somepinkflowers

over on the island

Over on the island things have been hopping for days & days.

Chilly waves to jump, busy beaches to walk, lonesome shells to rescue.

And that was only during the day*time...

At night the island was swinging Big Time with

• The Moody Blues
• Bill Clinton
• Tony Bennett
• Lyle Lovett
• John Hiatt

I know you are thinking:  I did not know President Clinton had a band!

But, no, Clinton spoke of global issues such as how the current trend toward expansion is not sustainable & how we All can make a difference. He spoke on Civil Rights, literacy, water issues in China and other concerns facing our spinning planet.

He spoke with a voice strong & true.

Do not get me wrong.

President Clinton & I have not always seen eye-to-eye on Certain Things but maybe age has mellowed us both, as it is apt to do. There is no denying his accomplishments. There is no pushing aside his infectious optimism.

So much dreaming in the sun & so much dancing to the music for one Spring Break. Remembering the past, planning for the future.

Needing another break, I bought these fine little roses & headed on home.

Always, always it is about Time & Natural Forces.

 

why i love my st augustine amphitheatre

• Well~known artist play their hearts out here, they are so happy!
• Venue under the stars could not B better. {{photo taken from cheapest seat!}}
• Yummy food like locally made crab~cakes with rich remoulade sauce.
• Volunteers, like moi, smile & help out graciously...Wellll, we do.

tourist tuesday and a stroll in essaouira, morocco

You know I would take you everywhere I go if only I could.

Especially I would take you to the seaside towns.

Sights are strange yet oddly reminiscent
as there are universal truths found in every seaside town I have ever visited.

Bikes gently resting against a tree or wall...

A gallery that lures you in to shop...

A lush and secret garden...

A sign impossible to read...

A sign that look rather familiar...

Every where people are selling fabric and spices as the ocean is the Commerce Highway International.

Lovely things desired.

The ubiqitous bike posed at the ready;
the ever-present kitten longing to pounce.

Colors that smooth & sooth the heart.

I travel to remind myself I am only one small being in the big wide world.

I travel to learn appreciation of differences.

I try to remember to look up.

Palm trees vary only slightly around the world.
They all speak the same language of tropical swaying.
Each dreams of a moonlit night.

People at work are the same.
Getting things done whilst I meander about taking their photo.

I wonder what they think when they see me?

""Here comes another crazy American girl who is snap~happy with her camera.""

In almost every seaside town I find a bar that plays his music.

In Venice, Barcelona, Miami there he is...

A certain rhythmic beat rides the ocean waves to shore and will not be stopped.

Pacific, Atlantic, Mediterranean, Adriatic.
Not one sea seems to wear Marley*immunity.

Maybe the music floats in on seaweed.
I have no idea.

Sights are strange yet oddly reminiscent
as there are universal truths found in every seaside town I have ever visited.

Lazy bikes leaning, a reggae beat waffling up and out of side alley and always, always a gull standing guard nearby.

While most travel stirs me up, a seaside towns whispers home.

angel wings, peter frampton and me

Sometimes I have it in me the power to see things no longer there.

Well, maybe you have it to.

At the concert last Friday night there on the stage was the teen idol all grown up into the older man one sometimes stands behind in the market.

You know the one.
Thin and wiry with cropped white hair, although some of it seems to have gone missing.

You stand there in the checkout line and look at his food on the counter then up into his eyes.

He smiles at you and maybe makes a simple, charming comment about your artichoke selection and suddenly you see something there just below the surface.

A glimpse of the boy still held tight within the man.

I love when that happens.

As the years go by I see it more and more.
Maybe I am taking the time to look deeper into older eyes.

Last Friday night on the stage, Peter Frampton played his heart out for 3 hours  on the stage at the ampitheatre.

Beyond the tent-like roof covering a nor'easter dropped water off and on throughout the night. Underneath the wet sky but protected we fell in love with Frampton's boyish ways all over again.

After 35 years.

"This is the place in the program where we use to run off the stage and do drugs," Frampton explained about 7/8ths into the concert. "You would clap and we would run back on and play some more."

"We don't do drugs anymore," he explained with his lovey accent. "We do medicine."

The somewhat aging crowd who sang along with most of his songs, cheered.

Naturally.

Frampton's hair is not the same but his voice shines through the years, his fingers on the guitar playing as smooth as ever.

A glimpse of the boy still held tight within the man, he is still having fun. Thank goodness.

I felt the glimpse of a girl within me.

Baby, I love your way.

 

 

tourist tuesday and the paris street concert

Forever and always I remember places.

My grand-mother's front porch where I am the youngest one, maybe eight, shelling peas with my mother and the aunts. My feet are bare and my legs are tan and covered in sun-bleached, peach-fuzz hair. The freed peas plop satisfactorily into my own shallow bowl.

On open field where I am short and young and running with my daddy urging our homemade kite into the near-windless air. The knotted rags of the kite's tail are light blue against the sky. Their torn edges frayed with threads dangling. The long, dried grass whips gently against my legs.

Was this when my long love-affair with running first took root, I wonder now?

Forever and always I remember places.

When I sense that something special is happening I look around and memorize the scene surrounding me. The color of the sky, the sound through the trees, the smell on the wind.

I take everything in without even thinking about what I am doing.

