Best of California

This picture pretty much sums up everything I love and miss about my home state of California. This is my friend Jim Hinton, an extraordinary singer/songwriter, and a young fan.

It's the architecture, with the window and door trim painted a very particular blue, the palm trees peeking over the tiled roof. It's the flagstone lane and the almost invisible Spanish tile set into the base of whatever it is that he's sitting on. A planter, perhaps. It's that there are parents young enough to have a child this age who would put that t-shirt on their daughter and top it off with the floppy hat. It's that she was not afraid or shy to go to where Jim was singing—in front of people—to clap. And it's that Jim would welcome her there, not feeling upstaged. That's my California, and I miss it. I miss the small things that are in this picture even more than I miss the ocean.

This was taken in the Spanish Village in Balboa Park, in San Diego. If you live anywhere near there, you should go. This is Jim's last Friday to perform there, and everyone should hear him at least once. He's fantastic, and his music will enchant you. He'll be there from 11:00am to 4:00pm today, and on Thursdays throughout the month of August.

An interesting side note is that Jim and I were born on exactly the same day, same year. I think that's pretty cool.

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Photo by Cheryl Sanders Hinton

Rare Linkage

I have to confess that I'm out of blogging ideas for the next day or two, probably because I've posted some pretty meaty entries over the past few days and I've been working a lot on my book. I'm going to let other people pick up my slack until I get my blogging mojo back.

Here are some excerpt from entries you really should read:

"What is the thing you ate that you were utterly convinced you would detest to the point that you were prepared to spit it out as you lifted the fork or spoon to your mouth, only to discover that you actually didn't dislike it at all and maybe loved it?"  More...

"And his hot, fetid breath on my neck was just killing me. I felt the nausea washing over me, and I knew it wouldn't be long before I had to excuse myself."  More...

""We're gonna take our country back!!!" From who? The last time I checked it was MY country too and I didn't tap out and give it to anybody."  More...

"Some Christians say gayness can be cured with prayer. If only it were the same for stupidity."  More...

"As vinegar dripped from my hair, over my glasses, and down my neck, I reflected on the harsh mistress that is science. All I had wanted was a refreshing beverage. Instead I had just douched my face."  More...

"Want some good writing advice: Quit worrying if it's good enough until you finish the darn thing first."  More...

Life is Sweet

When I was a child, my family meant everything to me. From the moment I was brought home from the hospital I was surrounded by my parents, my grandparents, and my aunts and uncles. My older brother and I were at that time the only kids, but cousins began to appear a short four years later.

When our family moved en masse to California from Kansas in 1948, they bought a piece of land in a tiny area near Ventura that was called Nyeland Acres. I think the neighborhood was only about five square blocks in those days, and it contained a collection of quaint houses that had been built by young families after the men started coming home after World War II.

One-by-one the men in our family built houses on this land—a family compound—beginning with my grandparents' house. In the meantime, everyone rented little places in the neighborhood. By the time I came along, they were building our house, which we moved into when I was two.

We were a close, happy family with strong traditions that stemmed from our Austrian ancestry. My grandfather was basically a Hobbit; his only job was to putter around his garden, work on the cars with my dad, and keep the house clean while my grandmother worked as City Clerk at Oxnard City Hall. In those days no one had even considered that men could be househusbands while their wives worked, but that's the arrangement my grandparents preferred.

Weekends were almost always spent outside. In those days southern California really was a paradise most of the time. My grandfather had planted a willow tree in his front yard, training the limbs with 4x4 Y-posts to serve as a covered area with arches that he cut into the thick fronds as doorways. It was like a room under there, dark, cool, and private. Inside sat a picnic table, a card table and chairs, and homemade Adirondack chairs. The adults played games of penny-a-point Hearts, Spades, and 5-Card Stud, swatted at flies, drank beer, and told jokes while we kids nibbled at the picnic spread, ate watermelon slices, and played in the grass. Sometimes we all went through the gate between their yard and ours, and the grownups played badminton or horseshoes. Often at night we had bonfires around which we sang songs like Mr. Sandman and My Blue Heaven, my talented family's voices joining together in harmonies while my grandmother's coloratura soprano voice rose above and floated upon the smoke into the night sky. These are some of my fondest memories.

Our family would have been pretty progressive if it were around today, but considering it was the 1950s, the diversity I grew up with is mind boggling. Besides my grandfather being a househusband, there were other elements. There was my "Uncle" Wes, who moved from Kansas with the family. He wasn't a blood relative, but he might as well have been. He was a gorgeous, gifted dancer in Hollywood, with black curly hair and cornflower blue eyes. He was gay, and he and his gay and lesbian friends and, later, his partner, were always at our family get-togethers. When my mom took a part-time job to help my dad make ends meet, it was my Uncle Wes who babysat me. It was also he who nursed me through my bout of rubella when I was five (he had been trained as a Navy nurse during the war).

I had relatives from a couple of different races and some from other countries. My aunt had even been divorced, so we also had a blended family in that aspect. And because we were a show business family, there were musical parties at which everyone danced and laughed together regardless of skin color, or anything else that the world outside would have found objectionable. Extremely liberal for the times. But my family had a code: Are you a good person? Honest? Friendly? That's all that matters.

