhythm of the melody are at odds. Like in reggae. If can strum a vanilla rhythm and it sounds ok to me. But I have trouble when I try to do anything else. Under the Boardwalk is a good example. The chords are pretty easy. But the rhythm screws me up.

There are a few songs that, if I just figure it out instinctively, I'm OK. It's when it's on paper and I try to learn it that way that I have trouble.

Anyway, the whole point of the ukulele first is to amuse myself. If I ever actually get good, that's just a plus.

Dog of Satan

When I returned from my walk up Mt. Rube this evening, I found my neighbor in her car, the motor running. She clearly could not get out of the driveway. As she rolled down her window to talk to me, this mid-sized, reddish brown dog-a mixed breed, came out from behind the car and started woofing at me. Not an actual bark, just a woof. Kind of that mock-protection woof that dogs will make when they really aren't being aggressive, but are afraid to approach you.

Neighbor asked me "Have you seen this dog before?"

I said no.

She told me that the owners of the house next door, who no longer live there, found the dog in a park near their new home, adopted it for about three days, then, when the dog began fighting with their other dogs, dropped it off in the back yard of the house next door for their tenants to take care of.

I don't know the details, but I think the tenants are relatives.

This was a day or two ago. Apparently, the dog is good at jumping fences and has planted itself in her front yard. When she is inside, it will go to her door and scratch on it and whine. When she is outside, it will follow her around. When she gets in her car, it will circle around it until she tries to pull out, at which point it will plant itself in front of the wheels so she can't leave.

She demonstrated this to me this evening. When she rolled up her window, the dog began circling. When she tried to pull forward, it stopped in front of the car.

She rolled her window back down and said "See?"

I asked if the dog had been threatening in any way and she assured me that it hadn't. I got down on my haunches and called it over. It came about halfway towards me, woofing, and my neighbor pulled out of her driveway and down the street, the dog following.

Right now, her car is back in the driveway and the dog is on her front lawn. It has just started woofing again. Of course, my dog and a few others have started barking at it. Not woofing. Barking.

It's going to be a long night.

Summer Solstice Folk Festival

After a pretty stressful school year and an especially stressful final two weeks of class, I am really looking forward to my first big trip this weekend to the Summer Solstice Folk Festival. There will be only two uke workshops given by Jim Beloff, and I imagine the first one is the same one that he usually gives to beginners, but it gives me a chance to get away and purge the bad energy that has been bringing me down as of late. There will be a lot of music there, so I can just spend time listening to it. There will also be informal jam sessions, so maybe I'll see if I can jam.

I'm wondering why there aren't more uke workshops, though. There are a lot of uke players in the area that show up and teach at local uke fests. For most other stringed instruments, they have a variety of workshops that cover several musical genres. Maybe Jumpin' Jim has a corner on this market. Anyway, when I come back, I'll report on it and share info with the local uke community.

I'll also take my bodrahn, as they have several bodrahn workshops. In fact, they have a bodrahn boot camp Saturday Morning. It would be nice to learn how to play this thing.

The main thing is to get away for awhile.

Still Here

I haven't posted anything here for awhile, but I have been writing a lot. Mostly, I have been working on pieces to take to the upcoming Taos Summer Writers' Conference. Participants in my workshop are supposed to submit a sample of their writing to the workshop leader. I just e-mailed mine.

I have written drafts of three short stories since checking out of school last week. One was about a drum circle, the other was about a memorial service I took my mother to, and the last-the one I sent to the workshop leader-is about an open mike at a nearby folk music store and museum.

I had planned to post it here, but it is 8 1/2 pages long (or 2400 words) and 7/9's of you have already read it. I might post the final draft when I feel like it is actually a final draft.

I haven't written much fiction, so I am exploring new territory here.

I have already been writing most of the morning, so I think I'll take a break. But you'll hear from me later.

Shameless Plug

I think that I have at least five people interested in being a part of a Ukulele Sunday Uke Circle. I would appreciate any helpful suggestions from my audience as to how to make it a success. Howlin' Hobbit suggested that funny hats and beer were crucial. Donita Curioso said that she could bring her dumbek and a few funny hats. I think the Howlin Hobbit meant fun hats, as in fedoras, porkpies, and bowlers-the kind I wear to cover my bald spot. I think that Donita Curioso meant party hats-the kind with mouse ear, pointy tops, or propellers. Let me know if I'm wrong, folk.

Oh, yeah. Feel free to read the post below.

I've Got Blisters on My Fingers

I went with Dugard and Dugard, Jr. to a drum circle at a local beach Sunday evening. I have only been once before, but enjoyed it enough to go again, after about four or five months.

Now, before you jump to conclusions, I am not some new age geezer looking for a spiritual connection through drumming, nor am I a drummer going to practice my craft. I went because it's fun and I needed to hit something.

A drum circle is like a microorganism, only larger and louder. Each one has many parts that function within this organism, its actions creating reactions that result in a movement or activity that causes change to the structure.

Each drum circle seem to have a nerve center, where the rhythm originates. The rhythm changes every ten to fifteen minutes, at the whim of whomever is at the nerve center. Sometimes, it can be one drummer, usually with a big set of drums from which he dictates the tempo. Other times, it can be a group of drummers who are attuned to the same rhythm and work together, perhaps taking turns changing the rhythm.

Some drum circles have more than one nerve center, which fight for control. Sunday was one such night. A tall Asian man with bleached hair and goggle-eyed glasses beat an African-type rhythm his three drums at one end, while a group of Latin drummers challenged his leadership. They shifted back and forth all night.

There are other drummers who dance around the circle as they drum, usually following one of the ladies in the circle, trying to keep the beat.

The dancers are like the circulatory system of our microorganism. Usually the dancing is lead by the ladies in the group, who flow from drummer to drummer, or pair up with a male dancer who actually dances. Most male dancers act as woman repellent, however. They invite women to dance, or horn in on a couple, easing their loins up against some lady's ass as she dances with her friends, causing her to move away. These are disturbing individuals, but they keep the ladies circulating.

People who have drums, but not much rhythm usually line the outskirts of the drum circle. They beat away simple rhythm, but do not distract from the real drummers. These are the folk who also give the drum circle its distinct aroma, usually a blend of pungent smokes that rise to thinly above the circle. They act as a membrane of sorts. Anyone who wants in the drum circle has to push through them.

Often, people with other instruments show up, often joining the membrane group. Last night, there was a guy with an electric guitar, playing something gawd-awful. There was also a saxophone. And one ukulele.

I took my street ukulele (one that is cheap, that I would not miss so much if it got smashed). I played my bodrahn for a short time, then gave that to Dugard, Jr., who had not brought a drum. I whipped out my uke and started shredding away, heard by no one. None of the rhythms was an easy match for the songs a know, so I adapted each to a new beat. Sometimes it may have worked. I don't know for sure, because I couldn't hear a thing that I was playing.

But I played for hours. At the end of the night, my strumming fingers were black.

Top Five Songs I Wish I Didn't Almost Like

1. MMMMMBop: Hanson. Whenever I'm in a bar with a jukebox, I can't help myself. It beckons me. I'm so ashamed.

2. Mandy: Barry Manilow. I need your help, Barry Manilow, because I feel so yucky.

3. Turn the Beat Around: Vickie Sue Something-or-other. Gloria Estefan did a cover-a double whammy.

4. Walk Like an Egyptian. I don't want to talk about it.

5. Sugar Sugar: The Archies. It's not completely my fault. There was this top ten musical TV series produced by Tommy Smothers after CBS fired him and Dickey. Part of the show involved a performance of the number one hit. Every week, until this show was mercifully cancelled, this was the number one hit. They would have a different singer or group perform this song. One week, they had a group of black gospel singers sing in a chain-gang setting. I have never been able to get that out of my mind.

