Fragment (consider revising)

9:23 AM
Dr. Brimstone's House of Hot Jazz and Dark Liquids

There's a smoky haze over the city this morning, from the fire that's been burning southeast of here for almost six weeks now. The fire started when a tree hit a power line back on April 16th, and the severe drought we're under has allowed things to devolve largely unabated. Between this one here and the fire in Florida (in the Okefenokee), I read that over 550,000 acres of land have been burned.

The haze carries with it the smell of burning trees which, if I could separate it in my mind from all the devastation it's necessarily connected to, is in itself not unpleasant to me, but it does affect my breathing. The pollen and the humidity here alone are sometimes hard to bear, but the smoke inhalation is worse. And so much destruction...

Someone said to me the other day that all this destruction is in the natural course of things. That, you know, fires have to happen, that the forest-as-system requires them, and that they serve a necessary purpose. But I don't know. While this is surely true in many cases, don't power lines exist outside the system of self-maintenance through periodic self-destruction?

~~~~~~~

Woke up early again today, maybe 06:45. Flossed, brushed, and abluted, then drove to Carroll Street, only to learn that the café wasn't open yet, so I drove back to my neighborhood, only to find that Dr. Brimstone's was also not open yet. And neither was Gato Bizco. Dag! So I ate at the Flying Biscuit, which I’m not a real big fan of, not these days anyway, not for the last year or so.

I saw a woman I used to know there, P, and we spoke for a few minutes. I had the sweet potato(e) pancakes, a half-order, and only managed to eat about half of that. My appetite is not itself these days, plus I sometimes tend to refer to fare at the Biscuit as ‘food for giants’, because of the ridiculously large portion sizes.


~~~~~~~

8:11 PM
The Nunnery

Talked to Rashid today on the phone for, God, almost two hours. About lots of things, so many things, not least of which was the sad sad event which occurred recently.

Oh, and I can't stop listening to Alison Krauss & Union Station's live version of Baby, Now That I've Found You. Sappy, maybe; but it's playing now and complementing my mood effortlessly, so, whatever.

Snakes, lots of them and dangerous

Dr. Bombay's Magickal Cafe & Emporium
9:17 AM

There's a guy here who's on a study-date with some girl. He clearly wants to be studying less and interacting with her more, but he's being pretty goofy about it, telegraphing his every intention. Homeboy's got no game.

Woke up early, about 05:45. Tried to sleep again and finally set my feet on the floor at 06:45. Did my thing, got some breakfast, and came here.

I had several dreams last night. One, a variation on an old recurring dream-theme involving a house with an uncountable number of rooms. In the past this dream house has always been the same house, and highly recognizable as such (a crucial part of its design is based on the beautiful, quiet and exciting house I spent my childhood in), but this time it was a brand new house.

In another dream there were snakes, lots of them and dangerous. One, at least, was likely a coral, and another I could hear was a rattler. There was someone with me, someone I loved, whom I was trying to protect from getting bitten. Looking back, now that I'm awake, I see that I was actually in quite a bit more danger than she was, though it didn't feel that way at the time.

Now playing on the in-house system: a pretty standard jazz band playing a pretty standard jazz tune. I don't recognize the song, nor any of the musicians playing it, at least not by ear.

Can i just take a minute to say that the practice in jazz music of 'trading fours' is a little silly? It's rare that I hear a musician say anything worthwhile in this contrived format. In complex instrumental music, ideas need to be given time to develop; what we recognize as meaning and authenticity in improvised music comes from responding well to what has come before, continually 'neutralizing' the ongoing repercussions of previous notes. Trading fours always feels so artificial to my ears. Show-offy and 'exciting' I guess, but ultimately dull.

And now playing: Use Me by the incomparable Bill Withers. My God, how I love this song. The first time I heard it was on the radio of my (parents') god-ugly orange Subaru hatchback, driving down Ralph Talbot Street in 1985. Good times.

Low

What's up. Everybody good? Things're going well here. Work is quiet for a fucking change, which is nice. All the shiny little music schooligans have flown away north for the season, navigating their majestic migratory arcs and leaving us here, alone together again, in the Twilight of our Idols, wondering where the time goes... or, you know, whateverthefuck.

