Elizabeth Weintraub • Sacramento Short Sale Agent • Land Park

Despite my busy day yesterday -- cleaning up my short sale listings, doing a presentation to Lyon agents, attending a short sale closing -- I mustered up the energy to go to the Steve Earle concert at the Crest Theatre last night. The stage was bare, except for a table holding 2 bottles of water, a microphone, couple of speakers and 2 instruments. Most shows start on time at the Crest, but this one began about 15 minutes late.

Steve Earle walked on stage, dressed in faded blue jeans, a red and brown plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he had a long graying beard, neatly trimmed. His hair is thinning in the front, but still long. He sported glasses without frames, so from a distance it may appear as though he wasn't wearing glasses when he was, which I suppose was on purpose. Although, I've never considered him to be a person who cared much about appearance, I suspect those glasses say he does.

On the way to the Crest, as we drove past the California State Capitol, I noticed a creature by the sidewalk. At first I thought it was a cat, but upon closer inspection, it was definitely a raccoon. Just sitting there, washing its little masked face. He reminded me of Steve Earle.

The bottles of water on stage were in stark contrast to the concerts of old when bottles of beer used to be prevalent. Ah, the good old days. The days of artists puking on stage and dying at a young age. I wondered if Earle was in rehab, and it turns out he is 15 years sober -- a recovering heroin addict.

Earlier this year, Earle released, Townes, a tribute album of songs that were written by his hero and friend, the late Townes Van Zandt, and he performed a number of songs from that record. He opened with Rex's Blues and talked some of the way through it. Explaining how this guy used to hop on his horse Amigo and ride 58 miles from Aspen, Colorado, to Crested Butte. Earle said he was 17 then and thought it was the coolest thing ever. Then he paused and said, "I'm 54 now, and I still think it's the coolest thing ever."

He followed that tune with "Colorado Girl" -- which I've always liked, especially since I used to live in the mountains in Colorado -- and launched into a long-time favorite "Pancho and Lefty." All in all, he played for a little over 2 hours and, despite the late hour, I didn't fall asleep as I thought I might. But then we were sitting in the second row, and that does tend to keep me up past my bedtime as compared to the nose-bleed section.

My only regret about the show was he didn't sing "Wabash Cannonball." I suppose he never will.

Photos: Elizabeth Weintraub

In keeping with my husband's concert-going theme, which seems to be "go see 'em before they croak," we went to see Merle Haggard perform last night at the Mondavi Center for Performing Arts in Davis, California. This time we finagled seats in the 6th row, center stage. Since I've never sat that close to the stage in Jackson Hall before, I didn't know that this row of seats was designed like the emergency exit rows on planes. It has extra leg room, which was a far cry from being stuck in Row U.

Some people may wonder why I am care about seating arrangements, but I'm telling you, it's the little things in life that matter. Big things are often easy to handle such as getting a ticket to the show. It's the little things that can make the journey pleasant or unpleasant.

Noel Haggard, Merle's son opened the show, but it didn't seem like his heart was in it. He just did his thing and left the stage. He was followed by these two guys in pompadours, the Malpass Brothers. This duo was pretty good -- lots of energy and enthusiasm -- and they looked just like a throwback to 1952.

After a brief intermission to sell CDs, Merle Haggard hit the stage. I sort of expected him to appear in a freshly tailored suit jacket like you see him wear in his publicity photos, but he walked on stage, moving carefully and slowly for a man of 72 who beat cancer, wearing a beat-up old jacket with fringe on the sleeves. He played like he's probably performed hundreds of thousands of times before, like a professional, never missing a beat, but it was lacking passion. His band of country legends, however, were solid and tight.

I found out 3 things, though, that I did not know by going to the show last night. The first is The Flying Burrito Brothers did not write White Line Fever. It was Merle. The second is I now know why Merle Haggard wrote Okie from Muskogee, "Because I was the only one that knew the words." That, and it had to be written, he said. And even without teeth, that saxophone player could play a mean horn.

What is your opinion on men who wear "man skirts?" I ask because my husband and I spotted a fellow with a ponytail in row 2 at the 24th Street Theatre (part of the Sierra 2 in Curtis Park) who wore a short denim skirt last night to the Richard Thompson concert. It had plenty of pleats, too. It wasn't a kilt. He paired it with a black, form-fitting shell and walked past us barefoot in the aisle. I didn't notice skirt guy, but my husband did.

