Picasso's Last Words

The last time I had a glass of wine was on my birthday in September. I haven't missed it at all and, when the Halloween weekend came along, I had no inclination to imbibe. Not in the least. At my age, you start to weight the pleasant high against the three days of bleagh you feel afterward and for me, being in such crappy health anyway and coping with chronic pain for 10 years with nothing stronger than Excedrin, the choice has been easy.

This just happened to be the first Halloween in 25 years that I was invited to two parties. Friday night I made an appearance at J & K's party. Wow, am I old. Being the ages they are, all of their guests were university students. Do the words, Animal House ring a bell? It was fun being around all that young, kinetic energy, though. Kids that age are fun. Until they get drunk. I had one glass of wine and then was talked into shooting something that was served in test tubes and looked like blood. It tasted like Kool-Ade. Could have been Kool-Ade for all I got from it. I came home, had a terrible bout of what we around here call, "back", and went to bed. I woke up feeling much better and actually looked forward to the next party, V's annual Halloween bash.

I had four or five glasses of wine (when I say glasses, you must understand that I always drink my wine poured over a wine glass stuffed with ice—I learned a long time ago that I can't drink it straight—so I actually had the equivalent of about two and a half glasses). We came home and went to bed. No probs.

When I woke up this morning, I had a severe tannins attack. I don't know if the tannins in wine bother you, but they make me feel like I have the worst head cold for about an hour. Once I've gotten rid of everything I feel fine. Like now.

Anyway, I'm sitting here asking myself if it's worth it, and the answer is "No, it's not."

I used to think that when life sucked, or when I was in physical pain, a good wine buzz would fix it up. And it did. I could party, even have a bit of a hang the next day and think, "Wow, that was cool. I needed that." It doesn't work that way anymore. My quality of life has been so shot to hell of late, the last thing I want or need is to feel any worse. That's why I've gotten into meditation. It makes me feel better, lighter of mood and spirit, and hopeful. And there's no hangover, or feeling like a virtual snot factory.

So my point is, outside of a glass or two at dinner, or when we have guests over, I'm done. As much as I wish I was like the bohemian artists of the 19th and early 20th centuries, I'm not. I'm a 59 year-old woman who wants what's left of her life to be pleasant, as pain-free as possible, and productive. Wine no longer gives me those things, so it has to go. It had a great run—32 years to be exact—but I won't miss it.

Well, maybe a little...

Legends in Coats

This seems to be the year of the legend walking away from the camera while wearing a long, swingy coat. Judging by these two CDs from Leonard Cohen and Keith Richards, that is.

Don't get me wrong. I love both of these men to bits and pieces and I think their coats look incredibly sexy, but didn't their "people" tell them about this? Well, they're huge enough, I guess they're beyond worrying about this kind of thing. And God knows I'm happy with both.

Whether it's the covers or the music inside them, I really can't judge which CD I like best. I was hoping I'd be able to say, "Well, Keith's coat has more movement and he's carrying his ever-present tumbler, but Leonard's music is more impassioned," or, "Well, Leonard's coat is perfectly topped with that slightly Hasidic-inspired hat, but Keith's music is more exciting." The problem is, I love both CDs, and their covers, for their own merit. Wait a minute. That's a win/win, isn't it?

You can listen to samples by clicking below:

• Songs From the Road by Leonard Cohen
• Vintage Winos by Keith Richards

This will serve as tomorrow's post because Thursday, if you recall, is my Media Fast day. See you on Friday.

Rules and Regs

Today, I expose myself to you. No, not that way! I've decided to expose my shortcomings as a writer in hope that someone can clear up some of the things that have plagued me for freakin' years.

My problem with punctuation and usage is that I never really learned them, you see. When everyone else was sitting in first year high school English, I was in Literature. I'd been so good at graphing sentences on the blackboard and giving book reports on the Classics in junior high that the powers that be had the brilliant idea to advance me to the egghead class, where our beatnik teacher straight from San Francisco, had us reading The Iliad and The Odyssey while cool jazz drifted from an FM station. It was 1965 and I'd never heard of FM before. It was all very hip, but I never got a solid grasp on some key things; I had to teach myself. Sometimes, when a book is damned boring, I read it just to study the things I don't know. Anyway, here are my main English language flaws:

#1:  I have a real issue with certain contractions!
It's probably just me and my obsessive nature, but is "it's" alright to use when you mean "it has"? I mean, isn't it really "it is"? Or are there two legitimate words, "it's" (it is) and "it's" (it has)?

It's been a warm autumn.

(It is been a warm autumn.)

WRONG!

vs

It has been a warm autumn.

