Living La Dolce Vita Loca-The First 30

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Wood. There isn’t enough of it in the world, especially if you are Italian with a huge superstitious streak on your way to Italy and just made some outlandish proclamation on the state of your traveling luck. And so this is where I found myself on a midday Monday in July at Los Angeles Airport’s Tom Bradley International Terminal. I had just sent a message to my friend, who had dropped me off not ten minutes before, to say that I was seated at the gate eating bad airport food. Already, he asked? Yes, I lead an extremely charmed traveling life, I replied. No sooner did the words leave my lips than I scrambled around looking for some wood to knock on. There was nary a tree born surface to bang my fist on in this sea of vinyl, plastic and metal. I was horrified. I knew better than to tempt the travel gods. With apprehension, I made my way to the gate when they called my name. Apparently, since I checked in on line I had to show the gatekeepers my passport. This was not a Delta flight despite the fact that was whom I had booked it with. This was a code sharing Air France flight to Florence, Italy with a connector through Paris’s Charles de Gaulle Airport. I had spent considerable rolling of clothing time the night before to fit everything I needed for this two week trip to Italy for a cousin’s Tuscany wedding and a visit to my home town in the Alps, into one red carry on pilot’s case. I was so proud of my overstuffed little bag. The Air France lady was not. You have to check it, she said. No, I don’t, it’s the perfect size for the overhead bin. She eyed it suspiciously and lifted it.   Yes, you do, she said, it’s very heavy; it will hit someone in the head.   I have travelled at least a half a million air miles in my lifetime and I have never seen overhead baggage come hurling forth and knock someone in the head. Well, not without me gingerly pulling it out of the bin first. Nope, she said, we are checking it and the feeling of dread of no wood and no carry on just pervaded my entire being. This trip was on such a good fortune roll up till now.

The night before at check in, I did not want to keep my row 92 seat in the upper deck of the plane.   Years of trapaphobic traveling have made me an expert on aviation seat configurations for all sorts of planes. What was the point, I thought, of cramming all that stuff into carry on just to be the last to get off the plane. I checked the available seats on the first floor. The plane was packed, but oddly enough there were three empty seats in row 15 about three rows back in coach. They had some weird yellow lines and a red x in the center of each. I clicked on the aisle seat and a pop up said- $32 for this ‘get off the plane first seat’. Huh? This was a new one on me. I have purchased plenty of “extra room for your legs so you don’t turn in to a flying pretzel” seats in my time, but a seat where you pay to get off first? Does this mean that they will push people out of the way for me as I go up the aisle instead of me having to do so? A bargain, I thought, at twice the price and so I took the aisle of that bank of three. A jam-packed plane, a ten hour flight and three seats to myself to not get any sleep in! I was the envy of all the other travelers. At one point the stewardess tried to put some elderly lady next to me. Did she pay her 32 bucks to get off the plane first, I asked? No, well, move along then and they did, especially since the woman wanted the aisle seat only and it was already mine.

I forgot about my failure to knock on wood as we made our way across the country and the Atlantic. The two hours I thought I would spend at Charles De Gaulle Airport shopping for lovely French perfume and a baguette were barely enough to make it from my arrival gate to the Florence departure gate. Up and down stairs and escalators and hallways. It never seemed to end. The one thing we do better than any European country is to design airports. That’s for sure. This was not fun since I had taken my plantar fasciitis or fascist foot, as I like to call it, a painful knee and 40 extra pounds with me on this trip. And I am not talking about my fat carry on luggage either.   Then there is the obsession by Europe with passport control.   We had to show it like four times in Paris. At Italy’s Milan Malpensa Airport (why you would name an airport ‘bad thoughts” is anyone’s guess), we had to show our passports no less than six times from when we set foot in the airport to when we took our seat on the plane. The last two times were at the beginning of the jet way and then again at the door of the plane. This is about a 10 second walk. What exactly does the Italian government expect us to do with our passports in that span of time and distance?

The flight to Florence was uneventful and on time. The plan was for me to take a train to Pistoia, Italy where my second cousin, Fedra, would pick me up. She is the daughter of cousin Luana, who is the daughter of my Zio Eugenio (my mother’s deceased younger brother) and his wife, Zia Lola (my last living aunt or uncle at 90 years old). I was to visit these maternal Tuscany cousins before heading to the wedding of my paternal Dolomites second cousin.   Christine and her husband to be, one of the funnest guys on the planet, now lived in Singapore and came home to be married. Rather than do it in our home town, this very smart, tasteful and generous couple decided to have a three day Tuscany wedding for 120 of their friends and family, which is how I came to be in Italy this summer.

My plans had altered a bit. I was to have stayed at Fedra’s home for a few days before connecting with my siblings for the drive south to Siena for the wedding.   A few days before departure, I got a message that my aunt was in the hospital with heart trouble and could I stay in a hotel instead. I found a lovely house at the last minute with one of their four rooms to rent about a half hour away from Fedra, but near the Best Western where my siblings were staying in Lucca which had no more rooms left for me. All was set for Fedra to pick me up at the train station, take me with her to feed her horses, take me to the hospital to see my aunt and cousins and then off to my temporary Tuscany bed and breakfast that evening. Feed the horses? I can barely get a cup of kibble into a bowl on a daily basis for Moe Moe, my tiny dog, but I’m game. What could go wrong with any of this plan?

We get to the baggage area in Florence. The plane is packed. About maybe 20 or so suitcases come down the chute and nothing else.   We are done, no more bags, says the Italian baggage handler to a room full of bewildered passengers. Sorry, the rest of the bags are still in France. Why, I innocently asked? Who knows, could be a strike, could be no more room on the plane, could be lunch time and everyone let go to eat rather than finish loading.   Get on the line over there at the Lost and Found and fill out a form to report your luggage missing. Again, why? You know it’s missing, I know it’s missing. You even know where the hell it is, but we have to fill out a form telling you that? Some of the more vocal passengers with me, OK, the Americans, began demanding that we speak to an Air France representative. Can’t do that, no one will come down and talk to you. They have no time to do that. What we do know is that there are three possible flights the bags could come on; two that evening and one in the morning, none of which do us any good tonight because the Lost and Found office closes at 8pm anyway so even if it showed up no one gets their bags till tomorrow. Now remember, my baggage was to be carry on, meaning I had fully expected my new pajamas and a change of underwear would accompany me to the hotel that night. I was dejected and deflated and most of all annoyed at the lack of wood in this world. In 53 years of air travel, some several times a month, I had never had luggage lost or not arrive with me. Me and my big gloaty mouth at LAX!

I call my cousin and tell her I am on the line to fill out the lost baggage report. This is not a short line since literally half the plane’s luggage didn’t arrive and there was no way for me to catch the train to her town. Fedra tells me to just stay put and she will pick up me up at the airport. This is about an hour and a half away, which in Italy driving is the equivalent of about five Los Angeles driving hours. I fill out the form and of course my bag can’t be delivered by the airline to my bed and breakfast because Lucca is too far away and it would take three days for that to happen so I will just have to come back to Florence when the bag arrives which I won’t know until I get an email telling me so. Great. By now I am up to about 22 hours with no sleep, despite the virtual bed I nabbed for myself on the plane, because other than maybe an hour here or 20 minutes there, I simply cannot sleep on things that are moving.

Fedra shows up and it was wonderful to see her again. Are you like 30 years old now, I ask? Forty-four, she says. She is aging wonderfully. I apparently refuse to age at all. So why didn’t you ever get married, I ask, like the most annoying relative you can conjure up in your mind. I got married five years ago, she says. My husband lives in Dubai now.   Nice catching up with you and way to go on the long distance husband, a new goal of my own, I tell her.

We wind our way back to Pistoia now. The plan was to go to her mother’s house, which was next door to my aunt and uncle’s home, relax a bit and feed the horses. Fedra had turned the property into quite an equestrian center complete with a sand filled jumping area. She competes in jumping over things with her horse events. It was so great to see my uncle’s place again. She has three horses there with a barn and a corral. The house is as I remembered it from my last visit 18 years ago when my older son was three.   It was wonderful to see her mother Luana again. We are a year apart cousins and although we grew up in different countries, we have a fondness for each other born from the days our parents dressed us alike in scratchy wool Tyrolean outfits when we were two and three before I moved to America. We saw each other occasionally over the years as teenagers and young adults before the busyness of adulthood set in. I adore her and her brother, Gordiano a few years younger.

