ROW 80 DAY 25 PLAYING THE VIOLIN AND HOW TO AVOID IT

Ring ring!

Me: "Hello!"

Manager: "Hey, Mary. Are you doing anything the week of November 20th to the 25th?"

Me: "Well, let me check my calendar." Sound of pages flapping in the breeze. "Hmm, nothing but the Merry Parade of Turkeys and Turkeys, We Got Your Turkeys Right Here with Skitch Henderson Sound Alikes." At this time, I am living in Charlotte, North Carolina. I am also still playing in Tampa and pretty much driving all over the south. I am also exclusively playing the viola.

Manager: "So, you have open time?"

Me: "Yes." To my everlasting regret, I said, "Yes."

Manager: "Great! I need a violinist for..."

I didn't hear the rest. I was in shock. I told people for years that I didn't play the violin. I never played the violin. I played AT the violin. I still don't play the violin. I hate the screechy little fuckers. They're all under your chin being little and screamy. What the hell is that? I just hate it. The only reason I started to "play" the sons of bitches is because I got sucker punched and caught unawares. I didn't even own a violin for years. I refused to buy one. I rented one for years and a student model at that. I figured since I didn't want to play the bastard, I wasn't going to be pretentious about it and get some big, souped-up Lamborghini violin or something. I have a Lamborghini viola. I rented a violin with steel tuners, tape on the finger board which I never, ever, ever allowed any of my students to use. That pussy Suziki shit with tape is beyond horrible. If you can't use hand-framing and play by ear, like the God Galamian intended, burn that hunk of wood. You don't deserve to call yourself a non-fretted string player.

So, I'd rent these god-awful violins with tin strings and "play" in these violin sections, in the hopes that people would get the hint and quit hiring me to "play" the goddamned violin. I'd tell my managers shit like, "why the hell are you hiring me to play the violin? Did every other violinist in Tampa die/migrate/go on vacation?" They still hired me. I tried drinking my way through rehearsals and that didn't work. I started ending up in first violin sections. You know what really, really sucks? Playing Mozart on the violin. Yes sir, there is Hell in a barrel right there. Eighteen ledger lines above the staff and I'm playing "guess the note." I can't even read that shit. It's in the soprano clef. I normally read the viola clef. Okay, I read soprano clef just fine, but when you're up towards the direction of the sun weird shit starts to happen, physically. I'm surprised the stage didn't melt or something, when I hit some of those harmonics. God knows my ears are still ringing.

After a while, I kind of resigned myself to this violin thing, but not really; I've taught it more than I've played it and I did end up buying a few of them and then selling them as quickly as possible; they were taking over my house. I'm just not a fan of the instrument, per se. I certainly appreciate the artistry and love listening to it but, I adore playing viola. Go figure.

I was laughing about it though, when I thought about all the variations of different types of gigs and positions I've held. I played with Styx and I can't remember how this came up, but it was also the same with a Johnny Mathis tune. "Sail Away" which is so lovely, is an absolute bitch to play. It consists of 64th notes, practically in its entirety. Denis Deyoung's father was part of the OSS in WWII and was one of the first to reach Paris, with the Allies. You can hear the Chopin and Debussy in Styx's music. An interesting little bit of trivia along with the silly today. There, aren't you edified?

Styx's music is challenging and we had a lot of fun playing it. But, one of the things that does happen with playing that type of music, is you can lose the edge on your heftier musical "chops" as we call them. We were touring pretty extensively at the time with Styx and "Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto" -ing all over the place and having a hell of a lot of fun. In the midst of this tour, we had layover a trio gig, myself, a violinist and cellist and none of us were exactly slouches. Being the, uh, "professionals" that we were supposed to be, we show up for this luncheon or whatever the hell it was to provide "background" music and proceed to play trios, for a couple of hours. I just grabbed a bunch of my trio music and off we went. 

Now, it is axiomatic that the fewer instruments you have, the more difficult the music is going to be, especially if you are going to play, oh say, Beethoven. If we were going to play Mozart, or "Life Is Just A Bowl Of Cherries" (Pizzicatto all the way!), we might have had half a chance, but Beethoven? It was... interesting. I have played all of his String Quartets. They rock. His Trio in C Minor rocks. It also requires lots and lots and lots of practice. Playing Styx's "Mr. Roboto" for 18 weeks straight does not constitute practicing Beethoven's trio. We all learned a valuable lesson that day. That lesson is this: Do not play the Beethoven C minor Trio, until you know the audience is drunker than a bunch of hoot owls.