The point of all this personal background is to tell you that all I've ever really wanted was to recreate my early family life for my own kids, and later, for Nettl's and my blended family, which includes five kids between us.

Yesterday was Heather's 20th birthday, so we decided to have a simple cookout, grilling burgers and brats and serving them with all the trimmings. Lauren came up for the weekend and Heather and Brian (her boyfriend) brought his brother Dominick. Joel was here (unfortunately Micah wasn't, he's in England until tomorrow), and we invited Dr. Kielbasa over, as usual. Like my Uncle Wes when I was a child, the Doctor has been adopted into our family; the kids just think of him as their funny, rather flamboyant uncle who does a great Carol Channing impersonation.

There was food, music, jokes, and laughter, dancing, and a whole lot of fun—exactly what I remember from my childhood, only now, Nettl and I are the "grandparents" (we have no grandkids yet, but I'm sure that's coming eventually). It was the best time I've ever spent with my family, and it reminded me of how grateful I am for them.

You know, the Buddha was right. Every happiness I seek is already inside of me; all I have to do is go in and find it, recognize it and own it. Over time, as I've mourned the dissolution of my childhood family, I've slowly awakened to the new one that has been given to me, and I'm so grateful. I'm now looking forward to grandchildren, not so that I carry pictures around in my wallet, but so that I can give them the best things I remember from my own childhood. They will come to their grandparents' house, where there will be music and dancing, picnics, laughter, and where they'll grow up with a diversity that will serve as a microcosm of the larger Family of Humankind.

Life is sweet indeed.

Entitlement or Gratitude?

Does art owe anything to the artist? This is a question that has plagued humanity for eons and one that has been on my mind a great deal lately.

It seems to me that people have been so thoroughly indoctrinated to accept talent as a marketable commodity that we’ve forgotten its basic purpose: to be expressed. Can I sing? I’ll make a gold record (and get rich). Can I dance? I’ll be a big star on Broadway (and get rich). Can I write? I’ll write a best-seller (and get rich). Can I act? I’ll go to Hollywood (and get rich). Can I paint? And so on…

I’m not saying that wanting to make a living from our talents is a bad thing. We as a society need people who introduce us to new ideas through their talent, but I don’t think that every.single.person who has talent is meant to be “rich and famous”. Actually, that’s so obvious, it’s asinine. And I certainly don’t think that every person who has talent has the right to expect fame and fortune, as if it is a reward for simply having talent. That’s a narcissistic sense of entitlement that perverts the purpose of art.

Personally, I’m loathe to talk about what art’s true purpose is because, really, I don’t know. The Great Minds throughout history have tossed that one around and I don’t presume to know what they never really figured out either. I do have my ideas about talent though. Having talent is like being given a big birthday cake that’s meant to be shared at our party. Too many people, instead of sharing their cake, sell it to their guests slice-by-slice for monetary gain as well as for praise for having been given the cake in the first place. They didn't bake it or decorate it, or even bring it. It was a gift that they want to sell rather than share.

A few years ago I was a moderator on a certain forum and I was astounded by how many people (mostly young people) believe that those who get famous are innately superior. They seemed to think that fame is a reward for being a better person than anyone else, for being more evolved or morally superior. Well, having met a great many famous people I can tell you that just isn’t so, but I'm not naming names.

In ancient Rome everyone wanted to eventually end up being a god (the Catholic Church took their process of creating saints from that which the Romans used to create gods). Some attained godhood during their lifetime, some posthumously, and some never did. Some did so due to good works, helping the poor and by being loved and respected by the people. Others, no matter how many bribes they offered or who they slept with or murdered, never made it.

Because I see the United States as a modern Rome, I believe that our celebrities are our modern gods. Some people make it and some don’t. Some make it during their lifetime, and some not until after they are dead. The one thing all these people have in common, from ancient Rome to the modern world, is a craving for immortality, of not being forgotten, and people will use whatever talent they have to attaint it: strategy, eloquence, deceit, money, sex, art, you name it.

The point is to express ourselves through our talents. Why? To express ourselves. That’s not as circular as it sounds. When I was studying with Maestro Salazar—a seasoned professional and a renowned musical force in southern California and points around the globe—he once told me that he admired amateurs more than he did professionals. He then explained to me the true definition of the word amateur (I remember that he pronounced it correctly: ah-mah-toor, not am-uh-choor): one who does for the love of the doing.

“In other words, an artist,” he said. “Not one who does it to make money, regardless of how much they love the doing. Being ‘amateur’ has somehow picked up the connotation of being second-rate, but that’s just not what it means in Latin. Being an amateur means the artist does what he does simply for the love of it. Ama: love. Teur: of.”

This has always stuck with me and has soaked into my very being as an artist. It has taken years to finally permeate my consciousness. But then, maybe it’s still doing its work and I haven’t truly grasped it yet.

As much as I’d like to have my books published, that isn’t why I write. I write because I enjoy writing. Usually. The past few months have been kind of a drudgery, but in the end, even that’s enjoyable in its own way. And as much as I’d like to make my living by writing, if someone from the future appeared and told me it was never going to happen, I’d still write.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s that art owes me nothing. I had nothing to do with it coming to me, so how can it? It runs in my gene pool, that’s all. To expect laurels to be thrown at my head for that is ridiculous and to demand fame and fortune for it is ungrateful. And gratitude seems to be the lesson of the moment at this point in my life.

