The Jumping Flea Blues

It’s been the brunt of countless jokes and chuckled at as an oddity. Tiny and portable, it’s been played by top musicians as well as buskers and novices. Yet with its measly four strings and miniature body, this diminutive instrument packs a powerful wallop, begging any listener not to smile and sing along. Of course, we’re talking about the mighty ukulele, the 150-year old member of the lute family that has had a startling comeback in recent years, plucking at the heartstrings of young and old.

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The King of The Uke

The simplest way to prove to the world that an instrument rocks is to play an actual rock song on it. This is not rocket science. It worked for the banjo a decade ago when the Gourds famously covered Snoop’s “Gin and Juice” (hip-hop, sure, but boasting just as much street cred). It would work for the cowbell if somebody cool would put out Clangin’ to the Hits.

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Beach Pollution Prevention Efforts Paying Off

Save Our Shores volunteers prevented 1,657 pounds of cigarette butts, firework remains and assorted beach party leftovers from becoming a stinky supper stew in the stomachs of seabirds and marine wildlife on July 5. More than 250 volunteers swarmed 10 beaches in Monterey and Santa Cruz counties at 8am on the “morning after” cleanup in the aftermath of righteous, if environmentally damaging, Independence Day celebrations.

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Westside Farmers Market

Four girls perched in a row on the pickup tailgate behind the blueberries are a sight for old eyes on a Saturday morning, their dangling legs keeping time to the bluegrass band serenading the shoppers and the farmers and the faux flâneurs out for a stroll in a parking lot turned country fair for a day.  The pasta man offering bargains under his baseball cap, the Happy Boys and Dirty Girls coolly flaunting their greens, the gourmet olive oil entrepreneurs with their tempting bits of bread for dipping in little golden bowls, fruit purveyors with their sweet bright hills all take me home to a farm I’ve never known except in old poems by aging drunks nostalgic for imagined Edens remembered precisely and harvested in language alone.

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