Karma Karma Karma, Come On

Revenge is not as sweet as vindication. Never, ever.
It seems I was right on target again.

Last night, I ran into the deacon of the church where once I was gainfully employed and it seems karma has come 'round, baby, in a big way.

"Oh, he's a son of a bitch," was the answer to my inquiry as to how the new priest is working out. (Readers may remember that the previous pastor was a thief. Sadly, this is all true as he was taking church money and putting it in an out of town account. He got caught, got sacked, left far before his scheduled time and was sent to Wheeling-a sentence unto itself.)

"He never finishes anything, but he's got his hands in everything."

When I met the "new" pastor (now having been there three years), he dribbled over several times in sincere apologies (at least three) about how I had been wronged by the thieving pastor before him.

I didn't like him.

I found him to be self-absorbed and a bit egotistical. I know that's the pot-kettle thing, but he rubbed me the wrong way.

I thought I was there for a job interview, but he was clear that he wanted me to first join the church and then put me on some advisory committee.

The pastor told me that, despite no one single person had a single negative thing to say about me, he felt it was wrong to rehire me.

Seriously? After nearly twenty years of being a music minister, I am now a bumbling, old dude who used to be? What? Are you tripping? Here's why:

"He just just wants to be the star, the center of everything," my deacon friend dished out even more. "He won't let me preach either."

"Not once??"

"No. Never."

It is the pastor's prerogative to allow the deacon to preach, but "never" is a sure sign of someone not wanting the spotlight to be anywhere but on himself. Sad, sad, sad. The priest has even banned his wife from singing. They are all, but dead wood.

And here's the sweetest part of this deal: they are stuck with him, my weekends are free of both obligation and politics, but best of all: I was right.

I was right. I was right. I was right.

Shaking It Out

Well, this is old ground to me-the end of the semester. I have had some truly good students this year. I posted this at the beginning and decided last night that some thoughts on this might amuse you.

With my class, there are three things already against it as far as credibility. The first is that it's only one credit. As one smart-ass kid who argued with me about his grade (many semesters ago) told me, "This is only a one credit class." To which I retorted, "Yes and even that has requirements, requirements which you did not fulfill." The kid bargained with his grade. I was amused by his desperate attempts at persuasion and let him have a decent one. My mistake.

Sidebar: This kid I just mentioned had this air of trouble about him. When I would call his house to reschedule a lesson, his mom had a real dark and chilling presence about her. Don't call me a drama queen, she just had this stone cold vibe about her. Much later, long after the kid had finished the class, he was caught going through purses at the CHS reunion. He talked his way out that too. The classmate who caught him evidently gave a sock to the face. The kid is going to be a lawyer, a politician or will be in prison. That's my prediction and I'm willing to lay cash down on that with anyone.

The second thing is that it's "only a guitar." Nice. Want to get on a the good side of a man who has devoted his life to the study, practice and performance of an instrument? Call it "just a guitar." My blood boils at the mere thought. But, let me step outside my own paradigm for a sec, from the student's perspective, I fully understand. The guitar is everywhere-it's a plaything in Rock Band for goodness sakes. No meaning.

Lastly, the class consists of weekly one-on-one instruction. Again, this doesn't appear serious to the students.

Here's the roundup:

The Pretty One

One student has missed four times. This becomes tricky. How do you call a student on their bullshit and not be too harsh in doing so? It has taken me years. I bet I was downright obvious in my displeasure in the past. Now, patience. Carefully calculating words, watching reactions. This student came in last night with enough perfume to choke me. It has that powdery effect on your nose and throat. Awful.

Besides the perfume overdose, she was all dolled up.

Coincidence?

She knows she down a few points. She also has to provide proof that her four absences were legit. Her performance of the pieces is hit and miss. I kept hearing her making excuses and sort of laughing. She's trying to go all girlie on me to recover her grade.

I gave her the speech as kindly as possible. Evidently, her coach wanted her to come to practice telling her, "It's only one hour. It's only guitar." You see, sometimes what we suspect are people's attitudes are in fact accurate. If I was an asshole, I would email her coach and tell him/her that I did not appreciate those comments. She understood what she has to do and I very much hope she does it.

At the end, she said goodbye using my first name. Are we on a first name basis? I don't think so.

Overall, I haven't had any problems like in years past, but now we are down to the wire and that little thing called a syllabus becomes more real.

And things are shaking out. Oh yeah.

To Gig is to Laugh

Played the Beast last nite with mighty man Ryan. Here's some highlights:

~Saw an old friend's dad there with two of his buddies. He asked me if I had my Apathy cologne. Inside joke, but coming from him, it was a real defining moment.

