They TOOK My Cable!!!

Okay,

     So I haven't been around enough to watch tv, or enjoy cable, but that still doesn't mean I want to give up the right to have the option of enjoying it!  When I worked for the cable company I was spoiled, with free cable in every room, all the channels, (yep, "those" channels too!) and a few DVR's: ONE OF THE GREATEST INVENTIONS OF THE LAST DECADE!.  You could check you schedule ahead of time, record two shows at once while watching a third, and find yourself recording the oddest shit, just because.  (Ooh, a Bewitched marathon...sweet!)     That was a few years ago, so all the niceties went away when I got a seemingly better offer than working for AOL/Time-Warner, who owns most of the free world, which probably wouldn't make the world "FRee," but, you see where i'm heading!   ANYWAY, I come home and my basic cable is turned off, off, OFF!  No, I didn't forget to pay my bill because...because...

  Aw hell!  I wasn't paying for it in the first place!  My last roomie knew a guy who knew a guy, so I got the hook up on G-bay! (the Ghetto version of E-bay, where poor-quality bootleg DVD's and most mismatched baby-socks come from, found in most barbershops 6 times a day.)     Now it's gone!   I know I can't call the cable compny and say, "Hey, my cable is off...No, I don't have an account...cuz i'm not a customer...sure, i'll hold..."     I've dealt with dumber criminals during my time as a cop.  One guy complained that his girlfriend kept stealing his weed, and proceeded to show us the stash of weed he had in his freezer.   "See, somebody's been pinchin' off my corners!"   Someone was getting pinched alright!   Okay, one more!

     People that complain they were ripped off by the dope house defy all present claims to intelligent life on Earth.   (Pull crack out of their pocket) "See?  Does this look like twenty dollars worth of crack to you, officer?

     So, my cable is gone, and I don't know if I want to pay for the legal kind.  If I find the guy who knows a guy who blows a guy, the next time the cable folks detect me i'll get all the cable I want... IN FEDERAL PRISON!  (Only YOU'LL be paying for it!)  Enjoy your weekend, (I know I won't!)

R.  (Quit being strangers!  I'm never here, but i'm always around!)

3:19 PM - 2 Comments - 3 Kudos - Add Comment

"The Quota!"

     One of my writing assignments has many perks, maybe too many for the average mortal man to enjoy, however, I haven't been asked to write anything as staff writer, so I get sent on observation missions.     I have a friend that owns Fashionable Milwaukee, a direct connection to everything hip in our area, (They are on Myspace, but then again, who isn't?) and he accepts invitations to fashion shows, product launches, gallery penings and whatnot.  His co-conspirator (and fiance) lives in Atlanta for the winter months, and if i'm doing absolutely nothing, which I believe has yet to happen, so if I have an opening in the schedule, I get to tag along and see how the pretty people live.     He is a darker-skinned gentleman, with me somewhere on the lighter end, and the last of our trio, a Hip-Hop producer that goes by the name of "1st," (Also on Myspace, but then again...) who is on the darker end of the spectrum.     When we go to these fancy digs, we're usually the only blacks that travel in a group, so we've been unofficially dubbed, "the Quota," aka Affirmative Fashion action!  Our latest event was the spring launch of INFO magazine, a swanky, inbred digest of a rag that caters to Fashion, nitelife and food that would look better as Christmas decorations than actual food.     We walked amongst the models and local business owners, and noticed people seemed to be trying way to hard to be fashionably hip.  Being a giant, I have limited choices, so if its relatively clean and fits, that's what i'm wearing.  I don't need to make "the scene" anymore, and if I run into people I used to club with still in the clubs, I don't know whether to feel nostalgic or sorry for them.     We received swag bags full of shit that was never meant for us in the first place, (bodypainting? Free hihglights? C'mon!) and we perched in a velvet nest surrounded by dirty martinis, (A mistake to start the night off with four!) and clientele of Fashionable Milwaukee.     My boss is used to me being single, but takes issue with my past choices for companionship.  "You are surrounded by models!  If I see you even approach an ugly woman I will have you shot!"  So i'm a man of substance, but apparently the whole substance thing wasn't me living up to my full potential for some people, (Thanks, MOM!) so we listened to the odd directions the DJ went with the tunes and enjoyed the scene.     I was approached by a local club owner/DJ that was too gorgeous for words, (Had an accent, skin in my range...actually someone who could hold my attention for more than ten minutes) and she greeted me with one of those fashionista kisses and asked how I was.  For some reason, she assumed I was working in a security capacity and hoped she wasn't bothering me.  I offered to buy her a drink, but she was only making a cameo before she had to spin at her club, which she invited me to, but the quota could not be quoted with a firm confirmation.     I was reintroduced to models I actually worked with in a bridal show, (I think some of those pics are on my page somewhere) but the music was too loud and distracting to say three words before they were drowned out by the Romantics or Madonna.     I caught 1st looking at a womans' ass that was in 3-D denim, and we both said "Damn!" aloud, thinking the music would be enough to blend our outward thoughts.

