Gael MacGregor's Blog, page 2

A Moose in the Hoose!

The following is a chapter from my new book, “Don’t Look Now…” and laughingly relates a mouse hunt during a visit from my aunt and uncle…

 

Chapter Eleven

A Moose in the Hoose!

“A merry heart doeth good like a medicine…”

~Proverbs 17:22~

I already talked about using laughter to get through trying times, but laughter for laughter’s sake—laughing just to laugh at an amusing situation or event—provides not only entertainment, but its own very special kind of release we all need sometimes.

The first childhood image that springs to mind when I think of Auntie Rose is tissue paper; not the kind for your nose, but the stuff for wrapping presents. Every year around my birthday a large box would arrive from New York, filled with a box of Loft’s candy and packages of all shapes and sizes—a fair number of them loosely wrapped in white and colored crinkly tissue paper. Most would have gift tags attached, a few were in boxes, and some were “mystery” packages (no tags)—kind of an up for grabs or communal present. As we emptied the large box we would squeeze the packages and comment: “Feels like a sweater,” “Bet it’s slippers,” etc.

The best was when Auntie Rose included one of her paintings. She did great flower and nature oil paintings, and their infrequent arrivals were the finest presents of all, for they were a part of her heart. I treasure her paintings—they make me feel like a little bit of her is still here.

Anyway…

Auntie Rose was actually my father’s aunt, but “Great Aunt Rose” just didn’t fit her. It was “Auntie Rose” and “Uncle Mal” (her husband) to all of us. The few times they were able to visit from New York were wonderful, warm, and full of laughter. Their most memorable visit involved a poor, hungry, unsuspecting mouse…

Living as we did in one of the first sets of tract homes in Anaheim, we were surrounded by orange groves. In addition, one of our next-door neighbors had ivy all over the place—the perfect breeding place for all sorts of critters, including mice and icky black widow spiders (Mama’s spider-in-the-shower encounter involved nekkidity, so the mouse story’ll hafta do here).

During one of Auntie Rose and Uncle Mal’s visits, I had spotted a teensy, tiny mouse scurrying from under my bed and across the hall into my parents’ room.

Ours was a 1950s, one-story, California kind of home. There was a large living room at its center, with a long hallway that led to all the bedrooms (mine was at the end of the hall, directly across from my parents’ room; Geri’s was next to mine). In the living room was a large, heavy couch/hideabed, flanked at each end by small tables. The table nearest the hallway was by a vent for the heater, and a place coveted by all during cold snaps (the family would sometimes find me curled up under it if I had sleepwalked during the night and was able to oust my dad’s dog).

So back to the mouse… No one believed I had seen it. I was quite young, and in their adult eyes, an unreliable source of information.



“Au contraire, mon frere”—I’d seen it all right, a fact soon vindicated. Mama was seated on the floor near the end table by the hallway, Dad’s dog, Jo-Jo, was under the table (close to the heater vent), Geri and Daddy on the couch, Auntie Rose and Uncle Mal in arm chairs. I was in bed, supposedly asleep, but actually under the covers with a flashlight reading “Little Women”.

A movement across the hall caught my eye as I came up for air at one point and there it was—the small, trembling mouse tried to sneak back into my room, but I shooed it away with my book. I watched it go down the hallway and skitter behind the couch. Mama saw movement from the corner of her eye and calmly said, “I think I just saw Gael’s imaginary mouse go behind the couch.”

Jo-Jo’s ears perked up and everyone jumped from their respective seats to begin “the hunt”. The poor mouse must have been terrified as the thundering humans and dog scurried to and fro. It was like a scene from a Marx Brothers movie, with shades of the Keystone Cops tossed in.

I sneaked down the hall and listened to the circus unfolding, peeking out every so often at the mayhem.

And quite a to-do it was…

Daddy had thrown the cushions off the couch and was in the process of unfolding the hideabed to see if the mouse had run under there (it had). Geri squealed as the mouse, disturbed by the activity, scampered from its former hiding place and over her foot, then under Auntie Rose’s chair which had been hurriedly vacated only seconds before.

Auntie Rose let out a loud, “EEK!” (just like in the cartoons and comics) and ran across the room toward Mama who was leaning against the hall doorway, surveying the carnival with amusement.

Daddy had a rolled up “Sporting News” in his hand by this time, and was trailing the mouse in a hunter’s stance.

Uncle Mal had just said, “I don’t know why you girls are so upset. After all, it’s just one tiny mouse,” when the offending rodent did a somersault over his feet. With the grace a member of the Bolshoi’s corps de ballet would have envied, Uncle Mal did a perfect plié, leaped in the air and landed with a flourish on the seat of one of the arm chairs.

Mama burst out laughing at the picture in front of her and Dad glared. This was serious business for him. His territory had been invaded, even if it was only by an undernourished mouse.

Mama beat a hasty retreat into the kitchen to give the hunter room, and to find some suitable weaponry to capture the elusive critter. Uncle Mal suggested a colander in which to trap it, so Mama grabbed one, along with a broom. The idea was that the broom would be the hockey stick and the colander the net—with the poor, innocent mouse given the dubious honor of being the hockey puck. This was in theory, of course. It didn’t quite work out that way.

By the time Mama returned to the living room, the hideabed had been fully unfolded and Geri had jumped onto it. Daddy had attempted (unsuccessfully) to coerce her in to getting our big monster vacuum out of the closet, but she was rooted so firmly to her spot on higher ground that moss had begun to grow on her north side. Mama, laden with her hardware, passed off the colander to Auntie Rose, who then took her position at one end of the couch, with Mama wielding the broom at the other end.

LET THE GAMES BEGIN!

Dad was still calling for the vacuum to suck the mouse up its aluminum piping (tells you how small the thing was, doesn’t it?). Mama was ignoring him, hoping they could trap the mouse and release it to the outdoors without any bloodshed.

So here’s the tableau: Auntie Rose in a crouch, with the colander resting like a tennis racket in her hands; Dad, grim-faced, with his rolled up “Sporting News” ready to whack anything that moved; my sister, now standing on top of the outstretched sofa bed; Uncle Mal with a “Life” magazine held like a shovel; all topped off with my mother brandishing the broom like a hockey stick.

Looking around her, Mama lost it. She started laughing, saying, “Look at us! All of us against one little mouse, and so far, the mouse is winning!”

Watching from the hallway, I stifled a giggle, and saw the mouse skitter behind the couch again.

