Cole Ledbetter, if that’s really your name. You told some real fine and fanciful stories, though a little far fetched for my taste, me preferring the close fetched. Stop trying to make fetch happen, I can hear the gruntled meangirl say. But I wasn’t trying to make fetch happen. I was making close fetched happen, which is a horse of a different calibre. By the way, who won the Kentuky derby? Of course I know I misspelled Kentucky. But it is a topical reference, like a topical ointment I like to spread on my crotch in areas where fungal infections are common. And that reminds me, last night I saw one of those comedians who used to be on Saturday Night Live back in the day, and she was talking about how she was being a mom and playing Motown and getting her son to help her baking and then she was saying that he came out of his shell (teenagers, am I right?) but then he started to laugh and have fun. But he said, “I feel like in a commercial. But the announcer is going to say ‘if you have hear voices that express thoughts of depression or suicide see your doctor right away’.” Yeah, that would make a good stand up topic. I often stare gape mouthed at my television as they make those mandatory disclaimers about the side effects of certain medications. Lenny Bruce, of course, has already been there, done that. He had a bit about opium suppositories. Google it, kids. Ahead of his time, and still funny, still relevant. As Frank Zappa said: “Lenny Bruce died so I could say _____ on stage.” But like, they say all of this disgusting stuff about side effects causing explosive diarrhea but the voice is so soothing and there are distractions galore with the “actors and actresses” trying to be all cute so you don’t notice, and always in the passive voice, perfected by corporate culture for damage control in public relations. Like, the side effects didn’t cause the deaths, it just coincidentally happened. But then I suspect that the Viagra ads that warn you to see a doctor about erections lasting more than four hours are more promotional than anything else.
Yeah, so I played guitar at Temblor last Tuesday. It was because my saxophone’s G # key was stuck, and when I tried to dislodge it, the pad came loose, rendering my horn unplayable. But they have an extra guitar, so I sat in on guitar. But I didn’t solo. But other than that it went well. We were playing modal tunes like “So What,” “Cantaloupe Island,” “and Maiden Voyage.” We played “Dolphin Dance,” too, which has a strange form, so it was hard to follow and I got lost. But I was not the only one. No, other people were lost on that tune, too. In fact we had to pack it in and save it for a rainy. So that was my Tuesday. I had a pastrami courtesy of Temblor for setting up the sound system. I told them I was Reuben, since he was on the actual crew list but arrived too late to set up, and they bought it. But what if I had said I was Pastrami, and ordered a reuben, what would have occurred?
Since my Alto Saxophone is now out of commission, I now need to either get it fixed, or switch to Tenor. My Tenor is a Yanigazawa. Very reputable Japanese precision engineered instrument. Also, my teacher Paul Perez, is one of the best Tenors in town, so why would I not take advantage of that? Problem is that it is heavy to lug around on the bus, but maybe a gig bag? Yes, I will switch my C Melody to my Tenor case, and Bob’s your uncle. Bob is actually my father, but he’s also my cousin’s uncle. So, then it’s settled. Case closed. Figuratively and literally.
What else, what else, what else? I continue to believe that the Bullet Journal is a life changer, but I have yet to incorporate it into my daily, yeh, even my weekly, or pray tell, my monthly routine. But I will. I will. I will do it. When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries. I was hearing my friend Harrison Holleran talk about a book he was reading about anxiety and depression, and we read about a study of baboons. A troop of baboons, as they are called. Murder of crows, but a study of baboons ? Yes, we went around the circle and read sections. Noah Ward was there, too. It went pretty good for the Hemlock Club, notorious for their lack of order and decorum. But the thing about the baboons was this: they had a hierarchical structure which was great for when you were on top, but if you weren’t up there with the elites, you were screwed. There was the alpha baboon named Solomon, but then there was everybody’s punching bag, and whipping boy, named Job. But over time Solomon began to lose his grip, and was challenged by Uriah (interesting choice of name, because Uriah was the husband of Bathsheba and when wicked king David espied her from his rooftop as she was bathing, he plotted to have Uriah killed, so he instructed his Generals to put Uriah on the front lines and fall back. Which they did. Was Bathsheba Solomon’s mother? Anyway, people should think before assigning people Biblical names, says the fool who named his devil dog Delilah). But getting back to the baboons. The blasted, bloody baboons? So Uriah started to pick on Solomon, and then, he lost his status, was kicked to the curb. He eventually wandered off not to be seen again. What implications this has for me and you is that we are all, unless we are among the 1%, at the bottom of the status ladder, and this is causing us all a lot of anxiety and depression. We are not alone.
It is funny that I got to play guitar Tuesday because you know I am obsessed with guitar lately and spent all day the other day just figuring out chord voicings and also I did a guitar arrangement of Stella by Starlight in Bb. It is so you can play the melody and the chords. Also working on all the possible permutations of half diminished. I finished my last music notebook and started a new one. My acoustic guitar has a plug and some kind of amp. It does not work, but I hope to get it fixed soon. I am planning to play at the open mic on Thursday at Dagny’s.