                                            No such luck!

    She was with a friend, and they both turned around. "You're talking about my ass, arentcha?"  We sheepishly said, "Yeah." and she replied, "I know, right?"     I think we switched to beer, or Vodka/crnberries or something less abrasive, and 1st pointed out a woman that was at least six inches taller than I was!  She was a Glamazon, towering over me WITHOUT heels.  I remember her a few years back at a hip spot that was sued over racial bias at their front door,  (I got in, because my badge made them colorblind!) where she was a waitess.  I told the boss to give me one of his business cards so I could at least talk to this beautiful freak of nature, (He objected at first, but eventually let me off my leash!) and I touched the small of her back to get her attention.  (It wasn't like I could reach her damn shoulder."

                             "Excuse me...Who do you work for?"

    That's a typical opening, making the assumption that any attractive woman works as a model, and eleven out of ten in the room actually did.  She smiled, then leaned over to answer me.  (LEANED OVER.  I'm Six-foot fuckin' four!)

                     "I'm not in the business.  I'm a registered nurse."

     Writing this part of the story can't do the situation justice.  She had the voice of Issac Hayes, you know, the voice of Chef from South Park?  I wasn't startled, in fact, the vodka wouldn't let me be, and before I asked if she would sing "Ol' Man River," I handed her a card and told her we may have work if she felt like changing her occupation. (That wasn't a lie.  Fashionable Milwaukee had the hook-ups to the Midwest fashion world.)     I said goodbye to Lou Rawls, hung out with some local musician friends and posed for the obligatory Milwaukeenightlifeonline picture of 'the Quota', which never made the cut.     I sat back down and noticed the people next to us were inching in on our corner booth, and after siting down, a short, mentally-disabled woman sat next to me, who was out partying withher friends.  I was glad she was having a good time, but Boss man quickly shook his head in my direction, as if I was actually going to do something remotely flirtatious.     We eventually made it back to the car and thought of hiring ourselves out as, "the Quota," making appearances at events that were looking to add "Color" to their surroundings.

Hmmm...

10:41 PM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Your Mama!

     I was told, as a writer, that i'm supposed to, well, uh, WRITE!  They didn't have to spell it out for me!  I've been involved in so many projects this year, (sadly, none of them have been very writing-orientated.) and this is a small something-or-other-topical-keeping-the-joints-moving-hello-how-are-you-reminder-type deal, before I align my other pending stories.

                                          Happy Mothers' Day!

     I know I have some "Mothers" out there, then I have some real "Muthas" out there too, and I hope they are never confused!  If you've gone through labor, left the house with peanut butter on your face and didn't care, or left some item on the roof of your car, you are a true mother.   YEARS ago, I took a survey amongst friends asking if they could switch sexes for a limited time, what would they want to experience?   Most of the women wanted to do naked jumping jacks and name-writing in the snow, while most men were content staring at themselves naked in the mirror for hours and hours.  MY RESPONSE:

     " I want to give birth...to twins, just so I can go through the labor pains and tell women to quit all that bellyachin'!"

     I was in the delivery room with the carrier of my seed, getting the old stink-eye from her birth coach/friend/photographer, who never met me and thought I should've been around more from the process,  (It was a suprise and a trap!  How into it was I supposed to be?  They stuck me with all the medical costs!) and the doctors, who nonchalantly let me view the curtain call up close.

     "See, the head is beginning to crown, and there will be some tearing towards the bottom, but we'll stitch her up good as new in no time."

     I was never planning on going down that road again, and before I could tell him he could tear it up all he wanted, and put yellow demolition-tape over it for all I cared, the woman who planed for this event, even before all the physical-unfittness on my part, began to yell.   My mom, (one of the good ones) was in the room, and suggested I hold her hand for support.  At that point, I couldn't tell if I was swallowing my pride or a bit of vomit, from the notion of holding her hand, and she crushed my open hand before I was able to get it extended.

