Sick

So yesterday I woke up with a scratchy throat, stuffed up sinuses, a headache and the energy of an overcooked noodle. I did nothing except for about 15 minutes of half-hearted practicing before giving up. I spent most of the day in bed, sort of sleeping, sort of not. Around 7pm I began watching Grey's Anatomy and didn't stop until the wee hours. 6 episodes, 2 hot showers, 4 Tylenols, twenysevenhundredthousand vitamin C's, 3 netti pots and 1 Atavan later I went to sleep for the night.

This morning I woke up feeling better but still stuffed up. I spent about a half hour in a hot shower with the netti pot before I finally unclogged my nose and could breath like a human being again. I am still not well, but today I have much more energy than yesterday and was able to get four solid practice hours in preparation for this weekend's shows.

If I'm wrong what do I loose?

I had a conversation with a "born-again" Christian last night. He rattled off one of the worn out Christian mantras I've heard before, which goes something like this: "If you are wrong (as a non-believer), you burn in hell for eternity, but if I am wrong (believing in Christ) I loose nothing."

I think that is an extremely arrogant approach. I told him, suppose the experience of God exists only in the present, as I believe. Suppose the past and the future are completely irrevelvant and even more, distracting from this God that exists in this moment. If you live your entire life with a religion that asks you to focus on a God that walked the earth long ago to save you from yourself, and also to focus on the future, of how you are among the chosen people who will be saved when God comes again, are you really ever in the present moment? Furthermore, if your religion is evangelical in nature, doesn't that take the focus away from yourself and put it on others? If you believe as I do that God can be found with inward focus, then you won't find God.

So, if you are wrong, what have you lost?

You've lost God.

Hell on stage

On Friday I was at the gym, working the lower leg machine when my phone rang. It was a call from the club in New England that I worked at 3 weeks ago. The Entertainment Director, Bill said he had a mix up in the schedule and asked if I come up and work the following night. I agreed, and 24 hours later I was onstage with 2 players I knew, and one I that I never met until he came up on stage opposite me.

It was a decent crowd, and we were all putting on a good show. After an hour I was relieved and stepped down for an hour. After a Chicken Caesar and a Corona, I was back up onstage when I noticed that my piano was playing wrong notes. The pianos, as with most dueling piano shows are actually digital stage pianos that sit inside a wooden shell built to appear like a grand piano. Not only was it playing some wrong notes, but the notes that were wrong, were also inordinately loud, which made the instrument impossible to play. The only person that could correct this was Bill who was, at that moment, on the piano opposite me, playing a rousing rendition of Sweet Caroline. I wrote a note to him on the back of a request slip telling him the problem. Then when he finished, I began doing an accapella version of Queen's We Will Rock You, getting the audience to stomp their feet and clap their hands while Bill went over to my piano and tried to fix it. He realized quickly that it needed to be replaced, so he brought another digital piano out of the office and we installed it into the wooden shell while one of our other partners came up and played on Bill's piano.

Once that was done, I again sat back at my piano and began playing Dancing Queen when in the middle of my song, this second digital piano completely cut out. I powered it off and back on again (think ctl+alt+del), while still singing, and the piano worked...for 30 seconds, before it cut off completely again. Bill came back over as my partner took over the show, and we installed yet a third keyboard into my piano shell. This one worked, but this was a much cheaper instrument and the keys were not weighted and the piano sound was not very realistic. As I began playing on this junky keyboard, the wooden finger guard (the clapboard) for the piano shell fell down from vertical to about a 45 degree angle, hanging over my fingers. I pushed it up and it immediately fell back down. I guess as we had a different sized keyboard inside the shell, the mechanics were different and the clapboard was no longer supported vertically. I was afraid it would fall on my hands, breaking my fingers, but I found out later that it was designed only to close halfway. Finally my hour set was over, and I practically ran to the bar.

Trouble

One of my closest friends is in trouble. She went to the cardiologist for some tests, and I guess her EKG was irregular and she had had some heaviness in her chest and this was enough to the doc to send her speeding in the back of an ambulance to the local hospital. Once there they did more tests, including a cardiac catherization and a CT scan. Although they found no blockages in the heart when they did the cath, they did find what they think is a cancerous tumor in the lungs when they did the CT scan. So although the immediate danger seems to have passed, she is very scared, and stuck in this hospital until Monday when they can biopsy the tumor and get more clarity. It took me a day to recall that several years ago I agreed to be her medical proxy, which means if she were ever to become unable to speak for herself, I would be the one to make the medical decisions.

