mix and match

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Get Thy Freak On

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Impractice Makes Imperfect

The delay. The stall tactic. Using small talk to eat up lesson time. Asking me to play. Acting confused. Lost my place. Suddenly, I have many questions! Or, the worst, outright lying.

I am an old salt and know them all. I know them all, I know them all. They all mean the same damn thing: The student has failed to prepare for the lesson. In the grand scheme of things, this means nothing, but to a music teacher, it means quite a lot.

In the "real world" of study, that is, the professional music school, this act is unthinkable, but we are far, far away in another galaxy here. These are not aspiring professionals and so the response must be appropriate to that. I cannot make a scene, berate them and throw them out (although the temptation and the inclination are there, believe me.). As much as I want to give them the boot, alas, quiet acceptance and a hope to salvage the lesson are all that is left. Smile and secretly dream of when you get to go home.

I have suffered through, as have all music teachers, those students who did not belong near any musical instrument. God love them all, but I've had kids play basic notes so slow that I would catch myself spacing out like I was listening to ambient music. A few times, that was the most pleasant part of the lesson. When I taught in Hurricane, my room was on the second floor, where I had a great view over a pastoral landscape. That was at least a pleasant escape.

The question comes. A hard one, for sure, and rife with potential hurt feelings: When do we realize that our time together no longer has any purpose?

Things are always in cycles and teaching is full of them. There always comes a point, especially when teaching young students, that the novelty has faded, practice has stopped and the student goes flat. Not moving forward, but rather a kind of slow backwards drift. When this happens, it's only a matter of about three to four lessons before it's stay or go. This is the middle of the first plateau and I have been through it with students countless times. Adults will usually figure this out, but kids, under pressure from parents, may drag on way beyond expiration dates.

Or they disappear suddenly. I've had kids that I've taught for five or more years suddenly stop coming without notice or a call afterwards. "People are funny" is the old cliche, but that doesn't really apply here at all. People don't think of music teachers as having real professions, let alone having enough respect to let to notify us of cancellations.

Case in point: one poor little mug was chauffeured by his "sitter" to every lesson. In fact, I didn't meet that parents but one time. While teaching this little guy was a blast, it did not make me happy when multiple lessons were missed without notice or apology. I never said anything, but the one time I forgot to mention that the school would be shut down for Spring break and I missed without notice, they cancelled in anger. Again, music teachers are not real people, so we are not entitled to reciprocal courtesies.

You see, the private music teacher is only one of innumerable "experiences" (to use Boomer parlance) that the parent wishes to expose to the child. The trouble is the kid is involved in so many things that none of these activities take on any real meaning. It's like an educational buffet-take what you want when you want it and stop when it suits you. One kid had so many activities- I remember Karate, swimming, soccer among them-that he broke down into tears.

"I don't want to be here!" he cried.

"Why don't you tell your mom???"

"Because she wants me to come here."

That kid soon stopped without notice nor word from parents. Hell, who could blame the kid?

Recent case in point: Sensing more than the usual struggle to stay focused, my little 3rd grader was really pulling hard at the reigns last night. She was doing all the tricks. She went 'round and 'round. Until I had to figure out how to use the remaining time for education and not for defiance.

Another truth: because children acutely realize that you are not part of school and their attendance is not mandatory, sometimes they really act up as they possess complete impunity. Children are very smart and tuned in. What can you do? My friend, who teaches piano, has a whole book load of stories about South Hills brats who, once mommy leaves, act like little tyrants. So bad was one child, that mom had to be brought into the lessons to act as disciplinarian. Needless to say, that student soon stopped coming.

When mom came, I asked how much her child had been practicing. The answer was as expected-very little to none. Mom went through the "experience" thing with me or the "we were out of town" bit. These are valid things and people have very busy lives, but there comes a point when children are doing so many things that none of them have any meaning. They are doing a life/educational buffet-little of that, little of this.

Post script: this week, the third grader didn't come. No notice, no call.

