WTF Report



"I carry a caddle prod everywhere I go. Kinda like a Swiss Army knife."

 Man Arrested After Allegedly Using Cattle Prod on Hot Spot Employee


Kenneth Scott Samples

Shoe impressions led to 30-year-old from Elkview.

An employee of Patty's Hot Spot #2 in Jefferson called police at about 2 a.m. Thursday to report an assault with injuries. The employee reportedly told Kanawha County Sheriff's Department deputies that man entered the business at about closing time and she asked him to leave, but when she turned her back, the man grabbed her in a choke hold from behind and used a cattle prod on her neck, then demanded she perform a sexual act on him.

The victim told police she fought with the man until he fled the business. The woman also told police the man was in Patty's Hot Spot #2 earlier Thursday night and said his name was Kenneth and he was staying at the Jefferson Motel.

Police located shoe impressions in the snow and tracked similar footprints to room 12 of Jefferson Motel where they confronted a man in the room who told them he was Kenneth Scott Samples, 30, of Elkview.

Samples was wearing clothes that matched the victim's description and also the shoe impressions in the snow, according to the Kanawha County Sheriff's Department. Samples reportedly apologized and said he did not want to go back to jail.

He was charged with attempted sexual assault and also assault during the commission of a felony. Samples is a registered sex offender because of a 1999 conviction for attempted first-degree sexual assault. He served 13 months in a correctional facility and five years of probation.

I stole this from here.

When Ugly is So Beautiful

Some people shouldn't go near paints.

I love MOBA- the Museum of Bad Art. Actually, it should be the Museum of Really Bad Art because it is farking hysterical. I know I have blogged about this, but today I needed a laugh and went to MOBA for one. I got more than one.

Here is very confusing collection of symbolic paintings. "http://www.museumofbadart.org/."

On Sale in the Lobby

It looks so harmless.

You may notice something different on my page. Yes, I have added a Amazon widget.

Was it Satan who compelled you to such shameless commerce?

No. Money runs from me. No, seriously, any extra cash goes to plumbers, dentists, or mechanics. Besides, I'll never make any true cashola from becoming an Amazon associate. This is about feeding my Amazon addiction.

When I'm in couch lounge mode at home, I check email, Facebook and the like, but always return to look at movies that I might want on Amazon. I go back over and again in an obsessive compulsive manner, often looking at the same DVD, checking the price to local stores (If they even have anything of my eclectic, odd taste in film.), then back again. It's almost pornographic.

My DVDs are handled with the utmost care. I never, ever touch the edges and surgically insert or take them out of the player. Most of my life is complete chaos, but DVDs? Pristine and although not precisely organized, I can find you any title. I love getting and giving them. I'm also very picky about which I buy. It has to be what I feel is necessary to my collection and even if it has been deemed worthy, it still has to be at the right price. I'm a bit of a pincher on that one.

I was inspired by the new additions to my blog roll- the Horse Stick Girls. Hell, if they take the time to write such extensive reviews, then so can I. Besides, traffic on my site is very small. While I enjoy purging myself through words, I read only about four blogs on a regular basis. To get read, you must read. It's a community, but that takes energy and that has gone into making words dance (or mambo) on my page. By the time, I'm finished writing, I'm finished with reading as well.

We just started watching season one of Breaking Bad via Netflix. Thanks to Uncle Bill's recommendation, I am hooked on this strange story of a high school chemistry teacher who goes the dark path of cooking meth in order to pay for his chemo treatments. We just watched the first three episodes, so no review right now. Just a teaser.

So, judge not me too harshly. It's got more dignity than pan handling saying, "Pardon me sir/mam. Do you have $11.99 for a DVD from Amazon?"

God on the Big Screen

The spirit may move upon you. 

Last night, I had a most interesting experience. I stepped outside of my comfort zone (It was not exactly willingly, mind you. An attempt at a well-deserved nap was thwarted by numerous phone calls until I finally gave up.) and went to a church to "witness" a baptism. This church was outside my normal denomination. Way, way outside.

Having been in the music "ministry" business for a long, long time, I figured I had seen, if not all, most of what happens during a service. I have never seen such a display. Eee-ow. I had heard that this church is loaded and mine eye$ hath seen the glory.

This church had the most advanced audio and video equipment I have ever seen. A rack of speakers hanging from the ceiling reminded me of sound equipment seen at rock arenas. Combine that with both seated and roving videographers, complete with headphone mics, I was truly impressed by what had to be a very generous music budget. These people are serious about their presentation. The sanctuary felt like a cross (No puns here.) between the Clay Center, the Civic Center and more than a dash of community theater.

Am I envious? A big yes to that query. For 14 years I worked for a small and neglected church on the West Side who couldn't afford to upgrade our aged sound system. Yes, I am envious of the equipment, the players and the huge choir. The presentation? Not so much.

