Working in the deep south

There was some drama this weekend at a gig I did in the deep South, as one of the other fly-in piano players was asked not to perform on Saturday night because his vocals are just too weak, and he is very difficult to understand. It sucked for him, for sure. He's been doing dueling pianos for over 10 years, and the past 3 years he's had to have several vocal surgeries, and his voice is a shadow of what it must have been before. Anyway, he was a total professional about it, and my remaining partner and I did the entire gig, with a bit of help from a local trainee who was understandably nervous, but made up for it with enthusiasm and got the job done. Meanwhile, me and my remaining partner put on an amazing show doing our 2-way, which was immensely satisfying to me. It was a packed house, over the fire code limit for sure. They were the type of audience that gave you so much love and enthusiasm that you feel like a rock star. By the end of the night 2 fights broke out just in front of the stage, but even with that, it was such a great night for us and I that it all was good. Because we didn't have to split the tips 3 ways, we each made more in tips, plus extra money from the house for having to play without a third, in addition to our regular salary. While feeling bad for our third partner, Jonathan, that was sidelined, I couldn't help a guilty feeling of glee as well. Jonathan has always been generally nice to me, but I've always felt an underlying current, subtle perhaps, but undeniable, that he was the experienced dueler and I was the upstart, with so much to learn. So as I said before, it was satisfying to put on such a well-received show, even as we were handicapped with losing the third man, and knowing that Jonathan was watching us do it. Don't get me wrong, I don't want bad things for Jonathan, truly I don't, and I hope over the next year or so he is able to rehab his voice. Loosing your voice is a danger of this profession, and it's one of the reasons I am glad I don't have to work 5 or even 6 nights/week like some of the house players I encounter in my travels.

Massage and friends from the road

When Link and I returned to the hosteleria after the horseback riding trip I immediately scheduled a massage for my hands and feet (which were still sore and crampy from crawling around mountain tops the day before) and my legs. I decided to throw in a facial since I had been exposed to a lot of sun in the past few days. Link went first while I trolled the book exchange in the hostel and left behind the book I had just finished in exchange for a novel called “Stonehenge.”

When Link was finished, I met the girl at the spa, which was a tastefully spare building just down the path from the restaurant, overlooking a hill. First the massage. She had music playing…the kind that all the massuses must be issued with their liscense: the meandering wooden flute music. I much preferred silence so she turned it off. While I laid there I meditated as she relaxed the knotted muscles in my body. I counted my breaths and thought of very little as I experienced the sensation of skilled hands working my body.

After dinner and a glass of white wine Link and I met our horse riding guide, Mauricio at the bar for a game of pingpong. We also met a 22 yo traveler from Scottland named Grant who was traveling south america until his money ran out. The four of us had a lot of fun playing pool, pingpong and then finally chess on a 10 foot board built out of stone on the ground. Grant was the type of person that if I had met in New York I would want to be friends with. But we all knew would would never see each other after that night, and maybe that´s why we were all so relaxed with no agenda other than enjoying the night, the beer, the games and each other´s company.

On Caramelo´s back

The day after we completed the Mandango Loop, we scheduled a four hour horseback riding trip. The guide, Mauricio came for us in a pickup truck and drove us 2 km into town where a boy had three horses ready for us. My horse was the youngest, only 3 ½ years old, and his name was Caramelo. We began at a walk, taking quickly to the paths outside of town. I’ve been on horseback probably 15 times in my life, but I’m not a very good rider. Soon we were trotting and finally galloping. I kept my one hand on the saddle horn to keep balance, an amataur move to be sure, but other than that, I felt pretty good.

We traveled paths in the foot hills around town, taking breaks occasionally for the horses to rest and drink. It was a nice ride, and the views by any standards were wonderful, although having hiked up on the mountain ridges the day before, I now knew what a really amazing view could be. Our guide was a 25 year old wrangler and 7 time bull riding champion. He was very pleasant and I was able to practice my Spanish with him. Mostly Link and Mauricio spoke though.

