Taos and Back

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Short Hiatus Explained

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

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

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

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

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

Singers Who Can't Sing Goes Broadway

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

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

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

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

4. Yul Brynner in the King and I.

5. Richard Burton in Camelot.

6. Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady.

7. Mel Ferrer in Man of La Mancha.

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

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


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

Singers Who Can't Sing

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, so that's seventeen.

Folk Fest haiku

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

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

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

junkyard landscape:
oriole perches on fence
then flies into window

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

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

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

Mt Rub Haiku

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

red-tailed hawk
perches atop dying tree
studies hikers below

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

the mountain top:
we watched the rain
spray the valley

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

hiker reaches the peak
chats on his cellphone
spectacular view

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

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

2/3's of the Canaries

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a good night.

Jammin' with the Big Boys

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Baggage Has Been Delayed

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hiker and the Bass Player

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not bass. My axe is the ukulele."

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

"No, I just play around the house."

"Well, that's cool too."

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

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

The Canaries at the Backstreet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Autistic Classroom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dream #5

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

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

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

The Flat Tire Principle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone finally helped her and she sat down.

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

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

Nick could sense her madness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dream # 4

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

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

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

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

Dream #3 : The Diddies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wake up.

There is no "I" in Canary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alfred Hitchcock Was Right

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dream #2

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

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

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

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

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

I don't know art.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

7. A shade booth.

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

9. An agnostic booth.

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

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

I still like bagpipes, though.

Dream #1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's about where I woke up.

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

Bruce Springsteen's "The Pete Seeger Sessions"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Canaries Rehearse

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

Can You Hear Me Now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The North and The South

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Last Night of Class from Hell

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

So, I'm done.

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

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

Brother Can You Spare a Dime?

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

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

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

The Angry Bunnies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Set List

1. I Wanna Be Like You

2. Bears

3. Brother Can You Spare a Dime

4. Times Like These

5. Wayfaring Stranger

6. Fisherman's Blues

7. Little Red Riding Hood

8. Maggie's Farm

9. Quinn the Eskimo

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

11. Daydream
12. Come on Up to the House

13. Wild Honey


There are probably others.

Works in Progress:

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

In Defense of Tofu

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

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

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

2. Add one package of soy crumbles and brown.

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

4. Stir.

5. Simmer.

6. Glob it on some spaghetti or other pasta.

6A. Add some Parmesan cheese.

7. Eat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He also likes cottage cheese.

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

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

As for Tofurkey, stay away. Stay very away.

What's Good and Bad about Soy Protein

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oriole Spotting

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

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

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

My DC turns around and looks.

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

"He's flying towards the window!"

My DC turns around again.

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

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

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

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

They couldn't have been less impressed.

Is nature doomed?

Harmonica Workshop

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

I mean, what the hey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Japanese Death Poems

As much as I like poetry, I rarely buy one book by one author. The exceptions would be poets I really like. For the most part, my poetry library is made up of thematic collections: Poetry for Men, Poetry for Troubled Times, Spiritual Poems. Poets in these books are usually heavy hitters like Shakespeare, Yeats, Whitman, Hughes.

I have been browsing this one book called Japanese Death Poems this week. I know, it ha a pretty dismal title. But its tradition is in Zen. jisei is the tradition where a poet records his observation of his last moment on earth. A jisei is very short, not constrained by form, and usually taken down by a witness while the poet dictated. This all makes sense considering the circumstances.

I think, in The Last Samurai, that final utterance by the guy who actually was the last samurai, was supposed to be his jisei.

Of course, if any of the other samurai had their own jisei, we didn't get to hear any of them. Not over the sounds of the Howitzers.

If you want to go to a webpage about this, here it is (that is, if I actually do this right):

OK. It didn't work.

Part of the book is made up of death poems by Buddhist monks. One of them, Goku Kyonen, tapped his stick on the temple floor and wrote

The truth embodied in the Buddhas
Of future, present, and past;
The teaching we received from the
Fathers of our faith
Can all be found at the tip of my stick.

He tapped his stick again, shouting "See! See!" and died.

The other part is made up of death poems from the haiku poets of Japan, including Basho, who wrote

On a journey, ill:
my dream goes wandering
over withered fields.

Yes, Orson Scott Card, I know it's in translation.

This one guy, Mumon Gensen, a monk, wrote two:

Life is an ever-rolling wheel
And every day is the right one.
He who recites poems at his death
Adds frost to snow

and

Life is like a cloud of mist
Emerging from a mountain cave
And death
A floating moon
In its celestial course.
If you think too much
About the meaning they have
You'll be bound forever
Like an ass to a stake.