Top Five Life-Changing Albums

Everyone should be made to share their top five Life-Changing Albums. Most of mine have to do with my early years, especially my teenage years. This is not necessarily in order of their ranking, but just as they occurred to me. In the case of the vinyl, the grooves are probably very well-worn, due to repeated listenings. As always, this list is subject to change.

1. Tommy: The Who. I remember where I was, who I was with, and how I felt when I first heard this. When Tommy starts singing "See Me , Feel Me" for the last time, to this day, I get misty-eyed. And yet, for all of it's incarnations and re-interpretations, I'm never sure exactly what's about.

2. Jesus Christ, Superstar: For shame, to be emotionally attached to anything from Andrew Lloyd Webber. But, as with Tommy, I remember the first listening vividly and get the same feeling when I hear it today.

3. Growing Up In Public by Lou Read: Same criteria. Also, the first time I "got" Lou Reed.

4. Sandinista: The Clash. Damn! What can I say? Damn.

5. Lena Horne: The Lady and Her Music. Soundtrack to her one-woman Broadway show back in the 80's. Choice songs sung with passion.

6. Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention: Uncle Meat. If you only listen to "King Kong," it's worth it.

7. Madam Butterfly: Verdi. My Mom played that record while she cleaned house and her children played with their Tinker Toys. I think that opera set the tone for my musical life.

Ok. That's seven. Read. Discuss. Submit your own.

I know that I'll probably change my mind at some point.

Review of My Nephew's Percussion Concert

I don't remember the title of the concert, but my nephew's high school drumline, with invited percussion ensembles from two other high schools, gave a concert Saturday Night. It was Stomp-esque in nature and was quite good.

Like Stomp, Nephew's group created scenes in which everyday props were used to create rhythmic tone poetry. It opened with Nephew and friends using tubes of different sizes and followed with a trash can serenade that was visually stunning. Also a piece using traffic cones and another using cleaning tools. It was all very clever.

Another piece performed by Nephew's group involved grinding tools and other tools. This piece was sparktacular. My only complaint was that, while the three or so players using the grinders had eye protection, other students making drumming noises around them did not. It could be that they were all far enough away. But those sparks flew pretty far.

Of the two guest ensembles, the steel drum band from another high school stood out. My high school has a steel drum band ten times the size of this one-but this band absolutely rocked the house. Whereas my school's steel drum band learns by the numbers, this band worked from charts and actually had very strong musicianship. Not only that, but they were real performers with a real sense of showmanship. Their energy was just unstoppable.

And they played a real variety of music. For three numbers, they actually had a singer, who sang "Come on Eileen," "Take on Me," and a song that I have apparently forgotten. They even did hip-hop. And made me like it!

The drumline from the other high school was pretty good. But what was fascinating to me was one of their percussionists was this kid who had two severely withered arms-one completely useless. Apparently his dad is a professional drummer. He rigged this electronic drum kit, the likes of which I have never seen, that allowed his son to play using his one semi-functional arm and his two feet. And the kid rocked.

It was a fun night.

One last highlight was a piece where my nephew and three other guys created percussion using repeated vocal patterns, which I guess was pretty much improvised.

I am one proud and impressed uncle.

They were selling glow-in-the-dark drumsticks and practice pads made from traffic cone bases. I bought a set.

Perhaps a new musical direction.

Brother Atom Bomb of Reflection's Review of Ukulele Nuff's Karaoke Performance

The crowd at the post-graduation reception for the combined staves of Blanco Grande high School and Val Blanco Continuation High School sat eagerly as, one-by-one, each karaokeist got up and sang his or her favorite song. The evening was heavy with country western tunes, with the occasional Guns and Roses tune thrown in for balance.

But the crowd awaited the Great One. Ukulele Nuff was in the house and the rumor was that he intended to represent.

His name called, he stood up, towering over his fans. There was a gasp. A squeal involuntarily escaped one lady's mouth. Ukulele Nuff took a hearty swig from his O'Doule's and sauntered over to the mike, confidently taking it from the speechless karaoke mistress.

First song up: "New York, New York." U-Nuff squinted at the screen. He had forgotten his glasses.

This song started out pleasantly enough, but lacked the flair of a well-rehearsed saloon singer, like a Sinatra, for example. What made things worse was that U-Nuff's voice didn't need re-verb, but there was enough reverb for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. U-Nuff's voice lacked support for this tune. He often went sharp or flat and sometimes had trouble sustaining the note. At the song's finale, as if to make up for his poor performance, U-Nuff got down on one knee.

At least one member of the crowd hooted, but clearly U-Nuff had used up one of his signature moves before he had performed his second song. Also, during the second to last "New York," he stopped to clear his throat. Later, he told this reporter that he had suffered from a cold that lingered in his throat. Tell it to Pavorotii, Ukulele Nuff.

His second tune, "That's Life" faired better, although U-Nuff seemed to stumble at the end. The song was more suited to his range and his support was much better.

Ukulele Nuff told me later that he had considered singing "Fly Me to the Moon," but thought better of it. "Sometimes," he said, "you can give the audience too much of yourself, and they turn on you."

This was not one of Ukulele Nuff's better performances. It is this reporter's opinion that Ukulele Nuff needs to find new inspiration if he is to regain his former genius.

Karaoke Whore

My plan at graduation was to rocket across the field of the minor-league baseball stadium where we hold our graduation ceremonies as soon as the last name was called. It is easy to be the first one to get to my car this way as most people are traveling in packs while I am traveling alone. Packs, be they families, groups of friends, carpoolers, move slowly. A lone wolf can zip around, between, over, and under packs without them even knowing he is there. Soon, I am in my car and buzzing towards the freeway, while others are still hugging and crying.

I used to go to the after-graduation gathering at a local bar, but the traffic around the stadium made it just as hard to get there as getting to the freeway.

But, I found out that our gathering was going to take place in a lounge at the stadium. So, I decided that I'd stay for awhile, get a little food, maybe a little drink, and then leave.

Those of us who attended were greeted by a school secretary who, with her husband, runs a karaoke business. She began singing a song and her voice wasn't awful.

You can guess where this is leading.

I hadn't even sat down with my array of greasy hors d'voures when people started telling me, "Bro A-Bomb, you have to sing!"

I thought I would resist, at first. I have standards. But, when JB, my non-singing teaching partner got up and did a rousing version of "Welcome to the Jungle," I knew that I had to give the people what they wanted.

I thought JB was quite brave to be the first. But, when he immediately darted out the door to his car after he had finished, I thought him less so. He broke the ice without paying the price.

Then two science teacher who sing worse than JB got up to do a rendition of "Love Shack."

So I filled out my little card, went to the bar for another beer, and, when my name was called out, sang "New York, New York." The trouble with Karaoke is that the lyrics that flash across the screen are often wrong and don't fit the rhythm of the song. Or they try to follow every yelp and growl of the original singer too closely and become confusing.

Some other drunk souls got up. A few of them could sing.

What I noticed was how many younger people knew all of the country western songs that were being performed. I find that scary. I think anyone who gets into country western before they turn 30 has some serious issues. I'm not talking about fans of Johnny Cash or Willie Nelson. I'm talking about the twangy, proud-to-be-ignernt singers, like Toby Keith. What nit-wits.

Anyway, my second song was "That's Life." I thought about doing a third song, but chose not to. It is always good to leave the audience wanting more-especially a karaoke audience.

