What Does Your Signature Say?

I've been fascinated with people's signatures since I learned to write. At that time -- Mid-20th Century -- it was called handwriting, not cursive or chicken scratch. Today, that's what some people's signatures look like -- the scratching of a feral chicken.

All too many modern signatures are unreadable, if not indecipherable. Call it a scribble, a squiggle or a doodle but please don't tell me that is your name.

It could be a brand or a label, but what good are they if you can't identify them -- - not something you'd want to wear on your shirt sleeve, cap or underwear. I could be wrong about that.

The most famous signature belonged to John Hancock, President of the Continental Congress and first to sign the Declaration of Independence. His name became synonymous for your signature. "Put your John Hancock here on the dotted line."

In elementary school, I ran across many amateur forgeries of Mr Hancock's famous signature. Kids tried to copy it. Probably because it was fun and famous, attached to our great document.

I tried it myself. By the time I was in high school I was forging my friends' parents' signatures on bogus absentee notes. In hindsight, I could have made a business out of it, but I never charged a friend for their parent's signature. They provided the signature and I copied it in a note. 

"Please excuse William for his absence from school yesterday. He was ill and could not make it to class. May God keep you in good health, Mrs. Mary K. O'Hara.

Not one parent had a squiggle for a signature.

Mark Zuckerberg

Signature experts claim that people are too busy these days to sign their names legibly. Some psychoanalyze signatures. For example Mark Zuckerberg's signature is simply his initials, which means he's hiding out, doesn't have the time, too important. Zuck runs Meta, formerly and popularly known as Facebook.

Johnny Depp's signature looks like a bold hieroglyphic from another world. The challenge is to find any semblances of his name in his signature. He's an artist. You would think that an artist might be a little bit more clever with some hints. I wouldn't want it on my underwear.

Johnny Depp

Marylyn Monroe, sex symbol of the 1950s -- blond, curvaceous, voice like a cuddly baby doll -- had a mundane signature by today's standards. Easy to read. No frills, loops or runaway lines. Perhaps that was her true inner self: just an ordinary gal. She fooled us. Or maybe that was her unspoken allure. I'm delving now.

Marilyn Monroe

That's what's cool about signatures: they make you want to delve and interpret. But who has time for such trivial pursuits in a digital world where e-signatures will do the trick. I do.

According to my informed sources, your handwritten signature is never exactly the same. You could call it your organic mark, ever slightly changing, a simple breathing symbol of you and nobody else; when on a contract or document, a legally binding notation of one’s name.

I also found out that you can majorly change your signature, but not just on a whim one day and another whim the following day. You've got to be consistent. I've changed mine several times, going with my first two initials -- K.C. -- before my surname for the past 25 years. I've always been fond of the name, Kansas City (K.C.), even considered it as a name for a son or daughter. Luckily, I did not sire another child since I had that thought.

Out of curiosity and for inspiration, I searched out the signatures of figures from the past whom I admire, like Abraham Lincoln, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Albert Einstein, Hunter S. Thompson. Except for Hunter -- whose signature was as gonzo as he was -- their names were signed legibly with artistic flourish, similar to John Hancock's.

Hunter S. Thompson

I once owned a football decorated with signatures of L.A. Rams players, and I could read every one of them. No loopy, harried circles and cross hairs. What would be the point if you couldn't read their name? I have a baseball signed by pitcher (30-game winner) Denny McLain. A big and notorious man, Denny has a clear, simple signature.

A major regret is my losing a T-shirt that Jane Fonda signed for me, while I was wearing said T-shirt. We had attended the same Willie Nelson concert circa 1981. I knew I would never get that close to her again. 

Jane Fonda

In the distant future, who will be able to identify Johnny Depp's signature? Aliens from another world? Who was Johnny Depp, anyway?

My newly minted signature is legible yet artistic, it flows like water with curves representing iconic symbolism of yin and yang. It is deep and forward driven, while employing the laziness of a cool summer breeze and its author.

Still, I wouldn't have it on my underwear. Maybe on a paper napkin.

 

Welcome Singapore!

Although Singapore is one of the most modern cities in the world (actually a nation-state), heritage buildings are treasured.

