On Day 15 of Experiencing New Things, I was mired in the usual work day, spending most of it at my desk, meeting deadlines. I really thought I’d be without a new experience to report, but then, the skies grew dark, thunder boomed, and torrents of rain fell hard. It had been pretty toasty all day, and the sight of that thick sheet of rain called to me. I ran outside in my shorts and t-shirt, and let the rain just soak me through as I danced to the distant thunder and searched the skies for lightening.

Then, another new experience! The sudden downpour had created rivers of water in the street gutters, graceful, fast and

Me as Wet Rat in from the Rain

thick. So I jumped in! With both feet. And I almost gasped. While the rain was cool and refreshing, the water swirling around my feet was deliciously warm, warmer than bath water. Now, this may come as no surprise to other New Yorkers who are used to rain storms in the heat of summer, but for me, it took me a half-second to “get” it.

The hot streets, having broiled in the summer sun all day, had immediately cooked up the temperature of the rain water the second it hit the ground, and the more that water washed through the steets, the hotter it had become.

I came back into the house, happy and drenched to the bone, and in full appreciation for this 31 Daysof Experiencing New Things project. Because if I hadn’t been on the lookout for a new experience, I would have watched the thunderstorm from my window, then gone back to work. But when I saw that rain, I knew. Another  opportunity to experience something new had been delivered to my door.

On Saturday, Day 16, the act of buying coffee was transformed into yet another delightful, spontaneus, surprising event. On my way back from the Kingston Farmer’s Market, I stopped at Monkey Joe’s, one of Kingston’s famous coffee houses. My bon vivant likes a certain coffee there, so I thought I’d pick up a pound. Besides, it would give me a chance to put up a poster announcing my upcoming gig on July 29 at Savona’s.

The place was fairly empty (everyone at the Farmer’s’ Market, most likely). A good-looking gentleman in a Monkey Joe’s t-shirt was carrying large plastic dispensers of coffee beans from the back of the store to the display in front. I asked him, “Is it okay if I post this in your window,” handing him my poster. He looked at it, then at me, and asked, “Is that you?” pointing to the photo in the poster. A ligitimate question given the fact I was all diva-dolled up in the poster, while at that present moment, I looked like… well, me.

“Yep, that’s me!”

“Oh, yeah, okay, sure” he said. “Do you sing?” And that started a conversation about music. Seems he sings, too. AND writes songs. Lots of them. He even performs them from time to time with a guitar-playing buddy of his. Turns out I was talking to Gabe, who owns Monkey Joe’s. And to make a long story short, he ended up bringing out his guitar from the back room, sat at a table and sang 5-6 of his original songs. At one point, his adorable wife joined in to sing back-up. I was being treated to my very own Saturday morning concert!

And you know what? His songs are good! Great lyrics, — smart, snappy and full of story, and the songs were catchy, melodic, and diverse. Since serveral of his tunes could easily be rearranged as a jazz tune, I may get to cover 1-2 of his tunes at my September gig.

The rest of the day was full of new experiences as well. Before going to a concert — Art of the Duo with Maryanne deProphetis, vocals, and Frank Kimbrough, piano — at the New Music Salon at Beahive in Kingston, I had a glass of Pinot Grigio and a scallop appetizer at a new uptown Kingston restaurant, called Boiston’s. A small place with a good-sized bar and a partially open kitchen (which is always fun, to watch chefs cook) this restaurant has an upscale, classy feel without any attitude. It felt like walking into one of  San Francsico’s newer, trendier restaurants near the Castro or even downtown. I was right at home!

Jackie: singer, spitfire, eater of fried chicken

At the bar, I met a charming, ebullient 11-year old girl named Jackie who was sitting between her parents. She told me the fried chicken she was eating was the best she’d ever had. And I have to admit, it looked really good. Then, she told me she was a singer too, and, in fact she was going to music camp next week. She was adorable, so full joy and energy. I felt entertained and blessed to have met her… and her parents, who obviously had their hands full with such a spit-fire girl!

Yesterday, Day 17, I did something decadant, nourishing and healing. I got up, called the Emerson Resort and booked a massage. I knew about the Emerson because I used to try to sell advertising to them for New York House, and while I’d seen the resort, which is gorgeous, I’d never used their spa… which is also gorgeous. I had a wonderful massage from Jodi (ask for her if you go there! She’s great!), a bit of a steam, and then floated home. Even though it’s pricy there, when you book any service, like a massage or facial, you have full use of the spa facilities, like the steam room, sauna, hot tub, as well as the workout facilities. And the atmosphere is lovely. It’s worth taking a break and taking some time there.

Onward to yet more new experiences!

Here’s a snippet of video from gig day on June 24, plus a sneak into the dressing room of the Rrazz Room featuring Linda Kosut and moi.