This one always gives me pause for thought, so I rarely use "it's" for "it has". Sometimes though, "it has" just sounds too formal. That's how I feel about non-contractions anyway. People who never use contractions when they write aren't really being honest, are they? Shouldn't we write the way we speak? I'm not talking about textbooks or dissertations, I'm talking about blog comments, emails, letters, social network statuses, etc.

#2:  I never really know where to put the damned comma!

EXAMPLE 1

I would like a breakfast of eggs, bacon, and hash browns.

vs

I would like a breakfast of eggs, bacon and hash browns.

EXAMPLE 2

I went to the diner, and ordering a coffee, I looked through the menu.

vs

I went to the diner and, ordering a coffee, I looked through the menu.

I know these aren't big deals, but you'd be surprised how many hundreds of times they come up in my work every.damned.day.

#3:  Numbers also create a problem for me.
Yeah, I know that one through nine are written out and that anything larger, like 10, 110, and 1010,  (there's the comma issue again!) are written numerically. But what about this:

He turned 25 on his twenty-fifth birthday.

Everything I've read tells me to be consistent, but surely, you don't use "25th" (even if the sentence is a stupid, redundant one to begin with. It's just an example, okay?).

#4:  Trouble with capitals!
Is it "the Beatles", or "The Beatles"?

In 1966, I saw the Beatles in concert at Dodger Stadium.

vs

In 1966, I saw The Beatles in concert at Dodger Stadium.

The style books never hit on this one. I use the second one, but I'm not sure if it's correct. Probably, it just doesn't matter--whichever I choose is what's correct--but I like to know stuff, you know? As a side note, should that comma after "1966" be there? I have an idea, let's do this:

In 1966, just before my sixteenth birthday, I saw The Beatles--John, Paul, George, and Ringo--in concert at Dodger Stadium. It has been a long time since then, and thinking about it, I'm proud.

vs

In 1966, just before my 16th birthday, I saw the Beatles--John, Paul, George and Ringo--in concert at Dodger Stadium. It's been a long time since then and, thinking about it, I'm proud.

I think that sums up every problem I have with the English language. Tell me how you would write it, those of you who got to take English 1a in high school.

Stephen Fry: What I Wish I'd Known When I Was 18

This is long, but whether you watch for a minute or all the way through to the end, it's good. Fry addresses so many points, but he comes back around to his initial thought just beautifully.

Wiggle Room for the Soul

I'm certain that one of the major lessons I'm supposed to learn in this lifetime is how not to worry over things I cannot control, or shouldn't even try to control. We all face this to some extent in different ways; we all have different lessons. Mine has to do with food. Or, not having food, as the case may be.

The past few weeks have been really hard... no, let me put it this way: the past few weeks have given me a lot of opportunity to work on this lesson. We don't have credit cards, a savings account, or, really, enough income to meet our few needs (shelter, warmth, food). Added to this, we get paid only once a month, and everything has to go out all at once; there's no "wiggle" room, no way to juggle bills until the next payday.

The thing is, all of the meditating I've been doing is really beginning to help me put things into perspective. Last night, when I went out to the kitchen to see what there was to eat (I wait until everyone else has eaten—don't ask me why. Perhaps it's my maternal instincts or something), I suddenly allowed my fear and frustration to surface. Immediately, however, the picture came into my mind of the Dalai Lama standing there. He looked at the canisters, inside the fridge and pantry, then turning to me with that smile of his, he said,

"You have lentils, rice, and oatmeal. You have eggs, cheese, ramen soup, milk, and tea. You're rich! A family in Tibet could live on this for two weeks!"

Needless to say, I felt checked, and I stood there, thankful for what we had.

Today, with $45 in my company checking account, $30 in our personal account, and $8 in quarters, nickels and dimes, we went out and got some groceries. We got what we absolutely needed to get us through to Friday when Nettl gets paid, and we spent only $30! There are three meals to make, some "adlib" stuff, and even a couple of snacks. Amazing!

I'm not writing this to call attention to myself, or to tell anyone how to think. I just wanted to share it because it meant so much to me. I'm really coming to believe that worry and fear are the products of ingratitude and that ingratitude is what keeps us unhappy.

No, our fridge isn't bulging and our pantry isn't stocked, but I'm feeling so happy right now that I don't care. I've gained something much more important.

Zen and the Art of Stevie Riks

In one sense yesterday's No-Media Fast was a bust, but in other ways it wasn't. I've come to a place in my life where blind adherence to rules--especially those that are self-imposed--is no longer useful or constructive. Jesus told his disciples that the law was made for man, not the other way around, and although I'm not a Christian, I've always liked that. So when I received an email notification (I was on my laptop, editing my book) that Rock and Roll parody artist and impressionist Stevie Riks would be posting no more videos, I had to see what it was all about. You all know how I love Riks' work.

