Musings From Self-Isolation-Day 3

Day 3

I haven't slept well in over a week. I am certain that the anxiety caused by this entire situation compounded with the stress of travel has put me somewhat over the edge. While most of you had the opportunity to stock up on necessities over the last ten days or so, those of us returning after a significant time away, weren't necessarily in tune with what we had on hand in our homes. Again, I realize that this is a first-world and very privileged problem to have, but coming home to a paucity of Kleenex or cleaning supplies is unnerving for a great many, especially those who are not equipped to handle the internet all that well.

I have had to teach my parents about online grocery shopping and how the delivery service works. Self-quarantine is a new experience for all of us, but for seniors who are still trying to figure out the difference between "reply" versus the "reply all" button on their email, this experience is exponentially daunting. They are far from ignorant nor are they computer-illiterate, but rather they are fearful of making mistakes and wiping out their entire credit card limits. My dad, God bless him, keeps thinking that he can go downstairs to his lobby to retrieve his deliveries. I have had to calmly explain to him that he needs to instruct his security people to allow deliveries to come directly to his door. Understanding isn't the problem. Changing decades of learned behaviour is the problem. My parents are amazing and capable people who have suddenly been thrown into the deep end of the pool like toddlers learning to swim.

Some of us have the ability to adapt easily to changes in our circumstances and some have difficulties. While we are trying right now to practice kindness and understanding, patience might be something to add to the list. If you can't get your groceries immediately, deal with it with patience. If you see seniors and other vulnerable individuals struggling with everyday tasks, reach out and offer help and support. Adult grandchildren, call your grandparents a little more often than you might under normal situations. Offer to pick up some things that they might need or just let them hear your voices. Little things go a long way for this generation. They just need a bit of extra support and some TLC. Let's hashtag this #callyourbubby

A few random thoughts.

Exercise is helping me. I usually bitch and moan about my daily workouts but right now, they are unquestioned. Even a walk, if you can manage it, provides rejuvenation for the soul.

Taking a shower whenever I feel the walls are closing in, is also regenerating. Feeling clean in a world of unknown dirt and filth makes me whole for a little while.

I shlepped out my guitar today. I might regale you all in the near future, so fair warning if you want to duck and cover.

Kim's Convenience is my favourite comedy on TV at the moment. I have been a fan of this CBC gem for several years but the new season is a riot. Canadian television at its finest. American friends, you can find the first three seasons on Netflix. We here up north are on season four.

I am still impressed with the coordination happening between all of our very diverse, and diametrically opposed, levels of government. Unless you have experienced the shitshow to the south, I am begging all of my Canadian friends to shut the fuck up about your political preferences. If I can praise Doug Ford, and most of you know how much I loathe every member of his punk-assed family,  you can mute the Trudeau bullshit. They are doing the best they can and it is obvious that they are taking their direction from the experts. If I see any more shitposts about Canadian government officials, I will block you. WE SIMPLY DON'T KNOW ALL OF THE INTERCONNECTED PIECES THAT THEY ARE DEALING WITH. I know you're angry and scared. These men are doing their jobs right now under the most trying of situations, and that should be applauded.

Trump, on the other hand, is a twat. He is a menace, a danger, and is bound to increase the contagion due to his gross incompetence, negligence, and narcissism. His press conferences are circuses where he is desperately searching for praise and back-pats, even if he gives them to himself. Today, I watched the CDC doctors actually roll their eyes in disbelief. The best thing he could do, right now, is to resign or at least let the experts handle the crisis. He won't. He is a man in desperate need of mental health intervention. I am very worried about our friends to the south.

Here is today's music break to help you all wind down.



Wash your hands, don't touch your face, be kind, stay home.

I'm Planning a Party...It Seems Like You're All Invited

I honestly thought of writing a post today filled with fear, angst, and terror, because if I'm being even a wee bit honest with you all and myself, fear, angst, and terror are what I am feeling today. But instead of wallowing in the "what ifs" and "wherefores" I decided to plan the going away party. For those of you reading and thinking "this is in extremely poor taste," I need to reassure you that I am in no way making light of what I view as an extremely serious and dangerous situation, but rather I need the distraction of anything that will keep my hands from shaking and will make the nightmares cease when I attempt to close my eyes. So instead we have...

A Party Plan for The End of The World As We Know It (With sincere apologies to R.E.M. for plagiarizing their words.)

I want my family here. All of them. I don't care where they think they need to be. They need to be here. As one. Together.

When the end comes I want cake. Not just any cake. It needs to be double-layered chocolate blackout cake with chocolate buttercream frosting. Calories? Who the fuck cares! Lactose intolerance can damn well just eat me up from the inside out. I'll fart it out like there's no tomorrow...because there isn't one! And there needs to be pie. Fruit pies. Lots of them. My Lil Bro's apple pie is an absolute must. Nobody should ever plan to leave this earth unless they have experienced my brother's apple pie. It is perfection in a pan.

There will be alcohol. Lots of it. Anesthesia is a necessity from this reality. And...I really want to try pot at least once before I leave this earth. (You can debate that bit of quality information quietly amongst yourselves.)