He has a right, noted my husband, to be comfortable and wear whatever he wants, but it's too bad that he has to be "that guy," which left me confused about what he was trying to say. The dear love of my life went on to explain. When my husband was fitted for his first suit, he had selected a double-breasted suit. The tailor told him no, if he wore a double breasted suit, he'd always be known as "that guy -- that guy in the double-breasted suit."

Doors opened at the 24th Street Theatre at 6:30. The place holds only 300 people. An usher handed out slips of paper on which we were instructed to write our song requests, one per person. I let my husband select my favorite Richard Thompson song because, quite frankly, standing out there in the hot sun after a full day of dealing with Sacramento short sales left my mind blank. The only song that I could think of off the top of head was his take on "Oops, I did it again."

Once seated, the air conditioning blasted me in the face. I froze during most of the concert, which is what I get for wearing a t-shirt and not bringing a sweater. Then, I felt somebody kicking my chair from behind. You know what it's like to be sitting on a airplane with a 3-year-old behind you who keeps kicking your chair back, right? First couple of kicks don't bother you, but by the time it gets to be repetitive, you may have to curb the desire to climb over the back of your chair and beat the kid to a bloody pulp with your barf bag.

I waited for the kicking to stop. But it didn't. So, I turned around and tapped the knee of the woman behind me. "Excuse me," I smiled, "But I believe you are absentmindedly kicking the back of my chair." She instantly pointed the finger to her husband and blamed him. Yup, he was kicking my chair all right. "Do you want me to continue?" he laughed. Hey, it's irritating. He stopped.

The first act was the Alternative String Band. First and second violin, a guy playing a viola (which he described as a "violin on steroids") and a cello. They were much better than I had anticipated, opening with Eleanor Rigby. Their set consisted of songs by Van Morrison, Led Zeppelin, The Turtles, U2, Annie Lennox and The Cream. Penny Lane, by the Beatles, was an exceptional number.

Richard Thompson appeared on stage about 8:30, wearing his trademark beret. He stood during the entire performance, plucking songs out of a basket that looked like the type of basket a snake charmer would use and playing requests. He opened with The Who's Substitute, played a bunch of requests in between, including 1952 Vincent Black Lightning, and then closed after 3 encores with a Jimi Hendrix tune: Hey Joe.

I was frozen by the time the show ended. I was so cold that I had actually considered ripping the socks off my husband's feet and wrapping them around my arms, that's how desperate I was for warmth. Here's a tip: if you go to the 24th Street Theatre in Curtis Park, bring a jacket or don't sit under the vents near the front.

Elizabeth Weintraub is an author, columnist for The New York Times-owned About.com, a Land Park resident, and a Land Park real estate agent who specializes in older, classic homes in Land Park, Curtis Park, Midtown and East Sacramento. Weintraub is also a Sacramento Short Sale agent who lists and successfully sells short sales throughout Sacramento. Call Elizabeth Weintraub at 916.233.6759. Put 35 years of real estate experience to work for you.

The Short Sale Savior, by Elizabeth Weintraub, available in bookstores everywhere and at Amazon.com.

Sacramento Short Sale Agent, Elizabeth Weintraub, has the answers to your Sacramento short sale questions.

Photo: Big Stock Photo

We found a primo parking spot on the first deck of the parking garage at Mondavi Center last night. Glanced at my watch and told my husband, "Hey, we have a good 8 minutes to make it to our seats," meaning no sprinting down the sidewalk was required to arrive before the show starts -- which is our usual M-O. As we neared the intersection at Mark Hall, people were spilling out of Mondavi to a grassy area across the street. Fire trucks and police cars appeared.

Turned out there was a small electrical fire on the south side Mondavi and the fire alarm had been pulled, right before Ravi Shankar was due to perform. During speculation among the bystanders -- and you know how crowds can be -- my husband went over to talk to the police officer. He said it's standard procedure to call the Davis Fire Department to check out the entire building in situations like this and expected the wait to be minimal. The Davis Fire Department gave us a clearing within an hour, and we were allowed inside.

This unfortunate incident meant that Anoushka Shankar, Ravi Shankar's daughter -- and half sister to Norah Jones -- had to shorten her opening set to stay on schedule. Anoushka's fingers flew across the neck of the sitar. She wore a red garment with gold threads and sat on a raised platform on the stage. She played 2 compositions.

You know why they call it a sitar, don't you? Because you sit on the floor when playing it. No, that's not true; I just made that up.