He'd posted his announcement on Facebook and already the comments of  grief and protest had begun mounting. I was momentarily sad myself. Stevie's videos have given our family a lot of laughs (mostly in mimicking and quoting them at the dinner table) when it sometimes was hard to find a reason to smile, and I always looked forward to his newest videos. In response to his news, I posted my own comment, a silly haiku:

No more Stevie Riks 

No more new vids on YouTube

"Shit happens, man." - Keef

I went back to my editing. A few moments later I got a notification that Stevie had written to me. This surprised me, so I went back into Facebook to pick up his private message. Stevie and I have written to each other before, albeit very briefly. The first contact was last December when I asked him if I could post his videos here on this blog in a series of posts under the heading of A Very Stevie Saturday. And last week I got a PM from him, thanking me for a comment I'd made on one of his videos. At the time, I wondered if it was a kind of mass message he'd sent to everyone who'd commented, although he'd never done that before that I know of. The wording seemed quite personal though, so I wasn't sure. Yesterday, we shared a couple of PMs back and forth; besides being monumentally talented, he really is a terribly nice man, and I intend to keep up with what he's doing with his career.

Anyway, after three years and over 300 videos, the poor man needs a break. Have you watched his videos? Not only does he imitate his subject (sometimes several in one video), he also has to write the script and the songs, create the set, setup, test, and adjust all the audio and video, and put on the costumes, wigs, and makeup. Then he has to shoot the thing (with multiple takes, judging from his dogs' behavior, unexpected mishaps like a nose falling off, and his own inability to keep from cracking himself up). Then comes the arduous task of editing and uploading to the web. On top of this, he has live gigs and occasional television appearances. He also has a family. No wonder he needs a break...

Get all the rest you need Stevie, and thank you for the 9,999 laughs. You've given our family a great deal of happiness, and we'll be here to cheer you on whatever you do. We love you, man, and we fully intend to catch your live act when and if we ever get back to England.

» Visit the Stevie Riks website
» See Stevie's impressions on his YouTube channel

Take the #%*#ing Paper!

I have to post this because, thanks to Badger, I've been playing it and laughing at it all #%*#ing day! Bloody 'ell...

But I have to be honest. One of the reasons I love it is because the voice sounds exactly like the voice I've always imagined my character, Willy Keane (Tuppence drummer) sounds like. There he is, smoking a ciggie... or something...

Spirit Day - October 20, 2010

Spirit Day honors all of the young people who have taken their own lives after enduring bullying and abuse at school, online, and in their own homes and neighborhoods. Just as importantly, it's also a way to show the hundreds of thousands of LGBT youth who suffer the same demonstrations of hate and homophobia that there is a vast community of people who support them. Many people are wearing purple today to express their conviction that WE MUST STOP THE HATE, NOW.

As someone who grew up under the shame and fear of bullying and abuse, I'm showing my support with this image, which I made. Please feel free to use it if you like it.

If you or someone you know is contemplating suicide, please visit Suicide.org or American Foundation for Suicide Prevention to get resources, perspective and help.

Gorillas, Fake Books, and the Big Mac

Since your response to last week's post about the time I spent in London was so positive, and you asked to hear more, here I am with another installment.

In the spring of 1981, my manager got me into the studio to record a four-song demo that she'd planned to shop around to various recording and production companies, not the least of which was MPL, Paul McCartney's company in London. I'm not sure why she contacted them. Maybe she had an inside track or something and had heard that he was looking into producing an unknown. I don't know. She received a phone call one afternoon though, telling us to come to London and then call them for an appointment. I left all that to my manager; I was busy writing and recording, and it was her job to sort out all of that stuff.

I'd found a song of Paul's in a fake book (Country Dreamer) that I'd never heard before, and we thought it might be a cool idea for me to arrange and record it in an effort to grab his attention. Because both Paul and I had dads that played in jazz groups when we were kids (his inspiration for When I'm Sixty-Four and Honey Pie), I asked my dad and his band if they'd like to back me up in the studio. The recording was right up Paul's alley, and was sandwiched strategically between the other three songs:

1. You Got The Love - An upbeat song, heavy on 12-string (me), with guitar, bass, drums, and congas, roughly in the same style as Joni Mitchell's Conversation (you'll have to scroll down and click the track's link).
2. Circle Line - Me on piano and guitar, backed by guitar, bass, and drums. If I had to compare it to anything, I'd say it's kind of like ELO's Telephone Line,without all the Jeff Lynne effects.
3. Country Dreamer - Piano, muted trumpet, clarinet, muted trombone, and drums (my dad!).
4. To You - Just me and a piano. A slow ballad full of arpeggios. Pretty song; same basic mood as If by Bread.