There needs to be music. Only the best voices and the best players allowed. Nothing canned or electronic. I refuse to leave this world listening to shitty American Idol or The Voice mashups.

I will Not be wearing a bra. I will leave this world the same way I came in. Free, easy, and unconstricted.

Laughter is a must. We will have a seemingly endless stream of Marx Brothers, Danny Kaye, Robin Williams, and Mel Brooks movies on hand. Peter Sellers' Clouseau (WTF was Steve Martin thinking in trying to remake that? It's like a paint by numbers version of the Mona Lisa!) is a moral imperative as are Nora Ephron movies. I just love the way she wrote.

I really hope it happens in summer. Winter followed by a nuclear winter seems so needlessly repetitive and gauche.

I want flowers. No lilies. Too maudlin and I am highly allergic. I don't want it written somewhere in the fallout that she departed this earth covered in hives. Roses. Gerber daisies. Hydrangeas. Sunflowers. Anything to remind us of colour and light.

I want photographs. I want to be surrounded by albums. Not phone screens. Actual printed out photos. I want to see my aunt's face again. And my bubby's. And my father-in-law's. I don't tend to believe in an afterlife so I want those visuals with me one last time.

I hope that we will be granted a sunset and maybe even a rainbow. I want to remember that somewhere out there, there may be a couple of assholes who control the finale of this world, but they didn't create it. Something bigger and better did that.

And finally....With my last breath I want to scream at all of you out there who voted to put the fate of the entire planet into the hands of an amoral, sociopathic, truly unstable madman simply because you couldn't see past your own self-interest, your own hateful racism, your own misogyny, or even because of (horror of horrors) her emails.....

FUCK YOU!

**Time and date of the festivities are still to be determined. Let's hope that we have to cancel.

An Authentic Summer Moment...Gas and all.

I ate a hot dog yesterday. From a street vendor.

There is much about that collection of words that is unusual.

I really don't like hot dogs. Never have. Not even as a kid. Not even at a picnic, barbecue, or a ball game.  There is something extraordinarily distasteful to me about a casing stuffed with unknown innards roasting on a ubiquitous street cart that passes for an outdoor restaurant. And honestly, veggie hot dogs kind of define everything that is wrong with trying to turn meat dishes into vegan fare. They are tasteless, chewy, spongy, and filled with so much sodium as to mask and substitute for what they are lacking. I have often joked that I would be much happier with just a toasted hot dog bun off the cart filled with all the toppings. I really love hot dog toppings.

Hot dogs are also not what anyone would call easy on my digestive tract. Without getting into ugly descriptors of stomach ailments, if I am going to suffer the after effects, I'd rather suffer them for junk food I truly enjoy like ice cream, chocolate, or greasy french fries. Hot dogs are frankly a waste of a good calorie-binge.

So the question becomes, why did I choose to indulge in a street dog yesterday?

The Husband and I have been making a concerted effort to get to know our still-sort of-newish neighbourhood this summer. Since we moved late last August and then left for The Southern Home only a few months later, we really didn't get as much of a chance as we would have liked to explore and experience all that our new urban digs had to offer. So this summer, we have searched out the festivals, the neighbourhood farmer's markets, the walking trails, the street art, and the natural vibrancy of downtown Toronto. (When people tell me that they have never been to Toronto and want to visit, I always joke and tell them to come in the summer. Not that winter doesn't have its charms, although I personally struggle to find them, but Toronto in the summer is a fantastic place.)

None of this explains why I ate a hot dog.

Yesterday, we decided to walk over to the City Hall Art Show. This outdoor exhibition is an annual favourite of ours. We spent several hours meandering through the assortment of booths, stopping on occasion to chat with the artists and just enjoying Shabbat amidst soaking humidity and soaring temperatures. That's another thing about Toronto in the summer. There is never a perfect weather day. As we made our way back towards home, both of us noted that we were hungry. We were hoping to check out some of the new food trucks at City Hall, but as fate (or city council) would have it, there were only chip and ice cream trucks. As we approached Queen and Spadina, The Husband finally stumbled upon a street meat vendor and the die was cast. Summer in the city. Feel and taste the experience. I could feel the indigestion burbling as he grilled the thing. Tell me something, as an aside. Why does it take longer to grill a veggie dog than it does a regular dog? Is there some pretence working here that if the vendor spends longer on cooking non-meat, it might seem and taste like real meat? Are we worried more about ptomaine or e-Coli in a veggie dog than in a standard dog?

As the vendor worked at his craft, I was far more interested in the street musicians playing on the corner. These guys weren't just jamming for nickels and dimes, they were fricking amazing. Billed as The Big Smoke Brass Band, they are a collection of five wondrously talented guys who have been moving from intersection to intersection this summer in order to get heard. And heard they were. The people at Queen and Spadina literally stopped in their tracks to listen. (This video isn't mine, but you can at least get a feel for their sound. I found trying to record while holding onto a hot dog a first-world social media challenge.)


I was almost disappointed when the hot dog was ready. We stayed a bit longer to listen and then we were off on our wild new journey towards dyspepsia.