During the opening act, I decided to try to shoot a photo from my Row N seat. My husband suggested I wait until everybody in Anoushka's group began playing louder, especially the tabla (drum) guy, because even though I wasn't using flash, the sound of a camera clicking can be distracting. I raised my camera, set the manual focus and, at an appropriate spot in the performance, shot a couple pictures.

Suddenly, I heard a hissing sound behind me. Like a snake or something. Then a hand tapped my shoulder, sort of like what my cats do in that "pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon" fashion when they want my attention. I turned my head. A woman with tight lips and a pinched face hissed, "Stop that, or I am going to report you!"

Excuse me? Whatever happened to common courtesy? A proper way to voice an objection would have been, "Excuse me, but photos are not allowed at Mondavi." I glared at this woman and mouthed, "Yes, OK, yeah, yeah," while thinking she reminded me of an old crony school principal, waving a finger in my face: "Young lady, this is going to go down in your permanent record."

I mean, she probably didn't even know who Ravi Shankar was. Lot of Mondavi patrons buy season's tickets without any idea who some of the performers are. I envisioned her looking at the evening's program and asking: "Didn't this guy used to be one of The Beatles?"

When Anoushka finished her set, it was intermission. The lights came on and Old Crony from Row M grabbed her partner, Wilbur, and stormed up the aisle. Trouble was a-brewing. I could feel it. If she had been polite, I would have profusely apologized to her. I am NOT a jerk. But lady, you ARE a jerk. I hoped she would trip up the aisle and drop her purse, causing contents to scatter everywhere, and maybe her pepper spray would roll under somebody's seat.

An usher appeared shortly thereafter, and my husband calmly explained that we had put away our camera. Old Crony and Wilbur returned to their seats with a self-satisfied look on their face. I thought about turning around and taking a picture of her to post here. But I didn't want to get smacked in the head with her handbag.

The lights dimmed and Ravi Shankar appeared. He has white hair now and wore a traditional Indian garb consisting of a tunic that fell to his knees, a scarf over his shoulder and straight leggings over his extremely thin legs. He sat on the edge of the raised platform, picked up his sitar, and magic filled the air. He's about 89 now. Ravi Shankar was once nominated for both an Academy Award and a Grammy. He has 12 honorary doctorates, has been awarded the highest civilian award from France and India, and has released more than 60 albums during his career thus far.

George Harrison once called him the "Godfather of World Music."  Ravi is a remarkable musician, and it was almost a mystical experience listening to him play. During the finale, he paused to allow the audience to clap for his tabla player. To the left is a photo of the tabla player, Tanmoy Bose, before the Old Crony put a stop to such nonsense. 

Ravi played 3 compositions during his one-hour performance. His daughter, Anoushka, accompanied him on a separate raised platform next to him. There were 2 other performers with musical instruments behind each of them, and Ravichandra Kulur played flute.

The show didn't end until 11 PM. But nobody fell asleep. Well, except maybe for Old Crony. Hard to say, I wasn't looking at her anymore.

Elizabeth Weintraub is an author, columnist for The New York Times'-owned About.com, a Land Park resident, and a Land Park real estate agent who specializes in older, classic homes in Land Park, Curtis Park, Midtown and East Sacramento. Weintraub is also a Sacramento Short Sale agent who lists and successfully sells short sales throughout Sacramento. Call Elizabeth Weintraub at 916.233.6759. Put 35 years of real estate experience to work for you.

The Short Savior, by Elizabeth Weintraub, available at Amazon.com

Photos: Elizabeth Weintraub

When I received an email from the Crest saying tickets for the Indigo Girls were going on sale at 10 AM, I was in a meeting at my Midtown Sacramento Lyon office. I stepped out of the room to text my husband, imploring him to hop online to order tickets. He's not as fussy as I am regarding seating arrangements, because I prefer 4th row center stage over 2nd row off to the side, but when I'm not buying the tickets, I don't complain. Even though I am bringing it up here now. That's not really complaining in my book.

I sat next to a reporter for the Sacramento News & Review and snapped photos of the interior. See, this time I brought my Nikon camera instead of my smaller digital, just to see how much of a difference a better camera makes at a concert. Well, it made a huge difference. The detailing on the walls of the Crest reminded me a little of the State Theatre in Minneapolis which, like the Crest, was restored in all its magnificent glory. The reporter agreed with me. She was originally, I learned, from Ames, Iowa.

