You have to live out the things in your heart, or you don't deserve them. -- Pat Califia, 1993
There is never enough joy in the world. As long as another's joy does us no actual harm, and it has to be said that it rarely does, we owe it to ourselves and our fellow human being not to trample it. -- misia, 2004
Save Soren!!! Our good friend Soren (of Velma and Soren deSelby-Bowen) unexpectedly had a stroke about a month ago and now he's in a bad way. We are confident that he will pull through but once he does he and Velma will be facing a huge financial burden as he does not have health insurance. This Saturday night will be our meager attempt to raise some money for them to help them through these difficult times. All the money from the door and a portion of our merch sales will go towards the cause.
If you can't attend the show please feel free to contribute anyway. No matter what, the lovely Velma (who has been a rock through all this) urges everyone to get their blood pressure checked. You can control your blood pressure through diet and exercise and prevent this from happening...you DO NOT want to have a stroke.
On Saturday we will have more information for everyone in addition to some kick-ass rock 'n' roll. As a bonus, this is a female-fronted band night so there will be a slew of hot rocker chicks in the vicinity. Hope to see you there. Peace out!
-Sarah, SN www.myspace.com/systemnoise *Save Soren!!!* *System Noise @ Desmond's Tavern* *433 Park Avenue South (btw. 29th and 30th St. NYC)* *Sat. Nov. 8th, 10pm* *$10/21+*
Some time after Elise left, he asked me, "Is that Elise?" and "Is she coming back?" Both were very clearly enunciated; when I asked, "Do you want to talk with her?" he nodded vigorously and said, "Yes, yes, yes!"
Unabashedly romantic moment:
Tonight, for the first time in almost a week, when I asked him if he wanted music, he said, "Yes." Now, Gavin loaded his iPod with songs he knew Soren would like, songs he didn't think Soren knew, and "songs that will make [your] skin crawl." I asked Soren how he felt about Billy Squier's greatest hits, and got The Look once again; he approved of Sufjan Stevens, and when I went through the album titles, settled on Seven Swans, an album he thinks is magnificent.
He lay there, listening to the album and smiling. When the title cut came on, he started mouthing the words, and crying ... and all I could think of was the way he responds to music, the way he reacted to the Elliott Smith song the night I fell in love with him, and how this man, with his totally open responses to things that bring him joy, is the one I want to spend the rest of my life with.
At least I think that's how the lyric goes. Today I have to hang in the office for a dinner meeting (I'm not part of the meeting: the side effect of my working 10-6:30 is that I stay for late meetings, whereas the other people on my team come in for the asscrack-of-dawn meetings), which should let out at 8:30. I think this means that I'll wind up at Rose's Turn tonight, just to unwind a bit. Tomorrow there is an asscrack-of-dawn meeting, but, after much back and forth, none of the support people actually have to be there: we ordered breakfast, showed the higher-ups how to actually unlock the front doors, and we're done.
It's been a busy week in the office, and an odd one at home, with Soren being sick for two days. We actually chose to miss the chamber music concert we'd gotten tickets for last night, so that he could rest and sleep. Ah, well... this will give me the chance to actually listen to some of the chamber music that was being played. (His job offers corporate discounts to various Lincoln Center shows; I predict that there will be classical and baroque music live in 2007 for us. Whee!)
Tuesday night I went to the other usual Den of Musical Iniquity, where people were celebrating Kenny Holcomb's birthday (40, according to reports). Many pink balloons (one which became an alternate Kenny, complete with reddish brown goatee), a homemade four-layer orange cake, and a pointy birthday hat with pink marabou trim for the birthday boy. I caught up with a few old acquaintances, such as Jay Rivera (who's focusing on his acting) and Brandon Cutrell, and talked with Melissa about the New York Public Library and music.
Melissa asked me how I'd feel if she recommended a song for me, because she thought it would suit my voice. I did not quite leap up in my seat and yell, "That would be WAY COOL!" but I think she got the message. I'm alwys curious to find out what other people think would work for my voice. (There will be NO ARETHA, so just keep quiet over there! I can hear the evil little gears in your head grinding!)
Last night, though, Soren felt well enough to meet me for dinner, then we stopped in at the Den of Smoked Meat and Bourbon, which was actually the Den of the Brooklyn Fire Eaters and Bluegrass. Scott had made four new sauces, including one done with a fermented pepper mash, and one done with fresh and smoked habaneros. The latter was this month's "Let me try -- HOLY SHIT IT'S BURNED A HOLE IN MY TONGUE AND JAW! ...let me try that again -- HOLY SHIT!" sauce. Some days, I'm not too bright when faced with endorphin rushes. Sean made a coffee-chocolate-peppers-brown-sugar hot sauce which would work really well with a pork loin, and Matt brought a Jamaican pepper one which was flavorful but too salty. The bluegrass band was quite good (I didn't catch their name), and we celebrated three birthdays there with Scott's jello-and-pepper shots.
Jello, for the record, is excellent for spreading capsaicin oil all over your mouth. And keeping it there.
The weekend was actually busier than I'd expected, even deciding not to go hear Joel Forrester last night. Saturday was, of course, Night of the Overprivileged Twits at Rose's Turn, with two separate clusters of "let's talk through everyone else's performance, and then pound people's shoulders when our friend gets up to sing, and yell 'Isn't he GREAT?!?' into their ears; never mind the fact that he can't remember all the lyrics" folks. And there was a moment when Howard and were divvying up the responsibilities ("I kill him; you make sure he's unrevivable." "Works for me.") for dealing with particularly noxious folks. Man, the staff there are professionals.
Also, Helen gaven Terri the necklace and earrings she'd made -- amethyst and silver. There was a lovely moment when Terri said (if I recall correctly), "You didn't have to get me anything."
"I didn't -- I made it."
*sonic boom as Terri went for the box*
She showed it to a number of the regulars who came in, with delight and awe, during the course of the night
Yesterday was wandering through the Village, meeting Vicki and Andy for lunch, acquiring from Andy a set of computer speakers capable of architectural damage and lugging them about, finding the two most recent Janis Ian albums in a store, clothes shopping for Soren, and a stop in to see an old friend.
Today has work, which should be fun -- the schools are closed, so the staff will be in the office. (Let's see what stupid things happen with the toaster oven this week.) And we have a belated birthday present for Greg that should make him bounce with glee. (It's Un Viaje, the Cafe Tacvba combination live DVD and CD set from 2005; it's now the thing that I put on when I recognize that I'm in a funk/bad mood, because if that doesn't pull me out of it, I'm in deep trouble.)
I realized this week that I started my handwritten journals twenty years ago, with fountain pens (which I didn't really like, and it took me a while to figure out that an extra-fine italic nib was best for my writing) in a Boorum & Pease record book. Here I am, almost one hundred forty books later, still writing fairly regularly.
I've spent part of this morning rereading the first three books of 1987 (six books for the entire year), and later, will reread 1997 (am dithering about 1992 and 2002; perhaps later this week). Friends, music (in '87, GaSLOCoLI was performing Iolanthe), quitting my job at the Deep and Meaningful Political Bookstore, crushes, relationships, fandom, boundaries... it's odd how a short sentence, as well as the color of ink and the shape of the writing can bring back a wave of other memories and realizations.
Part of the reason for the journals, both the written ones and here online, are to actually anchor events in time. If I don't write them down, the dates tend to blur.
Friday, for example. Some of my coworkers were supposed to come out with me to Rose's Turn, but they wimped out. (The fact that news came down from the Tweed Building might have something to do with it as well, of course, but still, they wimped without even telling me. Hmph!) I puttered about the office, then headed over to chat with Rainie, sing, and relax before the inevitable late night weirdnesses started. Chuck, the birthday boy came, and I gave him a wodge of chocolate, and chatted a bit.
I sang once with Joe -- "Stop and See Me" -- which is definitely a keeper in my repertoire, and Soren and I started with "I've Written a Letter to Daddy," but switched to "Abba Dabba Abba Dabba" at Michael Bowe's request, because we remembered more of the lyrics and melody than he did. We need to work on it.
(Aside: there are at least six songs that work with roughly the same chord structure, and Joe R. likes to have different people sing them in sequence, followed by a massive counterpoint moment. Aside from those two, you can also sing "Bill Bailey," "I'm Gonna Lock My Heart and Throw Away the Key," "It's a Sin to Tell a Lie," and "I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter," and I think we've actually heard two more songs in the medley; Joe's going to send us a list. I can sing three of them; unfortunately, they're the ones almost everyone knows, so I need to learn the more obscure ones, so that I can swing.)
(And three years ago, I would never have had the nerve to do something like that.)
As Soren observed, a retired basketball player, John Amaechi, came in with Cindi. As those of you who've been there know, the ceiling at Rose's Turn is not very high, and the staircase is an awkward design where someone who's not much over six feet tall would have to duck to get downstairs; John had to bend almost in half. He sat next to us at the end of the bar, and seemed to be a very pleasant man. Cindi introduced him as John to the regulars (I knew who he was, both because Rainie had mentioned it to me, and because -- oddly enough -- I actually recognized him from the newspapers), and we chatted a little; he glanced at the Broadway book that I was carrying, but either decided not to sing, or doesn't sing.
What I noticed about him, even more than his height, was the absolute massiveness of his hands and wrists. I think he's a normally proportioned man in all other respects, but his hands! Soren says that's a common trait in basketball players, but I'd never noticed it before.
Chuck, meanwhile, had been bought at least two birthday drinks, and was opting for tequila shots. I worried a bit, but he did have a sandwich, and grapefruit juice, and I made him drink a couple of glasses of water. (I can hear you nodding and muttering, "foreshadowing," over there; you're not that quiet.)
Susan and Jack arrived, and Susan asked me if I would sing "Smackwater Jack" with her; I could not turn her down, even though it's not one of my favorite Carole King songs; I think they were the only two regulars who came in for the late night shift. The rest of the audience...
Well, there were a number of perfectly nice people there, some of whom had evidently not only been to piano bars before, but to Rose's Turn. And then, of course, there were the others, including the people (mercifully in the back) who felt that "Halleluia" was the perfect song to have a long loud conversation during, and the tall redhead from Dublin, who felt that "Moon River" was the song to talk through...
But I think my ire was focused on the drunken women who kept making dance-like actions, and grabbing the mic. The little pert one, who would have been cute had she not been so obnoxious, seemed to be attempting to either make a play for Joe (Total Chick Magnet -- Totally Gay) Ardizzone, or attempting to get him to throw her out; the tall blonde decided to sing "New York State of Mind," with a blithe disregard for lyrics, melody, and pitch; their male companion swayed at the bar. (The blonde kept bashing into Soren's barstool, because he was invisible, I gather.)
Susan and Jack had brought a cake for Chuck, who, by the time it came out, was probably on the outside of five generous tequila shots. He fell down in the back of the bar, and Susan and I took him over to the seats in the back and told him to stay there; fifteen minutes later, he got up and fell over again, and Terri put him back in a chair. I suspect he listened to Terri.
Just as Soren and I had decided we'd had enough, Michael asked me to sing again, and we dithered about songs for a bit, before he requested "Home Again." While we were talking, a would-be diva, who'd already interrupted Michael while he was singing to ask to sing, came up and interrupted us. I'd overheard her at the bar, annoying Joe, and wondered just why she thought no one else in the bar was real.
"Home Again" is a favorite song of mine from childhood, and one that Michael and I stumbled on together when he first asked me to do a second song; it's one of his favorites, but he'd rather hear someone else sing it than sing it himself, so it's fun to perform it with and for him. That, of course, was when the drunken young man wobbled up from the back of the bar, stumbling into me, and planting an elbow in my side. Soren said that it looked as if I strong-armed him away, and that the audience was completely sympathetic; I felt that I'd just shifted him off of me, and his own lack of balance caused him to fall farther. As I posted, though, I did manage to catch my breath and make my next musical entrance on time, hitting the note precisely. I do not recommend that as a technique for guaranteeing pitch, though.
After that, Soren and I decided that we had emphatically had enough, so after glancing back to make sure that Chuck was still sitting in the back, we made our farewells and toddled home.
Yesterday was a quiet, domestic day, and today is continuing in that path, though with a pause to go hear Greg at Rose's tonight. Quiet is good.
A little bit of money came in, much to our surprise and delight (it's only been an outstanding invoice of Soren's for seven months), so Soren met me at the office, bearing my sheet music, and we went over to the usual Den of Iniquity. On Mondays, there is no happy hour piano player, so we talked with Brad, and Chuck, and "Bill from Long Island," who'd popped in to say hello to Michael, who was performing at the MAC awards (I think) rather than tending bar. Pleasant, wide-ranging conversation, which included my regular question of "What's the first record you ever bought?" Last night's answers ranged from Wayne Newton to The Osmonds to Cliff Richard and all around.
Joe Regan arrived, as did Andrew (filling in for Leslie, also at the awards) and Joe Ardizzone, and the music started, including one of Joe R's challenges. He does them every so often, when he knows enough people at the bar; for a while, his regular challenge was "Okay, everyone has to do one ballad, and one uptempo song." That one got me to add both "I Think It's Going to Rain Today" and "Adelaide's Lament" to my repertoire.
(One can bow out of the challenge, but you know, it's a high-dive sort of terror and exhilaration to decide, "I'll do it!" and step up to the microphone -- and I'm learning how to enjoy the high diving.)
Last night's challenge was, "Everyone has to sing a song they've not sung in a year (or more)." Ouch! He handed round a Broadway fake book, and people scanned it. Soren sang "Papa Was a Rodeo," and amazed people with his baritone; Chuck sang "I Don't Know How to Love Him," and me? I took a deep breath, went to the back of my music book and gave Joe "Stop and See Me."
Back story: aeons ago, someone I knew (for those of you tracking, L from redbird's journal -- the universe is small) used to organize theatre outings with groups of discount tickets from TDF. One of them was to Weird Romance, a strange science fiction musical, with music by David Spencer and Alan Mencken, and book by Alan Brennert, based on two short stories. The first story was Tiptree's "The Girl Who Was Plugged In," the second, Brennert's "Her Pilgrim Soul," and the cast included Ellen Greene and Jonathan Hadary. I thought the show was brilliant, and hunted down the cast album, and later tracked down the sheet music at the library (it's in the reference section at the Lincoln Center branch, and you have to sign your soul away to get it off the shelves). "Stop and See Me" is the first song from the first act, and how we're introduced to Philadelphia; it's a wistful, strong song and shows you Phil's spirit, and it makes me very happy.
Anyway... I've sung it twice in public before, both times at the Mostly Sondheim night at The Duplex, where both Ray and Brian (the once and present piano players for that night) turned out to know and love the show. I'd forgotten that Soren hadn't been with me either of those nights, so this was his first night hearing me sing it.
People loved it.
No one in the room had ever heard it before, and everyone -- Bronwen, Joe, Joe, Andrew, the other regulars, and the new people -- were delighted by the song and my performance. And Soren smiled at me, with pride and joy, and wants me to sing it again.
Later, I sang "Hernando's Hideaway," and got laughs, and Soren sang "Don't Marry Me," and Matt borrowed my sheet music and did a pure floating tenor version of "I Think It's Going to Rain Today," and Casey sang "Anyone Can Whistle"... and Michael and Leslie and Rickie Ritzel came in after the awards show/ceremony, and there was much laughter and music and friendliness.
And today there's not enough sleep, but there are memories, both mental and kinesthetic, of what it's like to step off the board and dive into the music.
Last night was a learning experience. Excellent music, but possibly sacrificing a chunk of my lung capacity.
Description from the web site (systemnoisenyc.com):
System Noise is a true rebirth of rock. Unlike the many imitators popular today in the garage, punk, metal and hard rock scenes, System Noise doesn’t ‘sound’ like rock acts from the past -- they are a rock act for the future.
In January of 2003 singer extraordinaire Sarah Mucho, guitarist Kurt Leege and drummer Paul Pouthier began discussions about starting a new project. The three had worked together in separate projects in the past, but never as a unit. They were intent on developing a unique sound, complex yet accessible, dissonant yet melodic. Above all else, they wanted to fill what they perceived to be a void in the music world - they wanted a sound that would transcend the endless classification riddling the industry, a titanic sound that would appeal to listeners across genres. Throughout the spring, the three began working out song sketches and searching for the right bassist. Sanford Arisumi soon arrived in classic ‘Behind the Music’ fashion. …
Okay, a bit florid, but it’s a website for the band. Those of you who have been at Rose’s Turn on nights when Sarah’s filled in know what she’s like -- small, fierce, possessing an awesome rocking voice but capable of doing standards with grace and flair and a nice nature – overall, a cool person. I’d gone to see her album-covering show of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (was that in 2005? time blurs) and enjoyed it greatly, but not made to any of the band’s gigs.
This month has been weird and stressful, but Soren wanted to hear her band (he’d gotten to chat with her on the Tuesday nights she’d been filling in at Rose’s, while I was over at The Duplex [which is not to imply that she doesn’t talk with me, or that I keep him from talking with people; we just talk more to each other when we’re together], and perhaps learned more about her music), so we decided that last night’s show might be a good way to relax mid-week.
I stayed in the office, finishing up various projects and puttering about, until nine, and then headed up to Siberia. On the way, I had a flash of sanity, and bought earplugs; it’s been a while since I was in a loud rock club, but not so long ago that I’d forgotten the pain of tinnitus.
Down West 40th Street, and over to the black door with the red light. Sarah was outside, which was reassuring, as there was no number on the door, and she greeted me, then warned me that the building had recently had a fire, and the toilets had to be manually flushed (somehow, the Citysearch review that said the bathrooms were horrible hadn’t mentioned this; and I didn’t ask where the water was going to come from). She went in to set up, and after popping my head in and viewing the torn ceilings, with insulation hanging down, and smelling the wet charred plastic and wood, I decided to wait outside for Soren.
The door next to the entrance had one of those ominous signs posted, the gist of which was that the building was unsafe for occupancy because the fire escapes were in bad condition. Having seen the ceiling torn open inside, this … er, perturbed me, but it was almost time for the show, and surely lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place, does it?
{Shut up, okay?}
Soren arrived, I gave him the warnings, and we went in and downstairs. Concrete floor, the stage being poured about six inches higher than the rest of the floor, a bar on one side, and more torn ceiling, including just in front of the stage lights. We decided not to stand there, and sat down on the couch (after I’d examined it with a flashlight).
System Noise had a new bass player, Sanford Arisumi having gone west to pursue other dreams. If this is how they sound with a pick-up bass player (and I wish I could remember his name, because he was crisp and clean and excellent), then they must have been intimidating with their original player. I know that I enjoy Sarah’s voice, but I hadn’t expected the soulful, mathematical precision of the guitarist, Kurt Leege, and the drummer, Paul Pouthier. It reminded me of some of the best parts of The Dismemberment Plan’s shows -- and the bass player did the same -- all the right notes and riffs, sometimes incredibly fast, and placed exactly where the musicians wanted them.
And all that said, the oddest part is that, despite being tense and feeling congestion from the dust and dirt and smoke residue, I enjoyed myself. Soren loves the mathematical rock more than I do, and he was bouncing along in a way I’ve not seen him do in ages. (We haven’t been to rock shows in ages, and any bouncing he might have done last week at the Open Mic would have been bashing his head against a wall in order to pass out and make the bad music stop.)
Will I go back to Siberia? Never.
Will I go back to hear System Noise again? Definitely!
Discovery of the morning: one ounce of eggnog will cause any phlegm in your throat to double (or triple -- these are not precise measurements) its volume. If you are singing soprano, this is not a good thing. Actually, I don't think it's a good thing, whatever voice you're singing.
In a little while, I shall get dressed and head out to meet redbird for a final cup of tea and conversation this year. Right now, I'm puttering about the internet, and singing. Back around 2001, Soren burned copies of a CD with nineteen songs that I wanted to perform, either with the people I was singing with then, or the ones I'd hoped to perform with within the next year. Nothing came of those plans, but I note that the one song I'd sung from that group in public is one I've not sung since about 2002, and I have sung three of the others (including two of the most technically difficult ones) several times, and will probably sing at least two, and possibly six of the others within the next year.
I should make a new mix, though, of the songs that I'd like to perform now, to compare them. This mix is more guitar-and-vocals (among other things, because the musicians I sang with then were guitar players); the new mix would be more piano-and-vocals, I suspect, more duets, and songs where I use more of my register, as well as songs where I take harmony lines in the chorus.
A few comments made this week have me seriously thinking about where I'm going with my singing.... and I note that two years ago yesterday, I went into the studio with Greg to record backing vocals on his album. A few weeks ago, he mentioned that he's thinking of starting on a second album, and asked, "Will you sing on it?"
This time, I didn't hesitate; I said, "Of course."
(not you, lawnrrd, though we owe each other conversation)
Yesterday was a quiet day at home, rereading old journals, saying farewell to our CD player, which, after eight years or so, has finally given up the ghost, and then wandering over to The Perch, to hear an acoustic Whisperado show.
I believe that I am cursed never to hear all of Whisperado's vocals clearly, and am wondering whether or not to simply accept this as my fate. The previous two times, the vocals were mixed too far down in the sound, or the acoustics of the place were not ideal. This time, there were only two microphones, and at least one guitar needed to be miked at all times. The space was small, and Soren and I were sitting directly in front of the "stage" (which was created by moving four couches and two low tables), so between focused listening, having heard them before, being familiar with both Jon's and Patrick's voices, and some lip-reading, we could make them out.
Mind you, for a while that was in doubt: during the sound system set up, the host, Athena, managed to get a blast of feedback that had our ears ringing. My hands were free, so I could cover my ears immediately, but Soren had a fork in one of his hands, so couldn't protect his ears as quickly. For a while, we worried about possible hearing loss, because of the ringing he felt.
Athena is a pleasant singer-songwriter, with a slightly wide-eyed and in-the-headlights affect; her second set of songs were better than her first. There was also a comedian...
or a man who thought he was funny. All right: he may have been funny in other people's opinions; I felt that he'd never figured out the difference between entertaining kvetching and pissing and moaning. (I am not giving his name; perhaps we caught him on an off night, perhaps we just don't appreciate his style of humor, but that doesn't matter. I have no intention of giving him another chance.)
I enjoyed the Whisperado set -- I could make out the lead vocals this time, and the guys seemed to be having fun. "Invisible Hand" got more audience attention than I think it had at either of the other gigs I went to, despite the size of the audience. (It's a good song and deserves attention, and the chorus has a biting melody.)
Jon's friend Alisa (I think that's her name) did two songs after the band, one on guitar and one on keyboard; the second had an excellent Carole King feel (for want of better descriptors at the moment) to it; Athena did a second set, and we wandered off into the night.
Okay, okay, so I'm inordinately cheerful, even if I can't buy much of anything. On the other hands:
Richard and Barbara Binder will be there;
my homies from the Fountain Pen Hospital will be there:
I am taking Tracey (coworker, fellow pen geek) to her first fountain pen show today;
I may be meeting Jessica there tomorrow;
they are giving away fountain pens to each child who comes;
several people from the Fountain Pen Network will be there;
I could ask Richard to modify my tobacco-striated Balance 875 to a wicked cool cursive italic, or needlepoint, and get it at the show;
someone just might have a roseglow Balance 875 in good condition;
even if I can't afford it, I'd get a sense of what they run;
there will be so many beautiful pens there that I will hyperventilate;
I have been charged by Tracey's boss to look for a nice pen for her as a possible birthday/holiday gift; and
it's a PEN SHOW!
*ahem*
So, Soren came to meet me after work, and was patient as I stayed till nine, finishing up tasks, cleaning my desk, and leaving an away message on my computer. Then we wandered -- through a sudden downpour -- over to Rose's. Rainie is sick, trying to avoid pneumonia, but Michael and KimLee were their usual merry selves (they send their regards to all, and Howard, they're hoping you're doing well), and Chuck and Matt showed up. Matt has one of those pure sweet tenor voices, and he and Bobby did a laid-back version of "Fly Me to the Moon" that had people open-mouthed with awe and delight. (Michael'd never heard him sing in front of the microphone before; in the four years we've been coming to Rose's, this was only the second time I'd heard him.)
The first guest singer was a young woman with a pleasant voice, who sang.. well, I now think of them as fairly traditional girl songs for piano bars: "Out Here on My Own," "On My Own," and "Somewhere That's Green." The last was enhanced by KimLee sneaking up on her with the coleus plant that was, inexplicably, sitting on the bar (I don't think it had a drink), and growling "Feed me, Seymour!" She reminded me of myself a few years back, unable to accept compliments, only hearing every muffed syllable and wrong note in her performance.
A discussion of the never-repeated episode of Barney Miller ("Mooshy! Mooshy, mooshy, mooshy!") arose, and, of course, we digressed from Jack Soo to Soren singing "Don't Marry Me," and, reversing the order in which we now usually sing them, I followed with "Adelaide's Lament." Bobby remarked that I am the first person he's heard in years who got all the words right and in order. I knew all that Gilbert and Sullivan training would pay off....
The weirdness continued when various staff, including Joe Regan and Leslie Anderson, and other cabaret folks, like Ricky Ritzel (the new president of MAC) came in. Joe sang "I Can't Give You Anything But Love," and then went into a medley of songs, as Leslie, Chuck, and Peter simultaneously joined in on counterpart and stripped him.
Yes, stripped him.
In front of Leslie's mother, no less.
Okay, you had to be there, because I can't do the scene justice.
KimLee sang "Millwork" for me, which made us happy. The bar went from pretty empty to full, with some other regulars, like Casey, wandering, but mostly strangers, until Chuck zipped past me to embrace someone, who turned out to be Eric Schwartz, with Mark Aaron James behind him. Eric's briefly in town, on an East Coast jaunt for Thanksgiving with his folks; Mark, of course, lives here these days. It was good to hug both of them, once we'd pried Chuck off.
Chuck, Bobby, and Eric did a lovely jazz jam with saxophone, piano, and scatted vocals; Mark sang "Weekend in New England." Then Soren decided to sing again, and did a really strong and solid version of "God's Song." I decided to follow him with another Randy Newman, and sang what might have been my best version so far of "I Think It's Going to Rain Today" -- I didn't try for deep tones, but just let all the notes ring out, and I could feel the high notes resonating the right way in my chest and throat. (I need a more precise vocabularly for music, damn it.) Bobby followed that with "Marie," and then we decided that the audience looked a little suicidal, and perhaps more cheerful music should be sung. It might have been then that KimLee sang "It's an Art."
(When they left, both Mark and Eric told me that I sang beautifully. Eric seemed proud of me, and I think he has reason to: he's been encouraging me to sing out for over ten years, and while he's never understood the whys of my struggle to allow myself to make noise, he knows how hard it's been for me, and how much his encouragement has helped.)
I do love singing pop and pop-rock, and country, and such with Greg and Clare and Michael, but there is a part of me that really loves the nights of listening to Bobby's sensitive touch on the keys on standards and show tunes. Actually, as long as the piano player is enjoying the songs he plays, and the staff are enjoying singing, I'm likely to have a good time.
Coffee is made, and should be drunk; there's sunlight; clothes should be chosen, and the Pen Show (THE FIRST LONG ISLAND FOUNTAIN PEN SHOW! WooHOO! WooHOO!) awaits me.
Yesterday, after a cheerful theoretical conversation about murdering coworkers with the president of the organization (he points out that because I am constantly muttering about heads on pikes, he could kill people and I'd be the chief suspect, and observes that "We're deadly serious about productivity!" might make an interesting office motto), I wandered south, first to Washington Square Park, looking for musicians. I chatted briefly with Phil, one of the guitarists, and Drita, but since they had just arrived and were tuning, I decided to head over to the Baggot Inn, where an old friend of mine was playing his second gig after about a four-year break from the music biz. Gregg (yes, Gregg with three "g"s, as opposed to Greg) writes power pop, which he sings in a husky tenor; his band includes one of the sexiest bass players on the planet, Jeff Gurner, who's also a real sweetheart.
As I tend to do when alone, I sat at the bar during the first act (which was running late: the sound guy was late, so everything was set back a half hour or so). I pulled out my journal and wrote, and then noticed something hovering right over my shoulder. I turned, and looked into the face of a smirking weirdo.
-- okay, so I didn't know he was a weirdo just then: all I knew was that he was in my personal space for no reason (he wasn't ordering a drink, he wasn't sitting next to me, there was no reason for him to be that close). I gave him Unwelcoming Gaze #3 ("Justify your presence before I remove your balls through your eye sockets"), said, "Hello" icily, and he backed up, then said, "Nice script," and wandered off. Later, he reappeared halfway down the bar, shouting inanities at the bartenders (who were rolling their eyes, and in danger of losing them in the backs of their skulls). When Gregg's lead guitarist did his sound check with a fast riff, El Smirko yelled, "Rock it out!" and headed towards the stage, pausing to give me what I think was supposed to be a sexy look as he passed. (Made me want to offer him Rolaids, actually, if I were inclined to get near him.)
Pleasant short show; I got to catch up with Gregg and Jeff, and another long-time fan of Gregg's, then I wandered back to Washington Square Park. By then, several other people, including Good Scott had shown up, and we stayed out in the oddly balmy night, singing together for a couple of hours.
The first outdoor weirdo was "Pete Thompson of the Village -- I have an eight room apartment, and I sing better than any of you." He'd gotten there a few minutes before I did, and was demanding that people play songs for him to sing lead on, half-singing/half-shouting songs, adding vaguely obbligato fills to songs that have never needed any, and telling Lauren, Drita, and Scott, "You need to sing EXTERNAL. Me, I sing EXTERNAL -- you all sing INTERNAL, and that's why I'm a better singer than you, that's why you're not as good." Drita tried reasoning with him, "Well, we're here pleasing ourselves, and we got here before you: if you don't like what we're doing, why don't you find a group that suits you more?"
That led to the announcement of "You think I'm just some stupid nigger, don't you? Well, I have an eight-room apartment right here in the Village! Where do you live -- New Jersey?" (Drita actually does live in New Jersey, though I doubt he knew that.) "I'm a better singer than any of you -- you're jealous. I have an eight-room apartment, I'm in the book, Pete Thompson of the Village --" then he turned to two men who'd wandered along and were hoping for music, "Hey, man, you got to stop eating those bowling balls -- look at you! C'm'ere, so's I can touch you! You know, quiet women like this, when they won't sing out in public, they get loud at home -- AIEGHHHHHH! They're nasty!"
Mercifully, after about twenty minutes to a half hour, he wandered off. We then had an hour or so of pleasant singing (I found myself singing "Landslide," "So Far Away," and the second half of Shania Twain's "You're Still the One," while Drita sang "I Can't Make You Love Me," "Rhiannon," and several other songs, and Lauren displayed a small true voice with a huge belting ability on "Comfortably Numb") before the next weirdo came along.
Yeah, it's like that in the park. I think the weirdos have a schedule, so any happy cluster of people making music will have no fewer than two weirdos per three hour period. Some are harmless, like the Conducting Rabbi, who stands on the edge of the group, waving his arms and having intense conversations in a low mutter with the spirits of the ether; some are actively destructive to a music circle's energy, like Drunken Jeff, who will elbow his way into a group and leap on lead vocals -- but any group will acquire at least one or two.
Our next weirdo was a regular to the park, though I don't know his name. He's very fond of Scott -- which is understandable: Scott is an excellent guitar player, with a wide repertoire, and the ability to play both lead and rhythm, -- but this weirdo is a bellower, by which I mean the sort of person who keeps bellowing, "Billy Joel! Yeah, Billy Joel, man!" or whatever his current obsession is, until either someone says, "No," or gives in.
I'd heard and seen him, a quarter of the way around the circle, shouting monosyllables. Lauren saw him approaching, and flinched, which I took as a warning sign. I don't think it was her flinch that caused him to walk to the outer edge of the ring and stand behind her (and Drita), but it didn't matter. Lauren made the mistake of suggesting Billy Joel, and -- as I said -- he bellowed. Someone asked for "New York State of Mind," and I countered with "You're My Home," which is what Scott played.
Which, however, was not to Mr. Bellows' tastes. Scott sang in his soft true voice, I sang below him at the bottom of my range, which made us both happy; Mr. Bellows punctuated the song with wordless whoops and squeals. After two minutes of that, Lauren got up and sat beside me (understandably).
And Weirdo #3.
I had been looking at a list of songs Scott plays and sings, and joking with him about where our tastes overlap: with perhaps eighty artists and a couple of hundred songs on his list, there are at least thirty artists whose songs I know -- but only perhaps six songs that I know/like to sing/will admit to singing where we overlap. (Examples: Sarah McLaughlin: he knows "Adia," I know "Possession" -- he knows a number of Elton John songs, the one I love and am willing to sing, "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters," he doesn't.) A small, seemingly sane young man came along and asked if he could look at Scott's list.
This is when, in the course of silliness, I asked for "You're Still the One." Scott was a goof, and started it with the spoken introduction: "Velma, from the moment we met, I knew love. I saw love, I smelled love --" or rather, he started it, then started giggling. I sang the high harmonies on the chorus (thinking, "Drita, damn it! You're the soprano -- get over here!"), and then Scott tossed me the second verse. Never mind that I've never sung lead on that song, and haven't sung it at all in six years or so -- part of my resolution this year was/is to be more fearless about singing -- I dredged up the lyrics from memory, and did a creditable, if not great, version of it. Scott opted to sing the third, and Seemingly Sane Lad (I think we'll designate him SSL from here on out) tried for the fifth (which is what Scott had taught me long ago, and what I was doing), with limited success. Still we made it through the song.
A few minutes later, I felt hands on my shoulders. Now, Chuck often pops up without warning, and is prone to that sort of behavior, so I wasn't worried, until I looked down and noticed that the hands were white. I turned, and SSL was taking a step back. I gave him Unwelcoming Gaze #17 ("This time you get to keep all your extremities. Don't push your luck."), and went back to singing.
Lauren then sang "Comfortably Numb," a step or so higher than the guys usually play it, and singing an octave above the guys. As I said, she has a small voice, except when she goes into a pseudo-operatic, vibrato-laden tone, which, of course she did on "There'll be no more -- AAAAAIGH!/but you may feel a little sick," much to Scott's delight, and the surprise of most of the rest of us. (I don't think I levitated -- much.) SSL then squatted next to me, and started telling me a semi-coherent story about how his brother used to listen to Pink Floyd all the time. That earned him Get a Clue Glare #2 ("I'm listening to the music. You are not the music.").
JP, one of the old regulars wandered by, and Scott broke out "1999." Again, one from the memory vaults: it turns out that I actually know all the female parts and harmonies in that song, so Scott, Phil, and I got goofy singing it, much to everyone else's amusement.
I waited till SSL was distracted (possibly trying to buy pot), made my farewells, and headed south for home. I'm dithering about going out again tonight, since it's supposed to be another oddly warm night. Perhaps I've used up my weirdo quota for the week.
I am now mulling over the realization that I'd seen the October Project/November Project with at least three, possibly four, lovers, at different times -- and at different venues each time. I would have to go back ten years or so of journals to pinpoint each one in time, but I can remember different aspects of each evening, including the odd moment of speaking with the band after the show, during their November Project incarnation, and having Julie Flanders say, "I was nervous, so I sang to you -- a familiar friendly face; thank you for coming out tonight."
Today has been a quiet day, doing domestic things such as hemming and ironing Soren's new pants, washing dishes, and contemplating the world. Yesterday was a jaunt to Macy's, to acquire the aforementioned pants (gods, I hate department stores), the library, the bing restaurant in the Village, then a stop at Bar BQ to catch up with Bunche, and get the 411 on a regular who has decided that she really likes us.
And, at last, seeing myself in Gypsy 83 as a Twirling Stevie. I had a completely giddy moment of "Mother of gods, it is me!" much to Soren's amusement. (If you have the DVD, I am in chapter 17 [stop giggling, you] and am the Stevie in the purple cape, who sways more than twirls. The back and side of my head are also visible on the very left of the screen in the scene where Clive meets Hazelton, later in that chapter.)
What surprised me, in some ways, is how much I move the way I thought I did when dancing: even when my head is up, my eyes are mostly closed, and I am dancing for and with myself. ("Definitely a seaweed goth," says the voice in my head.) And now I understand why Kitty Boots wanted me to wear the heavy purple velvet cape with the feathery trim: the black of my leotard and skirt were light-absorbent.)
In pulling journal books down from the shelf a little while ago, I ran across the book with my entry from Sunday, 16 July 2000, which was the first day of filming at Don Hill's, which is where the Night of a Thousand Stevies section of the film was done. I had worn all black two days before, when the scene with Hazelton was filmed, but no wig; on Tuesday, 18 July 2000, I brought the wig, and put it on for Kitty, who was doing costumes, and she liked it enough to suggest me as a Twirling Stevie. (I think one reason is because I'd been a regular at Mother; another might be that I was the only black Stevie that showed up -- but I'm not sure that that many black Stevies show up at NOTS at all.)
What the Twirling Stevies were lip-syncing and twirling to was the song "Nightbird," which I had never heard; when I was assigned the second line ("I was not ready for the winter..."), Tabitha (one of the other Stevies and a serious Stevie fan) took me out to her car and played it for me, so that I could learn the cadence. The music we used in the shoot was all original Stevie Nicks music, but Todd Stephens did not get the rights to the Stevie Nicks recordings, which is why "Talk to Me" is the only song of hers used (and it's the Diva Destruction version).
The extras were a mixture of Stevie fans who came from all over the East Coast for the opportunity to be in the movie, and regulars from Mother who had signed up the year before to be informed of the filming. The two subcultures mixed well; I remember seeing a lot of people talking with each other, cards being exchanged, and several people discussing buying costume pieces from Bear.
(The other thing I was doing at that time, my journal informs me, was rehearsing for the Dread Play of the Darkity Dark Dark... and, to my amusement, a few days later, going to hear Darden Smith and the October Project at Bowery Ballroom with a love, standing in the balcony near the sound board, looking down at the stage and discussing musical styles, as well as enjoying the feeling of his hands on my waist, bass riffs resonating through my bones, harmonies wrapping around my skin....)
tla moves with a quiet controlled grace that is quite lovely to watch.
my beloved is a goofball.
Scott, at Bar BQ has gone hot sauce mad: in the past three weeks or so, he's made eight or nine distinct and tasty sauces. Last night, we stopped in just after he'd poured the most recent into a bottle (it was still warm). "Jack & Ginger" has a fair amount of ginger, a splash of Jack Daniels, and green peppers of some sort (I've forgotten); "Exhaust" has three to seven types of hand-smoked peppers in it. He's made walking into Bar BQ dangerous, because once I know he's got a new sauce, I want to try it, which means I have to eat something.
one thing I missed at the bar at Rose's on Tuesday was the tall man who walked carefully in, politely and clearly ordered a martini, and then, as soon as he'd been served, turned into an arrogant drunk. I didn't miss the arrogance or the drunkenness: he kept demanding that Kenny play show tunes of his choosing, and talking through songs. When he plopped down at the table in front of us, I started slowly raising my cane, trying to figure out the right angle to cause unconsciousness without having him knock over the table as he fell. This amused the staff, and the audience members who could see me, and were in complete agreement with my plan. I didn't, of course, because I know Terri disapproves of blood on the floor; but Babe and Michael later told me that they'd have willingly cleaned up any mess. Must remember that.
More later: must go wrestle with email, and a bad caterer.
It's possible to write erotica on the subway. It's harder to write erotica when a class or two of fifth graders has scrambled, screaming with glee, into your subway car.
El Queso Grande at the office asked me what I was doing this weekend, and I mentioned going to Rose's Turn and singing. Turns out that he never goes to Rose's, but does occasionally drop in at Marie's Crisis.
Data point: Rainie's birthday is 14 October.
I don't remember seeing someone do a completely drunken boneless fall backwards down the stairs at Rose's Turn before.
She said she was fine. During the kerfuffle, her companion stood at the top of the stairs, swaying drunkenly and laughing, and making no effort to see if she was all right.
Later, someone else drunkenly slid down the stairs on his ass.
No, there was nothing wrong with the stairs.
This time, the Bad Texans were actually from Arkansas.
One Bad Arkansan bitched about being gently pushed away from the microphone by Joe Ardizzone, who was actually singing at the time.
The other Bad Arkansan came over to the bar, where Soren and I were, to complain about Joe's boring, stupid choice of song. This might have gone over better, had the man she was complaining to, Terri, Soren, and I not been singing along.
The boring, stupid song was "Halleluia."
Why didn't I bash what little brains she had out with my cane? Because Terri doesn't want to have blood splattered on the bar during her shift.
Joe Ardizzone is a total chick magnet.
Unfortunately, Joe is totally gay.
What sin have I committed, to have to hear one drunken and one shitfaced version of "Sweet Caroline" in the same night?
In reference to the second version, when the piano player is singing "White folks got no rhythm" at you, it is time to back away from the microphone.
Soren got complimented on his singing as we left the bar, by some of Kelly's family.
I swear, Kelly's cousin told us about their little "rat-dog" who got "eaten by the dog next door." It was late, but I'm pretty sure that's exactly what she said.
Today, I see my GP, go to the post office, go to the library, and clean the apartment somewhat. Tomorrow we move furniture, as Wednesday, we should be getting new windows. I daresay we should take the air conditioner out of the window, too. Such is the exciting life of a Brooklyn girl.
The sun came out, so I will be going over to Washington Square Park, to sing as it sets.
Conclusion: Whisperado is a better band than I thought, but the vocals are still mixed too freakin' muddily to make out the lyrics.
That said, they were in an open space, where, as Patrick pointed out when we chatted between sets, it was not ideal for a bass/guitar/full drum kit trio. On the other hand, Patrick's guitar rang with the bell-like clarity that I expect from his playing, and there were two (sometimes three, at one point four) little girls dancing to the music, and sprawling on the floor in front of the band, with that complete boneless grace that small children and cats have.
Milk chocolate with cinnamon and change acquired, I picked up the Whisperado CD, which I shall investigate at home. (I also got an organic Belgian dark chocolate with cinnamon, that isn't working for me. Hmph. Well, someone I know will probably enjoy it; if not, my coworkers will hoover it up if I leave it out.)
I talked with Jon as they were breaking down the equipment and hauling it off to wherever it goes. He asked me about my writing (of course I had my journal with me, and was writing notes in it), and I mentioned that some of what I was writing will go (if it fits) into one of the novels-in-progress.
"Did you know that Patrick is an editor?"
I forget, sometimes, that my worlds overlap in odd ways, and the data that I think is obvious is not always. I am the person who introduced Patrick to Lori, who introduced him to Jon back when she had a band in 2000 -- but Jon didn't know that, and didn't know that I've known Patrick for twenty-odd years. (Well, Jon now knows that last detail; the first was irrelevant to the conversation.)
Be that as it may, we discussed writing, blog-writing as opposed to novel-writing, briefly, before Jon went back to schlepping equipment, and I wandered over to my office to check email -- and now to post, before heading out to sunlight and song. It's a lovely day, and I should make the most of it, while my feet are feeling good.
Yesterday was somewhat inert and dillydallying. Today, of course, I have more energy, and it's raining, so going to the park for music will not work. Instead, I might do some puttering about the city, which could leave me at Chelsea Market, where Whisperado is playing sets during the afternoon. No, it's not exactly my style of music, but I keep thinking about Jon's bass playing, which I've always liked, and the elements that conspired against giving them a balanced hearing last time (foot pain, end of long work week, too loud for the space, inescapable gross movie in my line of vision) -- besides, if I go into the city where I plan to, I'll be three blocks away, and the store that has the Dolfin milk chocolate with cinnamon (which I've been craving since I got the dark with cinnamon -- also quite good, but not the creamy effect I'd wanted -- a few months ago) is in Chelsea Market. (Also, the question of how much distortion Patrick was actually using on his guitar might be answered in a new space, which will probably be the deciding factor for me.)
I suspect that somewhere along the way, I will wind up in a cafe or pub, writing, with a large mug of something coming to room temperature beside me, as that's something I've not done lately, and am feeling the lack of that sort of time to myself. I've been in places where I'm known and social; every so often, I have a need to be out, thinking and observing, in a place where I'm not expected to be social. I used to be able to sit in the back of Rose's Turn and write; I don't think that's happened in a couple of years. Which is all right: it's now a different sort of space for me, but I still need the space to watch the world go by, neither home nor work, and not talking space, either.
Yeah, that might be the right thing for me today. Responsibility, then writing.
A good thing, too, as I got a little queasy last night and slept badly, including a dream that a particular chaos vector in human form was working at my office. (The dream did have 87.7% dark chocolate in it, though -- and I have no idea why that percentage.)
A productive day of work, including discussion of scanning a large number of documents, which would make me very very happy; then a longer-than-expected trip home. Soren met me at the bus stop, as he often does, and we walked under the rising moon together; then he cooked dinner (I like the gentle burn of serrano peppers, more than jalapenos), and in a little bit, we will sit together, perhaps watching a bit more of Wattstax, which I am finding awesome in many ways, but too intense to watch all at once.
I mentioned in a footnote to an earlier post that I don't use rubber stamps with words on them, with one exception. It's a very ornate, and fairly large, upper case B, with the words "be still," "believe," and "BREATHE" around the edges. I bought it because it struck me that those are three things I always need to do, and the last is one that I have to be reminded to do.
One thing is that I was taught, when dancing, to do my best to never take a deep breath. I think that's something that comes from ballet, mostly, because women are supposed to look as if everything is effortless and they are only earthbound by their own will. (By contrast, my mind flashes to the men's section of Day Two, when they are kneeling in a row downstage right, and breathing deeply, steadily, while rising to their knees, dropping their heads to the floor, arching backwards....)
I have darker memories about breathing, too: of being silenced by being choked, of being slammed against walls and pinned there by a hand around my throat; and mixed ones, of friends and lovers accidentally pressing forearms against my throat, not realizing that that made me panic; and of hyperventilating until I blacked out, to escape situations that I could not leave in any other way. (And that last was a pattern that I fell into under certain extremes of sensory input that I still do, on rare occasions: I don't think I've ever had a steady lover who hasn't had to tell me, "Breathe, Velma," at least once.)
When we took voice lessons a few years ago, our teacher pointed out that I had a peculiar pattern of breathing, one she'd never seen in a student before: I took in deep breaths -- and wouldn't let them out. It was clear that I had the breath for long, rich notes, but I would not release it, until one day she challenged me to sing as if I were someone else, an opera singer -- someone who, in my mind, was allowed to make noise.
That was the best voice class I ever had, and a major step in getting to where I am now. All my previous teachers' advice, all my friends' comments, all the things I'd heard and read, that you have to make noise first, and then work on refining it -- there'd been moments of that in my singing, but until that class, I never got it. And now I've gotten it, and I think I may have it forever, asthma and allergies be damned.
Breathing is circular: one breathes in, and breathes out, and in and out over and over. It looks simple and obvious, but if you don't understand that, when you finally convince your body that that's the way it work, it opens the sky in new directions.
This is in my head right now because the rubber stamp is next to me, and because I've done some things recently that are the emotional equivalent of letting out a long-held breath, breathing in, and discovering that the air, while not what I'd remembered, is still rich and full. Cryptic, perhaps, but some of the story isn't mine, and some isn't ready to be discussed yet (if it ever is). But the new breaths are good, and strong, and mine, and whatever I tune my voice to next, the notes will be sung out on full breaths.
A lovely night out, dinner with good conversation, and then Rose's Turn, with Cubby. I was out with the best-dressed gentleman in the bar! Yay! I met Cubby's friend Matthew, who used to listen to Terri at Eighty-Eights, and has the most amazing moustache, and sang once with a new (to me -- he's an old timer) piano player. Jay Bradley went back and forth from pop-rock to show tunes, which led to a bar surprisingly full of people singing "Bibbity Bobbity Boo" and then "Every Breath You Take." Rather like putting a hundred CDs on "random" play.
On the other hand, there were several clusters of people who were so wrapped up in "We're going to have a good loud drunken idiot time" that it was actually hard to hear Terri. Still, when Kelly said, "I'm going to sing a ballad, which means you all have to shut the fuck up," people did, and the ones who didn't were shushed by their neighbors.
(I sang a ballad, too, but did not ask people to shut up. I think learning to sing through an inattentive crowd and managing to actually make contact with people in the crowd is a useful technique. Did pretty well, too, though I swear I actually got tanned by the lights: Jay likes the soloist area very bright.)
I strongly suspect, though, that I will not make it into the office this weekend; instead, I'll put in extra hours all week. There's been enough progress made in cleaning the living room and resetting things here that I'd rather do that.
I did find the missing inks! (I had posted elsewhere that you know it's time to clean when you can't find the two new bottles of ink that you bought some time ago... and when you remember that you put them safely away in a box with eight other bottles of ink, and you can't find that, either.) Noodler's Antietam, a dark muted red, and Noodler's Squeteague, a muted turquoise. Those, with the Omas Grey (new formulation, less damaging to pens, according to reports) will give me a very nice subtle palette for my words for this journal.
Helen and I are beginning to work on a tentative schedule for events while Melanie, Michael, and Raven are in town. I'll be taking a couple of days off then, to hang with kinfolks. It also looks as if there will be a major expedition to Calverton, as we're coming up on the tenth anniversary of my father's death. I've actually never been to the niche where his ashes (and my mother's) are installed, and am not sure that I need or want to; instead, I may arrange for food at Bar BQ, and we'll eat and laugh and toast his memory after everyone else gets back from the cemetary. Gwen and some of her kids may come up, too, to visit Donny's niche. Would be nice to see Yabi again -- gods, my oldest nephews are starting college.
Today will be a quiet, indoor day: cleaning my desk again, experimenting with the keyboard (more about that later), and thinking.
Thursday was a busy night for me: going out for drinks after work with much of the office, to say goodbye to a former coworker who's moving back to DC to go back to grad school; back to the office to check on some things; then over to Rose's Turn for what at first seemed to be a scary night with noxious people, but then turned into a pleasant night. Greg was delightfully goofy, and seems to think that the next song I should learn is Madonna's "Erotica" (yeah, right); KimLee sang beautiful harmonies on everything Soren and I sang; Soren and Chuck became backup tambourine players; and we both got complimented on our singing from various people in the audience.
Oh, and a young woman named Jess got up to sing "Extraordinary Machine," and rocked out with it. (On the negative side, my left foot got kicked right in the wound, and has been unhappy since.)
Last night, I wandered over to Hank's Saloon, to hear Jon Sobel's band Whisperado (pnh is also in the band), and met gtrout; I'd formed a mental image of him as shorter and less slender than he is in real-time, and with a deeper, less flexible voice. I like the real-time version much better than my imagined one (it's very pretty), and hearing his voice will enhance my reading of his writing.
(Aside: that's one reason I like to meet people whose writing I read regularly. Even a short exchange of words will give me a much better sense of how they use them, how they breathe and shape sentences, and that helps me read their conversations more clearly.)
Whisperado is an Americana/roots rock band, a trio (bass, guitar, drums, with the bass doing a number of lead lines, if I heard aright), and, even apart from being too loud for my tastes (I was carrying earplugs, which was a goodness), it's a style of music that I'm not enamoured of. Oddly harsh vocals, fairly standard blues/country rock song structures, a mix that wasn't quite vocally balanced, and very little stage presence. They're a competent band, though, and might be better recorded than live. (They do have an EP available -- http://myspace.com/whisperado -- which, if my tastes ever cycle back around to that style of music, I might pick up.) My favorite aspect of the show was Jon Sobel's bass playing, but that's pretty much been true of every band he's been in that I've seen.
Another aspect of the evening, though, was that I had cleverly left my painkillers at home. I tend to use them in the evenings, particularly after long days on my feet in the office, or nights of sitting on barstools (always a trade-off: I like sitting at the bar at my regular stops, because I've gotten to know the staff, but keeping my feet on the floor -- which means a table -- is better). So I was a little removed from the situation, being distracted by the pain, and between that, the volume (which was painful), the lack of stage presence of the band, and The Fly (the gross Cronenberg remake) playing on the television in my peripheral vision, I was not able to lose myself in the music as far as I might have.
I watched sixteen cop cars race screaming east on Atlantic Avenue, then took the bus back to Bar BQ to drop in on the friends who work there, met Soren, discussed the current Marvel comic books, then home, to weird dreams, and waking up at 3:30 this morning, when I decided to use the debriding Ointment from Hell on my foot, to get it out of the way, and puttered about online for ninety minutes or so, then went back to bed. The ointment -- or my foot; I'm never sure which -- was annoying, but not whimpering painful; that may mean that there's a lot of dead flesh for it to work through, which worries me a bit, but I'm checking in with my doctor this week, and we'll see what he says. The wound is visibly smaller again, which cheers me.
Today is a domestic day: cleaning my desk, cleaning pens -- and starting the decision-making process: I've got a large number of inexpensive-but-good pens, some mid-quality pens, and a few in which a moderate amount of time and money have been invested, either in the pen itself, or in having the nib modified to my tastes. I have developed a taste for extra-fine stub and needlepoint nibs, and am developing definitive preferences in weights and finishes, so I shall focus my attention on getting the pens I like modified to suit my hand, and the rest will be given away or sold. (This might be a good opportunity for people who are interested in fountain pens to casually comment on said interest, so that when I start packaging them, I can put names on them.)
And experimenting with the keyboard. Eric gave us a keyboard, which eventually will wind up with Raven (after we tape down the volume control -- since her favorite song at present is "Who Are You?" we think she's a rocker, and we're pretty sure she has relative pitch, from her penchant for singing melodies and demanding that people sing them back precisely), but for now is living with us, and will be used for picking out melodies first, then working on rudiments of music theory and sightsinging. It's a scary step for me, but one that it's definitely time to make.
Terri White reprising her role in BARNUM after twenty-six years is amazing.
I'd forgotten how much of BARNUM Paul and I used to sing to each other, and I got all verklempt during "I Like Your Style" -- I'm sorry things could never have worked out for the two twenty-somethings we were, and sorry that it took so long for us to figure that out, and sorrier still that we kept trying for so long after it was obvious, in the mistaken belief that we both meant the same things by love and friendship. I'm glad that there are some brighter moments that come to mind.
Watching Cubby's reactions when Terri told her she was "gorgeous" last night (and she was, in a way I've never seen her be before) was amazing.
Cubby and I were described to a number of people at Rose's as "my girls" by Terri. Wow. Just WOW!
Being a regular at Rose's Turn is a lot of fun, but could be dangerous to one's liver.
I think I was Terri's connection to live human flesh last night, as she talked about working and living south of 14th Street in the last quarter of 2001, losing a third or more of their regular clientele (as well as the international guests that clientele brought in regularly), being closed for most of two months, breathing and knowing what (and who) they were breathing... She was standing behind my chair, with one hand on my shoulder, or pounding on my shoulder, or squeezing it as she searched for words...
I wonder: we (Soren and I, Racheline, Kat, Megan, Fred, Ellie, Chuck, Helen, Harry, Howard, Jon, etc. (this is in no particular order, and I'm sure I've left people out)) started coming into Rose's in February of 2002. I wonder if that's an additional reason (as in, apart from us being decent customers and friendly folks) that they value us so. Must think about this and try to verbalize it more.
End result of yesterday and last night, though, is that I am totally wiped today, and will not be leaving the apartment. I forsee an afternoon on the couch, sucking down water, with my journal.
It's actually something I thought about, and that Mark Aaron James -- who was there last week -- pointed out: last year, and in prior years, people stayed through the entire four to five hours of the open mic, listening to other people, talking with other performers, exchanging emails and CDs, and when people got the opportunity to get on stage a second time (which happened/happens, depending upon how many performers there are), they would often invite other people up to play lead guitar, or percussion, or add harmonies.
Last Sunday, I got to the open mic within fifteen minutes of the time it opened, and watched as many of the performers signed up, asked how long it would be before they went on, and then went out for food, or sat at the far end of the bar, tuning guitars and running through lyrics; and when their sets were done, they left. No networking, no conversation with other performers, just sing and split.
Now, this particular open mic had started as a jam session, then became more codified; this year is the first year that it's been for original songs only. That's cut back on the number of regulars who come to listen, too; it's much harder to sing or play along with an original, unless you're a really good session musician. (And, to be honest, if I can figure out the choruses, harmonies, and anticipate the lyrics with a 95% success rate to a song I've never heard before, I'm not really going to want to join in -- but this may just be my idiosyncratic set of musical preferences.)
(I'm slightly biased here: I am not a singer/songwriter. My musical gifts are for interpretation and enhancing music. And, in the years that this jam session/open mic has been going on (about eight, I think, though the revised history has it only existing for about four, I snarkily note), I've developed a positive loathing for the sort of person who feels that an original song, however badly written and/or performed, is always superior to a cover/interpretation. Not everyone is capable of performing their own work well, either. But this is a separate rant, I think.)
(I do think that a well-constructed and performed original song is a thing of beauty, to be honored and cherished. But not all originals fit that category, and I refuse to lie and say that something is inherently good because it's original.)
(rant rant rant... time to take a deep breath)
On the other hand, last Saturday, we were out in Washington Square Park, and stopped to hang out with friends who write and perform both originals and covers, and had a good time. (Including the "weird everyone else out" moment when I asked Scott for "Time and a Word," and he followed that with "Close to the Edge." The entire song, mind you. Scott's good. We also concluded that "Lime and the Coconut" is a song that one can sing for a couple of hours, if one is so inclined.)
I know a lot of you have been following my singing, with various shades of pleasure and patience (I suspect a lot of "Well, duh!" comments get edited out of existence, and I'm thankful). There's a lot of baggage in my head about not being supposed to make noise, silence, and invisibility, some of which I only see when I'm discarding it.
That said, I honestly don't know where I'm going with the music. I suspect that the next sequence of active steps will be the acquisition of a tambourine, so that I can work on my sense of rhythm (and amuse myself by trying to learn the tambourine routines from Rose's Turn, some of which simply have to be seen to be believed), more voice lessons, and some cautious experimentation in other genres.
One thing that has happened in the past year is that I've been pulled into other people's belief systems, and accepted them. Mostly Greg, though Robby, Clare, and Michael have done it as well -- but Greg most of all. He simply assumes that I can sing more songs than I do, and asks me to do so. At first, I'd say, "No," then go home and practice and study, and tentatively try them with him. And I didn't die from shock, and people didn't throw drinks at me, so I'd figure it was fairly safe, and try it again.
I put "submission/acceptance" in the subject line, because there's a strange pleasure that comes from this, that resonates with my history as a former dancer, and my kinky predilections. In certain contexts, I like yielding to other people's wills and desires, particularly in a "make something more beautiful from/with me" realm. Someone who approaches me in the right way can get me to crawl through fire and broken glass, if they can convince me that that's what will make something more beautiful.
Not, mind you, that Greg is making me crawl, or that anyone is, musically. They're just assuming that I can do things well, sometimes asking for more, or different things. And I get feedback in ways that don't always feel like it at first: KimLee, Kelly, and Joe all singing different harmonies, trusting me to hold solidly to my melody line; Michael telling me what note he wants me to sing against his, and then going straight into his line, trusting that I'll be there and strongly; a sudden bright smile and nod from Robby or Terri when they hear the harmony line I'm singing.
It's beautiful. It's heart-filling. And it's terrifying. I spent a lot of my life trying to be invisible, because I thought that would be safer, then concluding that it wasn't. (When you're invisible, you aren't completely invisible -- not to the sort of people who actively delight in hurting other people. You're just a better target, because when you're invisible, no one will come to your defense.) Singing makes me very visible, in a very exposed and vulnerable way. And singing out in public places makes me even more so, to the point where people recognize and remember me on the street.
*deep breath*
So... last weekend, I got to do something I've wanted to do most of my life: I sang "Love and Affection," in public, with someone else (Greg) on harmony and backing vocals, and with a saxophone (Chuck, of course) for the saxophone solo. I started off a bit shakily, but by the time we got mid-way through the song, I think I was in full voice, and Greg and I moved smoothly right into Chuck's solo, and the three of us finished the song the way it's supposed to be done, with joy and energy and passion.
Afterwards, Madame told me that the song was meant for me to sing, and that I should do it more. (I cannot explain Madame; he has to be experienced.) And several other people thanked me, for singing a Joan Armatrading song, for introducing them to such a beautiful song, etc.
Last night, Greg and I sang "All the Way From America," which was the first Armatrading song I sang with him (these days, I sing "Drop the Pilot" a lot, because one of the regulars at The Duplex always requests it when he comes in), and afterwards, he asked me, "Do you know all the words to 'Willow'?"
"Willow"
Okay. That's one of Joan's signature songs, the one she usually closes her concerts with, and, like "Love and Affection," a harder song to sing than it sounds at first. It's musically complex, and uses a lot of range. And I love it fiercely.
A year ago -- six months ago -- I'd have said, "I can't do that."
Last night, I said, without hesitation, "I don't know them all. Do you want me to learn it?"
"Would you, please?"
"All right."
So here I go, off to learn another significant and difficult song, because Greg believes that I can, and I am putting faith in his belief. I'm terrified, and giddy, and surprisingly serene.
Practicing songs to sing with Greg, and contemplating the world. I think I need to go out in the sunlight this afternoon, and just walk around for a while. Perhaps stop in at The Gate with a new notebook and a freshly filled pen, and write for several hours, while Soren commandeers the jukebox. I'll ask him about the possibility when he wakes up.
It's been a weird week, full of looking at my past, and being tapped by voices from the past as well (and now I've got "Hammer Horror" playing in my head... I've got a hunch you're following me/to get your own back on me...), making decisions about what I do and don't want to keep active from the past, as well as some good conversations, reality checking, and world-viewing with a friend online.
Last night, I got restless, and wound up at Rose's Turn, walking in seconds after Chuck did. When the bouncer/doorman warns you, "It's a zoo in there," as you go in, it's a warning worth heeding. A lot of tall young dyed blonde women, very drunk, shrieking and singing badly along, two of who kept shaking Terri's hand (I believe that was Terri's smile of, "I'm a pro, and you don't know that I'm thinking about sinking my teeth into your throat and ripping out your vocal cords") -- and tipping Michael badly.
Chuck and I found seats in the back, then got seats at the bar, and watched the weird dynamics. Why, for example, would someone wait until the piano player has not only started a song, but actually started singing, to get up, lean over the piano, and ask for a request? And why, three-quarters of the way through another song, would someone walk up, put their drink on the piano, then open a songbook and take the mic? (Chuck quietly removed the second one. She did live, to sing a bad version of "Delta Dawn," and I'm sure it was just coincidence that Michael modulated up three times in the coda.
My personal weird moments came when I said to Chuck, "I suppose I should let Michael know I'm here, if I want to sing." As I finished the sentence, Michael got up from the piano to grab a glass of water, saw me, and said, "You're here! I want you now!" (For those of you who've never been out on a Michael Isaacs night, he has the energy of a kindergarten class, and almost never speaks without exclamation points. It's amazing, and a little terrifying -- he makes Chuck look cool and low-key.) So I got up, and sang "Time After Time," and really belted it. Granted, I don't cut through a crowd the way Terri or Kenny Holcomb or Joe do, but apparently I can get people's attention when I put my mind to it. And I remembered artemitis' admonition -- when in doubt, sing loud -- and took a deep breath, relaxed, and hit the high note on the final "I will be waiting" big and pure and right, and held it long enough to get applause from the audience -- and the staff (and big grins from Terri and Michael).
(This resulted in me having several of the drunken blondes grabbing me by the arm and saying, "You can really SING!" And a few more polite folks saying the same, but being grabbed by drunken blondes reeking of spilled cosmopolitans lingers in the memory more.)
Later, we did "Leather and Lace," and after the first chorus, Michael turned to me, said, "This is your note," and sang one. So as he sang the second verse, I sang "ooooo" on that note, and the logical successor as the chords in the verse lines changes, and got big smiles of approval again.
I need to say, however, that
I don't DO that.
I don't get harmony notes and progressions on the first try, just by having one note sung to me.
Or, well, at least I thought I didn't.
I guess I do.
That seems to be one of the dangers of actually singing out in the piano bars. Once you do one thing, people assume that you can always do it, and, well, you do it. And then they assume you can do more, and you do. And then you find yourself saying helplessly, "I don't do that," when faced with the evidence that yes, apparently, you do.
Home, having an IM conversation with a friend, mulling over relationships. When Soren wakes up, we'll have a quiet domestic day of cleaning and talking; I took tomorrow off, so we'll have another day to carouse and cavort.
Yesterday was a lazy day at home, then out to Washington Square Park for a while. Very strange dynamics: there's one guy who's been out there for at least twenty-five years, singing (so have I, so this is not a condemnation), but hasn't realized that his perfect pitch and falsetto no longer exist, and who refuses to let anyone else take the spotlight alone...
...let me back up a bit. In the park circles where I hang out, the usual pattern is for the musicians to take turns leading songs: Person #1 With Guitar leads one, or asks someone else to sing lead vocals; then Person #2, etc. Or, if it's one person (Good Scott, for example), who's settled in first, he does most of the playing and song choice, though he does take some requests.
...back up a bit further: Washington Square Park is pretty much a free space for musicians. They usually try not to settle too close to another cluster of musicians, or too close to the acrobats, so that each group can have an audience without too much sound bleeding over. Traditional pattern, as far as I can discern, is that the first musicians to settle in a "corner" more or less own it for the afternoon, and other people either listen, sing along, or ask if they can join in. (It's bad when you have seven guitars, each slightly out of tune with the next.)
Enough background, I think. At any rate, Dude in Question has gimmicks. Whistles, doing splits, the inevitable falsetto, a penetrating raspy tenor voice, silly hats (yesterday's was a knit hat with a dayglo pink record for the brim). And DiQ sang yesterday, along with every song, whether he knew the lyrics or not; when he wasn't singing, he was leaping in front of the guitar players and playing air guitar, or dancing badly and flamboyantly during solos.
And apparently all the regulars are saying, "Well, it's just DiQ, he's always like this." Or they're walking away to other sections of the park. Which, I think, is what I will do.
Afterwards, I went to Rose's Turn, to give Terri some binders for her music, and to meet Cubby. We had a good time, sitting and listening to Terri, Kelly, and Bobby, resisting the urge to throttle the woman who claimed to have come 2200 miles (or 200 -- her party was slurring their words) to hear Terri, and then talked and whooped through her songs.
(Yes, we talked, but quietly, and occasionally, and we did not take the table directly in front of the singer.)
to those of you who acted as reality checks for me (particularly those of you who have met the friend in question).
I worry a lot about my boundaries. I grew up without clear ones: it was my duty to serve and take care of others first, and it wasn't until I was in my twenties that I began to realize that I deserved to be taken care of -- by myself if by no one else -- as much as anyone else did. I still hear the voices in my head that say, "Who are you to need anything? Who are you to place your needs above anyone else?" Not as strongly as I used to, but they're still there, and a clever, opportunistic person can use them against me.
Of course, if and when I figure out what they're doing, I will explode; there've been traces of a few of those explosions in this journal. I'm always worried that the explosions are bigger than the situations warrant, because there's the anger from all the times I didn't explode in the background -- but thus far, external voices have reassured me that my explosions are proportional to the level of use/betrayal/opportunism.
Meanwhile, though, I muddle on.
One pat of last night that was amazingly good was hearing Soren sing again, and hearing how his confidence shows up in his voice, even under awkward situations (starting a song in a key too high, or the piano player playing almost too fast for him -- or anyone -- to enunciate), and there are few things more delightful than having several of the staff members at a piano bar turn to me and say, "I love the way he does that song!" I get all sorts of happy and proud.
...related to this, I get all sorts of happy and proud whenever someone I know gets up to sing. And it doesn't seem to matter how much I care for them, or how much I interact with them regularly: I know what sort of guts it takes for someone whose self-image does not include the word "singer" to get up there in front of the microphone, in front of strangers and acquaintances and friends, and try to do justice to a song they like.
Have I mentioned the night at Rose's when Howard serenaded Helen? After months of hearing him say, "I can't sing/You don't want to hear me," he took the microphone and sang to her, and for her, and for his friends... and my heart nearly burst.
There are people with whom I limit my interactions who I still hope will get up and sing, or sing again, because it's such a sky-opening act. Some day, soon, I hope....
(Note to self for future post: discuss Sturgeon's "It Opens the Sky" and why that's such a useful metaphor for me.)
And then there are the nights that leave you wondering just what planet people are from...
