Running with Scissors at an Institution of Slightly Higher Learning: a Trilogy

Once, while still attending Grad School, I sat at my usual table on the patio at Starbucks, reading Death in the Afternoon. This group of Bible Study kids shows up. There were about four or five of them, one of them being an odd young man who felt that his duty was to be extra loud so that everyone could appreciate how much fun he was. A thin young man with long unkempt auburn hair, he would shout out the most idiotic comments while the others tried to discuss the Bible. They weren't biblical comments, they just were stupid and loud and meant to be funny.

On this particular day, the kids had brought artsy-craftsy stuff and had planned to create something. At one point, the loud kid, holding a pair of scissors in his hands, shouts "I'll go get it!" and runs down the sidewalk to "get it" with the scissors still in his hand.

Another time, after school, I stood in my classroom looking out the window. I saw the usual group of students sitting at their usual lunch bench, playing their usual role-playing card game. Two girls stood over them and one seemed to be nagging one of the boys as he played the game.

Suddenly, this boy, who was about 6'6" leapt to his feet and chased the two girls, grabbing the nagger in a choke-like hold, held her for a moment, and then gave her neck a jerk. She fell like a ragdoll as he marched triumphantly back to his game.

I hurried out to where nagging girl lay, her friend hunched over her. Nagging girl was sobbing in a heap. I asked her of she was okay. She said "Yes," through her tears.

As I walked over to the gamers, I asked another teacher to call security. I stopped behind the tall kid, who had now continued his game as if nothing had happened, and asked him "What did you just do?"

He looked at his cards and not me and said "She pissed me off."

I said, "That's not what I asked you."

"It's cool," he said, "She's my sister."

A couple of weeks ago, on my way to teach my night class at Rio de Nada Community College, I stopped by the cafeteria to get a bottle of water and a snack. Inside, in a booth, another group of gamers sat playing their game. Shouting ensued. One guy yelled something about wizards or trolls or death cards or something and started running out the automatic doors. Another guy jumped up an chased the first guy, grabbing a pile of campus papers on his way out the doors. They ran across the campus and the second guy threw the papers at the first guy and, of course, the papers flew everywhere. Second guy then stopped running, turned around, and headed back to the cafeteria, leaving the papers scattered on the ground.

As I walked to my class, I watched him to see if he truly was going to leave all of those papers scattered across campus. For a moment our eyes locked and I wondered if I really was going to have to tell this guy--a student at a college for God's sake--that he needed to go pick up after himself. He flinched at my look, turned around again, and picked them up.

There is no moral to this. I just wanted to let you know that we may be outnumbered

Riverside Ukulele Liberation Front, 3rd Meeting

Each meeting gets better and better. We had nine folks today. Three of our regulars were absent and sorely missed.

The playlist: Beautiful Sunday with Do taking vocals. Jamaica Farewell, with Billy C singing. Eric lead us in Daydream. Then, Eric brught in Psycho Killer and we worked on that ne for awhile. Carl and Liam the Younger took uke solos.

What made it fun was that we really worked the songs, really layering the music. A great afternoon.

Jammin' with Bill

I served the folk music public today as a volunteer for the 27th Annual Folk Music Festival Today. I took the morning shift, working first at a musical instrument check-in room and later as a runner for the fiddle workshop. I thought the fiddle workshop would be fun, but the instructor mostly talked and the group did very little fiddling. Only two participants played the fiddle with any skill. So the fiddling was Jack Benny-esque at best.

Otherwise, music filled the air.

The Canaries performed at the open mike stage, but we weren't ready. Do performed her bosom song. As she left the stage, we shouted for her to sing a song she plays on the uke, so she got back onstage and sang that. Then we shouted for her to do "Tinfoil Hat," so she did. She was very good.

Billy C and I got to see and hear John McEuen who used the play banjo and fiddle with the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band back in the day. McEuen also taught Steve Martin how to play banjo. McEuen's guest was some 14-year-0ld mandolin prodigy who played like a possessed mofo.

After that performance. It was time for the final workshop of the day. Uke Forever was on schedule to teach a ukulele workshop, but Billy C and I wanted to go t a folk historian's workshop instead. Then, on our way, we saw an elderly man being guided to UF's room. He had to be in his 90's. He appeared quite feeble, in fact. I noticed that he had very thick white hair. That's when I realized that it was none other than ukemaster Bill Tapia. I realized that, indeed, he must be appearing in UF's workshop.

So Billy C and I zoomed over to UF's workshp and, sure enough, there sat Bill Tapia. He looked like he could be any elderly gentleman--frail, maybe a little alone. But when he began playing, he transformed. You could see the eyes light up and the body energize. He dominated the workshop, regaling us with stories from his early days playing in big bands and singing songs. His playing was spot on.

So there we were, about 30 workshop attendees, getting a performance from a uke legend.

UF ocassionally stepped in to show the newbies some chords and teach them some simple songs. UF led us in "He's Got the Whole World in His Hands." I led the singing because no one else seemed to know the words.

I think Bill Got a little bred because he out of the blue asked me "How do you make a 'C' chord?" I made a "C"chord. Then "How do you make an 'E7?'" I made the "E7." I kind f panicked because he kept throwing chords at me. But I showed him every chord.

Then he turned to Billy C with the same drill. Then he asked "Now, everybody play those chords as I call them." Pretty soon, we were all playing the chords to "Ain't She Sweet" while Bill Tapia took the solo. I soon realized that I was jamming with Bill Tapia.

UF handled everything very well, allowing Tapia the spotlight, while making sure everyone walked away with a few basic chords.

Hey, I got to jam with Bill Tapia. It just doesn't get much better than that.

Stealth

Stealth Bomber!

They wouldn't do well in an actual fight.

Spelling Tip for the Day

I just read a blog where the writer misspelled "weird." They followed the old "i before e except after c" rule. But "weird" is an exception to that rule. In other words, "weird" is weird.

RULF 2

The second conflaguration of the Riverside Ukulele Liberation Front spilt int overtime, in part because the lengthy tuning session at the beginning, I guess and in part because I kept asking if anyone had anything to play after I knew we had reached 3PM, our scheduled ending time. We had four new people. Carl, an older guy (probably a little older than me, actually) who brought his 8-string Lanakai and did a classical piece and a latin piece to play. Kurt, a local press photog that I've known for awhile but don't see very much. I invited him once during a chance encounter walking the Roob. He and I had been hiking two different routes when we crossed paths at the top. He joined me on my way down and we started talking about music and pretty soon, he was yearning to play the uke.

Two teens showed up. Friends of Leemo (Blowhard Canary's new nom de blogue).

'Twas a good afternoon.

Stealth

This is me and the Stealth Bomber, or should I say the Stealth Bomber and I. Billy C took it. It was very difficult for the pilot to hold the plane still for that long.

