Grazie, Sal Da Vinci & Arisa, Grazie, Grazie!

Grazie.

It's Italian for...never mind, enough said.

Scusa. There's more.

Grazie.

I heard that word a lot at the Sound Waves Theater at the Hard Rock Casino and Hotel in Atlantic City, New Jersey. My beloved wife had won a weekend stay in Boardwalk City, which also included dinner reservations and tickets to a show.

Grazie.

At 8 P.M. sharp on Saturday, March 29, 2025, we were in the Sound Waves lobby awaiting entry to the show. As I people watched, stayed out of the way of the CIAO USA TV crew, and eavesdropped on conversations, one salient, Lake Garda-like realization dawned on me: everyone was speaking Italian. Everyone—young and old. And tonight's concert would also be all in italiano.

Geographically this made sense. From the late 19th to the early 20th centuries, lots of Italian immigrants settled in New Jersey, contributing significantly to the social fabric. Why wouldn't there be enough Italian-speaking Americans to support a concert in italiano?

However—mea culpa—beside the word for "thank you," my Italian is limited: pizza, Lamborghini, Papa, pecorino, Sagrantino di Montefalco. Certainly not enough to explain the Pythagorean theorem (I prefer Greek for that), and not enough to understand every word of what was to be sung. But I know good music when I hear it (whatever the language) and I was ready to be entertained.

Furthermore, I currently live in Los Angeles, so am used to navigating a multilingual world. My beloved wife is the daughter of Mexican immigrants, so I hear (and speak) Spanish every day. And growing up in New Zealand, especially in Auckland, I would often hear Te Reo Māori, Tongan, Samoan, Niuean and others.

An air of anticipation filled the theater as we were guided to our seats (A 11-12). And then... Arisa came out on stage, nay, glided out on stage. With shoulder length hair, and a full-length black gown, she was a personification of grace, beauty, and class. Her high cheek bones accentuated a dignified countenance; I could not wait to hear this woman sing.

And sing she did—passionate, heartfelt songs (if I may borrow from another Romance language: joie de vivre!) that resonated with the audience. Between songs, Arisa would converse with the audience...one time I believe she was thanking and declaring her love for her mother. We all were.

At the end of her performance, Arisa taped a selfie of herself and her bandmates. In the background, the audience is waving and cheering with gratitude and enthusiasm, myself included.

Later research revealed that Arisa is actually the stage name for Rosalba Pippa, born in Genoa, Italy. "Arisa" is an acronym arranged from the first letters of her family members' names: A (dad Antonio), R (herself Rosalba), I (sister Isabella), S (sister Sabrina), and A (mum Assunta). My acronym would be: A Really Iconic Soulful Artist.

The next and final performer was Sal Da Vinci. The man exuded charm, charisma, and knew how to work an audience. And work it he did—belting out song after song to a widely appreciative audience (the folks who self-identified from Naples had their own banner).

The last time I had seen such stage presence and magnetism was when I saw Michael Damian as Joseph in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat in Los Angeles at the Pantages Theatre on Thursday, April 15, 1993 (Dear Diary, grazie).

The other dynamic in Sal Da Vinci's performance was the crown interaction—from a baby in a carrier to elderly patrons with walkers—and everyone age group in between, all were so into this artist. Teenage girls, their mums, and grandparents too would regularly stand up and sing along with Mr. Da Vinci. By the end of the night my wife and I were standing up and "singing" along! We were fans; we were with la famiglia.

In September, 2025, my wife and I will be holidaying in Italy. But on this March evening, in the Sound Waves Theater, Italy came to America. 

Grazie, Sal Da Vinci & Arisa, grazie, grazie!

🥝🥝🥝🥝

© 2025

Bird by Bird and a Kiwi Too

Recently, my daughter Dani gave me a copy of Anne Lamott's, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, the 25th Anniversary Edition. 

Being a quarter-century late to the party, and from New Zealand/Aotearoa—"land of the long white cloud," a few puffs of doubt crept into my mind as I contemplated writing this blog: What can I possibly add to what has already been written about this seminal book?