My Dinner With Jimi

No, this isn't another of my stories about meeting someone famous. Sorry. And it's not really a film review either. It's about something that happened to me last night while I watched My Dinner With Jimi, a film that was written by Howard Kaylan, who was the lead singer with the Turtles and went on to join Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention.

Maybe this film means so much to me because I too had a chance encounter with Jimi Hendrix. Maybe it's because I too was a performing musician in the L.A. area and grew up in southern California. Maybe it's because, although I never met Kaylan, I skirted around the same circle of people in Laurel Canyon. Maybe it's because I too felt just on the outside of things while meeting all the people who would later become part of the future Rock pantheon. Maybe it's because I'm currently spending all of my time in London of the late Sixties while writing my Rock trilogy. Maybe it's because this is one damned good movie.

My Dinner With Jimi chronicles the Turtles' rise to stardom, but focuses largely on their first trip to London. It started out as a 15-minute film intended only for independent film festivals, but producer Harold Bronson liked it so much, he convinced Kaylan to expand it to 90 minutes. Although it was made in 2003 it has only this summer been released on DVD. I got it from Netflix and I'm not returning it until I watch it a couple more times.

Although it was made on a tiny budget of only $250K, it looks great because they used the kind of film that is used in Rock documentaries, and if you can get over the bad wigs and false facial hair (amazingly, the actors had only a week to prepare for their roles), you'll really enjoy it. The portrayals of certain Rock icons are particularly good, especially Royale Watkins, who plays the part of Hendrix. I can tell you for a fact that he has Jimi down, so much so that while watching him, I forgot it wasn't Jimi Hendrix. This is the kind of film that you watch in the same sort of attitude that you watch Office Space. It's funny, a bit spoofy, and eccentric. And it's all true. My kind of movie.

But what happened to me last night was something else. Looking back to the Sixties in my own life is impossible without struggling to make out vague images of fun and happiness through the clouds of retrospection. It's like looking through a kaleidoscope. I turn the lens to see more clearly and I end up looking through the broken fragments of abuse, grief, disillusionment and regret. In 1967 I didn't know that in three short years I'd be a widow with a two week-old baby. I didn't know that many close friends would die or that my musical dream would never come true. All I knew was that I was young and at the precipice of life, and that anything could happen! This film somehow created a wormhole for me through which I traveled back, completely bypassing all the crap. The Sixties were fun again--bad trips, hangovers, and all. And that was exactly the boost I needed to inject the true spirit of the Sixties into my current writing project. So thank you, Howard Kaylan. As I said in my email, I can't imagine my teens without your music. And thank you for this film. It has dissolved the block I've been struggling with for months!

I can't find a YouTube trailer for My Dinner With Jimi, but you can watch it by clicking HERE.

The New Google Image Search Sucks

The new Google Image Search format is crap. It looks disorganized, the searches aren't as fine-tuned, I can't see the resolution, file type or size of an image, and I've always hated those hover panes that some people have enabled on their sites, which is how the new GIS works. The infinite scrolling is an equally bad idea, just for orientation's sake.

From what I can tell, they're just competing with Bing, which I've never liked. Guess I'll be heading back to Alta Vista, or see if there's something else. Time for me to start doing some surfing.

If you haven't been given it yet, here's a page that tells you about it.

This is a poor excuse for a blog entry, I know, but I haven't been to bed yet and I'm falling over. Good night.
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UPDATE 7/23/10:
UPDATE: My friend Siren has informed me that after you type in a search request and you access the page with all of the thumbnails on it, scroll to the bottom of the page and click "Switch to basic version". Voila!

Thanks Siren!

Shufflin' Across the States

Damn, I'm a rotten person! I forgot to tell you about an awesome blog I came across a couple of months ago. It's called, I'm Just Walkin', and is hosted by Matt, a guy who's walking across the United States.

He started in Rockaway Beach, NY and is headed for Rockaway Beach, OR. He began his journey on March 27th and he's about to hit Great Falls, MT. When I found him, he'd just entered Minnesota, so he's really booking.

Why is he doing it? Here's what he has to say:

"Many people ask me the following questions when they hear about my walk: Am I raising money for a cause? Am I trying to set a record? Am I running from the law? My answer: I’m just doing it for the hell of it. Or, more precisely, I’m doing it for its own sake, for the value inherent in the act itself. Hence the name of this website: I’m just walkin’."

He then goes on to quote Steinbeck. My kind of fellow. He's blogging the entire way, posting only photos, along with catchy titles and witty captions. He has an emergency GPS beacon that tracks his progress, and he somehow attaches push pin markers that point out exactly where each photo is taken. This is used as the header of his blog.

Check him out, and if he comes your way, offer him a bed for the night. If you do, your picture will end up on his blog and you'll meet a truly nice guy.

I'm Just Walkin'

The Stolen 9

Yes, I stole this quiz thingy. I stole it from Byzantium's Shores because he steals good quiz thingies. So sue me. Then go read his answers.