So, yes....I ate a hot dog yesterday and yes.....I am paying a huge price for it today. But I figure it was worth it. It was a small price to pay for a truly authentic Toronto summer moment. If we hadn't stopped for the hot dog, I wouldn't have been blessed with the talent of these young men. It almost makes up for my seriously messed up digestive tract.

Check out Big Smoke Brass on social media. They often list where they will be playing next. 

Holy Work on Shabbat

I am spending Shabbat morning watching this scene from my balcony.

Why you may ask?

Well before I answer that question, a bit of backstory is in order.

This is the pool in our building in the Southern Home. Several months ago, the city found several problems with the now almost thirty-year-old structure and insisted on repairs. The condo association tried to put off the fixes for as long as possible (read: until the snowbird season was concluded) but the city would have none of it. If the repairs weren't done in a timely manner, fines would be imposed. So last week, the pool was drained and work began on the removal of tile, the reparation of cracks, lighting replacement, and various other smaller issues. We were told that the project could take several weeks and as such, those who used the pool on a regular basis would need to make alternate arrangements. Yes, there was plenty of bitching and moaning from people in the building, but sometimes there just isn't a choice. 

Given the location of the pool with respect to our condo, the Husband and I have had a front-row seat to the action. And it has been surprisingly and hypnotically entertaining. 

At times it felt as though the job would never get started let alone completed. We saw a lot of standing around by workers. While there were at least four guys here on any given day, it was rare to see more than one work at a time. Granted, we are not pool repair people and are ignorant to the craft, but it did seem that more than a few dramatic domestic issues were being played out on phone calls than actual pool repair. (Yes...we can hear conversations clearly and I really hope that whoever was on the other end of one particularly vile string of expletives was smart enough to leave the SOB.) 

That said, while the work did seem to progress at the pace of a snail racing a sponge, it did progress.  I noticed that I was starting to recognize the various craftspeople and to understand what each particular contribution was to the project as a whole. There were the tile master and the concrete pourer. There were the electrician and the apprentice. There was the one guy who was here for one day and fired the next. (We know he was fired because they talked about it...loudly.) I noticed the particular dynamics of their work environment, how it actually functioned like a well-choreographed dance. I observed how some of the guys had an obvious report and how they might ignore or playfully haze the newcomers. But mostly, I was enthralled by their music.

In the early days, we were treated to the dulcet tones of Luther Vandross and Anita Baker. R&B wafted up to our apartment and it soothed. And the men....they sang along. They sang with passion and they sang with warmth. They sang without even knowing they were singing. It came from their souls. One gentleman, in particular, has a voice that any cantor would kill for and the echoing of his deep baritone off of the empty pool walls cascaded upward like a gift from the gods.

A few days ago, their music choices inexplicably changed to gospel. There were affirmations and holy exclamations. We were witness to a revival and a collective baptism in a pool without water. They were renewed. They were cleansed. Those craftsmen brought God to this place.

This morning, on Shabbat morning, sixteen men came to work. (They are trying to speed up the project and hopefully will finish early next week.) And they came to sing. And, oh how they sing.  These men are most definitely experiencing the presence of the Divine Spirit as they inch towards the completion of their task. These men have found a measure of holiness in their labour, a sense of Kadosh, and they are sharing it with me. I can't imagine a more precious gift.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote, “The Sabbath is the presence of God in the world, open to the soul of man.” God is not in things of space, but in moments of time.” 

Thank you to these generous souls who gave me a glimpse of The Divine Spirit on this Shabbat.

An Open Letter

An open letter to the obnoxious fan who sat behind us last night at the John Prine concert.

Dear Friend,

It was so nice that we could share in the collective experience of seeing Mr. Prine in person at Massey Hall last Friday evening. I'm not certain if you are aware of the fact that since Mr. Prine has suffered two bouts with cancer over the past several years, this tour is one that has great meaning for his fans. My Husband and I have waited over eight years to see him in concert again and we have had to endure several missed opportunities, including a cancelled show due to his ongoing health problems. So it was with great pleasure that we forked over a tidy sum and endured a painfully uncomfortable venue (I think that the springs from my seat are forever and permanently lodged in my right buttcheek) in order to watch and listen to one of our all-time favourite singer/songwriters perform live. We were even more thrilled when local favourite Ron Sexsmith was announced as the opening act. We were filled to the brim with honey and oil as we took our seats and couldn't imagine anything or anybody fucking with our mood, that is until you and your partners showed up and blew our illusions to smithereens. 

I am totally incredulous of people like you. Your insularity and self-centredness are astounding. It wasn't bad enough that you arrived twenty minutes late. Ok. Maybe your boss is a total fuckwad and couldn't find a way to let you leave on time. Or maybe your husband wasn't all that psyched about seeing John and you couldn't drag his aging hippy ass out of the house in a timely fashion. But there were 3,000 of us who did manage to find our seats before 8:00pm despite our personal problems or our shitty days. But no worries. You come first.

It wasn't disrespectful enough that you chatted noisily about your misery and apparently your even worse commute to Massey Hall during the entirety of Ron Sexsmith's eloquent solo set. Isn't it a least remotely possible that some in a crowd of 3,000 actually preferred Ron to you?