The last song was written the night before my final studio session, which was the night before we were to leave for London. The heat was on. My manager (who also was my roommate and best friend at the time) told me to leave her alone to work out the details of the trip ("Go write a song or something!"). I was naturally excited, and I guess I was bugging her with a million questions and daydreams. I went to the piano and composed the song in the time it took to play it. Consequently, it's one of my best songs.

"Did you just now write that?" she asked.
"Yeah."
She just shook her head and went back to her work.

 When we got to the studio the following evening to record a different song (I can't remember which one, but it was probably You Leave Me Speechless, a song that was later considered by Juice Newton), the mixer board broke down and they sent me to another studio. Unfortunately, I'd run overtime with my band and couldn't afford them for another session and make the trip to London, so something had to go.

The new studio had a lovely Yamaha grand piano, and I suggested I record To You for the demo. Solo voice, no backups, no overdubbed harmonies--just me and a piano. I'd only played it once or twice, but the lyrics are the kind that stay with me, so I went through it one time while they adjusted the mics and the levels, then we recorded it in one take. When that stuff happens, it's just magical.

If I can see into my future,

Then why can’t I see you?

If I feel you’re my tomorrow,

Then don’t you feel it too?

It takes so long for my song

To get through to you.

In time I know I’ll find you,

In time I know you’ll see

That I can’t live without you,

And what you mean to me,

It means so much for my touch

To get through to you.

Sometimes it seems so close,

I can almost feel you near;

Sometimes I think that you feel it too,

And I swear that you are here.

If the world should end tomorrow

And we never get to be,

We will share our love forever

Within eternity.

It takes so long for my song

To get through to you.

The next evening we were on a jet to London, my 4-inch reel-to-reel tape and 8x10 glossy promo pictures in hand. This is what I looked like at the time. Me and all that hair and makeup.

We went a friend's house in Brighton, and my manager called MPL the next morning and they made an appointment. When the day came, we took the train up to London. I remember the zipper on my trousers broke on the way, and I had to buy a packet of safety pins at Victoria Station to make things right. (Just to let you know that not everything that happens in the business is magical, this kind of crap happens too.)

We got a cab and went to Soho Square, where we were let out in front of a narrow, five-floor-plus-loft building. In those days, I'd never encountered an office building with electronically locked doors and bullet-proof glass, but it was May 1981, you understand. Only five months after John Lennon had been murdered, so Paul's heightened security was completely understandable. And it was a kick having the doors open for us while fans stood around outside, wondering who we were.

I don't know how Paul has his office decorated now, but at that time it was in an art deco style, and was very beautiful. We gave the receptionist my tape and my portfolio, and we were asked to make ourselves comfortable while she took them upstairs. In a few moments a businessman came through the front doors and he said hello, striking up a conversation. He was refinement personified, and when he turned to go upstairs, he told the receptionist that he was taking us with him. This was quite a lucky break, although we didn't know that at that moment.

We rode up in a tiny elevator and found ourselves in an area that was separated from a private office by a bank of frosted, glass panels. I didn't think anything about it. I worked as a bookkeeper at a music company in California at the time, so none of this seemed out of the ordinary to me.

Wanting to check the status of my zipper, I asked if there was a WC nearby, and the man pointed me to one just off of the room. It was tiny and well-appointed, and naturally, I thought nothing about it. I was excited to be inside MPL, of course, but I had no idea, really, of where I was in the building.

He told us that he was Paul's accountant and business manager (I found out later that he also handled The Bee Gees, Olivia Newton-John, Sheena Easton, Michael Tilson-Thomas, and literally everyone who was anyone at the time), and we talked together for a while. He stood up then, asked us to follow him, and led us into the private office. It faced the square and wasn't very large. In one corner there was a kind of life-sized gorilla thing wearing a gas mask or and an old WWI aviator's hat and goggles, or something, and there was a baby's crib under the window. It wasn't until I saw the double desk and the famous Wings statue (the one on the LP cover, left) that it dawned on me: we were in the private office of Paul and Linda McCartney. On the desk lay the original, pre-print cover of the London Town LP that had been carefully cut and pasted to look as if the group were in a boat on the Thames. I touched my manager's arm, swallowed, and whispered, "Do you know where we are?" (Later, I also realized that I'd used Paul's private loo.) The accountant was talking, but I didn't hear anything. I was too busy "being" there.