Anyway, I'm here at the Nunnery at the moment and I'm listening to Low's Drums and Guns, which just so you know is rocking my feet right to the goddamn floor, in that quiet, urgent way that Low have about them. A dark aesthetic of restraint mixed with convincing husband-wife harmonies and sweet-bitter lyrics, all wrapped up in an attractive hard-rock coating! Fun for the whole family!

No lunch for the wicked.

For some reason, last night Madge said: 'If science were a dog, I think it should be a Saint Bernard, you know, with lots of booze around its neck. That'd be awesome.'

Then she suggested we get a dog and name it Science, which of course led to all sorts of silliness. Late-night nonsensical fun, like saying in a dog-calling voice: 'Sciiience . . . heeere science' or in a dog-reprimanding voice: 'Look what you've done now, science. Bad science.' Good times, good times.

~~~~~~~

Yesterday at Slice I was talking with two students.

Student A: I want to withdraw from a class.
Sabitathica: Don't be stupid. Which class?
Student A: The World Music class.
Sabitathica: But that class is so easy. Why would you want to withdraw from it?
Student B: But Sabitathica, you've never even taken that class. How can you say whether it's easy or not? You don't know. . .
Sabitathica (to student A): Okay, how's the class? Is it easy or not?
Student A: It's pretty easy.
Sabitathica (to student B): See? Just because I don't know what I'm talking about doesn't mean I'm not right.

~~~~~~~

Oh, and plus my car got broken into last night. Nothing was stolen, at least that I can see. But they rifled through my glove box and that little compartment, what's it called, between the driver's and passenger's seats that holds all your cds and loose change and tequila and stuff. They even rifled through my ashtray for some reason. They rifled through it all and left my cds and stuff all out on the passenger's seat. I don't know why they didn't take anything - my sweet sports coat was in the back seat, along with like three hoodies of various colours and this thing that a student gave me, a digital recorder/dictophone thingy that must be worth, at the very least, like three hits of meth.

It got broken into in Madge's parking garage. The managers of her apartment building sent out a memo last week to all the tenants saying that someone was breaking into cars in the garage, but I didn't pay it any mind because the memo also said that there were reports of unauthorized people trying to enter the building, and I thought they were just talking about me, because like a week and a half ago I was trying to get into the building, and I was standing outside knocking on the door, and this idiot who was inside the building looked at me like I was waiving a gun at him and he turned tail and ran and left me hanging outside. I tried to explain to the idiot that Madge lives inside, and I'm supposed to meet her, and she's expecting me, and that everything is going to be okay if only he'll let me in the building, but I could tell it wasn't really coming across because the door was between us, so I told him to just open the goddamn door so I could explain everything without having to shout, but he just sort of ran away anyway and left me hanging.

I keep looking for him now, every time I'm in her building, so I can say to him 'Hey - I remember you. You're the idiot who can't tell the difference between a criminal and a guy just trying to get into the building to see Madge. Nice to meet you... idiot." but I haven't seen him yet.

So I thought that the idiot had probably told the apartment managers to put out an APB on me because the managers notified all the residents that some guy was trying to enter the building, claiming that Madge was expecting him, but then I thought that the managers probably took some creative license and threw in the part about someone breaking into cars to sort of sex up the memo a bit, just to scare the residents and give them all something to rally around. So I didn't pay much attention to the memo but I guess I should have because now my car's been broken into and all my stuff's been put in the wrong places.

~~~~~~~

And just now:

Sabitathica's Assistant: Do you have any candy?
Sabitathica: Absolutely. If by 'candy' you mean 'files to copy'.

In which Mr. Crowley rides my white horse...

Today was Sabitathica's annual performance review at the Greatest Music School on the Whole of God's Green Earth. This is a thoroughly charming event, much anticipated, and affectionately known as: First, I'm Going To Pretend To Have The Slightest Idea What Exactly It Is You Do Around Here, And Then I'll Fumble My Way Through Pretending I Can Accurately Assess Your Ability To Execute Those Functions Which, Again, I Really Am Ill-Equipped To Comprehend. Needless to say perhaps, but a rocking good time was had by all.