Hey. Really. That's the Stealth Bomber and I together. No tricks. Really.

Riverside Ukulele Liberation Front's Next Meeting

This is no joke! Don’t forget! The second convening of the Riverside Ukulele Freedom Front will take place on April Fool’s Day from 1 PM to 3 PM in the Gallery (i.e. basement) of Back to the Grind, located at 3575 University Avenue in Riverside, California.

Proposed Hidden Agenda:

12:49--1:00 Arrival of Dignitaries on Red Carpet
1:00--1:01 Tuning and facial exercises
1:01--1:03 Opening beffudlement
1:03--1:05 Return to decorum
1:05--2:59 Make beautiful music together
2:59--3:00 Closing Pie Fight

Bring your ukes, your music stands, a thirst for froo-froo caffeinated beverages, AND a song that you have been working on and/or a song that you would like to add to the RULF Hymnal.

In honor of the holiday, a silly hat would also be appropriate.

See you there!

Pictures of the Riverside Ukulele Liberation Front Maiden Voyage

Well, links to pictures, any way. Try this link. Sue left before we took the group photo.

Rio de Nada Ukulele Liberation Front Maiden Voyage

The anticipation of this whole thing consumed me as the ,moment of truth arrived, but the RULF had its first Ukulele Circle today in the dank basement (or "gallery") of Back to the Grind, a local coffee house. We thought at first this venue might be too depressing, but it turned out just fine.

We had a dozen attendees, nine uke players, 3 significant others who came to listen. Ukers present included Billy C, UF, E Barr of UCR, Blowhard Canary, his doppelganger Liam, Do, Susie H, Chuckster from R-So-So, and myself. Among the listeners: Vivage, E Barr's wife Karen and Liam the Doppelganger's mother.

The playlist: Blow the Man Down, Boil that Cabbage Down, Camptown Races, The Crawdad Hole, Quinn the Eskimo, The Midnight Special, and several others I have forgotten. I selected mostly easy songs because I wasn't sure what level of players we would have. Each attendee played a song or two he or she had been working on. They all performed well. Chuckster gets the nod of the day for playing a song by Devo called "Mongoloid."

Among the colorful details: Once in awhile someone would come down to the gallery for their own purposes, give us a look, grimace, and walk up back the stairs; a speed freak came and listened and I think he liked us but it was hard to tell because nothing he said was coherent.

Totally bitchen afternoon, as far as I'm concerned.

Rio Nada Ukulele Liberation Front

This Sunday, Billy C and I are hosting Rio Nada's first ukulele circle. At least that I know of. I've sent out e-mails to parties I thought would be interested and he forwarded each of them to parties he thought would be interested. There are eight to ten people we know of who could show.

My plan is to run off some simple songs that we can all play together. I've asked everyone to bing a three-ring binder in which to put the songs. We're going to number them and call it our "Hymnal." Each week, ukesters will be free to bring new songs to add to it.

At this meeting, we willcollect e-mail addresses and names and the like and get it set up.

This week, I talked to UF at school and he said that word might have gotten around to even more people than I was aware of. So, it could be a bigger group than I had anticipated.

Anyway, I'm excited about this.

I Turn 53

I celebrated my 53rd birthday Tuesday. Got a phone call from Billy C and Princess C singing(?) to me. The rain and the traffic almost made me late.

Two girls in my first period gave me a Disney Princess gift bag full of inappropriate gifts: a pair of pink socks, a pair of used non-perscription glasses with greasy lenses, a scrubbing stone for her, and a card of this old guy mooning the camera but he's so old you can't tell where his ass crack is. They got a kick out of it.

Another class sang me happy birthday and two girls baked me a cake. They also gave me a hand-made card signed by all of my students. One of the girls decorated. She drew a stick-figure me playing my uke. On another page, she pasted my head on Superman's body. Funny.

My 7th period 9th grade class gave me the gift of not being too squirrelly, God bless 'em.

Piano

We are trying to get Mama C's house empty so we can either rent it or sell it, thus increasing her income for the years ahead, as her need for care increases.

Part of the process has been for her to give each of us items that should stay in the family for one reason or another. My sister got some china. My brother got Papa C's old tool chest--an old wooden chest--not a Sears and Roebuck tool chest filled with Craftsmen tools. Dad was a machinist and these are specialized tools that none of us could ever use. But it's a part of him. The first time I opened it after Papa C died, I was surprised to find three pictures fixed inside: one of Mama C, one of Pamela C, and one of his pal Clarence Matthews.

Clarence is a story unto himself--he has reached legendary status in our family and I would need my Papa C here to embellish the stories with dialog and other details.

But, I digress.

I got the piano. Mama C's upright piano. Right now, it sits in my living room near the sliding glass door, but well out of the way of incoming sun. Atop center sits old clock that, the last time I heard, sounded the time increasingly out of tune with each passing hour. Next to that, I have a framed photo of Mama and Papa dashing out of the church on their wedding day, their faces alight with smiles and youthful energy. To the left of the clock is my Oscar Schmidt uke and the last portrait of Papa C taken by Mama C's cousin Jimmy Rose.

There is another picture I am tempted to dig out and put on it--one of a young Mama C as a teenager sitting at the same piano in her parents home. The same clock is there--as is a bust of Beethoven. This is from her days as a young singer of local notoriety. The piano still looks new, as does she.

The piano I have still has a fine tone. But it looks a little worse for the wear. Along its once-perfect smile of a keyboard, one key sits broken like a missing tooth. The tapestry that once protected the insides from dust is torn (I don't know what this is called, but it is tacked behind the carved face board of the piano and was once made of beautiful fabric. I've googled for images that might show you what this looks like, but can't find any).

I made many of those tears as a small child. I imagine I found and imperfection and began exploring it. In spite of Mama C's pleas to leave it alone, I still explored the tears when I found myself alone with the piano. Why? The same reason I drew on the newly painted walls of my bedroom or ate the paper wrapping from the cupcakes Mama C bought from the Helms Bakery truck.

So, while I don't play the piano, it is a part of my history.

While most of the memories of Mama C accompanying herself on piano blend together into one, two stand out for me. The first comes from my childhood, when Billy C was a tween and I was probably in 5th grade. I think Papa C and Billy C were arguing over something--hair, friends, whatever. 'Midst the din, Mama C inexplicably started playing loudly and singing a song hymn and when she got to the refrain, got up and patting Papa C's chest, sang loudly "Bless this house firm and stout!" Or something like that.

The other was right after Papa C died. She was sitting alone in the living room (I was in the den), playing a song they had heard when they went through Marriage Encounter together.

More Reflections on Patti Smith's "The Jackson Song"

Vivage had mentioned that she first heard this song when she was prego with Blowhard Canary. That's when I heard it too, while I lived in their house with them. Billy C had a radio show on a local college station. I rarely listened to it on my car radio because the reception was iffy. But I did one time while driving around UCR shortly after the child prodigy's birth and just caught the end of this show, where Billy dedicated this song to his new infink son.