I don't know much about you, but from what I've read, you've got a very tidy nation with a rich, diverse culture. 

Let me begin with a huge "thank you" for viewing my blog -- more than 4,000 hits over the past 30 days!

My initial reaction was astonishment! What the hell?! Can you say, hell, in Singapore? I think you can. I know you cannot chew gum.

I understand that Singaporeans read body and facial expressions over the spoken word. I think that's cool. I wonder what you would think of a guy like former President of the USA Donald Trump?

You cannot believe a word he says, yet his body language says it all: lazy, unkempt, showy, overweight, troubled, insincere, arrogant.

We can take a lesson from you regarding communication. Although we can show you the value of free expression in which I can say such things about our government leaders.

Fun zone in Singapore

The closest I've been to Asia is Hawaii, where the population includes Pacific Islanders, Japanese, Taiwanese, Filipino, Burmese, Chinese as well as haoles, or white people. I find the Asian influence comforting, the people tend to be friendly and family oriented. 

I believe the ancients of the East -- characters like Confucius, Lao-Tsu and Buddha -- imparted great wisdom. I have been a devoted practitioner of Yoga for many years.

Your interest in my blog has created a desire in me to visit Singapore! I trust that we share a common spirit. On the other hand, your enormous interest could be an AI-type of robotic glitch, or ---- hack.

But let's not go there. If it is a hack, I have nothing worth hacking. I am a simple man. 

I am impressed by your breakdown of religions: 31-percent Buddhist, 19-percent Christian, 16-percent Muslim (predominantly Sunni),  9-percent Taoist,  5-percent Hindu. And 30-percent no religion, out of a total population of 4-million.

I find the Taoist religion most intriguing: the four principles being:

1. Simplicity, patience and compassion

2. Going with the flow -- when nothing is done, nothing is left undone

3. Letting go -- if you realize all things will change, there is nothing you will hold on to

4. Harmony.

I have learned of the Tao, or the Way, but didn't realize it was a practicing religion. I subscribe to those principles. As much as I can. My Western upbringing and our dominant culture in the U.S. are heavily slanted toward a materialistic reality, so it's not an easy row-to-hoe. Row-to-hoe is a metaphor that could possibly be compared, or I should say, contrasted, to the Way of Taoism.

I consider row-to-hoe more of a servile reference, as is the predominant principle of Western culture, again based on meritorious material gain rather than communal spiritual enlightenment.

I wonder if you've picked up this theme in my blogs? Perhaps that is what you find curious or interesting in my pieces? I prefer to believe that. If we can influence the world in this way, we may be able to save our planet.

I understand Singapore has been called a City in a Garden and is considered a green city and financial center of Southeast Asia. We had a friend who was sent there in the Eighties as an employee of a company called Seagate, an early tech company based in Santa Cruz County. Her work schedule prevented her from exploring your culture. She might as well have stayed in the US.

I hear there are many expats in Singapore and that board surfing is popular on your island. The waves are small but fun. Maybe that's how you heard about my blog? It was originally called Talking Surf Stories.

Established in the 13th Century, the name Singapore, originally Singapura in Sanskrit, means Lion City.  That's cool. I understand that Singlish is a slang spoken there, a combination of languages including English. I'd like to hear it.

Mahalo (thank you in Hawaiian) for checking my blog. I would enjoy hearing from you.

About chewing gum being out lawed in your country: The only gum I ever liked was bubble gum when I was a kid. I'm over that. I go with the flow.

Changes in Latitude...

Jimmy Buffet early in his career, died Sept. 1 of a rare skin cancer Merkel cell carcinoma. PHOTO:GETTYIMAGES

The last thing I wanted to do was write another post about a friend who died. Then I heard that Jimmy Buffet had passed at age 76, one month older than I am. I hadn't heard of or thought about Jimmy in a while. I saw him perform live only once, and that was when he had become very popular. I wondered what's with all the Parrotheads.

There were no Parrotheads (Jimmy’s fans) when he recorded Let's Get Drunk or the Death of an Unpopular Poet, two songs on his first Dunhill studio album, A White Sports Coat and a Pink Crustacean. He knew how to turn a pun.