1. Tell us about the last time that you got hurt in the arena of love.
I fell down and broke my elbow one  night after Nettl and I had an argument a few years ago. Oh. You mean "hurt"... Hell, love always hurts me. I'm an artist; what do you expect?

2. Have you ever been part of the wedding party, other than your own?
I was a Maid-of-Honor once. I've also officiated a pagan handfasting, and I was Beau's Best Weird in his and Ville's wedding, and I've sung at more than I can count.

3. Let's say you find yourself in Hell after you die. Think about everyone you've known in your life. Who would be the one person that would least likely to surprise you by being in Hell with you?
There are just so many... You know who you are.


4. What brings you good luck?
I don't believe in luck, but I do believe in the Law of Attraction. If something can bring a person good luck, I've yet to find it.

5. Do you have a photo blog? If so, feel free to share the link with us!
Sorry, don't have one.

6. What is your biggest source of news? (Internet? Newspaper? Television? Radio? The Daily Show? Other?)
I quit following the news a year ago and I find I'm less anxious and angry. If there's something I really need to know, Nettl tells me about it.

7. What's the hottest you've ever been in your life?
I was pretty hot when I was in my 30s. If you mean as in temperature, that was probably when I got peritonitis and had a fever that sent me into a coma for a few hours. I had an out-of-body experience and everything. If you mean, like, weather, then it was in the Antelope Valley in California. I'd gone up to a guy's bee farm. I was living in Peter Tork's (the Monkees) house, and the guy who supplied us with free honey took me up there. I'm allergic to bee sting, so I sat in the cab of his pickup in 100-degree heat, with the windows barely cracked. Had to be 120 in there! I ended up taking off my top, and by the time we left, I was soaking wet and sicker than I would have been than if I'd actually been stung. That was hell! Why do people think being hot is so effin' cool? Each of these had their own share of hell!

8. If you had to choose a theme song for your blog, what would you choose and why?
George Harrison's cover of Between The Devil & the Deep Blue Sea because, well, the words and the music just fit my ambiguity about keeping a blog.

9. Who was the last person you had an online conversation with that you've never met or talked to on your phone?
That's nearly impossible to say since I spend way too much time in Facebook. I think the last person I bantered with was a born-again who pissed me off.

Stoned

Back in the summer of 1965, I spent a couple of weeks with my aunt and uncle, who lived in Ventura County. I lived in the Santa Ynez Valley at the time, a two and a half hour drive away in those days. Yeah, that's 14 year-old me, ready to take on the world.

One afternoon I took the bus to a Walmart kind of store called Disco (short for discount) to get some cool, mod-inspired earrings. When I came out, there was a band playing on the back of a flatbed. I can't remember their name, but they had the obligatory Beatle haircuts and were kind of good, so I stood and watched. *

At some point, a photographer came to me and asked if I'd pose with the band (since I was so mod and cool and all...). I of course agreed, and afterward he gave me his card and told me I could come get a copy of the picture anytime, for free. So the next day I took the bus to his studio and got an 8x10 black and white glossy of me "modeling" with the band. While I was there, I noticed he also had some pictures of the Rolling Stones and I commented on them. He told me I could pick out a few, which I thought was really generous. These are the ones I chose:

He'd taken these at the Stones' concert on May 16, 1965 at the Long Beach Civic Auditorium. I don't know why there wasn't one of Brian Jones--if there had been I certainly would have gotten one. I don't even remember the photographer's name, so if he sees these on the Web and writes to me, I'll give him credit.

A few days after I was at his studio, he called me (I'd had to sign a model release form), saying I owed him a certain amount of money for the Stones' photos. My uncle was furious at him, but he took me back to the studio, where I paid for them out of my summer money. Pretty sneaky. Still, I got some great pix out of it!
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* 11/19/10 Update: I just found out that the band that played that day was The Guilloteens, from Memphis, Tennessee. Their performance that day was sponsored by the local radio station, KACY (AM). Their single, I Don't Believe, got as high as #16 on the station's Hit List.

What's really cool is if you enlarge the picture below (click) you'll see that Radio TV Hospital in Camarillo stamped their address on it. About a year later, my dad began working there and I worked in the music store next door. The guy in the center of the picture is KACY DJ John Peters. (Thanks to John Spohn for the Hit List and for revealing the name of the mystery band! Click to see more Hit Lists and pictures.)

8 Years!

Blogiversaries are funny things. While one wants to relish the day a bit, it's kind of predictable to post ones first post. Those are sort of boring anyway; few people--myself included--ever wrote a brilliant first post.

I have a whole philosophy around why I blog, but I won't bore you with that, either. I just never thought it would go on this long, but now that it has I intend to keep blogging until they pull the blinds on the Internet and tell us all to go home.

I've gotten attached to all of you, you see, and I happen to consider you friends whether or not we've actually met face-to-face. So thanks for continuing to come here through the years. You deserve to celebrate as much as I do!

In case you would like to read that riveting first post of mine, here it is.

