beautiful, funny, sad & true

In the interest of creating more levity, I’d like to share a little joke with you.

McCartney: Knock, knock.

Lennon: Who’s there?

McCartney: Fuck.

Lennon: Fuck who?

McCartney: No. . .fuck WHOM.

Ha ha. I should, of course, mention that I didn’t invent that particular joke. I did, however, choose the names of the characters involved, and I chose the picture and the following interesting video for this blog entry.

This is one of my Top Three, All-Time Favorite Dreams, along with Hydrox and The Organ Man.  I had it many years ago, not long after George Harrison died, and I just found it written out on a floppy disk in a box, and had to share it here.  You’ll like it, and you’ll like the other two as well.

* * * * *

A few weeks ago, I mailed off a tape of myself playing a George Harrison song.  It was my own arrangement of “Taxman”, which morphed into “Piggies”, then back into “Taxman,” with a quote of the “Something” guitar lick at the end.  Very well done, I thought.  I had seen an ad in the back of one of those musician magazines saying they were looking for versions of George Harrison songs to put on a memorial CD, since George had just died a week or two before.  The ad in the back of the magazine promised that I could win some prize.

A couple of weeks later, I got a call from a Russian guy (I’ll call him the Man, for reasons that will soon become obvious) who was a judge in the magazine’s contest.  He spoke in thickly accented but grammatically perfect English.  He said he had heard my tape, and that he liked my blending of the songs.  I thanked him, and he asked if we could meet sometime soon.  I agreed, and a week or so later we met in a little café, a converted house with canary yellow walls and hunter green wall-to-wall carpeting.  We walked through to the tiny back room, which was dimly lit by what appeared to be candlelight, although I saw no candles.  He appeared to be in his early to mid-forties, with salt-and-pepper hair parted on one side.  I asked his name, and he replied, “I can’t tell you that.”  I was puzzled.  He then pulled out a small pile of papers, one of which was the opened, emptied envelope—my envelope—in which I had mailed my George Harrison tape.  He got it, I thought.  People actually DO get these things.  He rifled through the stack, freeing a white postcard with red block-style letters that proclaimed boldly, “THIS IS NOT ILLEGAL”, and handed it to me.   The other side was blank.  It appeared to be a regular postcard.   He said nothing.

What does this have to do with George Harrison? the Genius behind all of my great interior monologues asked himself.

Suddenly, I remembered a spam e-mail message with the ‘This is not illegal’ heading that I had seen a thousand times before, but had always deleted.  Wishing that I’d read it at least once, I recognized this meeting for what it was.  This Man just used the tapes as a ruse to meet people and lure them into whatever scam he had going.  I decided to get as much information as I could about this guy.

He seemed to sense my apprehension, but proceeded to explain the next part of the process to me anyway.  He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a cheap-looking Russian Walkman, which he handed to me.  It was still in its plastic retail packaging, complete with price tag, which valued this pathetic item at twenty-nine ninety-five.  “You buy this now, keep it for three days. . .”   He trailed off inexplicably.  And then what, I thought, mail it back to you?  What a stupid plan. A silent moment or two passed between us.  I looked at the cheap package in my hand, set it back on the table, and then looked at my opened and emptied envelope sitting on the nearby table.

“Why can’t I know your name?”  I asked him.  He ignored the question and started to repack his briefcase.  I thanked him, shook his hand and got up to leave.  As I walked from the dark back room into the restaurant, it seemed to take an inordinately long amount of time.  I looked at the yellow walls, the dark green carpet, and the people in the cafe.  In the time since the Man and I had arrived, the empty restaurant had become completely full of people who seemed to be waiting for their chance to talk to the Man.  Every one of the two- or four-seat tables was filled with a very strange subset of humanity.  Each couple (for it appeared that they were all young families) had the look of the Lower Class about them.  With precious few exceptions, their hair was unwashed and greasy, and they had that particular, inimitable smell. Some were wearing dirty old flannel shirts that didn’t match their pants very well, and some were dressed up for the occasion, wearing what appeared to be hand-me-down polyester suits from the mid-1970’s.  It was as if this group of people had both accepted their lot in life and were actively trying to improve it at the same time, albeit in a strange and desperate way, a bit like an Amway convention in Purgatory.  A man with metal-framed glasses and an enormous mole on his forehead glanced in my direction as I left, but I kept moving and finally escaped the place’s pull.