A year or so ago when Tina Turner passed, I mentioned to my late writer friend Rick Carroll that I had seen Tina at the Catalyst in Santa Cruz when she made her big comeback in 1982. Rick asked me if I had written about her. I hadn't. He said he would have liked to read what I had to say.

That's what friends who spend their time scribbling say to each other, which brings me back to Jimmy, who was, before all the tropical hoo-haw, first a writer.  Jimmy told stories with his songs. He had the gift of the pen. Before his music success, he wrote journalistic pieces for Billboard magazine. Jimmy ended up in Key West following a series of music rejections in Nashville. 

In the taverns of Key West, he discovered his muse while hanging and partying with writers including Truman Capote, Fred Neil, Jim Harrison and his brother-in-law novelist Tom McGuane, who wrote the liner notes for White Sports Coat… claiming the album fell somewhere “in the curious hinterland where Hank Williams and Xavier Cugat meet.”

Poet Kenneth Patchen was a favorite of Jimmy's who died with little fanfare. Jimmy's song Death of an Unpopular Poet was in honor of Patchen and fellow poet Richard Farina, both of whom were little known but dedicated to the craft.

It's a wistful tune. Jimmy saved it for a cool-down encore at the end of his shows. In the final verse, the poet gives his inheritance to his dog, leaving us with a wry smile.

I discovered Jimmy Buffet in the early Seventies when a new alternative radio station out of Gilroy, KFAT, introduced progressive country music to a local audience. Think Emilylou Harris and Rodney Crowell. Progressive country eventually morphed into a genre called Americana. 

KFAT worked a song into its regular playlist about getting drunk and screwing. It had a country flavor and ribald charm. Who is Jimmy Buffet? I thought when the singer’s name was announced.

It wasn’t exactly a Nashville voice. He was certainly drinking margaritas, but who knew, save for his Key West pals, much about the author and his environment of misfit wordsmiths.

Margaritaville changed that. It caught on like a raging kegger at a college frat party. It was fun yet self-deprecating. “Been here all season, don’t know the reason, nothing to show but this brand new tattoo…  stepped on a pop-top, blew out my flip-flop…

He could have been writing a jingle for a top-notch ad agency in New York, but it was a tad irreverent. The message was not to achieve status other than being a fun-loving bum in paradise. It was that simple.

The rest is history. With a winning smile and knack for clever phrasing, Jimmy created a deep brand worth nearly a billion dollars. Along the way he authored a series of popular sea-faring adventure novels. Granted, he needed a little sprucing up from his wife of 46 years, Jane Slagsvol. 

"He spun a billion dollar empire from a shaker of salt," according to columnist Maureen Dowd, another wordsmith pal of Jimmy's.

I bet his writer buddies were astounded by Jimmy's success. His go-ahead album that included Margaritaville says it all: Changes in Latitude, Changes in Attitude.

Thanks, Jimmy, for your uplifting spirit and wonderful stories.

Wildfires, Happy Trails and Akua

Puamana, ku'u home i Lahaina

Me na pua ala onaona

Ku'u home i aloha ia  -- song by Auntie Irmgard Ahuli, 1937

Left to right, Tony Lombardi, Kevin Samson and Dave Fredericks. February 2023.

I'm not sure

where I first heard that Maui was on fire. 

I was not surprised since fires on the island are common, and drought has been an issue there for years. Then I saw a photo on Facebook showing burnt out cars along Front Street, the main road in picturesque Lahaina. That's not real, I said. That photo is from somewhere else, another bit of misinformation on social media.

Now we know the photo was real, an apocalyptic view of an island paradise.

It's been the lead story of every news source in the country -- more than 100 deaths and hundreds more missing --  tragedies of people caught in the firestorm and resulting hardships of survivors. The scenes and stories are shocking and heartbreaking.

Only the day before this perfect-storm scenario of hurricane-generated winds and wildfire, I received news that my best friend on Kauai (not Maui), Rick Carroll, had passed. He was 80, his health had been failing and the news did not shock me, yet there was a finality. He won't be there when we return, as we do every year.