UF brought his guitar and his own mike and amp and accompanied himself on a David Wilcox song. I don't know if he knew this, but Barb's husband looked pissed that someone would choose not to sing karaoke.

I realize that, by singing karaoke, I compromised my high artistic standards. I swear I'll never do it again.

The Smog Strangled Benny

When I was in high school, a friend and I co-wrote a parody of the Star Spangled Banner: "Oh, hey, can you breath/ all that smog in the air? Though unfit to inhale, through our lungs, it is streaming..."

That's about as far as we ever got.

I always liked the National Anthem because it's everything our national anthem should be. It is about the little guy (us) standing strong against the big bullies of this world. "America the Beautiful," is ok as a patriotic song, I guess. But the people who would make that our national anthem are the same people who are making it less beautiful. "God Bless America" is one that many people prefer, but, like "America the Beautiful," it's lyrics seem more ironic than truthful these days.

Last night, at the graduation ceremonies of the high school where I teach, one young lady was brought up to sing Our National Anthem. She had a lovely voice, but sang it with Mariah Carey-esque stylings that made it sound more like a song about making love than about holding on to courage during a time where the next mortar shell could take out you and your platoon. She crooned and warbled and writhed with her silky vocal calisthenics, seducing whoops and hollers from several members of the audience.

But the song is about bombs bursting in air, not fucking.

Ok, there might be a Freudian metaphor here-but the intent is certainly not sexual.

I guess we could blame Ray Charles for singing his famous rendition of "America the Beautiful." But that, in its time, was considered pretty radical by many. What Ray did was take a famous standard and re-invent it for the worker, who, getting home from the job, popped open a beer, sat down in the proverbial favorite chair, and reflected on love for this country. Also, it's a different song.

Or maybe we could blame Whitney Houston. She did sing that one version of the National Anthem at a Super Bowl or something. But it was jazzy and classy. She may not be jazzy and classy anymore, but that version of the National Anthem was. And, while she reshaped it for a new age, she didn't sex it up.

So, for all of you would-be and actual pop stars out there, the singing has to reflect what the song is about. It's not just about the singer.

Funny Hats and Beer....

I think I'm feeling a little more serious about starting a Sunday afternoon Uke Gathering. We could call the group Inland Empire Ukulele Society (I.E. UkeS: Clever, yet scholarly). My initial thought was that we could play with my friend Al, Al Fresco. We would meet at the UCR Belltower or something. Maybe Fairmont Park.

But, hey, why not go for the TURDS model? Those British guys really know about loud silly fun. And what better place to have loud silly fun than a pub? I've been in British pubs-ones that actually stood in Great Britain. I have actually sampled the house brew in a couple. There is no country in the universe that understands loud silly fun better than Great Britain. That's why their first name is Great.

And beer. What other ingredient promotes loud silly fun than BEER? So, we find a loud silly brewery in the Inland Empire with a loud silly patio and reserve it for the I.E. UkeSters.

It reminds me, if I may wax nostalgic, of the days when I taught at another high school. Oh, we didn't have ukes then. But the English Department there knew how to have loud silly fun.

Every couple of months, we would have poetry readings. Ok, I know that that doesn't sound especially loud, silly, or fun-but they were! We would go to a local place that would sell us beer and we would read great poetry while drinking. Trust me, it got silly. And loud. The only thing missing was funny hats.

Trust me, you don't know what loud and silly is until you have tried to analyze W.B. Yeats' "Leda and the Swan" after three or four beers. It takes on a whole new meaning.

Now, throw in a couple of silly hats and you've got something.

Take out "Leda and the Swan" and replace it with several ukuleles and you have something truly special.

Howlin' Hobbit, you magnificent bastard!

The Uke as Folk Instrument

I missed the Claremont Folk Festival last weekend. I just couldn't scrape together the desire to go. At the last two, Jumpin' Jim Beloff showed up and led a couple of ukulele workshops. They're usually geared for beginners, but they're still fun. At the last one, I was impressed at how my skills had improved. There were some songs that we played that were impossible for me two years ago that were simple last year. I like Jim's workshops.

I didn't see him on the schedule this year, which was a disappointment. But I have the feeling that a lot of the music Jim would perform did not fit the "folk" theme for some. I recall that he sang "Love Is a Many Splendored Thing," which is a little sugary for my tastes.

Jim is an excellent musician, uke-wise at least, and is an excellent workshop leader. Whether or not Jim leads workshops, they should continue to have uke workshops at this fest. What could be more of a folk instrument than the uke-accessible to a broad range of abilities, easy to carry around, has traveled the world and has been adapted to many different genres.

I was looking at pictures of the Seattle Ukulele Players' Association (I think that's the name) recent Ukulele Sunday event. Basically, what they had there was a folk event: People of a community playing together, swapping songs.

It would be fun to try that around here. Maybe during the summer. Pick a public place, get a few people to meet, attract the interest of strangers. Who knows?

High Anxiety

I re-read my letter from the guy who will be leading my workshop in Taos this summer. I have got to come up with a piece of short fiction that draws off of its setting. In other words, it must be a short story about place. I have this unfinished short story that has always gotten good feedback and has always been left unfinished. I could try and finish it, but I feel like I'd only be playing it safe because I have already gotten positive feedback on it and it's not like I'd be coming up with anything new.

And like I have enough time to write.

I also have a weekend poetry workshop at the same conference. This also deals with place. I'm not as worried about that, although I haven't written any poetry for awhile.

As for the fiction workshop, it just sounds a little more advanced than I thought it would be.

Anyway, that's one reason I started this blog-to keep my writing chops warmed up for when something hits me. There are a couple of things here that I could work on. But I'm in my masterpiece or nothing mode right now.

My experience at last year's conference was really good. I wrote a lot and enjoyed the people.

The previous one wasn't as good. It was in Napa valley and the food and wine were good, but the workshop was not. Our leader was an ok writer, but I don't think that she was especially concerned with her students. I got the impression that she hadn't really planned much and that she was more concerned with how many books people bought.

The one thing I did get from her was how to write a Sijo (see first post). I like that form more than haiku or tanka. It's long enough for some kind of narration, but short enough to keep you honest. No room for false steps.

But, at Taos, the feeling was very good. The people were generally friendly. I was really able to relax there.

I Think Some of You Missed My Point

I have boiled eggs many times. My point was that I had lost my egg-boiling mojo. When you lose a mojo, it doesn't matter what you know, you just can't make it work.

If you poke holes at both ends of the egg before boiling, peeling it is much easier. Sure, a little bit of leakage-but it's easier to peel.

In my heart, I knew that I was playing with the unknown, but I had to see for myself. It's human nature. Just like with Lot's wife. Or Orpheus and Eurydice.

One reason for losing my mojo is that I seldom eat whole eggs anymore. I use egg beaters. If you scramble two parts egg whites and one part regular egg beaters, they look almost scrambled eggs.

I just today tried microwaving some egg beaters. They were delicious. The hard part was peeling off the carton.

Household Hints: How to Boil an Egg

I recently experienced the loss of both my barbecue and potato salad mojos. I have regained the barbecue mojo, but the potato salad mojo eludes me.

The last two times I tried making potato salad, I had difficulty boiling the eggs long enough. The eggs came out soft boiled instead of hard boiled.

This last time, I managed to peel the shell off and found the white a little runny. The time before that, I tried micrwaving an unpeeled egg and discovered the incredible edible egg's explosive properties.

But, this time, I figured that, without the shell, perhaps there would be no harm in boiling the peeled, undercooked egg for 30 seconds.

When I took it out, the white was still a little soft. I thought that nuking it for 30 seconds more might be risky.