And then there was light: What it means to you! And after devouring it, my reaction: gobsmacked.

I have read a number of books on writing. My home library has some of the usual suspects: Story by Robert McKee; The Hero With a Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell; The Elements of Style by Strunk and White (grammar nerds forever). And I do live in Los Angeles...Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting by Syd Field; The Hollywood Standard by Christopher Riley; and my autographed copy of Save the Cat by Blake Snyder (RIP, sir). Let's not forget Jerry Jenkins—big fan!

But this text was different. 

How?

Several days passed and numerous cups of coffee consumed before insights slowly percolated and took form in my consciousness...drip...drip...drip...

I have never met Anne Lamott, seen any YouTube videos about her, and until Dani gave me this New York Times bestseller—I had never even read any of her books.  Yet like all great writing, it spoke to me on a deeply personal—proton, neutron, electron level. It was like she knew me: We had been childhood friends playing in the sylvan areas of the Waitākere Ranges. Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life was suddenly a literary conduit to a best mate, mentor, confidant, cheerleader, writing coach, mum...Shall I continue?

As I pored over each page, I laughed, nay, guffawed. I sighed. I cried. And finally spied the eureka line on page 204:

"Being enough was going to have to be an inside job."

Gobsmacked.

"Being enough was going to have to be an inside job."

It's worth repeating. Let that inner realization sink in to the very core of your being. I'll wait...

I remember when I first self-published, Christmas Yve: A Kiwi Elf's Dream to Join Santa, I had already started searching for a barn for my soon-to-be-acquired unicorn. And I was pursuing rainbows with the passion of Helen Hunt's and Bill Paxton's characters—storm chasers—in the 1996 movie Twister.

Alas. My worldly writing dreams that I convinced myself would fill all the potholes of emptiness within my soul did not manifest. I still believe in unicorns...I just don't own one. And my longed-for pot of gold is a wedding band from my beloved wife.

I hope I am not coming off as whiny. In my wallet is my SAG-AFTRA card (must pay my dues) and my library card—just no Victim Card. 

Believe me, for you, for me, for all the members in our Writers Group Chat, I want you to experience every success (however you gauge that). I want your books to be as ubiquitous as  James Patterson's—available at every airport bookstore in the world! I want your masterpiece to be studied in high schools like I studied Fahrenheit 451 at KBHS in Mr. Morgan's English class. Like J.K. Rowling, I want your book series to be made into movies, plays, theme parks, and merchandise to be given away in Happy Meals when you take your sprog to Maccas. Just don't fall victim to your ego's wiles that external treasure will complete you. "You complete me" is a line best delivered by movie star Tom Cruise. He has the gravitas, good looks, filmography, and belief system to pull it off!

This is why I found Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life so grounded. Anne Lamott is a published author. She is a New York Times best-selling author. Yet never did I glean from the book that the art, process, and business of writing were in themselves all-fulfilling. "Being enough"...You know it by now. 

Concomitant with the craft of writing, Ms. Lamott's text also addressed the inner emotional, psychic, even spiritual challenges that writers experience with a voice that was humorous, compassionate, and understanding. This is why I could not put her book down.

For example: Writers sometimes feel jealous of other writers' success. Mea culpa. Writers sometimes tune in and get stuck on the self-loathing track in their mental radio. Mea culpa. Writers sometimes do not eat or listen to their greens, especially broccoli. Mea culpa. 

Okay, one last time, mentally with eyes closed, deeply affirm each word:

"Being enough was going to have to be an inside job."

🥝🥝🥝🥝

Of course no homage to Ms. Lamott's book, her dad, and older brother's homework project (reflected in the title) would be complete without a description of a bird I know and love:

The kiwi is a flightless, tailless, nocturnal bird native to New Zealand. Because this bird is a national icon, New Zealanders are often referred to as Kiwis. 