The State Theatre was where I saw the preview showing of Harold and Maude in 1971, one of my all-time favorite movies, perhaps because I identify with Ruth Gorden's character in some ways. I love old movie theatres, the kind with the sloping aisles, ornate detailing and velvet curtains. That type of atmosphere makes a movie goer feel as though she's in for a treat.

Up first, opening for the Indigo Girls, was Matt Morris from Denver, Colorado. His soulful style and range of octave brought to mind Glen Hansard (from the movie "Once"). He throws his heart into his music, which can mix passion with tenderness one moment and fire and angst the next. His performance of a new song, The Un-American, brought loud applause from the audience. I will buy his new CD.

When the Indigo Girls hit the stage, it was almost an hour later and, as luck would have it, about my bedtime. How I stay awake for these shows is beyond me; it's my age creeping up. They gave a good performance, but I didn't feel they were as enthusiastic as they could have been.

I first heard the Indigo Girls in the late 1980s. I mentioned to the reporter next to me that I used to play their CD over and over when I was remodeling my first house. Great music to sand Sheetrock to. She laughed and said, "Was it Hammer and a Nail?" Actually, it was. These lyrics make sense: "Gotta get out of bed get a hammer and a nail; Learn how to use my hands, not just my head."

Amy Ray sang solo Romeo and Juliet, a tune by Mark Knopler, that was amazing and full of conviction. Emily Saliers balances the duo, her voice is clear and melodic. They played some old hits and tunes from their new CD Poseiden and the Bitter Bug -- ending the show, of course, with Galileo. (If you missed this show, they play tomorrow night in Berkeley.) They didn't get the crowd really hopping until the finale -- it was a lackluster performance for my tastes, but I'm happy we went. Not so happy that I didn't receive 9 hours of sleep last night and now must drag my butt to the office to pitch a new listing at our meeting this morning, though.

The Short Sale Savior, by Elizabeth Weintraub, available at Amazon.com.

Elizabeth Weintraub is an author, columnist for The New York Times'-owned About.com, a Land Park resident, and a Land Park real estate agent who specializes in older, classic homes in Land Park, Curtis Park, Midtown and East Sacramento. Weintraub is also a Sacramento Short Sale agent who lists and successfully sells short sales throughout Sacramento. Call Elizabeth Weintraub at 916.233.6759. Put 35 years of real estate experience to work for you.

Photos: Elizabeth Weintraub

What's not to like about John Prine, I ask you? The folksinger is a walking legend among songwriters in America. When I heard he was coming to Sacramento, I immediately snagged tickets for center stage, third row. My husband feels a particular affinity for Prine, I suspect, because they are both from Chicago (my husband was probably all of 7 when Prine hit the music scene there). They both know Roger Ebert. Ebert supposedly gave Prine his first review.

When we walked into the historic Memorial Auditorium last night, it was one-third full. I wondered if the Crest was unavailable on Saturday. The chairs were the folding kind and adjoined, making me feel like I was flying Delta in economy class, but unlike Delta my knees weren't up against the seat in front of me. A guy on a cell phone was in my seat, so I tapped his shoulder. I thought about tapping his head, but that wouldn't have been polite.

The seat swiper said he was from Minnesota -- Martin County, on the Iowa border, where his 94-year-old grandmother owns 160 acres. He was drinking a beer, but I could have sworn I saw a sign upon entry about no alcoholic beverages allowed. He had a Missouri accent; you can't tell people you are from Minnesota when you have a Missouri accent. You can learn a lot about people in 30 seconds.

Josh Ritter opened the show, and my husband was instantly pleased, especially since Ritter wasn't on the tickets. That just told me that my husband has been too busy to Google the John Prine tour. Josh is such a smiling fellow -- always a big grin when he sings, and there's a bit of Bruce Springsteen in him, of which he's fully aware, I suppose.

Except Ritter sang two too many numbers because the audience was getting restless. Somebody in the audience yelled out, "Where's John Prine?" But that didn't phase Ritter. At one point during his performance, he asked the light engineers to turn off all the lights and played on a dark stage.

After an intermission, John Prine appeared, looking fabulous for a 62-year-old who has survived cancer and radiation treatment from 10 years ago. His band members are bassist Dave Jacques, who also plays electric and double bass, and Jason Wilbur, electric guitar, banjo and mandolin player extraordinaire. All three wore brown suits and ties. Prine's suit was a bit darker brown, and he wore a deep chocolate shirt with a light-blue tie.