I think now that it might need a female voice singing the lead (Princess?) with the boys' lush harmony wafting in the background. There's a line about seeing a hero's wing and thinking of daddy followed by a line about a nestled wing and thinking of mommy that just sounds better coming from a female.

I supposed you could juggle that part around somehow, if you had to. Plus, there are plenty of songs out there written and sung by men where the persona is a woman.

Now to Change the Subject

How do you like my Google upgraded blog?

UF recently advised me not to be so dependent on tabs and songbooks, but to just listen to my heart and let the chords of new songs find their way there or some complicated sappy metaphysical crap like that.

But, hey, I think it works. I've got two new tunes that I am figuring out based on his advice.

Do had suggested a song, "Tiki Torches at Twilight" by David Lindley and, when I tried to get it on Chordie.com, I couldn't find it. So I just bought it on I tunes (both the David Lindley version and the Petty Booka version) and just listened. Then, I began to sing along and figure where it was in my vocal range and, relative to that, I think I got most of the chords figured out.

Then, I got a hankerin' to learn a Patti Smith tune, "The Jackson Song." But Chordie was also pretty chintzy with Patti Smith tunes. I found this odd, because awhile back I'm sure I found a load of Patti Smith tunes on some guitar tab site and now I found chordie was packing light, as was every other tab site I could find. Dunno. Funny thing: One of the Patti Smith tunes was actually the Patti Smyth tune "Good-bye to You." I thought the Chordie guys were hipper than that.

Anyway, I did the same thing with that song--more easily, because I am more familiar with Patti Smith's work and know kind of where her vocal range is and what chord progressions she uses a lot. So I am a little pleased with myself tonight.

Anyway, I want to learn "Tiki Torches." I think "The Jackson Song" would be a good Canary song with Billy C on the lead because he's a father and with Blowhard and me coming in with some fine harmonies (and Princess as well?).

Those of you who are thinking what the F**K! Patti Smith? Harmonies? Listen to this song. It's on the Dream of Life album.

A Mighty Wind

I've told most people this story, but those of you who don't live around here shouldn't be cheated.

My friend PJ's mother died just before Christmas. They held off on the memorial service until shortly after the holidays.

Like my friend Do, PJ's family does not adhere to tradition when it comes to celebrating a life. Where Do and her family take a musical approach, PJ and his family prefer a lot of speaking. A harpist provided music and PJ's vegan friend Dick provided guitar and raspy singing, but testimonials ruled the day.

Cut to the chase: As PJ closed the memorial, he asked that we all stand for a moment of silence in honor of his mother--that we pray, meditate, or just think of our favorite memory of his mother. Just as the crowd fell silent, someone released a hushed but potent fart--loud enough for only a few of us to hear. I looked up and met the startled gazes of four or five others--all of whom immediately averted their eyes back into meditation mode. I felt the urge to giggle, but suppressed it.

PJ ended the moment by saying "Now we hope you hold your memories of Mom gently in your heart."

Again, as if paid to do this on cue, the phantom farter released again.

This time, I kept my head bowed and I chuckled quietly. I couldn't help it.

Jim's Farewell

Saturday, Donita and family honored Jim's memory with a party celebrating his life. Yeah, that's the way to do it. No church. No ceremony. No formality. Just opportunities for everyone to honor Jim in their way. Jim and Donita come from musical families, so there was lots of music.

Jim's bro and cousin ran things, along with Donita of course.

They encouraged people to tell Jim stories. Those of us who played instruments performed. Jim loved progressive rock, so I played "I've Seen All Good People/Your Move" by Yes on my uke (minus the "I've Seen All Good People" part. The afternoon was chilly and I had a hard time getting my fingers to move, but I got through it. Soon after, the Canaries joined me on stage and we did our Dylan repertoire, with Blowhard Canary on vocal and Billy C and I on ukes and harmonies. The youngster's voice is really becoming more confident. I think he will shape up to be a fine singer. I think he can hit lower low notes than his father.

Many other people sang and played including both sides of the family: with both TV's Kyle and the Jimmy Jammers (Jim's band with Do, daughter, and Daughter's boyfriend), Casual Sunday (Jim's band with Bro and Do), and various other musicians and singers Jim has performed with.

Jim's keyboard was missed in every sense of the word. But he would be so proud of his family. He was a guy for whom music was life.

Do and a friend sang this sea shanty that Jim used to play with them. It was beautiful and and brought tears to everyone's eyes. Wish I could remember the title. I know it was written in the early 20th century in the traditional way.

A lot of people I had known once as teenagers were there, looking to me more like their own parents.

People mingled. Some found their own corners to sit and mourn.

Jim, you were a much-loved man.

To Honor Jim

I browsed my blog last night, looking for comments from Jim. One of his last comments was a request that I post the recipe for my semi-healthy chocolate chip cookie recipe. So, Jim, this is for you.

1/2 cup unsalted butter
3/4 cups lightly-packed brown sugar
2 to three egg whites, beaten stiff
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 cup nonfat milk
2 cups whole wheat flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup or more (preferably more) chocolate chips
3/4 cups chopped peanuts
1 cup sunflower seeds

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. In a large bowl, cream together butter and sugar. Add egg whites, vanilla, milk and beat until fluffy. Stir together flour and baking soda. Add wet ingredients. Stir in chocolate chips, peanuts, and seeds. Drop by teaspoonfuls onto a greased baking sheet and bake until browned, 10 to 15 minutes.

Tips:

I'm not sure why, but these cookies often have little green flecks in them after baking. I think this is from the flour. But I haven't died from eating these yet, so it's not anything poisonous.

To maximize sweetness, use salt-free ingredients whenever possible.

Instead of brown sugar, try date sugar. You can find this in most health food stores. It makes the cookies sweeter and is better for you if you are diabetic.

Instead of wheat flour, try brown rice or amarinth flour.

I call these semi-healthy because the combination of nuts, seeds, and flower makes a complete protein. Also, I recently read where dark chocolate has some sort of health benefits.

Also, I don't always go to the trouble of beating the egg whites until stiff, but the cookies still come out fine.

These cookies are not as sweet as regular chocolate chip cookies. They have a unique, mild flavor. Anyone who has ever tried them, regardless of their eating habits, has loved them. In fact, when I take them to potlucks and put them with the desserts, theirs is the first plate to empty.

Jim

Donita's Blog isn't up to date as of this posting, but you can go there to get the details of what happened. Her husband, Jim, had a bad stroke Sunday night and it looks like he won't make it.

This is one of those times where you search for the words that make sense. The wise realize that there are no words.

Donita called me with the update, after a more positive call on Monday.

