Rocket’s Jazz

My friend Tal and I used to crash piano stores for fun. Here in Los Angeles, millionaires cruise around in cutoff jean shorts and Priuses. It was never difficult to convince salespeople that a couple schlubs like us needed a showpiece baby grand for the solarium in our imaginary cliffside haunt in Malibu. Once the ruse was set, we’d head straight for the Bösendorfers and Blüthners, feigning indifference to their half-million-dollar price tags, ogling their European curves, and using our fingertips to coax fluidity out of their nascent, delicate actions.

Not Much to Look At

My parents were always looking for adventures for us. Growing up in Boron, a small Mojave desert town, about an hour from the nearest incorporated city could easily lead to boredom. There were no movie theatres, no malls, not even a chain grocery store to entertain us. The population of about two thousand only accounted for one small food mart and three family-owned restaurants. So, when John suggested taking us up Saddleback Mountain my mother and father jumped at the opportunity of something new.