Although I was third inline, we all switched positions, at times riding abreast and a couple times where I was the trail leader. As the youngest horse, Caramelo was very energetic, and would have no problems breaking into a trot or gallop. Any fear of falling off the horse was completely eradicated by the ridgeline hike yesterday. I just enjoyed the ride…until I didn’t.

It happened after about 2 ½ hours of riding. I began to quickly feel uncomfortable, then sore, then really sore. The constant bouncing up and down of the trotting was hurting my back and my legs. The ride ended an hour later, after only 3 ½ hours. I was happy to get off Caramelo, even though we had paid for a full 4 hours.

After eating a meal at the little town square, we ran into Mauricio again who had already showered and changed from our ride. We set up a tentative meeting at the bar at our hostel for later that night.

The Mandango Loop

Since I’ve arrived in the Andes Mountains here in Ecuador, I’ve been enthralled by the dramatic slopes, peaks and ridges that appear everywhere. The scope and scale of these features is not well described unless you’ve actually witnessed it. Most towns up here are in valleys with the mountains towering above and all around the town or city. Vilcabamba is no different. Link and I choose a German run Hosteleria a couple kilometers out of town which our guide book gave good notices. This particular "backpacker resort" boasted a restaurant with sweeping views, a bar, a spa, a spring-fed pool, WiFi (a rarety, although becoming more common) and most importantly an entire set of trails they designed for the guests to hike the mountains, ranging from 3 hours to 3 days.

The hike we choose was called the Mandango Loop and promised 5 hours of sweeping views of the mountains, a ridgeline hike and finally a decent along a mountain streambed. The description warned the prospective hiker that it is easy to die while hiking the Andes. It also said that you may not want to do this hike if you were afraid of heights. Well, I do have this fear, but it is not disabling and the innkeeper suggested that there was only a very short distance along the ridgeline in which I would really feel exposed. “How short,?” I asked. “Oh, from here to that chair over there,” he points 15 feet away. OK, I think, let’s do it!

We walked along the road about 15 minutes to the trailhead where we were told people might try to stop us as the entrance was on private property, but that we should just ignore them by smiling a wide Gringo smile and saying, “Gracias, gracias!” and just walk past them. We found the entrance, no problem and luckily there was no one to stop us. We immediately begin ascending a gentle slope among trees. I noticed a brown bull that perfectly blended into the backround. He was lying down and we carefully walked around him.

The slope gradually increased and soon we were ascending towards the foot of the nearest mountain. Predictably, the angle of ascent continued to increase until we were climbing up a more or less vertical wall at points. Then we found ourselves on a narrow path that was essentially a ledge that wound up the edge mountain. At points the ledge was only 18 inches wide, or even partially damaged. The drop off from this ledge was almost vertical and would be certain death with any misstep. This would be the theme for the rest of the hike. At points where the ledge was damaged, Link, who was leading, and had no apparent fear of falling to his immediate death, would reach back for me, so that I could use his arm to steady myself as I hopped over the damaged ledge. At one point, while we were doing one of these manouvers, Link lost his balance and because I had grabbed on to some stubborn vegetation with my other hand, I was able to pull him back to his center of gravity. We continued winding up the path/ledge sometimes having to climb vertically, until we reached the first milestone, which was a white crucifix planted on the first mountain top.

The view from this place was exactly the type of view that I had traveled 3,000 miles to see. There were dramatic mountains and green slopes that seemed to go on endlessly. Perhaps I could see 30 or 40 miles. I was high, and it was good. The next marker was a second cross that we could see on a distant mountain top, much higher than the one we were currently standing on. To traval to it, we had to walk along the ridgeline and then climb up to it.