Backstage with the Lovin' Spoonful

Growing up in southern California afforded me many opportunities to attend some incredible concerts. My older brother Rick and I were musicians, which opened doors to meet a lot of recording artists as well. Through our friendship with Ernie and the Emperors, we felt like we were part of something incredibly exciting--like we were riding on the tail of a comet. It was the Sixties after all, and music dominated every aspect of our lives, from learning any instrument we could get our hands on to our clothing and hair, from our desire to make a better world through music and the joy it brings to the slang that peppered our speech. It was an exciting time to be young!


I don’t remember how it came to pass that Rick took me to the Lovin’ Spoonful concert at Earl Warren Showgrounds in the summer of 1966. I don’t even remember him being there. All I remember is that he was wearing a Nehru jacket. Why did we go? I don't think we had tickets. Was I planning to buy one at the gate? Did I talk him into making the hour-long drive over the San Marcos Pass? Did he just drop me off? Something in me thinks that we dropped in on Ernie at his house and he invited me to go to the concert, but if so, what happened to Rick?

No, I must have had plans to go to the concert because my mom would  never have allowed me to go to Santa Barbara at night for no good reason. Especially with my brother, who drove like a maniac because he spent more time drumming on the wheel and the dashboard than he did paying attention to the road.

Ernie remembers that we met at the arena, but how did that happen? Had we made plans to do so? Was it a coincidence? These are things I just don’t remember. I do remember that I wore a brand new, royal blue and purple paisley pantsuit, with white go-go boots. I also had that Pattie Boyd flip, as I recall, except that my hair was the color of Jane Asher's and I thought I looked pretty sharp.

In the Sixties the E.W. Showgrounds hosted some now historic concerts that included The Jefferson Airplane, Buffalo Springfield, the Rolling Stones, the Doors, the Yardbirds, the Grateful Dead, the Jimi Hendrix Experience, Jethro Tull, Moby Grape, Led Zeppelin, and just about anyone else you can think of. At the time, the Emperors were the house band, so I suppose they were at every concert they could manage to attend. They were a hardworking band themselves, and they performed constantly.

These concerts were produced by Jim Salzer, who briefly managed the Doors, and who owned the best record store in the Tri-Counties area. He had a reputation of being a playboy, dressed like he just stepped out of a Carnaby Street boutique, and he drove an Excalibur. I went to a party at his house once in 1969, but I don’t remember anything about that either. It was the Sixties, remember?

The Showground concerts were always held in the Kramer Arena, an oval, open-air facility that was built for dressage events, horse shows, and rodeos. People sat in the covered area, but most were on the dirt floor, where chairs had been set up. There was a definite bovine/equine aroma in the arena, but who cared? The music was always great and the vibes were groovy. Santa Barbara was hippie mecca, thanks to UCSB.

Because of Ernie and Cory’s position there, we had no trouble getting in the backstage door with KIST DJ Johnny Fairchild. We came into a corridor lined with benches and full of people. Just to the right was a door that kept opening into a kind of dressing room where there was a lot of noise--voices, laughter, and etc. I quickly sussed out that was where the Spoonful were. We went on toward the arena and up to a semi-enclosed area, where I think, during the horse and cattle events the announcers sat at their microphones. In front of this was the stage, which I couldn’t see very well due to the speakers and amps.

Having reserved a page in my yearbook for the Emperors, I clutched it to my side as I watched all the hub-bub going on around me. I’d been backstage before, but never for a concert of this caliber, and it was really exciting. I was shy in those days, so Ernie made sure I was okay, then he went off to meet some people. I think he and Cory had as many fans there as the Spoonful--people kept talking to them and taking their pictures. I felt very “I'm with the band”, although I didn’t know that phrase yet. It felt great!

Suddenly, like a tornado, an energetic presence bounced up to me, a huge, infectious smile on his face, and grabbed my yearbook. It was Zal Yanovsky, the Clown Prince of Pop. He opened the book to the Emperors’ page and signed his autograph across it in a script that took up the entire page. I was stunned, and I said softly,

“That was the Emperors’ page.”

Zally looked down at where I had written Reserved for Ernie & the Emperors, and his face kind of dropped.

“I'm sorry. Is there another blank page?” Then he smiled again, his dark eyes looking into mine. “Probably not, cute as you are. Bet every boy in school signed it.”

I was embarrassed, and I’m sure I blushed. I had a bad habit of that back then.

“Oh, it’s okay,” I said. “It’s just a stupid yearbook.”

I laughed and he was all smiles again. He hugged me, told me to enjoy the show, and he was gone just as quickly as he’d appeared.

Ernie returned then and asked me to follow him, and we went around the corner and back into the corridor where Cory was. More pictures were taken by the Emperor’s official photographer, Richard Savage. Ernie remembers that just as they were posing with John Sebastian, the camera jammed. John took it in his stride and explained that he had to go get ready for the show anyway, and he left. Unfortunately, there also was no picture taken with Spoonful drummer Joe Butler.