[cool pic by Al. You da man.]

~Listening to an older guy talk to Miss Very Juiced was really distracting while playing. There were two different conversations going on. Let me try my best to recall some highlights. I'll call him Loud Talk-Over-You Guy

Miss VJ: "Your wife is so pretty."

Loud TOYG: "Yes, I have excellent taste in women. I always have."

MVJ: "She's very pretty. I love her. Sorry."

LTOYG: "Well. I know. Now let me talk about something else totally unrelated."

MVJ: "she suehdts ejfntridspsmdnrosnssh....."

LTOYG: "I ran three businesses and I want to ramble on about myself because I'm a big braggart."

MVJ: "I love you. Sorry. eytrhdteyhshdeshh....burp"

LTOYG: "You can't drive home. I'm not going to try to nail you because you know my wife and my friends are here. Even though you are really hammered, I'm going to get my friend to drive you home."

Folks it's really hard to eavesdrop (they were right next to me) and play music.

~At one point, completely without provocation, MVJ asked me, "What do you want?" This was not an in-your-face New York whatcho lookinat hostility.

I told her politely that I didn't understand the question.

"What do you really really like?"

I thought she was hinting to buy me a drink, so I said rum. "But, what would you want after that?" Hmm... are we going where I think we are going???

I then answered chocolate. That didn't seem to satisfy her. I said sex. "No. after chocolate and sex. What do you want?"

Gee. Most people would have stopped there. I had to edit my thoughts at this point. It's not really fair to be stock sober and banter with someone who's intox pretty bad.

"A room full of guitars." Nope. She didn't like that answer and gave up.

~Right after playing for three hours, I like to grab a bite and a pint. Both food and bev arrived when a friend of a friend came over and started talking about her upcoming birthday party. A very nice and easy to talk to person, but I wanted down time. When the subject of us playing for said party came up, I let Ryan do the talking. It's his gig and I am a closer friend, so he can quote a price without hesitation. Besides, this is what I want- for us to be a unit, not just a pick-up duet. I think it's working.

~Miss Very Juiced came over and took a seat and I offered a friendly compliment:

"I liked your dancing." For the first time, a couple danced at the Bistro. Amazing. Well, she furrowed her brow and looked confused.

"What did I do wrong?"

And no matter how hard we tried to explain the she did nothing wrong, nothing changed. I am certainly glad MVJ did not get behind a wheel.

~Outside, Ryan and I were on one of usual and long conversations about obscure cinema when a car passed by. This seemed to be packed with teenage girls who whooped at us. I said, "If they turn around, man, you're talking to them. I'm old enough to be their dad." Sure as shit, the car turned around. And with that, he turned on his heels and said see ya later.

I was loading my guitar into the car when a girl yelled, "Hi sexy!" Well. I'll take that, thank you.

It was a wacky ending to a night that started out so slow. It just goes to prove something.

But I just can't figure out what.

Without laughing.

The Quality of Attention

How we hold our pick is how we live our lives.
~Fripp

These words have been with me these past couple of days to serve as a reminder to slow down, consider my actions and generally to think through things as I do them. When I was a young lad, I did everything in haste. I lived as a "spaz" with a touch of geek. Quick! Quick! The rabbit ran around in circles. Today, age has slowed me down enough so that I can see this folly.

There is no quality to what we do when we do it in haste. We are merely firing brain cells for the sake of virtuosity, moving limbs about recklessly. Me, usually bashing a finger or two in the process.

How we hold our pick is determined by what our guitar goals might be, but I find myself saying:
"How I do this [insert mundane activity here] is how I live my life." I find even the most trivial activities are better when I consider these words.

The morning sitting.

A few weeks ago, I started doing the morning sitting as decribed to us by Fripp back in the wintry Guitar Craft course in '08. It's basically about finding some quiet time for yourself and learning to relax the body. It involves doing nothing but sitting in a chair. Sounds idiotic, I know. You systematically go through every part of your body and relax it. It's simple and brilliant. There are no spiritual or religious connotations to it. It's bio-feedback on a basic level.

A lot of this is based on this man. I am suspicious of the whole smells like a cult thing, but the man had his followers and detractors. I dont want to follow anyone. Learning is the goal, not worship.

I am just getting started, but can tell it has affected me. One thing's for sure, the world tries to steal this away from you. Oh yeah. The int eruptions started very soon after a week or so. It's as if the universe sensed this peace and wants to snatch it away. Typical.

I am no mellow dude nor shall I ever be. I always have the wheels turning in my head despite my big grin and happy demeanor.