So did everyone else, and more mayhem ensued:

Dad sprang into action, barking orders to which no one listened; Mama attempted to sweep the mouse into Auntie Rose’s waiting colander but missed; Uncle Mal tried to scoop the critter up with the magazine to no avail; and Geri remained on her perch atop the hideabed, directing traffic. Mama was doubling over because she was laughing so hard, totally ineffectual by this time, and Daddy was proceeding with his slow burn as the mouse kept evading capture.

Mama’s laughter had become too infectious to ignore, and Auntie Rose started tittering. Uncle Mal’s hearty guffaws added to the hilarity, and Geri finally moved from her spot, only to collapse on the outstretched hideabed. Mama and Auntie Rose soon followed suit, and Uncle Mal fell back on one of the armchairs. I sneaked down the hall into my room—and was giggling, safely back in bed, under my covers.

The only one not amused by the proceedings was Dad, who slammed out the front door into the garage, vowing to find a mousetrap to finish off the little bugger.

The one sad note to it all was that he was successful.

In the middle of the night after Dad had set the traps, I awoke to a loud “snap” and the pitiful squeal of a small mouse destined to go on to “Mousie Heaven”—or its next life, depending on your point of view.

Dad didn’t get what was so funny because he was too busy being upset, missing the wonderful humor in the silliness and absurdity of it all. He never failed to get a little irritable when the story was related, so we avoided telling the tale in his presence.

Instead of letting go and having fun, he seemed to take the whole thing personally—as if that one silly mouse was an insult to his very existence and Italian “manly man” sensibilities.

If Daddy had only laughed along with the rest of us, he would have discovered something he could have really used during the rest of his short life—the precious commodity of utter abandon—and the light, sweet (albeit temporary) exhaustion when all cares are lifted, and your world is nothing short of perfect innocence.

Those are the times where laughter really is the best medicine of all—times when the “merry heart” can help us put aside everything but the joy of laughter for no better reason than to laugh.

BOOK GIVEAWAY: Don’t Look Now… by Gael MacGregor

Goodreads Book Giveaway


Don’t Look Now…
by Gael MacGregor

Giveaway ends February 23, 2014.

See the giveaway details

at Goodreads.

Enter to win

 

SOPA/PIPA – The Right Solutions?

Another post that disappeared when my site was invaded… This one’s from January 26, 2012…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *So, with all the debate about the anti-piracy bills out there, I thought I’d take a look at them both. Here’s my take on ‘em…

When I was sent by a group of composers to D.C. to advocate for their rights at the World Copyright Summit, I ran across the same disconnect between those who create the works and those who distribute/disseminate it. The pervasive tech attitude leaned way to one side in an almost free-for-all philosophy, and the creators were scared that every note they wrote was, somehow, going to be pirated at every turn. Then there were the PROs, but that’s another issue that may never be fully resolved. Oy. Anyway… Both sides had their heels firmly dug into the sand, and it seems we are still stuck in “no man’s land” — mainly because neither side speaks the other’s language, or fully understands the implications in a full 360 view of the issues.

I have read both bills (SOPA/PIPA), synopses from a couple of sources and both sides’ points-of-view summations, and believe that both are woefully inadequate, especially from a tech standpoint. As of January 18, 2012, more modifications to SOPA were made (not all made public), and it lost more of its co-sponsors. Unfortunately, those who drafted the legislation don’t have a clue as to how today’s technology works or impacts the whole piracy issues, and are even less informed as to what it will take to implement WORKABLE solutions without damaging the rights of those how are legally making their works available, or the public-at-large. Some senators have even been almost boastful about how little they understand the computer and Internet. If those drafting and voting on the issue are clueless, and unwilling to listen to those who actually live in the cyber world, how can we think they are actually making informed decisions that not only protect intellectual property, but do not trample on the rights of our citizens?

The senators and congresspersons who support these bills are supporting the IDEA of intellectual property protection.

They know little about the contents and/or implications of either bill, since many don’t read the full legislation — they get summaries of a few pages, which may or may not be accurate or inclusive.

As for the RIAA, MPAA, and the U.S. Chamber of Commerce who are cheerleading these bills on? They don’t care what we think, want or need. Their concern is the bottom line — how much money will they get as a result. And believe me, it’s not the artist on the label who will reap the benefit. It’s not the writer of the song who will be getting more money. It’s not the author of the book who will have the lion’s share of what might have been “lost” revenue due to piracy. It is the companies who own the publishing, the labels that own the sound recordings, etc. Just because a few pennies trickle in for each view on YouTube doesn’t mean that particular artist and/or publisher is going to be seeing the money for that view. Such monies go to the labels and publishers — and, as is the case with a lot of the PRO revenue, the “top performers” would likely be seeing a cut of all net revenues, not necessarily the artist or composer who created and/or performed the work embodied in any given video or whatever. It will all come back to who gets the money from the web sites — and then where will the money go after collection? Will the artists and composers continue to be ripped off, or will they actually benefit from this legislation? I think it will be the former, and most composers and artists will be no better off than they were before.

Then there’s the whole issue of due process — you know, the concept of innocent until proven guilty? Here is what section 102 of SOPA says is to be done after a company is served with a removal order:

“A service provider shall take technically feasible and reasonable measures designed to prevent access by its subscribers located within the United States to the foreign infringing site (or portion thereof) that is subject to the order… Such actions shall be taken as expeditiously as possible, but in any case within five days after being served with a copy of the order, or within such time as the court may order.”

The removal order is basically created with no more proof than one would need for a search warrant, yet would be treated as if it were a verdict in court that has gone through the process of discovery, presentation of proof/facts, etc. — nowhere does it give the service provider any real due process. Even if it is only one small section or page of a huge website, the entire site could be made unavailable to all until/unless they  go through what is sure to be a lengthy, drawn-out court/legal process that any small to medium-sized business would likely be unable to afford.

The earlier “Protect IP Act” targeted ad networks, domain name system providers and financial companies — not Internet connectivity providers. It’s a huge distinction. It is currently up to those who own the works to inform a site that their works are being used without permission. Provide the proof and it’s done. Labels, networks, writers, etc. do it every day, and stuff is routinely removed from sites such as YouTube and Google. As for international piracy, there will always be an underground network to circumvent legal methods of obtaining protected works, and neither of these bills address that issue (as it stands, while a domain NAME might be inaccessible, a simple typing in of the domain NUMBER [i.e. 192.16.81] would take you to the offending site that is supposedly inaccessible). There are actually very simple work-arounds if one has any savvy, geek pals. I don’t mean to make light of this, but I think a lot in the two bills lean toward a “throw the baby out with the bath water” approach, which I don’t believe will ultimately solve the problems anyway.

