Well, the most exciting thing I’ve done in a long while is I went with my hubby to see Paul Simon at the Greek Theater in Berkeley about a week and a half ago. All I can say is amazing – amazing – amazing!

First off, about two o’clock on the Thursday on the day of the concert, we experienced a little bitty 3.9 earthquake, whose epicenter happened to be at UC Berkeley’s Memorial Stadium, spitting distance from the Greek Theater. Coincidentally, (or not) that stadium is currently closed and being renovated and seismically retrofitted. Good thing too; it was built in 1923 and sits directly on top of the Hayward Fault!

No worries, though. There was no damage from the little trembler and the roads were open and the traffic flowed smoothly to Berkeley as we drove to the show.

I have a love/hate relationship with the Greek Theater. This is the fourth concert I’ve attended there, and as my body ages, it tends to get more aggravated with the concrete-amphitheater-cement seating. Used to be my bottom could fit nicely on one of the painted numbers that doubles for a “seat” in this place. But let’s face it, much of this particular audience is middle-aged, and many of us could use a number just for each individual butt cheek. So we’re scrunched on these cement bleachers, shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee. Heaven forbid if your neighbor has body odor issues or wants to eat a giant hoagie slathered in onions from a plastic baggy. Whatever happened to personal body space?? And forget about being able to lean back; the knees, shins, and toes of the person behind you are what make up any kind of back rest. Maybe I would have been more comfortable if I had breathed deeply and taken in a bit of what the people on the lawn above us were smoking. Thankfully, we came prepared and had our green padded folding seats to use because after two hours, my back would have been screaming.

And what’s up with people talking during a concert. There were two ladies behind us who WOULD NOT SHUT UP! It’s one thing to make a quiet comment to the person sitting next you, via a whisper in the ear. But to carry on a full-fledged kitchen table conversation during an entire ballad?? Why did they even bother paying $75 and leaving the house! I finally asked them nicely to please go somewhere else to talk. Thankfully, they did not decide to kick my ass, and the talking subsided.

So that’s the bad part . . . The good?? An intimate setting and incredible acoustics.

The Secret Sisters were the opening act for Paul. I had never heard of them before, but they were wonderful. Two sisters from Alabama—Lydia and Laura Rogers—with the sweetest, sultriest harmonies, one acoustic guitar, and a rural country sound that is timeless. Here’s a video of them singing “The One I Love is Gone.”

After their set, Michael and I went up to the top of the hill to get something to eat. All of a sudden we heard some applause, and I thought that Mr. Simon was making his way to the stage, but no . . . people were just applauding a second earthquake that had jangled the ground.

“Did you feel that?” Michael asked. But no, I hadn’t. Darn it.

We listed to Simon’s first song from above the lawn. You get a beautiful site from up there, as you can see in the picture below. That’s the Campanile Tower to the right and the lights of Berkeley and Oakland in the distance beyond the stage.

The concert was fantastic. Paul sang songs from his new album So Beautiful, So What and other songs from throughout his 45+ year career. I’ve grown up on his music, so it was great to hear him sing songs from Sounds of Silence (an LP I still own) to Graceland. Highlights for me were when he sang “The Only Living Boy in New York” from Bridge Over Troubled Water, a curtain call of “Sounds of Silence,” with just him and his guitar, and his final song, a poignant “Still Crazy After All These Years.”

Paul had just celebrated his 70th—YES! I said 70th!!—birthday the week before, so the crowd sang “Happy Birthday” to him towards the end of the show. Sheesh! I hope I can move around that well when I’m seventy! He didn’t say much during the show, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. And his amazingly talented eight piece back-up band sounded so great together. It was such a joy listening to it all.

As I think back on it, I am reminded that Simon and Garfunkel, along with Joni Mitchell, were my inspirations for learning how to play the the guitar and take up songwriting. I will never forget learning how to play “The Boxer” on my guitar. That was in 1969; I was thirteen years old. I was so proud of myself. I just loved that song so much. So I decided to play it for my mom, but when I got to these lyrics:

“Seeking only workman’s wages, I come looking for a job, but I get no offers . . .
Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue
I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there . . .

My mom freaked out over the word “whores”!

“But did you hear the rest of the words?” I asked her. “They are so great!”
“That word is not a word you should be saying. Isn’t there another song you can sing?” she replied.
I still remember feeling crushed.

Anyhow, thank you Paul Simon, for your incredible, beautiful gifts of guitar, lyrics, and music that you’ve given us throughout the years. I left the Greek Theater feeling overwhelmed to have spent a short time in the glow of your greatness.

