Rent-A-Baby

"I want a baby." "Uh-huh." "I want a baby like the one in the commercial." "Uh-huh." "How do I get a baby like that?" "You can't." "Why not?" "That baby isn't real." "Of course it's real." "It's a TV baby." "So?" "So, nothing." "I want to rent a baby then." "For how long?" "An afternoon." "Go for it. I'll be at work."

The SJG's TV Picks

Has a truer statement ever been uttered? Personally, I don't think so. I grew up watching TV, and I'm still watching it. I'm pretty consistent when it comes to TV. Addicted? How dare you! Sure, sometimes I watch with my family. But mostly, if I'm being honest, I watch upstairs by myself, and it is my version of nirvana. If you pop in on the SJG during a nightly telly fest, you won't find me watching sports, but you will find me watching hoity-toity intellectual fare a la "Project Runway." You won't find me watching "Game of Thrones," only because I never started watching it and the thought of catching up, well, it's too much for my brain to handle. And if we're talking about today's telly needs, as opposed to yesterday's - "Barry" and "Killing Eve" - you won't find me watching "Woman Gives Birth To 15-Year-Old."

But you will find me on Royal Baby Watch. Just like this gal in the photo. Except I won't be ironing. I have a staff to do that for me. Today is all about Prince Harry and Duchess Meghan and the royal babykins-to-be, due any second now. Go ahead and judge. I can't help it. I'm hashtag Sussexroyal. I need a big basket of happy news to forget the horribleness the telly brings us hourly.

So, to repeat, in case you weren't paying attention, because, let's face it, your mind tends to wander, if you need me today, please remember I'm a little distracted. I'm on Royal Baby Watch. And you can't stop me.

"Why, yes, in a past life, I did star in the SJG's 'When Sparks Fly,' but I've moved on to more important things, like giving birth, royally. You may now let go of my regal hand." 

Just As I Suspected

Well, well, well, look who dropped by Brushes last night, that notorious rock legend Ziggy Markman! The crowd went insane, begging for autographs and rides in Ziggy's limo and it got so out of hand, the SJG had to step in and put an end to the commotion. "Listen up, bitches, you came to see Brushes, not Ziggy Markman. Show some respect, for eff's sake!" Oh, and speaking of a comedy of hairs, can someone please tell me what in God's name happened to my hair en route to the Whitefire? I'm telling you, it looked pretty good before I left the palatial estate, what with all the manufactured oomph and bounce. And then... then it just fizzled out like flat seltzer. Sigh. If only I could have statement hair like Ziggy's, so spiky and full of danger. "What's the secret?" I asked. "It's a wig, Carol." A-ha! Just as I suspected.

The Beauty Team Weighs In

As the run of Brushes winds down, people stop me in front of Gelson's and want to know, "Hey, did any actual hairdressers come to see a show about hair?" To which I respond, "Well, duh. Of course, they did, dummy." Take the SJG Beauty Team. I gave them no choice. After guilting them plenty and threatening to withhold tips and granting them a nice discount, my facialist, my colorist, my colorist's assistant colorist, my stylist, and my stylist's best friend, also a stylist, sure as bleep came. And then later, once they calmed down from laughing till they practically needed medical attention, they cornered me, collectively, at the Whitefire, and said in unison, "Oh my God, oh my God, we loved loved loved it so much, thank you for forcing us to come see it." Fine, maybe those weren't their exact words, but you get the idea. The gifted squad in charge of my on-going, never-ending beautification gave "Brushes" such a glowing review, my flat, baby fine, lifeless kaka hair magically attained volume and shine right there in the theatre. You could say my 'do was born again, and you'd be 71 percent accurate.

Enter Dancing

"Would you like some advice before your interview?"
"Not really."
"Enter dancing."
"I don't think so."
"Enter dancing like Fred Astaire."
"No."

"Enter dancing like Gene Kelly."
"Who?"
"Tell me you didn't just say that."
"I gotta go, Ma."