Maybe you do the same thing. You freeze time or slow it down to savor and then hold it in your heart where you can take it out to relive again. I hope you do.

I do this with sad times and with happy times alike because I am that kind of person.

I am an equal-opportunity appreciator of all kinds of time.

Do you do that? Freeze time...

One of my saddest days this year was last Friday morning when my old cat plum wore out.

Spike-the-cat was tired from living a good life, I guess. His kitten years were long over. He had enjoyed an amazingly long middle-age period and then he slid into old age faster than anyone I have ever seen.

Spike gave it a good battle but he hated staying at the vet's and having an IV in his bony little arm. He was so happy to come back home.

Anyone could look at him and tell.

I held Spike in the rocking chair on the back porch last Friday and rocked him like a little baby as he was passing.

Mostly I think I was rocking myself for comfort but Spike did not complain one bit. He was loving and gentle right to the end.

As I rocked my sick cat I looked out at the color of the sky and listened to the sound in the trees. I sniffed for the smell on the wind. The natural mulch of oak leaves around the azaleas wafted on back to me. Earthy and rich.

I noticed how the orange day-lilies were blooming better than ever down by the creek. My least favorite color giving me a gift in spite of my preference for pink.

I memorized the weight of  Spike in my arms. I counted the spaces between his heart beats.

Forever and always I will remember that place.

I thought about how wonderful life is that people can have furry friends that live right inside their homes.

A ball of fur sleeping at one's feet is a magical thing. It lifts us to gods.

One of my happiest days of this year occurred when I was alone in Paris this past May.

At breakfast time I had no idea how perfect that Sunday would be. Events unfolded by no plan what-so-ever.

Sometimes the simplest occurrences are the most sublime, don't you think?

I walk straight out of my hotel door, meandered here and there for about for two hours and then ended up in the perfect place.

I wasn't looking for a thing and I found everything by happenstance. Free. Right there in the street. A concert stumbled on.

Immediately I recognized it for what it was---> a special day, a time and place to remember.

I slowed down time without spoiling the music.

I do not think anyone noticed.

I wondered if others could tell that magic surrounding us.

I think maybe a few did feel it as the air became glow-y and ripe with appreciation.

Yes, all the planets in the heavens lined up and music sweet and clear washed over us all.

I found a comfortable and clean place to sit quickly and easily which was certainly A Miracle in its own right, don't you agree?

Over my head bright glass balls sparkled like giant rubies and sapphires. Topaz and amber came alive and smiled down on me. Silver orbs vibrated with energy and shimmered with warmth.

The afternoon became dreamy and smooth and soft-focused as time slowed.

Yummy fragrances danced on the wind. Coffee and fresh bread smells of the most endearing kind wandered in my direction from a nearby sidewalk cafe.

My heart was bursting from the perfectness of the moment. I held my breath for the longest time.

I wanted the violins to sing into the night and go forever on and on. There is the chance I would still be sitting there now had time slowed done entirely to non-movement.

Often I think to be oh-so-careful what I wish for.

When the concert was over not a single soul wanted to leave. No one wanted to talk or even clap for fear of spoiling the magic.

I think we were all busy freezing the moment in our memory-banks. After two strong heartbeats, wild clapping did occur and, wearing smiles, most folks simply floated away.

Forever and always I will remember that place.

I wish I could give you that Sunday afternoon in Paris here, right now,  but I cannot.

I am truly sorry that I cannot but I feel certain you have your own heart filled with such amazing moments frozen in time.

Here is hoping.

flashback friday ~~ friday night at the amp

With special thanks to this one for the inspiration,
I bring you Flashback Friday because,
come rain or come shine,
I will be here tonight working a gig with these folks.

Stay tuned.
I am going to hit it with my best shot.

tourist tuesday and the st. augustine amphitheatre

Come with me under these moss~dripping trees and I will show you where the rock stars hang out when they are in town.

See where the high school boys sit on the rails. They are waiting, I suppose, for the girls to arrive.

The girls, no doubt, are still at home trying to decide which flip~flops to wear as this is Florida after all and the weather is already somewhat balmy.

Stick with me and you can forget about buying a ticket. I will transform you into a VIP.

Tonight is movie night, which is free anyway, so it is not like I am a big spender, or anything like that.

That is me... Click, click, click.

Notice the rules:  No refunds. No re~entry.
{{  No robbing the place either... }}

This is a one~stop amphitheater.

We have tomatoes and green peppers for sell at the Farmer's Market on Saturday morning and then we have The  Moody Blues rocking out on Saturday night.

Isn't life grand!

The concerts at the St. Augustine Amphitheatre are scheduled with a certain degree of faith and conviction as this IS the sunshine state and we are ever~hopeful about the weather.

Let me take one moment and point out to you that the plant above is NOT poison ivy.

I rant on and on frequently about poison ivy and I wanted you to know that HERE you can lean against the walls and not worry about any dire consequences.

Here are the infamous and well~located steps where I normally stand and greet people as they arrive. Just me and 3 other volunteers. We are all crazy about what we do.

We wear bright red T~shirts so you can spot us right away. Plus, it says 'Volunteer' on the back so that is handy, too.

"Welcome!, " I say, when positioned on the stairs as a Greeter,  "We are so glad to see you!"

Then I point out the important facts straight away.

Ta~da!
Here you go. Pick a seat. Not a bad one in the house.