The evening began with two songs, the first led by one singer who hopped about like he was an evangelical, but goofy, Mick Jagger and the second song was led more capable singer led song two for what seemed ten minutes. A large mixed chorus swayed and joined in the singing. Two large screens displayed the lyrics, plus adding visual MTV-like effects such as scenery (all religious in nature of course). At one point, images of Calvary were superimposed upon the sweaty singer's face all to great effect. Well, great effect if you're Trinity Broadcasting or Mike Murdoch. This is a serious production.

Two huge screens on either side rolled the lyrics of these songs. This removes all the clutter and the cost of hymnals while serving the more poorly sighted among the congregation. Very smart indeed. Words repeated in the chorus of one song included "enlarge my territory" and "no limits." While I agree that if God loves us, then his love must be generous, but that choice of words seems poor. Are we saying, "Enlarge my bank account?" Or a more puerile choice?  Call me old fashioned, but I prefer even the old and moldy hymn lyrics to words sounding like mantas from a motivational seminar.

With all the singing and praising God, I secretly wondering what God thinks of all this weekly praise he receives. Do we do it to curry favor? Does he find it annoying? The one burning question that came without bidding: why does an infinite being need praise in the first place? I have struggled with who the Almighty is for most of my life. The Bible speaks of God as jealous. This I have never been able to fathom. Wrathful-probably, but jealousy of what?

Most of the time, when I go online and read all this disagreement (also called heresy) about how to interpret the Scriptures or read/hear cracks about my faith - Catholicism, I begin to wonder if at the core of our being we are too much monkey to understand divinity in any form. In short, religious teaching is cannot be held within a mind that is constantly being overwhelmed by an animal nature. No sooner are we done reading the "word" that we begin arguing about it. We are contentious by nature because we want to be seen as higher on the social strata or the "banana tree" as my friend calls it.

Inevitably, after the music comes the preachin'. I liked the down-to-earth, good old boy who took the mic and talked about salvation being a rough road. Yep. The Buddhists already know this, but Christians act like it's solely from their tradition.

The Boone County boy preacher's styles ran from homey to crazy outbursts. Quiet moments would suddenly be broken with him rushing and screaming al la Sam Kinison. His voice cracking into a high squeal, clenching his hands as if tearing the life from some invisible demon, yelling: "and then Jesus is coming down on a white horse with a sword to cleanse the world. Amen."

Oh boy.

Perhaps if Saint John could see the resultant hysteria about his Revelations, he might have thought twice about committing them to papyrus. I remember my granny talking about the end of the world to me. I had heard the preacher' sermon on her radio which she slept to each night. Little Jimmy laid there in the darkness listening to the mad exhortations about salvation. I wanted Jesus to love me and save me from the pit of fire. "Jimmy, they have been taking about the end of the world since I was a little girl." She reassured me that there was nothing going to happen. I never forgot her small remark on all things eschatological. Jesus on a cloud or a white horse flying down from heaven? I sincerely hope so, but my doubts are substantial. The end of the world is likely, because we are frightened monkeys hell bent on killing one another. It's the primal blood lust rising to the thin surface of civility. Rather than live in doubt and fear, pound somebody. The body is released, the mind is cleared. Doubt me? Watch a sporting event with a crowd and watch how quickly we transform. It's what we are.

Mr. Screamy was enjoyable, although he did take one small shot at Catholicism. Duly noted and I will say that the entire 20 some years I worked at St. Anthony's I never heard one disparaging word from a priest, nuns nor anyone in the congregation. Not one. He worked the crowd very well, bringing them near a frothing frenzy, but never quite getting everybody burning with faith. Oh people danced and jumped up and down, the house was never brought down. Good try though. I enjoyed his sermon, despite the style.

At the end of his act, he brought people down to be saved. That is, saved from the pit of fire of eternal damnation.

During all this, people yelled out, waved their arms heavenward and swayed out of time with the music. I saw a woman near the "stage," kneeling and rocking back and forth, lost in her prayers. All these outward displays of faith may be engaging to these people, but ultimately I feel that God is a much more intellectual experience. When I experience what I believe to be of "the other" is always a feeling that evades description or it is a revelatory moment in which I see the humanity of another person, recognize my own lack of humanity or see my own acts of humanity. It's both inward and outward. I'm not going to run around a church speaking in tongues. That's not me, babe.

The other thing that I recognize about myself is a propensity to be an outsider even if there's no evidence to support that supposition. There's that nasty habit of being a smart ass as well. That guy just wants attention. Put to the highest use, I can smell hypocrisy, especially my own, like a bloodhound.

Now we got to the dunking. Er...the baptismal rite if you prefer. In my tradition, water flowing on the head while words are spoken suffices. Here, in the land of Internet broadcasts, high tech cameras and lights, not so. The person who wants to be baptized must go completely under. Under the big top!