Rick Carroll, writer, bon vivant, storyteller, photographer, jazz head, Porsche enthusiast, humanitarian, father, grandfather and friend to all he met.

Rick's obituary appeared on Facebook -- it seemed that breaking news comes first on FB. Barbara is not on FB so it falls to me to tell her the latest.

I do not always relish the role of town crier.

"Oh no," I said, an immediate reaction to what I had just read.

"What is it?" Barbara asked with alarm.

"Rick passed away." 

Her eyes welled with tears. "Oh no."

We talked about him and his surviving spouse Marcie, also a close friend. I read his obituary out loud, written by Marcie, who knew him best. We had a guest, Stephanie, staying with us who also listened. Conversation ensued about our friends and how much we would miss Rick's engaging chuckle and smile that would draw a reciprocating grin from all who knew him. One of his friends nailed it when he said,  "The world won't be the same without Rick."

The next thing we knew Maui was burning, becoming the worst wildfire disaster in island history. At least Rick didn't have to hear about it. He would have immediately felt the pain of the people, their loss, and made some kind of insightful gesture --  shared a poignant story. He was a prolific writer during his day as reporter for the Honolulu Advertiser, the island's major daily newspaper. He authored a series of books about Pacific islands and the spirit ancestors, or ghosts, of Hawaiian legend known as akua.

He was duly proud of his detailed book about Israel Kamakawiwo 'ole, entitled Voice of the People. We've all heard IZ's song accompanied by a simple ukulele, a medley rendition of Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World, which has been played at numerous memorials across the land. But we didn't know the significance of IZ's role in the Hawaiian sovereignty movement begun in the Seventies, built around resurrecting traditional Hawaiian music and language. Rick earned the trust of Israel's family to tell their story.

Bruddah IZ  passed in 1997 at age 39. I'm sure he and Rick are talking story and laughing together, two cultural traits of Hawaii's people, and lamenting the loss of Lahaina, once the home, ku'u home, of the Hawaiian monarchy. 

A few days later

as Lahaina lay in ash in the middle of the Pacific and tore at our heart strings, we were hit from another direction when we got news on FB that our good friend Dave Fredericks had passed. Dave was practically a part of our family. During the year before he relocated to Whitefish, Montana, he parked his rig in front of our house on weekends and crashed in our second bedroom. 

He always brought provisions to cook dinner for us. He was a master griller, a popular high school English and wood-shop teacher, talented builder, experienced fly fisherman and most of all a loving husband, father and grandfather.

Dave was married to a high school friend of mine, Kim. Dave, like Rick, brought a joyful spirit into our lives. He had already moved Kim into the artful craftsman house he had refurbished in downtown Whitefish where he joined her to spend summers with their grandchildren.

One cannot express the depth of the loss of Grandpa.

The summer following my retirement, I jumped into my Toyota Prius and drove to Whitefish, following up on Dave's invitation. Driving a Prius hybrid to Montana is akin to riding a lamb into a rodeo. Out at Flathead Lake where Dave had refurbished a cabin and built a separate bunkhouse, my puny white Prius parked next to his corral, Dave said, "You know what they call a car like that up here... a tampon."

We played horseshoes and counted the thousands of stars beneath the big sky at night while passing a bottle of single malt whiskey around the campfire among friends, family and neighbors.

Dave parked me in the shotgun seat of his Ford 250 diesel and we drove east to where the Rocky Mountains begin to rise like ascending spirits. We followed a narrow road on the ledge of the mountain to the top of the Continental Divide. We hiked to the end of the trail, talked story with a ranger and a few wanderers.

His constant grin beneath a wide brimmed cowboy hat, unruly eyebrows curled like bullhorns, Dave developed a visual persona that was hard to miss. He was a rugged man of the Western frontier with a heart of soft gold. A natural teacher, among his many lessons for his grandchildren was how to play a smart hand of Texas Hold'em poker.

A few of Dave's postcards

Dave kept in touch with friends by postcards he created from covers of pulp fiction novels, albums, religious guidebooks, whatever he could find that had a cultural connection to you. Receiving a postcard from Dave, with his scribbled notes, was like a getting a gift from an adventuring uncle.