"Enter dancing like Bob Fosse."
"I'll call you later."
"It's important to make an entrance."
"I'll try not to trip on the way in."
"That works, too."

Automated Menu

"If you woke up tired, press 1. If you woke up old, press 2. If you woke up cranky, press 3. If you woke up achy, press 4. If you need someone to kvetch to, press 5. To select your personalized complaint expert, press 6. For Jewish Mother, say, 'Oy.' For Tells-It-Like-It-Is Father, say, 'Vey.' If you'd like to hear the menu selections again in Yiddish, press 7."

Three Little Words

Dear SJG,
I made so much brisket, I have leftovers up the wazoo. Please guide me on this matter before I plotz from exhaustion.
Thanks,
Tenderized in Tarzana

Dear Tenderized,
I, too, have a tendency to mass produce this challenging meat, in case an army of trespassers from the lesser parts of Sherman Oaks should God forbid stop by, unannounced. As a solution, so simple you might want to kick yourself in the tuchas for not thinking of it already, I offer you three little words first uttered by none other than Albert Einstein: "Freeze the leftovers." To Einstein and the SJG, it's all relative. Swaddled tightly in your Earth Day-approved, plant-based cling wrap, the brisket you slaved over will keep till next Passover. If your family is anything like mine, they'll wash it all down with leftover Manischewitz and tell you, "It's so much better than last year's brisket."
You're Welcome,
The SJG

A Change of Name

Immigrants line up at Ellis Island, circa 1910

In Miami there's a six-star hotel called the Oy Vey Towers. It offers massage, mud baths, 24- hour-a-day kosher eating, wonderful almond Danish and best of all, g-o-s-s-i-p. The hotel pages its guests via high quality, clear sounding speakers sited all around the hotel. Listening to messages such as, "Telephone call for Moishe Cohen from his lawyer," or, "Could Sadie Levy ring her marriage counselor,” or even, “Benny Chesnick – could you please call your parole officer," is a gossiper’s dream. One day, everyone is surprised to hear over the speakers, "Telephone call for Shane Ferguson, telephone call for Shane Ferguson." At once, several people go to reception to get a look at who this gentile staying at their hotel could be. They're surprised and very curious when an old man, obviously Jewish, comes up to the desk. 

Later, one of the guests asks the old man how he came to be named Shane Ferguson when he is so obviously Jewish. This is what he tells them: "When I left Russia to come to America, my name was Samuel Mincoffski. But my uncle thought it might be best if I told immigration that my name was Sam Lyons. I practiced saying my new name over and over for the entire boat trip. I asked the sailors to say it for me and I learned how to pronounce it. Time passed very quickly and soon I was standing in line at Ellis Island. But while waiting, I began to worry about everything. Would I say my name properly? What if they wouldn’t believe me? Would I be able to spell it? Would they arrest me and send me back? My mind started to spin and I got so confused that when I reached the front of the line and the officer asked me my name, I panicked and said, Schane Fergessen (which means 'I forgot already' in Yiddish). So that's what the immigration man wrote down.” 
http://awordinyoureye.com

This story resonates with the SJG like you can't believe. Why? I'll tell you why. Because when my Russian grandparents arrived at Ellis Island and gave their last name of Starratievski (don't ask me how to really spell it) the judge lopped off half of it. "Your name is Starr. Next." 

Obligatory Passover Pix

The obligatory group shot of family and dear friends who stopped by for brisket, highly-praised by my mother-in-law and everyone else whenever I begged for compliments, moist-like-you-can't-believe Chicken Marbella, my M.I.L.'s matzoh ball soup and gefilte to die-for, and what would Passover be without my brother John's crudites? Missing from photo: Grandpa Skippy, who posed for the first shot that came out blurry, and went outside during the second shot, mumbling, "Take it without me."

The obligatory Three Cuzzies shot: Andy, SJG and John. If this photo doesn't freeze-frame our lifelong love fest, what does? 

The obligatory neck-strain shot, capturing everyone except the photographer (John) at an incredibly awkward, partially-hidden angle. 