Funny. I think I have read this book before.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

new titles and empty uniforms

"we few, we happy few

we band of brothers"


[Still from Band when Lt. Dike, "an empty uniform," loses it during an assault on Foy.]

It began here.

Which lead to this.

Then Major Winter's account.

Now there are new memoirs.



If you haven't watched Band of Brothers yet, rent it or buy it asap. Set aside some time-it's several episodes, so dig a fox hole and stay down.


This series is so different. Early films about war always had that patriotic flag waving and while these men are true patriots, the flag does not cover the rougher edges of reality. It is not sentimental about the horrors of war, no John Wayne moments, but neither is it told without a deep sense of humanity. In short, it's remarkable and glued-to-your-seat viewing. When the action isn't making you grip the arms of the chair, the "characters" are compelling.

These men made incredible sacrifices and for years afterward, never opened up. We are richer for their stories. Had they failed, the whole world would be a different place right now.

It was difficult for these men to talk about what happened, but telling a soft truth wasn't for them. "Once you start lying and trying to change things, it's no good," Bill Guarnere, who just released his own memoirs, says. "You tell the truth, and that's it."

Where, in the sea of empty uniforms, do we hear this simple testament to character? You tell the truth and that's it.

Lt. Dike? Can you hear that?

Coda

all the window shutters were closed
the telephone outside had been ripped out

somehow befitting the situation, a man lost in his own world (and certainly lost in coversation with himself) shuffled down the sidewalk, stopped and stood at the corner. He just stood there, not even looking our way as we drove off.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

A Sunday Wake

It felt like a wake.

Sitting in the Southern Kitchen, waiting for my to-go order, it had the air of a wake. Amidst all the talking, food being served, checks being paid, the atmosphere was lively, but everyone knew that this unpretentious 24 hour eatery would soon be history. Hell, even the chickens had flown the coop as all the kitschy knick-knacks were missing.

People were coming one last time to say goodbye to a place that had become a fixture, an institution and even though it had been the brunt of a few jokes over the years, it had become something more. People feel like they are losing something personal. Not just an old fashioned, retro chic, greasy spoon, but a piece of history, something tied to their lives. We all have our stories.

Crowned with Crown Royal, my old bandmate Richie Stewart and I hit the Kitchen post gig one very late night. Richie knew only one thing: he wanted a Western Omlet. When the waitress came, he threw all the money from his pocket onto the table and stated flatly, "I want a Western anything!" We translated to the waitress who grinned knowingly.

Walking into the Southern Kitchen was like walking back in time. First, because they hadn't change the decor in decades and second, and most importantly, you were treated to some old fashioned hospitality. You felt welcome, regardless of who you were. The food was basic, simple and prices were truly from another time.

When I arrived, people were lined up for a table. I ran into an old friend. Like everyone else, he was there to enjoy the food one last time. He told me that he had been there several times, bringing his son with him.

He confided that the Mayor and a few of his buddies had made an offer to the evil lady in Texas who had inherited the place, but no dice. Another person earlier had said the idea was to tear it down and sell the lot. I am no real estate mogul, but this ain't exactly prime Kanawha City real estate. The building across the street has struggled for years to keep occupied, even with a variety of businesses taking a shot, but all failing. The Kitchen has survived and outlasted them all.

Marvelous Marvin, a longtime employee, was there and in typical fashion ended up making me laugh.
"Hey Marvin, why don't you run this place?"
"I offered her a check for 5 dollars, but she didn't take it."
"You should have gone to $5.50."
"That would have made a real difference. Should have thought of that."
Even the lady next to me laughed out loud. (The lady later appeared that night on WCHS recounting Marvin's comment.)

He went on to say, "People have been asking me for my autograph all day. I feel like a movie star. " Pause. "I already am in my mind, of course." Indeed, the Marv is a rock star whose star, if tapped by John Waters, would brightly burn as cult figure by now.

Some college age girls were taking pictures of each other. They posed, hugging each other and making sad faces, waving goodbye. They took some quick snaps of some of the politicos' pictures on the wall. They had driven from Morgantown to eat there one final time.

The TV crew caught them outside.