We now had to attend to the dilemma of my missing bag. I had zero clothes with me on the plane. The goal was to have ALL my clothes accompany me on the plane not in the cargo hold. Luana had a nightgown or two but as far apart as we were geographically that’s how far apart we were in clothing size as well. Fedra and I had stopped at a few stores before we got there to see if I could pick up a few basics to last me at least through the night and the next day. Clothing in Italy is made for size six women, not for my size. And after going up several staircases in every store, I can see why. Italians love their staircases. They are everywhere and very long. I was tired, in pain from both feet and knees, and sweaty from the hot and humid Tuscany weather. And I had no way of changing any of those things at the moment. I struck out at every store we went to and this included the men’s department.   Luckily, Luana remembered that right across the street from the hospital was a clothing store, which catered to fatter women than is the Italy norm. Bingo! I managed to buy a nightgown, a blouse, a T-shirt, three pairs of socks, two pairs of underwear and a bra, all like Macys quality for 75 American dollars. Now one thing I have always loved about Italian T shirts over my many years of visiting, is that they will write any kind of random American phrases on a shirt that only the creator could possibly even venture a guess as to what the hell it means. And so that is how I have come to be the proud owner of a black T-shirt that says “CHANGES IN PINK STORY” in sparkling little rhinestones.

The hospital was in lovely little Tuscany town called Pescia where my cousin Gordiano lived. The plan was for Luana to relieve her brother and then Fedra, Gordiano, his wife and I would go to dinner.   No sleep, no shower, no clothes, no problem. Let’s go. We got to hospital and saying her room was on the second floor was just a suggestion perhaps to the Italians. We walked up and down several flights of lovely marble steps before we got to her room. Zia Lola was in bed and the first thing I noticed was she was still dying her hair at 90! I loved seeing her with her black full head of hair. I harkened back to the times as a teenager coming to visit them with my mom and siblings. My uncle was a chef. Here in the states he would be a 5 star one and my aunt was no slouch in the cooking department either. Back then she had chickens and rabbits on her property and would take us with her as she snapped the neck of our dinner. She was a tiny, feisty lovely woman and we all adored her. She was from Tuscany so her accent was much different than that of we Northern dialect folks.   She was a lover of beauty, my aunt.  She dressed well and loved to dance. Zia also didn’t stop living just because her husband died years before. She knew the secret of a life continued to be well lived. I’ll leave it at that.

By the time I got to hospital, the morphine needed to keep her heart calmly beating awhile longer had taken its toll. She didn’t speak but chattered her teeth. Her eyes didn’t really focus and if you touched her skin she jumped. Luana told me to go around the other side of the bed as she was turned more towards that side. She told me a few days before that her mother kept asking them when I was coming. I leaned down and told her I was there. She opened her eyes wide, looked at me and pursed her lips into a kiss. With a few slight tears so as not to instigate a deluge, I said goodbye and we left.   That was Tuesday night. By Wednesday we had heard she was no longer responsive in any way and the doctors told my cousins it was the end for her. She died on Saturday. I am not sad. On the contrary, I am so happy I got to say goodbye. When the dearingly departed is 90 and above, having seen so many buried at a fraction of that number in recent times, to me it’s just a rejoicing of a live well lived.

We left the hospital at about 9pm or dinnertime in Tuscany.   Fedra, (my lovely chauffer and spirit guide), Gordiano, his wife and I went to a great little trattoria in Pescia not far from the hospital and his house. We had a lovely meal of pizza and frizzante (a sparkling Italian white wine) followed by dessert and espresso. One must never order them together in Italy. You have dessert first then you order coffee. Then the owner sent over a few complimentary items to finish the meal. First, there were lemon sorbet shots with Limoncello. It’s a delicious Italian liquore made with lemons, alcohol and sugar. He then sends over glasses of Vin Santo with a few biscotti for dunking. Vin Santo is an amber sweet dessert type of wine and one of my favorite Italy drinks.   Wonderful evening and meal despite the less than happy occasion of our meeting. It’s a testament to the spirit and culture of this country and these people really. Gordiano and his wife then took us to his house for a nightcap. I had never been there, as he did not have this house last time I was here. What a great place, complete with a small built in pool on the second level. Another round of drinks and it was near midnight and I had to move quickly to get into my room at the pretty inn for the night. A bed and breakfast is not like some big hotel with a front desk going 24 hours. The night before I left, I read the fine print and it said check in was only from 3pm to 7pm. Panicked, I called the owner to see what could be arranged, since I knew even before leaving there was no way to make this deadline. No problem, she said, they owned the restaurant next door to the villa and it was open until midnight and I should just come over to get the keys. And so I did and what an adorable place I was to call home for a few more days. It was beautiful and charming and so was Laura the owner.   I loved it! I had a few new clothes. I saw my aunt. Reconnected with my cousins, had a great meal, fed some horses or at least watched, and got an email around 10pm from the annoying French airline people that my bag had arrived in Florence. I was no longer stressing about having to clothes shop again among the size sixes. I took a shower where you had to pull on a string tied to a switch to get hot water. I have no idea. All I know is the water was cold unless I pulled the string. And so 30 hours after I left Los Angeles, I crawled into bed in a lovely lavender and white room. Buona notte.

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Only Time Can Tell

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I looked down into that space in the corner of Andy’s kitchen where two cabinets would join, but because of the limitations in design nothing with purpose could we give it. The cabinets were in, but no countertop as yet. That big empty space would beckon to me as I walked about the room doing this or that remodel task.   It is such a waste of space I thought more than once. And then close to the time when it would be sealed up forever, a thought occurred to me. What if we use the space to talk to the future?   Kitchens last for decades, some for 20 to 30 or more years before anyone is so dissatisfied with it that they undertake the grueling task of a another remodel.

I began to imagine that future family and wondered about them. Who would it be? What would they be like? Would it be a family just starting out or someone entering their sunset years?   And if it were a family, what would its composition be? Would it be a return to the traditional ones so long gone in our times of a mom and a dad and a junior and a sis?   Or would it be some other manifestation of the familial concept?   Let’s do a time capsule for your lost kitchen space, I said to Andy. Let’s let the future know about this home that now belongs to it. And so we did. In a pretty silver box we put a few CDs of Andy’s original music. We put a Dylanfest postcard. This was the 28th year Andy and Renee put this annual homage to Bob Dylan on via an all day concert of music by them and their band and their musical friends. Would this future have a Dylanfest? Andy put some American and Canadian coins in, I believe and another Canadian artifact or two. Time was of the essence. I wrote a quick letter to the future. I wish I had more time to do a better one. I wonder who will read this letter. Let’s hope it’s not us!! Or maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing either. And with Andy’s permission, here’s to the future.

“Dear Future Owner of 17411 Delia in Torrance CA,

Today the kitchen you are tearing out decades into the future is brand new. I am the current owner, Andy Hill’s, friend. The year is 2018. The day is June 9. I hope you all can still read in the future. This is a great house. A little history: Andy and I and my husband all bought our first house together. In December of 2000, we split and I found this house for Andy to move to. He has been there ever since. The kitchen was old when he bought the house and now 18 years later it is finally going to be brand new.   My role in this was to help him through the final design and remodel stages. So this week we finished it and this space here where you have found this silver box had to be left as an unavoidable void so I thought let’s talk to the future from it.