"Elijah! The Jukebox Musical! Live!"

Fine, let the other big networks celebrate Easter. Over here in Sherman Oaks, my people will be watching "Elijah! The Jukebox Musical! Live!" on SJG-TV, starring some famous and not-so-famous Jews who really know how to carry a tune. Turns out, the story of Elijah, not to mention the Exodus, fits perfectly with many beloved classics. What, you don't believe me? A few selections you can look forward to hearing tonight:

From "Cabaret": "Willkommen! And bienvenue! Welcome! Fremder, étranger, stranger... Glucklich zu sehen, Je suis enchante, Happy to see you, Bliebe, reste, stay." What prophet wouldn't love to hear this song in his honor when he walks through the door, all ghostly and exhausted from schlepping to a zillion seders? 

From Rod Stewart: "The First Cut Is The Deepest." So. Why is this song perfect? I'll tell you why. Because Elijah is the prophet who visits the circumcision ceremony of every Jewish child! Who knew? Well, it's news to me, I'll tell you that much, and spare you the details of how, according to biblical historian types, the entire Jewish male population circumsized themselves (ouch) pre-Exodus on the Seder night. Hence, the obvious tie-in with the song. (Duh).  

And finally, Bruce Springsteen's "Born To Run," which sums up what Passover, and most Jewish holidays, are really about: Fleeing. Getting the hell out with seconds to spare. Bolting before the bread can rise. Or, to put it another way: "They tried to kill us, they failed, let's eat!" If "Elijah! The Jukebox Musical! Live" isn't a ratings hit, the SJG may need to find another line of work. Full-time kugel-maker comes to mind. Please let me know if you hear of any openings. 

A Prayer For Passover

"I heard her brisket was decent." - Elijah, the ultimate Pop-In

Oy, math, how you mock me. Suddenly, it hit me like a ton of ancient mud bricks my Israelite ancestors produced while enslaved by that biblical baddie, you know the one, Pharaoh. (Nice Passover reference or what?) Friday morn, I popped the two briskets in a 275 oven thinking a six-pounder and a five-pounder would take... at an hour per pound... 11 hours to cook. Uh, duh. No one said to add the two together. No one but... me? Let's face it, I'm brisket-challenged. Somewhere mid-afternoon, as the scent of brisket wafted through the palatial estate, I realized in horror that, oh @#$%!!! I better check, they've been in there too long, and sure enough, they were done, and God willing, I didn't overcook them. If I did, I'll certainly blame my mother-in-law, who told me, and I quote, "You can cook brisket forever." So tonight, when you're reclining at your first or second seder, depending how you roll, please find a place in the Haggadah to squeeze in a prayer for me, as in... Baruch Ata Adonay Elohenu Melech Ha-olam... may the SJG's briskets melt like butter and not bring shame to her mispocha.

Still Life With Brisket

You'll be happy to know I spared you Stage 4 of Passover Prep -- schlepping to Gelson's and spending a heap of gelt like you wouldn't believe, or maybe you would if you've prepared a seder, and I use the term very loosely, for 15 people. I also spared you Stage 5, the pre-prep of the briskets, you're welcome, because why should I burden you with this hurtful mother-in-law/daughter-in-law brisket-centric conversation that went something like this:

"Cook it longer this time."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you can cook brisket forever."
"I don't want to cook it forever. Won't it get dry?"
"Not if you do it right."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying cook it longer."
"You said that already."
"I did?"
"Don't play coy with me, Missy. You're saying all these years, you think my brisket is what, tough?"
"It could be more tender."
"I'm hanging up now to weep."

Don't worry, I didn't shed a tear, not until I cut the onions. What I did do was rethink things in my standard obsessive way. Maybe my MIL was right. I mean, I don't even eat brisket. I haven't eaten meat since college. How should I know what constitutes tender vs. tough? Would it kill me to mix things up a bit, table my easy-peasy go-to Lipton's Soup/Ketchup recipe and step outside my brisket comfort zone? Well, why the eff not? And so, after I received an emergency research grant from the Institute For Better Brisket, I discovered this "melt in your mouth" recipe, courtesy of a nice Jewish gal who knows what she's talking about, God willing.