I like them both. But how can one guy have two death poems? Wouldn't the last one be the death poem and the other just be the second-to-last poem he ever wrote? Couldn't he make up his mind?

Anyway, I admire that people who choose to make their final act one of creation. I know that for people like Warren Zevon and George Harrison, that final creation probably also gave them something to live for as their bodies were ravaged by cancer. But I think it also speaks of their strength to "rage, rage against the dying of the light."

By the way, the first edition of William Butler Yeats final poems ends with a really long poem entitled "Under Ben Bulben." This apparently was insisted upon by Mrs. Yeats.

A few weeks before his death, Yeats had arranged these poems in the order he would have liked to seem them appear in this book. This, while not his jisei, was the poem Yeats wanted at the end.

Politics

`In our time the destiny of man presents its meanings in
political terms' - Thomas Mann

HOW can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here's a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there's a politician
That has read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war's alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms!

Walking the Rub

Took a walk up Mt. Rub today around noon. Cloudy and drizzly most of the time.

For weekday, there were more people walking that I had expected.

On the exercise front, I went pretty fast. Shaved about five minutes off my usual time. Probably because I wasn't talking. BUT don't take that to mean that I don't like walking and talking. That aspect of the walk has been therapeutic for me.

Scenery-wise, it was indeed cloudy and drizzly. The road was wet, as was the ground. Along the way, I saw a sweatsuit on the path. I kept I eye out for the former wearer, but saw no one. It will remain a mystery.

As I approached the top, I saw a couple of hawks just hovering in the sky, occasionally fluttering their wings so as to stay in one place. I wish I had taken my binoculars.

They played that game with me that birds of prey play when a human approaches their territory. I have seen this on my bicycle outings at the lake as well. As you approach, they act like they don't see you, but subtly shift out of your sight-range as you get closer.

I remember once in the desert, I could see a hawk hovering like this and then diving at its prey below. It moved so quickly that it looked like it had just disappeared.

As I started the downhill, I saw what looked like a dozen or so hawks cavorting lazily in the sky, much like the first two, except they were looping around one another. I have never seen anything like this. In fact, I always thought that hawks claimed territory in pairs and that you wouldn't normally see this many this close to one another. But there were about twelve of them.

I guess they could have been some other kind of bird, but they looked and behaved like hawks. Buzzards I have seen, and their wingspread always looks more raggedy. These birds had the even wingspan that you normally see in a hawks. They were not crows, as their feathers were multi-colored.

This group played the same game with me. As I walked down the Rub side of the mountain, they drifted over to the Riv side. As I turned the corner and started down the Riv side of the mountain, they drifted to the Rub side.

I could also see downtown Riv's tall office buildings, their top floors dissolving into the clouds.

On my right, grasping a branch of a shrub, a hummingbird twitched its head around, perhaps wondering if I saw it, its throat feathers shifted from emerald to ruby as it did so. Near the bottom of the hill, a couple of woodpeckers argued while clinging to a palm tree.

I saw two cats: one calico; the other almost white, with highlights of orange. This last cat approached me and I could see it had blue eyes.

Open Mike

A good night at the Folk Center. A big crowd that stayed big until the bitter end. A few people left, but there lots of people at the end of the evening.

Many talented acts also. Do and her fam brought her boyfriend-in-law to play one of his songs with them playing back-up. They had quite a band going with Jimbo on keyboards, Do on uke, Lins on sax, and bfil on accordion. It was a novelty song with a lot of one-liners crammed together and delivered in at rapid speed. Funny song. Talented bfil. Talented family.

Billy C played Space Oddity on his uke and was among the best of the night. He actually had a nifty little solo that he worked out.

Leemy C did a sad Dylan song. He's voice is getting stronger as is his guitar playing. He was good, but there's this kid about his age that also attends these things and performs. He's sort of attached himself to Leemy. All during Leemy's song he kept singing lines ahead of Leemy, who was trying to interpret the song. This kid was not loud, but could be heard. I guess when Leemy would pause he assumed that Leemy forgot the words or something. Hey, let the guy do his own song.

I performed Little Red Riding Hood, a song that I have been threatening to play for almost a year now. I made a couple of mistakes, but the crowd got spontaneously rowdy and didn't seem to notice. After my first howl, they started howling on their own. At the end, they started making random animal noises. I guess it's my new audience participation song.

The koto playing Chinese girl was there again. It's not really a koto, but the Chinese version of a koto. Similar, but maybe not the same. She was magic.

