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The Jam with the Violinist
2003-11-07 - 2:11 a.m.


before/after
strangely non-functional guestbook

Some jams you walk away from, not feeling much.  And some jams you walk away feeling something like being high. 

I felt like laughing and hugging everyone all around.

And a definite feel of emotion.  Later on, as I drove away, I felt high.  A smile that won't go away.

Went to class, took a test, did some busy work.  The prof was late, and left halfway through class to go to an autoparts store.  Later I caught him tinkering with a guitar tabulature page editor.  Dude, at least pretend to give a shit.

So I took a couple of breaks, saw my friend Rob.  Rob was doing homework with a group in the study lounge.   I moved up to him quietly, and he didn't notice.  I have to wonder if I'm taking on the mannerisms of my kitty, rather than vice versa.

Boo!  Asleep by my side.

Anyway.

Rob told be about his friend.  Its his lifelong friend named Chris, with whom he's done a lot of kink.  Strange things.  Fivesomes with fat women.  Yes, they need lovin', too.  Foursomes.  Many threesomes.  He did threesomes with Chris's pregnant wife, which is a bit much for me to wrap my head around.

"Dude, she was pregnant."

"Did you feel a tug on your dick?"

"No."

"What if the kid comes out with a dent in his forehead?"

"Then, when he gets old enough, I'll point to that, and tell him 'I did that'."

"Well, at least you didn't have to pull out."

"I didn't even think about that."

And I ended the conversation there.  It had already passed into detail I didn't want to know.  The pregnant women is now dead, and Chris lives with his girlfriend and sundry children, one of them hers.  Rob stopped doing menage's with Chris when he caught Chris looking him in the eye while he Rob fucked his girlfriend.  It queered rob out.  Which is understandable.  It raises the question of what Chris was getting off on, anyway.

And rob tells me that while we were at the bar, he was supposed to be at a party.  At this party of Chris', everyone left and went to the bar, leaving the girlfriend behind, passed out drunk.

While they were at the bar, a psycho forced his way into the home and raped the girl.  He's awaiting arraignment, I believe.  They found him passed out in the bed and beat the shit out of him.  The police picked up the guy later on at the park, mostly naked, I believe.  They suspect he was on something.

So, Rob filled me in on the sordid, sad tale, adding, "Yeah, he's all fucked up right now, just lost his job, found out his kids got molested by his dead wife's father, and now this."

Man, horrible the twists and turns life can throw at people. 

Where was I?

So I left class, got some fast food, echh, and went to the coffee shop. It held a decent crowd.  The manager's girlfriend was there, in a tight white shirt that read 'california' and tight hip hugger low rise jeans that showed off her lower back tattoo.  I said 'hi' and tried to read her shirt immediately, which, of course, framed her incredible breasts.  On her really slim frame, it is impossible not to notice.  Probably fake, but I don't care.  She's really devoted to the manager, you can tell.  They showed up at my gym, and she sat there and read a magazine while he worked out.  Which kinda' amazes me.  I've had girls offer to do that type of thing, but I always refuse.  Its just a little odd, I guess.  Fine, your together, she's dedicated to 'her man', and whatever, but doesn't everybody need some alone time to make the experience of the other more special, more intoxicating?  A bulwark from the storms, a blissful interlude as we make our way through the world, but not a brother/sister type of closeness.  Some strangeness should still lie about the place.  Like Bukowski says, the last man's mind a woman should understand is her husband's.

Or something to that effect.

So I stare at her tits, cant help myself.  Get a cup of coffee, set my guitars down away from the crowd, and listen to Steve and Harold play.

Steve is playing violin, and Harold is playing the piano.  Harold bangs through traditional songs like he's marching, pounding on the ivories with little sensitivity.  Or so it seems.

After a bunch of songs, they invite me up.  I really don't know any traditional songs.  Usually because the progressions are really simple and I never remember the words.

I just pet Boo while he's sleeping.  He roused enough to squeak out a tiny little kitten meow.  And back to sleep. 

Got him to purr briefly.

Anyway.

So I tell them I play by ear, and my steel guitar is tuned to C.  Fine, everything Harold bangs through can be played in C.

I tried for awhile with the steel, but the mix wasn't having any of it.  It just didn't fit.

So I switched to the six.  Played some blues accompanied by violin and it was swell.  And as the night wore on, I started picking out the progressions with my ear, and strumming along with a fast, chunky full chord strum.  It made me think of the chase scene in 'The Graduate' where Dustin Hoffman is trying to stop the wedding of his love, the Stepford Wife (cigar if you get that one)(pun intended, too), and Paul Simon, in the soundtrack, strums C repetitively and hard as Dustin Hoffman races around to find the church, eventually running out of gas.  Well, before he ran out of gas, my strum made me think of that.  Comparable, anyway.

And I started to get it, even with the steel, the spots I could fill.  I could hear the subtle changes by the musicians to accomodate me and my sound.  But with the six, it all came together.

As it started to come together, with old standards like Edelwiess, and When the Saints Come Marching In, Harold stops, pulls out a violin.

I listen to them a bit, and play rythym with them, that seemed to fit with steve's progression. It came closer together.

Then steve started playing peices alone super fast, with skill.  I kept the pace, kept the rythym.  It sounded good.  People applauded, moved closer to hear.

And Harold, I forgot to add, is an old man.

Harold stops, and whips out a goddam accordian.  I shit you not, I played with a fuckin' accordian.  In C.  Harold and I bounced rythym off of each other.

It was feeling good, getting it together  The bomp-chippa-bomp-bomp of the whole thing.  The ritual of communion.  The opening of the channels of creativity and tribal thumping release.  The old people, friends of Harold's, sitting up front, stirred.

And to top it off, just as I was really pulling the rythym down, for our last song, Harold pulled out his violin again, and I played really tight rythym for them, hearing words come from their melodies, like the song was speaking to me, words I know not from where they came, but spoke to me, helped me along with the song, let me know when to change and when not, pulling me through.

It was elegaic.  It was like making love to two women at the same time.  The stum was tight and innocent.  I felt like laughing, some emotion like crying.  I felt like hugging these guys I hardly knew when I was done.

I gathered my things.

"Thanks for putting up with me, Harold,"  I said.

He was at a loss for words.

"Thanks for putting up with ME."  he choked out.

I shook Steve's hand, put my hands together, and bowed towards Harold, who was banging out a traditional, and walked towards the huge clean glass front exit.

A few of the old people stirred.  An old man winked and said, "Good music."

His wife concurred.  Everybody watched me, but didn't know what to say.

A guy stopped me and asked about my guitar.  I let him hold it.

"I don't have children.  I have a guitar."

"Do you play anywhere?"

"Here."

"On Thursdays?"

"Yeah, probably more thursdays, now."

I took my leave, put my guitars in my car, and drove away, grin in place, feeling just a little bit high.


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