Jim is one of those people who has this sweet nature and you just wouldn't want anything for him but a long, happy life. He is one of those rare individuals who is possessed by his music. When he plays his keyboard, he becomes the music and he seems to be able to fill in on anything you throw at him. He and Donita are two people who together are a vortex of creative passion.

I love them both and, as is my nature, I hold on to hope, but it looks very bad right now.

Just love your life people. Love your life. Each day is a gift.

Christmas

Merry Christmas. Technically, it's the day after Christmas. My brother's family gave me a collection of poems of Rumi. I like his poetry quite a bit. Or should I say the translations of his poetry that I have read.

The title of the book is A Year with Rumi. Since Rumi has been dead for a few centuries now, you can't take the title literally. The book is arranged with one poem per day.

The poem for December 25th:

The Population of the World

Christ is the population of the world,
and every object as well. There is no room
for hypocrisy. Why use bitter soup for healing,
when sweet water is everywhere?

Discuss.

Tamales and Pepperkaker

One of the fringe benefits of being a teacher is around the holidays, when some students do little things to let you know they appreciate you. One of the fringe benefits of teaching at a school with a large Hispanic population is that sometimes they show you their appreciation through authentic cuisine.

One time, at my night class, I mentioned the word "tamale" for some reason. The following class meeting, a nice woman in the back row brought me two tamales from her own kitchen. The night after that, the nice lady next to her brought me four. Soon, I was getting tamales of every flavor on a regular basis. Since I don't make tamales, I was in heaven for the rest of the semester.

One thing I discovered about tamales is that they take a long time to make and are a family affair. And, as with all traditions, making tamales provides a link that goes back many generations and is a primal act of love. Giving people food is one of the most intimate things you can do. So is preparing a dish that takes this much time. Nothin' says lovin' like tamales.

Likewise, in my family tradition, nothin' says lovin' like pepperkaker.

My Aunt Margaret made pepperkaker every Christmas for her three brothers and five brothers-in-law. We cousins all looked forward to this because these were some fine cookies. You could find them in stores if you looked hard and their were other home recipes. But nobody made them like Margaret. Her pepperkaker were potato-chip thin with just enough spicy bite.

Her sisters claimed that, whenever she shared the recipe with anyone, she always left out one ingredient so that no one would ever make them exactly like hers.

As each of her nephews turned eighteen, she made pepperkaker for them also. But we had a big family and, as she got older, the portions got smaller. I never had the luxury of my own coffee can full of pepperkaker, but I relished the pepperkaker I did get. I haven't had a pepperkaker in years--not one of Margaret's anyway--but I can still smell the ginger aroma as my dad first opened the lid of his coffee can and I can still taste the ginger and hear the snap as I bit into one.

I used to make these quasi-healthy chocolate chip cookies that I would pass around every Christmas. They aren't sugary sweet like most others. I adapted this recipe from one I found in Diet for a Small Planet. They have a balance of vegetable protein and complex carbohydrates. When I found out I was diabetic, I adapted the recipe by using date sugar instead of brown sugar and using salt-free butter.

I haven't made them in awhile, but I'm thinking I might revive this tradition.

Open Mike

We missed the last three open mikes. I felt I had to go this last one. All three Canaries performed separately.

As we entered, Blowhard was greeted like a rock star. He played "It's All Over Now Baby Blue." Billy C
played Frank Zappa's "What's the Ugliest Part of Your Body?" after the first tune.

Each act now gets only 5 minutes, so I only sang Curtis Eller's
"Buster Keaton." People liked the song. I actually pluck instead of strum on this one.

There is an invitational open mike in December. Some folk grumbled about not being invited--and I agree that there is something un-open about an invitational open mike. We got an invite, so what the hey?

I'm not sure when we're going to get to rehearse.

On a sad note: While my first day back after Thanksgiving break was a good one, it ended on a very sad note. My colleague informed me at the end of the day that he had learned that a former student of ours had lost her mother and father in a collision with a drunk driver. She and her sister (also a former student of mine) were riding in the car.

What can you say?

Thanksgiving

I've gone around and read all of my friends' blogs and most of them talk about their Thanksgivings and it made me think. Sure, Thanksgiving is about spending time with loved ones--but try a Thanksgiving without food. In most cases, every attendee must bring food. And it's not enough just to bring a dish, you've got to bring one of your PREMIERE dishes.

They have got to be colorful. They have got to be tasty. They must beckon you to come back for more. And there always has to be too much for one night so you can have leftovers.

Speaking of leftovers, my Sil makes this breakfast hash the morning after where she just dumps almost everything into a skittle and heats it up and it tastes yummy.

Then, after you have gorged yourself, sometime during the long weekend, you have to tell everyone what you ate. You have got to describe the dishes--how they looked, what went into them, how they tasted.

Then, we exchange recipes and/or discuss our own variations.

It's as if stuffing our bellies is not enough, we have to stuff our imaginations as well.

I'm not knocking any of this. It's just interesting to me. If I knew anything about how to do it, I'd start up a site called MyFeast.com, where friends could invite friends to be their friends just for the sole purpose of sharing Turkey Day menus.

A Poem from the Taos Summer Writers' Conference

Sabbath

Wednesday night.

You go in, pay your dollar,
take a fishing pole,
and enter the sanctuary
lined with neon sculptures—
each depicting a scene from the scriptures.
Searchlights dance around the stage
where showgirls with swan legs strut, their sequins afire.

Parishioners sit in booths
and order diet cokes and communion wafers
from waitresses in short skirts.

The stage floor opens
and the minister ascends
tied to a post—
the sin of the week
nailed above his head.

He asks the congregation to rise.

Each member clutches a fishing pole
and casts his or her line at the minister
while the pipe organ blasts “Just as I Am.”

Most people miss
but those who hook the minister’s flesh
give it a good yank
and are forgiven the sin of the week.

This goes on for ten minutes or so.

Some say this is hard on the minister—
that we should hire a homeless guy to stand in for him.

But most think that we shouldn’t mess with tradition.

Useful Info about Opossums

The two most interesting things I found out about possums:

1. "Playing possum" isn't a choice, it's a reflex triggered by extreme fear. Also, pretty much every one of their defense mechanisms involves disgusting bodily functions.

2. They can get rabies, but rarely do because their body temperature is too low to make the rabies virus comfy enough to thrive.

Would You Care for Some Salt with Your Sodium?

Billy C and I are both trying to watch our blood pressure and, therefore, are trying to watch our salt intake. So I can speak for both of us when I say we approached last night's Thanksgiving Banquet at the Tower (the assisted living facility where she now lives)with trepidation. At the tower, the spice des jour is salt--I guess in part because the "chef" has never heard of lemon grass or saffron.

All of the westside version of Mama C's family was there: Billy C, Vivage, Emily C, Blowhard C, his girlfriend, Princess C, and myself. We repasted on turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and this stuff the color of mashed sweet potatoes but of baby food consistency--all smothered in gravy. And of course, well-salted.