Most of the seats are covered by these permanent tent~tops in case the Florida sun shine does not.

I love the tent~tops. The light funnels in and makes it kind of cozy. I love the umbrella~ness of it.

A bit like a circus, too.
Step right up.

On the stage tonight is a big screen for the movie.
Just for you I have arranged one of my favorite films of all time.

On movie nights I might help search for temporarily misplaced pre~teens.

On concert nights I might help folks find their seats and answer important questions about concessions and such.

After a rock concert starts I might walk down to the edge of the pit to lend a hand. Sometimes fans cannot negotiate stairs in their best manner while carrying containers of spirited drink. You can well imagine.

I do my best to be helpful.

I wish you could see all the smiling faces as this band or that plays! People sing and sway and jump up and jive and bop.

My heart is lifted. The tent~tops can not hold in the happiness and the good feelings bubble up. 

The happiness swells and rolls up and   over the wind~swept tree tops.
The happiness drifts up and     out    and eventually finds its way over the sea.

Under the happy ocean waves the jelly fish jive and the crabs bop.

I wish you could see it.

If you  come to town, let me know. I will check for happiness events.

I have been known to dance down there on that pleasantly wide stage,
jiving and bopping in my own fashion.

Some time ago...Long, long ago...

{{ Well, it might have been
last summer... }}

aretha franklin, owls, camellias and me

Well, first let me thank you all for the words of support you sent my way when I had my eye surgeries.

It helps to pass the healing time Joyfully when you have nice folks asking about your health. So, I do thank you. I could not have done it without you.

In case you did not know--->There is nothing in the world that is not made better by stellar vision.

I have hoot owls mating outside my window most nights lately. They call to each other all braggy and say things like "You make me feel so good inside!"

I think that is what they are saying in owl talk. I could be wrong.

We have owl families living in almost every tree down near the creek so whatever is being said is being believed.

Still, as attractive as owl courting conversation sounds, sometimes I crawl out of bed and go shine a flashlight on their big faces. They just look at me vacantly and carry on.

It is not enough to hear the owls, mind you. I want to see what is going on.

About 2 weeks ago The Moody Blues came to town to give a concert over here where I volunteer.

Those guys! Even in their 60s they are amazing performers. Dancing around and telling stories and all. It is not enough to just be a good singer these days. 

A live concert is all about giving great Entertainment.

I mean, beside paying big $$ for the tickets, it also cost $$ to park up close.

Plus the concessions--->  Beer and the crab-cake sandwiches and roasted pecans. Most people work up a big hunger by clapping and singing along.

An oceanful of crab~cakes were sold when Little Richard was singing on stage not long ago.

Now, I know what you are thinking.

"somepinkflowers," you are saying to yourself, " if you could not see, how could you help volunteer at a concert?"

Truthfully, I know this venue like the palm of my hand. Seriously. I do.

I have been coming to this place all my life.

My sweet job is to stand at the front stairs leading up to the seating area. Just inside of the gate.

I am a stairway greeter. I welcome people in and make them feel cared~for and comfortable.

There is no telling where this volunteer job may lead. As far as a career choice, I have found it is hard to go wrong when you have experience helping others.

Welcoming people is a job I know how to do without needing much vision.

We have tons of regulars who come to these concerts. Locals will come out for just about anyone or anything just to sit under the stars.

Did I mention the yummy crab~cakes?

Folks come all the way from Orlando and even Georgia to see some of these concerts. Usually the shows are sold out. When Bonnie Raitt was here people were almost climbing over the gate!

I welcome them all into the amphitheater like it was my very own house.

"Do come on in!" I say with abundantly sincere feeling. " Do you need help finding your seats?"

"The ladies' room is on the right and the gentlemens' room is on the left," I explain, which is the information most new folks are seeking.

"The ATM is straight ahead."

" There is no opening act...
The concert begins in 15 minutes...
Walk right this way..."

I could welcome these cheerful people without even half trying, really, as most of them are so high on life. Or something.

The fans are all looking forward with optimism and high hopes. They are polite and happy.

"You make me feel so good inside!" I almost say.

Often the audience is here on a mission to recapture their youth. When the Beach Boy Band was here last summer you could watch the years rolling off of people like water off of a duck.

It was a wonderful thing to behold. Old people stood up straighter and danced around a bit with their grandchildren. Beach balls rolled and floated over gray~haired heads for the entire concert.

Oh, help us Rhonda.

After the concert has started and most people are seated I go into the concert and float around helping people.

I turn from a greeter into a floater. An easy and painless transition.

I float around and help people find their seat, find their children, find things they did not even know they had lost.

Once I found a person I had not seen in 30 years.

And all the while I am floating and helping, the band plays on and the lights shine blue and red and so on...and on..

The Moody Blues still give a good light show even though it is not as complex or comprehensive as it was in the 1970s.

Nothing beats colorful psychedelic gels swirling around on a screen behind the band.

I should know.

So last Friday it was Aretha Franklin.
The Queen of Soul in all her glory.

This time with Aretha Franklin, as it was post~eye~surgery, I could actually SEE.

I floated on down near the pit and looked up. I saw Aretha's face clear as day.

Such a big smile! Better than an owl's face any night of the week, I tell you.

