Classic Clip: Don Music Rewrites Mary Had a Little Lamb

This is from the early 1970s. I love how Don Music bangs his head on the piano whenever he hits a songwriting speedbump. "Oh, I'll never get it, never, Oh!!! [BANG]!" And the interaction with a reasonable Kermit and the easily frustrated Don Music is one that I think many a composer could relate to.

Going Postal

I'm standing in line at my local post office. I know all the clerks and managers, even though I rarely come in here. A portly white guy in shorts and sandals with socks is speaking, very agitatedly, with one of the clerks. His loud voice is the only one heard in the small space.

"I am trying to find out what has happened to this package. I used to work for the post office. According to YOUR TRACKING CODE, this package NEVER LEFT THIS BUILDING. It was supposed to go to Anchorage, Alaska. But my friend in Alaska went TODAY to her post office box to retrieve this package and THIS IS THE INFORMATION SHE RECEIVED. I WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE U.S. POSTAL SERVICE HAS DONE WITH THIS PACKAGE."

The clerk responds, quietly, examining the sheet of paper the man has been waving.

"I WANT YOU TO CHECK YOUR WAREHOUSE. I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOUR MANAGER." He's nearly apoplectic.

Finally, the manager comes over. She's a woman with a mellifluous voice who always wishes customers "a blessed day." The clerk tries explaining: "She says the package did not leave but we show the package went to Alaska."

"I AM NOT A SHE. I AM A HE. I AM SO SICK OF DEALING WITH U.S. GOVERNMENT EMPLOYEES WHO CANNOT EVEN SPEAK THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE."

"Sir, can you step over to this window while I go look for your package?" asks the manager. He does so and she disappears through a passageway.

He pulls out his cellphone, dials and pauses until it connects.

"Hey. Yeah, I'm here at the post office," he says, at the same volume he'd been using before. "Yeah, it's so frustrating. I can't believe how INCOMPETENT these people are. Yes, I told them I used to work for the U.S. postal service." He pauses, looks through the window, and sighs loudly. "I know, I know. All I am trying to do is figure out WHAT HAPPENED TO MY FUCKING CHEESECAKE."

The Man of the Future

I pulled into the Emeryville marina at 9 AM this morning after a late night spent gigging and visiting Denny's locations. Last year I trained with an informal, free running team led by a fleet-footed woman named Claire, and I was thrilled when this year's training email came around. We're working toward the Kaiser half-marathon in February, followed by the new Oakland marathon in March! I really didn't want to miss the first group run, and it turns out my brain wouldn't let me -- I couldn't oversleep, even though I tried.

I took the run at a very easy 9:30 to 10-minute-per-mile pace, and aimed for a modest five miles even though I could have done my usual overkill and gone for the max distance, which was eight. On the way out I had an enjoyable talk with a woman who was training along with Claire's husband for a marathon, doing her last 22-mile run. I had poked fun at all the water and nutrition Matt was carrying for a five-mile run before I realized that they were actually planning on running for three-plus hours.

With marine air and clear skies on our left, and freeway noise on our right, we rolled along, happily chatting. Somehow the conversation turned to me sharing observations from a personality test that I recently took. "I just took a personality test too!" the woman chirped. We seemed to have a similar predilection for setting goals but then letting the path to those goals unfold intuitively. I said that works out well, if slowly, but the downside is I often get stressed out when a little more planning/discipline and less intuition could facilitate those goals.

I reached my turnaround and started running with a guy I had met last year who is quite fast -- a seven-minute-miler. But he seemed happy to go my pace, and in fact said he'd suffered an injury at the amazing Angel Island 10-mile trail run in January, (which I blogged about), and that that injury had plagued him ever since. So his goal now is simply to take it easy.

He began to tell me about his wife, a radiant woman who has left her previous job as a cartographer and made a new career choice to become a physical therapist, a profession I'd say is ideal for her disposition. I thought it was wonderful to hear about a successful life transition like that and he shared interesting details about her physical therapy studies, such as the fact that certain of their necessary stress tests can actually be harmful to the joints in question.

I observed that she seemed well suited to be a PT. He said that motivating patients to do the painful work of restoring their bodies' mechanics, especially with diminishing healthcare dollars and a widespread pill-popping mentality, makes the PT's job harder than the drug-dispensing nurse's when dealing with, say, a hip-replacement patient. He said she was also interested in geriatric care, and we began talking about youth and age.

That reminded me of a recent public TV special I saw, a talk by a gerontologist named Ken Dychtwald. In it, he told a story about meeting an older man who had just begun working with a personal trainer. The trainer urged him to talk to his inspiring client. "Why did you start training?" Dychtwald asked the man, who looked about 75. "I was getting stiff, and not feeling as energetic as I used to," the man said. They discussed his training and positive results. "When did you start working out?" Dychtwald asked. "Two years ago," the man said, "when I turned 100."

