David Brewer, a cherished friend for two decades and a surrogate brother for the one I never had, died a few days ago.

I’m fragile.

In deep mourning.

And reevaluating my life and priorities.

David’s passing didn’t come as a shock. He’d been battling a melanoma for years, and the resultant metastasis for months.

But death — despite my belief the soul, or spirit, transcends it — feels so damned final.

The empty hole it leaves can seem infinite.

It’s likely you have a friend like David, someone you could be even warmer to — no matter how close you have been.

On his deathbed, my psychologist/consultant buddy, still boyishly good-looking despite being sixtysomething, and still a pigheaded St. Louis Cardinals fanatic, revisited his spiritual feelings.

He re-told me of his “awakening” at 19, when he’d deduced that spirit was an embodiment “of compassionate love” rather than the anthropomorphic being others worshipped.

Though the Novato resident had been brought up an ardent Christian and I a Jew, we’d found a joint comfort zone.

I miss him.

But I consider myself lucky — blessed, in fact — to have had him in my life so long.

As a loving, trusted friend.

As a colleague in a men’s group for 10 years.

As a pet sitter in my San Anselmo home for Kismet, my purebred rescue mutt.

I have fond memories, too, of others who’d been essential parts of my life but, in Hamlet’s words, have shuffled off this mortal coil. And there are many: My parents and grandparents, a woman I lived with in Philadelphia, two first cousins who died in their teens.

All told, death in double digits — more than sufficient for any lifetime.

But David’s death has shifted my perspective.

No longer am I irked by the constant road construction on Sir Francis Drake Boulevard in San Anselmo.

Or the dog poop I barely miss while walking Kismet in Creek Park.

Or the incredibly long wait at The Hub’s traffic lights.

Instead, I linger longer to watch two newborn fawns in my yard, to catch the wonderment of a sunrise from our deck, to see toddlers frolic in a Ross or Fairfax playground.

My wife, kids, grandkids and friends unsurprisingly have leapt anew to the top of my what’s-important list. I vow to phone and email more.

Yet retain my right to not text.

I choose to elevate my sensitivity at Marin Man to Man, my support group aimed at helping guys whose partners have breast cancer or another life-threatening disease.

And to spend added hours with the 11 friends facing severe health challenges.

I intend, too, to fully appreciate that I’m comparatively healthy — still breathing and able to pound my keyboard long enough to cobble columns together.

Did David’s death, or life, mean more than any of the 8,000 killed in Nepal’s late April quake? He and I’d often pondered that kind of question, always concluding life anywhere was equal to either of our own.

I’ll remember him as an imperfect perfectionist who left behind a lengthy string of wives, girlfriends and broken hearts, but moreover that he was himself even in his last moments — exuding life and love.

Shortly before being hospitalized, my pal, the compleat organizer — he was forever arranging a last-second movie group or dinner klatch or something-else cluster — had corralled a small group of friends. In a sense, it was his last hurrah.

He knew the prognosis.

My 8-year-old granddaughter traipsed along. David, child-less, had attached himself to her years before but decided on the spot that day she’d be his “date” for the party.

So he showered her with attention, including the hugs for which he was famous, and bought her a huge cookie.

Too soon afterward he proved that death can incorporate dignity.

And courage. And joking.

He and I and my wife, Nancy, reminisced and laughed several times during our final conversation.

I doubt if he’d primped for our appearance, but he undeniably did for at least two women who followed us individually.

In tribute to his tangible influence on my life, I hope to assuage my sadness with an amped up zest for living and doing. And to continue fighting for the environment, for the homeless, for equal rights.

I’m sure David would approve.

Contact Woody Weingarten at http://vitalitypress.com/ or voodee@sbcglobal.net

This year’s five-day Marin County Fair had something to please almost every Jane and Joe — adult or kid.

With a bonus for me.

Why?

Because not only did I enjoy the ever-better entertainment and art exhibits and midway, and a breeze that made July’s heat tolerable, I got to interview typically “invisible,” behind-the-scenes folks who normally don’t get their names into print.

