California girl

David and SUV checking each other out in Delaware Park.

Photo by BuffaloBloviator.

Yesterday I was in Balboa Park with Leonard Pennario. We had lunch there in a restaurant called Prado. We sat on the terrace and I was thinking, this is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been to in my life. Trees and flowers everywhere. And it was so quiet, with light classical music playing softly in the background. I was absolutely stunned by how beautiful it was. I kept looking around, speechless.

What a contrast to Delaware Park!

Normally I am fiercely proud of Buffalo. I am always thinking how beautiful our city is. But in Balboa Park, I found myself thinking: Why can't Buffalo be more like San Diego?

When it comes to parks, our city has blown it. You don't even have to contrast our parks with world-class parks like Balboa Park or San Francisco's Golden Gate Park. I have been to parks in St. Louis and Kansas City and thought the same thing. Our green space is nothing like the green space these other cities have. It does not come close.

Part of it is the Buffalo mentality. I think a lot of Buffalonians have a problem with quiet green space. They want to put something there. They want action. They want noise. So in Buffalo, beautiful flowers and landscaped paths take a back seat to screaming little kids playing soccer, big bellowing guys playing rugby, a truck route running through the center of Delaware Park.

Frederick Law Olmsted Schmolmsted!

Well, there are ways in which Buffalo is more peaceful than San Diego. We do not have the Angry Shopper. Here in San Diego, you can't browse Marshall's without feeling under assault by these weird women, striding briskly and aggressively in their heels ... What is your hurry? I want to ask. What are you trying to prove? Drivers here are more aggressive too. Changing lanes on the expressway is a fine art. It is an art I have thrown myself into mastering, seeing that I bought the rental car company's ripoff insurance and so have nothing to lose.

I have needed moments like the lunch in Balboa Park to de-stress from things like highway lane-changing. Also Leonard and I sat in the hot tub, did I mention that? I got to wear my new bathing suit from Target. I am going to say "bathing suit" instead of "swimsuit" from now on. I do not want the old-fashioned phrase "bathing suit" to fall from public usage.

This is a nice new bathing suit. It is not quite skimpy enough to be a bikini but certainly skimpy enough so that my mother would have a thing or two to say about it. It's funny how you never outgrow your mother lecturing you about the bathing suits you wear. (My mom, on another two-piecer I have: "I hope you didn't pay much for it. There's nothing to it.")

It's also funny that I realize that I have started collecting bathing suits the way other women collect shoes. I think I have about 30 of them now. Isn't that weird?

Maybe it's that California influence. Maybe I'm turning into a California girl.

Now it's time for my socially conscious cup of coffee.

The big day

Today was the day. Today I began reading my book to Leonard Pennario. We went through the first three chapters. I do not have all the chapters written yet but I have something like 12 of them in some kind of shape.

Everyone back home was always asking me if I would be nervous, reading Pennario what I wrote. "No," I always said. "I am a professional. I trust my instincts."

Ahahahahahahaaaahaahahaa!

Because here is what happened. First of all lastnight I couldn't sleep from nerves. I was tossing and turning all night under this big heavy suede hide the hotel gives me to sleep under. I got up at 6 and honest, I rewrote the entire introduction to the book. I decided the old one wasn't good enough. At 10:30 a.m. I called Staples down the street (that is the advantage to being in Corporateville: there are always places like Staples around) and got them to print out my new intro. Then I grabbed it on my way over to Pennario's.

Now it is time. We are sitting in his room, facing each other, a couple of feet apart. I mean, Leonard is right in front of me. And I say, "OK, do you want to hear what I wrote? Should I start reading this to you?" And he says, "Yes!"

And I had this nice strong speech all ready and to my horror I couldn't say the words. I took a deep breath and all that came out was a squeaky: "I'm so nervous!"

And Pennario said gently, "Don't be."

Then we both needed glasses of water.