ROW 80 DAY24 - KRAZY DAYZ

This is possibly the most ad hoc-iest of posts, ever. Well, maybe for you. For me, it's probably business as usual. See, this is being written on Friday, which should make this day 25, but yesterday on Thursday I had a doctor's appointment. In the real world. one just hops in one's car, drives a half hour to an hour to one's voodoo specialist, depending on the distance and drive time to their Shaman, checks in, gets the magic juju, and heads to the local headhunter to have the potions filled. This process should take no more than 2 or 3 hours tops.

On Nebraska Never-Neverland Avenue, this simple process can be drawn out for ddaaayyyssss.One takes the magic Coach that is driven by Evil Trolls. Sometimes, the spells wear off and the Trolls can be rather civil. The #2 Troll was especially civil yesterday and helped the Blind Princess with her Magic Staff of Light board the Coach. The Princess was in a rather evil mood herself, as she had to deal with the paperwork that the forgetful paperwork Fairies neglected in their rush to get to their tryst with the garbage Gnomes; the forms for "Lilly Cares" remained unfilled. The Princess needs the "Lilly Cares" paperwork, so the Sham-lama-ding-dong can put a magic spell on it, continuing her juju, so the Princess remains only a little batshit insane, not a whole lot batshit insane.

"Lilly Cares my ass," thought the Blind Princess. "I know they'll care if the bastards'll give me a million dollars." So, she was feeling rather put out at her libidinous Fairies, as she scrawled her way through the paperwork. Done with that, showered, dressed, equipped with cane, and paperwork, off went our plucky Princess to catch the #2 Coach. Just as the 8 tiny rats puledl up, the Drunken Dwarf appeared, "hesh, tell 'im t'wait fer me. I'll 'nly be sec..."  DD then proceeded to go hide up under the awning and stand... and stand.... and stand...

Princess shrugged, got on Coach. It's a kneeling platform Coach. Just as Princess tried to step up, Troll lowers the Coach platform. Our Princess took a giant step and almost fell flat on her face. Giggles all around. The Emotionally Conflicted Troll apologized profusely. "It's okay; my timing was off." Eyeroll. The Troll is nice enough though, not like some of these guys. They bite radiators for fun, I swear. So, I, er, the Princess rides to the transfer point of the dreaded #32 Coach. Just about every Evil Troll on this line is beyond Evil Evil Evil. This is where Trolls come when they've fucked up on every other bus route. There's one Evil Evil Evil Troll on this line the Princess has fought with for well over a year. Today, Sadist Evil Evil Evil Troll is driving. Oh goody. My nemesis. This crab has been around since the Hoover administration and without a vacation. The other thing about the #32 line? This is Psychiatrists' Row. Every Psych doctor for Hillsborough County is on this street. As a matter of fact, that's where the Princess is going; to her Psych Shaman. So, you can imagine what kind of hellish fun is to be had here and I'm one of the main participants. I'm ahead on points right now.

Just as our heroine steps on the bus, er, Coach,  Evil Evil Evil Sadist Troll raises the step from kneeling position. The Princess cracks her shin on the platform. Evil Evil Evil Sadist Troll grins evilly at her. "Swine," she says, under her breath. "What, mistress?" ET cackles. "EVIL BASTARD!" Coach cheers. 8 tiny rats gallop on, before Princess has a chance to find her cushioned seat. She ends up face down in the aisle. Coach boos and hisses.

Just as Princess turns over and gets to her feet, the Coach lurches to a halt. Time to exit for Shama-lama-ding-dong. Our Princess daintily exits, a la Buffy the Vampire Slayer, by jumping 20 feet from the Coach door to the curb. That Evil Evil Evil Sadist Troll really is an asshat; he couldn' be bothered to get in the right-hand lane of traffic and pull over to let the Princess out. So, for those scoring at home, Battle Royale, Round 873, Evil Troll 2, Princess 0. I'm still ahead on Style. And this has the added fun of jumping while attempting to dodge incoming traffic.

Shama-lama-ding-dong is always a hoot; I love the questions. Are you eating chair cushions? Have you been trying to climb in the referigerator? Blah blah. The only one that threw me is, are you a danger to yourself or others? Can you qualify that? Do you mean intentionally? Because I am "unintentionally", all the time. And yes, I am intentionally to others, but only when I need to "intentionally" be a danger to them. And then, I'm not a danger, I'm Intentionally, actually lethal. Geeze, what a stupid question.