This, as you can imagine, was done in a dramatic style that combined elements of a Bingo game, theater and MC'ed in the style of a beauty pageant. Two guys stood in a nearly waist-high tiled pool and brought the undunked into dunkdom. It was a hammer to my head honestly. One dude had the Evangelical hair so common to the Televangelists that we all know and revile. Seriously, a few points:

Why is it that men of the word, both local and national, are usually the ones so vain about their hair? Doesn't it say, "Vanity, vanity, all is vanity?"

Why do the fundamentalists chastise long hair when every picture of Jesus has the Lord with abundant locks complete with beard? Very funny that. Been tough on women too. Sorry, ladies, no braids or jewelry.  Biblical blame throwers seem more about condemnation and less about redemption, let alone something naive as love.

When I sat among these seemingly warm and wonderful people, a feeling came upon me. Not one of alienation, and most likely not God, but perhaps it was that ineffable feeling of community even among strangers. We are social creatures after all and among our own, we can feel a certain lightness, an unburdening perhaps. A commonality of emotions, desires and a certain mortality. Church, any church, helps us deal with our sense of isolation. The deeper the sense of isolation and hardship, the deeper the fall into dangerous harbors such as cults. But, without people, we would go mad and life would be pointless.

Methought I sensed some teenage girls giving me the eye in the lobby as I waited for my group to file out. I silently laughed at one girl's jeans which were so tight that they looked painted on and of course, they had St. Alban spangles places in strategic places. I guess she missed the whole point of the nearly two hour service. Maybe not. Maybe despite our best efforts, hormones override spirituality with such force that all we do is make empty promises to God, go ahead and sin with mucho gusto, and then ask for forgiveness. I don't know, but God was surely tired of my late night "Oh Lord, don't let me get sick and I'll never drink again" petitions.

What has become of the person who is now baptized? Well, she isn't exactly following the straight and narrow per se, but she is doing better with her life and we were there to support her efforts. Even if they are misguided and glaringly hypocritical.

But, hell, who isn't a hypocrite? There was a very wise man (with long hair?) who said something about casting the first stone? I like that part.

He stopped those monkeys right in their tracks.

Old Dude Thoughts

I am now fifty-two. That's five decades to you young folks. Half a century plus. There is now no sense in pretending that I am in any way, shape or form, young.



"Come here, you young bastard!"

 No waxing on about the meaning of life, my friends. I don't have a clue, but random thoughts from an old guy.

1. Naps are not only nice, but necessary.

2. Ibuprofen is your friend.

3. Bourbon and rum are not your friends.

4. Interest in the opposite sex remains, but if an ice cream truck goes by, you actually get excited.

5. I like cake.

6. If there is any money in reserve, a major appliance will sense this and decide to break down.

7. Your car does not love you. In fact, it secretly resents you and will break down just to show you who's boss.

8. Mismatched clothes are expected.

9. Black socks and boat shoes are ok.

10. Make crankiness your own.

11. Young people are simply annoying.

12. Sometimes, in the middle of a sentence, you may be writing and

13. You're not funny anymore.

14. Everyone else, besides yourself, is an annoying driver.

15. Everyone who disagrees with me is an idiot.

Other Photos

Other poems

neither is nor is not

inbetween the bolt and knot
cannons fire, charging flare
drum up silence
in the air

dragging cloud brought to earth
gravity's hold or sinful birth?
eyes sustain or averting gaze
but nothing comes from nothing's ways

to know the place

again so well
where wings are clipped
and wind lifts not delicate feather
but grounded, to bond and teather

Teaching: The Humping Between Three Universities Papers

Oh, stop being a wussy.

Let me just say that I have never worked in real academia. What I mean is the huge enormo WVU-like stadiums of learnin'. My excursions have all been local and in order to protect the guilty, no names shall be used.

A Question of Space

Most teachers are given one teaching "studio." It is theirs and theirs alone. They may personalize this with photographs, awards and their collection of instruments. This makes me laugh. Me? I have been shuffled, scuttled, and scooched into audio-visual supply closets, switched back and forth between rooms so much even my students did not know where to show up, and generally made due sharing with other faculty who seemed hell bent on encroaching upon my time slot and interrupting as much as possible. Do I seem bitter? I should the fuck be.

At one college, it was literally the Audio Visual, instrument, and CD library combined. The well-worn metal desk, the TVs, the old computer monitors, all this stated quite this clearly: we care about you, dude. Feel right at home. It was fun when faculty came in during lessons and wheeled out projectors and TVs.

At another university, I was shuffled between rooms like a deck of cards. Its seems that no other faculty member could give one inch, it had to be me that was the wandering minstrel. One hateful old bat that taught piano interrupted so much that I literally threw my hands up and said, "What's the use?" I couldn't say anything stronger because of the student's presence. Students are not stupid, at least most of them, and the anger was no doubt written on my face like a billboard.

Even this year, I had to move because the local choir wanted to rehearse. It's nice to know that in these uncertain times, some things don't change. One night, two guys were working on the pipes on the ceiling. No one had told the secretary about this. Therefore, I didn't have a clue.