It wasn't horribly rude enough that you yanked the back of my already uncomfortable seat in order to squeeze yourself into the packed row.  Late and a fucking menace all rolled up into one tidy little package. Thanks for trimming my hair as you passed through.

Wasn't it miserably impolite enough of you to come in baked and blitzed? God forbid you should have a filter for your arrogance or that you should use your indoor voice. I think they heard you up in the second balcony. 

And that was just the beginning of our suffering.

There was that time when you decided to stand and leave during a critical moment of one of John's most sensitive songs, Hello in There. You decided that that particular moment would be an appropriate time for a refill on your G & T and to purchase a concert tee to cover your middle-aged spread. Thanks for ruining a favourite of mine.

There was the constant verbal molestation of the poor man to play his song Paradise that you barked out in a voice so loud and shrill as to remind us of cats copulating. My ears are still ringing from your tenor. He actually responded to you at one point by stating "I promise you that I'm singing as fast as I can." Imagine my disappointment when he gave into your constant haranguing and closed with the bloody thing.

There was the running commentary that you insisted on giving about each and every lyric as though you were scrutinizing them for a fucking thesis. Tell me something. How is it even possible that every line can be your "absolute favourite of all-time"? 

Madam...people like you are why I have tended to shy away from audience-driven experiences over the last several years. You seem to think that it is perfectly fine to behave at a public gathering as you do in your basement at home. You may think that you have every right to enjoy yourself as you see fit given the fact that you paid a hefty price for the ticket, but here's the thing. You don't. Your right to behave like an asshole ends where my rights as a  co-audience member begin. You see, I too paid for a ticket and nowhere in that transaction did it state that a drunken moron behaving boorishly behind me was included in the price. 

I am not a confrontational person and I probably would have suffered in silence were it not for my friend who confronted you at least once verbally and also with a few death stares lasered in your direction. It brought some emotional relief and we were at least able to laugh, but you are one of those rare individuals who lack any self-awareness. God forbid that you should have altered your behaviour.

I don't know you and I hope we never meet again. I obviously can't stop you from attending other public gatherings, but I do hope that at least you give some thought to what we said to you and that in your zeal to have a great evening, you hopefully understand that you really screwed with at least 4 other people's good time. 

My High Holidays are coming up so I will attempt to forgive you your multiple transgressions. As John, himself would say...

Father forgive us

For what we must do

You forgive us

We'll forgive you

We'll forgive each other

Till we both turn blue

Then we'll whistle and go fishing

In heaven.

My Barbra Streisand Contest

So here's the story.

A few weeks back, I dragged The Husband and my parents to the home of the Maple Leafs to see Barbra Streisand.

Ms. Streisand is a personal favourite of mine from bygone days. We can argue about her perceived strengths and weaknesses, but frankly, I have no interest in the debate. As far as I'm concerned, Judy Garland and Barbra Streisand are 1 and 1A on my list of all-time great female vocalists. (Just as an FYI, the list is long and diverse, but these two share top spot.) Ten years ago, I made good on a lifelong promise to my parents to take them to see her in person if she ever came north, and when I discovered that she was once again touring at the still young age of 74, we repeated the experience.

The concert was exquisite. A blissful mix of memories and conversations. She was more interactive this time and much more at ease with herself and with the audience. And then, of course, there is that voice. That magnificent instrument that others have attempted to duplicate or tried to imitate to no avail. She is simply an original and while age has dulled some of her power, it hasn't at all played havoc with her tonality or intonation. Even my cynical husband had to admit that she was breathtaking.

When I bought the tickets, I was surprised to learn that Ms. Streisand, in a fit of generosity, vanity, or perhaps just brilliant marketing, had a gift for all of her ticket holders. With her new album dropping at the end of August, we would all be receiving copies. I figured one per order, but no, rather it was one per ticket. I had forgotten about it until this was forwarded from our old address earlier this week.

There is something bizarrely satisfying about the old-school nature of receiving a CD. Ms. Streisand has a thing for album art and would not be dissuaded by record company executives to merely release online. But, four? What to do with four?

When I put the photo up on Facebook and Instagram, I found my answer. My friends were only too willing to take them off my hands. So, I started thinking. There is so much shit going on in the world right now, let's find a distraction. We'll play for Barbra.

At the bottom of this post, there are five Barbra Streisand trivia questions. First one in with all correct answers wins. It's that simple.

Now...there have to be conditions and rules, so here they are.

1) There is one CD in play for certain with a definite possibility of a second. (I am keeping one and my parents get one too.) So, if you think that you might not know all the answers remember that second place isn't a bad spot either.
2) Google and other online or offline sources are really fun, but using them is CHEATING. Do you really need a CD so badly that you would cheat others? Where's the fun in that? We play by the honour system here, boys and girls, so please use your time-addled brains and pretend that the internet doesn't exist for this one brief moment in time. Anyhow, Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur are coming up. Are you really prepared to face The Almighty and confess that you defrauded your friends out of a CD?
3) If you haven't done so already, you must be a follower of my Facebook page. I need a few more of you and this is all about self-promotion, so click the damn button if you want to win. I know who you are and I can see you.
4) While I didn't technically pay for these CDs, the tickets were a fucking fortune. I do not in any way expect payment or reimbursement for this, but it would be nice if the winners would donate $10.00 to my synagogue. Pick a fund. These are good people doing good work. You'll win even if you don't, but Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur are coming up. Are you really prepared to face The Almighty and confess that you are a cheap-assed bastard for ten bucks?
5) I am the judge and jury. My decision stands. No arguing with the judge is permitted and all decisions are final. My CDs, my rules.
6) All answers must be received no later than 9:00am on Labour Day Monday. After that, you are shit out of luck.