Susan Boyle...really??

Here's the link to the video in question:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Il5TBgD9kHI

This video has gone viral. It's of a 47 year old frumpy homebody that is auditioning for Britain's Got Talent. I've had no less than 4 friends post this video on their Facebook pages. So in the beginning everyone is kind of secretly laughing at her, rolling their proverbial eyes as she says she wants a career like Eileen Paige. Then she sings. And you see all the judges mouths drop open. The crowd goes crazy wild, especially on the high note (which, by the way, is completely unremarkable in this alto song). Everybody on two continents begins posting this video on their Facebook and Myspace pages. Why?

Her singing is good. It's solid. It is not great, and it is not inspired. There are thousands of singers in NYC and London that can sing as well or better than Susan. So why does this video go viral? I think because first of all, the public doesn't really know what good singing can be. But more than that, I think that it's people's expectations that deceive them and make her performance seem better than it is. On the surface, Ms. Boyle is as frumpy as they come, with frizzy hair, a double chin, overgrown eyebrows and bags under her eyes. She is wonderfully naive and hopelessly optimistic as she confidently answers Simon's question of why her singing career hasn't worked out so far, by quipping "I haven't been given the chance before," as the camera pans through an audience that is alternately rolling their eyes and giggling behind their hands.

When she begins to sing, it's obvious to everyone that they have underestimated the disheveled Ms. Boyle. She can actually sing. But here's the problem. Everyone mistakes their amazement at this beautiful voice coming out of this bland, boring housewife with brilliance. It frustrates me how the music-listening public can be so easily fooled. If you, like some of my friends, have espoused her magnificence on your Facebook page, I invite you to take another listen, this time, don't look at the video. Then listen to ANY recorded version of I Dreamed a Dream from any production of Les Mis, and compare and contrast.

And while I'm at it, if you are one of those people that cheer and applaud at high-notes or notes held for a long time regardless of their beauty of tone, would you please just knock it off! Instead, cheer at the end of a song you were moved in a meaningful way by the artist's intelligent treatment of the music. Cheer after the brilliant use of nuance. Cheer if you were moved by the sheer beauty of a note. Stop fucking cheering just because they hit a note loud and high. That's not art, that's trickery, and sadly, sometimes it's not even good trickery that can so easily get an enthusiastic response from today's audiences.

A strange afternoon

About 8 months ago, the guy who was training me in Dueling Pianos asked me to call another potential trainee in Texas who had approached him about learning the gig. His name was John, and from our first conversation it was obvious that we had a good chemistry. John was in his fifties and hadn’t played professionally since the late 80’s but wanted to get back to doing music fulltime. He was particularly intrigued by the dueling piano format, and wanted to know what he needed to know and do to get into it. I wrote up a songlist of about 70 core songs that he should know, and we spoke for many hours about the gig. Over the months, we maintained contact via telephone and developed a nice friendship. When I scheduled my trip to Texas, I suggested we get together for some facetime.

We agreed to meet at his place on Sunday at 1:30pm. I arrived and he offered me a beer, which I declined. He suggested taking a walk on a nearby nature trail, which sounded fun. As we walked, he told me he had suffered a stroke several years ago that had left him paralyzed. Now he was fully recovered and had gotten his first music gig in 20 years, as a pianist on a major cruise line. He was very excited about this 6 month contract that would begin shortly, and felt that this was his big chance to get back into music, and redeem his life. Apparently back in the day he had been quite a hell raiser on the cruise ships and had made a reputation for himself. He stopped to piss 4 times during our hour-long walk.

When we returned to the house, he popped a beer and uncorked a red wine and took a swig from the bottle. We went to the piano, and we both showed off for each other while his very classy 50-something lady roommate enthusiastically watched on. As the afternoon wore on, John got steadily drunk on beer and wine. The three of us went out to dinner and watched a 9 piece salsa band. I had my second beer of the day and John began ordering double vodka and OJ. He turned to me and said, Eddie, tonight I’m gonna get hosed!” After an hour and 3 fish tacos later, John was so drunk that he could bearly sit up. He was eating like an animal and barking at the help. I was getting ready to make my exit when he said that he wanted to leave as he now felt sick. I left them in the parking lot and made a quick retreat to my car.