     "It hurts!"  She cried."   "No shit!"  I responded.  "Labor will do that to you!"

     It took fifteen minutes, from the moment I stepped in to the moment he squeezed out, and the doctor wouldn't even let me cut the chord.  Was he afraid i'd aim a little higher, like for the mom?  If the boy is bought and paid for, they should at least let me cut the Goddamn chord!  His eyes were closed, and he cried bloody murder, which matched his present condition.  He needed no help crying, and continued to do so as he was passed from mom to nurse.   When it was my turn, he stopped crying, opened one of his eyes, ever so slightly, gave what looked like a grin, and began crying again the second the doctor took him from my arms.     That was a strange, special moment, but why was he flipping out when everyone else touched him?  The birth coach/Photog was taking pictures of everything, except me, not that I was feeling her presense in the first place.   "Uh, why did you have to take a picture of the Placenta?" I asked.  What freak-ass family album was that about to go into?  Could she at least wait till he was cleaned off.     The baby Screeched and squealed, till the doctor took his temperature.  It began to make sense!  He smiled at me, winked at me, then chilled out the second the doc stuck a thermometer up his ass...

                                        MY SON IS GAY!

     Seven minutes old and he's already assumed his chosen lifestyle!

     That is a shortened snippet from a future book of mine i'm calling:  Father Figured, due out as soon as I get off my lazy bum to finish it.  It goes into all the firsts and worsts of unexpected, multicultural parenting, and  my baby's Ma may get pissed, but once the royalties come in, she'll be first in line to collect what due to her!

    Again, HAPPY MOTHERS' DAY, or HAPPY DAY, YOU MUTHAS!

R.

2:15 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Now...Where was I?

As soon as I figure it out, i'll let you know.

     What I do know is I DID NOT get married on a whim by the justice of the peace at a Louisville Kentucky Courthouse to a bartender that was feeding me free shots at a bowling alley, ( in that downtown mall area, near Muhammed Ali Blvd. ) The wedding was not annulled three days later because we weren't able to consumate the wedding, ("Aunt Flo" was in town!) and she freaked out when she caught me mastrubating to the Ellen Degeneres show in our Super 8 bridal suite, while she was out trying to score CRACK! (I didn't know!  I thought she was just thin and fidgety!  By the way, I have a teensy crush on Ellen.  Must be the whole "Forbidden fruit" angle!)  That IS NOT where i've been!     I also HAVE NOT been in Northern New Jersey area, baked on LSD, in a pick-up, driving around at night looking for the mythical Jersey Devil.  I certainly was not trying to imitate Robert DeNiro, from the remake of Cape Fear, going, "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" In a cheesy, Crocodile Dundee accent.  The shotgun I WAS NOT wielding most certainly did not run out of shells, forcing me to create projectiles out of pine cones and squirrel droppings!

                               I have not done any of these things!

       I did not lose in a high-stakes Spades tournament, being forced to get my face tattooed like a tiger.  I AM NOT wearing a plastic, Vanilla Sky/Phantom of the Opera-style masks (with whiskers on the other side, like the drummer from KISS) until I figure out how I can afford to get it removed. (Luckily, I work at night, so if it did actually happen, I wouldn't be too much of a freak!)

     I most certainly did not get into a fist fight with Terrence Howard at the Los Angeles premiere of Iron Man for calling him "Gay, Gay, Gay!" and how he's so "Sweet" he probably gives himself cavities everytime he spoke.  He didn't have bodyguards, and my horse tranquilizer was kicking in!  Terrence didn't have to make a pass at me in the bathroom moments earlier to confirm my theory.  "What do you mean, it looks like I need help shaking the dew off the branch?"

      I was not taunting Bill and Hilary Clinton on the campign trail in Indianapolis, yelling their new "Brangelina/TomKat" Nick name:

                               " Hillbilly!  It's the fuckin' Hillbillies!"

(Obama laughed, but he would disown me a week later!)

     I did not do any of the above, however, I was/is/am/will be Very busy.   I'll let you in on  my regularly-scheduled hijinks as soon as I get a little time to breathe.  If you'll excuse me, I have to go compose music.

Miss you all!

12:49 PM - 5 Comments - 7 Kudos - Add Comment

A New Music Challenge?