And then we got started. I read him the first sentences. I am in love with the first two sentences of my book, I have to say. So I took heart, reading them. I glanced up, and he was smiling.
Then it was tougher going. Because this intro, it talks a lot about myself, and my feelings about this project, and my recollections of my first conversations with Pennario. It must be strange for Pennario to be reliving our conversations from my viewpoint. I realize this is all very personal for him but it is for me, too. So as I was reading I found myself growing self-conscious, glancing out in the hall, worrying. A few times between my braces and my nerves I stumbled over the words.

Most problematic parts to read: one part where I said that initially he was not the best interview, another part where I describe his great looks, and then there was another part that told about how beautiful his hands are and how he lets me and other people hold his hands and feel them. I had forgotten all this stuff was in there and suddenly here I was having to read it to him. Aaaaaiiiiieeee!

But Pennario kept smiling and laughing. "That's right," he said a couple of times. "That's accurate." Then he said: "I love this. This is so charming."

And he kept saying that! He said he was so happy with everything he heard, and I could tell that he meant it. Pennario doesn't lie to you. Later at lunch he said he also liked my segues. He used that word. Then he said, "That's such a beautiful word, 'segue.'" I like that he appreciates words the way I do. I am always pointing out in here when I like some word or other.

Speaking of Pennario's love of words, that is one reason I was nervous. He has read all the greatest novels and knows all the Shakespeare plays. He knows good writing.

But so far, so good. I am weak with gratitude and relief. This book is one of the biggest thrills of my life and to know that Pennario likes what I am doing means the world. And now I won't be as nervous, because he says he loves the tone of the book, its style. It is different from other music biographies, as you may have guessed. We wanted it that way. We had talked about that. We would like this to be a book interesting to everyone, not just classical music nuts.

Please, everyone, wish me continued luck!

Now I am going to go jump in the pool.

Please do not adjust your computer

This is a test of the emergency MKG blogging system.

Today's post will be slightly delayed due to Mary's traveling.

Please check back later this afternoon as we expect to have this situation remedied.

Journey into social consciousness

MKG at the beach minutes after posting this blog.

This morning, 5:30 a.m., trying to load up the coffee maker, I have to read the coffee packet, because I am trying to find out how many cups it makes. The coffee comes from Seattle. This is a classic case of one hip city, San Diego, boosting another. And this is what I read:

"We believe it's possible to create good coffee and Create Good (registered trademark) at the same time. Made from 100% Arabica beans, Pura Vida is certified Fair Trade, organic and shade-grown. And Pura-Vida was founded with a distinct mission: Help children and families in coffee-growing communities."

Then there is another whole column. "The Pura Vida journey begins with triple-seal certified coffee beans..."

For the love of God, as my friend Michelle likes to say. How about my journey into alertness? Can't you just tell me how many cups the darn thing makes? Would you believe the packet never does say that?

Do these people not go to church or temple, so they need sermons with their morning coffee?

Just for that, I am going to widen my carbon footprint, get in the car and begin my 7-mile journey to the beach. Howard is going to be watching me, did I mention that? He has a GPS tracker on my car so I am observed at all times by law enforcement across the country. Invasion of privacy! I bet the people who distribute this coffee have a lot to say about that. I'll probably read it on the next packet.

MKG route to the beach. Courtesy of www.followthatcar.com/

Greetings from California

Click picture for larger image. "GPS Sky-Way" image courtesy of FollowThatCar.com

What a day I have had!

That jaunty picture Howard took of me yesterday, that was at 5 a.m. Hours to go before I sleep! Heck, here it is, past midnight in Buffalo, and I am still not asleep. I am trying to eat a Caesar salad which with my braces is not easy but I am darned if I am going to get fat from eating mashed potatoes. After that I will go to bed. Well, before that I might take a hot bath. When I am in a hotel I love using up a lot of their hot water.

I am in a hilarious hotel.

When I saw it I burst out laughing. The name of it is the Woodfin Hotel and Suites and it is just Corporate City. The place impeccably landscaped, surrounded by palm trees and flowers, and there is a perfect restaurant called Oasis with a beautiful terrace that adjoins the pool area. Next to the pool is a Jacuzzi and tomorrow when Leonard Pennario and I talk about the book we have decided that is where we are going to sit and confer. We were laughing thinking the book will probably end up being dropped in the water.

