Occasional Blog (where ideas are left to fend for themselves)
Per favore, nessun fotografie!
Fingers need slow resuscitation, especially the ones of the left handed variety. It is a fool who doesn't follow this rule, as the discomfort of trying to warm them up too fast is long lasting and painful.
Time is a bastard and is not your friend. Underneath the watch, note the notes of the more complicated Ave Maria-ditched because there was no time, nor fingers, to work it up properly. Weddings are not concerts, but they do carry their own brand of pressure.
Small comforts of the necessities: the nail file, (Classical style players have to maintain nails and they must be shaped. Yes, it sounds gay and looks it, but that's the demands of the style. How I envy guitarists who do not have to endure this hassle.) the finishing paper (the gray thing under the file) and the Sabine tuner(a good unit but a little precious at times).
But the gig is not bad, so put on your monkey suit! Get thee to the country club, guitar boy. Dance! Dance! Dance!
Even if my bank account weren't laughable, I would not join this swanky Lawn O' the Green country club. First, they wouldn't let me in. Second, since I am more likely to become a serial killer than play golf, it would be foolish just to join to attend functions or swim in the pool. Understand this:
The Dynamic Duo only visits these sacred playgrounds of Charleston's "important" people. We are only interlopers, the hired help, the folks who merely see the the glittery side of the social life of the lawyer-doctor-executive-corporate-old/new money. We see them dressed to the nines (especially the women-the true outward expressions of social status)wandering about with placid expressions, chatting, hugging and drinking all manner of expensive wines and liquors. They are among their own. And while the snob vibe was quite low on this gig, the lines are never invisible to me. I just ignore them and do my job. (But I know my place.)
The wedding, as you can see, was outdoors. We were safely sheltered under the porch. (We have played gigs under a sun so sweltering, that my strings felt like rubber bands and the sweat was rolling into my eyes. I go into a fog/dream state in such heat. All music is merely functional and barely so. All the guests, of course, were under shelter or inside with air conditioning, but musicians, since we fail to qualify as "people," we had to continue to melt under the solar flare. We nearly froze to death at another gig under the same circumstances.) History almost repeated itself. We were scheduled to play 20 minutes of pre-wedding for guests, but all the guests were inside, near the bar, staying cool.
The super (a great guy and a pro) soundman told us that our sound was being pumped into that area. We didn't know and had been talking freely beforehand, not realizing that all of our conversation were now public service announcements.
Our set was short and soon the guests were told to move outside as the ceremony was about to begin. Despite all the thorough equipment checks, something always goes wrong with 
electronics and so the soundman must run to fix it. The wireless mic for the minister went dead. If you know anything about shorts in wires, you'll know that you often have to twist them in odd ways to get to work. 
This evidently was the case because the soundman had to stand behind the minister for most of the service. He stood there for so long that the minister forgot he was there!
An actual convo:
As if the Eclectic Wife is telling me anything new. I think we need to redefine what sexy means. Sexy means more than a quality which makes you want to do the horizontal mambo. What passes for sexy (think Britney) in the media has become a model of raunchiness.
Sushi. As I sink into old fartdom, I realize how I used to gobble my food like a starving dog; hardly pausing to taste it. Now, I pause to relish every bite. Sushi is sexy.
Rosemarie Dewitt. Come on, who am I trying to kid?? You can keep your trashy 'slebs. I'm waiting on her callback.
At the Eclectic household, we rent about anything. Sifting through the racks is a bit of a gamble, so we usually ask for the advice of the young folks who work at the local Blockbuster. Some Baby Boomers would cringe at this idea, being know-it-all-ers, but I like to find out what the staff likes. Rarely are we steered wrong in that regard.
O'Toole is simply a delight: funny, perverted, razor sharp wit and steals every scene he's in. .jpg)
O'Toole's relationship with the niece who is sent to help Ian is altogether a different story. Though she is a foul-mouthed "provincial" brat, he becomes fascinated with her. Well...he wants her.
There are good priests and bad ones. We got a really awful one. Its all over, said and done, as he left even earlier than the two week announced "retirement." He didn't even have the honor to stay through the second weekend.
Recently, a choir member invited me back to help with the singing on Saturdays. No, thanks. Innocence lost, trust broken and very few supported me in my dismissal. Things are spoiled for me there. I can't go back. Sorry.
Whatever happens to the bumbling King, I don't wish him well.
But I do wish him on his way.