Then it dawned on me-if you nuke a potato, you're supposed to poke holes in it. The egg is potato-shaped. The principle must be the same. So, I got a skewer and found out what happens if you poke a hole into an egg that has been nuked for 30 seconds.

It'll explode.

If you hold it close, it will explode in your face.

God, it was bitchen.

Lost Masterpiece Found

Hey, I found it and posted it. Two posts down.

The Lost Masterpiece

I just spent an hour writing a very reflective entry about Leonard's Welcome-Back Ukulele. It was a very touching piece. Since I am typing here at the RCC Reading and Writing Center, my weekend teaching gig, and the computer was giving me some problems, I decided to save it as a draft and fix it up when I got home this afternoon. It seems to have disappeared altogether.

Now I know how Hemingway must have felt at the Paris train station when Hadley forgot the suitcase with all of his short story manuscripts. The internet is the train station. This computer is Hadley. And I, of course, am Hemingway.

Actually, I guess this computer is Pauline, the woman with whom Hemingway had an affair and later divorced Hadley to marry. My computer at home would be Hadley. Of course, I'll never leave her for this computer. I'll just buy a new computer and store her in my garage, planning on copying her hard drive, but never getting around to it.

Uke of the Month Club

When UF brought in Leonard's welcome-back ukulele into my classroom, he gave it to me to test it out. We found that we had both had the same initial impulse: forget Leonard, let's keep it. Each of us wanted to keep it for ourselves, of course-we wouldn't have shared ownership. I think we both tend to covet ukes we don't have.

Not that it was such a special uke. It was just a low-end Lanikai that cost about $60. It was nothing special in and of itself.

It was special to Leonard, and to us, because of the thought behind it.

My first uke, a soprano Estrella, is not exactly a Stradivaius. But I still get a great deal of pleasure playing it-n part,because it was a gift and, in part, because it was my first.

Actually, I guess it was my second. The first was that cardboard cheapo I bought at Music Mike's to play in that production of Godspell ten or so years ago. Being ignorant, I left it in the car in the summer heat and-presto!-I took it out at one rehearsal, strummed it once, and the neck came off. I replaced it with a plastic toy guitar and only pretended to play.

Thus, my musical destiny was postponed for a decade.

Since getting my Estrella, I have accumulated 10 ukes. A few are really cheap ones that I keep in my classroom for when a student comes up and asks to play my ukulele. I know of too many guitarist friends who bring their best instruments to school, only to have some student who didn't ask and didn't respect the intstrument cause some damage. Most students regard the uke as a toy and initially treat it pretty casually. I insist that they treat my uke gently. But, since I don't have eyes in the back of my head, they use the ukes I got somewhere for cheap. If they want, I teach them a few chords.

I don't have any really expensive ukes. My best right now are my Oscar Schmidt and my two Belfiore's. I am trying to be strong and save my money for a really nice one one day. But that six-string Lanakai cut-away tenor calls my name, like the sirens to Ulysses. And, while, it won't cause me to crash against the rocks and drown, it will cost me some serious cabbage.

The other realization I had while strumming Leonard's uke to be was that, if I could get a new ukulele every month, I would practice 10 times more. I like the feel and sound of a new uke. I like how it sounds different from my others. I like the brilliant tone in my Belfiores. I like the hushed tone of Oscar. I like the flimsy sound of my cheap Mahalo.

Just a uke a month, that's all I ask.

Ukulele Healing Ritual

A colleague from school recently had his colon checked out for cancer. I guess he had no symptoms and is not of the age where doctors recommend you have this procedure, but they found a tumor, 1/16th of an inch, and removed it. Then, just before spring break, he had a follow-up procedure which kept him out six weeks.

He tells me that, if he had waited five years, when he would have been of the age that the exploratory procedure is commonly done, he would have been dead. Colon cancer is the number two killing cancer.

So, when we heard that he was coming back to school, UF and I headed up a welcome back gift drive in our department and bought him a ukulele, case, and song book. He is an accomplished guitarist and, whenever he comes to my classroom, he picks up one of my ukes and starts playing around on it. So, I figured he'd probably like it.

He is one of the reasons I keep two ukes at school. Often, whenever anyone walks into my classroom and finds me jamming, they ask if they can try it out. So, I give them the uke I am playing and grab the other uke to continue my jam. This teacher is one of the best offenders. He has actually shared some guitar stuff that translates to uke.

UF presented it to him yesterday (I was out). When I went to his classroom today, strumming my Oscar Schmidt, I found him walking around the classroom, cradling his new uke, jamming away while his students worked. He was truly touched by the gift.

He is not normally an emotional kind of guy, but he said that he was truly choked up when UF delivered his new uke.

Hey, another convert to the movement.

Curmudgeonliness is next to Godliness

I was just looking at the blog of my youthful ukernet community friend Howlin' Hobbit, where he waxes rhapsodic on his impending entry into the curmudgeon stage of his life. Hey, pal, I've been there for a year.

My first clue was when I realized people were beginning to call me "sir" and really mean it.

By the way, I remember the first time I was called "sir." I was 16. I was with a group of friends in Pasadena on New Year's Eve, waiting to see the Rose Parade. I was walking along a dark street that lead up to the parade route, when this 13-year-old addressed me. "Sir," he said, "Can you buy me a six pack of beer?" It was dark, like I said. On that same night, right after the clock struck twelve, this woman who had to be at least 18, grabbed me by the shirt collar and said "Kiss me, sweetie!" and planted what had to be the longest, deepest kiss that I had ever had at that point in my life on my tender, quivering lips.

I should mention that I was there with a church group.

But, I digress.

These days, I find myself the occasional victim of ageism, even though 51 is not that old, by today's standards. It seems some people do assume that I represent some antiquated way of living. I have more than once been called old-fashioned.

As Bob Dylan once said, "He not busy being born is busy dying." I know more younger People than I care to count who have trapped themselves into lifestyles they can no longer see their way out of: children they didn't plan, marriages they settled for-Hell! affairs to which they are neither morally or legally bound, but can't see their way out of.

I am not always the best at "being born," but I have been more of a student of life during the past ten or so years than I ever was before. I went back to school and got my Masters at the age of 48. I took up the ukulele at the age of 49 and have started singing again-this time, the kinds of songs I want to sing. I have started writing again.

I think curmudgeoning is not a bad way of life. Look forward to it.

I Retract Previous Post

But I will leave it up for any entertainment value.

I had a good time at the concert. There were many groups performing and lots of students and former students were in those groups. I especially liked the percussion groups-even the steel band.

The staging was a little overwrought. The sound system was probably bigger than when we had Jaguares play in our gym. It was also uneven. There were times when you could hear everything very well. There were other times where you could hear some parts better than others.

It was hard for me to tell. But the sound on my little schpiel kept changing. I wasn't speaking that loud, but I had my mouth very close to the mike and, at the beginning, it was way too loud. I was going for an whispery, evil tone. Like I was disturbed. I mean, I was reading Poe, so it seemed appropriate.

Anyway, it was short and sweet.

The professional actor who performed "One Night in Bangkok" was alright. But I kept thinking about how UF and I could do it on ukulele.

Oh, and the jazz choir, which sang "Take the A-Train," "Bangkok," and "The Raven," was pretty good. The best vocal performances I have heard from that group.

Poe No Mo'

I got myself talked into participating in a concert at the high school tomorrow night. It is some musical phantasm thing with a world music emphasis. I am glad to help the kids, but some members of our music department have GOT to get some taste.

