Here is another example of my sidewalk reflection art. I’ll try anything to get famous. The only thing women like more than a rich guy is a famous guy. Makes sense, for it bears repeating that one can become “un-rich”. Sidewalk art is when a building window reflects an interesting [to me] pattern onto the sidewalk. This one, reminiscent of a tombstone, is a list of accountants on a glazed window.
[Author's note 3016-03-20: I forget what effect I was trying to get with this picture, but this was still the early days of digital blog photos. So whatever it was, for me, this was super-artistic.]
Now I find out one of them is a drummer. At the last possible moment; he is leaving tomorrow. Since I doubt now that I’ll ever practice music anywhere but here [at a trailer court], things could pick up when they return in six months. It turns out that semi-abandoned trailer courts are ideal for practicing music. Chosen for a central location, this joint has become superbly equipped for practice.
I’ve got a new student, Gayle, who was just on the phone. Wednesday mornings are prime time, folks. Lose your slot and you don’t get it back. No other calls, so I am going into the shop, then over to WorkForce, as I may have to find work over this summer. Part time, if possible. Plus, to check what is out there.
The DVD I’m trying to compile is still a no-go. Like anything to do with computers, the so-called experts disappear when you need some real advice. I would like to take the files from my digital camera, arrange them with titles and transitions, then burn them to a DVD, or a CD that will play in a DVD player. I’m no further ahead than y’day. The editing files that will create the assembled product will not output in a format that can be read by a DVD burner.
The programs that claim to encode the files correctly either will not read the original or, like the editing software, won’t output the correct format. To test the features, I have a short video I use as the benchmark, because it seems to play in any mode or combination of equipment. It is a show of Paris Hilton having sex, but back when she was young and pretty in the days when she was, well, young and pretty.
It is a mystery to me how these famous, skinny blonde babes wind up with such third-rate boyfriends. Don’t get me wrong, for I’ve gotten more than my share in this life. It is just that these women could probably not do any worse if they tried. Where do they find these uneducated, grinning, greasy-haired losers? Apparently they don’t smell trouble when the guy hauls out a video camera on the second date.
It reminds of back in my college days, because there was a very outspoken feminist on campus. She was totally against the “exploitation” of women by the media. She was in her mid-thirties and had been after the [married] philosophy professor for 17 years. Do the math. I most remember her severely plucked eyebrows and his predilection for grey turtle-neck sweaters. Her argument was always the same, that men only “think” that young women are better, or cleaner, or more exciting. According to her, I didn’t really have a good time with my girlfriend, I only thought I did. Now I realize she needed that philosophy guy more than I could possibly have imagined.
[Author's note 2016-03-20: What I'm describing here is what I saw in my philosophy class in first year college. This skinny leftover type broad was trying to put the squeeze on the college prof. She had been following him around for years, repeating his courses, sitting in the front row, and asking over-obvious questions about how his teachings applied to sex and such. Disgusting, really. She reminded me of a shriveled up raisin, with her black turtleneck sweaters, trying to look 17. She had a carrot nose and he looked like Barnie Rubble.]
Deanne, the lady who knows nothing about computers, but likes to surf the net, called up again. Her system is choked up with viruses for the second time in a year. She is a nice enough lady, living at home with mom, but that makes it difficult to do repairs. Mom sleeps until noon, and Deanne is always off to doctor’s appointments or group and therapy meetings. Can’t wake mom, so by assuring her I knew all there was to know about being quiet in a girl’s bedroom with mother asleep in the next one, I am going over there to troubleshoot things tomorrow.
ADDENDUM
The G called, it looks like he can use the gig afterall. That means I should invest in the PA head. Nobody likes packing gear. I’m overexposed to people who claim music is a hobby, but who really view it as a way of life. The G used to make a big deal of saying I could be a good bassist "if I applied myself". Who knows, by the same token, he could become a good entertainer?
[Author's note 2016-03-20: that last paragraph conveys the wrong message. What was going on is that I apply my bass skill to the limit of every song I play in a band, but it was impossible with the G because he would not commit to a set list. Thus, you never knew which 30 of his 60 songs to focus on. Why knock myself out to learn a given song when we might not play it for another six months? But what would happen is sometimes by chance he'd actually play a song several gigs in a row. Lo and behold, he proclaims you are getting better. What a moron.
Like every other musician in the world, I get better when we really play a tune we'd rehearsed--and he goes on crowing that I could become good some day. If only I'd learn his song list while he ignores mine. Wherever he is today, I'll bet I could rattle off his song list. Just like my only hope was to have found a good guitarist, his only hope was to team up with me and do it my way. The difference is, I know I'm just a hack, he thinks he's a success. Yeah, in the hotel bars.]
I taught my top student (Becky) to do a lead break tonight. This was a complicated lesson, one that brought together a variety of concepts we’ve covered over the last month. Her sister would like to start up again, if her acting lessons don’t conflict with music lessons. Forgive if I have a few notions left about music lessons versus acting lessons. Most people get all the acting lessons they’ll ever need in the first year of marriage.
It has been six [later count corrected to five] lessons with Becky. She is not putting in the required time, but that really means it is just spread over a longer period. She is remarkably alert about some points in the program, which takes the pressure off me. Yet, she lags in the sheer number of hours needed. She is always asking why it “sounds so neat” when I do it. Practice, my Dear.
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