"THERE ARE THOSE WHO LISTEN, AND THOSE WHO WAIT TO TALK..."

"...this album is dedicated to the listeners." 

~ Paul Williams (back cover of Just an Old Fashioned Love Song)

When I first read those words so long ago, I never forgot them. They became a permanent part of all the wisdom I have eagerly gathered from other people's words, be it through books or music.

Paul's music has always required listeners...it is that sensitive, and that profoundly moving. And having grown up in a family of "those who wait to talk," it really had special meaning for me. 

Those "big fat Italian families" all gathered for a holiday meal? Don't even try to finish a sentence, because it will be chopped off mid-stream, leaving you feeling frustrated, insulted and, in my case, looking for a quick-exit excuse. Aside from the fact that it is extremely rude to do that to anyone. 

Many Italian-Americans make a big joke about "all talking at the same time," but I always found it irritating as hell, and after my mother died, I just stopped accepting invitations to at least five hours of noise and insanity, preferring the quiet of my own home, the company of a sweet cat or two and music ~ always music.

I had the extremely good fortune of meeting Paul back when I worked for Neil Bogart, President of Buddah Records. Unbeknownst to me, Paul was standing just outside my office, in a business discussion with the manager (and some members) of the group SHA NA NA.

Already a devoted 'listener,' I happened to leave my office and absolutely froze on the spot. Could it be? Is that really Paul Williams standing there, mere feet away from me? The genius who had written so many of my all-time favorite songs...could I get any luckier? 

I just stood there quietly and stared, transfixed, to the annoyance of the SHA NA NA people, because when Paul noticed me, he excused himself and came into my office to talk. YIKES! Dreams really do come true! He soon returned to the meeting, but stopped back in before he left to say how nice it was to meet me. "I'm doing fine on Cloud Nine...!"

I remember one time when Neil returned from some music business gala in LA, he jokingly said, "Only you!" 

I asked him what the hell he was talking about, and he informed me that, in the middle of this big muckety-muck dinner, Paul approached him and asked, "Aren't you the guy who works with Paula?"

I was honored to meet a lot of my musical heroes during my time in the music biz, but meeting Paul Williams is right up there next to the Holy Grail, Frank Sinatra!

So, Paul, if you are reading this, thank you...for being so kind, for remaining my friend through the many years that have passed, and for creating what Albert Schweitzer included with this observation:

"There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life. Music and cats."

I have both, and your music is a very special part of it.

Centanno, my friend, centanno...

SWEET GILDA WAS RIGHT...IT'S ALWAYS SOMETHING!!

Last night, as I was preparing for the beginning of Round One of "Hot town, summer in the city" circa 2013,  I was simultaneously on the phone, moving stuff around, and stupidly decided to also close the kitchen window to assist the air conditioner in doing its job.

Well, something snapped and that 44" wide, heavy-duty metal window came SLAMMING down on the middle finger of my left hand (there's a message in there somewhere...) and STAYED there for a full 10 or 20 seconds before I was able to lift it up with ONE hand. Top of fingernail down, absolutely SQUASHED.

There are no words for the pain, throbbing and bleeding that followed the latest episode of The Clumsiest Person In America. Cold water, ice, prayers...nothing helped. I ran to the bathroom and discovered just TWO generic aspirin left, leaving me at the mercy of a very long and sleepless night.

My apologies for utilizing an old illustration today, something I made for a friend years ago who stubbed his toe very badly. It may not be my middle finger, but it's a perfect example of what it looks and feels like today. And my other fingers are also very angry, so it's a good fit.

This is a a quickie, it's getting hot, I'm exhausted, and MY FINGER HURTS!!!

That'll teach me stop flipping the bird. Besides, Italian "arm salutes" are so much more effective...

"THE HOUSE I LIVE IN"

Or, more appropriately, "the building in which I reside" ~ a veritable NUT HOUSE, chock full of people I don't want to know, can barely tolerate when I happen upon a "neighbor," and after 20 years of living here, can only dream of leaving it the hell behind me before I start pushing up daisies and magic mushrooms.

Don't misunderstand ~ I live in a lovely, large apartment with a terrace and a fixed rent, utilities included. In Cement City, people would literally kill to live in a place like this. It's well-maintained with an excellent service department and beautiful gardens, so my gripe isn't with the co-op and all their stupid rules and regulations (NO DOGS!) but rather the mental cases who call themselves my neighbors. UGH. I'd rather live with squirrels than these gossipy, cliquey morons who are hearty endorsements for those who believe in pro-choice.

Having just returned from what I hoped would be a fast and anonymous trip for necessities, I bumped into The Building Yenta With A Loose Screw, the LAST person in America I wanted to see. After annoying the shit out of me with endless questions, she then began to repeat the latest gossip about an upcoming major (and jack-hammer NOISY) construction job on the Nut House. Loose Screw must have noticed my cold demeanor and asked, "Are you okay? You're not your usual self..."

With a very deep breath to calm my nerves, I slowly replied, "My cat just died last week, my favorite aunt is in the process of dying in Vermont, and now you're telling me that we're going to be assaulted by horrific noise all summer long? What do you think is the 'matter,' dingbat??"

We also have another yenta whom I have nicknamed Cake-Head...she sports a short, short haircut with just enough hair to have CURLS on top...it's like looking at a Drake's Cake with a big fat face beneath it. Gossip extraordinaire and a mean-spirited, truly stupid Republican, I always smile at her and make small talk, if only to keep my name out of her big mouth.