[This photo was taken from the first cross, looking to the second cross which is located on the highest peak in the center of this picture]

The walk along this ridgeline is probably one of the most spectacular hikes on the planet. Walking along the ridge, the mountain fell away from you on both sides by such a steep degree that to go off the path would again be certain death. Much of this ridge was perhaps 3 feet wide, but at times it got as narrow as perhaps 18 inches. To add another thrill, it was windy, which freaked me out. Much of the path I was either crouching or downright crawling along. When the path would widen to 3 or 4 feet I could walk upright. These were times that were the most powerful for me. I could feel the deep fear, but being at that place, so isolated from anything, with such commanding views of the most dramatic spires and valleys for so many miles, … {at this point, I am at a loss as to how to articulate the feelings I experienced. I hate the use of superlatives, as they are so overused and therefore diluted, and yet my mind and my spirit was full of these superlatives as I stood on top of the world. Saying I was one with the planet, or that I was supremely connected sounds like a hackneyed attempt at some new-age bullshit. I refuse. I know that when I stood there, finally managing to get completely upright on that windy ridgeline the fear in the pit of my stomach transformed into something I suspect was as close to enlightenment as I may ever achieve in this body. At that moment there was only that present moment, and how that moment was Present! I was Present.}

We continued to walk/crawl/stoop/climb up along the exposed ridgeline until we finally reached the second peak, which was decorated with another cross, this one brown. After taking some pictures, we continued along the ridgeline. Not too far along, the ridgeline dropped about 12 feet, and we had to descend down a rocky spine, exposed on all sides except the immediate rocky spine we were descending. (Understand that even at the bottom of this decent we were still on the top of a mountain ridge.) After we successfully navigated this, we looked back and named it Angel’s Spine, because Link felt that he was so close to being able to fly like an angel (I wanted to name it The Spine of Lucifer!).

As I continued to navigate this ridgeline, I slowly became more confident and was able to walk upright more and more. I continued to be present with my fear, but also present with my walking and many times I treated it like the walking meditation that I do in New York. One foot in front of the other, feel the ground, feel the wind, hear the wind, breath, feel your breath enter your body, feel your breath leave your body. In this way, I wasn’t focused on the steep slopes on either side of me.

Soon enough the ridgeline became a mountain slope that became gentler as we began our descent. All in all, we were up on that ridge for about 2 hours. Maybe if I did this hike 4 more times, I could completely cure my fear of heights. But, there is no time. On to the next great adventure.

The Drive to Cuenca

Getting ready to leave Guamote I was afraid that we may have to ride in the back of a crowded pickup truck, but we got lucky. Upon walking out to the Pan-American Highway (this is the one road that connects the mountains of Ecuador, North to South and goes down into Peru) there was a tour bus going our way. The bus was only half full and so we were able to stretch out. There was a small Quitua boy of about 11 or 12 who was traveling alone. He was covered in dirt and grime, and no doubt had any parents to take care of him. Even though Ecuador is a poor country, this was the first abandoned child I had seen. He left the bus after about 45 minutes beside a small village. I wondered who or what he had in that place.

The bus took us South to Chunchi, a quant mountain town surrounded on all sides by the towering Andes. We grabbed a cheap meal (they are all cheap meals) by the bus stop and waited for a bus to take us further south to Cuenca, the third largest city in Ecuador. Finally a pickup truck came by and the driver was shouting out “Cuenca! Cuenca!” so we got in to the two seats in the back of the cab. Another passenger piled into the passengers seat and a fourth guy hoped into the bed of the truck.

The truck driver took off like a bat out of hell. He was extremely aggressive and very stupid. Up in the mountains all the roads are windy. Luckily this road was very well paved, but he would take the inside curves with his wheels riding on the very edge of the paved road. He would take the outside curves in the opposing traffic lane. He was driving too fast and whenever he came up on traffic in front of him, he would tailgate them, weaving back and forth into opposing traffic until he found a way to pass. I looked behind me out the window to the poor guy in the truck bed. He was sitting on the edge of the truck, holding on for dear life. We smiled at each other. He got out after 25 minutes. The other passenger left 10 minutes after that and it was just the three of us. Link and I were terrified that we would get in an accident and go flying off a mountain, and finally after a particularly harrowing swerving exercise the guy did to avoid some potholes, I yelled at him in Spanish, but Link had to translate, which was kind of funny. After that, the driver seemed to tone down his erratic driving, and we made it without further incident to Cuenca.