"I felt like I was looking at the man of the future," the author said in his TV special.

My running partner agreed it was a compelling story. Dychtwald's whole premise is that as human longevity increases, the way we have lived our lives in sharply defined phases, ending with retirement, no longer makes sense. We think of the young as being in their prime, "but actually we're young for such a short period of our lives," my companion wisely said -- and he's much younger than I am.

As we loped into the parking lot and reunited with our motley teammates and perky coach, I realized how effortless the five miles had been, despite the lack of sleep. I hopped in my truck and drove happily through the bright fall sunlight back home.

I always feel so good after running. I wanted to write this because a powerful sensation enveloped me later today, a sensation that, step by step, footfall by footfall, we are becoming more like that man of the future. If I am lucky I will be that spunky centenarian.

I keep making mistakes, tripping, falling, yelling, cursing, sinning, and wasting my precious time. But after last night's gig and this morning's run, I want to remember that the road is long. I know that I can take a step every day that turns me into the person I want to be. And whenever I screw up, I need to go for a run.

Late-Night Adventures of Fast-Food Musicians

I gigged last night with the salsa band, enjoying the sensation of being part of a well-oiled machine, thanks to recent vocal rehearsals and gigs. I floated along on a rollercoaster of emotions, doing my job as best I could while dealing with the sundry band and fan dramas that unfolded around me. The sound, unfortunately for the struggling singers, was capriciously run by a corpulent curmudgeon (when we asked for more in the monitors he grumbled and wondered why we couldn't sing louder, then actually turned us down). My best ass-kissing diplomacy had little effect. "It really sounded great the way you had it," I desperately lied. "Could you put it back to how you had it?" "Stop complaining -- you're making it worse!" someone hissed at me -- someone who'd asked me to smile at and talk to the sound man. Afterwards I thanked the man for the great sound, of course.

Dancing was fun, especially with two partners for a few songs (they would switch off partnering with me back and forth, like double-dutch jump rope -- what a blast!). After the show I had planned to jump in the car and race home to get as much sleep as possible before this morning's first run with my Oakland marathon training group. However, the timbalero, a sweet guy who is blind, asked me to give him a ride to Denny's, so that plan went out the window.

On the way, I picked his brain about how he learns tunes by ear. He shared some very interesting insights. You can easily burn yourself out listening to tunes over and over to learn them, he said, and then you stop hearing them. He said he learns a tune in about four listens.

First, he just lets it play, making no effort or commentary. The second time, he listens carefully to ALL the parts, the lyrics, the melody and the form, making mental notes. At this point (or maybe after one more listen -- I can't remember), he leaves it to get a coffee, run errands, whatever. When he comes back to it later or the next day, he focuses on sections of the form, maybe just playing the parts of the song he feels he doesn't know yet. He said he can learn a new tune in 24 hours, and can learn a band's entire book in a week.

Further, many salsa tunes are very similar, so once you know the form, he said, you're most of the way there -- the breaks may be different, among other things. This is similar advice to that in an Aebersold book I once bought on learning tunes, which classified jazz standards according to many criteria into a mental database of related songs. Great stuff that I will put to use!

We pulled into Emeryville Denny's only to discover that it was closed. "Where is a 24-hour restaurant in Oakland?" I asked the security guard. "I have to leave my friend to wait for someone, and I can't just leave him in the cold!" He directed me to the Denny's near the Oakland airport, off Hegenberger. Traffic on 880 was slow due to construction. At 3 am we finally pulled into Hegenberger Denny's. "Damn, these people are scary," I said, pulling into the only available parking space, which faced a gang of white, black and brown guys with low-hanging pants and aggressive body language. Their heads were mostly obscured by the cloud of smoke they were sharing. If you were casting a prison movie, these guys would have been a windfall.

"Don't worry, I have a blade," my resourceful percussionist said. Hmmm. In the pros column, we had the fact that my friend is a big guy, he's Puerto Rican, and he's got a switchblade. In the cons, he's blind. Worse than that, he's a musician, a breed not generally known for its fighting capabilities. "Well, there's no where else to park. Guess we'll make a run for it," I joked, wondering how I would make it back to my car alone.

We went inside just as a gargantuan woman blasted through the doors, having a tantrum about her cell phone. At this point I was hungry -- and not too proud to hit up my companion for a $3.99 meal. We waited for his friend to arrive. I looked around, then said in Spanish, "This is about the worst-looking crowd I've ever seen inside a Denny's." I don't know if it was because I was blurry-eyed and wondering how I was going to wake up in a couple of hours for a long run, but glancing around the restaurant revealed patrons who looked like they were from that famous Star Wars alien bar scene. Yep. Pretty much The People of Walmart (hey, I shop there too).