Stage 6: Exciting action shot of brisket cooking 

Rather than cook my briskets at 325 per usual, I'm cooking them at 275 degrees for 8 or 9 hours, maybe longer, "till they pull apart with two forks." Then back in the fridge they go, to be de-fatted and sliced Sunday morning, and later on in the day, warmed for 40 - 45 minutes in a 350 oven. Yes, you heard that right. The SJG mispocha is once again messing with Elijah and doing Passover on Easter Sunday. Stop by if you're in the neighborhood. But call first. I'm not a big fan of the pop-in. 

Passover Matzoh Hunt

Not true! It's plenty fun.

On Good Friday, April 19, 2019, the Short Jewish Gal will host the 142nd annual Passover Matzoh Hunt on the South Lawn of her sprawling Sherman Oaks estate. This year's theme is a lot like last year's theme: "Gimme Gelt!" More than 35,000 adorably rambunctious pishers are expected to join in the search for the afikomen. In an exclusive interview with The Daily Dayeinu, the SJG admitted, "Listen, it's not that easy to find new places to hide a bunch of broken matzoh, but I feel confident that this year, I've outdone myself. The kids really have their work cut out for them. I won't give anything away, other than to say checking under all those 150-pound rocks may prove challenging. I've already thrown my back out twice." Today's event will feature the beloved Matzoh Ball Toss (don't worry, the matzoh balls are room temperature), cooking safety demonstrations, including "How To Chop That Apple and Slice That Brisket Without Losing A Finger," pre-recorded Passover music, the Haggadah Hora, and storytelling galore. You want to know how Moses parted the Red Sea in time to get to his grandma's seder? Ask the SJG. Quick like a bunny, get your tickets for 142nd Annual Matzoh Hunt. They're selling like hot, mushy matzo kugel, but if you hurry, you can still score a couple for your kinder.

The Two-Minute Passover Haggadah

I know, I know, you do an authentic seder that lasts hours and hours. You and your family reenact the Exodus from Egypt and post it live on Facebook. My people aren't that patient, or just between us, interested. My people are of the "cut to the chase, let's eat" variety. Many years of hosting, not to mention attending, Passover seders have taught the SJG that my tiny yet meaningful tribe can't even get through a five minute seder without turning it into a Borscht Belt routine. A few years ago, I came up with the speediest haggadah on the planet, with a little help from the Internet. It is my gift to you. You're welcome. 

LEADER:

Welcome to our Seder! It’s time to commemorate the Exodus from Egypt.

EVERYBODY:

Baruch ata adonai eloheinu melech haolam, borei pri hagafen.

LEADER:

Drink!

Let’s say another prayer:

EVERYBODY:

Baruch Ata Adonay Elohenu Melech Ha-olam, She-hechiyanu, V’kimanu, V’heegianu, La’zman hazeh.

LEADER:

[Holds matzoh high ]

This is the poor man’s bread that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt. They didn’t have time to let it rise. They had to get the hell out. This year we are here, next year let’s celebrate in Jerusalem. (Or Sherman Oaks.) This year we are slaves, next year may we be free! Woo hoo!

Now, let’s say the four questions:

EVERYBODY:

1. What's up with the matzoh?

2. What's the deal with horseradish?

3. What's with the dipping of the herbs?

4. What's this whole reclining at the table business?

LEADER:

Here’s the short answer. We were slaves in Egypt. Moses said to Pharaoh, “Let my people go!” Pharaoh said, “No!” Then God punished him with 10 plagues… too disgusting to mention. Frogs, blood, etc. We didn’t have enough time to wait for the bread to rise, so we made a big batch of matzoh and fled. Not that it was easy. First Moses parted the Red Sea and then we got a little lost in the desert. But only for 40 years. The matzoh, the horseradish, the bitter herbs… all represent how we struggled as slaves to break free. Tonight we recline to celebrate our freedom! Woo hoo!

