Wake Up, Santa!
In 1972 I won the coveted role of the talking Christmas tree at South Hills Village in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, a classic suburban shopping mall whose other highlights were fast food French fries, soft pretzels, and Florsheim shoes.
When I’m Sixty-Four
Another song lyric comes true. I shouldn’t be surprised that sixty-four sneaked up on me, but since I’ve spent most of the last three decades assuming I’m still thirty-two, the idea that I’m a year away from taking my musician union pension seems a little extreme. In honor of this milestone, I’ve composed a list of thoughts on growing older:
Running on Empty
I stopped drinking a year ago. Those of you familiar with my tales of debauchery and hijinks from the piano lounge might find it hard to believe that I could soldier through a five-hour solo piano gig without a glass of Sancerre on the little marble table next to the Steinway. But here we are—Piano Girl 2.0, steady and secure in my newfound sobriety. Hold the sauvignon blanc. Pass the lemongrass-infused green tea, please. Shoot me now.
Swamp Rats and Other Thoughts
I do so love a good costume drama. Did you watch Bridgerton? I did, and I am bothered by the heaving bosoms, not because I find them unsanitary, sexist, or offensive, but because, after watching a few episodes, I made a serious attempt to make my own bosom heave and failed miserably. Even if I crank my breasts up to my chin, I can’t get the heaving thing happening. I think there’s something wrong with me.
‘Twas the Night Before Christmas 2020
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
With Trump on the loose I expected a scene ,
I hadn’t slept soundly since 2016.
Thanksgiving: Keep the Cat off the Pie
My mother made excellent Thanksgiving pies. Stripey the cat thought so, too. No store-bought piecrusts for mom, but homemade masterpieces that involved chilled butter, shortening, Grandma Rawsthorne’s secret-weapon multi-generational aluminum pie pans, and a big dusty mess in the kitchen. One year, Stripey leapt to the counter and, as cats do, walked across a pumpkin pie, an hour before guests were due to arrive. Without missing a beat, mom grabbed a spray can of whipped cream, covered the incriminating paw prints with an inch of white fluff, and swore me to secrecy. In her defense, the catwalk happened decades before the discovery of toxoplasmosis, so her cover-up was hardly a bioterrorism act on the level of the Pilgrim smallpox blankets, but still. She could have offed the entire family, which may have been exactly what Stripey had in mind.
Too Close for Comfort
Saying a proper hello has always been weird, but in 2020, it has gotten ever so much worse. . .
Concert in Candlelight: Home for the Holidays
The Concert in Candlelight tradition continues! Celebrate the Advent season with the brilliant pianist and author, Robin Meloy Goldsby. “Home for the Holidays” features Mrs. Goldsby’s unique arrangements of familiar holiday melodies, new compositions from her album, “Home & Away,” and charming stories about Christmas in Europe and the USA.
Sea to Shining Sea
1972. As a teenager, I was keen on seeing the world outside the confines of Pittsburgh, PA—a fine city in the seventies for football (go Steelers), hockey (go Penguins) and Baseball (go Pirates). We had a symphony orchestra (go Mahler), a handful of respected universities, and a rich cultural heritage that rode on the flashy black and gold coattails of steel and oil barons, the savory scent of pierogi, and a peculiar Pittsburgh-ese dialect that caused most of us to sound like second-rate hillbillies crossed with Scottish nobility.
Air
this hopeful breath may be our last,aghast, inhale the asphalt sky,we breathe the ashes of our past. we seek for now an outstretched fist,persist, resist, we reason why,this hopeful breath may be our last. as concrete burns through thickened skin,the din of silence will not lie,we breathe the ashes of our past. to suffer now and curse the […]