So here we go. Answers can be left here in the comments section or in the comments section on Facebook.

1) Barbra has won 2 Academy Awards. Name both films for which she was honoured.
2) Who of these has NOT sung a duet with Barbra? a) Frank Sinatra b) Judy Garland c) Donna Summer d) Bing Crosby e) Louis Armstrong
3) What was the title of Barbra's first album?
4) What was Barbra's SECOND Broadway show?
5) Barbra's first TV special was entitled My Name is Barbra. It won two very significant awards. Name them.

There you have it, friends. Have at it, but NO CHEATING!!! Winners announced next week. Don't forget to follow me on Facebook or your entry is null and void. Have a wonderful long weekend. Don't rain on my parade. Have some fun with it.

Esa Einai

Esa einai el heharim, 

me'ayin yavo ezri

I will lift up my eyes to the mountains.
From where does my help come?  

Ezri me'im Adonai, 
Oseh shamayim va'aretz 

My help comes from Adonai, 
who made heaven and earth.  (Psalm 121)


I spent a huge chunk of my time today believing that I was staring into the face of the Almighty.

How could one feel anything less when gazing upon the majesty that is the Rocky Mountains from the summit of Sulfur Mountain in Banff Alberta?

God exists for me here because here I feel the natural presence of creation. Here I feel the need to utter words of thanks and prayer for the simple beauty that comes with the wholesome, the unrefined, the organic. Here I remember the music of benediction, the rhythm of invocation, the beat of devotion.

I will lift up my eyes to the mountains....

Today on the top of a mountain I saw God.

From where does my help come?

Today on the top of a mountain I felt spiritual strength manifest into physical strength.

My help comes from Adonai,

Today on the top of a mountain I knew unequivocally that I was not alone.

Who made heaven and earth.

Today on the top of a mountain I saw heaven and earth touch and together become infused with an intense spirit of holiness.

God walked with me today and I felt invigorated.

My Fading Youth

It's been a tough few weeks for those of us of a certain age and generation. The recent and far too soon passings of Natalie Cole, David Bowie, actor extraordinaire Alan Rickman, and now Glenn Frey have left me reeling. It is a strange experience to mourn for individuals whom I have never personally met. And yet....there is such familiarity with these artists and the extensive bodies of work that they left behind, that I feel a chasm has opened in my personal history.

I have always been highly suspicious of public outpourings of grief for celebrities and in fact, I have been rather dismayed at the excessive and exaggerated public spectacles of mourning that seem to regularly occur in the internet age. But now it is starting to feel personal.

These artists weren't merely singers or performers. Their work made up the patchwork fabric and soundtrack of my youth. There were the road trips down to Indianapolis when we rolled down the windows and blasted The Eagles at high decibels. There was the smoothness and soulfulness of Natalie as she reminded us of romance and passion. There were the schmaltzy date nights curled up on the couch watching Mr Rickman's brilliance and marvelling at his ability to get me to cheer for his villains as ardently as I did for his leading men. And....there was Bowie. The iconoclast. The individual. The man who taught all of us freaks and geeks that differences are to be celebrated and never dismissed. They were all there for me during my awkward years, my formative times, my growing pains, my youth.

This fortnight has felt personal because it has felt like my childhood and adolescence are eroding and slowing evaporating into the ether. These recent deaths have brought my own aging and mortality into question. It is difficult to look in the rearview and realize that all of those important artistic touchstones have aged right along with me. We collectively mourn these artists not out of some macabre interest in the details of their deaths, but rather to celebrate and remember the gifts that they bestowed upon us. While nobody can lay claim to immortality, these gifted souls left behind work that will be enjoyed and debated about for years to come. 

My sadness metre is on overload this month. I have lost chunks of my history in less than a month. It is difficult for me to fathom that no new works will be forthcoming from this quartet and that is extremely painful. Nobody, least of all me, likes to come face to face with their own decline. And while there are many more artists for me to discover, and to enjoy, and to revel in, there is still a sense of melancholy in the knowledge that some things will never be the same.

Zichronam Livracha...May their memories always be for blessing.