[Raise glass]

Everybody Drink! Everybody sing!

Everybody sing DAYEINU:

Day-day-einu, Day-day-einu, etc.  

LEADER

So. What’s with this cup of wine that nobody drinks? That’s for Elijah, the prophet who may or may not show up to announce the arrival of the Messiah!

EVERYBODY:

Welcome back, Elijah! Come recline with us!

LEADER

Every year, we come together on Passover. Why? I’ll tell you why. So we can feel like WE left Egypt, too. Message received! So let’s thank God (or, if you prefer, the Universe) for the miracles of the Exodus. Looks like we made it after all!

EVERYBODY:

Hallelujah!

LEADER:

In conclusion, they tried to kill us, they failed. Let’s eat!

The Lady of Paris

Notre-Dame, Summer 2015 

Scotty took this heavenly photo of Notre-Dame during his post-graduation travels. 

Notre-Dame, Winter 2018 

In December, we wandered through the beloved cathedral, the five of us, and stared up in awe at the stained glass windows, seeing them for the first time through the eyes of our French daughter-in-law. 

Notre-Dame, Spring 2019

Yesterday, Notre-Dame caught fire, its iconic spire toppled, and the world went into shock. Was it arson? Was it from the renovation underway? How did this happen? Will Notre-Dame burn to the ground? By a miracle, the 850-year-old structure was only partially destroyed. The pledges of money and vows of reconstruction ease some of the pain, but it will be a long time before Paris, and the rest of us, recover from what feels like not only losing a member of the family, but also a historic symbol of hope, faith and survival. 

Origami Mommy/Career Consultant

This morning, while I began Stage 3 of Passover Prep, or what I like to call the "Origami Mommy Phase," during which I attempted to get creative with paper napkins, and the results were rudimentary at best... 

On the other side of the wall, the overnight guest, aka the youngest son, recently downsized from his music job at Fox, a cruel turn of events he's handling like an mensch, combed the web for similar employment opportunities in Los Angeles. To keep him motivated, I sang a bluesy tune: "She's an Origami Mommy/A napkin-foldin' Swami." To keep me from singing, he called out the exciting career options that popped up on Glassdoor:

"I think I've found the job I've been waiting for, Ma."

"Tell me."

"Worship Assistant at a Lutheran church."

"I forbid you from converting."

"Closing Crew at Free Birds Burritos."

"Next."

"Medical Billing Specialist at a Mental Health Center."

"You could probably get me a nice discount when I check in for a little rest."

"I could be a pizza/salad chef at Oliva."

"Well, we know the owner. That's a slam-dunk."

"Studio manager at Duff's Cake Mix."

"If I knew you were coming I'd have baked a cake."

"Van driver."

"Honey, I think you need to narrow your search."

"You're right, Ma. I don't think there's much room for growth."

"I'd have to agree."

"Although, the burrito position sounds promising." 

The Second Stage of Passover

When the SJG does Passover, I do it in stages. So far, I've completed two of the many stages.
1. Obsession Stage:
Purely mental. Involves visualizing how 15 people will recline around one table, and the realization that they can't all fit, what was I thinking?
2. Heavy Lifting Stage:
Purely physical. Involves schlepping folding chairs and card table from garage, dumping everything in dining room, throwing cloths over tables, and then collapsing on sofa.

My Saturday Night Escort

"Hurry, darling. We mustn't be late for Brushes." 

Every now and then, I force longtime hubby to see a show. It doesn't happen too often. I can count the number of musicals I've schlepped him to over the years: "Jersey Boys." "The Producers." "Book of Mormon." He loved all three, and that was enough to last him a lifetime. Lately, he's setting a personal record, escorting me to the theatre every Saturday night. "Honey, you don't have to go," I say. "I want to go," he says. "Aren't you sick of it?" "No way, it's funny." Music to my ears. He's been cheering me on for six years, through all the ups and downs of getting Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs on its feet. He'll be by my side again tonight, keeping me sane. I've said it before and I'll say it again. I'm one lucky lil Jew.