"Do you like that Taylor?"

One of the workers was a guitar enthusiast and he commenting on my student's guitar. My student answered him politely, a short convo about his guitars followed and we tried getting on with the lesson. After a bit, I asked, "How long do you think this is going to take?"

They suggested about five to ten minutes. OK, maybe they will do their work and we can continue. Then, came this tidbit:

"Ya'll should probably move your 'gitar' cases because I'm about to drain the water out of these pipes."


Teach the swine.

 That aborted that lesson and the one following. Two days later, the room was still being worked on. Nobody knew that somebody at the school decided that "work could go at night because there weren't any classes then." That makes sense, but shouldn't they have found out if any classes were being taught? You'd figure, but nooooooo.

Hey, buddy, can ya spare a room?

Voice majors are all divas. This IS instilled by their teachers. One diva-student was sitting in my room as I arrived early for a lesson. I said hello. And then asked if she was here to inquire about guitar.

"No. Madam Von Diva told me we could have a lesson at this time." When I said no, that this time was scheduled for a guitar lesson, she made her voice-dramatic-operatic huff of an exit as if I had just insulted the very fiber of her being. I was NOT going to reschedule, move or make any farkin' accommodations for anybody anymore. Do I seem bitter? Madam Von Diva is a real life diva, but she was very gracious about the mistake and apologized.

"Hi! I'm interchangeable with anyone. Use me! Pay me shit wages!"

During one rather manic and busy period of my life, I taught a three-hour evening class. It was always so satisfying to come to the classroom and find it locked. There, for weeks without change, the forty-odd students and I would stare at each other in disbelief how security would conveniently forget that a class was being taught on Tuesday night from 7 to 10. A student must have had security on speed dial and we'd wait and make conversation about stupid the situation was and why didn't I have a key, etc. Embarrassing and one that was not solved for weeks despite my repeated requests. I love humiliation.

By the time I had taught at the biggest university, I was still sharing an offy with another faculty. In short, I have never had a teaching studio that was mine and mine alone. I am the Fuller Brush man, wandering from house to house, selling my wares. Oh boy. Do I seem bitter?

Do The Natives Seem Hostile?

Out of the blue, I got a call from the department head of the music department. Evidently, their teacher had been called off to the war in Iraq and could I come and fill in?

How could I resist? He asked about several classes and there would be no way I could take on eight students and three classes; not with my already manic schedule.

Let's take a detour here and make this sure as hell true statement: when the iron is hot, it is very, very hot. I was in demand by three universities at one time. It seemed like the work came in like a snowstorm and never say no to work. Crazy ass schedule? Sign me up! Out every night of the week? OK! Run from one job to another with an hour for dinner? Yes! Yes! Yes! I love it. More!



Don't bust your balls. It's only reality.

 OK, back to reality and the story. The guitar class for non music majors was the first order of business. I got the textbook moments before class and hated it instantly. I had never seen such a bass-ackwards approach to guitar in my life, but thought, "OK. Do the best you can."

I was walking into hell and didn't know it.

The teacher had had only a few classes before he was called for duty, but even so, they must have really like him because they certainly didn't like me. For some reason, the moment I walked into the room there was tension. I will say that, in their defense, that it was certainly unfair to have to change teachers. In my defence, they were pretty hostile, uncooperative, and in some cases, downright insolent.

No matter how hard I tried, there was no making any headway with these people. One guy didn't "want to learn no notes. I can already play, man." I told him that reading music was part of the class already established in the syllabus by the previous instructor. What I wanted to say was, "Your playing is shit, your attitude about reading music sucks and quite frankly, I don't care if you stay at all." Always, I keep my real thoughts to myself (except in this blog).

One had a missing string which took him weeks to replace. One kid was so arrogant, he just blatantly ignored just about everything; often breaking into songs he knew. He had a similar malady in that he thought he was already hot shit on the guitar. Again, an unrealistic and youthful assessment of his abilities, but damn it if he wasn't a total asshole to the max.

I told you he was arrogant, but I didn't say he had cohones the size of Texas. The kid went and complained that I was a lousy teacher to some administrator. This filtered down to the department head that hired me and he and I had a long discussion about this ballsy brat. It's always good to have the chief on your side because I knew that this little moron wasn't done. Anyone who so dicked off in class, acted like an ass and had the balls to say that it was my teaching skills (nearly twenty five years without so much of single complaint) wasn't going to stop.

Finally, it came down to test time. This asshole came in and tried to plead his case.

"I suffer from a superiority complex." He thought this was funny. And evidently had no idea to whom he was talking. My friends and colleagues can tell you many traits about me, but humility is not going to be on the list (I am so arrogant sometimes, I scare the shit out of myself). Jesus. I wanted to nail this little prick to the floorboards, but calmly asked which pieces he was going to play. Three were required and I was waiting with the trap set.