Mazda Laguna Seca Raceway

Three years ago my husband asked me if I wanted to go to the Red Bull United States Grand Prix motorcycle races at the Mazda Raceway in Laguna Seca. First question: Don’t you have any motorcycle nerd friends who would want to go with you? No, he didn’t. I knew that when Michael was a boy in Greece, he had read a lot of motorcycle magazines, seen pictures of the track at Laguna Seca outside of Salinas, and dreamed of being able to go there one day. So I knew I had to humor him, and I reluctantly agreed to go to the races.

Well, it just goes to show you that sometimes you have to be dragged to the party. I had a great time! I loved the race and being around a gillion motorcycle-loving riders. And so we’ve gone to the races for the past three summers. Last weekend we joined over 135,000 spectators to watch two races. It was a bright and sunny day, and the race was close and exciting.

Below is a picture of where we park when we get to the races. Since we ride Michael’s old—I mean “classic”—BMW to the race, we take a special motorcycle-only road to the parking lot. When you arrive, there are rows and rows of beautiful bikes lined up on acres of dirt.

Motorcycle Parking Lot

Another view of the parking lot

The first year we went, we didn’t really know what to bring with us, but this year we were pretty organized. Although we leave from Monterey, where it’s often overcast and cool, by the time we get to the track, it’s usually sunny and warm, so we have to be prepared. I dress in layers, bring a hat I can squish into a backpack, bring a moving blanket to sit on, and two of those soft folding chairs to give support to our aging backs. This year Michael added one of those shade tents so we wouldn’t burn up in the sun. Next year I plan on bringing a soft cooler for drinks and sandwiches so we don’t have to wait in the snack bar lines. This year we sat on a hill above Turn 2 for the race.

On the hill above Turn 2

Australian Casey Stoner won the race in a tight battle against Spain’s Jorge Lorenzo. (We were rooting for Lorenzo because he rides a Yamaha, my husband’s favorite kind of bike.)

One of the best things about the weekend is going to Cannery Row in Monterey on Saturday afternoon. Officials close off the road to cars, and hundreds of motorcycle riders who’ve come for the races bring their bikes down to put them on display.

Looking towards the aquarium at Cannery Row

Another view of Cannery Row in Monterey

It’s really a beauty pageant for motorcycles. Before long, two rows of motorcycles, handle-bar to handle-bar, line both sides of the street, and people walk up and down admiring them.

Bikes on display

It’s so much fun to see the different motorcycles and their riders. I’m partial to the “girly” bikes in pinks and purples. There’s usually only a few of them out of the hundreds of red, yellow, and blue “manly” bikes. And yes, I know that I am stereotyping here, but just take a look…

Pretty in shimmering pink

Scary and pretty pastel

Love the swirly pink pin-striping

Beautiful blues

Glorious Greens

Tony the Tiger bike

Showing off a new fur coat

How’s that for creativity!

Okay, so it wasn’t actually his “house.” But it was one of his restaurants—Rustic—located in Geyserville, CA. Since my husband and my sister’s husband both have their birthdays in April, we like to try and find a way to celebrate by doing something all together when we can. Friends had told us about this restaurant made up of Francis Ford Coppola’s favorite foods and located at a winery he purchased in 2006. We decided to give it a try, and on a warm beautiful April day, we met in Novato and took the 45 minute drive together.

The winery was right off the highway, and we could tell as we pulled into the parking lot that this was a swanky place. We posed for a photo on the curving steps leading up to an outdoor area that featured a swimming pool, a bandstand with a jazz band playing, and an outdoor bar/cafe where you could buy food and drinks. The location definitely had the feel of resort, unlike many of the surrounding wineries in our area, which tend to be smaller and more intimate.

Kris had brought a bottle of champagne, and they charged a very reasonable corkage fee and gave us a bucket of ice and some plastic wine glasses. We sat outside in the sunshine and listened to the band, talked, and drank while we waited for our table.

Inside, the restaurant is large, cozy, and noisy. Large windows look out onto a rolling valley of tended grapevines and oak trees. The best part, not surprisingly, is the food. The entrees are made up of Francis’s Favorites, recipes of foods that he’s enjoyed while traveling around the world. Part of the fun is reading the menu, where Coppola talks about his inspiration for each meal. I had the Habit-Forming Ribs which were sweet and tangy and practically melted off the bone. Instead of bread, they serve Zeppole, which are small, airy, deep-fried fritters that you swirl around in olive oil. The bad thing about the Zeppole is that they don’t give you nearly enough and you have to pay for each order, which can really add up since you don’t really want to stop eating them.