Work was very quiet, and I left early to see Edward, a dear friend, with whom I fell out of contact about six years ago, and only recently tracked down. We didn't have time to catch up on everything we wanted to, but we've made a start, and I can feel the connections between us again. This time, I won't lose track, love.
Then home, to have dinner with Soren, and, after some dithering on my part, out to Rose's Turn for one last evening of song. Got to say hello to Clare, Rainie, Joe, Crawford, Jeremy, and others, and found myself with a comfortable seat at the bar, beside the piano.
Robby, Kimlee, and Michael came in, and the night shift took over. As the bar filled up, with both familiar and unfamiliar faces, I didn't notice her arrive. And it filled -- it was a busy night, and Michael was continually swamped with orders, and Kimlee was busy trying to seat people.
Jon popped up outside with Leo, and we had a brief period of distracting everyone, including the staff, as we all wanted to admire the baby. (Y'all do good work.)
Somewhere along the way, I noticed a young woman at the end of the bar. Slim, sleek dark hair, pretty, wearing a black camisole top with those slightly padded cups covered with little bits of reflective metal, I think. Pleasant enough to look at, and just outside of my peripheral vision, so I didn't pay attention to her past the first glance.
I think it was when Helen came over to where Fred and I were at the bar that things got weird.
(Aside: for those of you who don't know her, Helen (not my sister Helen, but fimbrethil is a pretty redhead, with curls and glasses, and an intelligent, mature face; one of the few redheads I know who can carry off red shirts well [something about the shades she chooses, I think], but the crucial thing you should hold on to is that she looks like a woman. Not a teenager, not a shielded young adult; a woman who has lived enough to know her own mind. [Internal aside: this is the look of most of the women I hang out with, I suspect, regardless of actual chronological age, which you usually can't figure out, anyway: old enough and experienced enough to have a real sense of who they are and what they want, and to know how to get it.])
Fred and Helen were talking, and laughing, and I think it was just after Helen had tossed her head back to laugh at something that the young woman in the metallic cups came over, attempted to drape herself over Helen, and said something that I couldn't catch, but that caused Helen to turn away and press herself against Fred's arm. A few more rounds of this occurred, then she went back to the end of the piano.
When Helen lifted her head, she had on a facial expression of mingled amusement and creeping horror.
"What did she say?"
"'I want to make it with American girls'."
" -- "
Ladies and gentlemen, brethren, sistren, and othren, your night has just taken a turn for the surreal. Please fasten your seatbelts, we've hit piano bar turbulence.
And that's one of my wishes for my friends and acquaintances, and the rest of the world, for 2005: that you find, or make, a place where you can do the things that you love, that fulfill you, where your efforts, and your skills, will be honored and appreciated.
There are perhaps twelve of us (out of a regular in-house staff of fifty-five or so) in the office, so it almost echoes. I can hear keyboards clicking from a good forty feet away. There's heat and air today, which is good (the air-conditioning was on over the weekend and the heat off Monday, Tuesday, and half of yesterday -- don't ask), cookies in the kitchen, and a very relaxed atmosphere. Even El Queso Grande is wandering around in jeans and a checked casual shirt (which makes him look about thirteen -- okay, a tall thirteen).
I'm working on a project for someone who never asks for help, but is always willing to help other people. This makes me much more inclined to bust my chops for her, on those rare occasions when I offer my help and she accepts. Funny, that.
Meanwhile, I'm still overflowing with joy from Tuesday, and a real sense that I'm making changes for the better in my life, and in my self-image. I've added a couple of major items to my "to-do" list for 2005, and am...
...this sounds odd, perhaps, but I'm now grateful to the person who broke my heart over music two years ago. I wish it hadn't happened the way it did; and I wish that the friendships hadn't also broken, but if we'd done what we had intended to, I would not have gotten involved in the piano bar culture, would not have taken voice lessons when I did, would not have focused on the combination of performance and technique that I have... and would not have become part of Greg's music -- or his friend.
Tomorrow, I have off, and shall probably cook, and then go to The Duplex to sing with Greg again. Sunday... ah, Sunday, Joel Forrester is performing a three-hour version of "Industrial Arts" at The Bowery Poetry Club, starting at noon. That will be amazing. And then we'll go wish Racheline an amazing journey, before she sets off for the other side of the world, and living out her dreams. And then, perhaps, I'll go and live out more of mine.
One odd saddish one, one exasperating one, and several bright ones...
Yesterday, there was a phone message. Soren picked it up, then called me over to hear it. It was Kris and Chris, singing "Happy Birthday." That was lovely...
...and made me wistful. My father used to call me on my birthday, every year, and sing "Happy Birthday," ending the call by saying, "Happy birthday from The Dude With The Moustache."
Dad died in 1996. I have never stopped waiting for his phone calls. And I wonder, sometimes, if it will ever stop hurting -- I can't even write about it without crying.
Shortly after he died, one of my friends told me that the worst thing about someone you love dying isn't that they're dead : it's that they keep being dead. And I swear, that's the absolute truth; it's the the sudden fist to the gut when the realization hits me again that makes it so awful.
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
In some ways, I mourn my father more. There are logical reasons -- he never tried to kill me*, so there weren't as many conflicting emotions; he did not understand some of my life choices, but accepted them as mine, rather than trying to dissuade me with Parental Disapproval -- but also, I think, because there was a hell of a lot less stupidity and malice around his death.
I'm not going to go into detail, but since Dad was diagnosed with cancer in 1992, there have been weird tensions with my younger brother and his wife (the pair I refer to as Dimbulb and the Bimbo from Hell). This has included his attempt to discredit me as a bastard (including during Dad's eulogy), and has only gotten worse.
I think, though, that he's really pushed his limits, as he's worn Helen's patience out, and Helen (this Helen being my sister) has been incredibly patient and loyal to him. More stress and nastiness is in my future. O joy, o rapture unforseen.
* When I say "tried to kill me," I mean it very literally. Which is one reason why when people tell me, "Of course you love and respect your mother -- everyone does," I get exceedingly cranky. Being told that my feelings are not real, particularly towards someone who's tried to kill me, tends to make me cranky that way.
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
My friends are strange and wonderful. Robby gave me an odd card game, and a Bear In Underwear (which is shaped somewhat like Mattress Ticking Man). Possibly the weirdest stuffed toy we have, next to the odd elephant-bear creature Ellie gave Soren. I think we need a plush Cthulhu now.
And Jon, after hearing me talk about how my twenty-something-year-old copy of Atlas Shrugged had finally disintegrated, bought me a beautiful hardcover copy. I suppose putting it next to the beautiful Barry Moser-illustrated Bible that I gave Soren would be perverse?
Fred, meanwhile, gave me a pen. A green marbled Waterman Phileas, elegant and lovely. (I just, wistfully, took green ink out of the pens I carry regularly, feeling that I needed more autumnal colors. Now I have a pen to fill with green ink again!)
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
Greg, Soren, and I are having musical exchanges, discovering amazing areas where we can each share things with the other. He has turned me on to Liz Phair and Tears for Fears; we've led him to Laura Nyro, Joan Armatrading (he seems to have really fallen for her music -- this is going to be fun), and The Magnetic Fields.
Last night, while Greg was looking through his music for something quiet to play (the show upstairs had demanded a very very quiet happy hour), Soren asked him, "Do you know 'For No One'?" and Greg looked amazed. "This is, like, the fifth time you've asked me for a song just as I've turned to that page or thought, 'I'll play that one.' Are you psychic?"
"Psychic or psychotic -- we get the two confused," came a voice from, well, somewhere near Soren.
"No, that only happens with Velma."
Later, since it was on my mind, I asked, "Do you know a song that Tears for Fears covered -- 'Sea Song'?"
He looked dumbstruck: "How do you know that song? I love it!"
So we explained that I knew the original by Robert Wyatt through Soren, and had just learned that Tears for Fears had covered it. There will be versions burned to CD and exchanged shortly.
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
Today, the sky looks almost white through the kitchen window, cool white autumn sunlight. Almost all of the leaves are shades of gold, and some are gently drifting free of the branches and floating down in wonder, with the light shining through them as they fall.
My birthday is tomorrow, and Greg will be playing the happy hour at Rose's Turn, so I'll be there. Probably not with too much chocolate; I'm having a low-key celebration this year.
Not because of recent events on- or off-line, mind you, but because I'm feeling an interesting sort of turning-inward desire. I suspect that I've spent too much time focusing on outside things, and deriving my sense of balance from the solid core of home and family-by-choice, and that I need to cultivate those more actively and mindfully than I have been.
This has been a very good, very full year, but with a lot of boundaries needing to be reviewed and often reset. And a certain amount of anger on all sides, as people who thought that they were inside some boundaries found that they actually weren't, or whose choices and actions put them outside. I don't think there's been any year quite so full of it since I left my parents' home in 1982.
This is oddly good, though. And the last go-round has actually taught me how not to do certain self-hurtful actions (things that only lead to brooding, moping, and worrying about the opinions of people whose minds are already made up, for example). So I'm entering another year, calmer, resolved in a smoothly functioning way to be more mindful (as opposed to the gritted-teeth, do-or-die way that tends to lead to early failure and self-deprecation for said failure). And we'll see what happens.
The leaves outside the kitchen window are shades of yellow and orange and gold, at least on the tops of branches; I can still see rich green on the undersides of several. I love that, against the pale blue morning sky. I think I shall wear crimson elisem earrings, and have a Chelsea morning.
Does flouncing over to a presumably het couple at a table, announcing loudly "I want to FUCK you!" to the man, then grabbing and gulping the drink of your intended fuck-object, and clumsily groping his thigh ever work?
Just checking, but I suspect it has a very low success rate.
And I sang "Evergreen" last night. No, ayodele, I did not sound like Aretha; there is probably nothing on the planet that can make me sound like Aretha. I thought I did adequately; apparently I did it well enough that Greg wants me to do it again, and other people liked it. It seems to be a good song for my voice, damn it.
(Someone else sang "Endless Love" with him, for which I am grateful.)
Previous