When I was in my high school and college concert choirs, we performed timeless works of great majesty. Now, the emphasis is on pop tunes. It seems that music teachers don't want to stretch their students musically. Too bad, because, in some communities, the public schools are the only places where they get any music education.

The piece that I am participating in is a thing from an Alan Parsons Project album. This selection is called "The Raven" and is an adaptation of Poe's famous poem of the same title. The part that I am reading was originally read by Orson Wells. I think it was recorded live. They wheeled Orson out and had him recite this monologue-I presume Poe's own words-in which he says essentially that there are some ideas that he can't put into words.

This passage must be one of those ideas, because I couldn't figure it out and I have a Masters in English. UF came over during lunch one day and we looked at it and figured the above translation.

I wonder, if Poe and Shakespeare could have ever gotten together, what would they talk about? I like Poe (well, sometimes), but have to think that Shakespeare would give up and sail back to England.

ASB wants UF and I to perform at a teacher's tea at the end of the year. I would prefer to keep alive the illusion that my musicianship is as good as UF's, but I will perform anyway. The idea is that we will take turns playing songs we know and then play a few together. Could be fun.

Like I said, UF is the better player.

But I have a much more charming stage persona.

The Rube Goldberg Device That Is My Life

So today I decided to mow my lawn. I won't go into exactly how momentous that is, but my neighbors gathered around my yard and applauded. Some wept tears of joy.

I decided to go all the way with this. I started by getting out my weed-whacker and whacking weeds, as well as whacking those hard-to-reach places. After about twenty minutes of heartfelt weed-whacking, I realize that, while I continue to whack, the whacker had wussed. That is, it had run out of that plastic stuff they use to make nyl-gut ukulele strings. It was whackless.

I looked to see whether I had any more line and found that I did not. So, I figured I could get more tomorrow so why not just start mowing the main law?

I got out my new electric mulcher mower and had mowed a few rows when, from out of nowhere, my sprinklers started up. I was disoriented for a second, as far as I knew, it had started raining or something-except the rain was falling up. Fortunately, I let go of the trigger so I was not electrocuted (these electric mowers are well-designed in that regard) and unplugged quickly.

I don't remember doing it, but I must have knocked off the device that controls sprinklers-that electric doo-hickey that is wired to the timer-because a fine geyser was spraying up from just that area. I think the last gardener I had must have broken it and mickey-moused it back together. Since I usually turn my sprinklers on manually, I wouldn't have noticed that.

With Odyssean calm, I bent down to study the geyser, forced to stand directly in the line of fire of one sprinkler. I found the parts that fit, but it took about twenty minutes to screw them back in, what that I was screwing them into the geyser.

My lawn got pretty wet, so I couldn't finish the job, leaving the grass half short and half long-the short grass kind of zig-zagging around the tall grass.

If anyone asks, I'll just tell them it's the world's smallest crop-circle.

Bring Your Daughter to Work Day

Thursday was BYDtWD (see title above). My co-teacher brought his 2-year-old with him. It was a testing day, so it was a risk, since there isn't much interesting going on for us, let alone a 2-year-old girl. She had a pretty good time though and is a sweet kid.

Before class starts, I usually stand outside. playing one of my ukes as I greet the students. I re-entered strumming as the students settled down. She has seen me play my ukulele before and at first called it a guitar. Her father asked her what it was and she said "ukulele," or an approximation thereof. The kid's learning.

Later, during a break in testing, she asked me to play her a song. I asked her what song, she asked for U2's "Vertigo," because her father, a big u2 fan, has taught her to be a u2 fan. That's his favorite song right now, so it's hers too.

So I said, "I don't know that song, but I do know a song that I think you know." I then whipped into "Wild Honey." It was Jon's idea that "Wild Honey" would be a good uke song. He and his daughter sing it together sometimes at home.

Her eyes opened up wide and she said "We're IN this song!"

I said "You are? Where?"

"We're the monkeys!" she said.

So I played her the first verse and she sang along. When I got into the second verse, something else caught her attention and she ran off.

I try not be hurt. She has a 2-year-old's attention span. Also, the second verse is where Bono stops singing about monkeys and starts talking about the weather and time and that sort of thing.

But it does seem like everybody's a critic.

Later on, when her dad was talking to the students, she was running around. She's much cuter than her dad, so the students were more interested in her.

I tried to help by taking her over to my compact fridge, which, in my homey style, I have decorated with pictures of my nieces and nephews when they were younger.

She started pointing at each face and asking "'s that?

"That's Emily," I'd say.

"'S that?"

"Michael."

And so on. When we'd get to the end, she'd start over. Pretty soon, the whole class was watching me teach her my nieces' and nephews' names.

I am sure that, if nothing else, everyone in our class now has those names memorized.

Brother Atom Bomb of Reflection

This is my new name as a new member of the First Reformed Unitarian Jihad. If you don't believe me, check here:

My Unitarian Jihad Name is: Brother/Sister Atom Bomb of Reflection. What's yours?

Many cultures, Native American nations come to mind, allow people to change their names as they grow. Sitting Bull's childhood name was "Slow," because of his slow, deliberate nature. Later, his father, named Sitting Bull, gave his name to Slow and took another name for himself.

Pencil of Shame/Stinky Students

I understand when high school students don't do their work. As a teacher friend of mine summed it up, "It's not their fault. It's all that new hair."

But college students, even community college students, should have some dedication. Hell, they're PAYING for their education.

This kid walks into my college class tonight. I had him as a student when he was in the ninth grade. His work ethic hasn't changed much. During the first quarter, on four separate occasions, he showed up for the first hour of class and then left. I assumed that, on the fourth offense, he would just decide to drop and I'd never see him again. The following week, he was a no-show. Spring Break came and went. The first meeting after break, he was a no-show. Then, tonight, he walks in. Now, mind you, on top of this, he hasn't turned in a single assignment.

So I told him to get his belongings and come outside and talk to me. I told him that he was welcome to stay, but he had no chance of passing the class at this point. He had no response. He just left.

Geez, this was so high school.

Happened last week with another student. Missed four classes. No contact. No assignments. Showed up after four weeks. Didn't bring his textbook. Didn't bring a notebook. Did bring a pencil. I took him outside to explain that he had no chance of passing. Same scenario, except he wanted to know if there was any way I would accept late work. I said no. He then asked if I minded if he went back into the class and got his pencil.

It must have been an important pencil.

Tonight, while I was lecturing, this one student got up and walked out for something or other. As he did so, the woman sitting next to him gasped, turned, and started laughing uncontrollably. So much so, she had to leave. Some other students started giggling as well. I noticed this rotten stench that seemed to come from nowhere. It stunk!

I thought, did someone pull a fart-for-laughs joke? That's what it smelled like.

I couldn't believe that would happen, even at a community college. I figured that it must be an unfortunate series of unrelated events.

Both students came back after awhile.

After class, the woman and her boyfriend, also a student in the class, asked me if they could move. Apparently, the phantom stench was a trail of body stink that trailed behind the guy who got up and left. No fart, just nuclear BO.

This couple told me that this guy's stink had been a problem all semester, but had become lethal tonight. Or, as the boyfriend put it, his boys were visiting the rest of us.

I'm not sure how you tell an adult that he needs to bathe before class.

Open Mic (Mike?) in Claremont

I am genetically predisposed to getting to places one-half-hour later than I intend, I have decided. My intention was to get to the Folk Music Center early enough to get on the first half of the sign up list. Unfortunately for me and music history, that was not to be.

UF got there plenty early and even he was performer number nine. I was fifteen. I think that I have always ended up being fifteen.