I am very lucky in that my husband lets me sit in hot tubs with concert pianists.

Back to my trip. You know how it is when you haven't slept much and have to spend 7 hours cooped up in cramped planes among people with no social skills, not that mine are much to speak of. My mind is just gone. I let the rental car people talk me into buying their ripoff insurance. Then I kept losing the key to the rental car. I admitted that to Leonard, that I was such a mental case, and he was so sympathetic and said, "Well, of course you are!" He said he was going to worry about my finding my way home tonight. But here I am. I made it!

And on the way I managed to stop at Trader Joe's. I wandered the place in a delirious sleep-deprived haze. I emerged as if in a dream with hummus, pita bread and this salad. And I think I bought some cherry tomatoes. I am limited because I have no fridge.

Then I went to Ralph's for their olive bar. Ralph's is more upscale than Tops, not as upscale as Wegmans. It is right next to Trader Joe's so I didn't have to move the car. Good thing, too. When I got out of Ralph's it took me about 20 minutes to find my way out of the parking lot. People in San Diego drive very fast and angrily and the parking lots are labyrinthes. They mark arrows this way and that to tell you where to go. We don't realize how beautiful and simple life is in Buffalo.

I was not kidding about the shopping! Before I went to see Leonard, his friend Mike stopped by and lectured me that I should take a nap. As soon as he was gone I dug around till I found the key to my rental car and then I went to Target. They have better stuff at these Targets than the ones in Buffalo. I got a red flowered 2-piece swimsuit and two headbands.

Getting and spending we lay waste our powers! Who wrote that, Wordsworth?

If Wordsworth were around now he might write:

Blogging endlessly we lay waste our powers!

I must away, ere break of day. Tomorrow is another day. And a big one.

Leonard Pennario and Big Blue

Mary being deposited at the Buffalo Niagara International Airport early this morning.

I knew when I bought Mary this blog that it would wind up being like a puppy that I would eventually get stuck having to feed and clean up after.

Well this morning I put her on a plane to San Diego to see Leonard Pennario. He is the concert pianist whose authorized biography Mary is currently writing.

Leonard Pennario is a lot like Big Blue, the old house that I am rebuilding. I don’t mean that the actual person and the actual house have much in common. What I am trying to say is that the two, as projects, have a lot in common.

For one thing, we are each obsessed with our respective projects. At dinner we discuss arcane details or our own project and tune-out the other’s diatribe. It seems to work for us.

Having achieved three years of marriage (on top of the accomplishment of 49 years of bachelorhood) I have found myself at a destination of great wisdom.

Most marriages are broken up by a behavior that is not comfortably discussed. Leaving the cap off of the toothpaste. Even in our young marriage I was a victim of this abuse. But now, thanks to a simple over-the-counter marital aid, the most common form of spousal abuse in America is finally cured. Yes, the flip-top toothpaste tube has changed everything.

The only thing is, when I got back home after driving Mary to the airport this morning, this is what was waiting for me. (Photo below) But I did not myself become uncapped by the discovery.

It sure beats losing the cap.

Airport bound

The new lawn at Big Blue.

Trying to keep my head together, I have started writing lists of "Things I Have To Do Today." On today's list is stuff I have to do for work, a card I want to get my thoughts together to write... and I love this, in the middle of all this is "Pack."

Ha, ha! That is almost as funny as yesterday's list. I had to pay bills, rent my car for California, buy toilet paper because we were running out -- and, oh yes, in the middle of all that, I had written: "Get book ready so Leonard Pennario can see it."

Ahahahahahahahaaaa!

That one task was a daylong ordeal because I kept taking things out thinking, "He'll hate this," or remembering things I forgot to include. It is funny how things don't strike you until the last minute. After that I was so stressed that Howard took pity on me and took me to Bob and John's for pizza. I will miss Bob and John's when I am in San Diego. They are my rock.

