Recently, I had to sign and return a contract for an upcoming performance and realized something about "legal sized envelopes": I didn't have any. Far as I could tell, I only had illegally sized envelopes. So I ended up stuffing the contract into a Hallmark envelope. I had to fold the contract like, fourteen times. But I did it professionally.
So I bought a pair of cowboy boots. Well, that was the intention, anyway. I don't think they are really cowboy boots, but they pass for them in a non-embroidered, unspur-heeled way. I've wanted them for a while and was met only with criticism and flack when I contemplated the purchase out loud. I didn't see what the big deal is. Apparently, the big deal is that they're ugly.
Before my birthday, people were asking me what I wanted for my birthday. I told them cowboy boots and they -- like Melodie, Emily, my quartet, everyone I knew -- said, "What?? Why?!?!" And the truth is, I don't know. I just wanted them. Not to be cross-cultural or anything revolutionary. I just liked them. And maybe the idea that not many cello-playing rappers would be wearing them. (As you know, with the number of cello-playing rappers around, you need to do something different to set yourself apart.) Some of the aforementioned even went as far as to consult their fashion designer friends to see whether cowboy boots were in: They weren't, was the answer; unless you're gay, was the threat.
Shoes make the man -- they don't make you love a man -- so I brushed all the vitriol invectives aside and started looking. It would seem most cowboy boots are really, really pointy and really, really long. I saw some cowboy boots at places like Bloomingdale's and Kenneth Cole but, trying them on, I couldn't resist the urge to wail, "I'm melting! I'm meltinggggg!" I ended up getting a pair of boots at Aldo. Marked down, marked down again, and at an additional 50% off. Which goes to show my savvy shopping skills, and not, say, the fact that they had so much trouble getting rid of them. Everyone in the store said they looked good, though. But -- I always forget this -- you can't trust anyone who's selling you shoes. They're like car salesmen but with leather. "Are these boots a little too pointy?" I'd ask. No way, was the answer. "A little too long?" Oh, no, they're great -- you look great. "Are these really, really ugly?" Okay, fine, an additional 50% off.
I wore them for a day and nobody noticed. At least, no one said anything. (...) But today, while walking down the stairs, two girls at the bottom said, "Hey, those are snazzy shoes!" Thinking back, neither of them actually said they liked them. They just said they were "snazzy". Which, to me, is like the word "funky": It can go either way. Come to think of it, I think they said something like, "You know, Steve would like these boots." Which would imply that they, by emphatic comparison, did not. It's always nice, when addressing someone's shoes, to point out who would like them instead of committing yourself to any sort of comment of your own. That's a true sign of shopping success on my part. I should probably point out that Steve has about as much fashion common sense as -- well, let's just say he's the type of guy that wears shorts and dress socks pulled up as far as they can possibly stretch. Key words being dress socks. And shorts. And "snazzy", while I'm at it.
Honestly, I was going to attach a picture to this post as well, but suddenly, it's like a new girlfriend. You want to make sure the photograph catches her in the right light, at the right angle. And I'm taking pictures of these boots and I just can't find the right photo. The one that says, "Don't look at my appearance, look at my personality." I just can't find that one perfect picture of me wearing the boots where it's really dark, I'm running away, and the camera's on slow-shutter while someone's shaking it vigorously.
I'm just kidding. I really like these boots. You would too. My next item: a ten-gallon.
It has come to my attention that saying "fellow female musician" in my last post, would mean that I myself am a fellow female musician. This is of course incorrect on all accounts, seeing that I have trouble humming tunes, fail classes called musicianship, and pee standing up. Thanks to the three people for the comprehensive wallops on the matter.
The quartet just came back from Lake Tahoe. We played a few concerts and several outreach presentations for elementary and pre-school children. In struggling to figure out the difference between outreach performances and concerts, one might say the selections are shorter, we talk more, and the audience wears colourful overalls.
We had a great time there, though. We would play Mozart, Haydn, Bartok, even the Ives and then show them the similarities between that and popular music. For instance, the breaking up of four voices within the quartet and the different lines of Justin Timberlake song.
In so doing, I ask the kids what kind of music they listen to. And you'll be surprised to know that, no matter how young, children "listen to hip hop". I put that in quotations because there's a degree of disbelief when all the kids, some as young as four, raise their hands in allegiance to a music predominantly lionizing care-free sex, drug use, and effortless murder. At the risk of being cynical, it teaches us that hip hop is presently "cool" -- and aligning yourself with it is worth its weight in social gold.
Anyway, kids seem to like rap no matter what at this point. Even if it's in small-town Truckee, California. So we break the quartet up into its primary roles of bass, middle voices, and principal line and show them how the quartet and my rapping can be cobbled together into an epigone of the Roots and Black Thought. If Black Thought were given to rapping about cats and buses, that is.
A lot of the kids asked for autographs afterwards, and I had to restrain them all from having the quartet sign their shirts, which I'm sure their parents bought preferring never to be graced with four illegible scribbles. It occurred to me that I hadn't scrawled out my signature so many times since that afternoon in Montreal when I decided to give my landlord two-year's worth of post-dated cheques. I felt like Raffi.
Speaking of Raffi, the outreach tour wasn't without its gaffes. Courtesy of yours truly, as per usual. In attempts to explain that the middle voices had "little tidbits of the melody", I said instead, "See how the middle voices have little titties..."
At which point, I could not possibly recover because my quartet nearly fell off their chairs in silent convulsions and, in trying to correct myself, I said "titties" maybe two more times in rapid stutters before shutting up. I proceeded to stare red-faced at the audience and debated whether this was a good time to just go backstage. "Okay, guys, I think that's about enough for me. See you in twenty minutes."
Luckily, the audience was young enough and innocent enough -- or maybe not-paying-attention enough -- to not notice, though the Festival's coordinators and chairman noticed. By laughing raucously, thankfully.
|