It dwells in the bush, sleeping in burrows during the day and forages for food—larvae, insects, worms—with its long beak by night. There are five species of kiwi: great spotted kiwi, little spotted kiwi, rowi, brown kiwi, and tokoeka.

Not being able to fly makes kiwis particularly vulnerable to stoats, dogs, ferrets, even humans. Fortunately, New Zealand's Department of Conservation and national charity Save the Kiwi are dedicated to safeguard our beautiful kiwi. I invite you to participate in this noble effort! 

© 2025

Buckle Up: Waymoed is Now a Verb!

Growing up, what was the coolest car you ever saw?

An E-Type Jaguar. It really looked like a lowercase "e." After school, Paul Bennett's beautiful mum picked him up from Oratia Primary School in their beautiful car to enjoy a beautiful evening.

Ever get a ride in it?

Nah, mate. I rode the homely school land waka home.

Last week, I got to ride in a different kind of e-type model: the Jaguar I-PACE. 

How was it?

To paraphrase greaser Danny Zuko's character in Grease, [singing] the power they're supplying—it's electrifying!

Sweet as. Sounds cool.

Crank up the AC, mate. It gets cooler. It's a crossover electric SUV used by Waymo One's autonomous ride-hailing service.

Pump the brakes there, bro. That's a lot of syllables to digest. Au-ton-o-mous ride-hail-ing ser-vice: a self-driving taxi!

Yeah.

Choice. And on what Blade Runner-type film set did this take place?

The same location as Philip K. Dick's science fiction novel that that movie is based on: San Francisco.

The City by the Bay.

Uh-huh. My wife and I were enjoying a three-day getaway weekend in SF. We didn't want to deal with a rental, parking, and driving around downtown, so we Waymoed here, Waymoed there; here a Waymo, there a Waymo, everywhere a Waymo.

And how exactly does one "hail" a car with no human driver?

I downloaded the Waymo One app, created an account (with payment method), and entered where I wanted to go. It whirred-purred up to our location like a large white Turkish Angora cat and picked us up.

You opened the doors, got in, then what?

Remember the game "trust fall", you played with ya mates when you were a kid. You cross your arms over your chest and fall backwards...praying that they catch you.

Yeah.

When Waymo One first took off, I had a similar feeling to when playing that game...I'm surrendering control...hope this works out!

Any trust issues?

Nah, mate. No speeding, no excessive speeding, it reminded me to put on my seatbelt, no hard acceleration, no harsh braking, no harsh cornering, harsh darn it—just a Tiki tour safely from point A to point B. The biggest challenge was choosing the ambient music for the vehicle's stereo system.

Were you ever a backseat driver?

In my head...yes...at first. But how do you give unwanted advice to an empty chair? There are no "ten" and "two" hand positions for a self-rotating steering wheel. On one trip, when I did ride shotgun, I yearned to touch, pat, bid farewell to the steering wheel with a simple gesture of reminiscence to a former driving role...

And?

Nah, mate. There's a sign on the interior of the steering wheel that reads, "Please keep your hands off the wheel."

Well, they did say, "please."

Exactly. And that request is written just above the leaping jaguar logo. The last thing I needed on a romantic weekend with my wife was a Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, jumping jaguar fight scene with a driverless car. I fully expected a Hal 9000 voice, with a British accent, to read off the message below the logo: "The Waymo Driver is in control at all times." 

So how does the Waymo Driver stay "in control"?

Sensors, software, radar, cameras, powerful AI; or as American sports personality Colin Cowherd likes to say on his show The Herd, "that new technology thingy." The dome on top of the Waymo One car—what an AI-generated Ralph Waldo Emerson might refer to as a "transparent eye-ball"—uses Lidar sensors to generate a 3D map of the vehicle's environment.

Over the course of the weekend getaway, how many Waymo rides did you and your wife take?

Eight. One of them also included our nephew. We wanted the college lad riding shotgun on one of the adventures of The Three Waymoteers! By the end of the weekend, a new day's morning dew of anxiety had melted away to a warm sense of safety. I felt more secure being driven around by a ghost driver than some of the piloting behaviour on display by a few human hoons whizzing around.

