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Part of growing older, I fear, is that when young women (who are, quite literally, young enough to be your daughter) start to flirt with you, one's immediate reaction is not, as used to be the case, "Yeah, baby, she wants my body". Well, OK, that was never really my reaction, but, when younger, one took such flirting at face value, that they were interested in you.
Nowadays, one immediately thinks either 1. What does she want from me? 2. She's just practising, and using me as a convenient dummy, or 3. She's mocking me.
So one plays along, enjoying the moment and flirting back quite happily, but never at any stage thinking that anything is meant by it. One is far, far too wise actually to believe any of the things said, or draw unrealistic conclusions. And if mockery is intended, it ends up reversed, which is a good thing.
Why say this now? A good question, I'm glad you asked. Suffice it to say that I was recently given cause to think along these lines. The young lady in question seemed perhaps somewhat less aware of the realities of old men and flirting young ladies, and became a little nervous at my responses, methinks. She probably didn't understand about geriatrics with the morals of a cat, and a total absence of any desire for good behaviour.
Now, flirting older ladies are quite a different matter. Depending on the exact lady .... Ahem. It's amazing how good a 70 year old babe can look to an 87 year old like me. I'm tellin' ya. No.. wait... she'd be young enough to be my daughter too. Damn.
The Olympics. Holy shit. I hate the fucking things. Well, that's not entirely true. I hate the way they are covered by TV. It's just an excuse to put fuckwit advertisements up even more often than usual, which makes them impossible to watch. If it wasn't for the ads I think I'd quite enjoy watching them, even though speed skating ain't my idea of a good time. Nor, for that matter, is skiing. I tried to ski once. Just about killed myself (and a good friend). It was in the French alps, at a fancy ski resort place. Someone else was paying. Ho Ho Ho. And did I ever get a sore arse? Woo Boy, I'm telling you.
Anyway, back to the Olympics. Or maybe not. I think I've said all that's necessary about them. Hate the fuckers.
Well, I should comment on the "scandal". Golly, the Russians got the medal instead of the Canadians..... and, oh wow, the USA and Canada are pissed about it. How surprising is that? Do they take the rest of the world for morons? Scandal? Pfft.
I do hear lots about Norwegians ski types winning medals. Probably in skiing. Or skating. Those big blond serious people from the icy wastes are good at that sort of thing. It reminds me of my favourite Norwegian.
Apropos of my wonderfully witty and wise comments above vis a vis old men and flirting young ladies, Johnny Payphone was inspired to the following poetic contribution (which, by the way, should not be taken as evidence that the young lady described above is called Laura):
An oft-teasing temptress named Laura,
Tried to get an old man to adore 'er,
But from others he'd heard,
of her long trail of nerds,
and it ruined her chances to score-a.
What can I say? I can only reply in kind:
A teasing young temptress named Laura
Tried to make an old math prof adore 'er
But that wily prof knew
He'd no chance of a screw
'Cause he knew he'd not thrill, only bore 'er
I see that Tove is being forced to move out of her house. I defy anyone to read her account and not be moved. She continually maintains her English skills are not up to scratch. Again, I defy anyone to read her account, and agree. Yes, yes, I know I'm biased. Always have been, always will be. So what? Get out of my face, OK?
Am I going sailing this weekend?, someone asked me. No, I replied, too many gigs. What are they?, someone asked. Oh, a rehearsal, then a boring corporate gig and then a horrible fucking diddly di Irish concert thingy, say I. So, says someone, if it's all so boring or horrible, why do you play at all?
A good question. Actually, a damn good question. Answer: fucked if I know, it's just what I do. I bitch so much about playing when I am playing, that it's easy to forget that I bitch even more when I'm NOT playing. I get itchy feet when I'm not playing. I get restless. I pace around the house wishing I wasn't there. I drive Monique even crazier than I usually do. I rarely listen to music for pleasure. If I'm not out playing I wish I was, and listening to other people play just makes this worse. Weird, huh? You think so? Well, go to hell.
I was also discussing with this someone some minor marital troubles. I don't know, says this someone, how Monique has the patience to put up with you. She must be an angel. That, I think, is exactly what Tove said to me 3 years ago. Fuck you, I said. There is nothing like a witty put-down like that to end a conversation. Works for me every time. Funny that.
So there I was, sitting in my office, minding my own business, when the phone rings. Hullo, say I. What are you doing at work still?, says a disembodied voice. Hey, it's only just 5 oclock, say I, and.....hang on..... who is this? (I really meant, who the FUCK is this, you dipshit?, but I don't speak like that on my office phone, cause it's usually somebody politer and more important than me, which is just about everybody in the world). It's .......... (trumpets please) ........ Jon-Richard!!!!!! Wooo Hooo. JR and Laura ringing me from Chicago. What a blast. And I mean that. The trouble was that I didn't know what to say..... I mean, how does one think of something witty to say in just two seconds flat. I have to prepare scripts days in advance, or I get all tongue-tied and shy.
But this wasn't the worst of it, oh no not by a long shot. Who next should appear on the phone but ...... the famous Guadalupe! Now, for those of you who aren't familiar with the famous Guadalupe, let me introduce you. She lives with JR and Laura. I know, I know... bad start, huh? She is female, that's why I call her she. She has very very sharp claws and isn't afraid to use them. She eats male egos for breakfast. I know this, because she has eaten mine once or twice. And then spat it out again. She lurks on blogs, making extremely witty comments and savaging anybody (like me) who makes stupid ones. She writes excellent poetry. I fear her.
No, I must be honest. I like her greatly, finding her terrifically funny. *And* I fear her. She has certainly savaged me just a little in the past, but no more than I so richly deserve. Anyway, there I was on one end of the phone line, with this witty tigress on the other. Ah, what to say, what to say. Fuck, I can't think of anything. I'm speechless. I'm lost for words. I stammer. I drool. I wet my pants. I go bright red, but fortunately Lupe can't see me. Finally salvation arrives as Lupe gives me up for a total fucking idiot and lets JR speak to me instead about my medication. I wasn't prepared for her voice. I know she doesn't swing my way, but if women are anything like me ..... no, wait, what am I saying here? ...... no, but if they are, they'll be beating down her door just to listen to it.
OK, so what more rude things can I say about my conversation with the terrible Chicago duet? Not sure, really. I think we actually said some sensible things. An effort, I can tell you. Hotels and things. Arrangements. Promises that they would buy the gin and tonic. And provide the joints. And the beds. My kind of friends, let me tell you. Yeah. Oh, says JR (or was it Laura, I can't remember now, and maybe this was an earlier HL conversation anyway) you smoke dope? Really? Truly? Golly Gee, what a surprise. Holy fuck, say I, please tell me you're joking. Please. I'm a musician, for Christ sake. What the fuck do you expect? That I drink only holy water and piss on sacred ground? I guess they were finding it hard to see past the math nerd bit. Mind you, I don't do anything harder than dope. Which isn't hard at all. I've seen too many wrecked colleagues to want to travel *that* particular road. Nowadays, smoking a joint is the social equivalent of a glass of wine. And, let me add, a far more potent aphrodisiac. Wish you could buy it in the supermarket with your condoms. Ah well......
And that reminds me. I had a sensible conversation on HL with Perkusi the other day. Unusual. Not, that is, unusual that Perkusi was sensible, but unusual that I was able to have a sensible conversation. Made me sweat.
February 15th 2002
An amusing exchange from my email today. Peter, by the way, is the bass player who gets completely smashed every gig, who "forgot" his bass in Sydney airport last time he went across, etc etc. Anyway......
Me to Peter:
Right you are. No problem, I can do the 23rd.