Prine played all the old favorites: Dear Abby, Hello in There, Angel from Montgomery, the goofy Fish and Whistle, and my sentimental pick, Lake Marie. I expected to hear more of his new stuff, because an all-oldies line-up is more reminiscent of a casino show than what you expect to get in Sacramento at a live performance. But I wasn't complaining.

The show lasted until way, way past my bedtime, much longer than other shows I've been to recently, and ended at 11 PM. If the chairs had been more comfortable, people would not have been squirming toward the end. But it was worth it to stay awake to catch Ritter and Prine together for a few last songs. For 3 hours, I didn't once think about real estate, sacramento short sales nor my hectic schedule.

The Short Sale Savior, by Elizabeth Weintraub, coming May 15th

Photos: Elizabeth Weintraub

Jenny Lewis doesn't disappoint. Members of the audience at the Empire last night were hoping to hear tracks from Lewis' new release, Acid Tongue, and Lewis and her band delivered those tunes -- while not exactly flawlessly, which is also an attraction to see a live show, but effortlessly, with spirit. If you've never heard Jenny Lewis, her voice is a Stradivarius: sweet, silky and sultry.

My husband suggested we arrive at the nightclub on R Street in Sacramento about 5:45 PM to ensure seating. There aren't a lot of tables and chairs, and this was an all-age show, with a section reserved for those over 21. All I can say is I was thankful it wasn't mid July, because we ended up standing in line for an hour. Doors were supposed to open at 6 PM.

We haven't been to the Empire for a while. The last show we saw at that venue was a dual billing several years ago, Cracker and Camper Van Beethoven. Since then, R Street has watched a Paragary's restaurant come and go, and the north side of the block between 14th and 15th has exploded with restaurants, lots of outdoor seating and people milling about.

As I glinted into the sun, I spied some dude walking up the sidewalk carrying a huge owl. Wait, that couldn't be right. Oh, of course not. That's not an owl, how silly of me. It's a monkey. Perhaps a spider monkey. My brain didn't register the fact that regardless of whether the guy was toting a live hooting owl or a monkey, you just don't see those sorts of things on the street but it didn't seem out of place. As he got closer, it was apparent he wasn't carrying either of those animals. It was a chihuahua with sunglasses. Still.

Once inside, more than an hour later, we scored a table as close to the stage as we could get, and I squeezed my butt into one of those George Jetsen swivel chairs. My husband scouted up a menu, we selected fish tacos, onion rings and a Caesar salad, and my husband left the table to order from the bartender. Well, she wasn't really a bartender because she wasn't old enough to sell cocktails. My husband said nobody has ever ordered food from her before because she had no idea about how to ring up the purchases or when the food would arrive. So my husband waited at the bar.

The Empire used to have waitresses, before the downturn in the economy, but there was none in sight last night. We didn't get the onion rings for some reason, they substituted French fries, and none of the prices on the menu matched our receipt, but what the hey, we weren't there for dinner. Dinner was just something we do around 7 PM. We were there to hear Jenny Lewis.

The show started late, after 8 PM, after an opening act from LA, The Dawes. Lewis swung out on stage, sashaying and dipping, sporting a hat you'd expect to see Tom Waitt wear -- which topped her long, wavy, red locks -- a light-colored shirt with a vest, paired with tight jeans. Her show was filled with haunting melodies, fast-paced rock, syrupy country and psychedelic rock all rolled into one. My favorite was Godspeed:

Godspeed to you
Keep the lighthouse in sight

Oops, I'm out of time. I have to run out to Folsom early this morning to take a listing. Just want to add that if you missed Jenny Lewis with the Watson Twins or have never heard Rabbit Fur Coat, you're in for a treat if you pick up a couple of Jenny Lewis CDs.

The Short Sale Savior, by Elizabeth Weintraub, coming in June 2009.

Photo: Big Stock Photo

Watching the performances of three outstanding musicians at Mondavi Center last night was a little bit like choosing dessert -- I may love creme brulee, cherry cheesecake and Haagen Dazs Rocky Road, but I don't necessarily want all three on my plate at one time. Mondavi presented Guitar Blues, an American Heritage Series event.

First up on the playbill was Ruthie Foster, a dynamite blues and gospel singer / guitarist from Texas. Beautiful, soul-searching vocals, touched by an angel and fuel powered by a rocket engine, Ruthie was the cherry cheesecake, every bite delightful, that if left to my own devices would make me want to eat the entire cake. It's no wonder Ruthie won the Austin Music Award for Best Female Vocalist in 2008.