I hope you still feel the sound of music in this home. Andy is a singer/songwriter and a wonderful musician. He had lots of concerts and musical events here at his home. He is the one that turned your garage into a music studio. A little bit of the times we live in now. Turbulent and fractured, something that has been common to our country unfortunately for decades. I so hope you all have solved these differences by the time you read this letter. Donald Trump is president, and don’t believe ANYTHING good history may re-write about him- he was nightmare.   I don’t know much else to tell you about popular culture other than we have a horrific school shooting problem right now. Kids are going into high schools and shooting up the place. The gun issue in this country seems insolvable. Common sense things like outlawing assault rifles can’t get done thanks to the National Rifle Association’s power that prevents any progress in this area. It is sad. I sure hope you read this letter and think wow what an archaic way to live and that the gun problem in this country is solved forever. Homelessness is another major problem in our times. The policy of the Republicans- (the other political party is the Democrats) to cut social services for those most in needs and to build prisons rather than institutions to help the mentally ill and house them problem is a national shame right now. That is another wish I have for your future, that compassionate institutions are built for those among us who can no longer take care of themselves.

Music and theater are my passions. I can’t tell you too much about the popular TV shows, but the plays right now are Hamilton and Dear Evan Hansen and School of Rock and not sure if you are a music lover but Bruce Springsteen is currently on Broadway in an extraordinary show he did. I flew back in November to see it.

I am retired from the US Customs Service so I don’t have much to report in the work force arena.   We didn’t get our woman president in 2016 as we had all hoped. Hillary Clinton lost the election, I so hope by the time you read this, we will have had a woman president and perhaps even a gay president. Parts of the world seem to be slipping back into intolerance of people who are different. I so hope you read this letter and think- wow that is a thing of the past and glad we are no longer there.

I am a fledging writer and who knows perhaps by the time you read this, even a published one!! Look me up, LOL! That was an acronym devised for the proliferation of texting that we all do on our phones that means Laughing Out Loud. The most overused thing we have today. I hope your future has gone back a bit to the more personal exchange between humans. Today all we seem to be able to do is stare at a tiny screen to communicate with anyone. A humanistic backlash to that would be great. I wonder what technology you will have to listen to music or read books or get your entertainment from in your time? A little observation, no matter how far we go with our technology there is NOTHING like live entertainment. Think of it, in Shakespeare’s day in the 1600’s all there was were live plays and hundreds of years later in my time today, it is still the best form ever. I hope that doesn’t disappear in your time.

My sons are 16 and 21 right now. Their names are Max and Marco Bowers. We live at 16431 Illinois court, not far from you. Who knows they may still be there and with a bit of luck, maybe so will I by the time you rip out this kitchen for a new one. If I am, please come and say hello.

Well this has been fun talking to you and I wish you and your family/occupants of this home, a wonderful and happy time here. Thanks for reading.”

Sincerely

Maddalena Beltrami

26

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2018 PRESCRIPT: Happy Heavenly 26th Birthday, AJ. I would write you a new blog but I am too busy going to the plays and concerts you keep helping me get great tickets for.  We love you and miss you every day you are gone, so today isn’t any more special or different other than it’s one of the two happiest and best days in your mom and dad’s lives.   Take care AnJel and be heaven happy always as you were down here!

I’m not putting this on Facebook . Well it will end up there cause it’s the only place my internet writing can be shared. But that doesn’t matter cause it will still only be read by the few and fiercely loyal. I appreciate them and love them. Tomorrow AJ will turn 25. No, I cannot say would have. It doesn’t resonate nor feel right. There is something about this number. I can’t put my finger on it yet and hope I can by the last sentence.   Tears just keep flowing and so the words must as well. It should be over. That is the phrase that runs through my brain in a loop of not understanding. He is 25 now. He is no longer a child or an adolescent or a young adult. It is the age of male mental maturation. This I have been told by a few experts recently when so ready to pull my own hair out over the teenage/young adult angst and antics of my two sons ages 15 and 20. The magical number I am told. Just wait, boys brains are not fully matured until then. You will see such a difference. The magical male mental maturation age. Not fully understood by us females who are pretty done with our own mental maturation at 15 actually, give or take a year or two but no more.

And so it only feels right that his death should be ended as well. Time’s up. Time’s up for the pain and anguish his family and friends and I feel. Time’s up for the stoic and incredible strength and bravery and courage endured and displayed by his mother and father and sister. Time’s up. It should be.   Full blown adulthood begins. That should be enough to end it. But it can’t and it won’t and all the magical thinking in the world won’t change that. It doesn’t get better. It gets different. There are wounds that time will never heal. This is surely one of them.   I believe in the afterlife. I do. My computer geek of a boy has sent me a few signs along his journey in that afterlife. I believe it. I received one today. I won’t share it. Only with his mother. I believe he has reached his angel status in the afterlife now. Perhaps the equivalent of adult status in the here and now. It’s a nice thought and one I shall keep. That’s the beauty sometimes of things that require a leap of faith and not logic and facts. It comforts me to believe he is now a guardian. The two boys he grew up with need one more than ever right now. And so do I. Happy Angel Day, AJ!

 

 Rest in the Light Of Eternal Youth, Magic Boy…

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How are you doing, Magic Boy? I often began my morning or end of night check in with this salutation. It was about a year or so ago during a rough patch in Brian’s life. A mutual friend suggested I talk to him as he liked me and perhaps I could lift his spirits some. I did both I like to think.

Yesterday he died, suddenly, unexpectedly, the ultimate disappearing act for this masterful magician. Today the online eulogies, memories, tributes, near and far in time and place and connection abound. We covet the dead, or at least the great ones. We want to touch the shiny fabric of that coffin and say we were a part of that greatness, no matter how big or small or close or far.   It is the silence of the service performed to miserly memories of mourners that dictates a life not well lived.   Not the case with Brian. He was mentor, friend, lover to more than a few in his time. His art was magic and magical was his art. I called him friend and here is but my tiny presence in his large life so very well lived.

I saw Brian for the first time at a house concert at Andy’s in 2005. I was with my two small boys at the time. I have no idea what I was doing there as I was not one to go to many of Andy and Renee’s gigs back then, being secluded in my motherhood and motherly duties of PTA and football. But for the special occasions I did venture out. Brian and his mentalist partner Sisuephan did their act. I remember nothing of it other than the fire-breathing wallet. I talked to Brian a bit afterwards asking him to do the wallet for my boys again and he said, “I hate kids”. I was taken aback and thought what a jerk! Took me awhile to see he never meant that at all.   He especially showed me in June of 2015 when he played my son’s Grad night for North High for a fraction of his worth as a performer as a favor to me.  The kids loved it and he must have, too, as he stayed way past the allotted time.  But no matter what magic he did, it was always the wallet that never failed to amaze me.  Over the years we would run into Brian at a restaurant gig of Andy’s occasionally and I never failed to go over to him and say, do the wallet, please? Usually my boys were with me and they would just love it.

Fast forward to late December 2014.   I had come to know Brian a bit better since now attending a lot of Andy and Renee gigs on my own in my re-entry to the musical world I loved so much pre-parenthood. Enough that I could ask for a night at the Magic Castle for my friend Val and I. Brian was playing the ‘big room’ as I call it as I could not keep all those rooms straight. It meant to me he was the star and the show was all him. We stopped at quite a few of the Magic Castle bars that night before the show began, sampling Prosecco along the way.   The venue was really crowded and we had standing room only against the wall when a person in the very first row got up for some reason and I took the seat while Val stayed at the wall.   A woman next to me started talking to me and I have no idea what we talked about but I started talking and she couldn’t stop laughing at what I was saying and then a few more joined in. Brian comes out, the show sort of starts but this lady next to me is still talking to me and laughing and I am answering her but trying not to. I know I am in trouble cause Brian knew me by now from various events we were at together and told me I had better behave at the show. I promised, sort of. Next thing I know, Brian stops the show and says, “Let me know when you are finished with your show, Maddie and I’ll do mine” and looks right at me. I was amused and horrified at the same time and needless to say I shut up for the rest of the show. Afterwards we met Brian in the bar for a drink and I just kept apologizing like crazy. I said, what can I do to make it up to you? Well, he said, there is a magician’s code that when you ruin his act you have to buy him a drink whenever you see him for the rest of his life!! Done, I said, done, just forgive me!   He laughed and ordered a Pinot Noir with a glass of ice on the side. A short time later, we were at the first Title Tracker show in Silverlake and Brian was there. I went right over and asked what are you drinking? I brought him his Pinot Noir- a few of them and we had a good laugh over it. It got to be that no matter where we were the minute I saw him I would say, “I know I know I’m going to get your drink.” And I did every time. Yesterday we shared a good laugh over this, as I said to Lorna and Andy, we should go get a bottle of Pinot Noir tonight and toast Brian and they both said, why, his favorite wine was Merlot. No, not possible I said. I have been buying him drinks at restaurants and clubs for three years now and he ALWAYS ordered Pinot. That’s cause it was more expensive and you were paying, Lorna said. Well played, Brian!!