He hemmed and hawed, apologized for his appalling behavior over the semester. All the while, I calmly asked what three pieces he was going to play for this, the final exam. When the doofus could not play a single piece, the die was cast, the game over and his nuts were in a well deserved vice. He tried to win sympathies that were never going to come one last time and then, mercifully, he left. I felt like I could breathe again.

Yes, you too can find a rewarding career in education.

The little shit complained to another department head. Of course, he did. Rather than accept responsibility for his own fucking failure and shitty attitude, he basically tried to poisoned the well for any future employment for me. He didn't, but he may have.

The next semester was a breeze. New kids and a teacher who was there from the beginning. Everything clicked, everything gelled. Perfect. But, instead of asking me (or the other part-time guy who drove from Ohio) whether I wanted a full-time position, I was somehow overlooked for the position. I couldn't have said yes anyway, but it would have been nice to have been asked.

All I got was a thanks for "stepping in for us" and taking the heat for a semester. I did collect a modest paycheck and like all part-timers, I knew I had no future at any of these universities. They use you to fill in the classes nobody else wants to teach and to put you on their list of faculty in their catalog. In short, you are used, plain and simple.

Teaching Guitar: The Hurricane Papers

Fresh from getting my master's degree, I was searching for work. Determined that I not end up in an unrelated field and let the four long years I spent getting my degree were not spent in vain, I searched high and low. I spotted an ad in the paper about "Metro Music opening its studios and teachers were needed." I reluctantly (I didn't want to drive that far from Charleston) called the number and this perky woman answered. She asked the standard questions and requested a resume and I sent one. She seemed pleasant enough. What the hell, it was a gig. She eventually called me back and told me that I had indeed had gotten the gig "because no one else was nearly as qualified." That, on paper, was probably true as most guitarists are self-taught and my degree, however useless in the real world, had some cache with my new employer.

Carolyn was middle-aged, perky, excitable, very talkative and had the quirky temperament of most female piano teachers I have met (with some exceptions). She had music and piano paraphernalia everywhere. Treble clef pencils, happy smiling eighth notes dancing on the wall, and other such things that reminded me of my days spent in music education classes. Everything to her was "neat" and I imagined that, in the entirety of her life, she had never had anything stronger than a sip of Apricot Brandy-only on one special occasion. Maybe she had carefully sipped some beer at one point, I don't know. I was, unbeknownst to her, living a carefree bachelor life which included weekend debauchery all in the pursuit of female companionship. More than not, countless money was spent on alcohol and 99% of the time no female companionship was to be had. Nevertheless, I liked Carolyn. She was of a different cloth than me, but we got along just fine.

Metro Music was her parent's house, all cleared out to make way for multiple teaching rooms. Carolyn had her studio on the first floor. When I walked in the door, it was as if she was seeking some adult conversation after teaching kids all day. She wouldn't let me get up to my room without an involved conversation about one topic or another. She paced as she taught her students. Though I think she cared, Carolyn may have had a little bit of "fuck it" about her.

Students followed with her spreading the word, and soon I was teaching two days at week. On breaks, I would walk down to the local grocery store and grab a pre-made sad tasteless sandwich. Though Hurricane looked like it was stuck in a fundamentalist time warp, my employment there made me feel like a working Joe. I had a j-o-b. Not much of one, but still a job.

I had one kid who played bass that had some mighty fast fingers. Every riff I gave him, he devoured instantly. Every exercise, the same thing. Often during lessons, I pitted him against a metronome and the kid's right hand could easily spend the afternoon in the 120bpm and much without a hitch. What my expensive education had taught me about right hand finger movements, this kid had naturally. He was a joy to teach.

On the flip side, I had one poor kid that nearly drove me insane. Carolyn brought me this scraggly looking kid whose family situation was bad and funds were negligible. She, being a kind heart, found a way for him to afford lessons. She, no doubt, was the source of the funds. Every lesson he wore the same yellow punk rock shirt that depicted a guy pissing on some records with the words "Golden Hits." I wondered about the parents who couldn't put the proverbial two-plus-two together on what the kid wore. All this I could look past, but what wore me out was the amount of time he took between each note. Let me illustrate:
Silence for 20 seconds.
A strangled, garbled "E" open string makes its way out of the amp.
Silence follows. For a minute plus.
I inquire, "What note is next?" Silence.
"F?" comes the tentative response.
"Yes. How do you play the F?"
Indeterminate silence follows.

It got so bad, I would stare out the window and watch the birds flying over the fields thinking, "Take me with you, pleeeeasseee!!!" Or I would write poetry to myself about "the dull hammer of meaningless notes." It was not even ambient music, but glacial rendering of notes bearing no relation to each other. It was downright horrible and when Carolyn inquired, I told her the truth. She asked to bear with it because of the poor lad's circumstances. So when piss yellow t-shirt came for his lessons, it was not a teacher's dread of a defiant student, but rather one of the worst boredom I have ever experienced. Except for one other delightful lad.