Ernie and Cory with Steve Boone

Cory and Ernie with Zal Yanovsky

Ernie sitting on a bench outside the dressing room with Steve Boone

John Sebastian, Cory, Zally, and Ernie

Feeling bold, and seeing John Sebastian talking with his girlfriend (or wife), I went over to introduce myself. It was a stupid thing to do because they were actually in the midst of a heated argument. She had her hair up in those huge soup can curlers and was really giving him what-for. I felt embarrassed for him and decided to turn around and leave. He saw me before I could move though, scowled, and told me to go away. That kind of shocked me and I went back to where Ernie and Cory were. All the same, Ernie remembers all of the Spoonful as polite, amicable, and devoid of rock star ego. As I said, I’d simply picked the wrong moment to approach John Sebastian. Don’t worry. I liked him anyway. Raised with musicians, I was used to their mood swings.

The Leaves opened the concert, performing their hit, Hey Joe and a number of other songs. At last the Spoonful went on stage and they performed perfectly. They sounded really, really good, and although he’d kind of hurt my 15 year-old feelings, I was impressed with Sebastian’s musicianship. Ernie says that Jim Pons, who played bass with the Leaves, was a super nice guy, also very polite. He would go on to join the Turtles and the Mothers of Invention.

I don’t remember leaving or going home, but I’ll never forget how kind and truly lovable Zally was, and if I could, I’d thank him. Unfortunately, he passed on December 13, 2002 of a heart attack. Wherever he is, I’m sure he’s making people laugh.

Because I wasn’t really a Lovin’ Spoonful fan, I’ve never counted this experience as one of my high points--not like meeting Hendrix or McCartney. Don't get me wrong. I liked their music and had a couple of their LPs, but more than their Top 40 hits, I prefered Night Owl Blues and Lovin' You (a song I added to my repertoire when I began my own music career). That stuff. The night of their concert, I was more excited about being there with Ernie. That meant everything to me, and that evening was the first time he called me, “Little Sis”, a name he calls me to this day.

Jim Salzer photo by Larry Fisher, Ventura County Star
Backstage photos by Richard Savage

That Wasn't Very Smart

I can handle the crumbling sidewalk and I even kind of like the creaks this old cottage has acquired through the years, but I cannot stand, and will not tolerate the bug problem. You see, before we moved in last August, this house had been rented out by students for years and years, and we all know how tidy and fastidious kids are when they get out on their own for the first time...

I've always been O.C. about keeping a clean house, probably because when I became a mother I couldn't bear the thought of my kid crawling around on a dirty floor. More likely, it's because my birthday is just one day into Libra, which means I'm awfully close to Virgo, a sign that is known for O.C. behavior. Whatever it is, I've always been clean-conscious, even as a child.

I first noticed these bugs (I still can't bring myself to call them by their name...roaches...ARG!) when we were painting and cleaning before moving in. Having never had to deal with these asshats before, I had no idea how persistent they can be. I bug bombed, I sprayed, I set traps, I bleached, and I've smashed and swatted until I have tennis elbow. Still, they persist. Fortunately, they're not the big uglies you imagine. They're tiny, like ants, although I've seen a couple that were about the size of a pencil eraser. From my research I've learned that they're of the German variety. I don't care what they are, I hate them and they must die.

I've only really seen them late at night in the dishwasher--two or three--or on the countertop, never around food or on the silverware. Every now and again I might spy one in a cabinet, but never in the pantry. Until last weekend. No effing way am I going to let that start. We work too hard for our food to share it with the likes of them!

So night before last I cleared out every cabinet, removed every drawer, and emptied the pantry. I sprayed every corner and every gap with Black Flag and I scoured every square inch with hot bleach water. Then I sprayed again. After I let it set and dry, I rinsed again, applied some roach powder in the seams and replaced everything. I'm still seeing them at night (not in the pantry though!), but I've learned that this is what happens. In a few days they'll start disappearing. The powder sticks to their ugly little feet, and being fastidious themselves, they'll go back and groom themselves into the arms of Death.

I should have known by the cough that I'd exposed myself to too many fumes. The next day (yesterday) I woke up nauseas and headachy--the worst hangover I've ever had, except that I hadn't had anything to drink except one 3.2 beer when my cleaning frenzy was over. I'm fine today, but I don't think I'll be doing that again without wearing a mask.

On second thought, next time I'll just get another bug bomb and take the family out for a couple of hours.

Visualizing the Mundane

Last Sunday afternoon, while I was trying to take a nap, something came to my mind that kept me awake. I started thinking about celebrities and shopping carts. Yeah, I know that's weird, and when I turned over and told Nettl, who was also trying to nap, she got into it, and instead of a pleasant Sunday afternoon nap, we spent an hour speculating, and laughing. That was cool.

Some people I can visualize doing this mundane task and looking quite comfortable, but some, well, I can't see them doing it at all. This picture is of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Nope. Doesn't work for me. Neither one looks right with a cart. Here are the lists of people I've come up with, living and dead.

People I CAN visualize pushing a shopping cart:

• Paul McCartney
• John Lennon
• Harrison Ford
• Jay Leno
• Robin Williams
• Drew Carey
• Ozzy Osbourne
• Bette Midler
• Bill Cosby
• Doris Day
• Graham Nash
• Jeff Lynne
• Matthew Broderick
• George Clooney
• Tom Petty
• Jack Black
• Carlos Santana
• Donovan
• Stevie Riks
• Allen Ginsberg
• Bonnie Raitt
• Bela Lagosi
• Richard Gere (he'd be a label reader)
• Jayne Mansfield
• Gwenneth Paltrow
• President Obama (he'd be a comparison shopper - "Why should we spend this much when we can get the same thing for 7-cents cheaper per ounce? That's just not smart.")