For the dinners he attended at my house he usually got a bottle and I got my magic wallet fire every time and often a great impromptu magic show for the dinner guests. This fire breathing Aries LOVED that wallet. I never tired of seeing it and to me it was brand new each and every time he pulled it out.   I’ll never forget that night in Silverlake sitting next to him and having him do these magic tricks that would send me screaming during the Title Tracker concert. The one with the spider crossing my hand under the cellphone in particular made me jump out of my chair. I think he reveled in the idea of me ruining someone else’s show with my screeches.

Time marched on and we became what I like to think of as good friends. We were age appropriate, Brian and I. We talked a lot over these past three years about life and love and relationships and mostly aging in all those things. He hit a rough patch a little while back in his personal life and I would text or call every morning to check on him and then at night to see how his day went. I was honored to be invited to the Los Angeles premiere of the documentary done on his life and that of three other magicians at the Vista Movie theater. It was a kick to sit with him and watch his reaction to himself on the big screen. What a magical night that was as we then got to go to the Castle see him and his longtime partner Sisuepahn perform.

I brought friends to the Castle over the past several years a few times. He was always gracious and always made room for us. I never ever wanted to go there though unless he was playing the big room and doing his full act. I did go once when he was in the WC Fields Bar downstairs, but it wasn’t the same for me. That night I took my friends Case and Chuck. They went off to see the shows in the main parlors but I preferred to just stay down there with Brian. We ate and drank in between his time at the bar. Yes, of course, the Pinot Noir was on me. When Brian went back behind the bar, I entertained myself by clearing glasses from the tables. The Castle for some weird reason always felt so familiar and home like to me. I used to think I had to have been there in some previous life.   I didn’t go see too many other magicians. They bored me compared to Brian’s show. I preferred to just roam around taking pictures where I wasn’t supposed to like in the fun phone booth with the ghost or sitting by Irma the piano and watching her play herself.

I was supposed to go the Castle a few weeks ago. My sister was coming to town again. It was a wonder that Brian was even going to let us go since her less than stellar performance at a dinner at my house the year before, but he was so gracious. I called and said I wanted to go on maybe Monday the 25th of June.  I asked if he was playing the big room that night. He said he wasn’t but he would come down anyway if he could because of surgery he was scheduled for on June 18. I said OK, but I’m not going unless you are there. What the heck is the surgery for, I asked. Heart, he said. What the hell? But he didn’t answer that text. The following week, I texted him and asked how the surgery went. He said it’s next Monday. I was confused and thought they just postponed the same thing. Well then are you coming to the house concert on Saturday, I asked. No, I can’t, I am so weak I can’t move, he said. What exactly are you having done? Triple bypass he said and a valve repair. What the fuck?? I went into my Brian “what you need, whenever you need it” mode. What time, where, do you have lift there, do you need anything? He said, no he’s fine. Sisuepahn is driving him to Torrance Memorial at 7:30am. OK I’ll call and come see you as soon as I can and left it at that.    Monday came and I thought about him all day. I asked Andy in the afternoon if he had heard anything. He got word the surgery went well. I knew my way around an ICU having spent three weeks there 11 years ago during my husband’s liver transplant. I also knew it was difficult getting in if you weren’t family but I also knew I could do it. But it was late and I was leaving for Palm Desert on Wednesday and knew how out of it he would be anyway. On Tuesday morning, I figured I’ll just call the ICU and see how he’s doing but the ICU nurse put me through. Hey, I just wanted to call to make sure you ain’t dead, I said. He said No, but I am in a lot of pain. I can’t really talk. OK, get better, love you. I’ll come see you soon. He didn’t and I didn’t. A call with a crack in her voice from Lorna at 4pm and I knew it before she got the words out of her mouth. For a week now I could not let go of the thought of where he would convalesce. My mind kept going over logical places. Would Sisuepahn take him in? Would Craig his manager/caretaker have a place for him? Should I offer my house if needed as I am close to the hospital and doctors? Where would his beloved dog go? These thoughts would go round and round but I never saw him in recovery anywhere. I kept thinking how strange that was that while I was fretting about where he would go another part of my brain would say it doesn’t matter at all it’s not relevant.

We got to let our proverbial aging hair down at times, but none so much as that night at Avenue A in early April of this year. I was on my way there when I got a text from Brian saying, where are you, I’m at Avenue A, come down. On my way, I said. We shared a few secrets that night. We would compare some notes on things that made us laugh sometimes and sometimes made us sad. We were age appropriate friends despite the everlasting search for the fountain of youth. We talked that night about a lot of things. He shared quite a few stories with me. At one point, I was about to respond to a text on my phone. He said, put that down, I can’t believe you are going to text during the most important part of my story! OK, OK. I said, but don’t think I am going to buy you food now for the rest of your life just because I interrupted a story of yours. Not the same as a magic show. He laughed. I put the phone down and listened. The conversation ended for good yesterday with Brian. It feels interrupted. The thing I wanted to talk about most with him next was the healing of the heart in all its manifestations, a subject near and dear to my heart right now. It will have to be one-sided now or perhaps this very last act of his speaks volumes to the subject at hand for me.

We don’t get to choose the impact people have on our lives or our connection to them or what they mean to us. I am a firm believer that all sorts of people come into your life for all sorts of things. Impact or connection is not measured in time. It’s measured in space. It’s measured in what occupies the space you share in the time you share it. This was just my own little time and shared space with Brian Gillis, the best magician ever and Johnny Carson’s and my favorite one, too!

ME2

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U2 has never been very high up on my current concert dream-wish list, dislike the word bucket list- reminds me of barfing. I thought about seeing them last year at the Rose Bowl but I avoid stadium concerts if at all possible. ColdPlay was the Rose Bowl exception and it was very good. I got in on the presale for Ticketmaster verifieds and I got the code, but did not get the tickets when they went on sale for the two May Los Angeles Forum dates. No matter, I told my partner in concert crime Sandi, we are going to go if we want to. I was ambivalent about not getting the tickets. I don’t consider myself a U2 fan. I like all the hits and that to me is really not high on fandom status. I respect the man and all he’s done, but honestly, after Tracker Dave took over as Bono with the Title Tracker shows, he’s now become Bono to me. The Title Trackers is a group that writes songs for albums that have no title tracks and then performs them in the artist’s character. In the hands of lesser musical genius this would be a mess, but it is handled with such dynamic dignity by the three Trackers: Andy, Dave and Russell whose brainchild this is. They are truly the best songs never written. I digress. Go see a Tracker show and you’ll know what I mean.

A week ago I began the search in earnest for U2 Tickets at the Forum on Tuesday. I just had to see this show. There wasn’t any ambivalence left this week. The feeling that we MUST see this show got stronger and stronger, to the point where I even settled for upper level seats. I just don’t do bad seats at a concert. I am too old to settle for less. These, however, dropped into our collective laps. I was on the text with a man who was selling his seats, three rows up and one section over for $250. He paid $325 and Ticketmaster would not let him re-sell them for less so he went to my favorite ticket place, Craigslist. Let’s hope the morality cops don’t shut down the ticket scalping portion of this website. While I was on text with him negotiating, I was also on Ticketmaster and found two aisle seats, one section over and 4 rows down from him for considerably less than his tickets. He was not happy when I told him it was a “no” and why.

