Here’s a picture of some of the home gear needed to practice music on my own time. It’s an art that Florida guitarists seem to have lost. Imagine that, showing up at rehearsal knowing all your parts. I have not a local guitarist that has learned a single new song since we’ve met. (How do I know they aren’t learning it at home and that's why I don't hear it? Because if they were, they’d fervently complain as much as they do about everything else. Unadultered logic on that one.)Another day of intense study of music. Again I’m looking for patterns, or in the case of The Doors, lack of a pattern. Four hours on “Love Her Madly”, [which is] another song I never cared for. But I lived through the early pot era and fully understand the appeal of disjointed music and nonsense lyrics on the fried-brain bunch. I can fake the song and soon I’ll flesh out the grace notes and passing tones.
Estelle never called [which she has no obligation to do] but I do kind of leave Tuesdays open just in case. It's an unadvertised option I generally extend to any woman I've ever dated. I was reminded of her because I have some stats and comments on my super dating club, the one I paid for a year’s membership. But first something side-splitting I forgot to mention. Last week, as we walked out to the bus stop, we were talking about Zumba class. She’s a big fan of it and asked about what type of moves we made. I showed her a few of the steps to point out the level of exertion.
She says her class is more focused on the Brazilian dance moves and showed me how they waggle their shoulders and bounce the hips more. Her class is more stylistic and bouncy. So I’m telling her that is too advanced for me and, what’s all that noise, but maybe after I limber up a bit. What’s all that noise? We looked up Federal Highway. About twenty cars full of men on their way home had seen her demo the shoulder-hip thing and were honking their horns. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!
Dating club news, something lots of my readership seems to like to know about. Well, I’m disappointed with the cerebral club I joined, that’s the outfit that wants at least a Bachelor’s to enroll. The women are better educated with better jobs, but you know the game. If you don’t connect in the first short while, the chances of ever meeting someone fall off dramatically. The first impression ritual. And, it’s been a while already.
My profile is subtly different enough to attract the woman who is weary of all the grinning liars in the world. It specifies more than casual interest on my part in the activities I enjoy. In return I’m seeing a lot of women to list what they enjoy doing, but see no evidence they ever do them, or can even afford to do them. Unless they have their own yacht. Anyway, tingle my spider-sense. You can’t fool me on that count, ladies. Talk is cheap and the cheapest talk is on the Internet.
I now conclude dating clubs are a crutch for dweeby individuals who don’t have what it takes to make the first move or, as I’ll describe momentarily, the second move either. The club in focus has a feature whereby you can send a flag that lets the gal know you found her profile interesting. So I flagged a random group to see if any would flag back. Nope. My profile fits the bell curve by design and my presentation openly solicits a response. Yet still nothing.
This is a risky situation to lay in the open, because the world is full of pathetic men who make wrong assumptions. I am so different from those deaf-stupid losers they don’t know. Right now they would swear under oath I just said I was a flop with chicks, when I never said any such thing. For example, just last night I was the only man in an all-female Zumba class so I don’t need any crap about not looking in the right places. The problem is I’m not meeting interesting women. I’m not looking for rich or tall or sexy, but I do keep an eye out. I’m looking for someone I can spend the rest of my life with.
And the search is exasperating. I have a phobia about being stuck with a boring person the rest of my life. I admit it. But I know I’m not anywhere near as boring as my critics. I fully admit that I sincerely believe all the good women are taken, that if I meet a nice one it will be by pure chance, and that I will likely eventually settle for leftovers. I have nothing to lose by picking the young, pretty ones.
Otherwise, I’m satisfied with this pay-for-play club. Truly bad people such as infest free clubs would not last here. There is no chat-line feature where all the losers of phenomenal IQ could claim they “only read the articles”. But the window of opportunity had passed when began I checking the little box that specifies “new profiles only”. Nor do I believe the reports by men that they get overwhelmed with responses. There are no movie stars in the lists.
PS: Google still hasn't got the photo embedding command scripts right. I've reverted to doing the job by hand. But at least I can. The consistency of this blog format is no thanks to the dimwits at Google.
ADDENDUM
Welcome back to playing in the band. My expenses have leapt to 33% because of output and no input. There are no paying gigs to be found, so I’m becoming ever less resistant to hiring an agent. Most bands are loathe to take this step as it symbolizes a loss of independence, a sellout to the system. This band is good enough to front corporate events and I prefer to swallow any false pride and play rather than not play.
Any money is good. An agent taking 15% off a $750+ gig floats my boat. Scoring a $2,000 gig due to a cancellation is not unheard of but it seldom happens unless you have an agent. No income turns a band into a bottomless money pit. In this new band I have no say or sway, none, zero. New guys are low man on the totem pole. Even their best advice is never acted on. It’s an ancient principle at work.
Did I ever mention my first band conflict of interest? When I was 14 I had both my own rock band and also played saxophone in the school marching band. I was the only one of four sax players who could hit a low C note. The band leader had me promise several times to be at the annual concert. But at the last moment the singer in my rock band, Wendy, was short some cash to win the school May Queen contest. The logical solution was to throw a dance and donate the proceeds.
So you’ll know, I was in agony over this. In the end, I had decided the school band could carry off their concert without that one note. And Wendy won hands down, with more cash brought in than even the parents of the other contestants cared to kick in. I heard later Mr. Burns, the conductor, had a grim look when I didn’t show. The following week, I was informed I had resigned from the marching band, permanently.
That is also the era when I learned the conditions for the breakup of most bands. Here is a list, in any order except first place, of the top ten reasons bands fail:
1. Guitarists, their ego will bring you to senseless grief.
2. Drummers, because they can join another band too easily.
3. Live original music for it belongs in a studio, not on a stage.
4. Vocalists, because they are always far better than they actually are.
5. Disagreement over the song list—some people don’t want to grow up.
6. Vindictive jealousy of strangers and family, eerie this one.
7. Multi-banding and soloing out, even once spells trouble.
8. Married men. They should consort musically only with their own kind.
9. Lack of income. Bands have expenses and you need something on the table.
10. Rigid, inflexible song lists and performances.
Some may say I left out drunkenness, drugs, attitudes, lateness, and laziness. Not really, since those problems show up early enough to prevent the band from coalescing in the first place. You ain’t no band unless you can gig out. Everything up to that point is a rain dance. Nor did I include lack of talent or congeniality. These factors do not, in themselves, break up bands. I’ll put up with an ass-hat for as long as he does the job. The Hippie quit doing the job.