Maybe Dave and Rick will meet up on the verdant meadows and sandy beaches of heaven. Dave passed away surrounded by his devoted wife, loving family and grandparents. A case of rare mucosal myeloma got him. 

Rick passed in a hospital bed in Lihue, according to his beloved Marcie. An attending nurse reported that when she peaked into the room just before Rick left us, he gave his toothy smile, lifted his hand and waved a shaka, the Hawaiian signal that says, hang loose, it's all good.

Rick's obit requested that friends and loved ones make donations in his name to the Hawaii Community Foundation; Maui Strong Fund to help support those affected by the Maui wildfires. Mahalo! 

I've felt on the verge of tears, awakening in the middle of the night from this nightmare of loss. I've had to reach for the strength of my two lost buddies for hope and inspiration. I pray for the people of Maui.

Ha ina ia mai ka puana

Ku'u home i Lahaina

I piha me ka hau 'oli

The story has been told

My home in Lahaina

Filled with happiness

Dave Fredericks at Logan Pass, Glacier Park, Aug. 2016. One of the few times I caught him without his cowboy hat.

One Pilgrim's Progress

Who would true valour see,

Let him come hither;

One here will constant be

Come wind, come weather.

There's no discouragement

Shall make him once relent

His first avowed intent

To be a pilgrim.

--John Bunyan, The Pilgrim's Progress

Maybe it's time for a modern-day American road-trip story. Not a romantic saga of a young man or woman searching for meaning in life through fast-driving adventure, rather a story about an older person, a populist in the most real sense, an unassuming character who has experienced a pedestrian yet full life, on a mission to save an old friend, literally, by putting one foot in front of the other.

This is the basis of the novel by British writer Rachel Joyce, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry published in 2012. It's her first novel, which has been made into a feature film currently showing in the U.K.

How eccentrically boring, you might say. A perfectly slow-paced story from stuffy old England. The protagonist is an elderly milquetoast and timid as a lamb. Where's the thrill? The edge? No plane crashes, guns or explosions?

Spoiler alert: I can't recall catching myself laughing so much as I did at the conclusion of this story. 

Retired in his mid-sixties, Harold Fry receives a letter from a former fellow employee, a woman, Queenie Hennessy, who expresses her gratefulness for having known Harold from working together years ago. She currently is dying from cancer.

Based on a subsequent chance meeting with a young woman full of positive affirmations -- "If you have faith you can do anything" -- Harold decides on the spot to begin walking to see Queenie to save her from dying of cancer. "As long as I walk, [Queenie] must live," he says.

No matter that Queenie lies in bed on the other side of  the country. No matter that Harold has only the vaguest idea of how to get there. No matter that he has no supplies, not even a cell phone, and will be walking in yachting shoes. He henceforth begins his pilgrimage. He locates a phone to tell his wife of many years Maureen that he is walking to Burwick-upon-Tweed. Tootles.

Underway on foot, Harold's mind drifts from present to past to future, with doubts, recriminations, sorrows, hopes, elations and more. He resolves to embrace the virtue of kindness. There is a son involved. A dissolving marriage. There is Queenie and their special relationship. And the inescapable hardships and surprises of the road and its characters.

Many are drawn to Harold, for deserving and selfish reasons. At one point he becomes a media sensation with a gaggle of followers. Think Forrest Gump. His fame, however, is ephemeral, while Harold trudges on to meet his destiny and his beloved Queenie. 

My wife Barbara found the book on a used book shelf at the Kilauea Bakery on the island of Kauai. While reading it she would occasionally chuckle. "You might like this story," she said. "It's right up your alley." The book cover, adorned with a flowery font, did not appeal to me. I had picked up Open Season, the original Joe Pickett story by CJ Box, on the free shelf at the Princeville Library for the plane ride home.

Back in Santa Cruz, I dove into Harold Fry's pilgrimage. My journey, from page to page, simulated Harold's step-by-step odyessy. I discovered Joyce's novel much more enjoyable, with unexpected turns and rewarding lessons of life. Box's story was formulaic with a predictable ending. Many novels today are written by contract. The publisher wants 400 pages. The writer is to maintain the formula that readers expect. Sometimes I feel as though such novels are all filler, no meat.