Shabbat Music Break

Our final Shabbat Music Break Broadway Style recognizes one of my favourite theatre going experiences of the last two years. My infatuation with Idina Menzel is well-documented, but seeing her in this incredible production was stupefyingly mind-blowing. If/Then tells the story of Elizabeth, a 40-something who has moved back to New York following the breakup of her marriage. Her life is mapped out for her depending on the choices she makes and the people she meets. The play is a bit like the movie Sliding Doors starring Gwyneth Paltrow, in that it follows the same character on two distinct life paths that are dependent on the options presented. Ms Menzel is always a revelation, and the music has been perfectly tailored to her immense vocal talents. I tend to weep every single time I see her live. It's kind of a thing between her and me. If/Then has begun a national tour and will hit Toronto in the spring, and while Ms Menzel will not be in the cast, it is still an incredible theatre experience. It is not a show for the lazy theatre goer and it is not a show for those expecting big, brassy production numbers. It requires attention, thought, and perspective. It is very adult and very brilliant.

Here is the "11:00" number. I convulsed with tears.

If/Then (2014)
Music: Tom Kitt
Lyrics: Brian Yorkey
Book: Brian Yorkey

Song: Always Starting Over

Shabbat Music Break

Our Shabbat Music Break today is the Tony Award winner for Best Musical of 2015 Fun Home. Adapted from Alison Bechdel's 2006 graphic memoir of the same name, Fun Home the musical follows her complicated relationship with her closeted father and her coming to terms with her own sexuality. Told through the eyes of Bechdel at various ages and through her own experiences as a comics artist, the play alternates between poignant and heart-wrenching. The music is incredible and the intimate setting at Circle in the Square Theatre perfectly captures the sense of claustrophobia that both of the main characters must have felt as they were locked into their hidden lives. I walked out in tears. Fun Home isn't a classic big ballsy Broadway musical and at times it is difficult to watch. It is, however, a game-changer in the theatrical world and needs to be seen by a wide audience. It elevates Broadway to the next level.

Fun Home (2015)
Music by: Jeanine Tesori
Lyrics by: Lisa Kron
Book by: Lisa Kron

Song: Ring of Keys

Shabbat Music Break

Today I offer another in my series of Shabbat Music Breaks Broadway with the incredibly clever and hysterically funny new musical Something Rotten. Set in South London in the late 1590s, Something Rotten follows the story of the struggling Bottom brothers as they attempt to make it in a theatrical world dominated by their arch nemesis William Shakespeare. Opening on Broadway in March 2015, it was nominated for a myriad of theatre awards including 10 Tonys, (winning but 1) including Best Musical. This show is just a rip-roaring great time at the theatre.

Something Rotten (2015)

Music by: Wayne Kirkpatrick and Karey Kirkpatrick

Lyrics by: Wayne Kirkpatrick and Karey Kirkpatrick

Book by: Karey Kirkpatrick and John O'Farrell

Song: A Musical

Old Folkie

My father raised a folkie.

It was embedded in utero. Instead of traditional lullabies, my dad sang me the songs of Woody and Pete. I was cradled with a proverbial hammer in my fist and was rocked to sleep by the gentle lilts of a hobo. I sang the entirety of Stewball at two,(verses and chorus) and by the time I was six Dad had already taken me to my first Peter, Paul, and Mary concert. (My first of many.)

I would spend hours playing Dad's extensive vinyl collection until the records were pitted and grooved. Woody, the Weavers, PPM, Harry Belafonte, The Kingston Trio, Joe and Eddie, The Christy Minstrels, The Serendipity Singers, Pete, Dylan, Dave Van Ronk, and of course Tom Paxton. Dad would always sing along in his deep and lustrous baritone. (I would always giggle when he tried to mimic the sound effects Tom made on The Marvellous Toy.) These artists were the soundtrack of my youth. Their music stirred my passions, my politics, my social conscience, my inner being....my faith. I was and still am, a disciple.

The Husband also shares my passion. We've happily doled out much cash over the years to add to and upgrade that original collection, and we've spent many a happy hour in dark clubs listening to our favourites perform live. So when it was announced that Tom Paxton would be returning for a final farewell this fall at Hugh's Room, we were amongst the first to snag tickets.

We have seen Tom countless times over the years and he never fails to disappoint. His voice and his stories are mellifluous, and his easy demeanour with an audience makes me feel as though he were singing just to me in the living room. He his consistent and constant, and his songs return me to an era of social involvement, collective protest, community involvement, and loving importance. At the youngish age of 78 and with more than sixty albums to his credit, Tom still wields a commanding charisma onstage, and his pathos when he speaks of old friends and loves is sincerely moving.

Tom's new songs (yes he is still actively writing and recording) mix easily with old favourites. His acerbic wit is biting and his short shelf-life songs are still ironically relevant. He has promised to keep writing and maintain his strong internet presence, but he has decided to retire from the road. He said he is tired and I suppose that after more than fifty years in the trenches he has earned the rest.

I didn't expect to be so emotional at Tom's Toronto swan song. As he tuned his Martin for a final performance of Ramblin' Boy, I realized that this was truly the end of an era. Somewhere around the second verse I was misty, and by the final chorus the tears were copious. I had a chance to shake his hand after the concert as he signed a CD for me, (a remix of his very first recording) and I thanked him for the music. It seemed like so little to say to a man who has given me so much.

My dad is presently out of town and unfortunately he missed this special evening. It seemed almost a loose end that he wasn't there with me. When I see him in a few weeks, I will share the CD, tell him the stories, and we will listen like old times. Maybe I'll even giggle when I hear The Marvellous Toy. What could be better than that?