Here’s my first video blog, inspired by the fact that I’ve been too damned busy to write an issue of Diva News, or even a blog post for that matter.

Just to catch you up as I enter my 6th month in New York.

I hate it when you’re winding down from a long week with a beer and a conversation with a dear friend and truth sneaks in and smacks you up side the face leaving a sting you can’t ignore. But then, truth’s always been a rude one. No manners, but great dramatic timing.

Since I moved to New York I’ve been busy trying to make a living, pay the rent, and make my way as best I can. And it’s been good, incredibly good at times. A fun job selling advertising. My copywriting biz is doing well. I’ve met a lot of people and I feel there’s a lot to explore here.

No, I haven’t been singing as much as I’d like, but that’s changing. I’m lined up to meet with a few jazz pianists and start rehearsing. I have a guest spot in a friend’s show in New York City, my first time on a New York stage.

So, life is good. And for the most part, I’ve been pretty dammed happy and optimistic here.

“So what, so I’ve got a smile on.
But it’s hiding the quiet superstitions in my head
Don’t believe me, don’t believe me when I say I’ve got it down.”

But I realize all this busyness and work has allowed me to avoid one of the things that brought me to New York in the first place. The desire to move my life AND my work into the world of music. Not necessarily as a performer, but as a promoter, advocate, marketer and supporter of musicians.

For years and years, it’s been my dream to help musicians succeed and thrive on all levels — financially, emotionally, creatively. But I’ve always gotten mucked up in the “how” of it. HOW can I fulfill this dream? What do I need to do to move closer to it? Can I do it and still make a living?

These unanswered questions and the familiar despair that accompanies them threw me into a funk that only provoked more questions:

Am I any closer to living my heart’s desire than I was when I living in California?

Is all this busyness bringing me any closer to my goal?

What the bleep am I doing with this one life of mine anyway?

“Am I living it right? Am I living it right?
Am I living it right?
Why, why, Georgia, why?“

John Mayer was twenty-something when he wrote “Georgia,” the song I’ve been quoting throughout this post. The song that’s been banging around in my head for weeks. But I’m 52 years old and it bugs me that I’m still asking these questions. It scares me. My fear is that I’ll always be living the questions, never the answers.

“Cause I wonder sometimes about the outcome of a still verdict-less life.”

But after a long bout of hysterical sobbing and watching old episodes of West Wing, and then attending to the mundane particulars of my life, my thinking shifted.

Maybe, just maybe, I’m not meant to do anything in particular. Maybe, even though I feel this strong pull to be drenched in music and help musicians be successful, maybe it’s just a thought, an idea, not my reason for being. Maybe realizing this dream is completely irrelevant to living a happy, productive, purposeful life.

And what if it’s not only okay but preferable to have a “verdict-less life,” to use John Mayer’s phrase. As trite as it sounds, maybe it’s not the destination (the verdict) but how you travel the path (the process) that makes all the difference.

“Everybody’s just a stranger but that’s the danger in going my own way.
It’s the price I have to pay.

Yesterday was a lazy day. And as I laid back and did next to nothing, I felt this overwhelming happiness. Not for any particular reason. Not because I was fulfilling my destiny or living my dream. Not because I had accomplished something or attained anything. I was simply being. Being happy.

And maybe being happy, regardless of what I’m doing, regardless of my work or location or circumstance, can be the verdict of my life.

with Daniel at Upper Fourth on Oct. 10, 08.

I remember each of those moments vividly. The last note of “It’s Only Love.” The high phrase near the end of “I’ve Just Seen a Face.” The Ab in “Don’t Blame Me.”

AND there were moments last night when I never sang better. Actually, there were whole sets of songs that rocked. “But Beautiful,” “Being Alive” (as a samba, of course), and “Feeling Good.” There was a lot to be proud of.

But those sucky moments are the ones that kick my ass all night long and this morning. What WAS that? What happened there? How in the heck did that note just not work?

And when I have the answers to those questions, when I know what went wrong and WHY, I feel better. Because I know how to correct whatever sucked. But this morning, I don’t have a clue. And THAT bothers me. I mean, I don’t think I could even reproduce what happened if I tried. It just… happened.

This is when a mentor or vocal coach comes in handy. And since I don’t have one right now, I’m left to my own detective work.

I mean, sometimes, sucky singing just happens. I just hate it when it does. Especially when I’ve been working as hard as I have on my craft. But I have to remember that progress is a crooked path. It’s not a straight line to the stratosphere where ever day I get to sing better than the last and every gig is better than the last. It’s up and down, high and low, flop and soar. And these extremes can exist within one three-hour gig!

So, today, I’m taking heart in all that went beautifully last night as I dig deep into my investigation as to what sucked and why. And now, on to the next glorious gig this Saturday.