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Thursday, August 26, 2004
The MailbagI've decided that I will reply to all emails of light-hearted nature in one post, as opposed to what I had been doing the past month, which is to not write back at all. It's become difficult with all the, as my non-musician friends call it, "celloing" to keep up with the emails and I hope this will fix everything. Ever since I started to nit-pick on the spelling, grammar, and diction of the Emails of the Week, I had a feeling there would be a day when I'd be clobbered for my own slip-ups. As we saw a few days ago, even my own cousin, Alicia, who is known for spelling things as if the number of consonants in a word works proportionally to how happy you are, has given me the yellow card. She's not the only one: just someone who cheked out your site. quick comment for you. first of all, nice job on the bell thing. [Olympic Cheer] second, I believe you misspelled "immersed" on the opening page. Mark, Montreal Now, having learned my lesson, I will refrain from pointing out to this spelling maven that 'cheked' is ruefully in want of another letter. Being the bigger person, I will not mention this at all. Nor will I rub it in by dwelling on the matter. No, sir, not another sentence. Okay, next email: long time reader of your site. four years now in fact i've been reading. sorry to hear about your bike accident. i like how you can see the humor in everything tho. Paul Johnston, New Brunswick I actually have been at it only two years, though I'm happy to hear that you have been reading for four. This is what I call dedication. Next email: I enjoy your writing so much that I come by at least twice a day. You're so talented! The cello, the rap, the writing, the poetry...! Really, very impressed. Keep up the good work!!" Jessica, Edmonton Jessica, I have two questions. First, are you hot? Second, are you single? Next: Hi Adrian I got on to your site by accident. The way you write if fascinating and I think you're beautiful. Thanks for the entertainment while I'm supposed to be working. Sincerely Kelsey, Calgary Being beautiful is one thing; being a Kelsey is another. Tell me, are you a Kelsey like.. Grammer? Or a Kelsey like Jessica, who may or may not be hot? Next and last email -- one from an almost regular Hate-Mailer of mine: Subject: You know what's a good idea? If you never ever posted a picture of yurself wthout a shirt again. Did I WANT to see that. No. Does ANYONE. No. My girlfrined reads your site all the time and if you post something like that again to try and hook her, I will personally hunt you down man. I'm serious. I'm 6 feet tall and you're struggling to see over my lawn. Got it? I'm done. No name, No where My, my. An anthropoid ape got himself a keyboard. What a thoughtfully written disquisition. Incidentally, if the sight of my body is so offensive, why are you so afraid that it will result in losing your girlfriend? Just a question. And I am very happy that you are six feet tall. Did you just turn six feet tall? Is your mommy proud too? And that's that for this month's new feature. If you write and don't want to be included into the Mailbag, please indicate this in the email. Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Almost all the bragging between guys about their exploits with women happen in the locker room. One has to ask why that is. I think something about being near naked in a room full of other guys makes them feel they need to let people know they're not enjoying it.The green room is a room backstage where the performers prepare themselves for show time. Boiled down, the green room is to musicians what the locker room is to football players: once you get a bunch of them in one room, competition abounds. The moment a musician sees another musician in the green room playing the same instrument, he must immediately launch himself into several excerpts of virtuoso show pieces to demonstrate his skills. After this comes the verbal posturing, where he asks the other guy where he studies and with whom; this is essentially for identification, to draw shaky assumptions on how well the other plays from name and accomplishments in his history. On an unrelated note, while watching the Discovery channel, I learned that an ape, upon meeting another primate, hops around and beats his chest rapidly in attempts to demonstrate his strength and speed. He inquires into the other's history primarily through anogenital sniffing. Often guests visit the performers after the concert in the green room. Speaking plainly, this is a place where you rub shoulders and schmooze. To schmooze correctly, you need to be nice, charming, and intelligent. My problem with this is that I'm rarely any of these things and, the odd time that I am, people complain it conflicts directly with their interest in finishing dinner. A quick scan through the archives will tell you I'm not exactly immune to social gaffes and embarrassing moments. One time, while talking to this important city official and drinking a Coke, in gesturing how much I liked a certain piece, I emptied all the contents of my glass onto his suit. Not just on his sleeve. The amount of soda that landed on him could have put out a small fire. I don't know how these things happen, they just do. When I'm not bungling up an important encounter with inadvertent slapstick, I easily substitute it with clumsy and wholly inappropriate monologue. And sometimes it's not even monologue. Sometimes it's just an ill-timed chuckle. Anyway, since it seems I'm just typing away with no point, I suppose this will be the main focus of this post. Last week, a concert artist was telling a group of us about a teacher he had that he deeply respected; I'll admit that I kind of missed the 'deeply respected' part. He went on about the man's ailing health, concluding with, "And then he got run over by a car, which really didn't help matters." I don't know why I found this funny. Maybe it was the cynicism. Maybe I was thinking that very few people are ever improved after being hit by a car; in which case, if they were, they'd have to be really ugly. Anyway, during the silence that happens in conversation -- specifically, during that lull that is often punctuated with thoughtful nods and consolatory shoulder pats from those listening -- I let out a glorious whoop of genuine hilarity. People looked at me like I was insane. As if joy in my life was the thought of a beloved octogenarian careening off the hood of a car, dentures and cane flying in the air. It's really not. However, I've learned that explaining why you're laughing is like trying to explain a punchline to a joke: if you have to explain, it's not funny. And, in this case, you simply cannot try to explain how you, somehow, aren't a jerk. The green room, then, is very much like a locker room. After a while, you'd rather be somewhere else. 
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