In addition, as Laurence Tribe, a high-profile Harvard law professor and author of “American Constitutional Law” has argued: SOPA is unconstitutional because, if enacted, “an entire Web site containing tens of thousands of pages could be targeted if only a single page were accused of infringement.” Basically, we would be looking at blacklisting an entire site based on allegations for only a minute portion of it, NOT proof of site-wide infringement presented in a court proceeding. The language in both SOPA and PIPA is very broad and much of it too ambiguous to be effective tools against real piracy — yet could easily take down sites which are NOT pirating material.

A hypothetical scenario:

Company A creates a website that competes with Company B’s site. Company A isn’t getting much traction — or may actually even think there’s something shady going on with Company B — so Company A accuses Company B of “infringement”. With nothing more than a single SUSPECTED infringement being named, and without any court appearance, or allowing Company B to provide proof to the contrary, its website is blacklisted by court order. By the time Company B has jumped through the hoops, spending months and months fighting to clear their name, and finally has gotten their site taken off the blacklist, Company B has lost a serious amount of business — and more likely, been permanently damaged beyond recovery. Company B can’t sue Company A (which is now thriving, due to lack of competition from Company B), their own service provider or anyone else for damages because there was nothing illegal about the reporting or blacklisting of Company B’s site.

I wholeheartedly agree that something needs to be done about the international piracy of intellectual property. I disagree that either of these two bills is the way to do it.

After all, follow the money…. The RIAA has spent millions in lobbying for the bills, and are the strong-arm mooks for the major labels. These are the same folks who, under the dead of night (so to speak), sought to change the 1976 copyright legislation to include sound recordings as automatic “works made for hire” in 1998 so the artists could never begin to reclaim the masters for which they paid, but would, in perpetuity, belong to the major record labels who had recouped all costs from the artists (basically an up yours: “Yeah, you eventually paid for it, but we fronted the money initially, so we decided we own it, despite what the copyright law might say”). Fortunately, their attempts were thwarted. They are no friend to the actual creators of intellectual property.

It is my hope that suitable legislation will be drafted which protects the rights of those who create intellectual property, along with those who distribute it legally, while effectively targeting and prosecuting those who illegally distribute works to which they do not own, control and/or administer the rights.

As the father of a colleague said, however: “You don’t burn down the barn to get rid of the mice.”

I think it’s back to the drawing board — and bring on the cyber geeks, senators, creators and translators for all camps.

And a reminder (from my attorney): All statements above are my opinions and not intended as legal advice or counsel. No warranty or representation is made as to the accuracy of these statements. You should hire an attorney before entering into any agreement or contract. So there!

© 2012 * Gael MacGregor, Independent Music Supervisor * 

Gael MacGregor is a Los Angeles-based music supervisor, musician, songwriter, author and advocate for strong intellectual property rights for all content creators.

A Cautionary Tale About Music Re-titling

I first posted this on June 6, 2012… but it disappeared when we had to redo the website from scratch due to some hacking issues. I still feel the same about re-titling [no surprise to those who know me ]

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *I am constantly being barraged with the question “What’s so wrong with re-titling?” and statements such as, “It’s only assigning a revenue stream to whoever is making the placement—just like a publishing administration fee paid.”

Those are issues to be addressed in different articles, but here’s what happened to a pretty big U.S. library that went out of business based on the re-titling of ONE song.

[Authors Note: How do I know this is true? A long-time colleague worked at the referenced company during the decision-making process and subsequent brouhaha, and despite this person’s attempts to keep the powers-that-be from becoming victims of their own greed, they moved forward (as it turned out, with disastrous results).]

Here is what happened:

A decent-sized library, with a couple of a million dollars of investor backing, was repping songs from a late-’90s/early-2000s punk band and re-titled them all (among thousands of other works from many artists/composers, all of which were also re-titled so the library could take the “revenue streams” from the publishing end of the “titles”).

Said compositions and recordings (actually “titles” and accompanying masters given the same re-title) were being pitched for worldwide film, TV and advertising use. One of this band’s songs, under its original title/recording/label, started getting a lot of airplay around the world—especially in Asia. The head honchos at said library decided they wanted a piece of the pie beyond master use & synchronization licenses (plus their back-end for the re-titled work). They felt they could capitalize on the popularity of the song by releasing their re-titled track for radio airplay in Japan, and felt fully justified that it was within the scope of their agreement they had with the band. Keep in mind that the song, released by the record label under its original title (and utilizing the same master the library was repping), was already playing on the radio in the same country!

Bad move.

No surprise, then, that the copyright holder/publisher and label went all Rambo on ‘em, and sued big time. Seems that it is illegal to play re-titled works on the radio in Japan. Who knew? (outside of Japan, I mean)… Not having read all the copyright statutes of every country, I cannot say how many other countries have the same, or similar laws, although I know that some of the nations just beginning to draft copyright laws are pushing for re-titling to be illegal in their respective countries, as I spoke to a number of those helping to draft their country’s copyright laws during the World Copyright Summit in D.C. in 2009. Non-U.S. folks are almost uniformly appalled at the mere idea of re-titling and cannot understand why U.S. law would allow such a thing to exist. Their take? “One work, one title. Anything else is unethical.” Who am I to disagree, eh?

Anyway… back to the library…

Needless to say, despite all their financial backing, the hundreds of thousands of dollars assessed in fines to the library wiped them out. They weren’t able to recover financially and went out of business—all because they released ONE re-titled song for radio airplay in ONE country.

Now, here’s the scariest part for composers…

The artists/composers also bore a certain amount of responsibility for allowing the re-titled work to be played under its new title on Japanese radio, as they had given the library the right to exploit that new title (including the master embodying the re-titled work) in “any and all media, now known or hereafter devised” with no exclusions.

How the artists/composers eventually worked all that out with the library, I cannot say. The company hadn’t listened to my colleague’s warnings prior to their decision, and my colleague didn’t want to be a part of the inevitable aftermath after the warnings weren’t heeded, so beat a hasty retreat.

So… how many of you who re-title your works have a clause in your contract with the various libraries that have a radio airplay exclusion to protect yourself from the possibility of such a scenario? Most of the time you have no idea what has happened with your tracks until you get your quarterly statement from your PRO. How do you know whether your music is being played on terrestrial, Internet or in-house radio, and what legal implications that could have for you?

Despite its supposed “industry norm” (which it really isn’t, since one of the Production Music Association’s stated “core values” is: “The PMA opposes the practice of re-titling when used in conjunction with non-exclusive representation”), in such discussions I fall back on what the Lead Counsel of the U.S. Copyright Office in D.C. told me in 2009: that the practice is “unethical at best” and when/if it is tested in court, those who participate in the practice could be at risk of losing their actual copyrights if the case goes against the proponents of re-titling. Yeah, it may be a long time before a case is taken to court in the U.S., and who knows? The decision could possibly fall on the side of the libraries (anything’s possible)… but I can’t say I’m willing to put MY copyrights at risk just to make a few extra bucks from a re-titling library.

So think carefully about how you decide to exploit your works and how much of a risk you want to take with your intellectual property.

For more about music library models and re-titling, you can download a free write-up here: www.macmusicmagic.com/MusicLibraryModel.MMM.pdf

And a reminder (from my attorney): All statements above are my opinions and not intended as legal advice or counsel. No warranty or representation is made as to the accuracy of these statements. You should hire an attorney before entering into any agreement or contract. So there!

© 2012 * Gael MacGregor, Independent Music Supervisor * 

Gael MacGregor is a Los Angeles-based music supervisor, musician, songwriter, author and advocate for strong intellectual property rights for all content creators.

Uncle Walt

So for those who haven’t heard, I wrote a book.

It’s called “Don’t Look Now”

and you can get it at CreateSpace or Amazon.

Here’s a preview chapter of the book

that talks about believing your own

experiences over rumors and innuendo.

 

Excerpt from “Don’t Look Now…”

Chapter 7: Uncle Walt

© Gael MacGregor/MacMusic Magic

 “What others say about someone isn’t half as

important as how that someone treats you.” 

Believe it or not, I found this message scrawled (now, don’t get upset) on a bathroom wall, right underneath a foul epithet casting aspersions on some unsuspecting soul (perhaps deservedly).

Regardless of whether the offending statement was true or not, it reminded me of when I was matching celebrities with charities and did fan mail for a few others, and the tabloids decided to trash one of them for some supposed infraction. I always marveled at the inventiveness of the writers, for the individuals they described, and the actions attributed to them bore no resemblance to the people with whom I was associated.

One of the things I say when people are gossiping about someone’s supposed love affairs, personal life, etc. is: “Unless I’m in the bed or under it, I can’t really comment, can I?”

I figure this way… unless I witness someone’s bad behavior (toward others or me), I assume that they’re just a regular person who puts their pants on one leg at a time, and has their good days and bad days like the rest of us. (Except, of course, the Queen of England—I’m convinced she emerged fully clothed, wearing a frumpy hat, clutching a purse in her tiny hands, has never been uncivil to anyone in her life, and is devoid of all gross bodily functions. No one will ever be able to convince me otherwise.)

A book arrived a number of years ago that was a scathing diatribe against Walt Disney. The excerpts I read were appalling—I couldn’t believe what the author said about the man who gave us Mickey; and, if we’re to believe the book, Walt didn’t even do that! All this from a man who never even met Walt! Sorry for getting huffy and all, but Walt Disney was very special to many of us in Orange County during the late ’50s and early ’60s, and my experiences were nothing short of magical…

We moved from Los Angeles to Anaheim the same year Disneyland opened, into one of the first sets of tract housing in the area (the house wasn’t even complete when we moved in). We were surrounded by orange groves (which disappeared over the years, making room for more houses), and our house was fourth from the end of a cul-de-sac. We had a huge back yard (they did that then), and a front yard almost as large as the back.

Things were very simple then (at least when viewed through the eyes of a child)—there was an innocence that seems to have been lost in today’s society. We knew most of the people in the neighborhood, and with a few rare exceptions, were pretty friendly with all the families. The Helms Bakery Man came ’round with his truck, displaying all kinds of scrumptious pastries and such—with a lemon tea cake to die for—and Jack LaLanne on his T.V. exercise program used to say, “Now, ladies… Don’t pay any attention to that Helms Man—ignore that horn! Stay with me and exercise!” We didn’t listen. If that horn blew we were outta there!

We went to the Yellis Dairy to buy milk, eggs and such (it cost less than having it delivered by the milkman), and there was a petting zoo for the pee-wee set to play in while our parents made their purchases. There was a man who came every spring with a pony-propelled merry-go-round, and who could forget the distinctive melody from the Good Humor truck? We ate lunch with Sheriff John, laughed at Moochie in Spin and Marty on the “Mickey Mouse Club” and entered contests like Doodles Weaver’s “Name the Birds” (my sister won that one, we got to go on the show, and all came away with presents—even though, before we were able to get them to the Yellis Dairy to become egg-layers, my dad’s dog, JoJo, ate the fluffy little yellow chickies Geri got as one of her prizes).

We used to go to the nearby liquor store and pick up Popsicles, candy necklaces and Hershey candy bars, and would often run (literally) into Dan Blocker (he played Hoss on “Bonanza”), who, on more than one occasion, paid for our goodies. The big man who could have been so intimidating to little children was a big teddy bear—soft-spoken and generous to all us yard apes in the neighborhood.

Mama was the secretary to the local Superintendent of Schools—the same elementary school district that boasted the first school ever named after Walter Elias Disney. Walt was obviously touched by the gesture, for the powers-that-be told us he sent his artists to the school where they painted the walls of the cafetorium (that’s a cafeteria and an auditorium combined), decorating them with all the Disney characters with whom we have become so well-acquainted. We were told that he even donated curtains for the stage—I can still recall how soft and thick they were; their rich color, and the way they brushed the lustrous wooden floor of the stage as they closed on the last act of “Hansel and Gretel”.

“Uncle Walt” (that’s what he told us to call him) would periodically come by the schools and tell stories. Word would go out whenever he was set to arrive, and kids would flock to greet him, vying for the coveted spots on his lap—giggling and laughing—waiting impatiently for the story-telling to begin.

Those on Walt’s lap didn’t get to stay there long, however, for as the stories progressed, he would become more and more animated—jumping around… waving his arms… doing different voices for the various characters. We were always entranced while watching the treasured, now-classic Disney stories and tales we had never heard before come to life through this magnetic man.

The Anaheim Parks and Recreation had activities for kids every Saturday (plus Tuesdays and Thursdays during the summer)—arts and crafts, reading programs, board games, all the typical playground stuff, and best of all, movies and cartoons.

For years I was under the impression that everyone got to see Disney cartoons, “True Life Adventures” and Uncle Walt’s other movies every week. What a shock when I discovered that wasn’t so! What deprivation others endured!

Evidently, Uncle Walt had made his cartoons, full-length films—animated and live action—and nature features available as a sort of “thank you” to the school district. The reels traveled from school to school, and we kids would enjoy stale popcorn and watered-down fruit punch served by the hair-netted cafeteria ladies, and spend two blissful hours in Uncle Walt’s World. Many an afternoon I spent with Chip & Dale, The Yellowstone Cubs (one of my personal faves), Charlie the Lonesome Cougar, Donald in Mathmagicland (the teachers loved that one), Ringo the Refugee Raccoon and, of course, Mickey himself.

After Walt’s death in 1966, I think the films continued, but don’t know if the schools still have access to Walt’s treasure trove. I sincerely doubt it. With the advent of video/DVD, however, we can now watch a lot at home.

We used to assemble in our front yards during the summertime—every night just before nine o’clock—to watch the fireworks they shot off over at Disneyland. Our house had the best view, so we usually had the largest contingency in our yard. Dinner and dishes done, the ritual began: Kids on our block would play hide ‘n’ seek, freeze tag, baseball or whatever until it got dark—usually between seven and eight. That was the signal to go inside and do the preliminary preparations before bedtime—brushing teeth, packing lunches for the next day (for those of us who went to summer school), the final chores of the day, etc.

With 9:00pm approaching, the migration to the front yards would begin—adults gathering to chat, kids running here and there (ah, the energy of youth). The first burst of color would finally hit the sky with an accompanying “bang”, and the shower of faery dust (that’s what I called it, anyway) would elicit a collective gasp, the intake of breath and “oohs” and “aahs”—all of which would continue throughout the spectacle. The finale was the cue for “wows” and applause—the signal that the evening was about to come to a close. “Goodnights” were exchanged, and everyone drifted back into their homes, the stragglers admonished to “Hurry up and come inside.” A quick bath for the kidlets, and off to bed, the day complete.

This was the small-town atmosphere of the home of Disneyland, and it carried on throughout junior high and high school to one degree or another. Half the kids I knew had jobs at Disneyland over the years, singing, marching in the parades, ride operators, etc. I even had one friend who was the Queen of Hearts (it’s a big guy playing that lady), and another who was Mickey Mouse—and almost drowned in his Mickey suit when two teenagers pushed him into the moat by Cinderella’s Castle in Fantasyland (we could all see the Anaheim paper headline: “Mickey Drowns at Disneyland Today!”). A saxophone player I worked with over the years still plays at the Park, and the place has never lost its magic for me, no matter how many times I go there each year.

Part of that magic is in the memories of Walt. He used to do the most unpredictable things when it came to his creation…

Can you imagine today being spontaneously invited to Disneyland for FREE? Nope… didn’t think you could.

Well, that’s exactly what happened on more than one occasion. Once, with the rain falling, and Ball Road quickly becoming Ball River, things were pretty gloomy. That is, until we heard Uncle Walt on the local radio station. He said it was lonely at the Park, so he was opening the gates to anyone who wanted to come in—for FREE. “Bring your umbrella and put on your yellow Sears slicker and join us,” was his invitation.

Who cared about a little rain? We were talkin’ FREE admission to DISNEYLAND. There was Walt giving yet another present to the locals. Now, those were the days when there was a very low entry fee and the now-famous A to E ticket books, which were purchased separately. All of us had spare ride tickets lying around (although most, if not all, had the “E” tickets all used up), so those were brought along.

Walt greeted his enthusiastic visitors at the front gates. I think he was surprised at the response—quite a few people had braved the elements—and a lot more would have if the two-car family was as common as it is today.

Everybody had a wonderful time. The skies eventually cleared, and at the end of the day, all returned home very happy, if a bit soggy. I’m sure that Walt was gratified so many people showed up—after all, food, and other concessions were still sold, so at least they had that revenue—but I firmly believe it was a magnanimous gesture on his part, for he did it more than once—and not only in inclement weather.

Walt used to hang out in various areas of the park to watch the people (especially the children) having fun. Most of the time we saw him he was in Frontierland—often by The Shooting Gallery or at Fort Wilderness on Tom Sawyer’s Island. He would dress like a sheriff or Union soldier—disguising himself so he could watch in anonymity.

As Walt’s T.V. show became more popular, and he more recognizable, the disguises became more elaborate. Not that they worked on those of us who adored him.

I remember seeing him one day near the steam-powered riverboat, the Mark Twain. I ran up to him, threw my arms around his leg, attached myself to that appendage and cried, “Uncle Walt! I knew I’d find you!”

Walt leaned down, his index finger coming to his lips, and whispered, “Hello there, Little Red [yes, I’m a redhead]. Shhh… Don’t tell anyone it’s me. It’s OUR secret today, all right?”

Feeling very important to be part of Uncle Walt’s grown-up secret, conspiratorially I stage whispered back, “Ohhhhh… Okay… I won’t tell.”

I didn’t know why Uncle Walt didn’t want anyone to know it was him, but since he asked, I said okay. After all, it was Uncle Walt! I didn’t breathe a word to Geri, Mama or Daddy—or anyone else—and felt very impressed with myself because Uncle Walt trusted me to keep a secret.

When we went to Disneyland (which was a lot, because it wasn’t very expensive then), we’d often separate into two groups: adults in one, children in the other. The older kids, of course, were bent out of shape that they were stuck with us younger ones, but Daddy had only one pair of walkie-talkies. We were allowed to go away from moms, dads, aunts and uncles under one condition: Every twenty to thirty minutes we had to check in via the walkie-talkies, telling the adults where we were—and to make sure none of us had wandered off from the rest in our group.