The weather was a bit on the cool side and, as Aretha sang, waves of warming air from the portable heaters on stage pushed her hair into her eyes. She shook her hair back and kept on going.

" Sometimes I feel like a na~tu~ral    woh~man..." Aretha sang.  

Who among us has not had our soul 'in the lost and found' at one point or other?

I could clearly SEE her face.

How many times in her life had she sung this song?
How many times have I?

The warm air pushed at her long straight hair and she laughed and sang.

"I might have to take my hair off!" Aretha shouted to the loving fans.

I half wanted her to.
We all cheered with delight.

In case you did not know--->There is nothing in the world that is not made better by stellar vision.

Look down, look up, look close up, look far out.
Look at tree~top owls. Look at camellias pink and white and red.
Look at aging rock and roll stars and be happy.

Just do not miss a thing.

crobsy, clapton, cooke, cline and now a bit of clair de lune

All in all, the whole room gave off such a gloomy vibe.

Then my mom leaned over the hospital bed, kissed my ever~shrinking dad and sang him a little song...

"I love you a bushel and a peck, " she sang softly, smiling down at his toothless grin which beamed up at her in recognition.

She paused for just the shortest second, measurable by 1/100th of a heart beat.

There, flat on his back in the comfy hospital nest where he had surrounded himself with detritus from his breakfast tray, my daddy was beaming, beaming, beaming.

The paper wrapper from a straw tucked purposefully under his whiskery chin and a teeny, plastic tub of strawberry jam squirreled away tightly in his right hand.

He seemed so happy.

There with his newly acquired bits of wonder my dad finished the lyric "...and a hug around the neck!"

From deep within his confused mind where his unwanted but constant companion, Alzheimer's, tap~dances non~stop, my dad knew what to say.

"...and a hug around the neck!" my dad finished proudly.

His mouth formed the words while his mind could not have cared less.

His brain was at the beach or on a ship somewhere out to sea where he was surrounded by treasures we will never know.

I, the eldest daughter, was transformed into an interloper as I happened upon a personal moment between a loving husband and wife who just happened to be my parents.

As hokey as it seemed, this ditty was part of their language of love which spanned over 65 years, so who was I to judge the value of a tune?

I backed without thinking into the bathroom, which was everything unromantic, to give myself some space and time. Time to breath, to think.

"...and a hug around the neck."

Such a simple phrase to remember. Such a satisfying thing to actual do. Hug a neck.

The power of music. The magic to sing along with some one else when your brain does not think but your heart knows the words anyway.

To hear two beats of a melody and then suddenly words bloom from you mouth.

How can that be?

After all my classes in learning theory I cannot explain it one little bit. I am myself confused.

Where is the romance in axons, synapses, neurotransmitters?

Brains feed best on moon, June, Honeymoon, I feel certain.

Only last week-end I attended a concert featuring these guys who played music of love and heartache and more.

My memory bank plum had a field day.

But I know what you are thinking...

You are thinking,  somepinkflowers is so fickle! She goes to a concert featuring this one; she goes to a concert featuring that one. Now a symphony!

What is with that girl?

Truth be known, I am a equal opportunity music lover. I will just about listen to anything. I love to dance but cannot sing one lick on key.

Throughout my formative years I took ballet, tap and modern jazz. My sister took piano. 

It is a family JOKE { hahahaha } that I cannot sing, even though I do try.

I am not getting one bit better as time goes by, I am sad to say.

The only time I ever sang on stage I was in Russia but that is another story.

Anyway.

At Pop Goes the Classics I was smitten straight away.

Mac Frampton and his sidekicks had flown in from New York City the day before and were so pleased to have missed a major snow storm that they were hopping!

They jumped off their planned program and wowed everyone with beachy, oceany tunes.

Under The Sea  melted into Sailing which segued into, well, you get the picture....

Even thought I might have been the youngest person on the third row, I was swaying with the rest of them, the best of them.

The advanced RP promised I would "experience Johann Sebastian Bach performed as if he were alive and well and living in Greenwich Village, Chopin from the setting of a cool jazz club and, of course, George Gershwin."

I am not sure where George Gershwin would be living today but you get the picture.

Most likely it would be somewhere featured wonderfully over here.

My favorite part of the concert was when Mac and his buds played a melody of theme songs from 1070's television shows. 

Over~achiever that I tend to be  :-)   I had to test myself by writing down the names of each theme song as he and his band played it. Then afterward when he told us the names I had to put an annoying little check mark by each one I named correctly.

I can be so show~off~y sometimes but I did keep my perfect score to myself.

Well, at least until now, which should not count against me...

You would have named them all, too. I feel certain.

Here, I will name the TV shows then you can hummmm the theme song:

• Mission Impossible
• Love Boat
• Happy Days
• Hawaii 50
• The Mary Tyler Moore Show
• Mash
• Those Were The Days

See, I knew you could do it .

After the concert when I was walking back to my car with a friend, she asked me, "What will happen to all these great tunes when we are gone?"

What, indeed!

Except for the TV ones, I barely know some of this music myself.

I hope we always have YouTube so we don't misplace the good music.

And parents that sing love songs to each other.

That is what I am hoping for.

And for people that can carry a tune, or at least keep track of it...somehow.

little richard and his big heart

"I am so glad to see y'all," Little Richard southern-drawled when he sat down at the grand piano near the edge of the stage.