This awkward lad with braces could not understand between the letter name of a note and its rhythmic value. For example, after drilling him over and again, I would ask,
"What LETTER is that note?"
"Quarter note."
"No, what LETTER NAME is that note?"
Pause. "Half note?"
And this would go on like this for thirty minutes, thus giving me a glimpse of one possible hell especially designed in my honor. That kid, although of sweet disposition, was another that ground away my patience and damaged my teaching enthusiasm.

Let's Digress Again

Ah, but let us digress here for what steady readers may have grown accustomed- a lesson of love. Or lust masquerading as love or divisions thereof. Although I was the first teacher at Metro Music, Carolyn added other teachers and one of them was a violin teacher named D. When mine eyes laid upon the enticing D, I wanted to connect.

Somehow, we began by leaving little messages for each other in the mailboxes. I'm not sure, but I think I initiated it. Carolyn was excited and encouraged our little romantic notes. She enjoyed her matchmaking part.

One note I left was the clincher. Carolyn told me that, after D read it, she replied: "How can I compete with that?" When love (or lust) inspires me, words flow out effortlessly. They may not be Keats or Shelley, but they did the trick. We set up a date.

At the Panda House in South Charleston, we both ordered Zombies- one of those totally frilly and very strong concoctions served in a ceramic cup with parasols. We had two each I believe, enough to make us both happy and hardily enjoyed the spicy and delish food. Conversation flowed easily and I thought secretly that she might work out well as a girlfriend. Well, yes and no, dear readers.

Back to my house and to my bed we went. I'm not sure how long we lingered afterwards, but when I dropped her off at her apartment, I had the impression that perhaps another date was in the bag since the evening had been stellar.

Oh you naive and stupid, stupid man.

You see, kind readers, men are always accused of being the hit-and-run, able to compartmentalize, love-'em-and-leave-'em types while women, we are told, are emotional creatures whose sexuality is inextricably tied to their emotions. Lies, lies, lies, myths and big mistakes. D was out for one fun night and a fuck and nothing more. Despite her being nice and saying yes to my phone call inquiries about another date, somehow she could never squeeze me in. I harbor no ill will against Ms. D, but a little honesty would have gone a long way. I still would have been bummed out. You see, for all my searching on those lost, hazy weekends, what I wanted was a steady girlfriend and D would have been primo. Oh well.

The End of Metro

I showed up at Metro for my usual round of students and Carolyn looks more serious than I have ever seen her. "My husband tried to kill me." She told me that her husband had been in jail for public intox or something else or other (She did tell me that he was a heavy drinker.). While incarcerated, he told the sheriff that, when he got out, there would be "a murder-suicide." Well, true to his word, he came over to the Metro house, armed with a .22 handgun and tried to kill her. The two small bullet holes, one of them going through to the outside, were all the evidence needed to back her story of struggling with her crazy ass husband. The sheriff came and got him-again. You got to love cops sometimes. They evidently didn't think that a death threat was enough to have a psych evaluation or keep him in jail longer. Motherfucker has to go and try to do it first. Ah, our legal system comforts so.

That ended Metro Music as unceremoniously as it began. Craolyn told me she had to move (No doubt!) and get the hell away from the man who was hell bent on killing her. It was, by far, the strangest ending to a gig I ever had. Them's the breaks.

I Know This Place

"And youth is cruel, and has no remorse

And smiles at situations which it cannot see."

Last night was the first meeting of what will become Tuesday night students. Already, I feel a weariness. This is not a good thing. I mean, evening one and already I feel a bit tired? Oh boy.

Though some would laugh at this, but I feel like I have paid a heavy price for giving private lessons on an instrument which I hold so dear. When I was younger, my skin was so thin. God, every little wrong, real or imagined, would grate my nerves. I never quite knew how to react or how much to react to people. That stuff is still hard to sort out. Now, I might get angry, but my skin is much thicker and I try to analyse what the person might be saying as opposed to completely assuming I know their intentions.

Perhaps the fact that I began so many years ago, giving my first lesson in 1977 while at college, brings on this weariness. I can't imagine what I taught then. It must have been a jumbled mess. Perhaps when I slogged through my days at Mack and Dave's ('80 or '81) at what seemed to be a lesson mill, there was a slow grind at my soul. I met some people, very engaging on a social level, but none ever on a musical one. I recall a 16 year old girl who had long fingernails, painted a bright red, who refused to cut them, even though every week I politely asked. It was an REO Speedwagon song that she never learned. She quit pretty soon thereafter. This was typical.

After graduation in 1986, I resumed some scattered lessons, using a church as my studio. I can only remember one kid who was pretty good on the electric. The problem is that young guys have the attention span of about a minute and I'm not sure what I taught him either. I had one dad who wanted to tape his son's lesson on the then new '80s video technology. Well, he walked around us, aimed over our shoulders and every angle he could get like he was a budding Marty Scorsese. I felt very uncomfortable and said a polite "No" to the documentary the next lesson.