The Market in Guamote

Thurday is market day in Guamote and it is the largest market in all of Ecuador. People come from all over the country to buy and sell anything and everything. Items on display included kitchen ware, fabrics, clothes, hats, tools, padlocks, cell phones, chickens, wheat, vegetables, rice, eggs, cows, pigs, sheep and of course many restaurants and food stands. Every street in Guamote was lined with vendors and buyers. The majority of the attendees were the Quechua, where farmers came to sell their goods to retailers, distributors, other farms and restauranteurs.

L and I found ourselves in a large dustbowl where people were selling their sheep and pigs. They were leashed up and you just walked among them and asked the person holding the rope how much the animal cost. Then if you agreed to pay say $25 for a small pig or $50 for a medium sheep, you handed over the cash and they handed you the leash. Sometimes the animals didn’t want to be separated from their family and would squeal as they were dragged away, their legs locked, and the buyer might have to hit their backside with a switch or actually lift up their butt and push them down the street in this way.

the Quechua people

We then made the long journey from the little village of Salinas, back through Guarandas, to the city of Riobamba to catch a small van going to the small village of Guamote where we spent the night in an eco-lodge run by Belgians. We stayed in a dorm room with 10 beds, but there was only one other person in the dorm besides us. I stayed up chatting with the young Belgian innkeeper. We talked about the economy, people and traveling.

He described the indigenous people (Quechua) as very shy and hard to get to know, but also as friendly. He told me that after 8 months working with them, he only just felt as though he could joke with them. My experience with these people is that they mind their own business and never hold your gaze, but if you smile at them, they smile back. They seem to be very sweet people with a strong sense of family and of community. Perhaps they are shy because they descended from the very proud Incans, but have been beaten down so much by the white men over the last 5 centuries that they have forgotten who they are and are afraid of anyone outside of their own. I don’t know.

Salinas

The next morning after a hearty breakfast we took a cab to the village of Salina, about 30 km to the north. Salina is a cooperative that manufactures everything from Cheese, chocolate, textiles, salami, wool, essential oils, packaged medicial herbs, and probably 10 other things I can’t recall now that are sold both in and out of Ecuador. It was a very clean town set in an idyllic mountain setting, and everyone seemed to be happy and friendly. We took a tour of many of these factories and then hiked a mountain path and got lots of pictures and found the cement cross that overlooked the town from a nearby mountain. L climbed to the top of this 15 foot monument. It was scary because if he fell, not only would he fall off the cross, but he would probably fall off the mountain as well. But he survived and when we went back down the mountain, we realized everyone in the town square probably saw his escapade. Before we left we had trout served in a café on the square by a lovely woman. It was like getting fed by your mama. Near the end of the meal, her 14 year old daughter arrived back from school and mama grabbed her by the shoulders, gave her a quick tight hug, put her back at arms length and made the sign of the cross on her forehead and shoulders and then embraced her once again. The expression on the woman’s face made it clear that this young girl mattered more than anything else in her world. It was beautiful to watch.

Guaranda and dinner with a hole in my mouth

We have been moving a lot the past two days. After leaving Ambato we took a bus to the town of Guaranda. My handy guidebook, which L and I have been affectionately calling “Pepe”, a name we assigned the Quechua Indian that is pictured on the cover, told us to sit on the left side of the bus for views of the volcano Zimborazo. The views were, in fact, quite spectacular and we got several pictures with our iPhones on the way. We uploaded some of these pictures to Facebook through a rare wifi signal that we got from our hotel in Guaranda. Even though Guaranda is the provincial seat, it is small (20,000 people) and quaint. I saw no other westerners. My dentist told me I was not allowed to eat rice, meat, milk or coffee for 24 hours after removing my tooth, So we found a cool café that served me a nice salad of lettuce, tomato and mushrooms. Still hungry, we went to the restaurant in our hotel where the very kind woman listened to my dietary restrictions then cooked up a meal of pasta, tomato, mushroom, and pepper with a side of boiled potatos. Perfect.