After lunch, we wandered around and discovered a wine shop/movie museum. Numerous display cases showed off memorabilia from Coppola’s films, including his Academy Award statues and a car from the movie Tucker. Michael said the Oscars weren’t real, but they looked real to me.

We had coffee and dessert by the pool and the boys played bocci ball for a while. All in all, it was a great way to spend the day, and we’ll definitely go again.

It feels like it’s been raining non-stop in Northern California for a few months now. I know that’s hyperbole, but that’s how it feels. Ordinarily, I love the rain, particularly thunderstorms, hail, and downpours that happen while the sun is shining, which is what’s occuring outside my window right now. However, I’m half-way through my week long spring break, and I was hoping to get a little gardening in, but the weather is working against me. The leaves I neglected raking when they originally fell have turned into a soggy mess, and I will have to wait until they dry out before I can remove them.

Mostly, I’m trying to avoid reading and responding to 150+ seventh grade persuasive essays that I brought home with me. I did just finish reading my first class set today, which makes me feel the need to reward myself with a little computer time. I’m trying to pace my reading, so my comments stay positive and don’t get too cranky. My intention was to read one class set a day, half in the morning and half in the afternoon. I was going to start on Monday and be done by Friday, but I ended up having to visit my father and sister on Monday and Tuesday, and so I’m already two days behind. That means either I’ll have to double-up and read sixty papers over the course of two days or resign myself to reading over the weekend.

Now don’t get me wrong—I love reading my students’ papers—I really do, but reading over one hundred and fifty of them is a daunting task. If I spend just five minutes reading and responding to each essay, that’s twelve and a half hours. Trust me; I’ve done the math. And that’s all done at home, since I don’t have the mental dexterity to try and read their essays during class when I’m supposed to be teaching them something. And my 50 minute prep period zooms by as I prepare lesson plans for the following week, correct other assignments, enter grades, answer emails, fill out forms, etc., etc., etc.

My dad says I should become a P.E. teacher and then I wouldn’t have to grade so many papers. Been there. Done that. In my first middle school teaching job about twenty years ago, my assignment was four periods of English and two periods of P.E. Man, I was a lousy P.E. teacher. Not surprising since I was a lousy P.E. student back in the day. Luckily for my students, my inadequate knowledge of volleyball rules probably did not make them unemployable after graduation. And I was fortunate that the administration saw the error of their ways, and I was soon teaching all English classes. The P.E. teachers at my current school may not have a lot of papers to grade, but they do work their behinds off. Their classes often have over forty students in them. In addition, they’re outside in all kinds of yucky weather or scrambling to find a place to take their classes when its raining, like it’s been doing over the last several months.

I did have one uniquely traumatic moment while teaching that P.E. class, and it didn’t involve the necessity to use C.P.R. on a student. It was shortly before Easter. My students and I were all on the field trying to look like we were exercising. The school’s field was surrounded by houses, many with simple cyclone fences separating us from neighborhood, which made it easy to look into people’s backyards. All of a sudden, we hear a horrible high-pitched wailing noise. We all turn around and see a man in the process of slitting a pig’s throat. Just putting a meal on the table, I suppose. The death throes of that hog were nothing compared to the screams of thirty-five eight-grade girls witnessing this lovely rite of spring. No . . . teacher education just can’t prepare you for moments like that.

One of the nice results of the rain, of course, is that everything is green green green! It’s especially green around my dad’s house. His home is surrounded by forty acres of rolling pastures, scrubby and non-scrubby oaks, wetlands, and blackberry bushes. This is my favorite time of year at his place because everything is so lush. Even the neighbor’s horses enjoy lounging on the field in front of his house and mowing it for us. Things will start to heat up soon enough. The grass will turn brown and the only things that will be green besides the leaves in the trees will be the dastardly star-thistle, which will force the neighbor’s horses to relocate to more friendly terrain.

Okay . . . I’m ready to admit it to the world . . . I am addicted to A & E’s show Hoarders. I’m not proud of it, but there it is. I compare watching Hoarders to driving by an accident on the freeway. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to slow down and look, but you just can’t help checking to see if there are any dead bodies lying by the side of the road.

Hoarders is full of dead bodies . . . cats, rats, possums, birds . . . and the lives of people buried under mounds and mounds of stuff.

In case you haven’t seen the show, the premise is basically the same in each episode. First we’re taken on a tour of an anonymous person’s home, which is always an awe-inspiring train wreck. From basement to attic, people have spent years accumulating junk, (I mean “treasures”) until they have narrow pathways leading from one room to the next. Every surface from floor to ceiling is inevitably piled with an odd assortment of every possible thing you can imagine being in a house—times twenty. Sad-faced family members are interviewed and they tearfully try to explain what it’s like to life with and love a hoarder.