The rest of his band stood quiet and ready. So many songs and so little time. Which ones would he play?Tutti Frutti? Good Golly Miss Molly? Lucille?

"Look at all the beautiful faces! You are a beautiful audience!" this legend of rock and roll flirted into the microphone.

We were being courted and we knew it.

Silver sequins covered his blue suit and shoes but it was his smile that lit up the St. Augustine Amphitheatre Saturday night.

The weather could not have been better for the outdoor concert and the moon smiled down from a clear night sky. You could tell right from the start that God was on Little Richard's side. Six decades of music and movies sat there on the bench with him tapping toes to the beat.

If you don't know Little Richard, take a moment and pop over here,  here and, OK, over here, too.

Go ahead. I'll wait.

I know. Isn't he something! An amazing package of song, soul and sequins.

No way is this performer a Mick Jagger swaggering across the stage, as Little Richard barely walked in from the wings, but tonight at 74, Little Richard can do more than just put on a show. When he sat down to play his fingers were sure, quick and ageless. What his legs gave up, his hands stole plum away. 

He seemed beside himself with pleasure just to be here. Maybe that is what happens when you are an old rock-and-roller and people still clap when you walk onto the stage.

You are so darn happy that those aren't angels out there singing you on up to heaven that you just shine on with happiness and gratitude, which is what Little Richard did.

Happiness, gratitude and comfort, like he was your favorite uncle just popped in to have a glass of iced tea. Yes, he is outrageous and aren't we glad! Every family needs one.

"Are y'all having a good time?" Little Richard asked over and over again after playing one hit after another. "Is anyone here from Macon, Georgia, my hometown? Come on down here and let me see what folks from Macon are looking like these days."

He made me want to be from Macon, Georgia, just so that I could please him. I wanted to walk down there and shake his hand and do my southern-drawl, too. I longed to be somepinkflowers from Macon, Georgia, for Little Richard. Maybe next time.

My friend Sherry and I could not help but notice how many folks in the audience had white hair. It sort of glowed in the dark.  "Look at all these old people," Sherry said. "We look young sitting here."

We did.

More than that, we all felt young sitting in the dark, singing songs from our past. Not so much sitting as swaying in our seats and doing hand-jive to the beat.

Where do those lyrics hide, those ones we captured long, long ago and have not sung in forever? They hunker down in some cozy corner of the brain. They push out the names of state capitols and algebraic formulas. Thank goodness for those lyrics. Catchy tunes with double entendre.  Who knew at the time?

Nothing brings about a near-religious experience quite like the horn section of a tight band doing well-practiced choreography. Step and lean and play that sax. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

It was all the audience could do to stay seated.

Now you are wondering, "somepinkflowers, you like Little Richard? You like rock and roll at its beginnings?"

As my daddy would say, "Does the day end in Y?"

I love going to concerts these days when aging musicians rock out. They don't take slack from anyone. Fewer and fewer fans scream out 'Freebird ' and when they do, everyone laughs. Your neighbors tend to be polite and content, not sloppy and drunk. You are surrounded by designated drivers.

I saw Glenn Frey play not too long ago and some fan started being obnoxious. " I am not playing another note until you sit down and shut up," said Glenn Frey in the nicest, gentle way. So that is what happened.

"Are y'all having a good time?" Little Richard asked again, playing well  past his stopping point. The horns stepped and leaned and played on, faces puffed out round and middle aged.

Later when I went back stage [well, you know I would] I asked Little Richard, "Are you having a good time tonight, Little Richard? You look like you are. Is this still fun?"

"Oh, honey, if I wasn't having a good time I wouldn't be here," he replied, reaching out to shake my hand before I had even offered it. Giving me that well-known, thin mustached grin he went on, "I am having the best time, darlin', the best time."

A-wop-bop-a-loo-mop-a-whop-bam-boom!

Little Richard, and band, I am so glad to see y'all.

music and lyrics

Sucked right in by the promise of a feel-good chick-flick, I put my money down and walked right in to see Music and Lyrics starring Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore. If you think I'm going to make fun of this one, blog on over to somewhere else. While the movie isn't Ben Hur or Gone With the Wind, it has appeal on several levels. When I left the movie I was singing a happy tune. Works for me.

Grant plays a washed up, 1980s pop star who is presently paying his bills by preforming at county fairs and theme parks. Those gigs must pay well as he is based out of New York City and he hires someone to water his houseplants. So much for the concept of willing suspension of disbelief. It could happen. I have a friend who does the same thing for a living and he lives in a condo here on the beach.

The opening credits feature Hugh Grant singing and preforming in a music video in the style of the 80s. He has it down to a T. With his shake-your-bootie dance steps and with his shirt opened down to THERE, I started having 1980s flashbacks.

I never knew Hugh Grant could be so sexy!

I was surprised how well he danced around and moved his tail-feathers, if you know what I mean. The man has British dry wit out the yin-yang but until this movie I never though he had Mick Jagger moves. He actually does. Looking cute with his pop music rock star haircut he was more than believable. I was almost beginning to remember his group, Pop, from the the 80s even though that group exists nowhere but in this movie.

"Hey, somepinkflowers, do you remember him from the Ed Sullivan Show?,' I asked myself as I sat there in the dark woofing down unbuttered popcorn and my smuggled in Italian soda water.