Blog Elul Day 29-Return

"I simply can't build my hopes on a foundation of confusion, misery, and death...I think...peace and tranquility will return again."~Anne Frank

We return to that place of peace and tranquility when we return to our authentic selves. May the coming year find us all in a place of beauty, truth, and peace. שנה טוֹבה ומתוקה

Begin Again (2013)
Directed by: John Carney
Written by: John Carney

**Blog Elul is the brainchild of Rabbi Phyllis Sommer. Her blog and various links can be found at http://imabima.blogspot.ca 
**My favourite movie and musical of the past two years. This movie is brilliant. Rent it or Netflix it. You will not be sorry. 
***Looking Back through this Elul list of movies, I am not surprised at all to discover that each and every one is wonderfully written, impeccably directed, and intelligent. There isn't a single one that is ridiculous or mindless and even the comedies have smarts. They are my personal favourites, but I do beg my readers to be more selective in viewing choices. We as audiences deserve the best.

Blog Elul Day 16-Pray

"In prayer it is better to have a heart without words than words without a heart."~Mahatma Gandhi

I pray with full heart and full voice, but I continually question; what is the point of my prayer? Is it for me or is it about me? I worry that my sincerity has gone missing.

Keeping The Faith (2000)
Directed by: Edward Norton
Written by: Stuart Blumberg

**Blog Elul is the brainchild of Rabbi Phyllis Sommer. Her blog and various links can be found at http://imabima.blogspot.ca 
**We should always pray with joy like this. Music is the portal through which our prayers travel. For me..without music, prayer is meaningless.

Di Goldene Pave

Every so often a story just lends itself to a blog post.

Did you know that there is a peacock running loose today in downtown Toronto?

Apparently the photogenic bird is not all that happy with his (yup it's a boy!) accommodations at the High Park zoo, and has flown the coop twice in the past two days. He was last seen parkouring the rooftops of the west end.

There was something in the back of my music-addled and age-atrophied brain about a peacock and Jewish music. So, I did what any trivia-challenged fifty-something might do. I googled it and found a eureka! It seems that the Golden Peacock is a mythical symbol of Yiddish literature and song. Many a Yiddish poet has written about the majestic bird and more than a few songwriters have put those poems to music.

Here is a beautiful melody based on a piece by Anna Margolin with music by Chava Alberstein, sung by Chava Alberstein and The Klezmatics. Enjoy!




iz di goldene pave gefloygn, gefloygn.
un di nakht hot geefnet di goldene oygn,
likhtiker mayner, shlof ayn.

di nakht hot geefnet di goldene oygn,
bin ikh fidl gevorn un du der boygn,
umruiker mayner, shlof ayn.

bin ikh fidl gevorn un du der boygn,
un doz glik iber undz hot farlibt zikh geboygn,
tsertlekher mayner, shlof ayn.

un dos glik iber undz hot farlibt zikh geboygn,
gelozt undz aleyn un farfloygn, farfloygn,
troyeriker mayner, shlof ayn.

The golden peacock has flown off, flown off.
And the night has opened its golden eyes,
Oh, my bright one, go to sleep.

The night has opened its golden eyes,
I was the fiddle and you were the bow,
Oh, my tense one, go to sleep.

I was the fiddle and you were the bow,
And fortune loved us and bowed down over us,
Oh, my soft one, go to sleep.

And fortune loved us and bowed down over us,
Left us alone and flew off, flew off.
Oh, my sad one, go to sleep.

This wayward peacock traversing the downtown core seems to be a sign. Maybe his sprint for freedom is something that we can all strive for this Shabbat and perhaps we can just enjoy him and his beauty in peace?

Shabbat Shalom

Shabbat Music Break

This is the last in my month-long series of women in rock whom I believe have been snubbed by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Today's entry is Melissa Etheridge

Melissa became eligible for admission last year, but has not yet received a nomination. Male fronted bands who began in the same era as did she, including The Red Hot Chili Peppers (inducted) and Green Day (nominated this year), have already found their way onto the committee's radar.

She is a two time Grammy award winner for for Best Rock Performance female and she has been nominated another thirteen times in various Grammy categories. Her 1993 album Yes I Am spent 138 weeks on the charts and was certified 6x platinum. As a matter of fact, her first five albums went platinum or higher. Her discography boasts of fifteen long play albums, mostly consisting of songs that she herself composed. She also won the Academy Award for Best Song in 2007 for "I Need to Wake Up" from the documentary An Inconvenient Truth. 

Melissa has been a fearless social advocate for gay rights, the environment, and breast cancer awareness. Her driving performance of Janis Joplin's Piece of My Heart while bald and weak from chemotherapy stopped the 2005 Grammy Awards and is still considered to be one of the all-time greatest live performances. Melissa is still a fixture on tour, hard-rocking it out with both her signature six and twelve-string Ovations, and it is my opinion that her induction into the Rock Hall is only a matter of time.

The Secret of Life

I'm often asked if I have a favourite song.

What a ridiculous question. It is a bit like asking if I have a favourite droplet of water or a favourite atom. There are simply too many to count.