A woman came into the office and introduced herself (I think her name was Pamela, or Trudi, or something like that). She said they were copying the tape and photos and would bring us back the originals in a few moments. We went back out and sat down. The accountant remained with us, and I got the definite message that he was all about me, and was chatting me up. The woman came back in and handed my manager our stuff, then she came to me and said they'd really liked my work. A guy came in then and asked if he should take the tape and photos to Scotland, and she replied, "Yes, straight away. Get them up there tonight." We shook hands and were escorted back downstairs. Excited beyond measure, we crossed the street to sit on a bench in the square's garden, talking a mile-a-minute about what had just taken place.


"But why Scotland?" I asked.
"That's where Paul's farm is," my manager replied.
"They're TAKING my tape to him? While he's on holiday?" I couldn't believe it.

There's much more to this story, but it'll have to wait for another day. I didn't know I was going to be writing a series!

_________________________
To You by SK Waller © 1981

A Very Stevie Saturday #7: How to Be a Rock Star

• Visit the Stevie Riks website
• See more of Stevie's impressions on his YouTube channel

This video is used with the kind permission of Mr. Stevie Riks.

Thursdays

I used to live like this. Before 1995 I used to have my morning coffee in the living room, not in bed...until noon. Sometimes I'd take my coffee out into the garden, where I was forced to confront the day--weather, birds, flowers, the garden spider. I felt connected to life although I wasn't aware of what someone was doing and thinking halfway around the world.

The internet connects us to each other and often ourselves, but there's also a disconnect that takes place. We forget how to hold a pen and our penmanship suffers. We don't write newsy, entertaining letters and we don't feel the excitement that comes when a letter arrives, addressed to us from a friend we haven't heard from in a while. We don't sit and just think. Is this technical evolution entirely good for us, I wonder. Is it important for me to know, for example, that one of Ville's cats threw up a hairball on her pillow, that Mary cut her finger cleaning up a broken glass, or that someone else is having a bad hair day?

Like television in the 1950s, the internet has drawn everyone to a tiny screen. The internet is better, at least, because unlike TV, it demands mental action instead of mindless absorption. Television is passive, artfully planting ideas and desires in our subconscious. The internet creates an exchange of ideas with other people. Neither is all good or all bad, but both can be startlingly addictive.

So I have decided to disconnect one day a week to be "alone" without a thousand tweets, comments, status messages, replies, and emails. I will spend one full day a week alone with my thoughts. I'll journal, read, write, meditate, rake leaves, garden, water plants, cook--in a word, anything I want to do that doesn't include hundreds of other people.

Yesterday was wonderful. I watered the flowers in the front beds and pots, and took pictures of things both inside and outside the house. With the stereo on, I did some things around the house, and for a while I just sat in thought. Joel and I raked the leaves from the back step and the drive, talking and laughing and enjoying the perfect weather. Mostly, I just enjoyed the day and, except for the first thirty minutes of the morning, I didn't even miss the internet. In fact, when I finally signed on around nine or so at night, I was surprised at how little had gone on in my absence. I was faced to realize that most of the time I spend online is spent looking for things to do. Silly me. There's so much to do off line!

This is the first week. We'll see what comes from it over time.

Incommunicado Mañana

I'm not the kind of person who goes poking around things unless I'm invited, or other people tell me it's okay to do so. For example, since 2002 I've seen that little wheelchair icon beside the word verification field. Have I ever clicked it? No. Did I know what it was for? Yes, but the thing is, I never clicked it until just a moment ago when I was commenting on Earl's latest blog entry.
 WTF is that all about? It sounds like what SETI has been waiting to hear for years now, or the kind of shit I used to hear on LSD. Yes, I know what it is, but it freaked me out because I'd never bothered to check it out before.

My other question is, why is a wheelchair the universal symbol for handicapped individuals? Were the blind or the deaf asked if they wanted to be represented by a wheelchair?

Yeah, I think it's time for a media fast...

P.S. Did you hear that we had a 5.1 earthquake on Wednesday morning? It was cool, as if my home state of California was reaching all the way back here to give me a hug!

They Used to Tell Me I Was Building a Dream

You know how sometimes when times are hard you get a break and you can breathe for a while, but you really can't breathe too deeply because you know the break is only temporary?

So you tell yourself to enjoy the bounty while you have it, to live in the present, but be frugal. And you do a great job making that eagle bleed, stretching every dollar as far as you can by buying things at the dollar store that you'd spend three dollars on anywhere else.

And you try to fool yourself into thinking that now things have lightened up a little, something good will come along and you'll never, EVER have to face an empty fridge and depleted pantry again. But still, there's that knowing in you, that specter that hangs over your temporary relief. You know the time will come again when you'll worry how the electric bill will get paid and how you'll feed your family. You don't want to be a downer, so you act like the money will always be there and you tell your family, "Never again! We're not going back there again!". But you know it'll come.