~~~~~~~

Something I found amusing, this past Saturday night I was hanging out with Madge watching various late-night televangelicals rock the mic on my (five-channel-receiving, rabbit-eared) tv. This was lots of fun - more fun than you probably think it was. Plus, there might have been alcohol involved. At the point where this one particularly sad, rather podgy woman was testimonializing about how wonderful it is to be one of the chosen few who get to know God personally, the following exchange transpired:

Sabitathica: She's never had a religious experience. She just oscillates between hyper-emotionalism and despondency.
Madge: And the Dunkin' Donuts.

In which Science is employed to reveal Connexions between Disparate Entities, falsely so called . . .

The Sabitathiblog Science and Wildlife Department presents:

Things you, my dear reader, have in common with my fish:

1. You're not very bright.
2. You're plotting your escape.
3. You remain unaggressive, even when one of your tankmates has nibbled off your tail entire.

Join us next time, and remember! A generous tax deductible donation to the Sabitathiblog Science and Wildlife Department is a great way to say 'Thank you Science, for all you do!'.

The sunshine bores the daylights out of me.

The Nunnery
8:14 PM

More quality time with Rashid last night, which was of course Saint Patrick's Day. Food and margaritas, then back to the Nunnery for some water (him), pale ale (me) and conversation (us).

The original plan was to 'get silly drunk' with M, but she's still in New York, her flight having been delayed due to weather. I'll see if I can talk her into getting silly drunk with me some other time.

Wake up and smell the coffin.

Got up late today. I'm not telling you what time, so don't let's start with the twenty questions, shall we? What is it anyway, with you and all the time with the questions? It was pretty late though, that much I'll tell you.

But whatever, because yesterday were auditions, the last auditions before Fall semester, apart from a few stragglers - the occasional above-it-all bassoonist or a few deadline-blissfully-unaware double basses or whatever other riffraff the goddamn cat drags in. It was the largest scale audition day the Greatest Music School on the Whole of God's Green Earth has ever seen. . . and now it's over. It's no longer in my future or in my present which, thank god, e-nough already. So I'm not gonna be too hard on myself about getting up so late.

Spent quality time last night, Saint Patrick's Day Eve, with Rashid, whom you know, and Spengler and Redmond whom I'm sure you'll remember from earlier.

We met up at Sidebar and, four shots of Patron later, I was safely behind the wheel, on the move to some place in the highlands* where a friend of ours works, Hand in Hand I think it's called, which is a stupid name for a bar, or for anything else for that matter. The name should have been enough to tip us off that the bar itself was, in fact, also stupid. Too crowded, too loud, not really an atmosphere of people who're having fun, just people pretending to like places like this. Or maybe I'm just being autistic. So one quick shot of patron later and, like my boy Willie, we were on the road again, heading back to the Nunnery, where a fine time was had by all and there was much rejoicing.

*Kids, don't drink and drive.

And now for something completely diffident ...

Lunch today with Rashid at Slice on Poplar. What follows is a sliver of a conversation we had with our waitress, I think her name was Cara:

Cara: Do you know what you're going to have?
Sabitathica: Yeah, let me get my usual. . .
Cara: Whoa. You've got evil eyes.
Sabitathica: Oh god. . . No I don't. I just didn't get much sleep last night. I was up at fucking four-thirty this morning.
Rashid: Plus, he's sort of always sinister-looking.
Sabitathica: Oh yeah. Well, there's that too.

Just another undiscovered, down-on-her-luck opthademonologist waiting (tables) until her (intern)ship comes through. . .

Looks like I chose the wrong week to quit clubbing baby seals.

