Kinda Sorta Maybe Happy Gigster

Last nite, the Dynamic Duo played the annual Governor's Volunteer Service Awards.

Years past, we have drug our equipment through the doors, only to be met by clueless staff who don't know anything about musicians playing. We have stood there, waiting, wasting time, asking for a large cart to carry in our equipment. This year, I was determined to streamline everything.

My contact for the gig was succinct: "You start playing at 6:15 in North Hall." Well, clear as an unmuddied lake under an azure sky of deepest summer.

The usual displeasure of loading, putting on the monkey suit, feeling too fat, didn't warm up enough, etc. - all these things are de facto before gig feelings.

It took me six trips of walking to and from North Hall, before I was ready to sit down and tune up. By this time, sweat fell down my face like raindrops. This truly is one of those gigs where the hassle lies within the equipment load in. We need a flat dolly. What I have is grossly inadequate.

Although this is the Governor's award event, the man himself did not show. Neither did the lady Governess. Only being the hired help, I haven't any info as to the no show, but I would have to say that the people who traveled from all over state to get their award and to have their picture taken with the Gov had to be sorely disappointed. There was no announcement of this fact nor apology.

One thing I like about being a Happy Gigster is that I often get an insider's look at social events. At this gig, the tables are already set with salads, desserts and water glasses-all of them wet with condensation. It is also interesting to watch the staff and to hear the passing commands of those women who are in charge.

One thing I hate about it all is the ubiquitous treatment as a second class citizen. People, I have said this before: despite your social status you may believe you possess, once you get slated as the musician, you are treated as the hired help. (When I retire, I will enjoy the fact that I no longer have to be treated like shit for playing an instrument.)

Even the waiters ignore you sometimes. Last night, no less than two rude waiters ignored our requests for water. One waiter was asked and he said "Sure, " but then kept on walking. One, who had her hair up so high that we called her "Pebbles," just went about without a hint of acknowledgement. Sure, it's tough being in the food service industry and they get rotten treatment as well, but I'd figure there would be a little camaraderie among the hired help. Finally, a kind soul recognized that that we were, in fact, two human beings and not merely props that make noise. We just wanted water, FFS!

Every now and then, equipment goes squirrelly. It just happens. Perhaps it's temperature, the shaking from moving or perhaps those delicate electronics just go haywire sometimes. Kinda like really intelligent people, ya know?

Last night my brand new tuner and my third string had a schizophrenic battle over who was more insane.

Tuner: "You're sharp!"
String: "I'm not!"
Tuner:"You're in tune!"
String: "@#$% you. I'm in tune."

Upon checking said string against the others, often it was out, way out. This went on all throughout the gig. It didn't help that the bottom three strings were new and reacting to the air conditioning.

When we began, it was like wet noodles: limp, out of tune and nowhere near our level of playing. This continued for a few pieces until we both realized the tuning situation had to be resolved. I kept tuning between songs. Lisa didn't feel like herself. In fact, she said she felt like she could play the gig seated. This is something she never does. Never.

We decided to switch styles over to jazz. Finally, it sounded like us. I kept getting a little feedback, but all was well.

I told her bluntly, "Despite how well we play, we still get paid." Blunt, but true.

Entrees consumed, speeches underway equals time to scooby. Now, in defense of the wonderful person who gives me this gig every year, we are recognized from the podium, by name, by the MC. We are even given a round of applause for our efforts. That, my dear and few readers, is a rare, rare thing.

The speaker had a voice which was like railroad spikes to my head, soooo I loaded everything I could onto the inadequate dolly and we exited as quickly as possible. Reaching the exit doors, there was caution tape causally strung in front of the most convenient of exits. It was so awkward, that someone asked, "Do you need help?"

Any reasonable person would have just walked over and helped, but Mr. Helpful chose merely to inquire and not do anything useful to help someone struggling with about 70 pounds of crap in a doorway in which the heavy door refuses to stay open an inch.