For Billy C and I, it was kind of a kamikaze banquet. We dined out of loyalty to Mama C, but knew it couldn't be very good for us.

Most of the young people barely touched their food, except for the pie, which also tasted a little salty to me.

As we dined, the music of the Janet Goeske Singers wafted around the room. Janet Goeske used to be a local activist for the aged. They sang a mixture of holiday and show tunes. During a rendition of "The Impossible Dream," the held up posters of scenes from the fighting in Iraq. Fortunately, they weren't too graphic--although there was one that showed to soldiers under fire--one hunkered down behind a sand dune and one who looked like he may have been hit. They followed this song with "Let There Be Peace on Earth, and Let It Begin with Me."

Oh, and Dickey De Loss, another local treasure known as a tap-dancing realtor, tap danced. She doesn't walk very well anymore, so she tapped from her chair.

You gotta admire that, in a way.

I suggested to Billy C that we volunteer the Canaries for the Christmas banquet. We could certainly entertain these folks as well as the Goeske Singers. And it would give Mama C a chance to show us off.

I have started writing our own version of "Impossible Dream":

To impeach the impossible dunce,
To indict his Vice President too...

That's as far as I've gotten.

WE sat very close to the entertainment, but next time, we need to make sure that Mama C sits facing it. She kept looking around to see the show, which made it impossible for her to eat. I also noticed that she had trouble with the turkey. I asked if she wanted it cut. She said yes and I cut it up into bite-sized pieces--with mixed feelings because I'm not always sure whether I should make her do things like this for herself, since any task she performs herself may help her retain motor skills, or just do them for her, because it helps her eat in public without being self-consciousness.

We stayed in the lobby as Blowhard C and his girlfriend took off to a friend's house with one of my ukuleles, Emily C left to go pack for a flight back home to spend her holiday with her parents Pamela and David C and the twins Laura and Boogie C, and Princess C disappeared to Mama C's pad to watch her fave TV show.

The elder C's all stayed in the lobby for awhile and visited for about an hour.

It was about 8:30 when we strolled out to our cars. Billy C, Princess C, and I stopped and chatted briefly, when Princess shouted "Oh my God! Look at that!"

I turned and there, amid the shadows and the rose bushes, crouched the biggest possum I have ever seen. It was as big as a mid-sized dog. It stood there frozen. Billy suggested that I rush it to see if it would play possum.

I do not fear possums, but I respect any animal that looks like it could do harm if it decided to act against type upon my person.

It did run away as I took steps to my car.

Sated, but not Bloated

My sister flew out from PA to help us get Mama C's house ready for an estate sale and rental. Mom needs the extra income to help pay the rent at the assisted living facility, as well as give her some spending money.

This is the home we grew up in. These days, when I go there, I am overwhelmed by so many of the events of my younger life. Each room holds shelves with boxes full of memories. Open a box and they pour out. Some of them aren't even my memories, but the memories of my grandparents, great grandparents--any distant relative who folded them, packed them away, and moved on to some other moment of life and forgot them. As I open each box, I can only see a hint of the adventure that produced the photo or piece of paper I hold in my hand.

One box I opened had three American flags in it. Each fold had either been unfolded, or just lost their folds with the jostling of sitting in that box and being moved from room to room over the decades. Two of them had 48 stars. I refolded each as best my fading boy scout training could remember. One was so old that it had become frayed at the end that had flapped in the wind a long time ago.

I know that protocol would have a worn flag destroyed, but I new it held some unknown history in its threads. So I folded it as well.

I found one metal box and found my grandfather's "Order of Neptune" certificate, commemorating his crossing of the equator while serving in the Navy during World War I. Also, the certificate that gave my father Power of Attorney over my grandmother's affairs shortly after Grandpa died. She had MS and couldn't do much for herself. I was a third-grader during this time and I remember coming home from school sometimes and greeting my bed-ridden grandmother and one of the women from the neighborhood who would come and sit with her on days where my mother had to work.

Grandma would always smile and tell me how much she loved me and then remind me that my grandpa loved me too. He was an alcoholic. I only remember him making one cruel remark to me when he first moved in with us. I was quite young. I'm sure Grandma only meant to repair the damage.

So, how do you pack up a life?

You call a couple of older ladies, friends of your mother, and tell them they can have anything they want.

These two ladies are old friends of my mother's and came to collect some of her old arts and crafts stuff. It took them about an hour to sort out what they wanted, organize what we should sell, and throw the junk out, all the while visiting with Mom, who had come with us this day. The three of them had a grand time and accomplished more in that hour than any of us ever could in a day.

Roberta from across the street also came over to sort through some of the craftsy items. She's a nurse. She is also the neighbor who came and helped my mother 15 years ago when my dad had his coronary thrombosis. She and Mom sat in the room where Dad had collapsed years ago, looking through water color supplies. There, Roberta found buried under miscellaneous paints and notebooks several of Mom's watercolor paintings. Mom kept remarking that they weren't very good. But Roberta made it a point to show them to us and offered to frame them.

They might not be great art, but they're at least a little sacred.

A Yardbird by Any Other Name, Part Two

I found myself with some unexpected free time this evening, so I drove to Redlands for the meditation class. Lately, I find it quiets my mind so I can sleep at night, what with all the thoughts in my head arguing with me at the end of the day.

Rest easy. I'm not hearing voices. It's just the various issues of family and work and unresolvable problems keeping me up.

I usually go to the class in Rio Nada, but I teach Thursday nights this semester and discovered that the same teacher teaches another class on Wednesdays.

During the drive there, I listened to the new Who CD. I like it a lot, although I admit that I have trouble getting past "Man in a Purple Dress." I keep replaying it.

This CD made me re-visit what I will call "The Yardbird Question." As you may some guy named An Opinionated Old Bastard chastised me for questioning whether or not the new Yardbirds had the right to call themselves the Yardbirds.

This new Who CD has convinced me that anyone who was in the Yardbirds or the Who, unless legally prohibited from doing so, probably has the right. I get the feeling that some of these bands, especially when they reach their sixties, certainly have a legit need to re-visit themselves.

This CD comes with a bonus CD and DVD of the two remaining Who guys, Pete Townsend and Roger Daltrey, performing at Lyon, France (I got this at Best Buy for . Roger doesn't swing the mike as wildly as he did, and Pete's guitar theatrics aren't as constant, but the passion is still there. Zak Starkey, Ringo's son, is a mighty fine drummer too.

It reminded me of the Pay-Per-View event of some years ago where the then three surviving members performed Tommy, with a cast of guest performers. I got to see it free because I was living at the Gribble house and my landlord-sometime-roomate had a pirate cable box.

These guys also kicked ass at the concert Paul McCartney organized after 9-11.