Mostly, you don't want to screw up the positive energies or whatever it is that's supposed to pull money and food out of the universe's ass. And when you're broke again, you blame yourself for thinking about the future when you'll open the pantry to find little there except some bread, coffee, and a can of mushroom soup.

And you can't look forward to Thanksgiving because not only do you not know where the hell a feast is going to come from, but it reminds you that the terror of Christmas is looming up there, a holiday you've grown to resent and dread over the past few years although you're really not a Scrooge at all.

Your friends are having a hard time too, so you can't ask for help. Besides, you know that a few bucks or a bag of groceries will only last until next week, and there you'll be again. And there's still two weeks until payday. What's the point? No one can afford to support their friends. And they shouldn't anyway.

We should be able to have jobs. We should be able to eat. We should be able to keep a roof over our heads and have lights and heat. We should be able to have dignity, not be punished for a Depression that's not our fault.

This is America, isn't it?

Oh yeah. I forgot. Although I worked for 30 years, raised children, and took care of and buried my parents, I didn't play strictly by the rules, you see. I married someone of my own gender because I'm an immoral, godless deviant. Like the lowlife mooch I am, I got sick with two diseases and couldn't pay for insurance. I dared to age.

The audacity of me.

This is Why I'm an Independent Author

Nicole "Snooki" Polizzi, a TV personality, has been approached by Simon & Schuster to write A Shore Thing!, a novel about a girl finding love on the Jersey shore.

It seems all that Snooki has found at the beach so far was the two cops who arrested her for disturbing the peace. She has also been charged with selling liquor to a minor who, after leaving her house, drunk, was killed in a car accident. She's also the girl who got slugged in that video that Slyde was so crazy about. Or was is Earl? I can't remember.

Now, while I'm shore she's one of the literary world's great hidden geniuses and her book will no doubt be the great American novel (ahem), I have to wonder even more about the future of books and literature. You see, Snooki has bragged that in her 22 years she's read a whopping two books, Twilight and Dear John. And no, there isn't a ghost writer involved in her deal with S&S.

Hey, you die-hard publisher/agent fans, think about Snooki the next you blame us independents for the crisis the industry is experiencing. That sounds a lot to me like thrice-divorced born-agains blaming gays for the breakdown of marriage in our country.

Dirty River

In all the years that I've been blogging, I don't think I've ever shared with you one of the most important eras of my life.

It was a time when some dreams came true and others fell apart at the seams, so that may be the reason why I've never discussed it with you.

It was a time when I was taken from the edge of hell to the very gates of heaven, only to be dropped again, left to find a new way back, a new destination, and new dreams. For years, even thinking about it created so much pain that there was no way I was going to talk--or write--about it.

It was a period of three years, 1978-1981. I was 27, 28 and 29, respectively, and music was everything to me, the do-all and be-all of my existence. Not listening to music, but writing and performing it. I'd been writing songs since I was 12 and performing professionally since I was 16, and I knew that I'd been created to one day be a standard of comparison among those I considered to be my peers. That was more important to me than being rich and famous, and I worked very hard to be the best songwriter, the best performer, the most charismatic personality I could be.

After my divorce in 1977, I began seriously thinking about going to England, where I hoped to get the attention of certain influential people and create a break for myself. In the spring of 1978, I met a dapper English gentleman named Doug, who was in Ventura visiting his nephew, who happened to be a friend of mine. I met "Uncle Dougie" at a club where my friends and I used to go to dance to live bands (Disco sucked). Uncle Dougie was from Brighton, on the south coast about 65 miles from London, and when I told him how much I wanted to go to England, he invited me to stay with him and his family. We began a spirited, warm correspondence and I wondered how in the world I was ever going to get over there.

Fate is a funny thing. If I'd never let that teenage boy in my house when he, in a panic, rang my door bell saying someone was after him, he would have never seen that I owned a large collection of superior musical instruments, among them a 100 year-old lute-body mandolin and a Martin 12-string guitar. If I hadn't wanted that water bed so badly in 1976, I would never have taken out that loan. If I'd never taken out that loan, I would never have had insurance on my many musical instruments. If I'd never gone to see Close Encounters of the Third Kind that night, that teenage boy wouldn't have broken into my house to steal all of my musical instruments. And if none of this had happened, I would never have received that check from the insurance company.

I paid off the water bed loan, made arrangements for Joel to stay with my parents, sold my red VW bug, bought a Yashika 35mm SLR camera and a ticket on Laker airlines. Can you believe my air fare to England cost me a whopping $123.00? Yeah, and there were only about a dozen people on that non-stop DC-10 from L.A. to London. My parents had gotten me a new 12-string for my birthday the month before--not a Martin, but good all the same--and it sat in the seat next to me all the way.