These things are what made me retire from the playing scene during the 90's. I had had enough of the low pay, the mercenary attitude of most musicians, the constant hassle and the indignities of second class Three Stooges citizenship in the so-called elite ranks of musicians.

In the ever growing personal jargon of Robert Fripp, he writes about the...

Four Qualities Of Musicianship.

Genius

Professional Master / Mystery Musician

Happy Gigster

I will be never be under Genius, nor Master/Mystery Musician. I think of myslef as a Professional, but last nite, all things considered, I was a humble

Happy Gigster (who complains about near everything).

West Lib Stories: Near Suicide is Not Really Painless

There is one tale that must be told from the West Liberty catalog. One that involves near suicide.

One night I was just hanging out in my dorm room. That would be the roach infested, frat boy drunken haven known as Bartell Hall. Bar-hell, if an accurate moniker was to be chosen.

My frat boy roomie, Tom, or as he liked to refer to himself "T" was a total ass kissing wanna be and teller of tall tales. I tried my best to get along with him, but our values were not even within the same solar system. I didn't understand his need to fit into a rigid and unforgiving guy world social structure anymore than he understood my contempt for it nor my desire to be an independent. I would listen to his sage advice on girls and his tales of self-glory.

One fucked up night, two fellow music majors showed up. Not a good idea considering the outright anti music major sentiments displayed by my fellow lodgers. Something else: one of them appeared to be really intoxicated.

Me thinks: this is not going to go well.

And for fuck's sake, it turns into a continuous disaster that lasts the whole evening.

For the sake if anonymity, even after all these years, we'll call the two dramatis personae, A and W.

Well, it's W who is so messed up, that he instantly begins to stumble around the room. The door is open and the frat music is blaring from all the rooms. The testosterone is pumping and the drums beating hot. Shouts of "Faggot" has already graced the air several times of that tender domicile as the mob mentality begins to bloom.

W decides to amp things up a bit and fall into Ts golf clubs. T then must save face in front of his frat pack and T flies into a "I'm going kick your ass rage." Even his frat bros laugh at his false chest pounding, declaring it null and void on the machismo scale. What is a fight with a music faggot major? Nothing. Not a challenge.

I decide that W and A are playing a dangerous game and best we head out to anywhere but this butthole of a place. Shouts of "faggots" bid us farewell as I take them down the stairwell as best I can. W decides to race down the stairs as fast as he can. He is hell bent on hurting himself.

The rain is pounding down as we chase W past the track and up the hill. We tackle him. Now, A is a strong and wiry boy from Mullens. We both have trouble getting W under control and to stay on the ground. In fact, he successfully extricates himself several times before we bring him down. Meantime, the rain pounds us. We are muddy, soaked and run ragged from Mr. I'm Gonna Offit.

I look up and see his roommate, Jeff Nugent, walking up the hill with guitar in hand. I call out to him. Surely he will want to help prevent W from his path of self-destruction. He ignores me and has an expression of contempt and annoyance. He going off to fucking practice while we try to get W to not shuffle off the old mortal coil. Make no mistake, cartooners, Mr. Nugent heard me loud and clear and saw what was happening. I never saw him in quite the same light again.

W promises to be a good boy if we let him up and like the dumbasses we were, as soon as he was let free, he tears off like a shit storm towards the dorm (Reports were that earlier he had been in the music department tearing things off the bulletin board. W was known as an outstanding student. Luckily, no one of importance saw him in his condition.).

He bolts up the stairs like he's jacked up on speed (what combination or drugs he was on, I have no idea). He makes to his dorm floor, out onto the balcony and tries to climb over the chest high brick wall to do himself in.

Well, we struggle here and then into the hallway. By then, some people have begun to help us with him. All the while he has been yelling that he wants to kill himself. Total circus by this point.