Joyce says she started writing the Harold Fry story when her own father was dying from cancer. "He was very frightened and so was I," she says in the back of the book. "I was appalled at the idea of not having my father. I was appalled at the idea of watching him die. But both happened, and while they did I wrote this story about a man who sets off to save someone else. It was my escape. My way of making sense. And somehow also my way of finding the flip side to my complicated, wild grief."

Again, I finished The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry laughing. 

320 pages.

She's Otter Here

Search for Cindy 841 attracts kayakers into kelp beds with official search boat in background. PHOTO:KCS

Surf is where you find it, according to legendary wave master Gerry Lopez. And there have been no waves breaking higher than an ankle snapper in Santa Cruz for more than a week, which has resulted in no sea otter seen riding waves.

It has been as flat as a linoleum floor, according to a local human surfer.

Does this mean Cindy 841, my name for the famous sea otter, has gone searching for better surf breaks?

Hardly. In fact, not only has the 5-year-old sea otter been openly recognized in local waters, but a new line up of sea otters has appeared to join her. 

"I've never seen this many sea otters together," said Mark Woodward, local photographer and a primary source of news and photos for media from around world. Woodward has been in close contact with scientists from the Monterey Bay Aquarium (MBA), where Cindy was born. Her oddly aggressive behavior of jumping on surfboards, and nibbling on them, has made her a world-wide sensation, including a deep trove of merchandise being sold on social media haling her as a water-borne heroine.

"Otter my way, Dude!" says one.

Yesterday a group of marine biology students from UC Santa Barbara arrived to observe the surfing otter. "They're making a documentary film about sea otters," said Woodward. "I've never seen so much equipment." But alas, no waves. 

Lack of surf seems to keep Cindy 841 at bay and away from humans. And there have been an inordinate number of lookie-loo kayakers paddling through the kelp beds to get an up close look at the furry surfer with flippers.

The authorities call it harassment of wild life, yet many of Cindy 841's fans believe they (the scientists with nets and cages) are the harassers.

An attempt this week by divers from U.S. Fish and Wildlife to catch her with a cage was near a joke, according to Woodward. 

Fascinating information about sea otters has emerged from the experts, such as a sea otter's bite is as strong as a 600-lb bear. And those otter choppers are nothing to scoff at.

In the meantime, as we wait and pray for surf -- although summer is not the surfing season in Santa Cruz -- attempts at catching Cindy will continue, as no doubt will the cries of "let her swim free." 

The good news, according to Woodward who gets his info from the MBA, once she is caught and tested she will be released into untamed waters, not kept in an aquarium. They'll just need to find a location with plenty of kelp, where she'll find food, but no surf.

Try telling that to a sea otter who has experienced the thrill of riding a surfboard. If you can catch her.

 

 

Sea Hunt for Cindy Continues

Cindy 841 bites into a crab leg. PHOTO: NATIVE SANTA CRUZ, MARK WOODWARD

Cindy the surfing sea otter is still at large, evading capture and enjoying the bounty of Monterey Bay. She has not been seen on a surfboard since Saturday.

The female sea otter was born five years ago in captivity at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. 

Marine scientists report distressed sea life, including sea lions and dolphins, seen in the Santa Barbara region may be related to Cindy's odd behavior of approaching humans, climbing onto and chewing surfboards. I have named her Cindy but authorities refer to her as 841.

The hunt for her continued today in the kelp beds off of West Cliff Drive in Santa Cruz. Local photographer Mark Woodward has kept in contact with scientists from the Monterey Bay Aquarium and relayed the disturbing report that scientists fear she may be infected, possibly from recent red tides.

An Associated Press cameraman was on the scene today. "We have interest from as far away as Japan," he said, shaking his head with a big grin.

Although most people side with Cindy as far as not being captured, if infected she could transmit her disease to other sea life. The problem is, how do you catch a clever girl like Cindy without hurting her, or worse.

"That would be a huge problem of negative publicity for the aquarium," said Woodward.

In the meantime, where is Cindy? Although authorities can track her because she's been micro-chipped, her whiskery face has not been seen today.