People I CANNOT visualize pushing a shopping cart:

• Ringo Starr
• George Harrison
• Mark Hamill
• Rod Stewart
• Elton John
• Michael Douglas
• Catherine Zeta Jones
• Keith Richards
• David Letterman
• Larry Weinstein
• Jimi Hendrix
• Katherine Hepburn
• Billy Joel
• Ellen Degeneres
• Wayne Brady
• James Dean
• Elizabeth Taylor
• Bob Dylan
• Jimmy Page
• Chris Walken
• Marilyn Monroe
• Eric Clapton
• Jack Kerouac
• Humphrey Bogart
• Anthony Hopkins
• First Lady Michelle Obama ("You push the cart, baby, while I grab shit.")

This list could go on forever, so feel free to add your own ideas. I'm getting another glass of wine.

Oh, God, Help Me

I write like
Chuck Palahniuk

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Thanks to Jaq at Byantium's Shores for this fun little tool.

Inspiration in a Bottle

I came across this possible solution to writer's block last night. It's a wine called Writer's Block. I don't know about you, but a good red wine always unleashes words and ideas in me, so maybe tonight would be a good night to take my laptop out to the living room, put some music on the stereo, pour a few glasses, and be firm with myself.

I don't have this particular wine, of course, and I doubt my local wine store has it, but any red wine will do. The problem with this is that I don't particularly like red wines in the summer. They're too hot and heavy, but whites just don't have that bohemian spirit.

The crap I put myself through.

A Night Out

Because Stillwater is a university town, the restaurants here tend to cater to students. Outside of a Red Lobster franchise, there really is nowhere for adults to go where the food isn't heavily fried, where the music isn't so loud that conversation is nearly impossible and geared to push you in and out in under 45 minutes. All over town, the servers line up and sing Happy Birthday in the aisles, the drinking glasses are multi-colored plastic "buckets", and the clientele whoops it up over the din of ringtones.

Last Saturday we (meaning Nettl, Joel and myself) had cause to go down to OKC, an hour's drive away. On our way home, we stopped in Bricktown, the revamped warehouse district, to eat at Pearl's Crabtown.

There was LIFE down there. As we drove around looking for a place to park, we passed a huge assembly of bikers--a rally or something--and the streets were full of music and people walking around. Wow. I've been living the small town life for so long, it felt like we were in the Big City! Shucky darn!

It wasn't the food, although it was excellent, or the atmosphere, which was fun. It wasn't even the music, which was great (Blues and R&B), that made it a terrific evening. It was just being able to be there. I can't remember the last time we went out to dinner as a family. I think it was a year ago when we all went to the Chinese all-you-can-eat for $7 joint here in town. Anyway, we had a really fun time and we left with our spirits raised considerably.

Of course, I napped all the way home.

The rest of the weekend was spent lazily. Problem is, I'm still in that groove. I really need to get back to writing. Ugh. Not in the mood for that at all. All I want to do is sit here. Well, there's a cure for that: get a shower, take two Excedrin, fix a cuppa, and just do it.

Which is what I'm going to do... in about 30 minutes.

Giving Back is an Obligation, Not a Good Deed

When Nettl and I first got together back in 2000 we began years of talks about how we want to help people in need. It started with my elderly mother, who had a stroke and was about to be dumped into a fleabag nursing home by my brother. I said no way, not on my watch, and we brought her to live with us. Then, over the next couple of years, our five shared children of varying ages came to be with us.

Over the past ten years we have known dire need. Sometimes I don't know what we will eat. Walking into Walmart with only $4.38 in change is a humbling experience. I considered dumpster-diving one afternoon, but was terrified of getting arrested and then having a fine to pay. Sometimes all we have in the pantry is Ramen and heels of bread, but we make it through, thanks to a loving, helpful family, wonderful friends, and the universe itself, which keeps track of things for us. We get through it; what choice is there?

You might remember a few months ago I wrote about David, a homeless man down on his luck, who saw us on the front porch one night and approached us. Our pantry was pretty bare, but there was no way that kind and honest man was going to leave my house hungry, so I fixed him some leftovers. The next evening he stopped by with a handpicked bouquet of wildflowers. That meant everything to us. We haven't seen him again and it's my fervent hope that things have worked out for him and that he got the job he'd applied for.

This evening as we sat here in our bedroom, I saw a young mother with two children—a toddler and a baby—walk up to our porch. When she motioned to me through the window, I went to the door and opened it. She was both deaf and mute and she explained with gestures that she needed a ride to the local market because the children were hungry. I motioned for her to meet us in the driveway. When I stepped out the back door she held up her baby's bottle, which only had water in it. I filled the bottle with milk, then Nettl and I drove her to the market.