Eventually, we get him into a room and onto the floor. There's a couple of guys now, all trying to get the motherlicker to stay still. He wrestles us, we wrestle him. It's a goddam amateur wrestling hour by now.

I distinctly remember at one point, having him on the bathroom floor (fuck knows how we got there) and him raising up and banging his head on the pipes several times. Like an enraged dumb animal, he just didn't notice.

Finally after hours of this, whatever he was on began to wear off and the old W began to come back. I can't remember what was said nor do I remember any tearful thanks, but I wasn't about to let someone kill themselves over West Liberty frat boys, politics, music department professors or whether or not it was an old fashioned broken heart. I just don't remember.

I had seen other self-destructive actions by W before, but this one really took the proverbial cake.

Years later, A and I were talking about this and he said he felt bad about dragging me into the situation. I have no regrets.

W was always the teacher's favorite and I think finally the pressure of being Mr. Perfect broke the seal of sanity and he just wanted out of the whole game.

Happy ending: W settled down, got himself a hot girlfriend the next semester, evened out and his attempts at killing himself were no more.

Last I heard, he was teaching school somewhere in Ohio.

A Few of My Favorite Things

Things I like...a lot.

1. Mary-Louise Parker

Season Six of Weeds is coming in August and since we don't get Showtime, we wait for the DVDs months later, but I have become a fan of the star of this wacky series. Kevin Nealon is a hoot to be sure, but MLP is the central dysfunctional character who never seems to learn from her mistakes.

Yes, we all can see that MLP is a beautiful woman, but there's something about her that really catches me. Maybe it's that emotional distance, the standoffish snootiness that acts as mask for a wild party angel. Can't say, but that's what I see. I sense, that in her personal life, that she is a diva and difficult.

When friends in mine were in NYC for a short visit. they were staying in an apartment building where she lives. Imagine my excitement. "If she drops a tissue, pick it up! I want it." I was only half-serious. They saw her with some "skanky looking guy" who was carrying her luggage. Unshaven bad boys, it would seem to me, would part of her personal life.

They saw her in the lobby and none of their party was particularly thrilled. I would have been gobsmacked, as the Brits say. Later in the week, the doorman stopped their entourage from getting on the same elevator with her which really made them miffed. I thought that was stupid too, but a big star she is, yes?

2. Sushi

And lots of it.

Count 'em. 38 pieces of delicious food heaven.

No, I did not pound that down myself. My compadre and cohort in the sush consumption did about half. We are sush masters. Stand back.

At Taste of Asia, they have boats A, B and C listed on the menu. Figuring out that a-la-carte ordering was going to cost more, we went in on boat B.

"Can we eat all that?" "Is it too much?" We had doubts, but they turned out to be foolish doubts. We knocked it out and then some.

The trick with sush is to eat slowly and don't drink a lot of Sapporo. Every morsel is carefully considered, as this is a special treat, to be eaten with care.

Our waiter said that there was a Boat C, which was on the menu, but they had a special boat not listed. The price? $125.

"Does anyone order that?"

"Yes. Two ladies come in here and order that and eat all of it."

Well. Rock on.

3. Zombie movies

When I heard AMC was going ahead with their series, The Walking Dead, I thought it was about time. Truly, I had imagined one day that HBO would give George Romero carte blanche to have the final way to express a story about how the survivors would deal with a post-zombie world. Judging from Romero's Diary of the Dead, I think his best work is behind him.

Along comes a comic book (Er...graphic novel, pardono moi) to generate a TV series. Who da thunk it?

I think this is going to be huge.

Enter the sweepstakes to become a walk-on.

More favs later.

Find a Penny

"Find a penny, pick it up. All day long, you'll have good luck."

On Saturday, during the Aunt Effie weekly trip to the House of Hair Poof, the 84 year-old was doing her usual glacial (God love her)pace up the ramp when she spotted a shiny penny on the ground.

"Pick it up." This didn't surprise me. She is a model of thrift and modesty.

"Now, put it in your shoe."