We’d meet up a few times during the day—usually to get our hands stamped (so we could re-enter the Park), and go out to the station wagon where the Coleman cooler was packed with our food. Even at the then-modest prices, the cost of the excursion could escalate drastically if we bought food or toys inside. Sometimes an exception would be made, and we’d get to have breakfast at the Aunt Jemima pancake house, or Mama and Daddy would buy a coloring book for me on our way out. No visit was complete without a stop at Upjohn, where we would all get sample bottles of vitamins to take home with us (hey—free is free, whatever it is), and we never failed to make a stop at Snow White’s Wishing Well.

It was also unthinkable to leave without stopping at the Penny Arcade to have our fortunes told by Esmerelda. Some years ago the powers-that-be yanked Esmerelda from the Main Street Arcade, ostensibly due to complaints from some very conservative Christian groups who said it promoted Satanism (just goes to show you that some people have entirely too much time on their hands).

Anyway, when we went to the change booth to ask what happened to our long-time gypsy friend, the girl there had a notepad with tally marks on it. Seems that we weren’t the only ones upset about Esmerelda’s departure—the notebook was almost filled, and on the desk in the change booth, there was a stack of already full books as well!

I’m happy to say that public outcry won out, Esmerelda was returned to her rightful place in the Arcade (albeit not quite as prominently and up-front as before), and there she remains, her invaluable predictions dispensed for only a dime (sorry, inflation—it’s a quarter now).

We were sorry to see the Upjohn store go (no more free vitamins) and the disappearance of the Hallmark store was a disappointment to me—the card store that replaced it (in a different location on Main Street) never felt quite the same, and now that’s gone too. Ah, well… life goes on and Disneyland changes all the time. After all, Walt did say that Disneyland would never be finished…

Now… the advantage to having the walkie-talkies was that we kids could spend as much time on Tom Sawyer’s Island as we wanted, and the adults didn’t have to be subjected to hours of following us as we wandered through the pint-sized caves, or crawled on the rocks and over the bridges. What the adults missed, however (besides the wild berries that grew on the island and tasted so great), was the inevitable “Uncle Walt Sighting”, for the island was usually where we found him.

One of those times, one of my favorite rides, the Flying Saucers in Tomorrowland was closed again (it seemed like it was closed more than it was open). I found Walt near the Suspension Bridge, tugged on his arm and tearfully asked, “Uncle Walt, how come my best favorite ride is closed again?”

He knelt down in the dirt, wiped my eyes with his neckerchief and explained that the Saucers didn’t work just right all the time and he didn’t want any of his children (that was us) to get hurt. He then asked if I had ever been to a carnival or County Fair. I nodded “Yes” and Walt said that the Flying Saucers were too much like bumper cars and other carnival rides, and he wanted nothing but special rides for his “best favorite” people who came to Disneyland—things they couldn’t find anyplace else.

Uncle Walt then told me a secret—the Flying Saucers were going to fly away from the Park—but that we’d have something even better (which we eventually did), so how could I complain? True to his word, the area was converted into the Tomorrowland Stage (where we saw Linda Ronstadt perform one New Year’s Eve), and it was again “re-imagineered” as the Magic Eye Theater where 3-D experiences (“Captain EO” and “Honey I Shrunk the Audience”) reside.

My experience with the man, and the actions I witnessed were not those of some psychotic martinet. Whatever others may say, it is hard for me to believe that a man who gave so willingly to so many was some kind of demonic monster.

I don’t choose to pay attention to the words of someone else, when what I observed was so different.

In his business, I’m sure he was a tough taskmaster and with all the idiosyncrasies that seem to be a part of creative genius and visionaries, but I never saw Walt behave in anything but a gentle and giving manner to the children (or adults) at the Park or at the schools when he visited there.

He was our Pied Piper—where he led, we followed.

He was kind and thoughtful to us—never shooed us away—and always had time for our questions. And after all our pestering, tugging and hugging, he would ruffle our hair and send us on our way with grins on our faces—and smiles in our hearts.

Row-Z

When my old friend Rosie passed away a few years ago, I wanted her to live on (as they say) through my writing, so an entire chapter of my book, “Don’t Look Now” is devoted to her (and a lot of her antics).

Here’s an excerpt. Enjoy!

And if you like what you’ve read, you can purchase the entire book (softcover) at Create Space: Don’t Look Now… or via Amazon: Don’t Look Now…

Kindle version is coming soon.

Excerpt from “Don’t Look Now…”

Chapter 16: Row-Z

© Gael MacGregor/MacMusic Magic

…Mama had to work three jobs for many years after Dad died, in order to pay off hospital bills from his lengthy illness and many stays. One job was at a college in Orange County as a PBX operator, and she would get advance notice of events happening there, so could get us tickets for stuff before they sold out. Usually, though, since none of us had much money, we’d go to the free or almost-free events.

One of them was the screening of a film at the college, with an appearance by an L.A. T.V. host of late-night horror, sci-fi and other such B-movies. This was pre-Elvira, and Seymour was our guy. He was funny, silly and inventive. He would appear in the corner of the T.V. screen and comment on the action, such as “It’s the Mushroom Tabernacle Choir,” as all the women on a boat screamed in “Attack of the Mushroom People”. Dopey stuff like that. We couldn’t wait to see him.

So there we were, waiting in line, in the cold and foggy evening air (“It was a dark and stormy night…”). Time passed, and still no Seymour, and still no entrance to the campus theatre. Apparently, some wreck on the freeway had delayed his arrival. The natives were getting restless, and Rosie began entertaining everyone to keep their minds off how long we’d all been waiting in the damp night. They were so busy laughing at her jokes and antics, when Seymour did arrive, they almost didn’t notice him until he flipped his cape around and started jumping up and down as he moved through the crush of people.

He came over to Rosie and said, “Thanks, kid, but I’ll take it from here,” and swooshed off into the crowd.

Rosie was tickled, and even more so when, after the show was over, one of the stage folks came over to us and said Seymour wanted to see us. We weren’t hard to pick out, even in a big crowd. We went backstage, and Seymour had big posters he signed for all of us, and he thanked Rosie for being, as he put it, “the warm-up act in front of my slime-green walls.”

…As I was finishing these reminiscings, we received word that Rosie had passed away. We went to the funeral, and it didn’t feel like a celebration of her until her brother Martin said a few words, and then her spirit came alive to everyone there.

And then, at the end of his speech, he looked up and pointed to the heavens, said goodbye, and then, with a smile and some tears…

“Go Dodgers!”

Amen.