So we went last night, Sandi and I, Ubered by our offspring. Her daughter dropped her off and my son dropped me a few blocks away. The walk was well worth the no parking fees and no parking lot gridlock at the end. The first thing we see upon entering the arena is this humongous two sided screen that ran the entire length down the middle with a huge stage at one end and a smaller one at the other and a long walkway in between just below the screen. What on earth could that be, we wondered? Well it provided the most amazing visual effects ever to be seen on a stage, at least by me. They played in the screen while on the walkway. It was astounding.   When he turned it into the street where he lived and had it move as if you were looking at it out of the window of a car was just breathtaking. He walked along, as it moved and sometimes stayed still and in between the houses were relics of his past. Homage to David Bowie for one thing and so much more. It was just indescribable gorgeous.

I expected Bono preachiness, as is the stuff of legends, but what we got instead was Bono teachiness and the baring of his familial heart. He did a mean intro of Sympathy for the Devil , intertwining words of current American events like Charlottesville coming from a horrific Devil’s mask special effect on him as he spoke on this gigantic screen. Politically potent was when he showed footage of the KKK racists and white supremacists demonstrations today and then followed them with the civil rights marches of yesteryear.   A powerful reminder of the backslide we see today in those areas. And when he was done, U2 raised the American Flag behind the main stage to cover the entire side of the arena. It was just perfect.

The most poignant part of the entire evening was the homage that Bono played not only to the women in his life, but also to the women of the world. He thanked his wife for being his other half. He thanked his daughters for what sounded like keeping him on his toes. They then displayed a lone woman in a black combat helmet and a sleeveless black dress, so pretty with the hash tag or number sign to me, with the word WomenOfTheWorldTakeOver and PovertyIsSexist   I don’t know that I quite believe that in its entirety.  I think we need people not genders taking over who are intelligent and honest and have integrity and that just plain care about the world we live in enough to make a difference and let nothing stand in their way to do so. But the most special of all tributes he paid this evening to the women in his life was to his mother. What a beautiful and loving and painful tribute it was beginning with the song Iris- her name- whilst they showed her wedding clip and then an old home movie of her running in the sand.   It ended with the house and a light on in only one window and a light bulb that swung towards this window and turned into a noose right before it. Sandi and I, too busy enjoying the show to bother with actual facts, came to the conclusion that his mother committed suicide. Glad to say this morning, Sandi googled it clear in that his mother died when he was 14 years old of a brain aneurism. Not a whole lot better but still. To have him open that pain up right on stage for all of us to share with him was just so moving.   Interesting the artistic greatness that ensues from the depths of despair of losing a mother so young as we have seen with other artists like John Lennon.

Musically it was perfect for me. As I wasn’t a huge fan, I had no great set list desire or expectations. I started listening a few days before the concert to the new album “Songs of Experience.”   I love, love, love the album. It’s got this feel of going back to 60s and 70s groove music at times mixed in with such beautifully written love songs. So getting to hear most of this live now was just great for me. Yes, I loved Bloody Sunday and One and In the Name of Love of course. Who doesn’t? For me, though, it was great to see these new songs played sometimes the same as the album, sometimes different. Moving from the large stage to the intimate small one at the other end of the huge runway for various songs was spectacular and so well done. The visual effects on that screen during every song were spellbinding. The one thing I loved the most was no monitors anywhere. When it was just them and no big screen special effects, then that is what you looked it and nothing else and it was so much better than the distraction of all those screens.

Bruce, the very top of my concert list, takes you to church when you see him perform. You are in a local parish church in a little Jersey town or a Baptist church in the Deep South. You come in jeans or a summer dress and you collectively throw your hands in the air and shout and shout as the Spirit of the Night grabs hold of your heart and soul and takes them on a ride you’ll never experience again. Bono takes you to a cathedral like Notre Dame in Paris or 5th Avenue’s St Patrick’s, where you come in your best dressed and it is your mind and your senses that are captured and set to wander and wonder at the majesty of the edifice with its stained glass and sculptures and all that amazing architecture. That’s the ride U2 takes you on, musical magnificence. There was so much more but sensory overload makes it difficult for me to describe it in any great detail that would do it justice. It was an experience in song we will never forget.

 

 

Thoughts on Dylanfest 28

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I was apprehensive about attending this year’s Dylanfest. The ghosts of Dylan parties and other things past floated heavily about my mind that morning.   It was the first big party we threw in a brand now house by a fairly new newlywed all those years ago. Fast or not so fast forward 25 years later and I attend this year’s festivities as a fairly new divorcee. So many gone but a few still remain from those long ago days.   So many new and wonderful faces now and even a few brand new shiny pennies at this year’s event for the first time, like the wonderful friend of Renee, Patrick and Andy’s, Chris from all the way across the pond and my bass playing business partner, Michael who had the good fortune of both first time attendance and a first musical debut with Al Diesen, the Italian Dylan and the Title Trackers.

Still, I didn’t want to go. I thought back to how many of these new and improved out of the backyard Dylan events I had been to. In my mind, I always think I’ve only been to one of these and yet this will be the fifth one in a row for me. That surprised me. A few more years and it overtakes the number of backyard parties, which as one of the logistical hosts all those years ago, takes on a quite different patina both in heart and head of those days gone by.

But go I did and miss I did the surprise rendition of Desolation Row. Not only my favorite Bob song but my favorite song ever. I was stunned at first as I was given so many reasons why a song like that could not be done at Dylanfest by Andy, one of the co-hosts. I guess it was the Sierras talking that night or as good seeds often do when planted well, they grew into a fine conclusion. No matter. That song belongs to just Bob and me. Always will. I can hear lots of folks do lots of Dylan but Desolation Row is just different for me. I discovered and loved it sometime in my late teens. I don’t remember quite the circumstances and they truly do not matter. It is not a song brought to me a by a beau or a concert or a trip to Italy. It just WAS one day and there it has always stayed and always will.

It was such a beautifully buoyant event this year. Perhaps that’s just the mind playing tricks when juxtaposed against the stormy finale of last year’s downpour but I don’t think so. A bout with a fascist foot and lots of heel pain kept me in my chair for most of the day. I saved the dancing for only the choicest of songs. I didn’t spend the day doing a marathon of running around fueled by caffeine and booze and missing most of the music as I always do. I sat my chair outside the musician’s tent and had the most enjoyable of conversations with some long time folks there 25 years ago in the backyard like Karen and Bobby and some brand new ones, one kind or crazy enough to share his fine mix of wine and ginger ale with me.   The absolute hilarity of watching Dave do his sign language for the deaf and demented during the Mr. Tambourine Man finale was nothing short of brilliant and brought to mind how much fun that boy was all those years ago and can still be.   It did my heart so good to see my long time neighbors and friends who hosted the 1997 Dylan party the year my son was born, shed their sorrow for awhile to come out and get a shot of musical joy so much needed in their lives today. The power of music to heal unbearable wounds and to join humanity in a communion of camaraderie is no better evident than at these events.   It is a nod to the passion and the power of Bob’s words and to those who truly hear those words, like our hosts Andy and Renee and the other 400 some odd attendees this year.

I did walk about a bit certainly, but the restful and calming effect of just listening to the music undisturbed by the blurred passing of hundreds of people in my frenetic pace to see and say hello to all was bliss.  Movement in our lives is inevitable if we choose to lead a life of wonder and interest. In a recent talk by Maria Shriver I attended, she said she told her children that she did not want to see their 20 or 30 or 40 or 50 year old selves as the same person. She wanted to meet someone different each time.   A thought well put. If we stay stagnant and in the same shoes cemented to the same ideas and thoughts year after year, decade after decade, we will miss the joys and excitement and enlightenment unique to each period of one’s life. It is not necessary to abandon our old selves completely, but rather to bring with us the best of what we were and weave our newfound wonders around it. If I had succumbed, as unfortunately many do, to the sadness or the anxiety that enveloped me that morning, I would have missed the joy of one of the best Dylanfests I have ever attended. If I had not chosen stillness over painful prancing yesterday, I might have missed a lot of nice conversation and certainly a lot of great musical moments. There is a time in life to move and a time to sit quite still, the trick is doing both well and at the necessary intervals.

Birthday Blue/Don’t Let Them Eat Cake

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As birthdays go, this 61 was pretty much a bust. My first one as a not so gay divorcee was well unremarkable, literally. And please look up the actual way that term was coined decades ago. It had nothing to do with being a lesbian.

