I happen to live in a pretty cool city (and not just because the governor declared it one). I've known for quite some time that small-town city livin' is the right kind of livin' for me. There are times I think about buying a house on the same street as my sister out east, but dammit - I can't imagine leaving this cool city.
It's cool for lots of different reasons. It's got a couple colleges, houses a pretty impressive art scene, is way more hefty on the lefty side of politics - and it also offers excellent square footage for some decent nightlife.
You've got your live music, you've got your microbrews, you've got your Irish pubs, you've got a little bit of country and a little bit of rock-n-roll. And don't even get me started on the fine assortment of crappy bars.
One of the reasons I know I live in a cool city is that I have friends from out of town who tell me so. I've got out of town friends who spend so much time in my town, I'm beginning to wonder what's keeping them in a less than cool city.
Tonight some friends decided to take a little hop to some of our local establishments. We managed to put some time into a sports bar and a dive bar and then decided it would be a good time to elevate the evening at our most favoritest pizza place, which now sports an upstairs bar and is dabbling in live music.
You have to love this pizza place. The guy who runs it is sorta like Seinfeld's Soup Nazi. He takes his pizza that seriously. The first time I took my father there - his eyes glassed over as he was mesmerized by the tender care our pie received as the owner gently blotted it with about 1/2 a roll of paper towel. This man loves his pizza. He is what I call - Intense.
We decided to hit the pizza joint, because my friend CT read that there was going to be some music there - a Norwegian jazz duo, and it would be good to support Mr. Intense's new venture. CT loves jazz. And I love that about her.
I love the idea of loving jazz, but the truth is - it usually puts me into some sort of comatose state that isn't good when you're trying to keep up your half of a conversation. But hey - I'm also someone who LOVES having a good story to tell. And how great would it be on Monday to answer the standard "What did you do this weekend?" with "Oh, just went to go see this Norwegian jazz duo." So, I'll drink a Red Bull - it would definitely be worth the drowsiness.
Mr. Intense was in rare form as he served us our drinks - I may even have mentioned like he was about to have a stroke. He was sweaty and generally "clammy" looking. Nerves, I figured. Anyway, the music was quick to get started and Mr. Intense took the opportunity to introduce the dynamic duo.
I kinda felt like I was in a school assembly and the teacher was introducing the speaker, but in-between the lines really telling you that if you fucked around and embarrassed him, you were going to feel his wrath. Like I said, he's pretty effing intense.
Anyway, after we were told to be respectful of the "listening room" he'd created - the "improvisational" jazz duo got started. The drummer was kind of cute and named after one of the Hobbits, the other much older and sporting a clarinet. Still the word rang out in my ears...improvisational...what would that entail?
SSSCCCRREEEEEAAAAAAAACCHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Holy eff. My eardrums didn't actually start bleeding, but I think some brain fluid dripped out my ears.
SSSCCCRREEEEEAAAAAAAACCHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Back when I was in my early 20's and living in New York City, I often pretended to like things just to be a cool metropolitan city dweller. Those days are long over. Because I was sitting in the middle of hell.
Many of the patrons put on a good act, but my friends had a much more difficult time pretending that what we were listening too could even be classified as music.
All eyes went immediately to CT. While I know this was not her fault - I will most likely blame her when I re-tell this story.
When faced with situations like this I very rarely act with decorum. No, I laugh. But I was also fearful of Mr. Intense, so I kept most of it on the inside - which quite nearly led to some early-stage incontinence. Seriously, I don't remember the last time I nearly wet my pants from laughter.
The screeching continued, followed by some high-pitched scraping of the stick around the circumference of the snare drum. The tuneless, beatless "music" continued until we actually had to do the mature thing and excuse ourselves.
Maybe I'm just not cultured enough to appreciate the nuance of what we witnessed. All I know is that when I started playing oboe in the 8th grade I sounded just like the Norwegian chap on the clarinet and no one was looking to pay me for my talents. Dammit - I was an effin' prodigy and didn't even know it. I could have had a successful career as an improvisational jazz artist.
Anyway - I won't hold it against my cool city, because the truth is - when someone asks me what I did this weekend I will proudly reply - "I saw a Norwegian improvisational jazz duo" and I will smile, maybe laugh and quite possibly - pee my pants.
4 comments:
I very nearly peed my pants just reading this post, I don't know how you managed to stay dry actually experiencing it!
My ears were still bleeding this morning. But more of a concern is that Mr. Intense will remember us and ban us, forcing us to have "Cramer" picking up our pizzas for us.
I think my favorite part had to be the look of mortification on CT's face as soon as they started playing. You could see her thinking "I'm gonna be blamed and I'm never going to hear the end of it".
Or maybe my favorite part is when CT and I are waiting at a stop light on the way home and EDH pulls up next to us, we roll down our windows and proceed to give our impressions of screeching, banging, caterwauling improvisational jazz into the night air. Either way, this night will not be forgotten.
It's amazing how much I sound like an improvisational jazz clarinetist. Eerie, actually.
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