Next, out meandered Jorma Kaukonen, appearing confused. He was interviewed by the Sac Bee last week. When asked about the 1960s -- he was a founding member of Jefferson Airplane -- he appeared reluctant to talk about those years, and instead dismissed that discussion by noting the 1960s was a long time ago. I snorted to my husband when I read that, "Oh, criminy, it was only a few decades ago." My husband replied, "Yeah, I wasn't born yet."

I was blown away by his finger-picking, guitar-singing style and masterful command of his instrument. He was definitely the creme brulee. Jorma wore faded jeans, boots, a black turtleneck and sport coat. He had a neatly trimmed beard, white hair and sported perfectly positioned glasses. He's 68. But hearing him sing tune after tune about "baby come back," seemed a bit silly for such a serious musician at his age. Musicians such as Kris Kristofferson or Willie Nelson can pull off those types of numbers, but when Jorma sang, he may as well been talking about a baby on all fours crawling out of reach instead of a woman. Maybe his great grandchild. It seemed out of character and was lacking the pain, the lust and the passion.

But then the Robben Ford band hit the stage. This was the Haagen Dazs Rocky Road treat that woke up the audience. I could eat the entire container of ice cream and not feel the least bit guilty. One of his numbers was about begging a woman to let him come back. I can bet you that every woman in that Davis audience over the age of 40 thought to themselves, "Hey, if she doesn't want you, come sit over here."

The guy in front of me stuck his fingers in his ears during Robben's tune, Supernatural. A finger in each ear. I thought about kicking the back of his chair but then decided that perhaps this guy just came to the show for the creme brulee. We all have our preferences in music.

Well, I must be off to take a listing in Tahoe Park today. Check out these musicians' web sites, though. I'll bet you'll like each of them.

The Short Sale Savior, by Elizabeth Weintraub, coming June 2009.

Photo: Mondavi Performing Arts Center in Davis, CA, Big Stock Photo

I'm not a huge fan of opera. In fact, strike that, I'm not an opera fan at all, who am I kidding? That's not to say that there's anything wrong with opera or with people who enjoy it. I'm just die hard rock 'n' roll, which has evolved from the 1960s and now includes all sorts of musical classes. When my husband told me that our season tickets for Mondavi included Linda Ronstadt, I was intrigued.

Let me be clear, it wasn't opera. But one of the things I don't like about opera is it's typically performed in another language, so unless I know the story very well, I don't know what's going on.

Now, imagine you are sitting in the audience at the Mondavi Center in Davis, California (about a 15-minute drive from Sacramento), and 10 Mariachis storm the stage -- five violinists, two horns, a harp player, bassist and a guy on rhythm guitar. The only time I hear Mariachi music is when I'm in Mexico drinking margaritas, and suddenly I had a craving for chips and salsa, and the music made me feel like I should be dancing in the aisles. But nobody was dancing in the aisles.

With the exception of a few sentences in English, the entertainers spoke in Spanish. All the songs were in Spanish. I wish I knew more Spanish, but my vocabulary is limited to finding the bathroom and ordering a glass of wine.

I half wished for closed captioning.

There was no Long, Long, Time or Different Drum or even Blue Bayou. But I expected that. It was interesting because the music evoked emotion: longing, suffering, joy and love; at least I think it did since I didn't understand any of it. My husband said Ronstadt couldn't hit all the notes and was off key at times, but I didn't notice it.

Ronstadt wore a jacket that was U.S. Air Force meets motorcycle gang, sporting a colorful illustration on the back, paired with a mid-calf cotton pleated skirt and flats. She still has her trademark bangs, but her hair was shorter, a blunt cut at chin level. I guessed she was 61, my husband thought 66, but she's actually 62. I looked it up this morning. Born July 15, 1946.

The parking lot was jammed upon leaving. We were driving toward the back exit, which is the long way around Mondavi. We drove past cones that lead to the front entrance. A few cars were in that aisle. "You could drive past the cones and go out that way," I mentioned, as my husband followed the other cars to the alternate exit. Do you want to drive? Do you want to drive? Do you want to drive? My husband was clearly agitated. "Oh, I'm afraid of the little cones," I giggled. He slammed on the brakes and then continued to drive. He has no sense of humor in these situations.

While I enjoyed the show, I now know how non-English speaking visitors to our country might feel at an English-speaking concert. Except typically those guests can speak two languages, and I can speak only one; it's an inadequate feeling.

Photo: Big Stock Photo

The Short Sale, by Elizabeth Weintraub, coming from Archer Ellison in January 2009.