This one guy who sat in front of me kept making comments at inapprpriate moments that were meant to be funny but weren't and I wanted to tell him to can it, but it wouldn't have done any good.

So, the two high points of the night were Billy C in the first half and koto-babe in the second.

The Folk Center is sponsering a silent auction to benefit victims of domestic abuse. One of the items on the block is a ukulele with one free ukulele lesson. The ukulele in question is a cheap Mahalo. This tiny lady who is running the auction asked me if I would be the free ukulele lesson guy. I'm not sure. I'm afraid my first lesson would be to tell the pupil to go buy a better ukulele.

It's strange to me that the Folk Center wouldn't put up a better uke, like one of the flukes or fleas at least--or even a Sunlite. It's strange that they would invest money in what amounts to cheap toys.

Spring! Tra-la Tra-la

First day of my Spring Break. Have thus far spent most of the day relaxing.

I haven't posted for awhile because I have been busy/lazy.

Open Mike this Sunday. The Canaries haven't rehearsed, so I don't think we're going to be the Canaries this Sunday. I have been practicing a couple of chord progressions for songs I might play. My choices are a slow, brooding love ballad from the 60's that has had a bit of a revival lately, a Dylan song that I should know by now, or a song that I have been threatening to perform but have yet to perform. Maybe this weekend would be a good time to perfect the lot of them.

This month, they're starting the Open Mike a whole hour earlier so it won't run as late as it has in the past. I'm interested to see how that goes, what with people's learned habits and all. I plan (I said PLAN) on getting there early. But I don't know if I can ever get there as early a some of the people who show up an hour, sometimes an hour-and-a-half, sometimes two hours early. I like doing it, but it's just not THAT important to me.

When I logged in today, I noticed that I started to write a post about some of the music I have discovered on MySpace, which I feel in my heart is made up primarily of teenagers and losers, but has actually been a functional tool for me in connecting with some uke community people.

Anyway, I will post about some of the uke stuff I found there.

A Scare

There are two former students of mine from my high school who are now taking my college night class as a part of the Middle College program, which allows a selected few students to earn college and high school credits simultaneously.

After the first break, I noticed that one of the girls did not come back and had left all of her books and stuff on and about her desk. Five minutes, ten, 15, then about twenty minutes and she hadn't come back yet. I got kind of worried because it's a college campus and I haven't had a semester yet where there hasn't been an incident of some creep coming on campus and attempting to assault some female student. That, and the campus gets very dark at night and there are lots of nooks and crannies for someone to lurk undetected. And she's a teenager and still pretty naive. And I guess I have a slight father instinct.

So I begin to worry and wonder what to do. Normally, is a student left, I'd figure it's everyone for themselves. But, like I said, she left her stuff.

There's no phone in my room, so I give the class an assignment and take a quick sweep outside to see if she might be chatting on her cell phone or something. Then I walk to the English Department office and tell the receptionist my concern and ask she that she report this to the campus cops, just in case one of them sees her.

I go back to my class and try to act like nothing is wrong, but am completely distracted during the ensuing discussion about some essay we'd read.

Her friend asks me if I wan her to call this girl's cell phone and see where she is. She does so, but no answer.

So, it's been almost an hour at this point, and I'm really worried.

Just then, she walks in. She was fine, but her car had somehow gone flat in the parking lot and she had called her family and her father had come to fix the tire and that's where she had been.

Kids.

Celebrity Update

So Billy C and I went to this place in Redlands where they have live folk music, allegedly. We decide that we'd like to check it out as a part of an unspoken quest to find music that matters.

The place was called the Martini Vault or something like that. It was a tiny place with lots of variations on the martini. We entered and found three people inside and no band. We asked about that and the bartender told us that the band was setting up in back, in this alley that wended its way hither and yon. We walked out the back door and, sure enough, there was a place where the bands played. This band's name was Bucksworth.

Billy orders a beer and I order my first and last ever martini.

We go back and, indeed, the two members of the band, the drummer and the singer-songwriter-leader were setting up. The venue was al fresco with a canopy overhead and a much-needed-but-sorely-under-performing heat lamp. The performance area was lit by one lamp behind he band area, meaning that it was pretty dark. Billy approached the band members and asked when they would start performing.

Like I said, it was dark and the three of them looked like silhouettes as they stood there talking.

The drummer, the leader, and the Billy chatted for a couple of minutes, when all of a sudden the drummer squinted at Billy and did a double-take and shouted "Billy?"
Billy then did a double-take of his own and shouted "Jake!"