Any problems on any of the rides?

Our maiden voyage: Near the Embarcadero, the Waymo Driver failed to make a left turn on a signal arrow. We did the green-red-green-red-green-red waltz together.

What did you do?

Again—not a back-seat driver. With the push of a button, I contacted Support. Spoke to a real-life human, who connected me to a real-life technician who eventually got WD to make the turn.

Chur.

The good news: No folks, flora, or fauna were harmed in this slight aberration. Just a few ruffled feathers from the people drivers behind us. They telegraphed and channeled their feelings with a cacophonous series of horn honks.

They're only human.

Unlike WD. 

The AI genie is out of the bottle. 

And it's driving. As Bob Dylan grittily foreshadowed back in the '60s, "The Times They Are A-Changin'." 

Always a-changin'.

As WD wrapped up our trip, I mentally transported myself to another time—another life—an early twentieth-century big city—a passenger of a vehicle with mechanical horse power overtaking a horse-drawn buggy, witnessing and participating in an oncoming technological and social journey.

Did you leave a tip?

In the reverie?

No, to the Waymo Driver!

Of the black Jacaru hat, mate. Although that's a great idea: the chance to pay it forward for the next bloke and his missus. They could receive a reduced fare through, as Blanche DuBois opined in Tennessee Williams',  A Streetcar Named Desire, "the kindness of strangers."

Any advice to a potential rider?

Buckle up, relax, enjoy the ride. Waymoed is now a verb!

🥝🥝🥝🥝

© 2025

A Kona Christmas

Christmas Dinner

Island Lava Java * Kona, Hawaii * December 25, 2024

We arrived!

We were in Kona. It was Christmas. Time for the family’s Kona Christmas!

A hearty “Aloha” to 75-5801 Ali‘i Dr Building 1, Kailua-Kona, HI 96740, the bustling oceanfront restaurant: Island Lava Java.

This dinner had been months in the planning, with matching “Kona Christmas” tee-shirts designed by Danielle Gro’ak. Our stomachs were rumbling, tumbling, ready to go tummy-to-toe with a menu of delicious Island offerings. 

The two-vehicle commute from Hilo, across the Big Island, had only heightened our anticipation. And here we were. A Mele Kalikimaka crowd packed the downstairs dining area. The patio buzzed with small talk, drawl talk, big talk, tall talk. 

Other patrons watched the NFL Christmas game on wall-mounted TVs; others sipped cool-looking cocktails; others skulled cold cold-ones; others stared out to the bay, soaking up the sun and the magic of the moment.

“Stephen G, party of twelve, your table is ready upstairs.”

There’s twelve of us? Nana Rae from New Zealand, Dani from St. Louis, the LA crew—Abu, Si Si, Sadie, Michael, Raewyn, Alex, G, Don Bran, Teresa, and me.

“Here.”

“Present.”

“Hungry!”

“Follow me.”

Like an All Black rugby scrum, we locked arms—"someone grab the grandmas’ walkers”—as we followed our hostess, pushing forward…step by step…to higher ground.

Once we were seated, two views competed for our attention: the stunning bay, with a moored cruise ship, and the menu.

The menu won out (briefly) when Tawney, our waitress, a lady with long eyelashes and a well-practiced aloha attitude, appeared and took our orders.

Pupus/Starters

Of course, a menu offering twenty-five choices starts with one bite, and for starters we nibbled—who am I kidding?—inhaled seafood chowder and honey-macadamia nut brie.

And we all know that “man shall not live by bread alone,” so for drinks we partook in pono mai tais, Kona-tini, wai nui mai tais, juice, mai lychee tais, Kona Big Waves (surf’s up), sparkling hibiscus, and water.