There were a lot of people there to perform. I think over thirty signed up, causing the management to cut each performer down to one song. The only exception was Trailer Park Mac and his band, whatever their name was. Mac and the boys are pretty good, and Mac is a well-known regular, so they got to play two songs. I was a little afraid that Open Shirt Guy would have insisted on playing two songs, because he has a pretty inflated idea about his talent. But he didn't.

Speaking of Open Shirt Guy, he was pretty friendly over all and joked with some of us and complimented each player as they stepped down from the stage. He also stayed until the end, which he doesn't often do. He's one of those performers who makes you sit through his set, and then leaves. When his turn came up, he tried to set up a sing along to a song that was pretty nice, but complicated lyrically. I t went something like this: "Oh, hie thee faire maid/for thine ample young bosom/Doth heave and sigh for I./Aye, I doth know./ For it's I'm goin' fro to yonder/to a maid who is much blonder/And I would'na spare protection far below."

Or something like that.

It made me long for the simplicity of "Wimoweh."

But it was an entertaining moment. Many of us "oohed" along. Some chuckled.

UF sang his Walmart song. It got a pretty good response. But, this being my second or third listen, I think it needs more ambiguity. I find it very Randy Newmanesque. I just wish I didn't know what he meant by it. I love that sort of thing.

A young woman sitting in front of me was wearing low-hung jeans and a thong. That was a bonus.

The guy who played second that night sang this great song he had written about surviving volcanoes and other disasters which prepared him for surviving some unnamed woman's love.

There was one guy who sang one original song and still managed to clock in at over ten minutes. It wasn't a bad song, but the intro, mid-waytro, and outro was a little self-indulgent and could have been edited. As soon as he finished, he left.

There should be a law. This particular open mic has a communal sense about it. If you don't want to be a part of the community, go play at Starbucks.

There was a trio that reminded me a little bit of the three stooges. I kept expecting them to be funny, but they weren't. They were good and their harmonies were unique.

Donita and John performed a blues song, "Make Love Like a Man," that simply smoldered. Her voice and his guitar played very well together.

Billy Canary was in the audience, but did not perform.

I performed U2's "Wild Honey." I don't know why this crowd made me nervous. I sang the same song in front of 1500 screaming teenagers at an assembly last month and that didn't phase me. But I was nervous last night. I think the only way it really manifested itself was that my voice was a little wavery and I repeated part of the second verse twice.

Next month is the Claremont Folk Music festival. So there won't be an open myque until June.

I need to practice more. It is hard to find time. I am hoping that I can find someone to practice regularly with.

RIP, Les

Take care! Beware
of the green-eyed dragon with the thirteen tails!
He'll feed with greed
on little boys, puppy dogs and big, fat snails...

Just got an e-mail from Billy Canary telling me that Les has died. He was 89. He had dropped so far out of orbit from many in the old Mish Dinner Theater group that most of us assumed that he had died.

Les was the guy who played the older character in most of our productions. He played the Rabbi in Fiddler. He played the Buster Keaton role in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, he played the old Indian Chief in Little Mary Sunshine. He was a real hoot.

My experience at the Mish was mostly as the newbie who had no training in show business. I started acting there when a guy in the cast of Fiddler 2, who was a lawyer by trade, was told by his wife that he needed to spend more time building his practice and less time in show biz. I got called in as his alternate.

Les was one of those people who was very encouraging to me backstage. He always had a kind word.

One night, as part of the pre-show, I sang a song called "The Green-Eyed Dragon," an old chestnut I had gotten from a minister friend of mine. It is a quasi-classical novelty tune with this wonderful piano bit, kind of like "Pink Elephants on Parade." I wish I had an arrangement for ukulele because it is one of the few songs that is permanently embedded in my brain.

Anyway, when I came off stage, Les was there, asking me "Where did you find that song?" He had heard it when he was young. In fact, he had a recording of John Charles Thomas, a popular tenor in the 30's and 40's, singing that song. I sang that song almost every show night during the pre-show.

One night, just before the show, Les presented me with a tape he had made from some of his old 78's. Among the songs was John Charles Thomas singing "The Green-Eyed Dragon."

Others included a very young Frank Sinatra singing "Old Man River," Bing Crosby on "I Hear America Singing," and some popular baritone singing "Glory Road."

When the dinner theater closed back in '83 (I think), that was the last time I saw Les. What a fine man.

I should probably try to work out a uke arrangement for that song.

We Need a New Religion

Part of me wants this new Pope to be a great man. Part of me thinks that, given the Catholic Church's record with handling its pedophile priests, it doesn't much matter what this new pope does. If he can't in some way make the pedophile issue right, he is a fraud anyway and any moral highground he supposes himself to have is also phony. Likewise, any stance he takes on the right-to-life issue. What good does it do to say that all fetuses are human beings who deserve to be born if you don't think it is just as important to protect the children who are born? And having that Cardinal Law preside at the Pope's funeral mass is definitely a sign that none of them gets it.

As far as I'm concerned, any accomplishment of the Catholic Church, even those I agree with, is negated by their refusal to openly address the problem of child molestation and those who would cover for those who molest children. "Suffer the little children..." ya know?

And it seems that this papal election just demonstrates how the major religions of the world, at least the judeo-islamic-christian ones, are intent on dragging us backwards into the dark ages.

History has shown that enlightenment trumps fundamentalism every time. Eventually, anyway.

My faith is simply that God manifests hinself in random acts of human kindness. Everything else is just ego.

CD Reviews

These days, I have gravitated more and more towards music that you don't often hear on the Clear Channel/MTV Musicopoly. What's more, I have been listening to a lot more uke-oustic CD's than I ever would have two or so years ago, before I discovered the sublime, expressive tones of the ukulele.

Of my many recent uke CD purchases, two stand out as solid home-brewed uke-o-tainment. Funny, they couldn't be more different.

The first is a work of classic stare-at-your-own-shoes street performer pop. The first, I think, is entitled Ya-Ya by David Herman and Ivar Dune (or maybe David Ivar and Herman Dune, I'm not sure of anything except that there are two of them). I picked this up at the Rhino Records in Clairmont for about $10. It is locally produced in Upland, CA.

The cover resembles a yellow rendition of the poster from Mel Gibson's "The Passion," if the Jesus were wearing a baseball cap and playing a ukulele.

Recorded in mono, this CD has the sound of being recorded in some guy's studio apartment just before the electricity was about to be shut off. This is a good thing. The singing and playing is Jonathan Richman-esque. I am comforted that I sing better than the vocalist, but discomfited that someone plays ukulele better. The lyrics have a nice nerd-punk confessional sensibility about loves lost, adventures in NYC, and guys who don't make much money but are at least trying to make their way. My favorite song is Time of Glory/NYC, but the original material is all fun and the cover of Otis Redding's "These Arms of Mine" takes on a new pathos when sung by some nasal white guy.

The next CD is Preliminary Slither by Snake Suspenderz, street minstrels from Seattle whose spellcheck has broken. I have never heard Snake Suspenderz live, which I imagine might take place on a street corner or in a bar, but I imagine that it would be fun. Where many Jazz and Blues recordings sound too rehearsed, this CD captures the spontaneity of a live street performance. The Gravely yawp of Howlin' Hobbit provides a nice contrast to the lazy croon of Thaddeus Spae. Both possess fine scat skills as well.

Their voices also blend well, as do their various instrumental combinations-Thad primarily on Trombone, Howlin' Hobbit on ukulele. The two are multi-instrumentalists, playing a variety of combonationsincluding guitar, tub bass, harmonica, and pocket saxophone.

Songs that stand out are "Slow Boat to China,""Keepin' Up with My Jones," "Peoria." Nuff-Bob says check it out.