Even a pissed off soon to be ex husband will get you a card and some flowers on your birthday and force the kids to sign the card, even if they do fail to find a card that is actually for someone’s mother on a few occasions. This year my two were left to their own devices. My younger son got me a nice and thoughtful Mom card. Even though he has more money stashed away than some adults I know, it didn’t come with a gift. My older son gave new meaning to “it’s the thought that counts,” cause that is about all he did do. He thought about a card. He never did actually translate it into action. I mentioned that the inheritance scales were tipping and not in his favor either. He then proclaimed that he was anti-greetings cards. Something about how they are not something he can subscribe too in good conscience. I didn’t know you could be a conscientious objector to greeting cards. Is there some province of Canada set aside for kids fleeing the States where it’s a Hallmark free zone? Scales still tipping. Still not in his favor.

I looked at my card clothesline and it was like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard, a bit bare this year. It is a string that I have had hanging in my house since I had my first kid 21 years ago. It is above our heads and spans the length of our dining room/den and it is where we hung the greeting cards all year long. We began with Valentine’s Day as I used to get and give cards before it became a hostile holiday in our house. Then we moved to Easter and always there were cards from my mother and mother in law. These women knew the value and the love and the touch that went into the sending of greeting cards. These Hallmark moms never missed a holiday for their offspring and grand offspring. Our family birthday greeting card barrages began in earnest in April with my older son’s birthday, followed six days later by mine. Those cards came down at Mother’s Day and then husband’s birthday at end of May followed close behind. We took that set down in June after the Father’s Day cards arrived. Yes, they always were Dad cards and no, I never bought a to whom it may concern card for him, much as I may have liked to at times.

We took the summer off with a bare string hanging for July, August and September. The string, like our home, came to life again in October for the birthday of our younger son. Those cards we admired until the few Hallmark Moms’ Thanksgiving cards arrived followed by the biggest card windfall of all, Christmas!! The string was filled all through December and some of January and as was our home with joy for many years back then.

This year my string was not very filled. My older son turned 21 so there are a few for him hanging but my birthday left a little to be desired. No more daughter-in-law-card of course because I am no longer one. No daughter card because it would have to come from across the grave. I did receive two very special ones from my two dear friends and for that I thank them. I loved my friend Sandi’s card about us being ‘twins’ and musical soul sisters as she said we are. My friend Patty’s card touched my heart because it was not a birthday card but rather a thank you card for my energy and my event planning.   I hate the fact that Facebook has robbed Hallmark of their card business. I looked at my string and wondered how it would look if the 126 people who posted a happy birthday comment on my page would have sent a card. I know, in this day and age, we are all too busy to take the time to read and write and ponder a sentiment. But busy doing what is the real question, I suspect.

The birthday cake- the one we did not let them eat this year. I didn’t do one for me despite my superstition that everyone in our family HAD to have a cake ON the actual date of their birthday regardless of what else was being done, party wise. I didn’t do it this year. Too busy I guess doing who knows what. I spent the day wandering about. No dinner out. Even my business partner in town for a paint job apologized for ignoring my birthday. My brother in law who is the biggest part of the family apologized two days later for forgetting it altogether as his phone lost its birthday calendar.   Are you enjoying my birthday pity party yet? I wandered down for an hour to Ports of Call Restaurant to see my favorite musicians play.   Even the staff at that restaurant failed to bring out the cupcake that the California Cupcake (Renee, the singer’s nickname) ordered so they could sing to me at the end of the night. But sing they did anyway and it was so appreciated of course. It’s hilarious this lack of birthday this year. Now don’t get me wrong, I was never one to celebrate my birthdays much at all but the firsts of everything in the grief process are the worsts and the irony is not lost in this worst of my first divorced birthdays. I did end the evening though with my Curb Crew, where the Larry David fans converge once a week. That always cheers me up!!

Unfortunately, though, my cake superstition may have something to it. I awoke the day after my birthday with the worst unexplained vertigo. So what do I do now? Should I bake a cake today to ward off the evil cakeless spirits? Will that count if it’s like three days after my birthday? I don’t know. But I did mention this all to my sister when I went to New York a few days later. She had the waiter at Captains Pizzeria in the Bronx bring me out a lovely tiramisu with a candle in it and she and my two friends and the rest of the restaurant lunch crowd actually sang Happy Birthday again! I hope this cake counts!! New things must replace the old and the eternal optimist in me thinks it will be just fine anyway.   I love my kids and my friends and I do appreciate the time all those people took to write me a Facebook birthday post. I just wish I could hang them on my string.

I’ve Been Overthinking

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Whether you laugh or not at this is of no consequence so that takes the pressure off both of us. My friend and hairdresser, Debbie, put a bug in my ear a month ago that because people around her at the house concert I threw last month were laughing so hard as I was barking orders from the stage that I should give stand up a try. Not much of a stretch, I know. I thought about it, but I am not really a ‘stand up’. All I do is tell stories of my crazy life. Stand up requires timing and practice and more practice and that is just not me. I will hardly even edit this piece if I can get away with it.   The idea, though, did intrigue me. Her show with her partner, Patti O, in this little art gallery in San Pedro was on the night of my 61st birthday. Why not, I thought, it could be fun. So we agreed I would just come out during their break and tell a story or two.   I changed my mind since that conversation. I was in her chair the day before my birthday. I told her I just didn’t think I could do it.   The disappointment was clear, especially since she told me she told most of the 50 people who were coming about me. What, I said, you didn’t!! I figured if I went, there would be like maybe 20 people in the audience. So I said I would at least think about it. And as it turns out both Maria Shriver and I apparently have been thinking.

Patty, one of my dearest and longest California friends, asked me at the last moment if I would go see some panel that Maria Shriver was putting on along with these two other folks, Tracy Gordon and John Kornfeld, on compassion. Compassion? Really? No thanks.   Way too much work.   As Patty has been my rock in taking so many tickets to events at the last minute for me, I really could not refuse her. The tickets were 20 bucks and at the Saban Theater in Beverly Hills and up to $100 if you bought Maria’s book. So I said yes, but was going to see if we can get in for free. How, you don’t ask? Well a few years back when I had to weigh kids for football in the program out in Agoura Hills, the owner of the Canyon Club, Saban and now the Rose Theater in Pasadena was the head coach of one of the teams. He let me use the Canyon Club on a Sunday morning to weigh over a hundred kids to see if they were not too fat to play football. I get there and the whole place is carpeted. You can’t use a scale properly on carpet so he set me up in the foyer of the ladies’ restroom where there was tile. Fun times. Then he got irritated with me cause some of his kids, including his own son, were too fat to pass that day. These are the kinds of connections I treasure. Ever since then, all I need to do is call the current president of that football organization and he calls the guy and gets me put on the guest list for shows for free. Oddly enough, I never went to the first two that I asked for, but yesterday I asked for the Maria Shriver thing and I got the green light anyway. We knew people weren’t beating down the door to get in, as there were tons of tickets left that afternoon. I got a text from the president, telling me my name is at the door and if anyone asks, Mr. G ( I’ll leave his name out in case I need to use him again and in case some of you out there are tempted to try this yourselves) put you on the list. Ok, I’ll go then if it’s free.

We get there and of course the lady at the table has no idea who I am, no name on the list that matches mine. I tell her, well that’s too bad, Mr. G said we can come in and you have to let us or he will get really mad at you. She got that look in her eye that people usually get when I ask for something, I better say yes so she goes away. I have no problem with this at all. Ok she says and she writes my name down on some list that pretty much means nothing. She doesn’t give us a wrist band though as those were for the VIPs  who shelled out a $100 bucks to be here and buy a $20 book when they could have bought the general admission ticket for $20 bucks and the book for another $20 being sold at like 15 tables in the lobby.

Patty wants to sit right up front, but there’s a kindly older lady with a rope across the first five rows for the VIPs. Where is your wristband to sit down here, she says. We don’t have one because Mr. G put us on the VIP list (no idea actually) but the event screwed up and didn’t have our names, so we had to write our names on the list and if you are a VIP that had to write your name rather than finding your name on the list of VIPs like should have happened had the staff done what Mr. G told them to and put our name on the list then we would have had a bracelet, so I guess we just sit here without one, right? Same look. Speechless, she pushed aside the velvet rope and we got a nice seat on the aisle in the third row.