"Ok. Why?"

"You'll have good luck."

Who am I to judge? I put in in my right tennis shoe and forgot about it.

Several hours later, I'm at the light on 57th street in KC. The light turns green, my green arrow as clear as the daylight, I proceed to turn left.

Loud squealing of tires jars me into focus: turning to my left, some idiot in a black Dodge Ram Mondo truck has decided to run the light. He struggles to gain control, veers towards the sidewalk a bit, but manages to stop before T-boning me.

Yep. A full T-bone into my side and imagine the consequences.

File this under: yikes!

Did my aunt's advice save me and my car?

I wouldn't bet a penny against it.

(Even if they sell for a buck.)

My Number One Post: Hydrating Keith

Blogger's note: This little story is my number one. That is to say, somehow this true story has made it around the world. God bless Keef.


When Chuck Leavell (keyboards for the Rolling Stones) came to town, some of Charleston's local musicians became his backup band on Mountain Stage. Leavell revealed a Rolling Stones' moment to my friend Doug.

At the soundcheck during an enormo-dome outdoor fest, Mick kept harping on to the guys that the heat could dehydrate you.

"You gotta keep hydrated, guys. Even tonight, you gotta keep hydrated." On and on, Mick went about staying hydrated.

When evening came and the gig was about to start, Mick launched into his hydration speech to the troops yet again:
"Even though it's dark, you have to stay hydrated. Staying hydrated is so important."

Finally, Richards had had enough.

"Mick, shut the fk up about hydrating. I'll put an extra ice cube in my vodka."

God love Keith Richards.

To Love the Boosh

I know what you're thinking.

Get your minds out of the gutter.

Fear not, I have come to praise the British comedy duo of The Mighty Boosh.

A friend started talking about this surreal comedy a few months ago and even with his enthusiastic and funny explanation of some of the sketches, I wasn't convinced. It didn't sound like meine cup of tea.

Boy, was I wrong.

The central characters are Vince Noir and Howard Moon. Vince, fashionista and would-be Glam rocker and Howard aspiring jazz musician-connoisseur/and overly serious actor. They live with a gorilla named Bollo who DJs at local nightclubs and a wiseacre shaman named Naboo. Don't forget the Moon-who spouts total nonsense.

Sounds nuts? And then some.

The Legend of Old Gregg is one of their best. All the fisherman ghost tales cliches they poke fun at is sharp comedy. (Follow the links to part 2 and 3)

This isn't going to be for everyone. Surreal humor stops a lot of people, but the characters they create are unforgettable.

Give it a chance. Ya never know, you might find yourself saying, "You'll drink what Jeff drinks!"

Quiet Time

This is from the Robert Fripp Diary of June 6, 2010:

Posted by (me) eclecticguy on June 03, 2010

I come to praise the morning sitting and to ask a few questions. In my very brief exposure to this practice, I have to say that it is remarkable in every way. The morning sitting has become part of my routine for the past few months and I have noticed some things going on which do not concern me, but rather intrigue me… Does it sound like I’m going in the right direction?
And one final plea: has Robert ever recorded his teaching of this?

When he led our group through this, it was marvelous. Personally, I think this would be helpful to others who have not experienced it and to preserve it for posterity…

His answer:

“It is not possible to exaggerate the importance of the morning sitting. Life without it is rather like trying to walk without legs.
It is to be introduced in person, for several reasons, so a recorded and/or written introduction does not have the same effect. Its preservation in posterity is its practice. And the quick answer to Mr. EclecticGuy is, yes.”

Yes. That is me, eclecticguy, being answered by the mighty Fripp. Do I seek his attention? Hell yes. Was I being sincere? Oh lord, yes. Let me explain.

The morning sitting?

Back in February of ’08, Fripp and the Crafties held a four-day introduction to Guitar Craft. One of the things that have remained with me, besides the right hand picking technique ideas, is the morning sitting.