Hey,

     I've been away, (yet in the same damn place) lately, working on my scientific thesis on how the human body can function with no sleep at all!  I have more stories coming, but I thought it was time for a new music challenge.     Since spring is in the air, I figured we could go the playful route and go with a flirtatious theme.   If there's anything out there that is playful and flirtatious, (double-entendres never hurt!) place it on your home page, let the world know and see what we can come up with.  (This one is a tuffy!  I can't think of anything at the moment, but I won't let it deter me!)

Good luck!

P.S. How are you?

9:22 PM - 5 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

You Can’t teach an Old Dog New Jokes!

     The latenight grind at the hotel needs no story that can't be summed up with this one word:

                                                      Shriners!

                 Okay, let me make that TWO words:

                                                   Fuckin' Shriners!

     I applaud the charitable work  Shriners do for children, but when they're off the clock...

                 "If I catch anyone riding a Go-cart through my lobby, we're gonna have problems!"

     The Shriners are heavy partiers, and when they weren't asking me where they could score "marijuana," (Mari-juhat?  Is that anything like WEED?  I almost forgot to be offended for a moment!) I was watching them argue, pinning lapel pins on the unsuspecting women who couldn't (or could) figure out they were trying to cop a feel, and the horizontal zombie walk to the pass-out palace they knew as their hotel room.     Our benevolent order of whatever's loved pulling pranks n one another, and the strangest one I came across was known as a FART BAG.  It was an actual bag, with a cartoon kid with his pants down, passing gas!  The deal was, you took the inflated bags and poped them, letting out a smell of, well, FARTS!

            But what, Oh what, is a fart?  It is but a lonesome cry from an imprisoned turd!

     It smelled authentic, like the stink bombs we, I mean, "friends of mine" had in high school, but if there's money to be made in the fart industry, SIGN ME UP!  All I need is a bucket of beans and tiny balloons.  If that's the case, ANY man can be a millionaire!

     A Whole week of Shriners, and my job is short-handed?  Anyone wanna work with me?

       My only night off this week sends me to the INFO magazine launch party, followed by a trip north to see my boy and a fraternity function before I Return to the grind.

   Blind bowlers, Gun nuts, (R.I.P Chuck Heston.  We actually shared a plane ride in late 2001.) and Shriners...what's next?!?

We had Chuck Mangione and Ed Begely Jr. last week, but if I can't take them, i'm in the wrong line of work!

1:40 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

What’s the new Music Challenge?

Enough of Vice and Virtue!  What’s next?  This year we’ve done, animals, love, booty, Vice and virtue, which all seem like different fruit on a single tree.  How about something involving FOOD or NATURE?  It’s good to have choices, and if you pick natural foods, you’re ahead of the game!  (I’m open to suggestions!

R.

8:19 AM - 8 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Putting the "Fun" in FUNeral?

Not another funeral!

     Its always been said that events like this happen in threes, and as this is the second funeral i’ve attended in less than a month...BE AFRAID, BE VERY AFRAID! (Chris, quit talking nonsense!  You’ll last longer than I will!)   This was another sudden death with musical ties that occured hours away, but I had love for the family and decided it best that I at least represent the hometown/high school contingent.     Milwaukee to Springfield is a little under five hours, but I managed to make the entire trip, (wrong turns, messed-up mapquest directions, gas, grub and "going") in just under SEVEN HOURS!  Somehow, I made it home in THREE, so go fig!     I found the funeral home  and followed the somber crowd into the main area, where I was greeted by the wife of the deceased.  She gave me a huge hug and seemed happier then your average grieving widow.  "I was in the neighborhood," I calmly replied, and she began introducing me to relatives.   "The first time I met Roi was at a high school jazz concert.  The first thing he did was give me a hug and twirl me around!  THEN, he told me, "I am the man who is gona marry your daughter!" I thought it was so sweet!"

                                                  Wait...