The next morning John called to ask if he had said anything to piss his roommate off, because she wasn't telling him exactly what he did, but she was upset and had written him a letter. I told him that I suspected the problem wasn’t so much what he had said, as the fact that he got blind drunk for no apparent reason. He said he hoped it wouldn’t ruin our friendship, and I told him that I didn’t know. He called me two days later and apologized again, saying he hoped that whatever he said or did in the elevator, please disregard, because it wasn't him. I explained to him again, that he really was apologizing for the wrong thing. "John, put the focus squarely on the issue, which is not precisely what you may have said or done, but the fact that you took a perfectly nice social occassion and went on a solo mission to get shit-faced and as a result ruined everyone's night." I'm pretty sure he wasn't really ready to hear what I was saying.

Prison, part 3

After my initial awkwardness, I found myself drawn in to the conversation with my inmate. I had messages of support from Snow’s family that I delivered and a promise of a story involving Stevie Nicks from his favorite Aunt. We spoke of prison beaurocracy and how he was almost not allowed to see me because of it. We rehashed his trip to New York 5 years ago, and Snow remembered much more of it than I did. He asked me about a friend we both know, and I asked him about his life in prison. He spoke of his case, and the details that he never dared write down in a letter to me. He told me of his man, a straight guy (read: gay for the stay) that Snow has been with since he first arrived in Prison 3 years ago. Aside from his brother and myself, the only other visitor that Snow has ever had was the mother of this man that Snow calls Starboy. In his letters, he had written about his lover and told me that Starboy is the one thing that makes his life bearable. Somehow they managed to get assigned to the same cell, and they mostly keep to themselves.

Starboy had been put in the safe-keeping unit when he left a gang. My friend Snow, on the other hand, was put in safekeeping for other reasons. When he had first arrived in prison, he was put in general population, and the leader of the Aryan brothers approached him and asked him if he was gay. He said yes, and this gang leader told him that even though he was gay, they would protect him, but just don’t ever get with a black or latin guy. I can only guess that they chose to protect him because he has very white, European features. But there were many people that wanted to “get” with my friend, including the blacks, and this gang leader must have thwarted them and it turned violent a few times. So, they told Snow that he had to be permanently transferred to safe-keeping which is where he immediately met Starboy.

He told me of some of the more sordid happenings of prison life, and since we both assumed we were being recorded or listened to, when he reached a particularly sensitive part of the story he would stop vocalizing and exaggerate his lip movements so I could follow. He asked me about my life and my career, and I told him stories about myself. And so we continued for almost 3 and a half hours until visiting hours were over at 5. As we said our goodbyes I pressed my palm up to the glass, something I felt was much too intimate and at the same time much to cliché. But I did it anyway, and he returned the gesture with an accompanying tear or two. He thanked me for coming and we both walked our separate ways, him into hell, and me into the sunlight. The journey back to my car that had taken almost 2 hours coming in, took about 5 minutes going out.

Prison, part 2 (Snow)

His voice (let’s call him “Snow”) was softer and airier than I remembered it to be, almost as if he was trying to soothe a crying baby (or a nervous mark). It initially spooked me. I have been cautious with Snow since we began writing each other, as I am sure that many prisoners will take advantage of the friendships of their pen pals. But it was the fact that I knew him before he was ever in trouble that caused me to reach out initially. I know him to be a very creative, very sensitive guy that absolutely would be completely out of place in a state penitentiary. It’s that person that I am reaching out to.

I have no doubts at all that after 3 years of prison Snow is capable of manipulating and conniving to get what he wants. I also believe that he is feeling me out to see how much help I could be for him now, or down the road. I am not stupid. But that being said, I believe that the Snow that I knew before is deserving of some kindness in a world where I’m sure he sees so very little. I also know that he does have needs that only a person on the outside can help with, and because he feels so helpless where he is, it is only natural for him to ask for further help from someone who has already been kind to him. When he speaks of hardships that he lives with on a daily basis, it is true that there is a sometimes undeniable subtext that is an unspoken but very specific request. I think I’m OK with that. And if I were in his shoes, I think I’d reach out in similar ways.

Sign seen from a highway in Austin

"MY KARMA RAN OVER MY DOGMA"

Car Doors

Today I drove my brother and his 2 children to a Texas eatery. As we all piled out of the car, the two boys, 6 and 8, walked away from the car with their doors wide open. I was suprised that they weren't better trained, until my brother explained that they didn't really know how to close car doors since their minivan automatically closes its doors without them having to do anything.

Prison, part 1

I've been in Texas the past 5 days visiting friends and family. It's funny but if there was a single state in the union I would think I would least like it would be Texas, and yet this is the third time I've been here and I always enjoy myself and want to extend my stay.