The morning sitting is simply to find a quiet place, sit in a chair and mentally focus on the parts of the body that usually harbor tension and systematically relax each one until a total bodily unity is felt. Well, that’s my definition anyway. This has nothing to do with spirituality, God or angels in the architecture. It’s simple biofeedback. And baby, it’s beautiful. I first time I actually felt like I was getting real results, it was like I was floating. Traditional education does not give us any tools for dealing for our physical, emotional or psychological well-being. This seems to me to be a very useful tool for one element of creating balance.

Fripp recommends a half an hour and on the course we met every morning at 7 to sit in utter quiet. (Once you got past that the man who has been a part of King Crimson for decades was sitting mere feet away from you, the relaxing and focus came easily. The impact of this man’s presence in total silence was something to experience.) I have not yet reached a commitment level where I rise before work to get in a full half-hour, but I have found that I can achieve total relaxation within fifteen minutes. My wife calls it my “quiet time.”

I will not bore you with endless details, but I tell you that this short little relaxation/meditation exercise has changed so much. This has spilled over into public performance. While the Velvet Gypsies were doing their bit for Festivall, I could sense when tension was beginning to build in parts of my body. Tension and nerves are the enemies of the performer who must believe in his/her own abilities and the music that’s being presented. If there is any doubt, this can effectively cripple the player. I know this all too well.

I would have liked to have known about this twenty years ago, but maybe my know-it-all youthful self would have just been uncomfortable with any real self-discovery techniques. We are educated, but remain so fundamentally ignorant about our own bodies and natures.

If anyone expresses genuine interest, I will post the process I go through.

Otherwise, you’ll have to guru on yer own, lads.

A Tough Act To "Fool"ow

Every have one of those moments when exactly the right words come out of your mouth?

We, the Velvet Gypsies, were waiting to do our 4pm set at Festivall and the act before us was this street performer. A kind of all around juggler, balancing act and comedian. A good act to be sure.

And he was certainly pleasing the modest crowd out in front of Taylor Books.

I was standing in the back with two friends, watching this guy. Friend no. 1 goes, with sincerity, "Maybe you guys should get this into your act." We all laughed. Then, we all realized just about the same thought: we have to follow this guy.

"That's going to be a tough act to follow."

I said, "Oh yeah. That's like trying to follow James Brown."

Then friend No. 2, whose motives are often of the trying-to-undermine variety stated the point again. "That's going to be a tough act to follow."

Immediately, I knew that he was trying to psych me out.

I said casually, as the fool's act came to an end, "Yeah. It would be."

Pause.

"If we cared."

Then I strolled off to leave those guys in laughter. I felt like Miles Davis was with me. At that moment, I realized how valuable years of playing experience truly is, plus I have nothing to prove anymore. I play for enjoyment.

We didn't rehearse five weeks, three to four hours a night, just to be brushed off by a "fool."

Not even the rain stopped us. I am so proud of us.

Project Velvet Gypsies: Done

After five or so weeks or rehearsal, comes the true and only measure of a musical ensemble: public performance. The rehearsal is a laboratory, a safe haven, even a place where time can be wasted, but all musical endeavors ONLY come to life before an audience.

The Velvets have their foot in the door of Festivall, Charleston's annual art-music fest. We performed today at 11am and 4pm. That was a crucial goal. I want our name out there.

Overall, I felt very satisfied with what we accomplished. I wanted to do the Velvet name justice. That, I felt, we accomplished. And most importantly for me, nerves never got the better of me. I felt pretty relaxed and present to the moment, never getting that panicked feeling.

(This I attribute to the morning sitting. Thank you, Robert Fripp.)

Sometimes you can have all these voices in your head and worry about what the audience is thinking. It's a bit like wiggling under a microscope I suppose. This mental "spiral" can take any public performer away from their craft, crushed under the weight of their own doubts.