     I don’t remember that ever happening.  I can see how people who knew me at the time would say, "Yep, I can picture it!", but i’d only own up to something I was sure I did.  It sounded a little outrageous, but no one would put it past me.  It got to the point years ago where my name actually became an adjective, and I think that’s where my anti-social disorder kicked in, trying to pull up tracks that were laid pretty deep years before.     I didn’t want to dispute or correct the allegation, so I smiled and nodded.  The woman I was supposedly suppose to marry was in front of the casket, and her mother said, "There’s someone that needs you right now."  The fact was, I did love her daughter, but not in the romantic, marriage-type way.  I’d throw a punch for her, or travel seven hours to attend a funeral, but marriage wasn’t on the menu.  She was(is) a talented musician, married to a great friend and based in NYC living the life I never had the nerve to pursue.  She was also my sons’ Godmother, and we performed on more stages than I could count, and I greeted her with the loving support hug of all support hugs, bringing time to a halt.  I noticed I lifted her off the ground, further cementing the mothers’ story, so I slowed my role and tried to blend in , as much as a black giant can blend in, at a country funeral.     The service began with a song, played on acoustic guitar by our sad daughter, keeping it together while showing the greatest amount of emotion short of tears.    The father was an 84-year old man with x-ray specs, reading with a booming voice containing an odd cadence that I couldn’t decide was from his age or trying to read through the glasses.      I was in the funeral procession, driving in line to the burial site, and my phone rang for the very last time.  (I’ll get to the story about the phone later!)  It was my boss at the hotel, telling me our Friday security hasn’t been seen in two weeks and they needed me to come into work.  (oy are they gonna hate it when I tour this summer!)  I reluctantly said yes and slowly kissed my off-night goodbye.  (I felt like that guy Dante from the movie Clerks!  It’s not like I was doing something anyway, but it was my day off!  )                                     The burial was done at a memorial cemetary, and our dearly departed was a decorated war vet, with flag ceremony and 21-gun salute, which was actually seven guns shot three times.  The ceremony was patriotic pimpin at it’s finest, with the flag-folding ceremony, and collecting of the spent shell casings. (Collect the evidence!  You don’t want CSI on your ass!)     After the saluting and farewel to arms, we travelled to a nearby eatery, where I was introduced by family members, who replied, "Oh yeah, we’ve heard stories about you!"

                                                         WTF?

     The Padre sat at my table, and I noticed everytime he said the term, "You people," he’d pause and look into my direction.  I tried being polite, and his small-talk began to sound a little small-talkish!

     "That Barack O-BAM-A likes to talk about change!"  If he went into the whole, "He’s so articulate and well-spoken" thing, we would’ve had an exorcism right at the table!  I enjoyed the meal and celebrated the life of a true hero, and I loved the way the mother and daughter never cracked, being the strongest people in the universe at that particular moment.   The mother was making the rounds, and I saw her look over, then tell the damn wedding story again!    She thanked me again for coming, and I gave her a big hug, with that little mystery-lift that always shows up at the wrong time.  When I put her down, she looked to the crowd and said, "Did you see that?  Do it again, Roi!"

R.I.P   JERRY

NEXT:  The Phone Story I promised!

1:38 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Sunday Funnies: Part Two!

     Sorry about the dela,y folks.  People keep dying!  NEW RULE: Nobody else is allowed to die!

     Spending the morning crashing on suspended cymbals is no way to treat a hangover, despite what you may have heard!  We had a few hours before showtime, and everyone was recovering from the night of the living dead!  The school where we practiced was being used by a church, which meant we couldn’t set up or play till around noon.  We spent the morning learning a flag routine, which isn’t my area of expertise, though I think it went well.     We had an opening act, in the form of the Kenosha Beats indoors drumline, who would be performing in the same space.  This meant they would be using our equipment, along with theirs in the already limited space we had.  I went up to the fearless leader of the group, as they moved our music stands and shuffled our carefully ordered music and politely said, "Now, if you guys don’t put EVERYTHING back the way you found it, you’re gonna have to change your name to the KENOSHA BEAT UP!"

                                          I thought it was funny.

     My biggest concern was nailing our feature, which went well at the dress rehearsal, though anything has been known to happen!  When the audience began walking in, I saw...MY MOMMY!     Of course pop wasn’t there, due to a golf game on TV, or whatever reason he had, but my eldest sister was with her, along with my other sisters’ son, who likes the whole drum corps world, gearing his video camera to capture come what may.     I saw an old classmate/marching partner Bridget, who was in tow with her three daughters.  At first glance, you wouldn’t believe her body squeezed out three kids, and the word "MILF" kept running through my mind, though her husband has consistently beat me to it!     The next group was a, a, (pleasant?) suprise.  My Ex-WIFE, (from the college musical I did a few years ago, don’t even play!) and my actual ex-girlfriend were in the audience, along with old marchers, friends, family, performers, color guard members and music students.  This had to go wel, and it did, starting with the Kenosha Beats performing something that needed to involve...camouflauge?     As the y finished their performance, I looked at them with a mean glare, and the quickly shuffled to put everything back the way it was!  I set up the stands to the best of my recollection, but noticed my way-too-high vibraphone managed to come aloose at the sides!  I would have to fix it after every tune, hoping I didn’t miss any cues.  We were pushed to the very edge of the stage, but the opening tune went well.  At the start of the second tune, home of the imfamous feature, the vibes began to falla part, and I managed to rustle them together by the first note.     I listened and I counted, and the feature was upon us.  I dove in, and by the time it was finished, I nailed that bitch to the wall!  With that over, I had little to worry about, until I hit my last note on the suspended cymbal...