The hoarder herself (most of them are women) sits in the one foot by one foot space she’s carved out for herself in front of the TV on the couch and talks about her “collections.” Most of the time, these people are in extreme denial about the condition of their home. I remember one woman being interviewed and as she was laughing off the situation some of the stuff behind her started to fall on top of her. Another woman had to go to a local gas station to use the toilet and wash up because she couldn’t get into her bathroom.

We usually discover that there has been some traumatic event in the person’s life that triggered the hoarding or caused it to worsen—a death of a loved one, a disability, a sick spouse, children leaving home and moving far, far away. Sometimes the hoarders are men, but usually they are women and part of their problem is compulsive shopping. Clothes and shoes and purses are piled in heaps everywhere, much of it with tags still attached. Many of these women pride themselves on being able to find bargains that they just can’t pass up at thrift stores. And the men are often junk collectors, buying broken things so they can be fixed.

After we get a good look at the miserable situation these poor people are in, the experts come in to help. Usually a crisis has brought them there. Maybe someone’s called Child Protective Services to remove children from the home. Maybe the city has ordered them to clean up their property or face enormous fines and jail time. Someone called for help (and called A & E), and now there’s a psychiatrist who specializes in compulsive behaviors and a professional organizer with a team of people ready to help remove all the crap and get this person’s life back in order.

And so they begin. Usually there’s a struggle. The hoarder may move so slowly, pouring over every tiny scrap of paper or broken toaster to decide whether it should be tossed or donated or SAVED! Well-meaning family members watch on the sidelines with incredible frustration. Or they rant and rave and throw their hands up in despair. You know that they would just like to take a giant shovel and just start scooping and tossing everything into the 1-800-GOT-JUNK? trucks that are standing by. But the hoarders just can’t let go. “Save, save, save . . . okay, toss . . wait, wait, wait . . . let me look at that again” they say about a boxed Christmas decoration covered with rat urine and feces. EEK! And that’s not the worst of it. This show is not for the squeamish . . . believe me!

But 80% of the time, by the end of the show, yards and houses have been cleaned and the hoarders have looks of stunned relief on their faces. A postscript at the end of the show will tell us whether they are using after-care funds to continue working with a therapist or professional organizer or has refused help. Either way, you can’t help but wonder whether it’s going to last.

One of the recurring mantras you hear from family members on the show is that they just can’t believe that their mother/father/spouse has chosen stuff over them. It’s like these people spend their lives building walls around themselves as a challenge – - come in and find me if you love me enough.

So why do I watch such a depressing show? Well, I take it like medicine because I can see a tiny little piece of myself in these people. I’m sure my mother was a hoarder, especially when it came to clothes. Having lived through the Depression, she had a really hard time throwing stained, torn and out-dated clothing away, even if she hadn’t worn it for years.

One of the most vivid episodes of Hoarders was about a woman in her seventies who hoarded food. Her refrigerator was a disgusting sight. The psychologist was trying to get her to throw expired food items away, but she felt like if the package wasn’t swollen it would be fine to eat.

On her floor was a black, moldy, rotting pumpkin. A worker was trying to scrape it off the floor with a shovel. “Wait, wait,” she cried. She bent over that shovel and talked to that melting pumpkin. “You were so lovely,” she said. Then she reached her hand inside the darkened pulp and pulled out some seeds! “I can plant these,” she said. It just breaks your heart.

Now I’m not saying that I am a hoarder, but I can definitely see the possibility of falling over to The Dark Side. And I watch the show to keep myself in check and also so I can say to myself, “I may be bad, but I’m not THAT bad!” My “treasures” have been contained to one semi-well-organized room . . . okay, and part of the garage. Oh . . . and the bookshelves in the living room. But you can’t count the books . . . I don’t think.

Still, you can imagine my dismay when last Monday’s episode featured Julie from Englewood, Colorado who considers herself a . . . wait for it . . . an Altered Artist! What?? Now that really is hitting a little too close to home!

Here’s Julie, looking through boxes and boxes of stuff and she’s looking at every little broken thing as a potential piece for an art project. She pulls out a lovely duck decoy with a broken beak from a box and says, “I could use this for something.” And I’m thinking, well it’s a little big, but it does have possibilities.

The psychologist in his infinite wisdom says, “You know, when you’re an artist, and you do altered art, everything looks valuable. It’s very hard to throw anything away.”

Don’t I know it.