I wasn't worried a minute. The music is what it is, the players only as good as they are, all things being equal between audience and players. The worst mistake is to try to be something that you are not: the audience instantly senses that something is not right. And if it's not right, then it never cooks.

One interesting comment: "I can't even hear that fast." We had a few barn burners. My personal goal was to have music that challenged me. I didn't want slow-slow-slow for the sake of safety of performance. To hell with that.

The audience was with us, I felt, even when goofing on poor old Elvis.

He was a Velvet Elvis today.

Call Him "Keiser"

Keiser:
1. Noun. Kaiser - the title of the Holy Roman Emperors or the emperors of Austria or of Germany until 1918.

2. The nickname of a hard-ass music professor.

The King

Harald Weisner wasn't universally known as "the keiser" or king, but when a fellow student told me of that sobriquet, I soon learned that it fit.

Weisner taught Music Theory and Ear Training 3 (We called it Ear Straining). He was a typically thorough and organized, but he also underestimated and, by his attitude, indicated that he thought very little of our intelligence or abilities. He moved through basic harmonic concepts in the Theory class (By comparison, the kids at UC moved at light speed, getting to concepts far beyond what covered.) telling us repeatedly, in so many words, that these ideas were far over our heads.

In Ear Training, he was more blatant, telling me flat out that "some people will never get this no matter how long they practice." Weisner believed that most of us were stupid and that only a select few could understand what he was teaching.

Now, there are several ways to view this. Weisner is a very bright man and perhaps he should have kept certain thoughts private, but I believe his greatest mistake was to not encourage his students, regardless of their abilities. It was his egotism that got in the way, plus I believe that he had arrived at a very poisonous stage in teaching: he believed in his own failure. I think that "Harry" thought of himself as being a very great composer (a common delusion among profs and a spirit killing one at that) and that the world hadn't recognized his greatness. He cited a colleague who had garnered awards and performances who knew "that I was a much better composer." Inside, he had poisoned himself with these ideas. In fact, of all the teachers, it was Weisner who most embodied this rhetoric of failure and passed it on to his students.

He actually said, as I can recall it some thirty years later, "Just a thought for some of you who aspire to be composers, I have many works, just sitting gathering dust in a drawer. " Well, boohoo, dude. I have learned that you make your own opportunities and that if composition is your true calling, you keep trying to get performances of your music no matter the players or ensemble.

When I was senior, I began to see old Harry slip. One time, he came in with the most bloodshot eyes ever. He looked even more skull-like than usual. "For everyone else, I'll say I was up all night with a sick puppy, but with you guys I'll tell you I was playing cards and drinking scotch." He crossed the line. We were like his friends. It was both fun, cool and creepy. I no think of this when I try to get real chummy with my students.

Then there was the incident while walking down the hallway in the music department when he began to make "whooo" sounds and extended his arms like he was an airplane. Someone asked him about it and he said, "Why? You guys do it." Suddenly student and teacher are equal?

The crowning moment was when we invited him to a keggar at our trailer. I called him and his voice was one of both surprise and delight. His entrance was hilarious as his car went just a little into the ditch. Smooth one there, Bergermeister. A couple of students had to help push him out. I didn't help. I was paying for the keg.

He drank with the best of us. I think all of us were a little afraid, in awe, but secretly thinking this was both cool and laughable. He hit on this one girl so hard-even licking her ear. We were all well into our cups when he stated flatly that older men were better lovers because they had more experience. True to a point, dude. The problem is that young girls don't like creepy old guys because we are old, regardless of experience.

The evening ended with us all hanging about in the living room listening to some Kansas that a friend of mine put on. When asked his learned opinion, his reply was simple: "It's modal." Never a big fan of rock or popular music.

Years later, I was planning on a trip to Wheeling and decided to roll the dice. I was heavy into composing at the time, so I called the good Doctor to see if he would take a look at my music and give me his thoughts. "I won't say I like it just because you are traveling this far" he stated with all the bluntness for which he was noted. I knew he wouldn't any and didn't expect anything less.