Not too long ago, when my mother still lived in her house and we'd all visit for Sunday dinner, I found my nephew in her bedroom listening to a CD of Tommy. This room was my bedroom at one time, and I told him that,in that very same bedroom, I heard Tommy for the first time.

This didn't impress him, but it made me feel like I was a part of some great spiritual continuum.

William Styron

William Styron died today at the age of 81. Doc Koon, my favorite professor when I went through my Masters prgogram often referred to him as a "Golden God."

I have read three of his books,all of which I just relished: The Confessions of Nat Turner, Sophie's Choice, and Darkness Visible. Each of them reads like the writer is on a mission from God.

The Confessions of Nat Turner examined a slave revolt in the Sotuh before the Civil War. It was a work of fiction, imagining much of the story it told, but it was brilliant.

Sophie's Choise of course told a multi-layered story about a Polish death camp survivor. Just when you thought Sophie's story couldn't get worse, Styron would clobber you with another smack-to-the-head moment.

Darkness Visible told Styron's story of his own battles with depression. A very short book, it also discussed several other writers and celebrities who suffered--and succumbed--to the illness.

One of my pompous-ass theories is that most great writers have one great book in them. Rarely do they have more. There are exceptions, of course. Styron was one of them.

Costume Malfunction

I had hoped to celebrate Halloween as a Triceratops this year. It has been a dream of mine for some time now. The problem is that I can't sew. I have many friends and loved ones who can, but I never think to ask them until the night before I need it. Usually I get looks that remind me of the looks I'd get from my mother when I was in high school when I'd ask her to type a research paper that I had not yet finished writing the night before it was due.

This year, I asked around two weeks in advance (okay, it might have been one week), which was considerably earlier than years past, but not soon enough.

After hearing about how long it would take to do the tail alone, I realized my dream would yet again have to wait.

I tried downsizing my costume to a bear, then a bunny rabbit--but each of these apparently take time as well.

So, I opted to asking for a fez cap, inspired by the likes of Tiki King and Howlin' Hobbit--not to mention Laurel and Hardy.

My friend Do stepped up to the plate, in spite of having plenty to do otherwise. She whipped together a dandy black fez with a reclining crescent moon and star on the front, and two tassels intertwined--gold and black. I did have to attach a couple of hair clips, but it looked beautiful. On the night of her Halloween party, it looked great and there were no problems.

I wore it to school today. I didn't have any hairclips but, miraculously, it never slipped off my head when I looked down. It was kind of warm in my classroom, so I was perspiring under my hat. But I was comfortable.

At the end of the day, when I tried to take the fez off, my hair mysteriously clung to it. My sweat had mixed with the glue that held the cloth to the hat's base. I pulled it off with caution. Fortunately, the glue was pretty diluted, so I didn't lose huge chunks of hair. But my hair stuck like Larry of the Three Stooges until I could smooth it down.

A Yardbird by Any Other Name...

Driving home from work, I turned on my XM radio and found myself listening to a live performance by the Yardbirds, one of my favorite bands of the 60's.

Except that none of the original lead guitarists--Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck, or Jimmy Page--were there. And, of course, Keith Relph was still critically dead, having been fatally electrocuted in the 70's. I remember hearing, by the way, that he left the group because he was going blind. I don't know about that.

It turns out that only two of the original Yardbirds, guitarist Chris Dreja and drummer Jim McCarty, are in the new line-up. Beck played a cut or two on the new album.

They sounded good, but were they really the Yardbirds? The spokesman, I assume one of the originals, introduced the familiar hits as songs "we" did back in the 60's. But the new lead guitarist is a young guy in his 20's. So he didn't "do" anything back in the 60's.

So I don't know. While the two original Yardbirds certainly have the right to recreate the music of their old band, shouldn't they call themselves by a new name?

The same thing has happened with the Doors (two original members and a couple of new guys) Creedance Clearwater Revival (two guys who didn't write any of the hits, but at least have the grace to bill themselves as Creedance Clearwater Revisited).

Two of the surviving Who are touring as the Who. But all of the Who were pretty high-profile within the band and remained legends long after the Who broke up.

Anyway, these new Yardbirds sounded really good. And I guess they have the right to bill themselves as more than just a tribute band. And I guess for them to be marketable, they have to use the name Yardbirds in some way.

But are they the Yardbirds?

The Last Refuge of the Scoundrel

I don't remember whether it was Ben Franklin or Voltaire who said that patriotism was the last refuge of the scoundrel. But, it seemed to me at one point, that last refuge had shifted to religion. I guess that politicians and pundits, having already staked out that territory--patriotism, that is--could not go back and reclaim it once they got their hands caught in the proverbial cookie jar or got caught with their proverbial pants down or both.

So many--Charles Colson during Watergate and Gray Davis when he was recalled, for example--became "born again" when things got hot. Far be it from me to determine whose conversion is legit and whose is not. But it always seems like these guys, when embracing God, don't seem to change much else as far as their values go. They seem to remain the idealogues they were before they got into trouble. Colson, while renouncing his actions as related to Watergate, has never renounced the policies of Nixon. Davis, who made it a point to talk about going back to God during the recall, never renounced any the reckless spending or promiscuous fundraising that caused California to turn their backs on him.

But these days, on the far right at least, everyone seems to be a born-again Christian already. They talk about God and family values and the culture of life and it sounds beautiful. But it leaves them nowhere to go when they get caught doing wrong.

Except rehab.

Maybe they took their cue from Mel Gibson.

Now, I don't know how much of Gibson's recent problems come from alcohol or barely repressed anti-semitism. But he fits the pattern of retreat to rehab that so many politicians seem to follow these days.

If you have already found Jesus and get caught taking bribes or sexually harassing pages, declare yourself an alcoholic and go into rehab. Never mind that you have no history of alcoholism--that your closest friends, the ones who know your secrets, have never seen you drunk.

Unfortunately for Tom Delay, he's already known to be a recovering alcoholic. So there's no place for folk like him to go.

Except maybe to say that he had been assimilated by the Borg.

Resistance is futile, you know.

Five Things That Define Me

The ukulele
Don Quixote
My MA in English
My Record/CD collection
popcorn

Two of these are constants in my life. Three mark recent profound changes in my life. One represents a major weakness. One is an achievement. One represents a change in my thinking. One is a work in progress.

History in a Box

Billy and Mama C and I spent the afternoon at her house sorting through a huge box of pictures and documents--many of which date back to my grandparents' (her parents) childhood. Many of these pictures are close to century old.

We sorted everything into different stacks: Mom's immediate family, extended family, notes and letters, etc. We asked mama C questions about each picture to identify the subjects and to get a bit of the connection they had in our family tree. This process consumed three or four hours and Mama C, who is 82, grew tired towards the end (and maybe a little confused), but she stayed with us as we scribbled her comments on post-it notes stuck to the back of each picture.