     It happened quickly, and I didn’t have the time to reach out for it, but the suspended cybal with stand decided to become a Lemming and fall off the edge of the stage.  It slammed into one of the tuba players, bounced off their instrument, hit the next tuba and crashed to the floor!  It was almost like one of those huge axes you find falling next to a suit of armor in a haunted house!  I hoped no one was hurt, and thanked God there was no type of domino effect!     One of the horn players handed me the cymbal as the drum major tried controling his laughter.  The rest of the show went without a hitch and was well recieved.  My nephew got the whole thing on video, and many people thought the cymbal falling was actually part of the show, but me mouthing the word, "Fuck!" should’ve gave me away!  Now I had to load a truck with equipment that no longer fit, due to the silly tires, and run home so I could get ready for a long night at work!

The show must go on!

1:52 PM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Sunday Funnies? (Part One)

So...

     I did that thing I told you I was supposed to do this weekend, with all the stuff and things.  (I pride myself on the details.)  We had a show on Sunday, and I was almost looking forward to it.  In the past month, two people were cut from our section because they were afraid by hitting the drums they would actually make noise (?) and our leader died of a stroke a few weeks before.  The show must go on, as they say, (who the hell are "they" anyway?  I always pictured a round table surrounded by old white dudes in shadow making most of the worlds decisions by treating the rest of the populous as mere pawns, but that’s just me!) and we had to deal with adding a new person, loading a new equipment trailer, new parts, cut parts and space issues.     We were performing on the stage where we usually rehearse, but were forced to move our stuff  forward, so they could take 30 other drummers and place them on choir risers behind us!  We had seven cymbal players, but you could never tell because they were literally playing back stage!  The 40-something member hornline would stand in a couple of rows between the stage and front row, which made less room for an actual audience.  (We would’ve been better off in the gym, but the echo would’ve killed any bystanders.)     Jeff Moore, arguably the best percussion instructor in the world, was worried my section would suffer setbacks with all thats been happening to us, so he spent the first day showing us the new parts and getting us in gear.  He’s like a percussive scientist, breaking parts down to Subatomica, using numerical equations and statistics that made him who is is today.     Our mechanics decided they were going to take the wheels off of our keyboards and replace them with all-weather, super-tires, which made my vibes look like a silver monster truck!  I’m used to being the tallest, so things never allow me any position other than looking like a cobra bent over the instrument, but these new 4x4-ass wheels made it look like I was shrinking!     The foot pedal, which should be no more than three inches off the ground was almost a foot in the air, so I literally had to play with one foot constantly hovering above the pedal, which would accidentally disconnect the pedal after 30 seconds of play.   

                                         The show must go on!

     We were given the new parts, which were now considered a feature, since they cut the rest of the corps in order to hear us take over, but the timing of the second measure, (somhow it was in 6/4 time with a triplet-pulse...sorry, music talk!)  never seemed to come out right when I attempted to play it.  I tried listening to the people arround me, but I began feeling this uncomfortable pain shooting down my back.  Was there something in my ASS?  Jeff Moore was in my ass, telling me to , "play it again...again,  again, again, again!"   If you’re gonna get yelled at, it may as well be by the worlds best, and I kindly refrained from telling him to back, what is known as, the fuck up!     After a day of rehearsing, we went to a local bar to celebrate the birthdays of two members in my section and honor the passing of our pal Jim.  Beer, Jager, Tequila, smokes and more of the others kept us lively that night, even engaging in a game of dirty darts, which is like dirty pool only with...darts?   It’s male versus female, and whoever is on deck can be distracted in any way by the next player.  (Glad i’m not running for pres, cuz pics of that game could ruin the best of political aspirations.)  We closed the club down, and found the least drunk of us to drive everyone to their respective homes/hotel rooms.  I looked at the clock in the dark hotel room in realized we had to be up and practicing again in a few hours, which didn’t help with  the guy in the next bed, either snoring or wrestling hungry aligators playing with diesel-powered chainsaws!

  NEXT:  Sunday Funnies II: The Show Must Go On?

2:12 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment