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.

Singers Who Can't Sing Goes Broadway

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

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

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

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

4. Yul Brynner in the King and I.

5. Richard Burton in Camelot.

6. Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady.

7. Mel Ferrer in Man of La Mancha.

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

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


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

Singers Who Can't Sing

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, so that's seventeen.

Folk Fest haiku

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

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

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

junkyard landscape:
oriole perches on fence
then flies into window

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

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

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

Mt Rub Haiku

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

red-tailed hawk
perches atop dying tree
studies hikers below

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

the mountain top:
we watched the rain
spray the valley

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

hiker reaches the peak
chats on his cellphone
spectacular view

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

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

2/3's of the Canaries

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a good night.

Jammin' with the Big Boys

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Baggage Has Been Delayed

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hiker and the Bass Player

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not bass. My axe is the ukulele."

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

"No, I just play around the house."

"Well, that's cool too."

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

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

The Canaries at the Backstreet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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