It was Jason, profile #4 in volume 1 of my series on famous people I have known. Jake, as you will recall, played drums for The Skeletones. He was the son of the director of the theater group we both performed in many years ago and he played drums for most of the shows. He quit The Skeletones and now kept time for this band.

He was a teenager then. Now he's 43.

Just then, their guitar player Kevin Bacon walked in with Rob D'Arc and John Wayne.

I made that last bit up.

We shat the shoot for awhile and listened to their first set.

It was freezing cold out there. Everyone was bundled up, making the place look like an inuit single's bar.

The band was really good. The leader has a real ear for hooks and catchy phraseology. Nuke-Bob says check it out.

The Howlin' Hobbit/Rob D'Arc/Pops Bayless Continuum

I'm reading Howlin' Hobbit's blog and I discover that he knows Rob D'Arc, formerly of Kid'Stuff Puppet Theater in Riverside, which got defunct by the wise fathers of the city because I don't know why. I think it may have been due to a local trendy restaurant wanting the space.

I met Rob through a mutual friend who ran this sporadically produced variety show. I occasionally performed in this show. Rob did this Kangaroo Rat puppet with the mutual friend. Sometimes, he'd do other puppet schtick as well.

His puppets were always amazingly realized. It was a sad day when his theater was closed. He put a lot of work into it.

The last time I saw Rob, he was doing the K-Rat bit at one of the mutual friend's shows and, during the intermission, he approached me, a little angry, but subdued, and asked me what I knew about something my brother supposedly did to some deal that he was trying to work out with the local Community Players.

I had no idea what he was talking about.

My brother, a talented actor, singer, and director, was a member of the Community Players' board of directors or something and I always got the impression that every decision was democratically arrived at and that every decision was also a frustrating battle that left him and his friends frustrated to the point where, one by one, they quit. Many of the people on the board were very conservative in their tastes and resisted any new ideas or exciting plays.

I appeared in a production at the Community Players and attended one meeting of this board, but never actually joined the group, mainly because being that involved sounded more frustrating and stressful than a hobby ought to be.

So, if Rob had any deal in the works, I knew nothing about it and could do nothing about it. If my brother had any opinion about it, he never told me.

So, just exactly what Rob was angry about I did not know. I told him as much, but he quietly persisted.

I may have walked away. I know the conversation didn't get very far because I couldn't say much about something that was outside my Universe of Obligation.

Anyway, Rob is a very talented fellow and that was the last time I saw him. It look like he is doing well in his new location. I suspect that Seattle is a city with a little more creative yeast in its metropolitan dough.

The other interesting thing is that I asked Pops Bayless of Shorty Long fame to be my friend on Myspace. There are a lot of ukulelists on Myspace, by the way. He sent me a message with the words "Poly High" in the subject. Turns out he was in Poly High school's concert choir with my brother.

I wouldn't be surprised to find out that we have each appeared in a different movie with Kevin Bacon.

The Canaries Go Collectively Solo

Open Mike Night, Folk Center.

I crowded but fine evening of music. Long, but fine.

But I'll get right to the BIG question: How were the Canaries?

The Canaries didn't play together. We all played solo. We needed room to grow. Artistically that is.

Billy C was very good. He played his castratobari and sang "My Death" by Jaques Brel, a Belgian singer-songwriter who was once alive and well but is now not so. He nailed it. I especially liked that he did a song that probably few people had heard. This is a dark song that worked well with the uke-it's spritely tone the perfect contrast to Billy's deep voice and the songs somber timbre.

I sang "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime," which in the past has not been my best tune. I was introduced by my nom de blog I was going to sing another tune that I had been practicing using a cheat sheet, but thought better of it. I felt good about it and got a good response.

There was one lady there, second to last performer, who played the tinwhistle. She talked more than she played. Billy C and Liam C both thought she was amusing, but I just wanted her to shut up and play. The last singer was this woman from Peru who spoke limited English. As she sang, she had this bald guy translate for the audience.

There was also this band of French guys, one of whom played the digeridoo while the others played guitars. It was a French song, but there was no bald translator.

Liam Canary performed "Across the Universe." He was as charming as usual. He is quickly finding a voice.

Tomorrow's blog: The Bro A-Bomb, Howlin' Hobbit, Billy Canary, Pops Bayless Time-Space Continuum revealed.

Bro A-Bomb in Concert

I stopped by the Depot last night around 9 to catch UF's performance. I was surprised at his set-up, as I thought he would play a lot of uke and a little guitar-with perhaps one of those other funky stringed instruments he plays. He had his keyboard there as well and was playing some Randy Newman and some song with a riff of "Piano Man" thrown in. It was a fine performance. A rotating crew of teenagers cheered him on, as did several folk who came in and out who seemed to know him. I guess there was one kid who had even downloaded about 30 of John's tunes off of the internet. He actually has a fan base.

Hans and Dana were there, drinking froo-froo coffee beverages, fortified by a hidden flask of Bailey's they shared-she pouring while he pretended he didn't see.

Towards the end of the evening, he invited me up to play some tunes. At that time several former students from Rancho showed up and watched from outside.

I started with the Jungle Book song. All total, I played five songs. It was not my best performance as I had not rehearsed many of the songs for quite some time. What I learned is I need to rehearse my ouvre more often. I felt like I nailed "Times Like These" and was ok on "Fisherman's Blues." But the others were pretty sloppy. I just went blank a couple of times.

Probably the other thing I need to do is work on beginnings and endings of songs. I often just start and then quit, unless the arrangement already has a beginning and ending worked in. Much of what I play comes from internet tabs, which either don't include intros and outros, or are intended for guitar and assumes the player has a certain level of prowess.

It was fun, anyways.

I decided that the Depot would be a good place for a Ukulele Sunday group. The area from which UF performed, when not being used as a performance space, is an ideal fit for a small circle of uke players.

The Ruins of My Young Adult Years

Today was my first day in the Riverside Community College Reading and Writing Center. I got the memo in my e-mail about where and when to report, but, because I thought I knew all about the where and when, I didn't read it very carefully. So I drove up to the Admin building and, after checking my mailbox, walked the few steps down to the where and when and stood there for a few minutes, waiting for the sliding glass doors to open.

They didn't open. In fact, the building was dark. It being early morning and me being recently awakened, I stood there wondering who had changed the rulebook of my life and why no one was there to explain this to me.

Then I noticed the scrap of paper taped to the door that explained that the Center had been moved to the Martin Luther King Building (formerly the Martin Luther King Memorial Library). So I walked to the King Building.

On my way, I walked past the Quadrangle, the oldest building on campus. This building is probably around 100 years old, if not older. I wish I knew something about architecture so I could give you a better description. Let's just say it's an old, stone building, two stories high, kind of like a castle without the minarets or bulwarks. It is square, wrapped around a large, square area-called the Quad. It was the social center of the school. In my day, it was usually lined with tables manned by leaders of student organizations beckoning students to sign petitions, join clubs, and get information about campus events. Cecil the Insane Biology Instructor would often take his classes there to gaze at the variety of flora that had been landscaped and cultivated around the quad, as well as the fauna that lived there.

In one corner, down a wide stairway-kind of like a cheap version of the Spanish Steps in Rome, the Pit sat. The pit was a blank square within the square of the quad where students and teachers sat and drank coffee, ate lunch, listened to noontime concerts, or visited with one another. The pit also was home of the short-lived summer theater that I once acted in. I liked it as an ampitheater, but it was too much of a hassle to set up and then tear down every year.

As I passed the Quad this morning, I witnessed the results of the current remodeling project to make it more earthquake ready. The classrooms had basically been gutted and all that stood there was the great stone shell. I could see through the windows that everything-walls, desks, blackboards-everything had been removed.

It made me a little sad to see them remove these pieces of my education, where Don had delivered his profanity-laden lectures about composition and poetry, where I learned that Dr. Burton was not my enemy, and that reading great works of literature was a good thing, both grade-wise and soul-wise.

I wonder what Dr. Burton's ghost must be thinking.

Acceptance

I followed the Buddhist nun's advice and tried to accept everything that happened to me last night. It was pretty easy because it was late and nothing much happened before I went to bed.

But today was a different story.

My colleague was off taking his comps for his Masters today and I had the class all to myself. That's two hours along with 60 students to be followed by two more hours along with 60 more students.

I had planned for part of my lesson to be done one PowerPoint, so I brought in my laptop and hooked it up to our elaborate audio-visual thing. I couldn't get the LED projector to project my PowerPoint on the big screen. I tried several times while the students worked on other things. I finally just accepted that I was missing some step and that I needed to approach the lesson some other way before I began to waste the students' time. So I told the students what I wanted them to do and they did it. Once I got them working, I tied a couple more times , but it didn't work.

But the students completed the assignment and the disruption was minor.

Sometimes, I need to accept that I've got a typewriter brain trying to function in a computer world.