'Yes, I do remember,' I replied whole-heartedly, 'I do, I really do!'

I think I had Hugh Grant mixed up with Rick Springfield because that is how he looked in this movie.

And, how can you not like quirky, spontaneous Drew Barrymore? When I think of her I smile. In the game of life I would want her on my team.

When the male lead meets the female lead for the first time in a chick-flick movie I feel so powerful. I know things they don't yet know. I know there will be a happy ending. The guy will get the girl, the girl will get the guy. Just add clever humor, a catchy song and, for me personally, a nicely furnished apartment in a fun city or a villa in a dreamy country where they can live happily ever after.

I get that and my money is well spent.

perry como

I picked this up from my attic earlier today when I popped in to check on the temperature there.

It was 45 degrees in my box-filled attic and here is a memory-filled 45 for you!

Given to me as a Christmas present by a special person in my life in 1972 (I was about 2 years old at the time), this precious piece of plastic has been with me through every move made since.

I loved Perry Como in a father-daughter kind of way. He was so calm; I was not. Looking back now, I think he must have been a Hottie in his day.

Here's a shout out to Mr. C! Hot Diggity, Dog Diggity, I still have your record!

chai and sudoku and who?

Go here for hot yummy chai tea:

I did this morning when it was 48 degrees out there. In Florida 48 degrees is considered cold.

Cold weather means finding a parking place in this normally over-crowded tourist town. No parking problems today. Also, no peeling sunburns. At least none that I could spot from here.

Located at 48 Charlotte Street in St. Augustine, the Rockin' Bean is small and friendly. The brick walls are covered with black and white photos of the best musicians from the 60s. Rock and roll tunes play softly through hidden speakers. I can read my newspaper, drink my chai, enjoy the music, do my sudoku and not be distracted unless I want to be.

Life is good.

Behind the counter working is a young college student with dreadlocks.  I wonder if she is yet 19 years old and if she can identify The Beatles by name as they stare at her from across the room. I spot an 8 by 10 glossy of Bob Marley and feel I am in a time warp. These coffee house time warps are in most college towns and I am glad for it. I love a good flashback every now and then.

A group of four young people come in speaking French. I strain to hear the conversation. I can understand nothing they are saying. Nothing.

Chai finished, sudoku solved, I gather my things to leave and catch a glimpse of myself in a small gold mirror beside the door.

Who is that person? What is she doing here? She looks just like me, only older.

dance of good health

I learned along time ago that Good Health is important. As a child I suffered one bad case of tonsillitis after another after another. Every year I was sick with tonsillitis.  One summer when I was a teenager I finally had my tonsils removed. Tonsils are a mystery to me. What good are they anyway?

I remember the summer I had the offending tonsils removed was the same summer when all my friends began going to a teen club to listen and dance to Rock and Roll music. A different garage band played every week. This dancing place for teens only was called Teen Town (!) and if you weren't at Teen Town every week end, you might as well be in Siberia. Or so I believed at the time.

(Here is a get well card I kept from my hospital stay in 1965 as I was so certain someday I would go to France and see Real French Poodles which I did and I have. Isn't life grand sometimes?)

That year I had missed several weeks of Teen Town because I had one bad case of tonsillitis after another and another. Just when I was healthy enough to go back out dancing with my friends, I had to go into the hospital to have my tonsils removed. My social life was in Siberia that summer.

When I came home from the hospital I tried to convince my mom that I was well enough to go to Teen Town. Mouth still packed with gauze I argued my case.

"Please, let me go, Mom. I will be careful." I promised her, enunciating carefully and moving my tongue around the small wads of cotton still lightly stained with blood. "My life will be ruined if I stay home one more week. I will never get a date."

Time passed and each day as the bleeding places in my mouth began to heal I became stronger in my pleading. I wanted to go dancing; I needed to go dancing.

"I promise you I am fine, Mom." I continued to grovel. "I might as well be living in Siberia if I don't go to Teen Town this weekend. My life will be over."

(Twenty-seven years later as I spent a few weeks in Siberia I remember looking around thinking, This isn't as bad as I thought. People everywhere were playing guitar, singing and dancing. What else did they have to do? The downside was some guitars were missing much needed strings. When things break in Siberia--guitars, cars, water pipes--often there is no spare.)

The summer my tonsils came out was the summer when The Kinks were singing You Really Got Me; The Animals were rocking out House of the Rising Sun; and The Beatles were telling the world I Feel Fine. I cannot remember which local band was playing that night at Teen Town when I went out dancing, but chances are good they were playing the top 100 rock and roll tunes because that is all we wanted to hear.

Life was good. I argued a good case. Like the Beatles I felt fine. I was so happy to be out with my friends and not tucked away in Siberia. I danced every single dance as has always been my style. When I got home my hair was stuck with sweat on the back of my neck and I was starting to feel a bit dodgy. I made my way past parents and dropped into bed.

Bad, bad dreams woke me in the middle of the night to a pillow bright red with blood. Quarts of blood. I hemorrhaged all night. My favorite down pillow was ruined with blood. Even now I can feel the wetness on my cheek. I didn't know until then that blood smelled like that.

My poor parents. At the time I weighed less than 90 pounds and it seemed to us all that I had lost gallons of blood. But I hadn't. We stayed awake all night. My mom scolded little and comforted lots as she cleaned the mess. I felt just horrible.

