Wednesday, April 26, 2017


     This objet d’art sits on my dresser. I walk by her daily and usually don’t give her any thought. We bought her at an art gallery in northern Michigan years ago when I was teaching and playing my baritone uke, (“George”) for my classes. I must admit, it was a narcissistic purchase, as I thought she looked  and dressed like me:  high heels, legs showing, big hair, a huge smile and a tiny dress. Some 25 years or so later, I still look like this, except my teaching is not done in a classroom; it’s wherever and whenever the opportunity arises to address the “teachable moment.” She actually looks more like me now, as my face is aging in a weird distorted way, and my joints are somewhat puzzling. My mouth is drawn on, as my lip line disappeared one night in my sixties when I was dreaming of George Clooney. Her skin is way tighter than mine, and I don’t have that much hair anymore (and it’s blond). I still wear tiny dresses, albeit in dimly- lit venues, and I don’t play “George” anymore. He’s in the closet on a shelf collecting dust. I spend most of my time practicing my piano, and my hands have ugly protruding veins that this artist chose not to reveal.  There is always a chunk of hair on my face often hiding my right eye which drives Mr. Wonderful nuts. (It’s my way of letting him know I am still in control here:)

     So what’s the point? Not sure. Can you think of one? It’s 4:07 a.m., and I’ve been up for almost two hours. The profound message is escaping me. Check edit button at lunch time, around 9:25 a.m.