The theater was absolutely gorgeous in that Rocco style, as my friend called it. I didn’t have the heart to point out it wasn’t done in the style of some Italian guy from Brooklyn. We got some wine and popcorn and settled in.   I have always liked Maria Shriver, as a huge Kennedy fan, she is most likely my favorite of the offspring and the living Kennedys.  The other two folks she had with on her panel I never heard of and was pretty sure they would annoy me. First was this great plastic surgeried woman named Tracy Gordon who is so into relaxing that there are embalmers jealous of her. The man on the panel was another meditation guru named John Kornfield. I just kept wanting to put a straw hat and some suspenders on him and stick him in a real corn field. Maria wrote this book apparently called, “I’ve Been Thinking”.   Sure, I do this all day long and am constantly told to stop. Maybe I’ll call my book, I’ve Been Overthinking.   We are in Beverly Hills and the audience is filled with mostly women with a lot of time on their hands to be compassionate, a few sleeping husbands who I am sure are here under a court order and a couple of gay guys behind me.

Well it starts off with the usual mumbo jumbo of turn off your electronics and you can be happy except if we did, Ms. Shriver as a TV journalist wouldn’t be able to sell too many books anymore. People that tell me the key to life is relaxing just make me nervous as  hell.   Relaxing as far as I’m concerned is for when you are dead. I hate relaxing.   That’s all they wanted to talk about, that and gratitude.  I believe in gratitude and expressing it at the moment you are grateful for something. But having to sit there and come up with something every damn morning that you are grateful for is so nerve wracking, which explains the need for all that relaxing they followed it up with. Well talking about relaxing and liking people wasn’t enough apparently.   Tracy, who I am pretty sure now her name is really Trudy, but I am too darn tired to look it up, is now going to lead us in one of her love and something exercises to Nirvana or some such thing. We had to close our eyes. That part was good cause I was already falling asleep. Then after a few more minutes of relaxing we had to do this love or something thing where we had to look at the person next to us and say something like “ you are so damn wonderful in your being and thank you for existing’ or some such thing. I looked at my friend Patty and whispered “don’t you dare.” What the heck? Are we in the Catholic Church again where we had to shake random strangers’ hands that you had no idea where they had been and yell “peace be with you”. I am not doing that. Next thing I know, these three perfectly coiffed women turned around in unison and say “ You are wonderful in your being and I appreciate you” All three at the same time like some demented Greek chorus. No, I’m not, I say. Really, I’m not. I’m bad. Turn around. You have no idea. After the shock wears off, it’s all I could do to not burst out laughing. Which by the way it was then revealed by Ms. Gordon that the Dalai Lama laughs a lot and ‘ drum roll here”, it’s really good for you to laugh. Well then she did her job as far as I’m concerned cause I really can’t stop at this point. Imagine that! Joy and happiness being good for you!! And for this people have shelled out $20 bucks to hear it. I am so in the wrong business.

Now it was Maria’s turn. I love all things Maria: Westside Story I just met a girl Maria, Sound of Music Maria. In fact, Maria is my Confirmation name. If you are not Catholic please look it up or this will get too long. Anyway, her big thing in her book is, another drum roll please, the PAUSE. Yes folks, in a room full of women who are doing nothing but pausing- meno, pre and post- she’s telling us to do more pausing. What the hell for?   But pausing isn’t enough. The key to life apparently is also doing a lot of yippee moments. I guess the old Oprah Ah-ha ones weren’t good enough. Really, Maria Shriver, a Kennedy, more money than God, TV job most would kill for, maids, mansions, needs to search for something to yell yippee about every day? And yes there was of course the requisite veiled reference to the Terminator’s termination from her life because of his dalliance with the maid was it? I would have divorced him just because he’s annoying.

Well back to Mr. Kornfield and his lecture on how you can wear sackcloth and ashes but make sure you have a little fun doing it. Not too much though. That’s right. He explained carefully how when you volunteer or do things philanthropically make sure you incorporate a bit of fun into it.   Why I am not giving lectures on having fun, I’ll never know.   At this point I needed alcohol,  but how to get out and get it.   Patty is also bugging me now to find an exit strategy. We waited and watched and then a couple across the aisle got up and there was our chance. We followed them out as if they were mom and pop and we kids had to go along with them. The duck and cover up the long aisle to the exit.

While it was funny at points, I also have to be a little serious now because I did take away something from this panel nonetheless. One of the things Maria talked about is surrounding yourself with people in your life who lift you up, who truly want to be with you and who you want to be with. And shed those relationships that don’t provide this. I think many of us fall into the trap of not wanting to be part of any club that will have us or chase the relationships we know are not really good for us, whether they are romantic or platonic. We got a wonderful example of this from the other two panel members. Ms. Gordon and Mr. Kornfield were actually now husband and wife and I loved the story they told of how that came to be in terms of this. They knew each other as colleagues for over 40 years. They both had gone through some very painful divorces. He sought her out after that as someone whom he wanted to spend more time with as she added that uplift to his life and through this time of closer friendship they fell in love and got married.   In these days of instantaneous swiping left, right and off center, what a wonderful way to find true love. All in all, I am glad I went to this. You never know where you’ll pick up a bit of wisdom along with some laughter. And yes we did go and have the most delicious prosciutto and arugula flatbreads I have ever tasted along with Prosecco at a place called Flats next door. We shouted ‘yippee’ through the entire meal!! To circle back, I never did go and do my story telling at my friend’s show the next night, but there’s always next time perhaps. One never knows where the winds of chance will take us.

 

March 28… Adult Swim

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A thousand words before I sleep. That’s the plan to keep this writerly muscle exercised, as my flipping fascist foot is not allowing any other type of exercise these days. I refuse to take one sixth of me to Italy this summer. I just am not but without the requisite daily movement in the way of a walk each morning, it is so difficult to lose it. Until such time as this heel pain heals, I am now going to give a daily adult swim a shot at the local YMCA. I hate public pools or any public water for that matter. My entire swimming career has been spent in my friend’s pool next door.   But since I cannot walk, Zumba, hop, skip or jump right now, the Y is the only wet game in town. First though, I had to find one of those cute swim caps so my very expensive dyed hair doesn’t turn a lovely shade of Trump-orange. I stopped just short of the pink, yellow and orange flowered one.   It is a public pool after all.

What I do to get from one end of this very long pool to the other can only loosely be called swimming. I never learned how to properly nor do I want to, frankly. I move my arms and legs in some fashion that seems to propel me just fine from end to end. I don’t understand the concept of putting your face in the water when you are swimming on top of the water. That to me is then just the same as diving way down into the water. I never took swim lessons. My mother barely let us near the water as kids, and I managed to do the same to my kids. We are just not ocean people. A pool where you can get out when you want irrespective of any moon-tide relationship and no sharks is good enough for this type of swimming. My kids never wanted swim lessons. Self taught they are in said pool next door. I have to remind them of their lack of formal training whenever they tell me they are going to the beach. Don’t go in the water, I caution, you really can’t swim. Never took a lesson, remember.   Not a clue if they listen when they actually get there.

The other time consuming thing about public pools I now need to address on a daily basis is things floating in the pool that don’t belong there. Now it is more likely that young children make these deposits rather than the two old gentlemen and water Zumba gold crowd I encounter each day, but still the thought crosses my mind.   I don’t like to go late in the day. I prefer very first thing in the morning so as to reduce the chances of pool pee accidents by my pool peers.   But I will persevere damn it! No other way to exercise for now.   This morning was interesting. As I was flailing from one end of the pool to the other some fire alarm sounding thing went off. I looked at the guy next to me and figured we don’t need to go anywhere. Best place to be in case of a fire, right? He agreed. Off I doggie paddled to contemplate how bad this chlorine is going to be for me on a daily basis.