Celebrity Tell-All

Tell us, SJG, what do you like to do in your spare time? 
I like to nap.

What's your most annoying habit?
Sometimes I sing "Cellino and Barnes, Injury Attorneys" like Ethel Merman, all day long.

If you weren't famous, what would you be up to right now?
Finding a cure for stupidity.

Do you like pickles?
What's not to like?
  
Do you speak any other languages?
I'm fluent in Kvetch. 

Goodbye, Old Friend

Goodbye, mine Swingline. Goodbye, mine Stapler. Sayanora. Shalom. Au revoir. All the things you've held together. The essays. The stories. The travel itineraries. The print-at-home tickets. The 952 rejected tv movie ideas. The receipts, the bills, the miscellaneous evidence of daily life. We've shared so much, mine stapler. It seems like only yesterday I freed you from the box, and put you to work. I expected a lot and you delivered. Through all the demands, the random tasks, the clutter, you were a pro. Never complaining, never rolling your staples at me. Thank you for that. The years together, they've been special, so many, I've lost count. But you've been there for me. You've never let me down. Until yesterday. Yesterday, you said, "Enough." Yesterday, you said, "I'm done." Just like that, you broke. I tried to save you, tried to dislodge the staples embedded inside you. I turned you upside down. I launched an investigation. I called for back up. Even longtime hubby couldn't fix you. You were beyond repair. Was it old age? Wear and tear? Planned obsolescence? Was it something I said? I'll never know. But what I do know is this. You were a trouper, a loyal office mate. You lasted longer than the others that came before you. Wherever you're headed next, wherever all the broken desk accessories go when they're past their prime, I wish you well on your journey. Goodbye, mine Swingline. Goodbye, mine Stapler. Goodbye.

Go, And Never Darken My Towels Again

(Sherman Oaks) The SJG, world-renown kvetcher extraordinaire, called a press conference this morning in her kitchen. Over coffee and year-old defrosted kugel that still tasted pretty good, she told an elite swarm of three reporters that something disturbing had happened the night before, something that agitated her on such a deep and meaningful level, she just had to overshare. "What month is it, anyway?" the SJG asked. "April," said Sadie Shapiro of the Daily Bubbeleh.  "Thank you, Sadie. Where was I?" "You were in April," said Yosef Von Winkle of the Monthly Meshugganh. "Right. So it's April and I've already received not one, but two mosquito bites. Can you believe it?" "For this nonsense, you called us to your house?" lamented Shmuel Berkowitz of the Weekly Putz. "Two mosquito bites, you can survive. Two mosquito bites aren't the end of the world. Two mosquito bites won't kill you." "Unless, God forbid, they carry a deadly disease," added Sadie. "Plenty people die from mosquito bites," chimed in Yosef." "So true," said Sadie, tearfully. "My eighth cousin Morty on my mother's side plotzed, instantly, after a mosquito took a nibble of his elbow." "At least it was over fast," said Shmuel. "May his memory be a blessing," said Yosef. "Who the @#$% invited you people over, anyway?" "You did," the reporters said, in unison.

All Over The Passover Thing

Not everyone gets lucky in the mother-in-law lotto. But the SJG is blessed with a funny one, a nice person, an equally short (if not shorter) gal who generously handed me Passover a few years back, as in, "You do it." To which I said, "Okay?" Even though the seder, a loose term for what we do over here, takes place at Chez SJG, my M.I.L. still likes to tell me what I can and cannot do, Passover-wise. But I'm okay with that, too. No really. I am.
"I'll make the chop liver. You buy the macaroons."
"Okay."
"I'll make the chicken soup. You put it in the bowls."
"Okay."
"I'll make the gefilte. You buy the horseradish. Red and white."
"Okay."
"Don't buy the matzoh. I already got it on sale."
"Okay."
"Maybe get some nice honey cake."
"Listen, doll, I'm all over the Passover thing."
"Don't tell me you've already set the table."
"That's tomorrow."