My departure date is closing in. Actually, it's tomorrow. For three nights now I have been dreaming fitful dreams about travel. Lastnight I dreamed I was in Paris with Howard and a bunch of people we knew. And immediately, upon arrival in Paris, I lost Howard. Tried to call him on his cell but that was no good, the rules were different in Europe, no end of aggravation. Slight relief when, in one of those hilarious dream footnotes you get, I saw the great conductor Arturo Toscanini walking into the hotel where I was staying. Toscanini was at my hotel! I thought that was neat.

That is how a music biographer dreams.

Then I wake up and things are back to normal, I'm in Buffalo, I've got to go to work, we are running out of dish soap, it's raining. Howard rejoices in the rain because it is good for his new lawn. He has put in a new lawn at Big Blue. It is the talk of downtown Buffalo.

The lawn at Big Blue is a tender yellow-green. It's this sweet baby grass and whenever I look at it I think of a beautiful little song by Robert Schumann about young, new grass. The name of the song is "Erstes Grun," which means "First Green," and it ends with a line about how feeling the grass makes your heart beat more calmly. Every single time I look at that lawn I think of that song. I keep wanting to explain that to Howard but where do you start.

Unfortunately I am afraid it will take more than the lawn at Big Blue to make my heart beat more calmly today!

I guess I should start packing.

Miracles in my life

Today is a beautiful Sunday morning, so our topic is miracles. I have two to disclose.

The first is that Leonard Pennario got the flowers I sent him. Remember my big battle with Teleflora? When in the middle of a mild workday I turned into a warrior out of Wagner's "The Ring of the Nibelungs" -- horned helmet, long braids, spear -- and told these Telefloroids that they'd better get these flowers to the person I sent them to, or else? I could not believe I had that in me. But apparently Teleflora believed it, because when I talked to Leonard a few days ago he said he did get the flowers, and that they were on the dresser by his bed, and they looked great. Victory! Miracle! I have been meaning to write about that.

The second miracle happened Wednesday, the day I went with lounge sensation Guy Boleri to the Anchor Bar.

I mentioned yesterday that when I go to San Diego I am looking forward to a stop at Ross, the store where I bought my favorite skirt. This was the skirt I was wearing when I dined with Guy. Nothing but the best, when I go out with lounge sensation Guy Boleri. Well, this basket of Italian bread arrived at the table. And Guy, being Sicilian and genetically wired to be unable to resist this bread, asked me to open one of those butter packets -- you know, those fussy little plastic tubs that have a tiny tab you have to pull. No one can open these things.

But because I have braces now and can no longer bite my nails, I was able to pull the tiny tab. What I hadn't realized, though, was that the butter had melted. For some reason that only makes sense in Anchor Bar Land, they had tucked the packets between the slices of warm bread. So when I opened it, the butter packet spurted all over my favorite skirt!

I immediately gave up. Even a little spot of grease can ruin something completely, and now here was my poor skirt, drenched in what amounted to an oil slick. I stuck a napkin in a glass of water and scrubbed at it for a few seconds, but then I shrugged and decided what the heck, when I go back to San Diego maybe I can buy the skirt again. No point in crying and fussing.

Well, guess what? Half an hour later, the skirt was fine! You could not tell anything had ever happened to it!

I am speechless in the face of this miracle.

Incredibly, there was a similar miracle in my life before this one. That was when I was in a Chippewa Street bar with my sister Katie, the left-winger. We had big Wagnerian goblets of red wine and she managed to spill hers all over my favorite coat, this beautiful long green wool coat. There was a gigantic crimson splash down the front of it. It looked as if I had been shot. I didn't know what to do so I just figured, I am not going to worry about this, and we went on with our evening.

Which I don't remember much of, though it must have a been a riot if my sister, who is not normally a party animal, was taking glasses of red wine and throwing them. That is a miracle in itself.

What I do remember is that my coat ended up mysteriously fine. It dried with no sign of a stain. None. I still wear it.

Isn't that amazing? I should call the Vatican. Maybe Father Baker was involved.

Maybe he could be the patron saint of hopelessly stained clothing.