Dental work South American style

About 5 years ago I found a dentist in New York who gave me 6 crowns on my top front teeth. I was so impressed with his work that I recommended him to L (my best friend and current travel companion) who was also looking to get some crowns. As much as I liked his work, his prices have gone higher over the past several years, and he now charges almost $350 for an exam and a deep cleaning. So 2 years ago, when I had traveled to Ecuador last, I got my teeth examined, cleaned and one filling for $65, and was determined to do it again this trip.

This morning after swiftly vacating our lousy hotel in Ambato, L and I wondered around town, looking for breakfast, and most importantly, cafe con leche to start the day. After a $3 breakfast of perfectly cooked eggs, fresh passion fruit juice, a ham and cheese melt, and a fresh fruit salad, we started walking towards the bus station when I saw a sign for a dentist office. We rang the bell, and got buzzed in to an upstairs office where we were told the dentist had time to see me. I was pleased to see that he specialized in orthodontics.

He poked around my mouth with a hi-res camera which was attatched to a flat-screen monitor mounted next to the chair so that both of us could see it. He noted the cosmetic work I had had done by my fancy Park Avenue dentist, specifically the 6 crowns on my top front teeth. He showed me on the monitor exactly how the work was flawed, and strongly suggested that I get myself another dentist. After seeing it on the monitor I couldn't help but agree.

He also showed me an advanced cavity in my upper left wisdom tooth that was too large to fix. He recommended pulling the tooth, since it couldn't be repaired and was bound to cause me great pain in the very near future. I reluctantly agreed after seeing the gaping hole that used to be the side of my rear molar. He began by injecting novacane into my gums. Having been through this process before I knew how painful these shots would be, but suprisingly, they weren't that bad. After I was comfortably numb he began to remove the tooth. I have never had the pleasure before, but it felt as though my bone was going to separate from my face before the tooth separated from the bone. I was honestly scared. And it's a violent process, with your cheek being pulled back far enough to expose the tooth and the dentist using all the strength of an large adult male to separate your tooth from your head. I was seriously questioning why I had chosen to go to a dentist in a developing country, even though by this point I was beginning to think he was better than my NY dentist. I had thoughts of my face being ripped apart and needing reconstructive bone surgery or perhaps the tooth flying out of my mouth as his plyers ripped through my cheek.

At one point I stopped him and asked him if there was any chance that the separation of my tooth from my mouth could fracture my bone. He gently laughed at my ignorance, but in a way that made me believe that I was in competent hands. I finally surrendered and allowed what will be to be.

L, who was watching the entire process said he used a tool that looked like a chisel to separate the bone from the roots, wedging it between the tooth and the bone, and rocking it and forth to loosen it. Then he would use plyers to pull at the tooth, and then go back to the chisel tool, then back to the plyers, until finally, even with my mouth completely numb, I felt a profound movent of the roots finally letting go as he dragged the tooth out of the bone. It felt SOOOO wrong! But it was done, and the dentist was pleased with his work. (As I type this, it is now 10 hours later, and aside from the gaping hole in my gum, I feel no pain.)

After I was done, L decided he would get an exam and a cleaning, even though he had just had one only 6 weeks ago by our NY Dentist. Almost immediately the Ecuadorian dentist identified the same flaws in L's implants as he had in mine. He also found 3 cavities that apparantly the NY guy didn't catch only 6 weeks prior! He filled the cavities and we paid him for all of his work. I was charged $60 for my exam, cleaning and tooth pulling and L was charged $90 for his exam and 3 fillings. I'm guessing this is about 10% of what we would have paid for this work in NY. And I do believe that the Ecuadorian had exactly the same quality equipment and perhaps better education and skills than our fancy Park Avenue dentist.

Quito

Photo: Santo Domingo Church and Plaza Bolivar, as viewed from my breakfast table in Hotel restaurant.