Take, for instance, Karen Katich of Martinez.

She’s been portraying Princess Leia of  “Star Wars” for years. It’s one of her favorite things.

Why?

“Because I saw the original ‘Star Wars’ 11 times when it first came out, and more than 1,000 times since.”

She loves “kids’ eyes getting the size of saucers when they see me, fulfilling their fantasy.”

Anne Garner owns Eleven Roses Ranch in Clearlake Oaks and brought Clydesdale horses for folks to admire.

Plus a couple of 1,600 pound draft mules.

John, the male, apparently was feeling his oats, to use a phrase about 150 years older than the 74 years the fair’s been running.

He repeatedly tried using his teeth to unknot the rope that tethered him to a gate, and upstaged her by playfully nuzzling her blouse again and again.

She explained that he “enjoys chewing garden hoses, rolling in the dirt, and bullying everybody.”

However, she added, “he’s really a coward, afraid of his own shadow.”

She frequently runs into fairgoers she “saw a year ago,” and especially likes “seeing the little kids so excited.”“It’s fun,” she told me, “because everybody’s happy they’re here.”

Rick Creelman of Fairfax is a ukulele player, a regular at Friday night jamborees at Del Medina’s home in San Rafael.

He came to play with 50 or so UFOs, Ukulele Friends Ohana (which means family or community), though the stage held only about 30 so the rest had to perform while roaming the audience.

This is the group’s fourth fair. They participate, Creelman said, “because it’s fun, a sing-along rather than a real concert.”

It’s also, he noted, “a chance to introduce people to the ukulele and that it’s making a comeback.”

Edward Johnson is a utility worker who lives in Rohnert Park. His fair duties include “doing the trash, keeping the restrooms clean.”

A favorite memory, he revealed, was when he and an assistant supervisor were locking up and unsuccessfully began tugging at a door — from opposite sides at the same time.

Bill Hernandez of Petaluma has been with the Marin County Sheriff’s Department 24 years.

A sergeant, he’s “done one shift a year at the fair” that long. “It’s fun to get out with people who are having fun,” he declared — a contrast with other assignments (patrol, jail, gang enforcement and street crime).

He remembered folks “trying to swim across the lagoon to get to the island” when the gates were shut because the fairgrounds were full.

Christian Williams, a Santa Rosa resident, manned an ice cream giveaway booth.

He and a co-worker handed out, on average, 22 three-gallon tubs each day — one scoop at a time.

Williams was gracious to most freebie-seekers — including me — but flummoxed by a kid who skittered away before I could get her name after she asked, “How much is the free sample of ice cream?”

Emilie Owens of Medford, Oregon, emcee for the pig races, has been doing the fair four years.

She loves how noisy her audience gets.

She recalled cheerleaders forming a human pyramid to embolden their favorite porkers.

And she recollected four pigs sprinting from the trailer onto the raceway to make it an unscheduled eight-pig contest.

Another time, “some pigs got free and just ran around the fairground.”

Zach Lien’s an L.A.-based contractor for Two Bit Circus, which ran the fair’s STEAM Carnival component.

“STEAM,” he elucidated, “is an acronym standing for Science, Technology, Engineering, Arts and Math. Our games combine those concepts. We teach kids to work together as well as individually. I personally love to watch them trying to figure something out while playing, and it’s fun to watch adults and kids playing a game simultaneously.”

What’d I, personally, think of this year’s extravaganza, which drew 78,000 people who paid admission and 27,000 more who didn’t?

I relished that there weren’t lines for indoor bathrooms or outdoor port-a-potties, that I could find places to sit on bales of hay, that I could easily spill out the dirt that invaded my shoes.

As always, there was too much to do before I tired. But my best measuring rod was that I’d planned to stay an hour and a half.

And left five hours later.

Contact Woody Weingarten at www.vitalitypress.com/ or voodee@sbcglobal.net

[Woody’s [rating: 1.5]

Ethel Merman died in 1984 at age 76 — after giving more than 6,000 Broadway performances.

So the mezzo-soprano’s been lifeless quite a while.

Sadly, I found “Call Me Miss Birds Eye,” a new revue at A.C.T.’s Geary Theatre in San Francisco that’s a tribute to her career, equally lifeless.

It lacks all the brassiness, bravado and sheer energy the big-voiced, big-haired Merman brought to audiences.

Denise Wharmby — as The First Lady of the musical comedy stage — and her two backup singers, Martin Greenwood and Don Bridges, hit every note correctly.

With more than a hint of their native Australian accents.

But without pizazz.

Except when Wharmby, a San Rafael transplant from Tasmania, impressively holds notes for as long as the long-winded Merman might have.

Critics heralded that Queens, N.Y.-born superstar — who supposedly never took a singing lesson — for her precise enunciation and pitch.

Wharmby imitates both well.

Yet fails to capture Merman’s spellbinding over-the-topness.

Impressive, on the other hand, is that the revue is done entirely in Bel Canto style — that is, without a mic or amplifiers, the same acoustical Italian vocal technique Merman utilized for five decades.

It works, not counting when the guys muffle their voices by facing the wings instead of the audience.

The beauty part of “Call Me Miss Birds Eye,” though, is the songlist itself, with the crème de la crème of American Songbook composers represented.

Socko tunes include Irving Berlin’s “There’s No Business Like Show Business,” Merman’s theme; George and Ira Gershwin’s “I Got Rhythm,” from “Girl Crazy,” the thrush’s first Broadway outing; and Julie Styne and Stephen Sondheim’s “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” from “Gypsy.”

And although more than a third of the 33 songs contain astonishingly clever lyrics by Cole Porter, I’d still say the most amusing piece is “New Fangled Tango,” in which the Mutt and Jeff duo use their size difference for comedic effect.

Wharmby’s frequent gown changing can also be entertaining.

Despite my sense that the men occasionally tread vocal water just to give her time to switch costumes.

The 95-minute show would definitely improve via still or video projections, extra props, and choreography not limited to hands.

Instead of merely relying on the changing colors of a huge backdrop caricature of Merman.

Having previews, moreover, might have eliminated missed cues, vocal timing that was off, and an embarrassing moment when an exiting Wharmby almost knocked Bridges over.

Adding continuity would be advisable, too, since details presented about Merman’s life are skimpy — there’s not one allusion to her penchant for telling vulgar stories and dirty jokes in public, and only a quickie reference to four marriages that “wilted as quickly as the wedding bouquets.”

The show’s title, a play on the words of a Merman hit, “Call Me Madam,” refers to the star rejecting a change Berlin wanted to make within a week of opening.

She unnerved him with, “Call me Miss Birds Eye. It’s frozen.”

Merman, who loathed anyone sharing her spotlight, would have loved the idea that when she died every Broadway house dimmed its lights upon hearing the news.

And she’d have loved that 30 years later her fame hasn’t dimmed.

The musical director of “Call Me,” Graham Clarke, doubles as artistic director of Acoustic Voice of Australia, which produced and is presenting the revue. He firmly believes this pre-Broadway outing is a choice vehicle for those who want to immerse themselves in Merman songs and nostalgia.

That’s wishful thinking, I suspect.

Opening night, many patrons were checking watches with regularity — and about a quarter of the crowd left at intermission.

Clearly an audience that reviews a show with its feet.

“Call Me Miss Birds Eye” plays at the American Conservatory Theater, 415 Geary St., San Francisco, through July 19. Night performances, 7:30 p.m. Thursdays through Sundays. Matinees, 2 p.m. Saturdays. Tickets: $20 to $65. Information: (415) 749-2228 or www.act-sf.org.

Contact Woody Weingarten at www.vitalitypress.com/ or voodee@sbcglobal.net

“What’s a jazz and classical flute player like you doing in a bluegrass sextet like this?”

Because I’ve known Matt Eakle for years, I don’t need to ask: He and mandolin doyen David Grisman blend their distinct virtuoso sounds to make extraordinary music.

Matt’s been part of David’s bands for 26 years.

And he’ll be one-sixth of the Grisman sextet at Sonoma State University’s Green Music Center, Weill Hall and lawn, at 3 p.m. Sunday, July 12 as part of the Dawg Day Afternoon Bluegrass Festival.

Also on that bill are the Del McCoury Band and dobro master Jerry Douglas presenting the Earls of Leicester.

Asked about his favorite from the upcoming playlist, Matt cites “Watson’s Blues,” which is dedicated to blind guitarist Doc Watson, the first performer to invite David onto a stage at age 17.

The tune gives Matt, who delights in stretching musically, “an opportunity to recreate the classic ‘twin fiddles’ bluegrass sound, something flute players don’t get to do very often.”

Another stretch came recently when he performed in Coblenz, Germany, at a 13th century church — a Bach sonata duet with a pipe organist.

Often, Matt also gets to meander into unmapped melodic territory with David, whose bluegrass sextet explores folk, rock, string jazz, Latin music, klezmer-influenced tunes, soul and funk.

Their collaboration dates to 1985, when David “was auditioning bassists for a European tour and I happened to be at a bassist’s house. I’m a good sight-reader because of my classical training so I was able to read all the songs he’d brought on my first try. We both were astonished at the cool sounds mandolin and flute made when they blended together. Four years later, he called me for a jam session and I ended up in his band.”

The 58-year-old’s actually been playing flute since he was 12 — in junior high.

“They only had a piccolo at first, so that’s what I started on. But when they got a flute a month later, I switched. It was so easy compared to the piccolo that I fell in love right away.”

Later musical training included studying with the son of the San Francisco Symphony’s principal flautist and learning “improvisation by the seat of my pants.”

Not to mention playing alongside virtuoso musicians.

And he’s performed with Jerry Garcia, Stephane Grappelli, Chris Isaak, Bonnie Raitt and Linda Ronstadt.

He’s even done a couple of gigs — a benefit for Bread and Roses in Novato and another for homeless men being sheltered in San Anselmo — with my jazz pianist wife, Nancy Fox.

Matt, despite being an environmentalist, lets no grass — blue or otherwise — grow under his feet.

He performs with his own quartet, the Matt Eakle Band; plays with the Murasaki Ensemble, a quintet led by Shirley Muramoto, who excels on koto, a classical horizontal harp-like string instrument frequently used for court music in Japan; puts in tons of freelance appearances; and teaches jazz and classical flute.

The flute player — he’s turned off by the word “flautist” — has sparse spare time.

He runs nearly every day, often barefoot.

Sometimes he runs to the top of Bald Hill, just west of his adopted town of San Anselmo, where he’s lived since 1998 with his wife, Lucia.

He supplements that with pushups and pull-ups (scoliosis forced him to give up standing on his head).

He’s slowed down on yanking out non-native plants from San Anselmo’s Faude Park, however, though he’d done it for years. In fact, as chair of the town’s Quality of Life Commission, I’d handed him a Green Award for his weeding.

Matt’s recorded three albums of his own, from which his favorite jazz piece is “Speak Low.” He admits attributing the Kurt Weill composition “to the wrong person on my CD, ‘Flute Jazz,’ but they don’t care because I send the royalties to the right place.”

What makes him unique as a flute player?

“My emphasis on sound and tone coloration and the fact that I surrender completely to the groove.”

I’ve more than once watched him perform at Iron Springs Pub in Fairfax, where he sways his body like a dancing Spiderman.

That, he explains, is “just my natural reaction, what happens to me, and I try not to interfere with it.”

Future Green Music Center events, in addition to the July 12 Dawg Day Afternoon Bluegrass Festival, include appearances by Jay Leno July 31, Natalie Cole Aug. 1, Steve Martin Aug. 20, Dwight Yoakam Aug. 21, Chris Botti Sept.11, Wynton Marsalis Sept. 17 and Kristin Chenoweth Sept. 25. Tickets: $20 to $175. Information: 866-955-6040 or gmc.sonoma.edu.

Contact Woody Weingarten at www.vitalitypress.com/ or voodee@sbcglobal.ne