Some of the memorable pictures:

Mama C's cousin George and his sister June as kids, each holding a banjo. I didn't know June, but George and his wife had the habit of just showing up at our doorstep(unannounced) from time to time to visit. He received the Silver Star in World War II, if I've got my story right. He passed away a couple of weeks ago. He had this big dimpled smile in the photo, just like the one he wore on those days he showed up at our house.

Mama C's Aunt Lena, who apparently had an eye for the boys and gave her children up for adoption. One of her sons, Gin, had been adopted by Lena's mother while very young and went to his grave thinking she was his real mother. Gin's brothers and sisters disappeared into the mists of time, totally absorbed into their adopted families. In one picture, there was Lena, baby Gin, and a little girl who was apparently one of Gin's siblings given up for adoption. Mom says that no one knows the little girl's name.

Mama C's Aunt Vera with her three children. The children, all very young, looking at the camera while Vera's eyes were averted down, as if in meditation. Like all of my grandmother's sisters, she was a striking woman. This picture had been taken before the accident. As I recall, one of her children was playing with a pair of scissors and accidentally stabbed her right below the eye. The wound, while not blinding her, caused a large welt to grow under the eye. She rarely left the house after that, until much later in life, where surgery had been performed to remove the welt.

Mama C's cousin Jimmy, Millie's son. Millie divorced Jimmy's father and later married a man named Georges, who treated Jimmy badly. Millie refused to let Jimmy's birth father anywhere near the boy. Jimmy later searched to find what had happened to his father. He discovered that his father had always lived right down the street and had watched Jimmy grow up from a distance, never contacting him.

A portrait of Great Uncle Brick in his Highway Patrol uniform.

A picture of my grandmother and mother in their church choir. Mama C was probably in her early teens, grandma in her early 40's. There was another picture of the church choir with Grandma, but Mama C wasn't in it. As I have said in another post, my memories of Grandma put her in the late stages of MS. I have no memory of her where she was able to get around on her own, so it's great to see pictures where she was young and healthy.

We also found a letter to Grandpa, who served in the Navy during both world wars. Mama C said that he packed his bags two days after Pearl Harbor and re-enlisted. "I think he just wanted to get away. He couldn't stay in one spot for very long."

The letter, from her Aunt Eloise, urged my grandfather to finish his business with those "slant-eyed demons." Eloise's son, Happy, had gone missing. His ship had been attacked and sunk and the last anyone had seen of Happy, he was in a lifeboat, alone, drifting into the horizon. Grandpa was in San Francisco on medical leave when he received the letter. Eloise had heard that a few of the survivors from Happy's ship were in the same hospital as Grandpa, an she asked him to ask around for more information about her son. Clearly from her tone, she knew her son had died, but she also held on to any hope that he might be found or that she at least might learn what had happened to him.

Doppelganger 2

A colleague and I met a group of students at the local UC library this morning...and there he was again.

It's spooky--not because I think the resemblance is all that great. It's spooky because I see this guy where ever I go on Saturday mornings.

We take classes to the UC library about 4 times a year and he's always there. In the Spring time, when I work in the RCC Reading and Writing Center, he always shows up there. When I go hang out at any of the many coffee joints, he's there.

The students, who sometimes behave sophomorically (because they are sophomores), made a big deal out of it. To make matters worse, it seems like we are dangerously close to spilling into one another's consciousness as doppelgangers. I know he could hear the kids giggling at him and me. Even my colleague is in on it. When a couple of kids went to him with a question, he pointed at the mysterious stranger and said, "I don't know, why don't you ask Mr. BABoR?" I guess they actually approached him and had the question half out of their mouths before they realized it wasn't me.

I am afraid this guy is going to try to speak to me. True, at RCC, he and I went to the restroom at the same time and he said something like "How's it goin'?" But I said nothing to him. I couldn't.

I'm afraid that some day he will say something like "Hey, do you realize how much we resemble each other?" and my world will be sucked into a wormhole or something.

Besides, I think he's ugly.

Apologies to My Sister

My sister is farther along the road to packrat recovery than anyone in my family. I said earlier that we all hoarded stuff we didn't need and, true, she has an entire room in her house designed for storage. But her house is spic and span at all times. Now, that storage room could be a mess. I don't know because I am afraid to go into that room when I visit. I have seen too many horror films that center around a forbidden room that tempts characters--even dares them--to try and unlock the door and see what's on the other side.

So I don't go in that room.

One reason that my sister is so neat is that she married wisely. Her husband is always cleaning. I have often thought of moving in with them because, any time there is a mess, he cleans it up. This is almost perfect for me.

The down side of that is if you just set something down with the intention of coming back for it later, he cleans that up too. This bad for me because I'm always setting things down "for later." Later might be in a few minutes, a few hours,...or even a few years--but I always come back for it.

Really.

Another 6 Degrees of Separation

I received a mailer from Janet Klein
announcing her upcoming Vaudeville Extravaganza. Janet Klein and her ukulele perform with a kind of lounge jazz with her band the Parlor Boys, among whom is Ian Whitcomb who had a hit in the 60's. They put on a good show.

I taught with Steve Klein
, Janet's father, for several years before he died unexpectedly. He was in his early fifties. Steve was a fine artist and nice man.

Back to the mailer. It surprised me to read the name of one of the acts, Davis and Faversham, a comic tribute to Abbot and Costello. Beavis Faversham (aka Martinez)traveled in the same circle of local show biz folk that I used to awhile back. Last I heard, he worked at Universal Studios costumed as either W.C. Fields or Oliver Hardy. Now I guess he's added Lou Costello to his catalog of stars.

A Meditation on Steve Irwin

I admit I had to look up and remind myself of this guy' name. I am amazed at how many students seemed to be in mourning, but they grew up with him. Irwin was there loud, wild babysitter-- a little scary, but very entertaining.

I guess the closest I come to feeling the same way occurred when Chucko the Birthday Clown announced to the kiddies in televisionland that he had been canceled. Chucko ended his last show in tears.

Or maybe when Bob Keeshan, Captain Kangaroo, died.

The subject came up in class today and a kid commented about how Irwin died doing what he loved.

I said I agreed.

A student asked me if I would like it then if a died in a bizarre ukulele explosion.

I said no, because I don't love explosions of any kind. I love playing the ukulele.

Shortly after Louis Armstrong died, one of his ex-wives died (I did a Google to find out her name, but no luck). She was a jazz pianist and died during a concert, right after ending a tune. I didn't see it, but Billy C saw the film clip on the news. She really did collapse right at the end of the song. I remember him raving about how good great the song was and then she was gone.

Now I'm not in her caliber. But playing my ukulele and singing wouldn't be a bad end.

Especially if I had just played a really silly song.