Christmas Entrees

The familial revelry, celebrating the most holy of days, was continued with a Super Smash Burger, Lemongrass Curry Mahi Mahi, Roasted Veggie Bowl, Island Lava Java Fresh Fish Tacos, LJ’s Steak and Frites, Roast Prime Rib (medium rare), Big Island Beet Salad, Shrimp Carbonara, and Ahi Poke Bowl.

Merry Desserts

Finally, on the Big Island you can have your cake/desserts and eat it too. And eat we did: Chocolate Cappuccino Cheesecake, Hawaiian Vanilla Crème Brûlée, Macadamia Nut Pie, and Pineapple-Mango-Lime Cheesecake.

No magic Kodak-iPhone moment can go unphotographed:

“Say, ‘Mele Kalikimaka.’”

“Mele Kalikimaka.”

CLICK.

🥝🥝🥝🥝

© 2025

Do You Believe in Magic?

Do you believe in magic?

The song by The Lovin’ Spoonful—[singing]“Believe in the magic that can set you free”—I used to crank it up whenever it played on Radio Hauraki.

I do. With grace, goodwill, and a propitious text to a dear friend in the know, I arranged for a magician to perform for mi suegro, Don Miguel, who was gravely ill in the hospital. My father-in-law loves magic.

And who was “el mago”? 

Brian Ochab.

Brian Ochab.

Brian Ochab.

We say his name three times—

And the magic happens. Don Miguel’s grandson Chris had wanted to take him to The Magic Castle in Hollywood, California, but his health was too poor. So, on a Sunday afternoon at three, The Magic Castle—Brian Ochab—came to Don Miguel’s sixth-floor hospital room at Kaiser Permanente Medical Center on Sunset Boulevard.

Brian Ochab is a world-class magician. Look him up…earned the title of International Magic Champion…first place award at the International Brotherhood of Magicians’ Gold Cups Competition…People’s Choice Award from the Society of American Magicians.

Sweet as. Mate, I’m all rabbit ears. What happened?

What happens in a magician’s den/hospital room stays there.

I will say that the first hint of Brian’s wizardry was how the spatial dimensions of the room transcended. The hospital room was big enough for two guests; however, when Brian Ochab got there, it was standing room only for the seventeen magic enthusiasts present: Don Miguel, his esposa, his hijo, two hijas, yerno, six nietos, bisnieto, hermano and his hija, her esposo and their hijo. And mum’s the word on el médico and the nurses poking their heads from behind the curtain.

And ironically the greatest magic Brian Ochab performed wasn’t a trick at all.

Huh?

For one hour, Brian Ochab took our individual base-laden grief at Don Miguel’s condition and transmuted it into a golden moment in time. We all got to share in Don Miguel’s delight at seeing a world-class magician perform his craft at the tip of our noses. We all got to celebrate in Don Miguel’s life together. 

Now that’s magic.

Magic.

Sing it with me:

“Believe in the magic that can set you free.”

∞

Epilogue:

On Monday, October 28, 2024, at 10:30 p.m., with a divine sleight of hand, el Mago Divino made Don Miguel disappear in his hospital room right before his loving familia and me.

© 2024

Two Words: Reba Hilbert

Ubiquitous. Cool word, eh.

Yeah. I see it everywhere.

Funny. Very funny. You’re quite the Fred Dagg. First came across it in Dad’s Time magazine. Back then, I had a notebook for words I didn’t know where I’d write the meaning, part of speech, and the sentence in which it was used. “Ubiquitous” is one my KBHS Latin teacher, Mr. Staniland, would approve.

And now we have “Word of the Day” on the Internet. And for the word-nerds, grammar freaks amongst us—an editor sure is handy.

You have one?

I do.

Sweet as: quid pro bro!—you spin a yarn; I’m all ears.

Well, first to the business at hand: What I look for in an editor is someone who is competent, has a fast turnaround, and charges a fair rate for their time. There are thousands of people who meet those criteria—enough to fill a phone book (Remember those? She’s under “H.”).

So why Reba Hilbert?

Two words: Reba Hilbert. 