When she came back out, all she had was a small box of fish sticks. Back at our house a few minutes later, we invited her in and we filled a Walmart tote bag with things from our pantry: tuna, mac and cheese, Ramen, juice, some cans of Chef-Boy-R-Dee, that kind of thing. We gave the little boy a cup of milk and they left, Nettl going with her a ways to make sure she and the children got across the street safely. The young mother's face was full of gratitude. Judging from where she lived and how she'd approached our home, she'd been up and down our street, but no one had helped her.

Years ago when we said we wanted to help people, we didn't realize that we'd first have to be needy ourselves, then start by giving what we could; each time it's a little more. Who knows? Maybe one day we'll be building a Habitat house for someone, or sending large checks to feed the hungry. For now, we're grateful that we always seem to have just enough to share, and we're grateful that, somehow, these people are sent to us.

It's obscene that in one of the richest countries in the world there are mothers with hungry children. What's worse is that they live right here with us and we don't see them, we don't look, and we don't want to know. While some people gorge themselves on the KFC Double Down, there are babies in the same town who are going to bed hungry. It makes me ill.

Please don't leave any comments complimenting us. We're just doing what we feel we as humans are supposed to do for each other. I know what it's like to go hungry so that my children can eat, and I know the horror of seeing the look of hunger on my family's faces. This wasn't a good deed, it was a human deed. It was our way of returning the good that others have done for us, and that's enough. Please don't make me close the comments!   ;)

Happy 70th Birthday Mr. Peace & Love!

I love you, ya grumpy old tosser!

Thanks to Mr. Stevie Riks for this video.

Yet Again

I seriously think our local hospital should be renamed La Boheme Community Hospital. In the past year I've been there more times that I can count, with either Lynette, Ville, or Joel. It;s not that I mind going, it's that it's a worrisome thing to visit the ER, or sit in a waiting room while someone you love is getting cut open?

Tonight (last night to you), I finally talked Nettl into letting me take her to the ER. She hadn't been feeling well since Sunday morning, and since it has only been a few weeks since her surgery (and nearly losing her!), I didn't want to take any chances. She ran a low-grade fever all weekend, but she kept telling me the discomfort she felt was some cheese she ate on Friday, or a stomach flu. Tonight I said, "I'm taking you", and I did. It turns out that she has a bladder infection. We were told that everything looks great otherwise, so that's a huge relief.

As much as I like and appreciate the staff at the Stillwater Medical Center, I really don't want to spend any more time with them, okay, so can we stop going there now?

This May Be the Last 4th of July

With Micah preparing to move out of the country, I'm very aware of holidays this year. It's likely he'll be gone by the next 4th of July. That's why some impromptu firecracker fun in our driveway last night was so special to me. I had both my guys there, blowing up things like grapes that were ready to be tossed, old acorns that were lying around the yard, and empty beer cans. You know how boys are.




It had been raining all day, so I grilled the bratwurst in the house and set the dining table as a buffet with corn-on-the-cob, macaroni salad, chips, and watermelon wedges. When we went outside at around 9:30, the rain had stopped, but everything was still wet. Perfectly safe for the fun we had for the next couple of hours.





Other people in the neighborhood were also shooting off fireworks and from all over town came the sounds of some really big ones. From a tree in the front yard a bluejay cussed us out the entire time. The cat wasn't too happy with us either.

Finally, around midnight, a squad car pulled up in the drive and nonchalantly told us that what we were doing was a $100 fine. I didn't know that. I thought fireworks were legal here. We apologized and called it a night. The bluejay is quiet now.






It was simple fun, and it meant a lot to me to have both my guys together on the 4th one last time. How do they grow up so fast? Actually, they never really grow up at all, do they...

Blog Ritardando ma non Troppo

It might be too soon to tell, but it seems to me there's a gradual blogging slowdown happening. I know that a lot of people have gone over exclusively to Twitter or Facebook and that's fine. Posting several paragraphs day-after-day year-after-year isn't easy. Even those of us who tend to be verbose articulate have trouble sometimes. But Facebook is where I chat with my friends and I just don't get Twitter. It reminds me of standing on the roof yelling out to the neighborhood, "I'm standing on my roof!" Not that I've ever done that, but that's what it feels like; I don't get the point.

I'm not only seeing fewer interesting blogs, I'm seeing some that once were interesting being filled more and more with posts about television shows. Again, nothing wrong with that. I just happen not to watch TV so it bores me. I can't imagine spending hours watching TV only to spend hours writing about it. Maybe writing about our daily life is beginning to hammer home how routine our lives actually are. Maybe we're finally over ourselves.

Some of us, that is. Not me. I like reading about people's lives and I get a kick out of writing about my own.

In two weeks this blog will be eight years old and I still enjoy thinking out loud for my readers. My posts aren't always interesting, but I consider this as the continuation of the handwritten journals I kept for over 20 years before the Web was created. Of 50-odd volumes I think there are three that might be considered really interesting. If I'm lucky. There's no reason to expect my blog to be any different, except that it has improved my skills as a writer.

One of my greatest fears has been that blogging will phase out entirely in a few years. What will I do then? Will I go back to handwritten journals? How will I keep up with those of you whose blogs I read every day? And what will happen to a decade of entries? When Blogger closes down will they just evaporate? I don't even like thinking about it.

Until then, I'll be here and, as long as your blog is there, I'll read.