His friend arrived from his own far-off gig. We wolfed down the usual fare -- burgers, pancakes, fried eggs, french fries, bacon (though I asked for sausage) and had fun chatting in Spanglish about gigs, love and exercise. I checked my watch. We were homing in on 4 AM, so I excused myself. "Can you walk her out to her car?" the timbalero asked. The gentlemanly behavior touched me. It wasn't in vain. Exiting the doors, we nearly collided with a hometown version of Marlon Wayans in Scary Movie 2. He managed to take up the entire walk way while standing, immobile, again in a cloud of his own smoke. "Hablando del diablo," I laughed, as we parted around him like water around a boulder. My car faced more smoke-filled, angry-looking-men-with-scary-hair-filled cars. "Did you want a ride back to the door?" I joked.

I managed to be in bed by 4 AM. I woke at 8, and met my friends for a gorgeous run from the Emeryville Marina at 9. To be continued...

Yummy Cinnamon Roll Recipe

I made these cinnamon rolls last weekend for breakfast. The recipe was in the Oakland Tribune, adapted from a Sherwood Forest Bread and Breakfast recipe found in the new cookbook, "Cinnamon Mornings and Savory Nights: Romantic Recipes from America's Inns" by Pamela Lanier. They turned out great! I should have snapped a picture 10 minutes later, when this plate was empty.

Hit Songs I Have Neglected to Write

Going through my files of unfinished songs and ideas, I came across some titles that, simply put, would be platinum hits if only I would complete them. Wanna whiff of my genius? Here you go:

1. Cerveza, Meado del Diablo (this could be a major hit in Mexico)
2. What You Call Beer I Call the Devil's Piss (crossover hit for U.S. market)
3. You're a Dipshit, Joe Lieberman
   
4. I Had a Very Shitty Christmas This Year (don't worry, it's from a while ago)
5. Lover's Logorrhea (over an Ivan Lins-style melody)
   
6. Mi Venganza Telefonica/My Telephonic Revenge (just has a ring to it, no?)
7. Mommy's Not a Happy Camper
8. Rejected, Dejected and Infected (R&B)
   
9. Something Is Pounding In My Head (techno)
   
10. What's In Your Diaper? (actually, I finished that one, and it was a hit on YouTube. My brother said he sings it when he changes his son's diaper.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uOISZzCwMIs

Our 2009 Halloween Costumes: Elvis and Lobito

Here are my boys' costumes! I am so proud of them. Though I must say this year Halloween was a big deal everywhere. Throngs of kids came to my door, and they were all dressed up well! My boy's school mates were really creative, and there were lots of homemade costumes. A lot of Michael Jacksons, too. My three-year-old really enjoyed the whole thing, although it was a struggle explaining every night of October why it wasn't Halloween yet! I hope next year my older son and I can make it out to the haunted house in Fremont -- we were going to go, then unexpectedly found ourselves without any coin!







Elvis turned out not so hard. I took a white tuxedo jacket that my sister-in-law bought for him at her wedding. I ironed on a few bejeweled transfers, and sewed on silver mardi gras beads. I hot glued mardi gras beads to an old pair of my sunglasses, and sewed more of them to the sides of his pants. We sprayed his hair black and I painted on a forehead curl and mutton chop sideburns. Done!

The werewolf costume was a lot easier. I made that a few years ago for my older son, so it was just a matter of finding it in the basement and painting his face. I looked online for some werewolf makeup inspiration, and think it turned out well. Of course, by the time his older brother's school parade came around he was hot and tired of the costume, so that was short lived.

My own costume was the casualty in all of this. Next year I'll try to think of something in advance. There are actually some lucrative costume competitions out there. One parent at my son's school won $400 for his incredible replica of a Manhattan bathroom (it consists of a tiled box that he wears, and it has all the amenities). However, I was called last-minute to support a friend on a gig by singing a few songs for her, so I had to abandon my plan of going as a victim of bad plastic surgery -- puffy lips, mismatched boobs and all!

Twenty Things I Miss About Corporate America

I am sitting in a conference keynote for a freelance writing assignment, and had to take a bio break. That got me thinking about the contrasts between this world and that of night clubs and salsa gigs. So, instead of listening to this panel discussion about how social networking and Enterprise 2.0 are affecting companies today, I wrote this list.

Twenty Things I Miss About Corporate America

1. Sparklingly clean restrooms
2. Free coffee and donuts
3. Limitless supply of pens
4. Butt photocopying
   
5. Expense accounts
   
6. Fancy restaurants and no haggling over the bill
   
7. New computers
8. Expensive shoes
9. Nice hotels with comfy beds
   
10. Frequent flyer miles
11. Health care
    
12. Button-down shirts
13. Infrequent swearing; no shouting
    
14. Infrequent drunkenness
    
15. Blazers
16. Cubicle banter
17. People with large vocabularies
18. T1 Internet connections
19. Paychecks on the 15th and the 30th
    
20. Being middle class