Two nights ago my best friend and I hopped on a plane from New York to Quito Ecuador, by way of Bogata, Columbia. We will be in Ecuador for 11 days. It was a 1am flight and I was unable to sleep. We arrived in Bogata where we spent 3 hours in the aeropuerto drinking cafe con leche (sort of like cafe au lait) waiting for our connection. Thankfully our travel karma was good and all the planes were on time. Upon landing in Quito we found a cell phone shop, and spent $40 on a handset and charged it up with $20. We will sell the handset to someone arriving at the airport as we leave. I always like to do this when I´m overseas so that I can have a local number to call from for hotel reservations, travel arrangements, etc. We have one of the many backpacker guide books, and we were able to find a nice hotel for about $50 in the Historic area of the Old Town. I was here 3 years ago, and it is a comfortable and very historic city and I was glad to return.

After a 90 minute nap in the hotel we went out in search of food. We found this restaurant that was located on the huge wrap-around balcony of an old palace, and we ate like kings. My favorite part of the meal was a deep purple drink called Colada Morado. It is a traditional drink, only served for one week at this time of the year for some unexplained reason. It´s has a fruity taste, but is also spicy with hints of clove and cinnamin, and there are small pinaple chunks floating in the thick, sauce-like concoction. The smell reminded me of a fine mulberry candle.

We then took a taxi across town and found the backpacker area, where there are many travel agents, hostels and laudry shops. There are always cool restaurants and bars in the areas that cater towards younger travelers, and we found the busiest restaurant/bar and sat out on the patio drinking whiskey and eating dessert. After a couple of hours we left to return to our hotel back across town since I hadn´t had much sleep in the past 36 hours and had a little bit of a headache.

We woke up refreshed at 8:30 and ate breakfast at the restaurant in our hotel which overlooks a beautiful old stone plaza with a church and a monastary. There were book sellers in the plaza and the occassional Fransican monk with their brown hooded robes and white rope sashes. We are leaving town today by bus, to travel south along the spine of the Ecuadorian Andes. We did some of this 3 years ago and came back to complete the journey.

Ragtime

A couple nights ago I saw the musical Ragtime. It was revived from 12 years ago and is still in previews. I hadn't even known it was coming back until a few days ago. Apparently the year it opened was the same year Lion King opened and of course Lion King took all the Tonys that year. Ragtime was a brilliant show, and its revival is true to the original. I was lucky to get the best seats in the entire house (7th row, center orch). Not sure how that happened, but I was thrilled. Right before the curtain went up, the actor, Frank Langella (Frost/Nixon) sat down in the seat directly in front of me.

As the curtain went up, the entire cast of about 35 people was already onstage and the theater broke out into thunderous applause. I'm sure that many of the audience were friends of the cast and of the show, but many had seen the show 12 years ago and were so happy to see it again. At any rate, the energy from the audience was the best that any cast could ever want, and the show seemed to float on top of that love. Not a cue was missed, everyone gave great performances and everyone had a real voice, something that seems more and more rare in broadway musicals these days. It was a great piece that was executed flawlessly. You laughed, you cried, you cheered and when it was over you gave an immediate and enthusiastic standing ovation. It was indeed a memorable Broadway experience. I highly recommend this show. The last time I felt this strongly about a great show was when i saw Wicked 5 or 6 years ago.

Ghosts from the past

I saw an advertisement for a show that I recognized as the show a friend of mine had written 25 years ago. I haven't seen this friend in a couple of decades, and so I bought tickets hoping that he might be at the performance. The performance was wonderful. I had the demo tapes from 25 years ago, and I was familiar with the music. Of course they had reworked it, but the skeleton was the same, and as the music and the show washed over me, I was brought back to my college days. I had loved this music back then and I had associated it with my friendship with this guy, who was instrumental in my life in a way that he wasn't even aware. We had met as counselors in a childrens sleep-over camp that was geared towards musicals. One night when I was stuck doing bunk duty and all the other counselors were going out drinking, he gave me the tapes and libretto for Sweeney Todd and told me it would change my life. It did. After that summer, I spent a weekend with him at Eastman School of Music, where he studied. His dream was to be a composer of pop music in LA. I returned to my engineering studies after that weekend knowing beyond all doubt that I was supposed to be a professional musician. It took me 10 years after that to actually get around to it, but I finally did.