One memorable student was this little boy (Chase? Chaz?) whom the parents and grandpa took great pride in showing off. He was adorable, but they paraded him out like a trained seal. He wore a cowboy hat, et al and tried to take on an adult affect to comical heights. He had even memorized a poem which was slightly bawdy that mentioned women's bras. Not really good child rearing there people, he is a real person after all, not your personal pride monkey. Bizarre.

A Brief Digression About Love I Suppose

I supplemented my income by teaching at home. I had some good students and one pretty memorable crazy bee-atch. Heather was everything I thought a girlfriend should be: tall, thin, long black hair, very artsy, complicated and she smelled heavenly for every lesson. I believed that I deserved a girlfriend like that, being an artsy musician and all. I don't know when I thought it was alright to cross the line and see her outside of the lessons, but all the signs I got from her were positive. We had some very easy conversations. I even went over to her house and the electricity between us (That is at least my perception) was tangible. She even took me up to her bedroom, but nothing happened. She gave me some of her poems to read. There were a few rather enjoyable kisses in my car. We went to a classical concert together. No coffee or cocktails afterwards. She had to go home. Hmm....

I thought the world of her until that big disconnect begins to happen between what we want and what we are getting. I was talking to her about going out with her camera and taking some shots. She may have even invited me, but then the she calls back and goes into this drama about some other guy wants to come and she can't take the jealousy thing. Well, that shot that day directly in the ass. She kept coming for lessons and all the while I knew that she was, at least at that point, playing cruel games with me. She had made a trip to NYC and announced at one lesson, "I thought of you when I bought this book." I think it was "Maurice" by E. M. Forester- a novel about a gay man and the forbidden taboo, etc. That pissed me off. I yelled, "What the hell is this? Do you think I'm gay?" I remember her laughing. Was it just a prank or was the cat playing with the mouse? Let me continue and you fucking tell me. I let the homo implications go and she continued lessons, but I was much wiser.

Let say this, all the while I was seeking counsel about her from a very wise female friend. This girl was not afraid to betray the "secrets of the Guild of Womanhood." One thing women know-other women. She calculated Heather's every move with uncanny accuracy and introduced me to the concept of Intermittent Reinforcement. IR is the worst because it's almost impossible to break free from. You see, whether Heather knew the concept or not, that was her game. It all blew up one afternoon.

The young devil called one afternoon and asked about borrowing something for her class at State. The conversation went smoothly, and she was using IR, but this time was different: I knew that she was just running a game. Everything was civil until I brought up all the issues that had been brewing in my head. She scrambled, trying to lie, but I blew up. It takes me a long time to blow, but when I do a volcano ain't got nothing on me, I let it all out. My tirade caused her to start crying, a move my friend had predicted, and I ignored her tears and let her have it with both barrels, baby. She sputtered something out about her having issues with her mom and that she could possibly "love me" (Ahh, the dagger and the Hail Mary both.). She even said, "Well, I won't be able to take lessons any more." I told her flat, "That's right. That's over too!" I was done with having my head fucked with, so see ya later.

Dear readers, why fuck with someone's head? Why be so cruel? Only her psychiatrist would know the answer to that. Addendum: Many years later, I played a wedding where her mom was getting remarried. I sure as shit knew who she was, but neither of acknowledged the other. That's fine with me. Break somebody else's balls.

Back From the Pangs of Lust

When UC hired me in 1987, my first student was a schizophrenic. At one point, he was looking into the mirror and said, "If you can see their face in your eyes, then you can talk to them. It's called shadowing." Yep, that's me, teaching music to the mentally ill .

At this school, I've had numerous devils who lead me around by the nose for 15 weeks until it finally dawned on me that I needed a stricter plan and a syllabus that was airtight. One student in case: each week he said he wanted something more challenging, so I'd give him a piece and he work on it for a week. The next week, "It's too difficult. Do you have something else?" Naturally, wanting to be a good teacher, I'd oblige. Sometimes it would take two weeks before he's back on the same track. The real kick in the balls was when it came to end of the semester and he told me it was my fault that we hadn't really gotten anything done. That drew a line in the sand for me. After the anger passed, I had a new approach to teaching at the school because I realized that most of the kids I see are about 80% bullshit, want to weasel out of any work and weasel into a good grade.

I had one kid miss for about six weeks and so I assumed he had just dropped the class. To my shock and utter discomfort, he waltzes into the lesson. I bite down hard on my anger- at a conservatory, I would have thrown him out on his ear- and remain as outwardly calm as I can. I ask him where he has been. He announces that other classes, have been so demanding, i.e. writing papers, that he didn't have time to come to class. This kid has balls. He says he can still work up the required pieces in time for the jury. Then we debate the number of those pieces.