Taos Writers' Conference

By the way, I got my info packet from the Taos Writers' Conference, including the letter from the facilitator in charge of my week-long workshop. The workshop is entitled " Writing about Landscape."

The guy says that it's for novelists and short fiction writers and that we are supposed to send a sample short story to be copied and distributed to my co-workshoppers for critique.

HOLY SHIT!

I say that because I am a beginner when it comes to fiction. I thought this would be a pleasant workshop with harmless writing exercises, that teacherly types like myself could feel good about. Now, I find out that I need to write something GOOD? What the Hell?

I should have stuck with the poetry.

Workout

I was supposed to do the Rubydoo hike, but forgot. But I did go to the gym.

I have been noticing the last couple of years a change in whom I see at the gym. Now, I have been going up and down in weight during most of my adult life, so I don't mean to be judgmental. But it seems like people I see at the gym are getting heavier.

Back when I first joined a gym, the clientele was much buffer than I was. In fact, it was a kind of meat market, where the most beautiful, muscular people would go to show off their tight bods.

Now-of-days, it seems like people built like me are the norm. In fact, I would be tempted to say that I am among the middle weights of gym-goers. And I am definitely overweight.

Nuff, you say, this is what happens as people grow older. And I would say that you are right. Anyone my age should be changing, buffatude-wise.

But I'm talking about the younger people as well. Young men and women who go to work out are pudgier than they should be. Oh, you can go back to the free-weight room and find the exceptions to the rule. However, even they are shrinking in numbers.

This may be the era of the neo-rubenesque.

Open Mike Coming Up

I think next Sunday is the next Open Mike at the Folk Center. The last two were cancelled: February, because of the Oscars, March, I dunno why. Maybe they needed a break.

One song I think I'll do is "Take a Giant Step"-a song that Taj Mahal does, but I think it's written by someone else. Sounds pretty good on Ukulele. Has kind of a calypso feel to it. I'm not sure about the other song. It might be "Little Red Riding Hood," by Sam the Sham. Or, it might be "America, I Gave My Boy to You"-a song that I found on Betty Lou's guitar site. It's a WWI recruiting song. I played it for my classes once during our WWI unit. It's of the same theme and tempo as "Over There." It's all about American's being willing to sacrifice for their country. Slow it down a bit and it takes on an irony that the authors probably didn't intend. At least, I think it does. I guess I'll find out if I perform it for the folk music center crowd, as they are pretty anti-war.

Here's Betty Lou's site: http://betty.hypermax.net.au/index.html

Here's where you can find the song: http://betty.hypermax.net.au/americaheresmyboy1.htm

I find the Betty Lou site a little confusing. It's got a lot of songs, but the organization is sometimes hard to follow. It's best just to browse and see what you come up with.

Back to the open mike, I'm not sure what uke to take. I like my new tenor, but am re-thinking the whole lower g-string thing. It was ok, back when I was sewing my wild-uke oats, but I find myself drawn back to the traditional soprano tuning. Also, I'm not sure that the nylguts' sound is so much better so as to make up for the relative stiffness of the strings. Then there's the aesthetic question: the white strings blend in with the blond wood of the uke, giving the appearance a monochromatic look. Black strings would provide a better contrast.

I am opening up my playing through the beauty of the barred chord. It makes some chord progressions easier and makes most chords sound more interesting. If only there were more time to practice.

I think I need to either take lessons or play with someone else regularly. When I do play with someone else, I seem to make more progress. The band my brother and I keep talking about putting together, the Mighty Procrastinators, never materializes. He did say that he cleaned out his barn. I've got an old can of paint and my Mom can make the costumes, so maybe we can put on a show.

Just got Snake Suspenders' CD in the mail. So far, my favorite song is "Peoria." Reminds me of the old folk song, "Marching to Pretoria," except it expresses a more carnal intent.

I also like the scat-singing. I think someone should teach a scat-singing workshop at the next uke fest I go to. Except, I think scat singing is something you can't teach.

I have purchased more uke-o-centric CD's in the past year or so than I have in my entire half-century. What has become of me?

Hotel Rwanda

So, my co-teacher and I showed Hotel Rwanda. We started it yesterday and finished it today. It was a logical follow-up to a memorial research project the students had just completed-the unifying theme being various atrocities that have occurred around the world throughout history. It ties in with a units we do on World Wars I and II and the Holocaust.

So, yesterday, before class started, we discussed what follow-up assignment we should give after showing the film. He didn't want to just have them write another essay, I thought about having them write some sort of poem. But everything we brought up with one another fell flat.

Then, when we started the DVD, the star appeared onscreen with a PSA about Amnesty International. The lightbulb went off in my head and I whipped together an assignment in which the students would pick from various international organizations that feed, heal, protect, and/or defend victims of events like that depicted in Hotel Rwanda. My co-teacher and I agreed that it was perfect.

I should say that neither of us got around to seeing this movie before showing it-a risky approach for a teacher. You never know when some parent will find a reason to object to what is going on in your classroom.

It was good to see a good film for the first time with your students. Your response is more real and they can see that.

I was supposed to present the assignment when the film had finished, but this film. If you don't remember what happened in Rwanda, or if, like me, you only had a detached awareness at the time, you should see this film. When you think that our government was among those who did nothing-just as we did nothing in El Salvador-or do nothing now in Darfur-you feel helpless.

I don't often weep in class. But, I had to stop several times to do so.

The hope is that one person, like Paul in the film, can rise up and do what is right. It isn't the success, it's the doing.

Most of the organizations on my list were started by individuals, by the way, who saw something wrong and tried to fix it.

I provide, here, the list. Check a few of them out, if you want. Join one and get involved, if you want. Then, go strum your ukulele.

Heifer International: http://www.heifer.org/

Food for the Hungry: http://www.fh.org/

UNICEF: http://www.unicef.org/

Voices of Youth: http://www.unicef.org/voy/speakout/speakout_564.html

Oxfam: http://www.oxfam.org/eng/

Catholic Relief Services: http://www.catholicrelief.org/

Lutheran World Relief: http://www.lwr.org/

Mercy Corps: http://www.mercycorps.org/home/

Water Aid: http://www.wateraid.org/

The Hunger Site: http://www.thehungersite.com/cgi-bin/WebObjects/CTDSites

America’s Second Harvest: http://www.americassecondharvest.org/

Amnesty International: http://www.amnesty.org/

Control Arms: http://www.controlarms.org/

UN Commission on Human Rights: http://web.amnesty.org/pages/unchr-intro-eng

Coalition to Stop the Use of Child Soldiers: http://www.child-soldiers.org/

Human Rights and Displacement Consultancy: http://www.codhes.org.co/

International Rescue Committee: http://www.theirc.org/

International Committee of the Red Cross: http://www.icrc.org/

International Crisis Group: http://www.crisisgroup.org/home/index.cfm?

Iraq Body Count: http://www.iraqbodycount.net/

International Association of Solidarity: http://www.andas.org.co/

Permanent Committee for Human Rights Defense: http://cpdh.free.fr/

Aegis Trust: http://www.aegistrust.org/

One: http://www.one.org/

DATA: http://www.data.org/

Doctors without Borders: http://www.doctorswithoutborders.org/

New At Uke Millennium

I changed things so that even non-members could write comments to my posts. Also, I made other changes that allows everyone the freedoms previously denied them on my blog. I'm all about freedom.

I don't remember what many of those changes were, because I really don't know what I am doing techno-wise anyway.