I looked around and wondered which of my two cars I had driven.  As it turned out, I had driven my ancient copper-colored Celica coupe, and it was sitting near the curb.  As I walked toward it, the thought occurred to me that I should get the license plate number of the Man’s car, a very expensive-looking black Saab hatchback.  It was still parked around the corner, behind the restaurant.  There was a recycling box nearby, so I grabbed two empty plastic orange juice bottles that had been floating around in the Celica’s passenger seat for a couple of weeks, a pen, and a small piece of paper from the glove compartment.  I carried the bottles, but stuffed the pen and paper into my pocket.  I closed the door of the Celica and walked across the lawn toward the Man and the Saab.  The driver’s door was open, and the Man was standing behind the car with the hatch open, loading a small cardboard box of something I couldn’t quite make out.  He must have come out the back door of the restaurant, I thought, in order for him to be here already.  He saw me but made no attempt at conversation, just looked away again and continued whatever he was doing with the package.

There was another Russian guy, slightly younger than the Man, who appeared to be the Man’s friend.   He was standing between us on the lawn next to the driveway, rigging up a device to monitor telephone conversations.  My interior Genius said to himself, What is it with these guys?  They must really be professionals.

The Friend was connecting a large black wire that ran across the lawn from a pole across the street on which I was parked to his own box, which was at the edge of the restaurant’s driveway.  The wire was hanging about a foot off the ground, obstructing the lawn, so I said to the Friend, “Can I get through?  I just want to throw away my recycling.”   I had to get to the Man’s car.  This was becoming too strange.  Someone had to be told about this whole business.  The Friend pointed toward the street and said, in a similarly thick accent, “Go around that way.  I’ll lift the wire.  It’s too low here.”  He pulled the wire taut, slack, and taut again, raising it about three feet above the ground, to show me his intention.   He held it in place, and I walked in the direction he had pointed, ducking down to make it under the wire.  Just as I was underneath it, he let it go slack, and I felt it drape across my back.  It had a mild electric charge of some sort.  I fell to the ground in panic.  The first Man had joined his Friend and lowered another wire, which also fell down on me.  I felt myself go numb, but not too numb, and thought that maybe if I just didn’t move, they would raise the wires and walk over, in which case I could get up and run.  I forced myself to stay in that prostrate position.  I heard them mumbling to each other quietly, wondering about the extent of the damage to me, and what they should do about it.  They started to walk toward me, but the wire stayed on my back.

I was worried now.  I had gone very numb all over, and could no longer move.  There would be no one to tell the authorities what I had seen.  These men would get away with whatever bizarre scheme they were planning.  The George Harrison song contest was a ruse!  The Walkman sale was a ruse!  It was a ruse within a ruse!  Who knew how big this thing could be!  I had to get up, but I didn’t have the energy.   They were closing in now.

As I awoke, in the same position I had been lying in the street in my dream, paralyzed with what I thought was electricity but turned out to be simple fear, I realized that I was OK.  I took a deep breath and started to relax, when my answering machine suddenly clicked on.  The message started recording, and it sounded like a cell phone connection that was very noisy and full of static.  I remembered the phone-monitoring device the men had been assembling in my dream.  I was expecting a Russian-accented voice, but no one spoke.  They’re onto me, I thought.  They know. . .

Ummmm, hi.

Yeah.

I’m alive and well.  And busy.  Gosh. . .where to start. . .?

I’ve been doing lots of recording, with my friends from my first band ever.

I went on a random little day trip up the Columbia gorge with RockShowGirl, and we hiked to one of the many waterfalls and enjoyed the scenery along the curvy old highway.  On the way back, we stopped in Cascade Locks, where we ate the best bacon burgers either of us had eaten in our entire lives.  I suppose that means I’ll have to stop calling myself a ‘quasi-vegetarian epicure’ pretty soon, yeah?

I went to see an unbelievably amazing show; a double-headliner bill featuring Butterfly Boucher AND Emilie Simon.  Both are supremely talented (not to mention beautiful), and I got the chance to meet both of them afterwards.  I told Butterfly that I’d love to play cello with her the next time she’s in town, and she seemed like she was into the idea.

I did something I’ve never done before, and thought that I’d never do; I went to a minor-league basketball game.   [I will now pause for your exclamations of shock and horror.]   Ordinarily, I find most sporting events mind-numbingly boring, so I volunteered to take pictures (with someone else’s digital camera, which is much slower and less responsive than mine) of the game.  I took about two hundred, and I would guess that about three actually came out.  It was pretty funny.