Working with an editor is not only a professional transaction but also a relationship built on trust, respect, and honesty. That does sound like a bumper sticker for your shiny new EV, but for me one developed over many years and five books. 

Birthing your literary sprogs can get messy and bloody, and Reba was my editorial midwife through my self-published works. But once cleaned up…such beauty, such beauty.  

I distinctly remember that when I sent her the first draft of my children’s story, Christmas Yve, a Kiwi Elf’s Dream to join Santa, I was a nervous wreck. I cried. Like when I dropped off my eldest daughter Sadie on her first day of preschool.

Will she be okay? I hope they take good care of her. Will she be different?

And upon her return: “How was it?”

“Mrs. Hilbert taught us about misplaced modifiers.”

And working with Reba does honour the editor-writer privilege: You bare your soul; she makes it whole—grammatically, that is, in the safe working space. Why, you diehard grammar-nerds (I’m secretary of the club) could send Reba a first draft of a love letter to your beloved, and she could improve the grammar and leave the amorous intent sacrosanct.

Finally, Reba Hilbert has an excellent sense of humour. In an editor? Yes. The “e” and “h” words can coexist in the same sentence, eh.

Fancy that.

🥝🥝🥝🥝

© 2024

Seventeen Seconds

How long does it take to get from Avondale, Auckland, New Zealand, to Chula Vista, California, USA?

I don’t know…thirteen hours and change.

 

Forty-one years, five months, and twenty-one days.

 

What did you do—swim across the Pacific Ocean, with an extended holiday in Hawaii?

 

Correct that: Seventeen Seconds.

 

1981: Orchard Street, Avondale, Auckland, New Zealand.

Side One:

“A Reflection”

I am an angst-ridden introvert, where reflection becomes a never-ending prison of internal criticism and self-doubt. I am lying on the floor of a living room flat, eyes closed, with two speakers on either side of my head, music blaring, listening to Robert Smith and the lads.

 "Play For Today"

To escape the loneliness and emptiness I feel inside. I know, I know, not the most productiveuse of my time. “I don’t really care.”

“Secrets”

I have them…personal secrets, mates' secrets, family secrets. God knows.

 

“In Your House”

Mark P.’s house/flat actually. He lets me sleep on his couch for five bucks a week in rent. Mate’s rates for this Kelston Boys’ High School student. Pretending, killing time, pretending.

 

“Three”

Well? I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.

 

Side Two:

“The Final Sound”

Don’t let it be a scream. The sound blasting out of the speaker by my right ear seems…different…behind the sound a final sound…in the beginning, the middle, and the end…always....

“A Forest”

Where is that girl? I am lost in a forest of melancholy. 

 

“M”

M. Mmmm. Mmmmmmmm. So good. Fading away in the song.

  

“At Night”

I open my eyes. Tense and relax the body as I reposition myself on the carpet. The sun that had hung in an Auckland sky is slowly dipping below the horizon, tracking a time and space shared with you, Robert Smith, Matthieu Hartley, Laurence Tolhurst, and Simon Gallup.

“Seventeen Seconds”

There’s a lot to experience in that time.

 

May 21, 2023, North Island Credit Union Amphitheatre, Chula Vista, California, USA.

The Cure Tour: Shows of a Lost World

Robert Smith and the band are on stage.

 

“A Forest”

Wait, wait, wait…I recognize “the girl.” It’s you, Robert Smith, and the music of this album calling me “again and again and again and again.” Back then you were a broke teenager’s aural therapy…

 

And now? I am not lost or alone. Not this time. I am at a Cure concert. There’s mi esposa, Teresa de Jesus—and over there mi sobrino Brian A. All around I see a forest of friends and fans packed within the amphitheater. My people. Singing in harmony, together, your lyrics.

 

May 21, 2023: Driving home after the concert, past and present selves conversing.

 

Cured?

 

No. Work in progress. I can, however, see the forest and the trees.

 

Me too.

🥝🥝🥝🥝

© 2023

Setlist.