Sometimes There's No Controlling Me

Jake O'Flaherty, Lisa Loeb and Whitefire owner Bryan Rasmussen

Overly-affectionate gal that I am, I tend to blurt out "I love you" when I meet a famous type, but only when I truly mean it. Is it cool? No. It's so not cool. But I can't help it, especially when I'm taken by surprise. Saturday night, there she was at Brushes, Lisa Loeb, whose 90's hit "Stay" tops my list of favorite sing-along at the top of my lungs driving songs. "Lisa Loeb! I love you!" I said, and hugged her like an old friend. She'd come to the show with my yoga teacher Tali, and three other gals. "Carol, say hello to my other friends," Tali said, trying to pry me loose from Lisa Loeb. It was hard to let go, but at some point, I released her. I know, I know, there's no controlling me. My family has pretty much given up. But still. What a treat.  It made my night. Well, that and the fact that we put plenty tushies in seats, enough to fill the house (more or less). 

Theatre Is My Life

It really is. At least for the next five Saturday nights. Then I return to my regularly scheduled life. For someone who grew up going to the theatre, but never stepping foot on stage, the learning curve, the whole megillah of co-producing a show like Brushes: A Comedy of Hairs, has been huge. Excuse me, I meant HUGE, what with the gazillion details and the nonstop salesgal aspect. It's all about putting tushies in seats. Last Saturday, we sold out. This Saturday... check back with me later.

For Cathy and the SJG, it's pretty much a rollercoaster ride. We're hanging on for dear life, and loving every minute. Whatever happens, where in this thing together.

Untoasted

"Honey, the toaster's busted."
"It was fine yesterday."
"Well, I've tried toasting three times and it won't toast."
"Let me look at it."
"You can look all you want. It's busted."
"I think I've discovered the problem."
"Already?"
"It's an easy fix."
"What's involved?"
"You need to plug it in."

Play It Again, SJG

I've seen sofas and I've seen toys. I've seen patio furniture and I've seen TVs. But never have I seen an abandoned piano left curbside in my neighborhood. Immediately, I thought of this wonderful NYC ragtime scene...

.. and thought, okay, let's see if I can channel those five years of piano lessons when I was just a wee lil SJG, practicing my tush off every day and giving command performances in the family room.

Let's just say it didn't go well. I played "Heart and Soul" and fortunately, no one witnessed the debacle, unless you count the cat that hid under a car as I attempted to tinkle the out-of-tune ivories. 

That's me in the mirror.

I won't play it again, I promise. But I will relish the days this piano remains curbside. I hope someone wanders by and tunes it. I hope someone wanders by and plays it like the mom crushing it in the video. I hope someone drives by, falls in love and rescues it from oblivion. 

Have You Seen My Owner?

It's been more than a few decades since the SJG spent any real time in an office environment. Now and then, I dip my toe in and marvel at the technological advancements before me. Take this provocative scene at the IATSE in Burbank where I teach my weekly "Laughing At Life" workshop. Haven't I captured this particular tableau with just the right balance of artistry? Don't answer that. It's obvious to me that I've got it going on, photographically. But why have I zoomed in, specifically, on these rando coffee thermoses? I'll tell you why. Because I've always suspected that inanimate objects come to life at night to play, or possibly plan an evil uprising, and here's my proof. Clearly, this stainless brigade of discarded java warmers assembled on the kitchen counter after hours, and posted a sign that says so much in so few words, I had to pay digital homage: Have You Seen My Owner? If this isn't a question for the ages, what is? Let's face it. Life is all about ownership... of our insecurities, intentions, shortcomings, deep-seated mishegas. In an office setting, employees need a sense of ownership of their job, a feeling of accomplishment. And, under cover of darkness, even abandoned belongings go in search of ownership. What if, God forbid, no one claims ownership of these thermal office warriors that keep the peeps caffeinated and productive? What if no one comes forward to say, "Mine!" ??? What happens then?