Julie Cascioppo

International Cabaret Chanteuse

Vitos
Julie and The Blind-dates
Thursday June 22nd, 9pm - Midnight

9th and Madison, First Hill

Summer in Seattle, hotter than hell! 97 degrees!

August 4th, 2014

Just checking in with you, how is your summer going? I hope FANTASTICALLY. How about this heat?

I accidentally went to Denny Blaine Park, because I couldn't find Madrona Beach. I was delirious from the heat, and my AC in the car, has never worked. I don't mind it, except these few hot days, when it's unhealthy to be in a car in the city without air conditioning.

Having stopped by  the High Spot for an iced coffee, and was told it was too late. After 4 they clean the machine. Shucks!

Did you know it's really wild there during the week? At Denny Blaine Park.   Nude sunbathers, lesbians in all their wild varieties, and tattoo art that out does and boggles the imagination of any swinging metro sexual.   Lots of groovy pit bulls, (such nice dogs to swim with), but no cats, I noticed.  A nude man picking blackberries off the bush at the edge of a small cliff, and dropping them occasionally into receptive, nubile, beauties opened mouths.   Everyone appearing to finally be having the fun they need. The police do not come by, and marijuana is in the air!

It was so hot, I didn't care. Normally, I'm a bit fussy, but I set my blanket, and pillows and unwrapped my new kick board that I picked up at Grocery Outlet for $3.99 and it was heavenly! Do you swim? If not, get a kick board and just hang out in the lake. I met some charming Hispanic fellows in the lake, from Mexico. Water makes us all blend so sweetly.

Let's get together if you're still here. Maybe for a cup a coffee for lunch, I'm dieting.  Like you did at one time?

Discover your inner vocal talents

North Seattle Community College Continuing Education

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Are you an absolute beginner or intermediate singer who enjoys singing for fun? Take your singing to the next level and learn to strengthen your singing, presentation, and confidence for any venue. You will come away from class knowing how to warm up your voice, approach and learn a song without becoming overwhelmed, and enhance your stage presence. Please come to the first class with a song you would like to sing and perform (or see instructor). A $10 materials fee is due to instructor on the first day. Scheduled Classes Tu 6:15pm–8:15pm Feb 25–Mar 18 (4 sessions) $115.00 On Campus: LB Bldg, Room 1131 (Main Campus, Map) 9600 College Way North Seattle WA 98103 Enroll Now

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Happy New Year 2014...Yikes, it's tomorrow.

Hello There, Yes, You! How are you? I'm good, busy, trying to finish up all those last minute things to get ready for a fabulous New Years Eve celebration here in Seattle.

Where am I singing? Everyone wants to know? Well, it's a private party. And it's going to be fantabulous. I'll make it that way. Come hell or high water, it's gonna be groove-a-lishious! Let me know if you want to crash it.

Today, I want to say I love this totally gray day in Seattle. It is so gray, I feel like I'm in a cloud as I gaze out my penthouse window, through the branches of that familiar, friend, a Poplar tree that looks in on me during all moments of the day and night.

I have no curtains that need pulling. I love the crows and hummingbirds that sometimes peep in. An occasional arborist (not an abortionist) has enjoyed a surprise viewing, once a year. I wish management would warn me when he's showing up so I could at least make sure I have on that creamy Negligee I've been saving for my next cruise.

Happy New Year 2014. "If you don't succeed, try and try again, and if all you do is lose, better find away to win." anonymous

May I borrow a cup of sugar, Monsieur?