I had a wonderful few months in England. I made friends, gigged in pubs, and became as English as I could. I learned to eat in the continental style and how to say "Bloody 'ell!" like a native. I was in fact nicknamed "Bloody 'ell Kate" by my friends. I lost my California accent and people took me for a native everywhere I went.

I discovered favorite places. One was The Lanes in Brighton and one was the Newmarket Arms pub only a couple of blocks from Uncle Dougie's house in Mafeking Road, where I lived in an upstairs bedroom that overlooked the back garden, the bed of Brussels Sprouts, and a clothesline hung with those newfangled plastic bags that had just been invented. Everyone reused them, rinsing them first then hanging them on the clothesline to dry. This was back when the question, "Paper or plastic?" was still unknown in the States.

I often bought what was called a "cheap day return" train ticket to London (I was a Day Tripper!), where I prowled around Westminster, Chelsea and Soho. I loved riding the Circle Line as I dreamed of a future in London as a music icon. I began writing a song cycle about London, with the intent to create a concept album. This was back in the days of the Alan Parsons Project and the ELO, remember, and there was not a doubt in my mind that I'd be joining their ranks. Not a single doubt. I had the talent, I had the drive, I had the looks. I had "It". Everyone said so, anyway, even important people in the business.

My very favorite place, however, was the Chelsea Embankment, a tree-lined promenade that follows the north bank of the Thames. It was autumn when I first saw it, and the pavement (sidewalk) was covered in yellow and orange leaves that crunched beneath my boots as I walked in the crisp air. I spent many hours sitting on the wood and metal benches, writing my songs.

The dirty river rolls,

And carries me along;

And when I'm feeling tired and lonely,

She sings to me her song.

Walking the Embankment,

You know it makes me smile;

Keep on rolling, dirty river.

From Tower Hill to Chelsea,

You know you'll find me here;

In the sun, the fog and rain,

I always hold her dear.

But I love her best in autumn,

Her pavements lined in gold;

Keep on rolling, dirty river.

There's more to the song, but since I lost all my music in The Big Dump of 2001, I don't have the lyrics, and I can't remember them now. It ends with something like,

So keep this bench saved for me,
'Cuz I'll see you again,
Keep on rolling, dirty river.

Needless to say, my brilliant career didn't pan out the way I'd planned, and I eventually bought a ticket back to California. There's much more to the story. It in fact doesn't really end until sometime in 1983. Maybe I'll tell you one day. Anyway, when I found these paintings yesterday, they brought back a slew of memories.
___________________________

• Golden Moment on the Strand is by Charles Litka.
  
• Autumn At Chelsea Embankment is by Fraser King.
• Dirty River is my property and may not be used without my written permission. I've had enough stolen from me--please don't take what little I have left.

Haddy Bootdate Johnny, Ole Pal Buddy

I have mixed emotions about posting a Happy Birthday entry every year for John Lennon. This year is a little harder because I'm having some mixed emotions about John himself. Don't get me wrong. I've always admired the man, his strengths and weaknesses alike, but as I get older (and 19 years older than he was when he was assassinated), I'm able to see into him a bit more clearly. I have no allusions.

Plus, wishing him a Happy Birthday every year is just so darned painful. I (like so many others) wonder what he might have accomplished, where his music had gone, if anywhere, and even what he would think about Google's banner today. Would he have gotten a kick out of it, or would he blow out an impatient stream of smoke and say, "Look, I'm not yer fookin' hero!" Something in me likes to imagine him in the kitchen at the Dakota, his laptop on the table, looking at the banner video and smiling. Most likely, however, he'd grumble that Yoko wasn't depicted in it. Grumpy old sod.

So what would John be like at the age of 70? Judging from Ringo and Paul, I think it's safe for me to reply, "Not that different!" Would he look something like the picture above? Would be anything at all like how he's portrayed in this article? These are questions we'll never have answered. But there is one question that will be answered in time: How will John Lennon be remembered after the last Boomer on earth is gone? I hope that he will be remembered as a brilliant musician and a man of peace, despite his human frailties. I for one love him all the more for them.

Happy Birthday John.
(9 October, 1940 - 8 December, 1980)

Shanti-Mantra by Ravi Shankar

This song has gotten me through a very difficult week, so I made this video in thanks.

The Cigar Guy on Abbey Road

Here's my contribution to the Cigar Guy meme.

If you have a beef with this you can take it up with RW.

Click picture to embiggify.

To see other pictures click here.

Friar Park, by Ravi Shankar

I've really gotten into creating videos for my YouTube channel. Enjoy.