And now, for your theater-going pleasure, a playlette:

Sabitathica: Work is busy right now, real fucking busy. Maybe I'll tell you about it, but later, okay?, not right now. Right now let's just relax and enjoy each other's company, what do you say? What? What was that? Did you just snicker? Oh, what, is just hanging out and unwinding and enjoying each other's company too much to ask or something? Whatever, listen, don't be difficult. If you're going to give me a hassle here . . . don't make me pull this car over.
You: Sabitathica, hey are you okay? What are you talking about?
Sabitathica: I'm fine. Shut up.
You: What? What's the matter with you? You're acting weird. Is your job making you act weird? Are you cracking under the pressure of auditions? Honestly, I wouldn't blame you if you were. I don't know how you do it. I remember this one time when I saw some particularly villainous auditions bring down a fully-grown fucking Zen lumberjack before. Reduced him to fucking marmalade, they did. Ghastly to witness. And he wasn't even autistic ...
Sabitathica: Stop talking please, you're being prattish. Go away. And I'll let you know when you're allowed to read my blog again, which is probably never. I've decided I'm cleaning house. All my old readers need to go ahead and fuck off. I want new readers, better readers. From here on out, I only want good-looking, self-aware, fiscally conservative readers. Everybody else has to go away. Beginning now. Thank you.

Exeunt.

The preceding has been a public service vignette, made possible through the continuing generosity of Sabitathiblog and the Foundation for Concerned Citizens Against Auditions.

The power of Hahnemann compels you!

Sick, slightly. Took the day off from work for the first time in several months. Woke up with M to the alarm and NPR, but put off beginning my day when I swallowed and found my throat had fallen host to evil spirits in the night. Being the good, observant catholic boy I was raised to be, I took some homeopathy and put in a call to my local parish's exorcist, who really ought to be here any minute, so I can't talk long.

Slept 'til noon-thirty, woke up, sat, brushed my teeth and washed my face. Then to the one and only Carroll St. Cafe to order a yogurt-based late breakfast, body unbathed, hair unwashed, looking like a (slightly) sick rock star. Or a slightly sick music school admissions officer, the line is so blurry there.

There's a bustle in my hedgerow!

Ah, spring break! The time of year set aside by mother nature for non-terminating twitterpation and frolicking festivities! Or, alternatively, for working in an office so un-busy it'll make your ears bleed and so quiet you can hear your own pulse. You know, six of one, whatever...

The Narrow Way: Part Three

or
following the path as it leads toward the darkness in the north

My shoulder has become errant, somewhat dislocated, fallen slightly from the Grace of its rightful place at my side. My left side, for those at home playing along. And yes I saw my chiropractor, who again said something that made me think he didn't recognize me (this time it was, You've been here before, right?). Ah, the personal touch that invites my perspicacious, possibly-autistic nature to thrive!

Dopey memory lapses aside, he was in good form. Banterish, convivial, and present enough to adjust me well. Except. While it is true that, to his credit, he adjusted my spine well, especially C3 and C2 which, goddamn did I need that, I remain unconvinced that he addressed the true heart of the matter with my shoulder.

For one thing, he was banterish and convivial while he was adjusting my shoulder. Not banterish with me, mind you, but with the other two Chatty Cathys in the room. Who in fairness, I want you to know, were likable guys both.

And three guesses why I wasn't bantering with my chiropractor while he was adjusting my shoulder. That's right: it's Sabitathica's New Golden Rule ~ Part the Second:

It's impolite to distract someone while they're doing something they're good at.

And lest we be made to face accusations of partisanship, or suffer charges that we've let my good-natured chiropractor off the hook too goddamn easy, let us acknowledge that Sabitathica's New Golden Rule ~ Part the First applies in this situation as well, to wit:

It's impolite to allow someone to distract you while you're doing what you're good at, though the distracter probably won't see it that way.

Either the Chatty Cathys should have shut the fuck up, or my chiropractor should have told the Chatty Cathys to shut the fuck up. Neither happened, and we all lose. Especially my shoulder. Attention is to an individual what cash flow is to a business. A scarce enough resource without allowing it to slip through our fingers or be onanistically dissipated.

But the real reason I remain unconvinced is that my shoulder still aches, which I guess pretty much settles the question, and not all the Golden Rules in the world are gonna help me there.

Now playing: Rehearsals for Retirement, the Phil Ochs song, but sung now-today by Mark Eitzel, the formerly-miserable singer/songwriter for the American Music Club.