Also, I just joined Amnesty International. My co-teacher and I were showing Hotel Rwanda to our classes today. The DVD starts with Don Cheadle talking about the Rwandan Genocide and how a similar massacre is occurring in Darfur and that viewers like me could help by joining AI. So if you're a concerned citizen like me, go to the link: http://www.amnesty.org/. And, while I'm at it, check this out:http://www.heifer.org/.

I also joined the ACLU. I know that some of you probably buy into that bunk about them being anti-Boy Scout, anti-Christian, and pro-child pornography-but that simply isn't true. Check out their website and decide for yourself:http://www.aclu-sc.org/

The Entry I Should Have Written a Week-and-Half Ago

Last Saturday, I went and visited an old friend, whom I have known since before kindergarten. It's hard to imagine knowing anyone that long.

I think that I have been a little shy about rekindling our friendship. He's a good guy and was my best friend during a shaky adolescence. But, while we both gravitated around the same area during the 30-plus years since High School, we moved out of one another's orbit. I could get into all of the issues, but it all boils down to me not being receptive when he would reach out and him not being receptive when I did. None of this was hostile. It just was what two young, then semi-young, than middle-aged men went through separately.

There may have been a little pride involved.

I'm not sure, because we have never talked about it. Maybe that's a good topic for our next getting together.

We tried this about a month before, when I ran into him at Trader Joe's, where his wife works. I even took a phone number, which I lost.

I thought I knew where he lived, but got lost. Couldn't call. I stopped at a house that I thought was probably a neighbor's. An older man answered the door and, when I asked if he knew my friend, he said that his memory wasn't as good as it used to be.

I felt like a chump.

Then, I ran into his wife on her first day back at work since injuring herself a year or so ago. My first impulse was to turn away before she saw me, because I figured that I might be a scoundrel as far as she was concerned.

I did this, but finished my shopping, trying to compose my explanation in case she started throwing things at me, and went to my car to load my groceries and get a pen. I re-entered the store and went and found her and made arrangements to try again, writing the phone number again.

It worked out this time and we had a great reunion. We talked politics and religion and found that we both had traveled to similar Liberal Democrat, non-sectarian beliefs. We still had similar tastes in music. We were both going bald.

Actually, I am going bald. He has been there for quite awhile.

With Fame, Comes Responsibility

While surfing the web, I found that my blog has been discovered by Ukulelia, a really good blog about ukuleles. Dang! I'd better start writing better.

I need to learn more upbeat tunes. I tend to be attracted to the melancholy in life and music and have noticed that this tendency finds its way into my song choices. One thing that I like about the ukulele is that it lends an irony to sad tunes. You have this cheery little instrument, thought of as a toy or an instrument worthy of only Tiny Tim on "Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In." It is perfect for Disney and Muppets tunes. But, when you play a song like "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?" on it, it gives the song a poignancy that it doesn't have on the guitar or banjo. It adds to the idea that this guy, the American working man, has helped build the great industrial monuments of this nation, but has to stand on the sidelines, watching others enjoy the fruits of his labors as he himself is forgotten. Not even a memory.

And the idea that he's sings the song while playing the ukulele-a cheap, tiny instrument associated with fun-creates a tension in the song-a yinyang where singer and instrument pull against one another for control.

I may have been an English major for too long. But the other thing I have noticed is that the lyrics progress from "brother" to "buddy." Like maybe this guy's family has even forgotten him and he has to turn to people who may have once been his friends. In fact, through the first two verses, the narrator in the song is an anonymous American worker/WWI vet and doesn't become a person ("Hey, don't you remember, you called me Al?") until the end, when he's talking to his "buddy."

I wish I had known how to play the ukulele when I was in Grad School. This is not a major regret of mine, but a minor one.

Since learning the uke, I have learned how to play "Wayfaring Stranger," a song that is frequently alluded to in Cold Mountain. I wrote and presented a paper on that novel to a class taught by a favorite professor and thought about opening by singing the song. This professor was a folk musician and had actually spent time traveling to farflung regions collecting songs from isolated communities.

I chickened out because I thought it might detract from the content of my presentation. I was also a little shy about singing a capella. But, if I would have had a uke, I think it would have ben sweet.

The uke being my first musical instrument that I have stuck with, I have learned something about the construction of songs that I didn't get before. I can see how a songwriter has to shape both words and music into a piece of art, much like a painter has to shape color and subject matter.

Circadian Dysrhythma

I like Daylight savings, even though I'm convinced that I never really gain that one lost hour of sleep back. In fact, during the school year, my body clock keeps encouraging me to stay up late and enjoy the night. Problem is, I have natural vampire-esque tendencies that make me want to stay up.

I am a night person. At night, I do my best thinking. Since it gets dark so much later, I await the night and am afraid that I won't get enough of it. The night is a meditation. The day, a revelation. I guess I just prefer the meditation.

More to come later this weekend. I will try to make up for the lack of posts this week. I hope to tell of my meeting with an old, old friend and my walk up Mt. Rubidioux. And, of course, those CD reviews.

Until then, get out your ukuleles and amuse yourselves.

Another Minor Correction

Actually, only one of my friends has ever told me that I was a true Pisces. The only other people who have ever told me that I was a true Pisces were usually women I had just met who asked me what my sign was, to which I would reply "Pisces," to which they would reply "Well, you're a true Pisces."

The friend that told me that is someone whom I haven't seen for about two years who, one day at a bar on my birthday when everyone was buying me drinks, someone gave me a page out of a book called, I think, The Birthday Book. On that page was every horoscopular item I would ever want to know about myself, both Greek AND Chinese, I read it and passed it around and my friend, upon reading it, didn't actually say "You're a true Pisces," but said something like, "Yeah, that sounds about right."

Another friend recently told me that, in China, I am a wood horse. Good for me.

A Minor Correction

Ok. Sagittarius does NOT have a fish tail. I'm getting my mythological figures confused. Sagittarius is a centaur. He is the archer. My bad.

CAPRICORN is the other one with the fish tail. It's a goat/Sea serpent kind of thing.

Another Reason to Ignore Astrology

I actually did some research for this entry. I was looking through the list of ukulele players and noticing how many were Pisces, like me. Then began to notice how many were water signs. I was impressed, at first, with our numbers and thought that I would reflect on this and solicit comments from my six devoted readers. I had this grand thesis about Portugal, the first ukulele-ish instruments traveling across the ocean, Hawaii being an island, that Iz CD cover where he's floating blissfully in a swimming pool, etc.

But, to make sure that I had my facts right, I did a Google search on water signs and found out that I was wrong.

I thought that Pisces, Cancer, Sagittarius, Aquarius, and Scorpio were all water signs. Since there are only twelve signs, I guess I should have figured.

But imagine my shock that Sagittarius and Aquarius were not water signs. I mean, they both have fish tails, for God's sake. And the Aquarius guy is even depicted as pouring water out of a jug. And he's called the Water Bearer. And his name begins with AQUA.

So, it's just Cancer, Scorpio, and Pisces. Water signs do not hold a majority in the ukulele world, as far as I can tell.

A website I went to in my research mentioned that Cancer was liquid, Scorpio was solid (presumably ice), and Pisces was gas.

Which would explain some digestive problems I've been having of late.

One thing I learned is that my two fishes swim in different directions simultaneously: towards enlightenment and towards carnality, or the sacred and the profane, depending on which reading you look at.

Many friends who know about this stuff tell me that I am a true Pisces. I don't know. I admit I tend to swell with pride about the things that I like about Pisces-that I think fit. But, ironically, my interest in Astrology is pretty shallow.

Now, in China, I'd be a Horse. Which explains why I Tivo'ed all of those Mr. Ed re-runs on Nick at Nite.