California, here I come

President Truman, George Marshall, Paul Hoffman,
and Averell Harriman discuss Marshall's plan.

This blog is so neat and uncluttered. I love looking at it because it gives me a break from my actual life.

You know things are gyrating out of control when robots start calling you on the phone. Yesterday I got a "courtesy call" from my insurance company. I like how they finesse a collections call by calling it a "courtesy call." I also got a call from Verizon and another one from National Grid. But I called back National Grid and to my astonishment they told me my account was not overdue. So I guess they were just being neighborly.

So before I go back to San Diego in -- yikes! -- just a few days to see Leonard Pennario, I have to clean up my finances, which are not pretty.

But you know what's funny?

When I look ahead to my week in San Diego, I tend completely to forget that I have to work on this book. Yesterday I was lounging at my desk, my chin in my hand, thinking about visiting the Art Museum. Maybe Leonard could go with me. I could show him "I Remember Being Initiated Into the Frat" and then we could have lunch in the museum cafe and talk about George Bellows. I am sure Leonard knows about him. He knows about everything. And then we could look at the park. I didn't see much of Balboa Park last winter when I was in San Diego. I was too busy working.

My daydream continued. I could go back to this clothes store called Ross that I liked. Ross is like Marshall's, only cheaper and more fun and the sound system is not always squalling "Never ever ever pay full price!" right in your ear. The Marshall's stores in San Diego are better than they are here, too. I should go there. And that Supercuts, that gave me that great haircut, I should stop in there. I should check out La Jolla more. I should walk on the beach.

La la la la la la la.

Then I think: Wait, I'm going to be there only a week. And I have this book to do!

What I want to do on this visit is go over what I have written so far with Pennario, and see if he likes how it is going, and also I am hoping that the research I have done back here in Buffalo will bring up memories that didn't surface before. Yesterday I read an L.A. Times review in which the critic said Pennario had done music an incredible favor by discovering and performing the 1952 sonata of Alberto Ginastera, the Argentinian composer. "Why pianists have so long overlooked this brilliant work is a mystery," the critic wrote.

What a funny world this is! I just heard that sonata the other night at Holy Trinity Lutheran when Gabriela Montero played it! I wonder if she knows she owes such a great artistic debt to Leonard Pennario. As does every pianist.

I will have to ask Pennario about that Ginastera sonata.

After I walk on the beach.

I Remember My Trip To Columbus, Ohio

George Bellows' 1917 lithograph, "Initiation Into The Frat," eerily predicted events in Wilson.

A few years ago, at the art gallery in Columbus, Ohio, my brother George and I stood spellbound before an unbelievable picture. The picture was "I Remember Being Initiated Into the Frat." The artist was George Bellows. Bellows, who was born in Columbus and died in 1925, was a painter of the Ashcan school (a term I love). His did a lot of paintings depicting gritty urban life. Prizefighters were a specialty of his.

The painting George and I saw in Columbus showed Bellows' memories of the crazy frat inductions at his college. We couldn't get over it. Everywhere in the picture, something was going on: someone was being beat up or blindfolded or whatever. One kid was hanging. Even so, it wasn't a tragic picture -- somehow, you didn't get the sense that anyone was being seriously hurt. It was more as if the picture showed the nuttiness and stupidity of frat life.

George (my brother, not Bellows) reminded me of this picture yesterday. What got us talking about it was the recent sordid frat hazing in Wilson, N.Y. A little like in Bellows' picture, no one's dead or seriously hurt, but it's just... yecch, as they used to say in Mad magazine.

Clearly, this sort of stuff has always been going on. Maybe not of the ridiculous lowdown nature of the stuff that happened in Wilson, but still. (That is a little tease for our out-of-town readers, who will be scrambling for Google to find out exactly what did happen in Wilson.)

What about medieval Heidelberg, where students used to duel?

What about Old Heidelberg beer?

Back to Bellows. I have just learned that he made a lithograph after his painting of frat life. It is called "Initiation Into the Frat." It is at the San Diego Museum of Art.

When I go next week to see Leonard Pennario, I will have to go see it.