I highly recommend some quiet time for you. Try to set aside ten minutes a day.The results may not come right away. It may feel silly, but something starts to happen.

The Key To it All:

The quality of our attention.
~Fripp

All my life it seems people have been telling me to pay attention. Trouble is, I find very few practical things that interesting. Certainly mundane tasks were a huge issue for my fidgety self as a teen. Nothing really changed in my twenties. I daydream all the time.

We are our attention as attention is a division of consciousness. I think defining consciousness is like counting the grains of sand on a beach.

But, each day, I try to focus my full attention on something as a way of increasing it.

Musician Tediousness, Part 9

I hate them. I do hate them.

~Col. Kurtz

I met many interesting people at Wesleyan and I value those experiences, but without formal instruction in guitar, nothing was moving forward. I was adrift.

Dr. Loftis one day asked what my applied instrument was. When I answered, he said the piano was not an option for me as a major. No shit. "Do you know Nels Leonard?" I hadn't heard that name. "He teaches guitar at West Liberty. Write to him and ask him about the program." Well, that's exactly what I did. It was then that I learned about the generosity of my future teacher.

Nels Leonard not only wrote back, but with extensive answers to my burning guitar questions. He wrote with an old fashioned ink pen on cool paper. This was the day, of course, long before email, but consider his dedication as a teacher. I had so many questions that we became practically pen pals. In short, he gave me hope.

It was clear I was heading north.

The Fool On the Hill

Prelude: Over the years, I have had many bright students, but only two were willing to make the sacrifice necessary to really learn their instrument. Sometimes I have a real chip on my shoulder about this attitude. While I have never had to go hungry, sell a instrument in order to survive and all other manner of "paying your dues," I did put in countless solitary hours and suffered amongst fools for my instrument. My years at West Lib are bittersweet.

Meeting Nels and beginning study with him was nothing short of incredible. I felt right at home. His office was adorned with many photos of him as a young man studying with various guitar luminaries, guitars and scores everywhere and always the smell of freshly brewed coffee. His personality was a little quirky as well. Young at heart, he skied, wore clogs way before anyone dared, traveled a lot and eventually married a younger woman. High five.

Doc, as we called him, was a fresh, positive force. Giving me solid information about technique, something I was so hungry for. I was a sponge. Then there were those guitars-they were works of art that you could play. I had to buy one. Soon, I did precisely that. I looked forward to my weekly lesson and was bummed when it was over. I walked out feeling satisfied, filled with purpose, my head in the clouds.

My days of blissful study with my guitar teacher were sharply (as a chainsaw) contrasted with my struggles to adapt to campus living.

West Lib in the 70's was Greek hell. This wasn't your slightly naughty but expected drunken college frat debauchery. Oh No. This was 24/7 Greek domination. The whole floor I lived on were full of frat boys hell bent on wearing out their copies of Linda Ronstadt records, yelling at each other and full of youthful shit and swagger as young men can be. Most of them seemed to me to be pigs. Honestly, I fucking hated them.

Contrast a soft classical guitar playing and the mighty noise level of a monkey house full of loud assholes and then read on. When the music department closed, I got in the habit of practicing in the student lounge. One night this asshole bursts in the door, "Will you fucking cut that out!!!" I was shocked. Now, I know some of you manly men would have pile driven his head into the sink, but not me. I said nothing and packed up and left. Oh all the hypocracisy and nerve. The dude was jealous. Fuck him.

My first roomie was a frat boy who had given himself the nickname "T." He had red hair, funky front teeth, was from Ohio, full of fake bravado, totally sucked into the social status as a frat guy. He told me when he first met me, he thought I was a wrestler because my hair was a crew cut at that time. When I told him him I was a music major, he said, "I almost burst out laughing."

It was my clue as to the attitude that was prevalent among the student body: all music and theater majors were flaming homosexuals. Now, we have to rewind our minds back to a less enlightened time, kids, when being gay was openly ridiculed and was treated as if it was a contagious and deadly disease. These frat boys believed that we were all of that persuasion and were openly hostile. So, on a daily basis, we poor music majors would hear shouts of "Faggot!" and other wonderful terms. With that attitude, there went any shot with sorority girls. It was a closed off social system.

Great. Why am I into music again? Please tell me.

The TKEs were the worst. They were like simian robots who tortured pledges (rumors abounded as to vile and disgusting methods of hazing), wore their emblem on dirty sweatshirts like SS officers and pretty much embodied everything I came to loathe about fraternities at that school. I hated those bastards.

I got by, as the saying goes, with the help of my friends.

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