You keep saying this about a tux. You trying to make a point or something here? I have a tux. A real one. It's black and all. It even has little stripy things on it to prove it's a tux. I have a white shirt and a bowtie. I even wear them. I wear black shoes. On my feet. As far as I can see, all the above gear looks exactly the same as similar kinds of things that you wear on your legs, arms, feet, etc. The major difference is that I'm much better looking that you, but you can't help that.You don't like my tux? You don't like my white shirt? You don't like my bowtie? You don't like my shoes? You don't like my face?
What the fuck is going on here? Spit it out, Petey me ole cock.
Peter to Me:
OK
you look like shit
in fact you're a disgrace to shit
I've seen dog turds better presented
I think there is a generic term for that type of attire
formal smart etc
fitting -grace-drycleaning these all spring to mind
put 10% down on something
all the best old korker
February 16th 2002
I have only just realised that all my stupid fucking anchors, that Mr. fucking Nosuch made me put in with his frightening fucking threats are all not fucking working now because red quill fucking dot com has been changed to red quill fucking dot org. Well, don't I just look like a total fucking idiot? I knew I shouldn't have listened to him. What is he? He's just an NYC pervert, that's all, and doesn't know his arse from a hole in the ground. So, from now on, if anyone wants an anchor, you can pay me. For every $10 (US) I receive (in cash) you get an anchor. Maybe even a link. Maybe.
Just because he's an anchor junkie with linkage diarrhea, doesn't mean I have to be. So there. The Pope has spoken. I just love the infallibility thing that comes with being Pope. Such a blast.
It has been a lousy bloody weekend. You might have already guessed. For some reason, I have no idea why, my wife has decided not to speak to me. As I said, I have no idea why because, of course, she's not speaking and so can't tell me. Shit. I hate that. I guess I get to bitch about it here though. That's gotta help. Help me, anyway. You don't like it? Don't read it.
JR has managed, singlehandedly, to sabotage a gig. Well, not the whole gig, just part of it. It was his Martha Stewart joke did it. If you're easily offended, block your ears. Damn, what am I saying? If you're easily offended you sure as hell aren't reading this. Silly me. Anyway, it was the gig from hell (more on that later). We blasted into a piece called Take 5. Jazz standard. Played it a million bloody times. Do it in our sleep now. So, we're playing along, and I'm chatting to Lance and he says to me, Hey, James look, a yacht with a broken mast, and I say, No Lance, it's called an Optimist, they are meant to be like that, so Lance says Really? and I say yup, then I do a wee solo, then Lance takes the head, and then he says to me You look nice and hot James, and I think to myself Fuck you, so I say to Lance, Hey how do you make Martha Stewart scream twice? Huh, says Lance, who's Martha Stewart? then Lance finishes the head and Calvin takes over on a solo, and I say, Oh, you know, that US interior designer all-blond ditz, and Lance says, oh yeah, I know her, so what about her? So I ask again, How do you make Martha Stewart scream twice? and then do my own solo for a while so that all the girls swoon at the sight of my flying fingers, and Lance says I don't know, how?, and I say You fuck her in the arse and then wipe your dick on the curtains, and Lance collapses. Couldn't play. He was gone. Totally gone.
End of Take 5. Total shambles. Completely unretrievable. Lance is still splitting his sides and unable to play. No hurry, we say to Lance, whenever you're ready, just let us know. We wait. I think of JR and how proud he would be of me.
I said the gig from hell, and it was. I was told it was a corporate do. Black suit, bow-tie, the works. And it wasn't. It was an outdoor thingy, in direct sunlight, to nobody who could hear us because we told to play acoustically and this never works outside. Casual clothes. Bugger. So there I was, done up to the nines, and sweating like a pig. Think of the money, said Lance, think of the money.
Then I had to run home, throw the kids in the car and zap off to the Irish diddly di concert. Which actually wasn't bad at all. I did my show piece at the end and threw my arms up and yelled and blew kisses to the audience and bowed and bowed. I kid you not. I really did. I'm a total fucking idiot. Still, my kids liked it. They got to see Daddy play which they don't see all that often. The bass player from Brazen (an all girl band) asked me to be her slave-boy, and wear nothing but warm olive oil and a thong. I said fine, no problem, but then she seems to sort of lose interest in the thong bit. I complained to the audience, but got little sympathy. So I started the Martha Stewart joke again, but something held me back from completing it. Some vestige of common sense, I think. It was not my day to be arrested.