"Three pieces for the jury."
"You said two."
"I did not. It's stated very clearly on the syllabus."
"I didn't get one."
"Yes you did. I hand them out the very first class and discuss in detail the requirements for this class."

Seriously, any reasonable person would have said, "Mr. Cock'n'Balls, you have missed too many classes and your attitude is confrontational and you are not telling the truth" and to the exit he would be led, but no, not in this safe haven of mediocrity. I had people above me to whom I must answer.

Jury rolls around and Mr. C'n'B shows up. Of course, I alerted our department head all about this loser and we wait for the big performance. It is a complete failure. Even in spite of all this, he has the utter, breath-taking audacity to ask what his grade will be. "B?" I must have had daggers in my eyes. "What not even a C?" The department head steps in and politely dismisses him. I gave the kid A for audacity, but F for Failure in the class.

Every semester, there are those kids who fail to answer numerous emails, only to act like I've failed to try to get a hold of them. Then they drop. The weariness.

Oh, I've had kids who couldn't play a scale the same way twice. Kids who thought they knew everything. Kids who believed they played better than me. But let me temper all this by saying I've had some real gems: all two of them. To Joe and Mike, they made it all worth it. I also had a dedicated group of guys in a guitar ensemble for sixteen years who worked very hard and had excellent concerts.

This brings us to Tuesday night. I had three students. One of which prompted this blog. This kid acted like he had every confidence in the world. That turns me off right away. A little confidence is a good thing, but he had this vibe. A vibe which told me that we might not be a good match.

We got onto the topic of tablature. Tablature is an old and antiquated way of "reading" music that goes back at least to the Renaissance. Modern notation was a vast improvement over this system, so I tried to make an analogy about technology in the Renaissance. He then told me that the Renaissance was technologically superior to today's world. I quickly jumped in and said, "Wait a minute. I'm talking about notation here." That left him quiet.

Though he told me he had been in a "death metal band" (Gee, no kid's party gigs for you guys, huh?), he read music like a newspaper. Curious. There may be hope yet.

We were not connecting for a while and then I realize something: I needed a new approach. I was getting unnecessarily defensive. I'm not supposed to be getting into a pissing contest, my job is to communicate, to connect. Then I got through.

At least two students haven't bothered to return emails, so I sent them a note saying that class has started and I'm assuming they are not interested. One ignored emails, contacted me then decided to drop before we spoke a word. I can't blame them really. To quote from the Godfather II:

"This is the business we've chosen."

Poetry and All That Jazz

I heard this poem yesterday on the Writer's Almanac read always by the sleepy, wistful voice of Garrison Keillor. It's one of those moments where a total stranger has captured something of your life. That's what poetry is supposed to do, not to obfuscate, but communicate a universal idea however private and personal the genesis.

I have been an accompanist it seems for many years. Actually, it's one thing that I'm actually good at on the guitar only because I do the one thing that seems so rare: I listen. I actually listen to the other person. Now there comes a point where being the accompanist feels like shackles. The soloist may smile and ask the audience to acknowledge your contributions, but everyone knows this is bullshit. No one cares or goes up to the accompanist after the concert. It's true to life.

The Accompanist

by William Matthews

Don't play too much, don't play
too loud, don't play the melody.
You have to anticipate her
and to subdue yourself.
She used to give me her smoky
eye when I got boisterous,
so I learned to play on tip-
toe and to play the better half
of what I might. I don't like
to complain, though I notice
that I get around to it somehow.
We made a living and good music,
both, night after night, the blue
curlicues of smoke rubbing their
staling and wispy backs
against the ceilings, the flat
drinks and scarce taxis, the jazz life
we bitch about the way Army pals
complain about the food and then
re-up. Some people like to say
with smut in their voices how playing
the way we did at our best is partly
sexual. OK, I could tell them
a tale or two, and I've heard
the records Lester cut with Lady Day
and all that rap, and it's partly
sexual but it's mostly practice
and music. As for partly sexual,
I'll take wholly sexual any day,
but that's a duet and we're talking
accompaniment. Remember "Reckless
Blues"? Bessie Smith sings out "Daddy"
and Louis Armstrong plays back "Daddy"
as clear through his horn as if he'd
spoken it. But it's her daddy and her
story. When you play it you become
your part in it, one of her beautiful
troubles, and then, however much music
can do this, part of her consolation,
the way pain and joy eat off each other's
plates, but mostly you play to drunks,
to the night, to the way you judge
and pardon yourself, to all that goes
not unsung, but unrecorded.

"The Accompanist" by William Matthews, from Foreseeable Futures. © Houghton Mifflin, 1987. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

Why Always the Junk?

On the way to work, I couldn't resist snapping this junkery on wheels. What is this obsession with junk?

The rusted scrap metal on top looked like it was simply laid on top without nary a thought about the poor bastards who might end with this straight through their windshield. Nice.