" We had some really good times here. Coming here at any hour."

Yep. I hope it stays, but if the owner won't sell, then nothing can be done.

One thing's for sure.

I'll wager Ms. Hersman is livid.

Friday, October 12, 2007

Throw That Hail Mary

An actual email request from a potential guitar student (this has been edited for obvious reasons). Keep in mind we have mid-terms next week:

Hey There Mr. ____

I've been taking guitar lessons for the past three years, and my current teacher is ____ at the Pied Piper. Well, I was wondering if I could start lessons with you, since it would be much more convenient there on campus. I know it's pushing midterms in the semester, but I was hoping you might still have an opening somewhere.? You can reply to this email addy, or my cell is _____. Hope to see you soon!

Thanks,_________

I replied with courtesy. Though, if I ever let out what I really think, it would read like this:

"Nice try, but no dice. That's why they call them Hail Marys. They're rarely successful without divine intervention."

Monday, October 08, 2007

Thy Guitar Speaks

from the Fripparian Pages:

We begin where we are.
So, where are we?

Better, before we move from A to B, to know that we are at A.

How do we know where we are?
By getting to know ourselves.
How do we get to know ourselves?
We put part of our attention on the outside, and part of our attention on the inside.
We divide our attention between what we are doing, and our internal responses to what we are doing.
We watch what we are doing, while simultaneously watching our responses:
sensing our physical relaxation;
our thinking;
our feeling.
So, how well we get to know ourselves is determined by our capacity to divide the attention.
That is, how well we get to know ourselves is determined by the quality of our attention.
We know ourselves to the degree that our attention is available to know ourselves.
The extent of our attention in time is called our Present Moment.
The spacial extent of our attention is reflected in how far, geographically, our interests & influence extend.
This is sometimes referred to as our level of Being.
So, how much attention do we have?
The quick answer, from someone who has been looking at this for a long time, is not very much.

Saturday, October 06, 2007

I Spoke Too Soon

http://wvgazette.com/section/News/2007100542?pt=0

The So-Kitch is going down. This is a shame.

I am not going to wax nostalgic that this joint had the greatest food I've ever eaten, but what it offered was honest food; not the pre-fab, corporate, faceless and tasteless fare served at your local anonymous chain. For me, there was no better late-night breakfast for the hungry musician.

"Marvelous" Marvin, a character worthy of John Waters or This American Life, served up the food always with a side of hilarious wit and observation of the human condition. Particularly the condition of the post bar crowd, who despite their occasional rowdiness, were always welcome.

Let's face it: it's a Charlestonian institution and worth saving.

Everyone in C-Town has eaten there regardless of their social status. From Byrd to Kerry, even politicos made hay from eating there. Everyone was equal at the table. That's what was cool. Now, that's coming to an end.

Questions abound: why did Miss Hersman leave it to her daughter who clearly had/has no interest in keeping it going? Why didn't she leave it to her sister instead? Why not sell it to someone who can keep it open?

Less than a month after her death, this reads a bit callous:

"Hersman’s sister, Freda Morton, who has been managing the restaurant since her sister died, said her daughter, Texas resident Patricia Ranson, inherited the business. She told her mother to tell employees the restaurant will close Oct. 15."

Maybe the call, no doubt left on an answering machine, went something like this:
"Hey ya'll. This is Patty. How y'all doin'? Well, just wanted to say that I've decided to close the restaurant down. Know it's got a lot of history and some people have put in fourty-four years and all, but hell, I live in Texas. Tell everybody I'm sorry. And have a nice Christmas."

It's funny. This passage from Eliot really had me going this week:

"Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind,
That blows before and after time"

Time before and time after. Always, always that way.

Monday, October 01, 2007

Dinner Out

WILLARD (V.O.)
Do Lung bridge was the last army outpost on the Nung River.
Beyond it there was only Kurtz.

That's a bit dramatic, but sometimes while procuring hotdogs and hamburgers at Skeenies, it feels like the edge of the world. Beyond it is another world-way beyond where I live.

It was very desolate that night. These pics kinda capture that feeling.