And that was my weekend.
February 18th 2002
OK, so I was a bit over the top in blasting Mr. Nosuch. I have already grovelled to him on his blog. I'm sure he doesn't deserve it.
Nasty story on Singular's diary. Ack. It got me thinking though. Why is it that the BDSM makes me feel so uncomfortable (which it does). Well, not uncomfortable, that's the wrong word. But I look with extreme distaste, although considerable interest. I thought about this, and I think I know what bothers me mostly. The world is full of jerks like that one who assaulted Singular. They get their kicks from hurting, raping, killing, torturing. Not consensual, oh no, not at all. There is a beast within all of us, thinly covered. Look at Nazi Germany, Yugoslavia, etc etc. So how can people try and turn this terrible, terrible trait of humanity into a sexual game? To dress up... to pretend to do the same things .... to bring that beast out into the open and play with it.
This is a beast that frightens me. Terrifies me. What are we capable of, as individuals? I don't think I really want to find out that about myself. And I sure as hell don't want to pretend it's all a game. It's maybe the one thing where I would seriously disagree with Jeff. Despite our religious differences, we share many of the same ethics, the same morals, the same sense of right and wrong, of proper behaviour, of kindness to others, of charity, etc. But I deeply believe that humans are bad inside. Intrinsically bad. Mostly. Scratch them, and it bursts out in black and putrid torrents. There is good too, of course, but the bad is far, far more dominant.
I know that Mr. Nosuch et al. will not misunderstand me, or take offence at my comments here. I certainly would never interfere with their right to play sexual games of whatever nature they damn well like, as long as it is consensual. And neither am I being critical, or poking fun. I'm just looking in at a window on a weird and strange world, and saying "..... what the fuck....?"
I guess that's what comes of being 87. I'm just jealous cause I can't get it up, whips or no whips. I think I should seek professional help.
But that brings up another point, actually, related in many ways. I have never gone to a prostitute, or ever paid for sex (in any direct manner). I just can't imagine doing this. The thought of having sex with somebody who isn't really interested, who doesn't really want to, is just such a total turn-off I doubt I actually would be physically capable. Maybe I would. I don't know of course. I've always thought that if you have to pay for it, why bother?
This has a flip side. If a woman *is* interested, then I find it irresistibly sexy. Practically without exception. Ah well.... c'est la vie.
I did almost once get involved with a prostitute. Hee Hee. Some years ago I went to Hamburg (for work stuff) and my friend Frank met me at the airport. Arrived in at 7 pm or so, after a 40 hour trip from NZ. First thing Frank says "OK, James, let's go drinking". What the fuck I thought, I could hardly be in a worse state, I might as well. So we hit Hamburg, which, as you all know has some impressive red light district. Whoo boy. We drank beer after beer, and gin after gin (Frank is a real pisshead) and I got more smashed than I think I've ever been. Anyway, at about 4 am the following morning we ended up on the Reeperbahn, in one of those blocked off streets. I have this vivid memory of Frank grabbing my arm and saying "Come on James, Come on, she'll do us both in the same bed for only 300 DM, come on, come on". Now, I'm not opposed to the concept of a cluster fuck. Not at all. Depending on the cluster. Oh no, not at all. But with Frank? And a prostitute? Puh-leeze! I remember pulling away from Frank thinking "No fucking way you hairy German fuckwit". I am pretty sure I escaped virgo intacta, as I distinctly remember trying to chat up a lady in a bar a bit later, and being told to bugger off. God, I hate that. It is *so* damaging to ones ego.
Frank and I eventually made it home at about 7 am. And then repeated the experience every night for a week. Holy shit. It's a wonder I'm still alive.
It seems that today I have been thinking of nothing but sex, sex, sex. Not bad for an 87 year old. And I know why too.
Hang on. I'm like that every day. Never mind.
February 21th 2002
This diary is NOT full of geeky CL stuff. So up yours. But whenever it doesn't have a pile of geeky CL stuff I feel obscurely guilty because I know that the only people (if any) who read this are CL geeks and thus are most likely more interested in CL geekiness than in my life, which, as has been pointed out so very often by so very many people, is boring and completely lacking in interest. Even to myself, it seems to be assumed. I maintain that my boring life is waaaaaay better than piccies of Nosuch's bruised arse. That was a low point of western culture. Clearly blog competition doesn't set a very high standard. The Gintleman, of undying martini fame, is always worth a read and a giggle, but I would claim that my excessive vulgarity competes well with his intelligent wit.
Enough. I have apologies to make. I did my usual thing and said some very rude and unkind things to a friend. I was angry, confused, upset. I hate it when I do this. I really do. Still, at least this time it wasn't Tove or Mary on the receiving end, so maybe I'm improving. At least I'm spreading the bad temper around a bit. And getting great practise at grovelling apologies. I had to work pretty hard this time.
Gig tonight was cancelled at the last minute. Bummer. But a busy weekend to come. Does anyone care? No, of course not. You'd all rather read about how I get rejected by women in bars when I try to pick them up. Tough. Two nice gigs; a wedding, and the Devonport jazz festival. Yay. We're even playing Lady B (no words, thank the lord). What a blast. But not the shanty. This is jazz, dudes, jazz, and we don't do lower musical forms, alright? I mean, a fucking shanty? What the fuck is that? We're not fucking sailor boys. We don't do A chords, OK? We do A sharp 11 flat 5 modal chords, because we are cool, OK?
Son Paul, all of 7 years old, played CL with Txara Serene and Fletcher. You should have seen his face, he was so excited. Best thing that ever happened to him. But it took him a while to figure out that he was supposed to stay with Fletcher. I kept on saying "follow Fletcher, follow Fletcher" etc. I didn't even bother with Txara Serene. Hell, he's only 7 and can barely spell his *own* name, far less some pathological secretion of a diseased and febrile mind. I ask you.....
In fact, he's STILL telling me about it. I had to impose another total CL talking ban. No CL talk, of any kind, at any time. So now he runs around the house playing swords, pow, slash, kill the vermin, go with Fletcher, more money, pow, slash, etc. etc. Just under his breath so I can't really object, because it's not *really* CL talking, just CL muttering.
Bloody hell. I'll kill those two. They need kids of their own, clearly. Great parents. They can have mine, for a start.
February 22th 2002
Pronounced twenty-tooth, of course. I am restless this afternoon, I can't settle to anything, I pace around my office, I can't sit still, it's hopeless to try and do anything constructive. So, instead, I write meaningless nonsense in my diary. Students come back next week. Shit oh bloody dear. Not my favourite time of the year. But on Monday I have to be across the bridge, all decked out in a suit and tie, trying to persuade the govt. to give us many millions of dollars. Will they? Maybe. It's down to 11 now, and 5 might be chosen. But I hate suits with a deathly hate.
I have only one. It was given to me, about 12 years ago I guess, by Monique's brother-in-law, a fancy-arse Washington businessman, ex-CIA and "diplomatic corps". Yeah, right. Anyway, Monique's sister wanted to take us to a fancy club in D.C. but my clothes weren't acceptable to them. So Richard said, "here, just take one of my suits. You can keep it. I had it tailor-made for me in Saville Row. It's too small for me now." I shit you not. Saville Row. London. The real thing. So we went to this club, I got smashed on REALLY expensive champagne (and I do mean expensive. $500 a bottle or so as I recall), and did a line-dance. Holy shit. A line dance. Me. Well... anyway....