My first international trip was to Paris, at 27. My generous Norwegian boyfriend sent me there for one month so he could remodel his kitchen in peace. He had no idea what he was setting in motion: Since that first taste of long distance travel, I’ve almost lost count of all the places I’ve been. Though it took guts to accept the offer, Paris is where I sprouted my wander-lusty wings and discovered my talent and confidence in singing and entertaining foreign audiences. In Paris, the development of my many characters (for example Star-Baby of Paris, the fame driven country and western singer) originated. Paris is also where this non-traditional Seattle,jazz singing native spent the most time outside the USA. One month turned into four years, with several transcontinental flights to make sure my boyfriend was still waiting patiently. Four years is a long time to spend anywhere, especially when you’re young and clueless. Even though I was mature in many ways, I was still pretty innocent: trusting freely, making friends with total strangers, and going with the crazy flow and emotional upheaval that comes with gullibility. I felt comfortable trusting everyone in Paris at first, because I had to. Trusting hotel managers not to break into my room and ravage me, trusting what other people said to me in French as kind and encouraging, trusting that the child I heard crying in the apartment a few doors down wasn’t being beaten by her frustrated, cruel father. I remember waking up early one Sunday morning to the sound of a child’s cries. “No, papa…no, papa.” And then, screams and the deep sobbing of a child in desperation. I heard the slow, continuous blunt thuds that went on too long. I wasn’t sure what to do, but it didn’t sound good. I called my Swedish friend Gunila, who was like the older, wiser sister I never had but really needed. She worked in Paris as an ex-ray technician and practiced Reiki. She loved collecting eccentric foreign visitors like me, and was crazy bout her African boyfriends. She cultivated them, and married them all, which was encouraged and legal with certain African tribes. Ah Parreeee! Gunila lived about a mile away from my apartment. I phoned her uncharacteristically early that Sunday morning, telling her I thought the child down the courtyard from my door was being beaten. In an almost hushed tone, she explained that in France, they don’t take notice of child abuse. It’s private and belongs to the family. To intrude would be considered very rude. Uncomfortable listening to the cries, Gunila encouraged me, if I was so concerned, to go knock on their door and ask to borrow a cup of sugar or something. “At seven in the morning? How do you even say that? Pardon Monsieur, puisse empruntez une tasse de sucre, s’il vous plait?” I couldn’t bring myself to that level of obtuse courage. I imagined him saying, “Sure, let me just stop beating my child for a minute, and see where I’ve put the sugar.” After involuntarily eavesdropping, for endless moments, on this child’s terror, it eerily stopped. I felt a chill. Going back to sleep was out of the question, even though I’d had an extremely late night singing at the Hollywood Savoy, in Les Halles—a popular American-styled cabaret in Paris at the time. I felt sick in my heart and mind. Not knowing exactly what to do, but knowing in my gut, not doing something was wrong. I dressed quickly and went out. I walked and walked, and finally found myself at the River Seine, a calming place to really “be” in Paris. I stopped at a café and bought an espresso, and a basket of croissant. Later, I found out that if you eat one, it’s inexpensive. But if you mindlessly eat the whole basket that is placed in front of you, it’s not only expensive, but strange. I was so unsettled, and I didn’t really know the correct behavior—even about this little part of the culture. As the thought of that child’s distress flooded into my mind once again, I wondered "Do I just swallow this foreign tradition I perceive as injustice, like I did those croissants and their cost?"

The sun, especially bright, at the beginning of spring, contrasted with my dark mood combined with a hangover from the early morning’s frightening wakeup call, not to mention too much champagne sipping throughout the night while singing and flirting with strangers. Returning to my home, I happened to run into the father and his young daughter coming out of the courtyard. His austere look scared me. The girl seemed about nine, holding onto her daddy’s neck, for a joyless piggyback ride. Her eyes looked tired, red, and cried out. Our eyes met. Her face was empty, expressionless. His face, harsh and pale, cold, hard like a craggy-edged cliff, yet she clung to him. I felt an unspoken knowing in her eyes: She knew, I knew. I was embarrassed that I hadn’t gone to their door and altered in some way what was happening. I could always use some sugar. What was wrong with me, that I had so little courage? Was it my fear because of being a foreigner, not feeling the right to intrude? Was I fearful of his wrath—that he might beat me? I vowed in silence never again to miss an opportunity to stand up for a child being abused. Since then, in all my travels--Istanbul, Bali, India, Mauritius, Hong Kong—whenever, wherever I feel called to the situation, I have kept my vow not to be concerned with what anyone thinks. It’s less stressful in the long run. As an adult, who’s made it through a difficult childhood, I know how hard it can be for kids. Once in a while an adult made a real difference in my life. Part of me gained strength from this, and guides me to know this is what I am supposed to do--be a vigilant guardian for the vulnerable ones. Taking the risks to be an entertainer, to go to Paris, to have a career set in numerous cultures are part of what taught me to be willing to take that awkward chance that, at times, can change the energy of the moment to something better. Even in Paris, the most beautiful city in the world, I discovered there can be a call to step in and “borrow a cup of sugar.” Who knows? I might sweeten someone’s day. “Puisse, empruntez un tasse du sucre? “Merci.”

Copyright 2017, Julie Cascioppo.