My impression that I have taken away from the meeting is that, somehow I surpassed what he had expected me to accomplish. He stated, "I'm surprised that you're still doing this."

As opposed to selling shoes? Did you think music was a goddam hobby for me?

The next impression was that I had baffled him. He muttered and meandered and couldn't think of anything real to say about the score. Now please realize that I was DEEP into complex music at that time. I was using all sorts of complex procedures to create the music (cell composition) and I genuinely believe he was a little blown away by what he saw. If it was simple and stupid, he would have flatly stated so. He didn't know what to say:there's the clincher baby.

Mein professor liked the ladies back in the day. Evidently this hasn't changed.

What's In a Name?

How does a name get changed?

I said, "The Velvet Gypsies," but magically it has become the VBs.

Oh well.

The Velvet Gypsies is a subsidiary of the Velvet Brothers which is a subsidiary of Velvet Corporation which has one nonnegotiable and hardfast rule: rum.

The Wreck of the Patrick J. Fitzgerald

What do you do after you graduate with a degree in Music Education and yet you loathe the very idea of teaching in public schools?

You flounder like a damn fish.

But first, some necessary background. It wasn't all gigs for the tortured souls who, like idiots, dreamed of a career in music. Oh no we had to endure. So, before the Year of Floundering, I recount some choice moments before I left West Lib. Oh yeah.

Fitzy

Mr. Fitzgerald taught Elementary Music-a class which all music majors feared and rightfully so.

Why?

"Fitzy" was a flamboyant homosexual who often made you feel very uncomfortable by his looks and comments. This is the late 70's kids and all that political correct-sexual harassment was far in the future. He could be in flame mode and you never quite knew what Mr. Sparkles was going to say, but you knew it was going to be laden, like a lead sandwich, with innuendo.

He could also be exceptionally funny and charismatic. He was an extraordinary teacher who lit up any room he walked into. He could make even uncomfortable sports majors laugh during Music Appreciation.

He was also acutely aware that every music major, regardless of their inclinations towards or against, had to take and pass his class. I watched a girl, a good student, weep after her presentation which she delivered in a desperate trying-too-hard-to-please frenzy. It was obvious she put everything into it, working countless hours. Fitzy used his power and crushed with his criticism.

My project came together as the result of several things: creativity, a hot girlfriend named Jean (gorgeous, but not so faithful) and a bottle of whisky I received from her as a birthday present. I had no idea what the hell I wanted to present as my final project. I certainly didn't want to do what everyone else had done: these over-the-top-but-by-the-book projects that smelled of ass kissing.

I wrote a short tune about April, my month of birth, and it being "rainy, rainy, rainy." Jean came over to help me finish it. And after it was done we drank some of the Canadian booze and ended up in the sack.

Seeing all the previous train wrecks and those students who had passed with flying colors, I cannot say I walked into Fitzy's class with iron-clad confidence, but since I had such a marvelous evening prior, that probably calmed the old nerves quite a bit.

What pulled me through was the catchiness of my melody. In fact, I can still sing you that little ditty some thirty years later.

Later, when I was just treading water getting ready to graduate, I was in Fitzy's Functional Piano class-a class which really helped me years later when I was in the music ministry biz at St. Anthony's. It was at 8 AM, Friday. Needless to say, Thursday night was party night, so more than a few times I rolled into there a la Keith Richards: disheveled and still a little drunk. It wasn't wise to cut Fitzy's classes because you were going to see him in the damn music department hallway and he would give you that look. Besides, he was a lot of fun in that class.

One valuable lesson that old Sparkles taught me was that it was possible to have a good time, but still be responsible. Regarding an MENC gathering, he told me, "I go wild" and his face said everything. It was a full flame on to be sure. "But I get my work done too." Ain't that the truth.

The mighty Fitzgerald passed on a few years ago.