But, Shama-lama-ding-dong admits I look good and sound good. I feel good. Better than good, actually. I know, that being life, this too shall pass, but while it lasts, I'll take it, crazy and all. Oh yeah, the reason for all this sturm und drang; this whole process to-and-fro'ing took about 7 hours. Day 25 will follow later today. Mustn't slip on my laurels; I hate when that happens.

ROW80 DAY 23 CHECK IN WEDNESDAY AUGUST 1, 2012 A DAY TO REMEMBER - PART 3 - THE HELL WITH IT – LET’S JUST CALL IT WHAT IT REALLY IS: “THE SHIP OF THE DAMNED”

ROW80 DAY 23 CHECK IN WEDNESDAY AUGUST 1, 2012

A DAY TO REMEMBER - PART 3 - THE HELL WITH IT – LET’S JUST CALL IT WHAT IT REALLY IS:  “THE SHIP OF THE DAMNED” 

**SORRY WALTER LORD - ALSO POST BACK TO NORMAL LENGTH TOMORROW, PROMISE

Okay, so, when we left off, our intrepid folks were hanging out in the ER waiting room of TGH. A very busy night indeed, and the ones hanging on for the duration weren’t feeling better for the wait. We also have an interesting shift in the type of clientele that is seeking medical assistance. What were working men, soccer moms with banged up kids, has changed to, rasta guys, gang bangers, gits and hos with ‘tats and ‘tudes. The maladies have changed as well. From bumps, bruises and broken bones to overdoses, knifings, black eyes and minor gun shot wounds. The really bad ones we just hear as the ambulance rockets past to the Surgical entrance; the siren echoes eerily, magnified off the cement canyons of the patient wings. It is a lovely, lonely, urgent sound. I hope for those who are being borne along. I hope they recover physically and spiritually. I hope this will be a turning point for them. That they will realize their lives are worth so much more than being borne to this place, little more than sacks of dying flesh, for dedicated men and women to fight and labor over to save, only to go out and tempt that dragon once more.

I was one of those sacks of dying flesh once. The saviors had to do a lot of saving. I decided I wanted to live. I still tempt dragons but of a better class and in another way and I am forever graced for this gift, this insight; splendid, unasked-for opportunity. My redemption lies in my voice; my ability to tell, ask, verbalize and lyricize. To help and try to understand, be compassionate, care and help. That will be my salvation in a life ill-spent. And to tell really great stories, without any type of segue. Lucky you! Enough Hallmark Card Precious Moments.

Back in our ER, the Titanic-TGH ER, Jack Hanna comes out on the TV with something resembling a Bobcat. It’s little and feisty, and it has the cropped tail, of a Bob, but it has the big feet and pointy ears and cheeks of a Lynx. I get up to get closer to the screen. Now, I’m standing under the screen, sort of, wearing glasses, holding whackamole. There’s a man sitting near me with his obviously very ill and uncomfortable wife. They are touching to watch. He has been reassuring and comforting to her. They have been patient and talking to us all there. It’s a shame to meet people under those circumstances, but so, so endearing and ennobling to witness. The man says, “I’m scared of cats and birds. That cat has prongs. What is that?” For I know not what reason, I blurt out , “We had an accidental bobcat once!”

Well. This was met with dead silence. I can hear necks creak. So, I launch into the whole stupid story: When we moved to San Diego in 1963, we found ourselves petless for a while. In San Diego at the time, there was still quite a bit of undeveloped land. We lived in a housing tract that was built on top of a canyon ridge. The bottom of the canyon ridge still contained yucca bushes, cacti, jackrabbits, coyotes and such. Fun for kids to play in. My cousins lived a block away and we had many adventures, falling into cacti, getting bitten by scorpions, teasing tarantulas; the poor ‘rents.

Around my birthday in December, my mom asked me what I wanted for my present. I told her I wanted a kitten. Eyeroll. She missed having pets too, but after the traumatic death of our last cat, and her fragile mental state she wasn’t really willing to make an emotional investment, yet, but she knew I was hurting. So, one bright Saturday, off we went to the local ASPCA to pick out a kitten. I seem to remember they had these huge wire baskets full of kittens. It must have been kitten nap time after milk and cookie time at kitten kindergarten because every damned one of these guys were asleep. Curled up in little balls, so I have to hope that the one I pick out by color at least has feet, because my father is standing there hollering, “DON’T DISTURB THE KITTIES!”

