April 7th has always pleased me.  For one thing, I was born on it, 'a lovely spring day,' according to reliable sources.  Thanks Mom (and Dad).  Here in northeast Ohio, where the seventh of April is often blustery cold, today is no exception.  But it stirs my inner nymph without fail, sensory evidence notwithstanding.

Last night was the perfect birthday party, nine of us came in out of the white stuff to the sushi bar,  tanked up on weak green tea, chowed down with chopstix and porcelain spoons. Our chef produced intricately decorated entrées on wide plates;  we served each other soy sauce on wee rectangular ones, mopping up the overflow with white napkins, all hands on deck.  Our movie after the meal had us settled in and laughing in a relaxed, storytelling mood the Hanks father-son serve up as haute cuisine in The Great Buck Howard - a film none of us knew much about but didn't mind imbibing since, hey, the company was stellar.

If you've read this far, you may be wondering where I'm going with all this on a site about art and creativity.  The one small fact I failed to mention is that I was one of three in the bunch who knew it was somebody's birthday eve.  For me, this was perfect.  The hoopla of birthday bashes, when I'm in the hot seat...

Let's just say last night was the perfect celebration.  Johnny, across the table, asked me how long I've been a musician. 

'All my life, but at first I sang in the choir,' was the answer.  'You never would have found me singing solo...'

'Or fronting a rock band,' put in Cindy with her wry warmth.

Here in Cleveland, fresh off the Rock Hall inductions, we know about the pomp and posturing of the genre, alluring to some, irrelevant to others, including me.  The only point to 'bigger-than-life' in a musician, preacher, radio host or leader of the free world would be to tip some reservoir of human consciousness toward a greater devotion to our communal good.  I admit, some are called to do this.  Others get lost in a celebrity that squelches the little people and feeds on their trust and devotion.

On this beautiful, blustery, nascently vernal morning, the stage calls me back; I hear her siren song.  But for now, look for me at the sushi joint, singing with the choir.

Photo Susan Weber (Johnny, Cindy and sushi extravaganza)