Let's see...we also have the Queen of England, who never appears without her hat and pocketbook. The Filthy Slob whose apartment is so overrun with la cucaracha, I've been told walking through his apartment is like the cockroach version of the parting of the Red Sea. (Thank every spirit in the sky that he lives WAY above me and in a different line, or he'd be dead and I in prison by now.) Then there are the "lifers" who inherited their apartments from their parents and think they own the place, and only recently we lost the idiot on the ground floor who thought it was perfectly okay for the entire lobby to smell like the movie "Pineapple Express" upon entry. Personally, I couldn't care less about that, but have a little discretion, okay? Ever hear of incense?

I once read an article that claimed it is not 'normal' for people to live so close to each other...the piece compared apartment life to egg crates, stacked one of top of another. And I could not agree more, having lived in these egg crates my entire life.

I think it's time for my little log cabin, surrounded by acres and acres and ACRES of woods, my only neighbors cows, crickets and critters of every kind.

Now if somebody out there will only find my writing worthy enough to actually pay me so I may obtain my dream home, I promise I will NEVER complain again.

Maybe. (Probably not!)

MONEY...

According to Pink Floyd, "it's a gas." No it's not, it's a pain in the ass. And for me, it's always been the extremely painful kind, so I wouldn't know.

And then in 1959, there was Barrett Strong wailing his heart out, "The best things in life are free, but you can keep 'em for the birds and bees, now give me money (that's what I want)...!"

Let's see now...in 1959, I was all of 12-13 years old and even then disagreed with Mr. Strong. The song that I most identified with (and still do) is Ray Charles' "My bills are all due and the baby needs shoes and I'm busted..."

(FYI, the correct quote is "the love of money is the root of all evil" NOT "money is the root of all evil." A good friend and mentor explained that to me, and the fact that money can also be used for good, so a tip of my beret to Dr. D!)

Whatever, money causes people to do very bad things, of which I want no part, even if it means permanent church mouse status in this thing called life. I am no fan of The Pitchfork, never was, and since money seems to be inherently evil, it's steered as clear of me as I have of its benefactor. But I am beginning to reconsider Barrett Strong's words in my golden years (whoever thought that one up should be hanged in effigy. More like rust if you ask me.)

When I was a little kid, my older sister explained the meaning of Christmas to me. When she got to the part about giving presents to people, my eyes opened up like saucers: "YOU GIVE GIFTS TO PEOPLE??!" Wow, I thought that was the coolest thing ever. I immediately ran to the hallway closet, where I had hidden a plastic Christmas stocking filled with sticky hard candy and, on Christmas morning, presented it to my father as my very first Christmas gift to him. That's the kind of kid I was, and that is who I remain.

I think my cousin Evelyn Grosso Stanley summed up my constant financial crises neatly in a recent conversation.

"Paula, you are the ONLY person I know who so fully embraced the ideals of the Sixties, you never let go of them!"

I think my favorite cousin in the world hit a bulls-eye with that one.

"Cotton is down to a quarter a pound, but I'm busted. I got a cow that went dry and a hen that won't lay, a big stack of bills that gets bigger each day, the county's gonna haul my belongings away 'cause I'm busted... I'm broke, no bread, I mean like NOTHIN'.....!"

Flower Power...it's a good thing some flowers are edible!

TOO MANY GOODBYES...

Aunt Yo, King and me, summer 1970

Some of my happiest memories are of the times I spent with my favorite aunt, Yolanda, at her home in Vermont. And although my trips became less frequent as I grew older, we never, ever lost touch. For a long time, we wrote each other weekly. It was she who encouraged me to write professionally; she'd say "reading your letters is like the next installment of a soap opera!"

Then, when telephone companies created unlimited calling (thus, less expensive 'long-distance' calls) we talked all the time. I'd often send her little surprises ~ copies of 'Back in the Bronx' magazine (which she loved) a card, something I'd made for her birthday or Christmas or for no reason at all, other than to tell her that I loved her.

Aunt Yo lost her first husband to the horrors of World War II. Rocky Naclerio died 1943, in the 'Battle of the Bulge' leaving my aunt with a baby son, and a broken heart. She faced many more heartaches in the years to come, but never lost her courageous spirit and positive outlook.

In the 1950s, she remarried, this time to my mother's brother, and I was so happy to have such a pretty and nice new "aunt" in our family. Around 1959-60, they found a beautiful old house, circa 1825, in Vermont and soon moved there for good. My first visit, with my parents during the summer of 1960, wound up being my first extended vacation away from home. I loved it so much, I didn't want to leave, and so my parents left me with Aunt Yo, Uncle Rico and my cousins Tommy and Vicki and returned weeks later to pick me up.

Last night, I received a call from my cousin Victoria. She did not want me to be shocked 'after the fact' and explained that her mother had requested that no one be told of her terminal illness, and her children respected her wishes. I was shaken to the core. Never once, in the two years since her diagnosis, did she ever let on that anything was wrong. Our conversations were as they always were ~ fun, lighthearted, nostalgic shared memories of the way things used to be...and when it was time to say goodbye, she always said "Love you!" to which I replied, "Love you more!"

At this writing, my wonderful favorite Aunt Yolanda has days, perhaps hours, left before she leaves this world behind. She would have been 91 years old this August, so she had a long life, if filled with an awful lot of pain. But goodbyes have never been easy for me. My mother would sometimes yell at me, "Death is a part of life, Paula, get used to it!" when I couldn't stop crying over the loss of a loved one.

Yes, death is a part of life, but until we are all together again, the heart can ache terribly after each and every goodbye.

Until we meet again, Aunt Yolanda, I will miss you every single day, and always 'love you more.'