Fat & Feminism

Some years ago, I wrote an article for “Expository Magazine”, a feminist-oriented e-zine. Although I am considerably smaller than I was when I penned the article, I am still in that “no-woman’s-land” of size: too “fat” for the so-called “normal-sized” world, yet too “thin” for the bulk (no pun intended) of those in the so-called “Fatosphere”.

So I guess this remains today as much about size as about feminism… and the messages are still about acceptance, understanding, individuality, equality and, most of all, respect.

FAT & FEMINISM

The picture I have in my mind of the feminists of the ’60s and ’70s is of lanky, long-haired women burning their bras and shouting, “Equality for the sexes!” The Gloria Steinhem-esque, almost hippieish women without makeup or anything else that gave any appearance of femininity were always the ones the cameras snapped and got the videotape rolling. Even then, the media zoned in on the extremists of a movement and then, as today, often harmed the cause because of the general dismissal of the message within their compartmentalized, biased coverage of the event. With the focus on the fringe element or the acts of defiance and not the issues they represent, it slows true understanding and acceptance for new thoughts, new ways and new ideals.

Now, bra burning was never an option for me. Contrary to popular belief, not all fat chicks have racks the size of Texas, but I happened to be one of them during the bra-burning days. It didn’t mean I discounted the message it represented, but I didn’t see the need to be physically uncomfortable, with my chest swaying in the wind, to have my voice and opinion heard—any more than I think that shouting is necessarily an effective way to get people to listen.

Why do people think such extremes are necessary, and do they help in the long run anyway? How do the issues of size acceptance and feminism intersect, and why does the prejudice against fat people undercut the effectiveness of feminism?

I thought you’d never ask.

First off, I need to get my definitions of “feminism” and “fat” straight.

I don’t want to be drafted into the armed services. That equal I can live without. I don’t think women and men need to serve together in combat to prove their “equality” as human beings. I don’t have to gain entrance to a men’s-only club. They should have their spot to hang out and be guys. I also want to be able to go to a women’s-only spa or school without being told it makes me a hypocrite. That’s what I would be, if I felt that as a woman, I deserved not only entry to the fellow’s hangouts, but wanted women’s-only spots in which to relax or learn.

That’s where I think one of the concepts of feminism went awry—thinking that we all have to be and/or do everything, and that there’s no place for the separation of the sexes.

Yes, men and women should be treated with equal respect, receive equal pay for the same jobs and experience, have equal standing under the law, receive equal benefits and have equal access to education and training for their chosen professions. I don’t think, however, that men and woman are inherently equal in abilities, strengths, intelligence or whatever—any more than I believe that any individual is a carbon copy of another. While I think that every being that inhabits the body house is of equal importance to any other—man or woman, thin or fat—we all have different strengths, weaknesses, talents, abilities, intelligence, aptitudes and temperaments. The trash collector’s soul is no more or less “important” than the soul of a Gandhi, but treating everyone “equally” doesn’t account for their individuality, nor does it show respect for their uniqueness. Some people respond better to directness, others require gentler guidance when teaching them a task. Assuming that each person is equal to every other person can lead to as much discrimination and unjust expectations as assuming that everyone can tap dance by merely putting on the shoes.

Now on to Size Acceptance…

As my dear friend Carol says, the word “fat” is NOT a pejorative. Being fat doesn’t mean someone can’t be pretty (or handsome), talented, funny, sexy or smart. “Fatandugly” is not an automatic one-word adjective.

“Size acceptance” is just that—acceptance of another’s size as a “just is”. Does it mean that any fat person can do anything a thin person can? No more than any woman can do anything a man can do. Each person is different. There are women who have the inherent body type, size and/or talent to perform to big league standards in baseball, but because professional baseball is a men’s-only club, those talents most often languish or are diverted into softball—where women “belong”. There are, however, plenty of women without the talent to play the game, regardless of their desires and/or the men’s-only aspect of professional baseball. Being a woman is not the reason they do or don’t have the stuff to succeed, merely whether or not they’re going to be given the opportunity to prove that they can.

So how does that apply to fat people?

There are fat people who would be terrific in customer service or contract negotiations, handling situations with great sensitivity, patience, competence and agility, and others who would be simply atrocious at it. How often, though, do you see a fat woman represented in a high-profile or public-oriented position? It’s as if employers are often afraid that somehow fatness will rub off onto the public. I say woman, but it applies to men as well, although it seems to be more “acceptable” for men to have a belly. Women in general were in the background for years as the backbone and predominant lower-to-mid employees in many industries, but hitting that “glass ceiling” in the workplace. Fat people are still treated like that today—okay to be out of sight and doing creative, difficult, demanding jobs, but not being granted the visibility their thinner counterparts enjoy and often being denied promotions due only to the fact that they’re fat.

Somehow feminism left us fat chicks at the end of the parade—and not because we couldn’t keep up with the other marchers.

So how can feminism embrace the ideals of size acceptance and vice versa? I don’t mean just size acceptance for women, but for all fat people. I don’t mean just equality for women, but for everyone.

It’s not so difficult, really…

We tend to forget that people propel ideas and actions, and that a movement is not the exclusive property or domain of the most vocal or the most quoted, or the most attractive face for the camera. We hold lots of different opinions and all deserve to be treated respectfully, regardless of our backgrounds, ethnicity, ideals, gender, size or education.

Women want to be treated with the same respect for their abilities and intelligence as their male counterparts in the workplace.

Fat people want to be treated with the same respect for their abilities and intelligence as their thin counterparts in the workplace.

Women want to receive the same respect and be listened to with the same attentiveness that men receive—and not be dismissed because our voices aren’t as deep.

Fat people want to receive the same respect and be listened to with the same attentiveness that thin people receive—and not be dismissed because our bodies aren’t as svelte.

Women don’t want their doctors to treat them as if they were children—acting in a patronizing manner, and assuming that the majority of their illnesses are due to some emotional imbalance.

Fat people don’t want doctors patronizing them and assuming that the majority of their illnesses are merely due to being fat. (Before accusations of “hiding your head in the sand” or “but that’s the way it IS” are hurled: There are many conditions, such as PCOS, various thyroid deficiencies, genetic disorders, etc., wherein one symptom of the disease or condition is becoming or being fat, but the actual cause is entirely different. Fat people are used to being told over and over that it’s always the other way around, and we are undiagnosed or misdiagnosed at an alarming rate. Not too different from the fact that women are often misdiagnosed in cases of heart attack and mild strokes, being told that their conditions are due to “anxiety” or “nerves.”)