How could I have been so wrong? How could she have been so right?

I learned about Good Health that summer.

It is everything.

Later I learned that if you have bad health, you might as well be living in Siberia with missing guitar strings.

Later I learned that if you have bad health, you might never have an opportunity to travel and see Real French Poodles.

I am a big fan of Good Health maintenance.

cleavage

The first time I plunked down my own hard earned allowance I bought a Wonder Woman comic book. I remember walking to the small grocery store two blocks from my home where, for less than a dollar total, I bought a cola, a candy bar and a comic book. I walked home, climbed a tree and consumed everything very slowly. I was hooked on the power of sugar combined with the ownership of print media. This comic book was mine and I could read it over and over and over whenever I wanted. I would never be the same.

As most young girls did, I made my way, gracefully putting aside kid-comics with Wonder Women and The Green Lantern for 16 Magazine featuring The Beatles and The Doors. I was coming of age at the most perfect time ever. I lived 30 minutes from the beach and spent hours in the sun reading books and consuming periodicals. Somewhere along the way I dropped the cola and the candy. Probably a good thing.

I wonder how much $$$ I spent on magazines over the years. I wouldn't change a thing. A correctly chosen magazine still has the power to lift me up even though now they cost around $5.00 each. I usually read them for free at Barnes & Noble. There are so many different ones. A magazine for almost every single topic in the whole wide world. I get a sugar-rush just looking at them on display.

I'll read anything really. I can even wait for hours in a doctor's office reading way-back issues of Field & Stream. How many ways can they photograph a man holding a fish? I don't know.

This week I found an April 1992 issue of Cosmopolitan Magazine in my attic. I am not sure why I bought this particular issue or why I still had it tucked in a box with other miscellaneous detritus from 1992 but here it was. The part that gets me: You could change the date on the cover, update the book and movie reviews, and then reprint it again as new. Who would know?

Look at the featured stories: How to Prevent Divorce. 25 Ways to Safeguard Your Job. How to Glorify Your Bosom. Has anything changed in the past 14 years? I think not. We are all interested in the same things. Don't mess with my man. Don't mess with my job. I want to look hot.

That is pretty much it in a nutshell.

We are all the same. Wonder Woman had her own issues:

Don't mess with my people.

Don't mess with my planet.

I look so hot in this strapless, push-up, red-white-and-blue, super-hero costume that I must have been drawn by a man.

doobie do, herman

"Listen, people, to what I say. I say, everybody's got to have their day."

Apparently, some people, like Peter Noone, can have their day for over 40 years. Good for him! When it comes to living your music dream, I say, Never Say Die. I am thrilled that the these British Invasion groups are still going strong. Look at The Rolling Stones. As long as Mick Jagger can strut across the stage, I say bring the old fart on!

Today I found this ad for Herman's Hermits in the local, free weekly and it made me wonder, do these guys ever die? Did Dick Clark bestow special non-aging blessings on certain band members? Is there something to be said for the drugs used with alarming regularity by musicians back then?

I'm not an expert on bands from the 60s and 70s but I do wonder when the groups advertise under the band's original name--like Herman's Hermits--how many of the original members of the band are still in the group. Come on. Some of these guys have had to pass over. As long as Peter Noone is still alive, will we always have Herman's Hermits? If you play a gig with Peter, do you, in fact, become a Hermit?

Notice that The Grass Roots, the US rock & roll group from the 60s-70s, is playing with Peter/Herman. If I could have Rob Grill's Midnight Confession, I'd like to know how many of his current group are from the original band.

And the Doobie Brothers, there in the ad on the left, how many of those guys are from the original 70s band? Mathematically speaking, some of the original Doobie boys have got to be pushing up daisies over in China Grove.

Maybe we don't care any more if the band members are from the original group. Does it matter?

I suppose that truth in advertising isn't the point here. If these guys make good music, do we really care if they weren't even alive in the 60s and 70s? If these rock & roll bands can help us recapture the feeling of youth for 2 or 3 hours, isn't that worth the price of a ticket? Has ethics ever been a part of the music scene?

I just want to dance.

I popped over to the Florida Theatre website to scope out ticket sales. $59.00 for one Doobie Brothers ticket. $40.00 for one Herman's Hermits . $50.00 for one Peter Frampton. $40.00 for a Donovan seat. Does this mean Peter Frampton is more valuable than Donovan?

I want to recapture my youth but when I see these prices, I feel A Kind of Hush coming from my wallet.

I'm usually in bed by 9:PM anyway.

little houses

Somepinkflowers to my friend Carolyn for mailing me the ad for Weeds that appeared recently in Rolling Stone Magazine.  Peel up the edge stamped 'inhale here' and the inside statement suggests: "Catch the buzz!"

The fragrance curling out from under that flap smells amazingly reminiscent of the smoke that curled out from underneath my college roommate's bedroom door back in 1970. How odd! What are the chances?

I confess to being a Weeds junkie. This Showtime original series starring Mary-Louise Parker and Elizabeth Perkins is addicting. Parker plays Nancy Botwin, a mother of two, whose husband dies suddenly early on in the series, and she is left to provide for her family. We all know how difficult is can be to find the perfect job which not only fits your lifestyle but also pays enough to cover health insurance. Plus, Nancy has to pay health insurance for the housekeeper--who does precious little--and the upkeep on that pool can't come cheap. I'm betting she uses a pool service.