One of the things I was able to do was visit my friend in prison. As I mentioned in a previous post, there were many bureaucratic roadblocks, some of which I wasn't aware of until my friend told me during our visit. The morning of my visit I woke up in Dallas and after mapping out my route, I drove about 2 and a half hours, much of it in cow country. I was very careful not to exceed the speed limit, as I had horrible visions of how some back country cop would love to torture an Obama-loving Yankee from New York. The last hour of the drive the sun finally came out and the land was surprisingly green, with lightly rolling hills and lush trees. I arrived at the prison at 12:00 and had to queue up behind 3 other cars. As I got to the front of this first line, I was asked to pop the trunk, the hood, and open the glove compartment and console. I was then allowed to drive in to the parking lot. I left everything in my car, including my phone, my belt, my wallet, my paper money, walking in with only my car keys, my drivers licence and the clothes on my back. After a second queue of about 10 minutes, I had to empty my empty pockets and was thoroughly patted down (OK, not that thoroughly, you pigs!) before I was allowed to enter a metal detector. Then I was directed to another line, where I waited for 20 minutes as everyone approached a female guard who checked our names on a list, and asked us 20 questions. Once she approved my visit, I exited this first little building through a fenced in holding that only opened up to the front yard of the main prison after the door behind me shut. Once I was allowed out of the holding cell, I walked unescorted up a long and wide concrete path with beautifully landscaped shrubs and bushes on either side of me, and into the main prison receiving building. This time, there was a 40 min queue to get to yet another desk with yet another woman asking the same 20 questions. When she was done with me, she handed me a computer printout with my information, I left my ID with her and she pointed me to the visiting area. Another 2 door holding cell system. When I entered, I was in the midst of picnic tables filled with "offenders" and their loved ones. Because I was not family, I was not allowed a "contact visit" with my offender...er, friend. After looking around bewildered for about 30 seconds, one of the family members pointed me to a guard sitting at a desk who took my printout and told me to wait by window 6B while they retrieved the prisoner. I sat in front of a thick clear glass window for over 45 minutes, waiting for my friend to be shown down.

Every guard and prison employee I had contact with were extremely courteous and pleasant. I'm sure that's in stark contrast to the side of these same employees that the um, residents experience. While I waited, I tried to meditate, counting each breath in and out, but the sheer weight of being in such a sad and unfortunate place continuously played on my mind. I was acutely aware that my friend probably knew I was here waiting for him, and yet he had to wait until they brought him down to the other side of a bulletproof window. I was aware of the gang members, rapists, murderers and other misfits that occupied the same room as me, chatting happily with their family, hugging, and smiling for the pictures that the guard was taking with his Polaroid.

I was nervous to see my friend in such a setting. The last time we had seen each other was 5 years ago in New York, when he and another friend came to see me perform at a small piano lounge in the West Village. The three of us had one of those magical New York nights that visitors remember for a lifetime, and New Yorkers forget 2 days later. I didn't know him that well then, but through the course of our letters these past 6 months, I have come to know him much better. But other than pictures, I had forgotten what he looked like, or at least had thought I did.

Because I was traveling from out of state, I had obtained permission for a 4 hour visit. I wasn’t sure how the hell we were going to spend four hours talking through a phone and a bullet proof pane, but as they offered this extended visit, I took it, figuring I can always leave at anytime. Finally, he walked through the door into the prisoner side of the window. My first thought was that he had lost weight, and his face was more chiseled than I recalled. It took him from a cute boy to a handsome, well, boy still. He is 30 but looks much younger. He flashed me a wide smile and immediately enthused about me coming to visit. I felt very uncomfortable. I was unable to look him in the eye. He kept asking me how I was, how I’ve been. Well, um...it’s been a good day. I drove around in the beautiful back woods of this gorgeous country of ours. I listened to music from the fancy stereo in the fancy rental car. I called 4 friends from my iPhone (the 3G model, not the first generation) and chatted about nothing in particular. Last night I played on my favorite grand piano and was wined and dined in Dallas by adoring friends. This morning I hugged both of my nephews and my brother who insisted I call them when I was safely to my destination…no make that when I was safely away from my destination, truth be told. No one told me what to eat or when to shit. No one maced me with pepper spray or fucked me up the ass using hair grease just so that I could cop a couple of Haldols to crush up and put in my nose to dull the constant pain of a 99 year sentence. How the hell have you been, old buddy?

Post Script: Please read the following clarification: Click here