Weekend Delights: a Halfhearted Bullet List sans Bullets

That was about the most perfect weekend I can imagine.

I remember when the perfect weekend meant getting all glammed up and going dancing on Friday or Saturday night (both, if there were good bands at my favorite watering holes), then having friends over for a barbecue on Sunday. Monday was always spent hungover and struggling through the day at work. I'd never waste a good Sunday on being hungover.

These days my delights are simpler: my laptop, a book or two, a movie, coffee, a lot of giggling with Nettl, and never moving my ass from the bed. This weekend was even better because yesterday, Micah made a big pot of potato-leek soup with crusty wheat rolls. Man, that was awesome! I didn't have to cook or clean up, either. That was a luxury. And there's enough left that I don't have to think about cooking or cleaning up tonight. How's that for bliss?

Yesterday I had to put the blanket on the bed and last night the heat came on. Guess summer is really over.

Review: Here Comes The Sun by Joshua Greene

One of the books I got for my birthday was Here Comes The Sun: The Spiritual and Musical Journey of George Harrison, by Joshua Greene. It had been on my Amazon Wish List for several months and Nettl, knowing my love and admiration for George, got it for me.

I've read a lot of books on the Beatles through the years and for the most part, I really don't like them because most Beatle biographers have an agenda of some kind: to enter Beatle history through a slim, chance, or questionable meeting, or else to either slam or praise their subject unduly--the member(s) of the group are either demons or divine avatars. I have no taste for either. Never have, never will.

There are countless reasons why people publish a book about one or all the Beatles. Greene's reason is one I applaud: to look at someone he knew personally, not as a Beatle, but as a man whose entire life had been a spiritual quest, the life of a seeker. He took me inside George's private world, revealing a deeply spiritual, generous, warm, and sensitive man. I always knew this George was there, but Greene is the first and only biographer that I know of to look past the Beatle mythology and focus on the man himself. There are things I've always intuited about George and this book confirmed those.

Because, like George, Greene is a Krishna devotee, he possesses a special insight and he can view George's human foibles through the eyes of understanding. He does not wish for him to be perfect so he does not judge. Instead, he sees that we all must live with the consequences of our choices (karma), and he does not attach judgments of "good" or "bad" to his recording of  these choices. It is refreshing.

Also, unlike another author I've known personally (not naming names), Greene does not use George's story as an excuse to proselytize, boring the reader with long chapters that read more like a Hindu textbook than a personal biography.

He does, however, go into the guru/pupil relationship that George had with sitar master Ravi Shankar, a relationship that lasted until George passed in 2001 of cancer and actually continues for eternity. No other "pop" author that I've read has been in a position spiritually to write about this divine relationship in terms that go along with Hindu philosophy. (George Lucas and J.R.R. Tolkien got about as close as it gets.)  As a musician who was blessed with my own mentor, I really appreciated this aspect of the book.

In 1981 I was initiated into the Self Realization Fellowship at Lake Shrine in L.A. George too was an initiate and it was at Lake Shrine that his wife Olivia and son Dhani held his private memorial service immediately after his passing. That we are both followers of the universal teachings of Paramahansa Yogananda is only one (and possibly the strongest) of the spiritual ties I've felt with George through the years. He is, spiritually speaking, my brother.

My spiritual mother there was Margaret Dye, the woman who in meditation drew the now-famous portrait of Mahavatar Babaji. George was well aware of this portrait and used copies of it for different purposes, from wall hangings to lapel badges. Margaret knew Yoganandji personally and told me many stories about him. It was she who lovingly gave him manicures when she was a young college student, saving some of the parings through the years. I remember one afternoon, over a snack of macadamias and jasmine tea, she gave me some of these parings, as well as an aged black and white photo she'd taken of the guru. She told me that Yogananda had lovingly laughed at her saving his nail clippings and then blessed them for her. She told me that I'd know what to do with them. I put them in a locket on a strand of sandalwood japa beads and used them in my daily meditation. A few years later I got the feeling that I should pass the necklace along to George. I never did, not really knowing how to contact him, so I suppose that was not their destiny. I was heartsick when they were lost in The Big Dump of 2001 about the same time that George passed. Another tie--one that taught me that All Things Must Pass, even those things we think are enduring.

But I've gotten way off track here. Or maybe I haven't...

If you are of an eastern spiritual bent, I'd recommend this book wholeheartedly, but if you're a Beatle fan looking for just more dirt, move along. While some of George's "backsliding" escapades are referred to, they are seen, as I wrote previously, through the eyes of compassion and understanding, not through a fascination with tabloid trash mongering or celebrity voyeurism.

"Scan not a friend through a microscopic glass;

You know his faults, so let his foibles pass..."