Even though the show is well into the second season, not much brain power is needed to catch up on the plot.

I'm not really sure if the show is award-winner material or not, but it never fails to give me a 27-minute hit of laughter. The brightest star of Weeds, and what makes this show shine, shine, shine, is the nostalgic-but-contemporary soundtrack mix.

Everywhere I go I hear folks humming the theme song, Little Houses. During the first season it was Malvina Reynolds we heard singing the show's theme song. This season you never know who will be singing the intro. Elvis Costello and Engelbert Humperdick are just two of the featured theme-song singers. I'm hooked.

Last Wednesday in the ladies room at the library, one young mother from story-time was singing Little Houses to her baby as she changed his diapers. In soundtrack land, what goes around, comes around and around and around. Or something.

The music used throughout each entire episode is stellar. Some groups like Of Montreal and The Be Good Tanyas were new to me. Now I'm using Weeds to help me expand my musical horizons.  You just cannot stay stuck in the 60s forever. An A+ to the person selecting the music for Weeds as it is really the music that is giving us all One Big Contact High.

Only problem now, Carolyn, is that my undercover narc - neighbor has been following me around since I picked up my mail. I had to give him your address.

Just kidding.

my attic again

Still working my way through cleaning my attic and yesterday I discovered 17 music cassettes that were packed away in the mid-1980s. I love these time-warp treasures! After 20+ years in a box, sitting in Florida attic heat and every single one still plays beautifully.

I must be living right .

In my car playing today: Patsy Cline Heartaches (previously released material) Side 1: Crazy ~ I Fall To Pieces ~ Heartaches ~ She's Got You. Side 2: Walking After Midnight ~ Sweet Dreams ~ You Belong To Me ~ Strange.

Oh, happy day!

i didn't know then

Sister Louise was my creative writing teacher over 35 years ago. She would instruct her class, "Write what you know." I tried. It wasn't that I didn't believe her; it was that I was still living at home with my parents, I was young and I didn't know much. My experiences for writing were limited, or so I thought at the time. I knew only my family.

This past week-end I had the opportunity to drop in Cafe 11 and hear Pierce Pettis  play his original music. I had not heard Pierce sing in over 25 years. In that time he has done a lot of living and he writes well about what he knows. Song after song about his children, his grand-parents, his True Love and each one better than the last. Pierce paints such a complete picture of his son in 'Blacksheep Boy' that should his son--no matter his age--walk into the room, I would know him by the gleam in his eye, the rush in his step.

Pierce writes about his own adventures in Ireland, France and 'Alabama in 1959' which is the title of one of his best songs. He writes of his grandmother as an unpublished poet, and his children both young and grown. He writes what he knows. He writes about his family.

If Sister Louise was still here on earth, I would take her to hear Pierce Pettis. He would sing her such stories.

True Love

This week as I cleaned my attic 49 people died in a plane that crashed and burned in a horse pasture in Kentucky near an airport called Blue Grass Regional. It was just terrible. To make it worse, as if you could, the media interviewed everyone but the horses standing there in the field.

It is only a matter of time. The horses will be next. By someone on FOX, I would think. Greta Van--? Geraldo?

I was this close to crying anyway because it was just me and my old memories there in the attic. Boxes and boxes of photographs from proms and weddings, from high school and college. Pictures of boys I loved at the time, or thought I did. Mashed valentines, yellowed birthday cards, and faded ribbons from flowers long gone.

My attic was nearly 108 degrees and I was hungry and thirsty and so on.

The attic wasn't a plane crash; it was more like a train wreck, with cliches like boxcars piled up and tumbling onto each other. I was this close to crying. So I did.

I cried for those people who died while on their way. I cried for myself because I felt I had no way.

I cried for myself stuck there in the attic wondering if I had been on that plane when it went down, then, well, who would eventually be stuck with going through all my old stuff.

Worse yet, I cried because maybe no one would actually go through it at all; it would just be thrown away. Trash bags filled with memories that fit no one but me. That just made me cry even more as these boxes were filled with True Love.

True Love gone astray, maybe, but True Love at some point in time.

That's when I thought of Ricky Nelson.

Remember, he died in an airplane crash when he was in his 'Garden Party' years, so thinking of Rick was a segue with smooth edges.

In my hands right now I hold three (!) Ricky Nelson albums. Here are the titles: Ricky; Songs by Ricky; and More Songs by Ricky. Yeah, I know. I'm not making this up. Those are the titles.

All the songs are about True Love as only an 18 year old boy-man would know it: You're So Fine; Your True Love; Honeycomb; True Love.

I was so young when he was singing these songs but I watched 'The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet' with alarming regularity. You might say that I grew up to know what True Love should be based on Ricky Nelson and his songs.

My True Love would be 6' 1" tall, weigh 170 lbs, and have dark brown hair and blue eyes. My True Love would actually BE Ricky Nelson.

In all these boxes there is not one photograph of any boy-man who looked remotely like Ricky Nelson and, yet, I loved them anyway. One at a time. It was absolutely True Love     every     single     time. Some more True than others. I loved them for who they were then and for how we made each other feel. We had True Love.

(PS--To be honest: most all of my True Loves were musicians. What can I say?)