I am also so not a ‘gym’ person. All my exercise was done at home. The first day I bring my towel, car key and hit the locker room only to stare at the locker for a few minutes and wonder what the odds are of me putting my stuff in here with no lock and someone coming along to try and use the very same locker. I figure 50-50. Ok I know there aren’t only two lockers in there but I still calculated it as very high.  So I just took my towel and sweatshirt and pants and threw them all on the bleacher bench near the pool and hoped the nice lifeguard wouldn’t yell at me for making a mess or  leaving my flip flops right near the edge of the pool.  I can’t stand walking barefoot and I could only imagine what kind of foot disease you could get from walking around a public pool.   So that’s what I was doing with my clothes and then today I notice all these nice hooks at the other end of the pool and that people hung their bags on them. That was interesting. I could pack my stuff in a bag, carry it in, put my clothes in it while I swim. Then take them out and then and then… I was exhausted just thinking about it, so no bag. I’ll just keep throwing my clothes and keys on the bleacher and hope no one trips over the flip flops.

It’s quiet. I hate the sound of quiet. I know most people love it; so relaxing, so peaceful, so dead. Sons are gone up north to visit their father and even the dog has gone with them. The two Japanese students must live on a farm in Tokoyama cause I have never seen kids go to bed that early.  I get jetlag but wow. They barely make it through dinner at 6, then a shower then in bed by 7. It’s a great hosting job. So the house is completely silent right now.   I suppose there are those that enjoy this. Not me. It is spooky. That’s what it is. You don’t hear the sounds of a creaking floor or the refrigerator hum or the house breathe when it is filled with talking. It’s like a constant pulsating effect all around you. I don’t like it much. Perhaps because it is so foreign to me as I have not lived alone, well ever really. I see no point in starting now, especially with a flipping fascist foot that will render me incapable of fending off any monsters under the bed or in the closet.

The oddest thing about this week is not having a soul to tell my comings and goings to. Even if it was just the dog at home, I would tell him to behave that I was going out for a while.   I find myself thinking I have to get back soon so I can- then stop myself and realize I don’t have to get back to do anything for anyone actually. Nor do I have to tell anyone where I am going. But then what happens if I don’t return. There is no one with ground zero information for where to start looking.   See this is what happens when it’s this quiet. The mind wanders and you go creeping quietly behind it on tiptoe with a flashlight and a prayer.   No, give me noise or give me death. Pretty much how it will end up.   My sons will come home and five minutes later I will be looking for this quiet. I don’t really want to find it but look for it I will again am sure.   Well that was 1187 words, so I suppose it is time for sleep as long as the quiet doesn’t keep me awake.  It has been known to happen.  When I moved to California from the Bronx, I drove cross country with a friend of mine.   One night we had to stop in a motel in some town outside Lincoln Nebraska because of a big basketball game or something that made it impossible to get a hotel room in the city.   It was late at night, the innkeeper answered the door in a robe and curlers and gave us a room.   It was the quietest I had ever heard in my life and it scared me silly.  I made my friend push the dresser in front of the door as I was sure we could be killed in the middle of the night in this quiet and out in the middle of nowhere.   The Bronx with the sirens going all night was no problem of course to sleep through.  And sleep now I must and to all a good night.

March 26…..Shin and Hiro Here

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Amidst the backdrop or rather backyard filled with 60 odd baby boomers still rockin’ it, came my two new Japanese students, Shin and Hiro. Not a clue what the real names are, I understand even less Japanese after doing this last Christmas. They are cute kids, 11 and 12 and these two are friends from Tokoyama. This is my second foray into the international student host arena. Lucky for them I only do the short, one week stints. The plan was for my brother-in-law to pick them up and sneak them in the front of the house so they would not be alarmed to find scores of people out back drinking, dancing, and dining. I explained to the head of the host company that I was hosting a house concert and therefore perhaps I shouldn’t host the students this time as they would be arriving just about the time the first note was struck. She had a host of reasons why I should have them anyway!! Such immersion in the American culture, she says, what a great experience for them! Yes, because all American backyards turn their porch into a stage, replete with dandy new burgundy curtain and invite some 60, fifty and sixty somethings to a paid show in their yard.   I acquiesced, especially since the money is so good. What, you think all the host families do it for altruistic reasons? Of course we do, but paramount is that potential extra income earning bedroom that is collecting dust.

So in they came and Uncle went out and got them some of the pasta and meatballs we served and got them fed and squared away. Japanese jetlag had them bleary eyed by 7pm. They showered and said good night and off to bed they went. Sometime after the party around 10pm or so, I saw the light still on and knocked to check on them as I hadn’t been able to really spend time with them. Lo and behold, there is Shin on his twin bed under the covers snug as the proverbial bug, when who do you suppose is lying next to him with about an inch before he crashes to the ground with a thud? That’s right the Hiro of our story. I eyed his suitcase sprawled open on the other twin bed where he was supposed to be sleeping and with lots of what I believe are fine Japanese hand waving translations, I asked, “What the heck are doing sleeping there?” Get over on your own bed! Now with even more limited English potential than my previous charge, he starts waving his hands about to let me know that Uncle told him to open his suitcases on the bed and so that is what he did, literally. Open the suitcases and left them on the bed filled with clothes, and hence no room for him to sleep!! SLAP, that’s the sound of my hand against my forehead. Take the suitcase off the bed and you get in the bed. That’s how it works here in America.

This morning was my first attempt at taking them to the new English class location this company is using this time. I missed it like three times, but first breakfast. My last guests in December wanted nothing but a couple of waffles, a banana and some water all week. I tried offering eggs, pancakes, cereal, yogurt, steak, you name it for breakfast, but nothing doing. Could syrupy lightening strike twice? Could I be so lucky as to get two more Japanese boys whose eyes positively bulge at the sight of an EGGO box? I was going to find out the first morning that’s for sure. How about some waffles, boys? BINGO!! They wanted nothing else. What is it about Japanese boys and waffles? Don’t know, but what an easy breakfast week this will be. Now on to dinner. They had pasta the night before, so I threw a pot of meatballs in the crock and thought well I’ll make them some rice. Might as well make them feel a bit at home along with some broccoli, more to assuage my conscience that I was feeding them healthy food. I offered them a meatball sandwich, which they loved but then when given the choice of the white rice I made or the pasta, they opted to go Italian again!! I love these boys, especially since there is like a mountain of pasta left from the house concert/birthday party the night before.   They ate and then gave me the gifts they brought me which I was too busy and impolite to stop and receive last night due to the aforementioned sixty odd people in my backyard. I love getting these things. So imaginative really. I got four, not one, but four sushi key chains. No, you can’t eat them actually. I got a stack of handkerchiefs of various sizes, origami and Ninja stationary which has to be my favorite of the lot. There are scads of Kabuki masks. Painted wet stuff you stick on your face. Not sure I am brave enough for that. But the best gift of all was from Shi: a small photo album with pictures in it of his life with his family, friends, events and parades and the things he does. That was as sweet as it gets.

This is my second time doing this. I am fascinated by the fact that in any group of two kids, they will not be alike. Last time, one boy made his bed every day, the other didn’t the entire time he was here. One boy was an eater, the other more slight and more picky. And with these two new ones, the theory holds true. One boy was more adventurous and ate twice the amount of the other one, the slighter one less so. One had his bed nicely made this morning, the other a valiant attempt. It reminds that we shouldn’t use a cookie cutter approach to our own children. They are unique and different and we should not expect perhaps the same sensibilities or the same approach to how they will tackle life. We need to not compare or despair but rather let them find the way to their very own best self.   Does it matter in the grand scheme of things if one of these Japanese kids makes his bed and the other doesn’t ? No, they are both still just as nice and polite. Making a bed is only something to judge an outward appearance by, not a litmus test of the fabric inside. It’s a lesson I need right now with my own two sons, who are very different and will always approach life in their own fashion. I may have more of an affinity with one type of approach than the other, but I also need to learn that there is NO one approach to life. Only judgmental, narrow minded people who allow nothing in think like that. I’m sure before the week is out we’ll have some more adventures in Japanese-American hand waving and I just hope they enjoy their stay with us as much as we enjoy opening our homes and our crazy to them.