I think you see the pattern.

Whatever “brand” our individual ideas of feminism may mean to each of us, if we do not give equal credence to each other—man or woman—regardless of what size we may be—then we do a disservice to the concept of feminism itself. How can we hold our heads high and spout off slogans of “equality” if, behind someone’s back, we ridicule them because of their size—large or small—or any other aspect of their looks, for that matter?

Feminism is no more than expecting, showing, giving, receiving and embracing the individuality of every person, and treating them with respect, regardless of their gender.

Size Acceptance is no more than expecting, showing, giving, receiving and embracing the individuality of every person, and treating them with respect, regardless of their size.

Pretty simple, isn’t it?

 

[Author's Note: A side note to the fat vs. healthy debate... When I asked my surgeon if the cause of my appendix bursting had anything to do with being fat, his reply was, "No... but it's the reason you're alive. If you had been skinny when it burst you'd be dead." So score one for the fat chicks! Being zaftig saved my life. ]

 

© 2008 & 2013 * Gael MacGregor * All Rights Reserved * Gael MacGregor is a Los Angeles-based music supervisor, musician, songwriter, author and advocate for size acceptance and strong intellectual property rights for all content creators.

Unwrap Me, Baby

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Words & Music: Gael MacGregor & Barry Coffing

© MacMusic Magic & Barry Coffing Music

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Sexy Comes in
All Ages & Sizes

As we were getting to the end of the project, we realized we really wanted the last tune to provide a jumping off point for the next go-around, which we’re looking at being a pretty straight-ahead blues album. Well… that, and with the studio fire, a couple of moves and a bunch of other stuff, Barry couldn’t find the hard drive that had what we thought was going to be our last tune—but I didn’t know that while winging my way to Houston to record the tune. The misplaced track was more of a country-ish tune, had some really nice guy background vocals, and all that was left was for me to put the lead vocal onto it once Barry and I stopped disagreeing about the lyrics.

As things had progressed, we really wanted a more funky, bluesy roots kinda thing, so we weren’t all that broken up about not being able to find the original tracks, and set down to write a new song and record it pretty much on the spot.

I had written lyrics and much of the melody on the way home from some event about a year before (I do most of my best writing while driving—thank goodness for voice-activated recorders!), but since we weren’t looking at needing another tune yet, I had just put it to the side.

I’d actually written it with my husband in mind, so the original was a lot more racy, suggestive and down-and-dirty. Believe it or not, Barry was the one who had to rein it in to make it more PG . He wielded his magic on a bridge, and we decided we wanted to have that smoky, 2am-after-the-bar-has-closed vibe. So we brought in a guitar player, I laid down the vocal, and later, the harmonica track was laid down. No horns, no bass, drums or backing vocals—just the end of the night sitting around with a couple of guys after the crowd is gone.

Due to travels and schedules, neither Mike Lent nor John Mirani played on this track. I just wish one of us remembered who we brought in to record this little bluesy tune. So if you’re out there, boys, speak up so we can properly credit you!

Woody came to the rescue and mixed the stripped-down tune with just the right amount of “dive” feel to it, and it has become an audience favorite.

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CREDITS:

Produced by Barry Coffing

Engineered by Barry Coffing

Mixed by Woody Woodruff

Recorded at—A teensy, closet-like recording space

Mixed in Houston

Guitar—Our mystery guitarist

Harmonica-—Our mystery blues harp

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Drift Away

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Words & Music by Mentor R. Williams

© Almo Music Corporation

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Rockin’ that
Lounge Beat

Barry brought me kicking and screaming to this iconic song. I love it, but always felt it was a “guy” tune and felt I couldn’t do it justice. Mr. Producer disagreed and he won, so we proceeded to the recording.

Barry’s idea was to surround me with all-male background vocals and give a breakdown that was a sort of homage to The Oak Ridge Boys. And what a group of guys!

This track ended up giving me my two favorite moments of the entire project [neither involves me, go figure... ]:

(1) Listen for Mike Lent’s sweet, lilting, singing guitar lick after the last line of the bridge (“the guitar’s comin’ through to soothe me”). It still makes me smile every time.

(2) When the chorus “breaks down” after the last verse, it begins with Bob Joyce’s booming bass voice at the forefront of a great group of guys who just fill the track. I can’t thank them enough for giving me such a moment on this recording.

This song also brings to mind one of the funnier scenarios on our journey…

After Thanksgiving dinner, a few of my friends and I were playing Scrabble when Barry called me. We were going into the studio the following week and we still needed to set some keys for a couple songs.

As I attempted to continue with the Scrabble game, I was singing over the phone to Barry as we tried different keys for “Drift Away”, and during the course of my warbling, my friends started in on some very obvious cheating—making up words, tripling word scores, goofing around and otherwise making a shambles of what had been, up to then, a pretty competitive game. Hearing all the laughing and silliness in the background, Barry asked what was going on. When I told him, he yelled out to my friends, “I can hear you cheating!”

In the retelling, I guess it was one of those ‘you had to be there’ moments, but it’s one of the fondest and most fun memories I have of our recording preparations.

Gael

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CREDITS:

Produced by Barry Coffing

Engineered & Mixed by Chris Hufford

Recorded & Mixed at Tempo Studios—Hollywood, CA, USA

String Arrangement by Sam Winans

Guitars—Michael Lent

Bass—Osama Afifi

Piano—Mark Mathieson

Drums—Gary Ponder

Harmonica—John Mirani

Background Vocals—Bob Joyce, David Joyce, John Mirani & Barry Coffing

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I Can’t Get You Out of My Dreams

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Words and Music by Barry Coffing & Dale Gonyea

© Barry Coffing Songs & Red Tennies Music

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Long Ago
Dreamy Girl

A beautifully constructed song that I love to sing because of the vocal range. The strings in the song develop throughout the song and at the end go into a lush, sweeping coda structured to go directly into “Drift Away” on the CD.

This shows a more vulnerable side of our heroine.

Gael

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CREDITS:

Produced by Barry Coffing

Engineered & Mixed by Chris Hufford

Recorded & Mixed at Tempo Studios—Hollywood, CA, USA

String Arrangement by Sam Winans

Guitars—Michael Lent

Bass—Osama Afifi

Piano—Mark Mathieson

Drums—Herman Matthews

Harmonica—John Mirani

Background Vocals—Ramona Wright, Julie Chadwick, Gael MacGregor & Barry Coffing

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