But, I do have a special place reserved for certain songs that evoke certain memories and certain emotions. James Taylor's Secret of Life off of his 1977 release JT is one of those passion-fuelling pieces.

** I ask that you please listen to the song before reading on, even if you are well acquainted with it. It will make the rest of this piece make so much more sense. 


The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time....

It seems to me that we so often dwell on trying to maintain the past and focusing on the future, that we forget to live in the present. We need to relish the mundane and see the extraordinary in the ordinary. We need to focus on the beauty all around us and treasure those dearest to us.

A year ago at this time I thought that my world was as it always had been. I had no thoughts about loss or pain. Those closest to me were happily going about their lives and we all were enjoying the passage of time. I loved carelessly and I valued less. I never foresaw the change that was coming.

The secret of love is in opening up your heart....

Our loves define us. We are who we are simply because of the people we allow in. Our loves mould us, shape us, and provide us with the clarity and foundation necessary to give us full form.

A year ago at this time my illusions and my childhood were about to come crashing down. I desperately wish she was still here. I desperately long for one more minute, one more hour, one more day. I wish I could have said goodbye, to tell her how much she was loved. But I wouldn't trade the pain of that soul-crushing and devastating loss for never having had her in my life. I love her as earnestly and as fervently today as I ever did. I am acutely aware of the hole that will never be filled.

The thing about time is that time isn't really real....

Time is the great equalizer. It affects us all and there is absolutely nothing we can do to halt its relentless march forward.

Nearly a year ago at this time I wished I could stop the clock. I wished I could erase it all and I wished that I could pretend it wasn't real. I railed at the undeserved, the unmerited, the unjustified. I railed at God. I didn't want to remember. I wanted to forget.

Last spring when we were cleaning out her things, I asked for this.

It's absolutely nothing. A few beads held together by those tiny and ubiquitous pink breast cancer ribbons. Being a survivor, she felt obliged to pay a few dollars for it at a local craft show years ago, and she kept it on one of her purses. I took it from her things and it is now dangling on my purse. I often find myself rubbing it like worry beads or perhaps, a non-religious rosary. It takes me back in time. It allows me to relive memories. It reminds me of who she was and how essential a role she played in me becoming me. As if I could ever forget.

Einstein said he could never understand it all
Planets spinning through space
The smile upon your face
Welcome to the human race.

As we come oh so close to Yahrezeit, I can now smile a bit through the tears. I am able to recall the joy even as I still acutely feel the sorrow. I am truly a work in progress as I try to remember the Secret of Life.

Shabbat Music Break

Today's edition of "Women who Should Be in the Rock Hall but Aren't" features the amazing Pat Benatar. Pat has always been a trailblazer and a true original in the rock world. In fact, she didn't even start out singing rock until her early twenties. Classically trained with thoughts about opera and musical theatre, she turned down a spot at Julliard in order to pursue a very different musical dream. Armed with that killer voice, a high kinetic stage presence, and an image of tough sexuality, Pat charged up the charts in the '80s and '90s. She is a four-time Grammy winner for Best Female Rock Vocalist and was nominated three additional times. Two multi-platinum albums, five platinum albums, three gold albums and 15 top 40 singles, including three Top 10 hits, should have solidified her entrance into the Hall, but sadly she has never once been nominated. What more does see need to do to be considered?

**Note: I really wanted to use a live version for this song so that you could witness Pat's performing prowess. The problem here is that there is a full minute of audience screaming before the song begins. Skip ahead to about 1:03.

Almost Wordless Wednesday

Here is the third in this month's series of Almost Wordless Wednesdays whereby I present you with stunning images that I witnessed this year. Today I take you to my happy place. I ascend to a special stratum when I visit Broadway and see a brilliant new musical up close and personal. The emotions send me soaring.

This past spring, The Husband and I sojourned once again to the bright lights and big city. My early purchase of tickets to If/Then was truly inspired. I have had the privilege of seeing Idina Menzel live several times before and was duly influenced by those past experiences. That woman's voice just does something to my insides. The adventure did not disappoint. The play is not for the lazy theatre goer nor the casual musical fan. It requires tremendous thought and attention, but the rewards are magical. Because the show was written specifically for Ms. Menzel by the creative team that brought you Next to Normal, and because she carries every single powerful scene, it is difficult to imagine another actress in the role. If you are in the New York area, catch it while she is still on board.

Shabbat Musc Break

Today's Shabbat Music Break edition of "I can't believe that she's not in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame" is devoted to the Queen of Rock and Roll. The argument generally used to explain away why Tina Turner  has not been inducted is that she is already there along with her ex husband Ike. But, if Eric Clapton and Paul McCartney can be inducted three separate times each, then the time has certainly come to recognize the brilliance of Tina's solo career. Tina Turner had arguably the greatest comeback and second act in rock history. Without her lead, performers like Janet Jackson and Beyonce wouldn't even exist today. She toured more than any other solo female act for almost twenty years, with perhaps the exception of Cher, and her high energy shows are legendary. It stuns me that Tina Turner has never once been nominated for induction to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as a solo artist, and frankly it is long overdue.