Marching to Your Own Accordion

I saw a bumper sticker yesterday that read "I follow the beat of my own accordion." I love it when people really own their eccentricities. You know, if W owned his quirks rather than posing as the Biggest Dog of All, he'd be a lot more tolerable. Maybe.

This is one of my favorite pictures, taken at the San Francisco ferry building. I was way too much in my head, pondering writing vs. eating, how W got elected twice, if there would be a line at Peet's. Along comes this woman, so into the day she radiated. I wanted what she had. When I asked if I could take her picture, her ebullience completely took the scaly rusty stuff off my outlook. She made the skirt herself, she said, and she dresses like that all the time.

Talk about owning your accordion. Or marching to your quirks. Or whatever. I really loved that she was a walking party. She put me in a good mood the whole day. In fact, I still get a lift when I look at this picture. If leopard tights don't force you to get over yourself, well, you're in a mighty sorry state.

But What Does this Mean?

True to her word, Lawrence Welk's assistant Margaret sent me not one, but two coffee cups last week. I was so beset with joy that I did the happy dance around the living room in my foundation garments, annoying the cat and my husband Patrick to the point where they both assumed the "I give you my back, you feeb" (short for 'feeble') position. Did I care? Nay, I did not care. As those of us with low-thrill thresholds know, their haughty demeanor belies the hurt child inside - the hurt child that aches to drink his Ovaltine from a Lawrence Welk mug.

When I stopped my caper-cutting long enough to look over my treasure, I realized … dear Lord in accordion heaven … that the image on the mug was the same image that I plucked randomly from dozens of web images to use for my blog post. I immediately showed it to Patrick, who gave it a cursory glance then resumed his "my back, you feeb" pose. Not daunted by his callousness, I pursued the enormity of the coinky-dink.

"Don't you think it's just … eerie?"

"No."

"I mean, of all the images I could have picked, I picked the exact same one they use for their mugs. That's just wild."

"Wild."

"I think it means we're connected somehow."

"As long as he doesn't bring Myron Floren for a threesome."

So I'm left to ponder the Big Issues myself. But that's fine, I'm used to it. I drink my coffee from it every morning and it makes me happy. But listen, if I ever see a Lawrence Welk mug on eBay, and one of mine is missing, I'm calling my wunnerful baton-wielding buddy in the sky to inflict a little whoop-de-do ass. Then we'll see who doubts our connection.

RIP, Art Buchwald

Sometimes it takes an obituary to get a lesson on how to live your own life. After reading today's New York Times obit on humorist Art Buchwald, I feel like having a little cry and getting some fresh air, then revamping my entire MO. Everything he experienced, observed, imagined, was fodder for copy. And not just "here's what I did today, aren't I cool" copy, it was funny, generous, kind, Pulitzer Prize-winning copy.

His beginnings were difficult: his mother was declared delusional (this was back in 1925) and he never saw her after that. His father was a drapery and upholstery maker. When the Depression made it too difficult for him to support his five children, Art was shipped to the incredibly scary-sounding Hebrew Orphan Asylum (ew. Actually, it's way more - aaack.) In his late teens, Art escaped the orphanage, hitched to North Carolina, and joined the Marines.

To cut drastically to the chase, from then on his pen was his ticket to an amazing life. The part about how he wanted to be remembered as bringing joy to people's lives is … well, it's … it's a tearjerker, OK? Seriously, read the obit. If you're not moved, even if you're not a writer, you need to get away from the computer and get out more.

I mean it. Read it, then go. Scat. Skedaddle.

Wunnerful, wunnerful

I had a brush with fame this morning that's got me all amped. That plus the pot and a half of Graffeo's dark french roast maybe, but I'm certain the light-headedness is from talking with … with … Lawrence Welk's personal assistant, Margaret. That is, she was his personal assistant. She's not really that any more. Because of his being, you know, dead.

Margaret, as one might expect from LW's assistant, is a very nice lady. Her memories of her former boss are warm, and listening to her gave me the feeling of being wrapped up in a toasty soft comforter. "The cameras didn't show him to his best advantage," she said. "He stiffened up around them. He was much more charismatic and funny in person. I saw him walk into a room and the place was electrified. He played Madison Square Garden in the 80s, and even then his numbers were huge, like a rock star. I bet most people don't know that."

Maybe I was a little too cool for Mom and Dad's Saturday night favorite TV show when I called, but I swear by all that's chiffon and sparkly, Margaret's sincerity melted my edges. She's even going to send me a coffee mug!

Oh, and I called because I'm researching a story. But I think I got an inspiration for another (can't … resist … saying it) wunnerful piece.

Bunny Ears Voodoo

You never know when a little chunk of wonderful is going to work its way into your day.



Maybe it was his saucy wink, or his bunny ears, or possibly the way the faux fur trim on his Asian-inspired vest shimmied in the breeze. Alls I know is, I was craving a blender drink and Chesterfields the entire day after our encounter.