Tiptoe Through L.A.

L.A. is known more for its vanity than its creativity. However, I'm quickly seeing that the town is overflowing with really talented people. Musicians, writers, actors, artists, stylists, filmmakers, designers and many other creators walk the streets and populate the coffee houses. What the world sees on the their televisions and in the theaters is not an adequate representation of the depth of imagination and dreams of the innovators here.

Yesterday at The Casbah Cafe and Coffee House, waiting for others to join me for a meeting, I listened as this beautiful woman sat at a table and sang "Have You Ever Seen The Rain?" for two hip, rock musicians. From overhearing the conversation, I discovered that she was auditioning for a back-up singer gig on the two guys upcoming tour. She sang the entire song a capella, and when she finished, all the patrons all clapped. One of the guys then pulled out his computer and played some of the band's music for the woman. She should have been the one auditioning them, since her talent was far superior.

At the table next to me, a thirty-something male sat and quickly opened up the small case. He pulled out the ukulele and quietly began strumming a bit. Watching him write the musical notes on the white paper, I determined that he was either writing a song or a score. My only prior knowledge of the ukulele involved Elvis playing it in "Blue Hawaii," the overweight Hawaiian guy, Israel Kamakawiwo'ole, sitting on the beach singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" while he played the instrument, and Tiny Tim playing it on "The Tonight Show" while he sang "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" in a shrill voice. And the more the guy next to me strummed and played, the happier I became. How can you not smile when you hear the sweet, joyful sounds coming from the ukulele?

On the other side of me, an older gentleman with a wide, loving smile had his chess set ready for someone to join him for a match. While he waited, he wrote and recited poetry. I asked him what inspired him to write poetry, and he said, "My wife." "That's nice," I said. "Where is your wife now?" I asked. "She's designing costumes for a film." "What do you do?" I inquired. "Write poetry, play chess, drink coffee, and enjoy life. What more do I need to do?" I nodded and smiled. His young opponent arrived, and he immediately began focusing on the match, forgetting his wife, the poetry, and me.

To repay my young neighbor downstairs who assisted me on Sunday when I locked Shug and myself out of the apartment, I took her and her boyfriend to dinner at a vegetarian Thai restaurant down the street. Both of my dinner guests grew up in Northern California to very bohemian, hippie parents. Before we walked to dinner, I had to wait for them to partake of a few hits off the pot pipe. I knew from our earlier conversations that they were singer/songwriters and musicians, and I listened and admired their fresh perspective on life and the world. In discussing their parents, I learned that the boyfriend's father was an English teacher and a writer, and the boyfriend's middle name was Eliot, a product of his father's fondness for the works of T.S. Eliot. And in a discussion about the young girl's family, I learned from the boyfriend that her mother slept in a chicken coop. She corrected him. "It's not a chicken coop." He said, "Well, it looks like one. It's outside, and it's like a coffin made from plywood, and it is inside a coop. She shook her head, correcting him. "It's not a coop. There's no chicken wire around it."

For inspiration, I don't need to go far. How many people get to sit next to a good ukulele player and listen to his creations? Right now, I'm happy tiptoeing through L.A., singing and dancing to whatever music comes my way.