So, I look and I see one particularly fuzzy little number; he or she looks kind of spotty on the belly, kind of browny and black on his/her blacky. So, I reach down and pick up this little guy. Blink, blink, blue-green eyes. Fuzz, big feet. My father, who adored cats, reached down to hold him and cup his hindquarters. Bobtail. “I’ll be damned. He’s a manx. A little boy manx.” Sayeth the Cat-Whisperer.  My mom holds him and cuddles him; he goes back to sleep. We run home with our prize. He slept all the way home.

Of course, being the soul of creativity, I named him “Robert.” Robert the bob cat. Which he turned out to be. Our first inkling type of kitten we had purchased was about 15 minutes after we got him home. We had put paper cut-out snowflakes up on the windows. Robert thought these were delightful. He was pretty small, but he could already jump well over 6 feet in the air. Once he had torn every single snow flake off the window, including the ones that my father had placed that were taped a good 7 feet up the glass, Then, it was time for a nap. I guess all that snowflake killing wore him out.

Robert tipped the scales at about 45 pounds. He had springboard hind legs, a bowling ball ass, shorter front legs, platter feet, longer hair and spots on his tummy and did I mention his tail? His tail was just the cutest! He had a short little bobbed tail. He had marvelous ear and cheek mustaches and slept, oh, about 53 hours a day.

He was a placid and benign presence in the area, but not all neighbors got that memo. We had a couple of neighbors across the street at the time, named Gary and Sheryl. Sheryl was an “Artist” and Gary was a mechanic. They were both rather feeble-minded, but sweet. We lived on a street that was a cul-de-sac and being the early ‘60s, were an insular and familiar bunch, but G and S were “odd.” Still, they were nice enough, after several drinks (my father said.)

One night, my folks had Gary and Sheryl over for dinner because Sheryl had given my mom one of her paintings, After a few drinks, Gary blurts out, “Gee, we have mountain lions in this area!” “Really?” My father says. “How do you know?” My mother asks. She’s kicking me under the table, warning me to keep my mouth shut. Gary soldiers on, “my chihuahuas were barking in the middle of the night! I got up and went in the living room and there was this huuuge cat stretched out on the back of my couch. It musta come in through the pet door! It was huuuge! About 6 feet long. It had prongs on its face and coming out of its ears! It was terrifying!” My dad said, “Oh, I’ll bet.” My mom excused herself from the table and said she’d be right back. “What did you do, Gary?” My father asked. “Well, I went to the refrigerator and got a raw steak out and threw it out the sliding glass door and said HERE KITTY, KITTY! And when that bastard went after it, I slammed the door shut!” Just then, my mom came staggering out of the back of the house, lugging 45 pounds of sleeping bob cat under her arm, and said “Is this your Marauder?” We thought Gary and Sheryl were going to faint.

So, this is the story I transfixed the TGH ER waiting room with. About this time, as I am winding down, after the chortling begins to die, someone starts barfing. This does not cause me to turn a hair in the least, but I know it’s a trigger for a lot of people. Several people look at me, pleas in their eyes; “make it stop, or cover it up.” Right then I am reminded of the James Thurber story of The Pleasure Cruise and How to Survive It, wherein he is one of the few luckless ones who doesn’t get seasick and winds up tending those who do. It is a hell few can imagine. Thank god. Anyway. These poor people are looking at me to turn up the volume, only as luck would have it, I have just run out of “Robert, the Bobcat Story,” so the junkbucket of my mind serves up “Three Little Maids from School”  from The Mikado which is probably the longest and most difficult of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Opera’s. It is certainly my favorite to play. So, I stand up there, madly hollering, operatically, as I can, because I’ve been around this stuff and I can fake after all. All professional musicians can fake and if one says they don’t or can’t they’re lying:

Three little maids from school are we

Pert as a school-girl well can be

Filled to the brim with girlish glee

Three little maids from school…

I kind of tapered off. Rasta guy said, “I can still hear!” So, I bellowed out:

Everything is a source of fun

Nobody's safe, for we care for none

Life is a joke that's just begun

Three little maids from school

I’m up here, with my dark glasses, whackamole, in front of the ‘bangers, rastas, hos, farmers and other sickies, with Jack Hanna and a Bobcat dancing and singing G&S at 12 AM in the ER of TGH. What’s wrong with me?