After the show was over, I was able to locate my friend. He didn't recognize me at first. Once we did the reintroductions, I told him how instrumental he was in my life, especially the weekend I visited him at Eastman. I told him that I now made my living performing, and that my love of Broadway had initiated from the night that he had given me Sweeney Todd to listen to. It was so great to talk to him. He told me he did make it to LA but that he no longer does music. He has been working as an Engineer!

Total Eclipse of the Heart

Roommate 2.0

You may remember a previous post where I got a part time roommate to help me defray expenses in the midtown apartment. Well, after 2 months he left. He claimed it was a money thing. It was upsetting because I was really seeking someone for a long term situation. But C'est La Vie.

I put another ad on Craigslist and quickly got 6 or 7 pretty solid interested parties. I met with 4 of them and was just about to make a decision when I get yet another person emailing me about the apartment. In her first email she tells me that she is a porn star based on the West Coast. She goes on about how responsible and quiet she is, and that she is under contract with one of the major Hollywood studios (not porn) for a TV show. She tells me that she will arrive in NYC the following Weds with all her professional references, a copy of the TV contract, her bank statements, landlord references, cash in hand, etc. etc. etc. She is interested in a part-time long term commitment. I immediately think, well she's a vapid, big-breasted, straight porn star; I will hate her! But, the business part of my mind says, well, not so fast. She's coming at me correctly, let's see where this takes us.

I called her, and we had a really good conversation, good enough, in fact, for me to delay my decision until she came to town on Weds and we could meet. She went on to tell me that she was my age (somewhere between 35 and death), the mother of two, and she has a friend that she likes to visit a couple of times a month here in NY. The more we talked, the more I was drawn to her. Although she had the porn star voice, and she giggled like a girl, she was not at all vapid. In fact she has a pretty solid sense of business and some amazing life experience that she shared with me with no apologies. As one who appreciates directness and hates all things fake, I was under her spell. After the phone call she texted me that she was going to stalk me via text until our meeting Weds, which she did, but not in an obnoxious way.

By the time she arrived, I had pretty much made up my mind that she would be my next roommate. My biggest concern was that she not cause a scandal arriving in my conservative east-side lobby with her big porn titties and skin-tight jeans telling the doorman she was here to see me. When she arrived, there was some protest going on and the streets were all blocked off, so I had to fetch her from the corner to get her past the cops and their barricades. She was tastefully dressed and we recognized each other immediately. We went up to my apartment and had the nicest evening, drinking wine and eating sushi, which she insisted upon paying for. My only last concern, since she was in the adult entertainment industry, was that she not entertain tricks in the apartment. (A week prior I actually had an inquiry about my apartment by a couple of professional girls that wanted to "entertain friends that make living in New York more manageable!") After a very long and honest conversation, I was convinced that escorting is not part of her business model. By the end of the night we were best friends and I invited her to share my apartment and she agreed. The following day she came with the cash, signed the papers and began her 4 day stay. I had to leave for the Midwest the next morning but when I got back to the apartment on Sunday, the fridge was stocked, the apartment was immaculate, there were scented candles and new linens on the bed. She flew out before I got back, but after about 9 days in CA, filming her show she'll be back in NY for 6 nights. I can't wait...we'll have a blast.

My second Hash

Yesterday (Sat) afternoon I went to my second "Hash", which is a sort of team sport/race where everyone (about a hundred of us) runs through the streets and follows clues of chalk marked arrows. Sometimes the clues are misleading and you have to go back to a certain marking and find the correct lead. There is a lot of shouting and silliness, and people are staring at us wondering what in God's name we are doing frantically running in one direction, then another as a very loose group. The runs are designed to last about 4 miles or so, and at the end if you follow the course correctly, you end up at a bar where everyone drinks and sings silly drinking songs while making playful fun of each other.