So, I have this suit. I've worn it once more in the last 12 years, and that was to try and persuade the US govt to give my UCLA department a shit-load of money. It worked, we got the cash. And now, I trot it out for the second time to try and persuade the NZ govt to give us a tiny amount of money. Well, a few million, but it's only NZ dollars. Not worth an awful lot. And, you know what? I still fit into it! Infuckingcredible.
But, it has moth holes in it. So? Well, this seems to bother Monique for some reason, not sure why. I'm quite happy wearing a fancy suit with moth-holes. The site visit people may not notice. Anyway, I don't give a shit even if they do. And I don't have any other suit. Or even a jacket, except my old leather jacket (which I love) but that is very old 'cause I bought it from an op shop years ago and it was old, dirty and tattered then and it's older, dirtier and more tattered now. I still love it, but even I realise that it might not get us the cash.
What will I do? Will I wear the moth-eaten suit (very likely)? Will Monique buy me another suit before Monday (not likely, as I refuse to go shopping)? Will I just not wear a suit at all (quite likely)? Decisions.... decisions...... Now I know how Mr. Nosuch feels upon similar occasions, when sartorial questions arise.
Tune in next week for the thrilling conclusion to this gripping tale of sartorial adventure.....
Until then, gentle reader, I bid you adieu.
OK, so I couldn't resist replying to all that lovely help offered by my friends. That's right, those people who are calling me moronic and juvenile. Pfft. I'll get you, Mary, just see if I don't.
You see, it ain't so simple as just my refusal to wear a suit when necessary. I don't. Of course, being a math nerd it very very rarely *is* necessary. Math nerds just don't, and nobody cares, and you almost look out of place if you do. Shabby is the math nerd corporate uniform, and one musn't buck the fashions.
But when lots of money is on the line, and we are being judged by a *government* committee, things change. It is recognised that the math nerd corporate uniform just won't do. It's a little ironic, though. The main person on the proposal is the epitome of a total math nerd. The most famous NZ math nerd ever, in fact, Fields medallist, etc. But he's not easy to get dressed up. He doesn't even wear shoes unless reminded, or change his clothes, or anything. I mean, you probably think I'm bad, but I'm *nothing* compared to Vaughan. The good thing is that for the govt. committee we'll be able to dress him up (he's flying in from Berkeley for the occasion). We'll give him a suit and say "wear this" and we'll give him a tie and say "wear this", and give him some proper shoes to wear, etc etc. And he'll go along quite happily with all of this, probably not even noticing what he has on.
That's right, you heard me. The math nerds are acting as fashion consultants and dressers for the uber-nerd. What a giggle.
Which reminds me (and maybe I wrote this in my diary a while ago, I can't remember), a well-known young math nerd (at Michigan) once burst out laughing long and loud in the middle of a seminar. What's the matter, asked the speaker. Oh, said Peter, I've just noticed I'm wearing one black shoe and one brown shoe. Seminar dissolves into giggles. Still, at least he noticed. Not as bad as the math nerd who went all day to a job interview, giving talks, meeting the Dean, etc etc, with his shirt and jersey on inside out, with all the tags sticking out the back. What a fuckwit. No.. wait... what am I saying? That was me. Bugger.
As for my own problems, I'm afraid it's no suit at all. The Saville Row suit has been discovered to have lots more moth holes than was originally realised. Too many, and too large, even for me. So no suit it is. I must get myself one. What's a good colour? Grey? Gentlemen don't wear brown of course. And black is for gigs. Blue seems too Wall Streetish and wanky. Double-breasted? Hmmm....... difficult decisions.
February 24th 2002
Some silly person expressed an interest in hearing more about my gigs. Is this person young, female, gorgeous, nubile, available and interested? Well... no. So why bother replying? Hey, what can I say? I'm just a nice guy.
Saturday: Wedding at a private house in a fancy-arse part of town. Whole shebang. Caterers, gallons of piss, marquee tent. Play 5-7, so be there 4.30. Strictly acoustic, no gear to cart. Full penguin outfit. I wear all black instead of black and white because I am an ultra cool dewd. I turn up first which was lucky cause then I get to flirt with the hired waitresses. "Hey", says she, "can you help me with this? I dropped this all over the place." "Sure", say I, and bend down to help her out, picking up a knife to scrape the beads up. Thanks, says she, that's a really wicked idea. Hey, I'm a really wicked guy, say I. Well, says she, I don't really know you so I couldn't say. Just kidding, say I. What a dork, think I, but she has a nice arse. Ah well. Lance and Peter arrive. Guests arrive. We play. Acoustic swing a la Grapelli and Reinhardt. Crowd ignores us. Well, some listen, but most don't give a shit. Take a break, go out the back. Lance thinks of rolling a joint but decides not to. Bummer, think I, I can't hit on Lance's joint. Ah well. Peter drinks huge amounts of champagne and eats lots of oysters. Indigestion for him, I'd say. Waitress comes by to fill up my champagne glass. I don't really want any more, but I say I do just so I can chat to her some more. I say all kinds of wonderfully charming things. She laughs and goes away again. Ah well. Finish playing. Some guy starts to bend my ear about how wonderful opera his. Another dork, think I, and escape as soon as I can, cash in hand. No tax man on that lot.
Sunday: jazz festival in Devonport. Well, really a wine and jazz festival, which means a wine festival. 10.30 start on the rotunda stage. Big sound system. Most of Devonport was blocked off for the festival so it was very pleasant - lots of grass and trees, right by the beach, with lots of little wine booths and hundreds of people wandering around, or spread out on the grass listening. Be there by 10 at the latest for set-up. Full electric gear. No penguin suit, just casual, so I wear my orange painted pants. Peter bitches about them as usual. Fuck you, I say to Peter. Same lineup (me, Peter and Lance) but this time we play much louder, more electric. Bit of blues, bit of funk, Louisiana style stuff, called a swamp feel. Monique and kids come too, to watch, but spend most of their time playing on the beach. Crowd seems to enjoy it. I jump around on stage like an idiot, backwards and forwards, to and fro, play lots of notes. Wheeeeeeeee......... Yet another dork asks us to play something Irish. Alright, say I. Hey guys, A minor and G, let's go. Off we go. P and L have absolutely no idea how to play an Irish reel. I double up with laughing. They glare. Much like the Slyphonics in many ways. So after I've gone through the reel a few times we segue into a fast swing, same changes. Then back to the reel once more and out. Whew. Another dork approaches. Do you guys play Berkeley Square? No, I say. I eye the ladies wandering around on the grass. None of them eye me. Ah well.
Go home. I'm tired. I fall asleep.
Why not play music for a living, asked Coriakin on HL. I think it was him. That's an easy answer, that one. Being a math nerd is money for jam. Easy job, set your own hours, pays really well. No sweat, no blood, no tears. Do it in your sleep almost. Playing music... that's harder. Even if you had 5 good gigs *every* single week, you'd be lucky to earn enough to support a family just on playing. And you could never get 5 a week, every week, year in, year out. No way. So.... you're reduced to teaching music to make a living. Ugh. Not for me. Apologies to Perkusi, because I know she loves it, but teaching music ain't my style. Lucky for all the children of the world.
I did that for a while (the no day-job thing) when I was young and foolish. In Australia. But (even when young) playing and partying every single night gets to be a drag. It gets boring. So, back to school for me it was. Never regretted it. Except for the odd occasion when you do such a great gig that the adrenaline gives you a bigger thrill than any drug ever invented. Then, you wish that you could do that every weekend, but you know you couldn't anyway, so you smile to yourself and go back to your nerdy day job. *sigh*.
Damn, do I sound a bit wistful? Hmmmm...... probably. I guess that I'm just trying to convince myself. If I had the choice between fame and fortune, I'd pick fame every time. If I had just one wish, I'd wish to be a famous musician. It'll never happen now. And maybe that is one of the few things that I really regret in my life. *sigh again*.
February 25th 2002
Well, holy fuck. And *I* was worried about looking shabby. You fashion freaks will giggle at this. Because of all the moth holes (fuck this entropy stuff) I had to go suitless. But Monique dressed me up in some grey trousers (with a crease in the front. Why do trousers have to have a crease in the front. Stupid), a white shirt (with proper collar, etc etc) and a silk tie. Oooooo.... very very swish and handsome, I'm telling you. All you female fans would have swooned, I'm tellin' ya. No holes anywhere. Well, except in the usual places, and they are either socially acceptable, or well hidden.
Into the meeting room. The Vice Chancellor looks fine in a brown suit (Gentlemen don't wear brown). The Dean has a suit on (with tie), but it is all rumpled and creased, and his blue shirt is distinctly grubby. Distinctly. And his neck had all these plasters on it where he cut himself shaving. Not a tie to be seen in the whole line-up of math nerds. Ooooo they say when I walk in. Who's this? We don't recognise him. Fuck you lot, I think, I've been coached by two private fashion consultants, Mary and Alex, and I know I'm swish. But I don't say that because they are all in the category of "more important than me and politer". There were jeans, rumpled shirts, crumply collars, grubby pants, etc, mostly in clashing colours. Then, two minutes before the govt. committee arrived, wham, out come ties from all their pockets and zippity doo daa, on they go. What a scream. Crooked ties, unmatching ties, all rumpled of course from the stay in the pocket, soft collars that haven't seen an iron for years I'd say. The second the govt team leaves, wham, off come all the ties and back into their pockets. Me too.
And there I was. Looking cool, clean, swish and handsome in the middle. Very sharp and smooth. Mary and Alex would have been proud. Woo Hoo.
But we made it through this round. Down to seven now, of which five or six get the money. Now the final decision goes to the Minister I suppose, or the cabinet. I don't really know.
February 28th 2002
God damn, why am I talking so much about the doings of nerds? Buggered if I know. When I started this diary, oh, years ago now, I had no intention of ever including nerdy stuff in it. And now look to what depths I have descended. Look, ye gentle readers, and pity me.
I was finally brave enough to record the apology song for Singular. You want to listen to it, you have to ask. If I think you're serious, I may even give you the URL. May not, too.
Went out yesterday lunchtime to schmooze a jazz singer. She never turned up. Maybe she saw a photograph of me and felt nauseous. Still, she rang today. Looks like I'll be sitting in at the Albany jazz festival. Hope so. Always nice to do a guest spot.
My new job is pretty definite now. Just have to sign the contract. It'll be a big improvement in many ways. Worse in others. Busier than now, I know.
Not a single jazz gig all March. Instead, I'm flat tack with Irish, folky, gigs. St. Paddy's day, see, and there's a run on Irish bands. One week I'll be playing (almost) every night. Monique won't like that. Haven't told her yet. Putting off the evil moment.
*Sigh*. What else? Not a lot really. Life is exciting in some ways at the minute, dull in others. Teaching is a pain, as always. Had a student in today. "Can I look over my exam script from last year?" says he. "Sure", say I. He looks. Look, says he, you only gave me 5/20 for this question. That's right, say I, that's because you got it wrong. It looks correct to me, says he. No doubt, say I, but it isn't. What about you regrade it, says he. What's the point, say I, it'll still be wrong. But I only need another 3 marks to get an A-, says he. Yup, say I. Silence falls. I sit, happily. Finally I unbend to give him a little advice. Your script is a pigsty, say I. A total mess. When I see a script like this, I *want* to fail the student because I'm so fucked off at having to mark it. (I believe those were my exact words). Do yourself a big favour, and write neatly. It looks pretty neat to me, says he. Take my word for it, say I, it's a pigsty. Trust me. The student leaves, poor dear. My heart cried out to him in shared pain, but I said nothing.
I think that I should probably wait until I have something worth saying before saying anything more. This may take some time. Do not hold your breath.