I went to an amazing restaurant called Trébol with Jeannie-wa.  It was stellar, and I can’t wait to go back again.

I went to an amazing restaurant called Indish with BoringFish.  It was stellar, and I can’t wait to go back again.

I had a gig with IrishBand, which ended up being IrishDuo that night, because Violinist was in MileHighState.  It was the first time we’ve ever done a duo show like that, and it was actually quite fun.  I brought the accordion, and someone asked if we knew any Beatles songs.  I couldn’t help myself, and blurted out, “Yeah, I know all of them.”  This was their cue to throw obscure songs at me, to try and stump me, which didn’t happen.  “I Don’t Want To Spoil the Party”, “Let It Be”, “Blue Jay Way”, “Real Love”, all were par for the course.  It was super fun, and we may actually incorporate that sort of Beatles sing-along set into some of our future shows.  If anybody got pictures of that, I haven’t seen them.

I’ll spare you the technical details, but I bought some equipment for my cello which makes it possible to plug it directly into a PA channel, instead of having to mic it when I’m on stage.  It may have been a small step for mankind, but it was a giant leap for my cello career.

I went to a friend’s bachelor party, which lasted until six o’clock in the morning.   At around quarter to five, a neighbor called the cops to complain about the noise in general, but ‘in specific’, I’m sure it had to do with our hilariously horrible drunken guitar playing.  The cop couldn’t have been any nicer, actually.  He was great, and totally cool about it.  It was a super-fun party.  I spent the next day in bed, and got up around three-thirty to take a shower and make the hour-long drive up to SeaBird’s family’s home in the middle of a cedar grove on the edge of a hill, to eat incredible food, marvel over the kids, watch the neighbors’ enormous fireworks display, and celebrate a birthday, an anniversary, and the founding of our country.  They are my surrogate parents, and I always come away feeling rejuvenated after spending time with them.  People like that are very rare and special.

Yesterday, I bought new heads for my drums, installed them, tuned them up, and then recorded drum tracks for three songs in our FirstBand project.  I started working on a fourth song, but it was trickier than the other three, and I didn’t get a take that I was satisfied with, so I’m going to give it its due today.

So yeah.  Been all busy all the time lately, but I haven’t forgotten about you.  It’s nice to finally have spare minutes to let you know what’s been happening.  This is just an overview, too.  There’s been plenty more, such as going to movies and sushi with LJ and SeaBird, for example.

Today I woke up at nine and edited audio tracks, even before I’d had coffee, in order to get ready for today’s recording session.  It promises to be another good, productive day.  There’s certainly been a lack of ennui around here lately.

Okay.  Deep breath, diving back in now. . .

OneYearAgo

It’s been kind of a rough week.

Work has been super stressful this week, because one of the people in my department has been on vacation, and we’re pretty much down to a skeleton crew anyway, times being what they are.  I’m also pretty much broke from an expensive car repair and a high phone bill.   When I get stressed out and exhausted like I have been, the answer to every question is ‘No!’, even if the question is, ‘Hi, I’m a beautiful girl.  You look like you could use a hug.  Would you like to go out on a date?  My treat.’

On my way home for lunch today, I had six different cars pull in front of me, or run a stop sign, or box me in on the road, or something.  All in half an hour.  AND I still have to drive back.  Yeesh.  My nerves are kinda shot.

Luckily last night’s rehearsal with Lara was a blast.  We learned a Beatles song; one of their trickiest, in fact.  We got it sounding pretty good last night, but we each need to woodshed and tighten it up a bit on our own, and then we’ll rehearse again right before the show next Friday night.  The show with Susie on Wednesday was also a blast; I’d go so far as to say that it was one of our best shows.

There’s a story I’m working on that is an extremely rare subject for me to write about.  I had an experience about ten years ago that I’ve been trying to think of a way to tell here.  I was inspired by one of Tossed In’s latest entries, but I’m not quite sure how to frame it, or how to put it all into just the right words.  It’ll come, but it’s gonna be tricky.

And now it’s time to brave the traffic and head back out into the world again, after a much-too-short respite.  This month can not be over with soon enough, as far as I’m concerned.  Thank gawd for the three-day weekend.

OneYearAgo