What made yesterday's run special was that it was the Annual Red Dress Run, so all the participants (half men and half women) had to wear a red dress. My friend and I found a really cheap clothing store way uptown and got two identical red nylon numbers that were probably just glorified nighties. Cost: $8.95 each. So there we were with 100 other hashers, running through the crowded streets of Soho (right by the Zendo where I meditate, coincidentally), Washington Square, The East Village, the West Village, Union Square and back down through Soho again. It was a beautiful sunny day of about 72 degrees and the tourists and shoppers were out in full force. It was so much fun to see their faces as all of these men and women in red dresses and running sneakers ran by. Some would ask what we were running for and we'd shout out things like "It's the Red Dress Run!" (as though that would explain everything) or "for Menopause Awareness Month" or "for Breast Cancer" or my favorite, "for Beer!" Some people would get excited and start hooting and hollering. Some would just laugh. Most reacted with a combination of bewilderment and amusement, with the tourists leaning towards the former and the natives, the latter. At one point we were running down crowded Broadway and we realized that we had missed a clue so we all turned around and ran right back through the same crowd we had just assaulted 3 minutes prior. As we ran past a sidewalk cafe I held my hand out, red nylon sleeve waving in the wind, and I high-fived several of the diners. It was complete lunacy.

Brilliant!

What is he doing to this turtle? Riding it?

It's about fun, dammit!

I'm in the mid-west this weekend, working once again with 2 partners that I've never met before. I always look forward to this aspect of my work, as I have met some really cool people this way. The three of us are staying in a small band apartment with only 2 bedrooms, so the last one to arrive is stuck with the futon in the common area. It sucks, and it's an inadequate arrangement, but what can you do.

My one partner who arrived last is 30-something, and has been playing the gig for a long time. I think he was irritated about having to sleep on the futon, while my other partner and I got private bedrooms with proper beds. He was standoffish to me from the first introduction, and it only got worse.

On stage he demonstrated technically solid piano skills. I also found him to be just as standoffish to me on stage as he was offstage. When I would finish a song, he never once, made any reference to what I had just done, and he never once introduced me to the crowd as is standard stagecraft. He was only slightly more animated with my other partner. He appeared as though he had been in the gig much too long and was utterly dissatisfied. He rarely got up off his piano bench to support either of his partners with hand-clapping or riling up the crowd, preferring to do these things from the comfort of his seat, with an decidedly unenthusiasic bent. At one point after I missed a rather simple chord change, he shook his head back and forth in disgust sitting opposite me on-stage. I have yet to see a genuine smile or for that matter an authentic connection with his on-stage partner of the moment. It was almost as though there were two shows happening on stage, his and that of his partner and rarely did the two intersect.

I found out from my other partner, who has a strange history with this guy, that he was a serious cokehead (I didn't witness this), and that he's always been a miserable human being. I certainly sensed his unhappiness. I know that he was unhappy about the sleeping arrangements, but it ran deeper than that. He has not put together 5 complete sentences for me since we met 2 days ago. Had he not been so cold to me before we ever got onstage, I might have thought it a case an inflated sense of self. Certainly he has much more experience than me, and his piano skills reflect this. I know that there are guys in this gig that feel put-upon when they have to play with lesser experienced players, and perhaps that's part of it. But his bitterness seems to run deep, and for this, I am not taking his coldness personally. I think that what he completely misses is that equally as important (or as many would argue, more important) as keyboarding skills, is an on-stage presence that involves charisma, positive energy, a sense of humor, a skillful reparté with your partner and...FUN!! Ya have to be able to have fun!!! If you are so wrapped up in how much better you are then both your partners...um...you're not having much fun, and the audience picks up on it. You can throw out all the stock jokes and funny one-liners, but if you look bored or put-upon when you say them, you're second rate, and worse than that you are wasting the time of everyone in the club.

It miserable people like this that can't summon up an ounce of visible human kindness, that are the cold-prickly thorns in the side of this gig. The flip side of this is that my other partner is a really cool person and we've made a nice connection that will last well beyond this gig. So, all in all, this weekend was a wash.

Musician humor