More Cleaning House

My Bro-inlaw, Billy C, and myself helped Mom sort through stuff at her house. BroIL is a cleaning tornado. He is merciless about throwing stuff away, in part because his emotional attachment to all of the junk isn't as great.

We agreed that the plan for the day was to empty as many closets, cupboards, and shelves of knick-knacks and bric-a-brac as we could. I took the hall closet, where decades worth of sheet music and songbooks, mostly church-related, were stored. Some of it was recyclable, mostly guitar books that could be used for uke resources. There were also librettos of oratorios Mom had sung in. As I said, she was quite a singer in her day.

My parents had also stored their record collection in this closet. I don't think the records have been touched since dad died in '90.

One treasure that I think had been a gift to me was a record from Hawaii with Iz and his brother Skippy's band. I had no use for it then, but hope I can find a turntable now.

The real surprise find was something that I had thought I had lost. When she was still a teenager, my mother had recorded two songs--"Loch Lomand" and an aria from Puccinni's Gianni Sacchi (did I mention she was a singer?). It was on 78. I had borrowed it about 25 years ago to put it on tape with other old recordings I had been given by Les Weinstein. I forgot about the record and later assumed that I had stored it God-knows-where. As Mom got older, I began to fret that I had lost it and feared the day when someone asked if I still had it.

But there it was, in with her record collection.

I later pulled a big computer box down from this one closet, assuming it contained an old computer. What I found instead were old old pictures and keepsakes from my childhood, my mother's childhood, and my grandmother's childhood.

My grandmother had Multiple Sclerosis and my memories of her place her in bed or in a wheelchair. So, it was nice to find so many photos of her when she was young and healthy. One in particular had her in her swimsuit--the kind with the pantaloons and stockings and fluffy sailor-suit top.

Anyway,a lot of stuff to dig through.

Way to Go George!

I stopped by to visit my mother, who lives in an assisted living facility. She has made friends with a woman named Joan who is about her age (82) and who suffers from Multiple Sclerosis. MS is a disease that robs you of your balance and mobility. So, the attendants at this place have to watch her because she is prone to fall and can't get herself up.

So last night an attendant came into my mother's room while making the rounds and asks her if she knows where Joan is. She wasn't in her room and the attendant feared she might have fallen somewhere and be in need of help.

My mother told the attendant that perhaps one of her meal-time table mates, a man named George, might know where she is.

So the attendant walks down the hall and knocks on George's door.

No answer.

Again concerned that one of her clients might be in trouble, she enters the room and calls his name.

She found Joan and George together. In BED!

My mother asked me not to tell anyone, but I have a feeling that George would be glad if the word gets around.

No $#!+, Sherlock

Back in 1989, I traveled to Europe with my buddy Bob. We flew over two days ahead of a group of students. The trip started in London and, once the students joined us, we traveled through Paris, Lucerne, Florence, and Rome. This trip almost ended our friendship, but that's another story. Let's just say that traveling with friends and or loved one really does put you to the test.

We landed in London. While there, we decided to take in a couple of plays. There's a booth at Leicester Square where you can tickets to some pretty good shows for half price. The line is usually peppered with scalpers trying to sell extra expensive tickets to the big hits, but I don't care much to see the big hits.

We got tickets to see a play called "The Secret of Sherlock Holmes," Starring Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke, who played Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson on the British TV series in the late eighties and early nineties. Hardwicke's father was Sir Cedric Hardwicke. Brett needs no introduction to Holmes Heads. But he also played Freddie, the young man in love with the reborn Eliza Doolittle, in the film version of "My Fair Lady." In interviews, Brett complained about the dubbing process for both him and Audrey Hepburn, whose voices were replaced by Marni Nixon and some guy. I guess both Brett and Hepburn were hurt when they discovered this.

Anyway, we enjoyed the play. It was a two-man show and the actors were very good. Hardwicke's played Watson cool and reserved to Brett's manic Holmes. Brett was a sweater. I mean, it just poured. The actual mystery was secondary to the chance to see this famous Holmes and Watson work their stuff.

After the performance, Bob and I walked to the alley behind the theater where Brett and Hardwicke would soon emerge to greet fans and sign autographs.

This older gentleman dressed in a worn tweed suit and beat up bowler sat on a beat-up suitcase, resting his back against the theater wall. The twinkle in his eye and his manner hinted that he had been at some point and actor.

Brett came out wearing a cloak and a beret. As he came out, the old gentleman rose, picked up his suitcase by the handle, stood up straight, and took a deep breath, muttering "Ah, here he is."

Brett cheerfully, but quickly, signed autographs, making certain to mention that they had begun filming new Sherlock Holmes shows.

The elderly gentleman approached Brett s he signed his last autograph and greeted Brett extending his hand. Brett quickly reached into his own pocket, pulling out a few bills and handed them to the gentleman, quickly saying "Good to see you,"--then quickly turned away and left.

Last Romp of the Summer

School started this week. On the night before the first day, a night that usually finds me making last-minute plans. I usually get het up with anticipation. As I grow older, this anticipation lessens, but it's still there.

Camper Van Beethoven had a gig at the Belly Up in Del Mar on this particular Back-to-School Eve. We know the bass player so we thought we'd check them out. I knew I'd be up late, but what the hey?

While driving down, the traffic slowed a couple of times. At one point, when it slowed to around 40 MPH, this guy in the lane next to me started swerving. I passed this guy and glared at him as I did so and saw that he was rapidly, repeatedly slapping his own face while trying to steer. I glanced at him in my rearview mirror a couple of times. He continued to slap his own face, swerving from one edge of his lane to the other.

This will remain a mystery to me forever.

The concert started late. When they came out, Greg Lowrey, the lead singer, seemed subdued. He is kind of cocky and arrogant, so this was a departure from his usual stage manner. Camper is a tight band and Lowrey's songs are great, but they were less engaging than they had been at the other performance I had seen a long time ago. Not much audience interaction. But the same tight musicianship for the most part and the audience seemed to love them.

I got home late and arrived at school to meet my new students. By about 4th period, I was really dragging. I could have fallen asleep at my lectern. I managed to stay awake and even stay after school a little while to finish some work.

I hope I can get my circadian rhythm back this weekend.

Music Teacher

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angry, Mom left the classroom.

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

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

A Lifetime in Stuff

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vespa or Electric Car

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I the price difference is also significant.

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

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

Disney Fruit

I go to Disneyland and I see evil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I couldn't bring myself to buy them.

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

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

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

Mad-Dogged at the Folk Center

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Really.

House lights down. Stage lights on.

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

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

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

Never heard of it.

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

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

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

Highlights of the evening:

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

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

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

Anyway, he played two songs and was really excellent.

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

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

Adventures with Bobs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Specs

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Dreams

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The website: Taos Writers's Conference


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

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

Taos and Back

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Short Hiatus Explained

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

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

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

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

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