Early Autumn

Today feels like autumn and reminds me of the smell of wax on the classroom floor and new sneakers and post-football game dances I attended in high school. And the one I attended when I was 24.

Yeah, I said 24.


I was in grad school and house sitting for a professor. The house did not need as much watching as did the 16-year-old girl, Erin, who lived in the house and was reportedly "a little wild."


She wanted to go to the Friday night football game, so we went, and I realized it was the first football game I had ever attended while wearing something other than an ill-fitting, polyester-wool blend marching band uniform.


After the game, she asked if she could go to the dance. The boy she liked, Jesse, would be there, and she hoped that maybe, possibly she would get to dance with him. The situation was complicated by the fact that Jesse wasn't a boy she admired from afar, but was a member of her peer group (she, of course, didn't use the term "peer group"). The only other person who knew she liked Jesse in that way was their mutual friend, Matt. She hesitated to reveal her true feelings to Jesse because if he didn't return them, things would be awkward all around. This John Hughes-esque plot earned my complete sympathy, but I wasn't convinced I should let her go to the dance. When I was 16, I went to my share of post-football game dances, where I mainly spent my time hoping that the DJ would play A-Ha and laughing at the girl who always wept openly while singing along to Bryan Adams' "Heaven." But I had heard that more nefarious things occurred during these dances. People got drunk in the parking lot, did drugs in the bathroom, and had S-E-X under the bleachers by the football field.


No way am I letting stomach pumping or unintended pregnancy occur on my watch.


I agreed to let her go to the dance, but only if I could keep an eye on her. She seemed happy with that deal. The sign indicated that the dance was only for Tallawanda High students, so I was worried that I wouldn't be able to get in. I needn't have worried. Realizing that I could pass for a high school student helped me understand one possible reason I was having problems garnering respect in my college classroom (the other possible reason was that I was a rather incompetent T.A.).


As we walked into the cafetorium (no kidding, that really was its official name), Erin gasped, "There he is!"


And there he was, Jesse, in all his 17-year-old male glory. He was a scrawny guy, and he would have been sort of cute had he not been trying so hard to look like a badass in his baggy jeans, black t-shirt, and the poor-excuse-for-a-moustache that languished above his upper lip. The bad boys I had crushes on in high school tended to look more like the members of Duran Duran than the suspects arrested in trailer parks on "Cops," but different strokes for different folks, I supposed.


Erin quickly joined her friends on the lower level of the cafetorium while I watched the spectacle from above. It looked a lot like the high school dances I had attended, but it was now 1993, which meant more flannel and Doc Martens. Erin did not once go to the girls' room to do drugs. I breathed a sigh of relief.


A slow song came on, and Erin appeared beside me, grabbing my arm. "You. Have. To dance. With Jesse."


"Um, why do I have to dance with Jesse?"


She gave an exasperated sigh, "Because Matt is dancing with me, and then part way through the song, he'll have us trade partners."


I had to admit that this was kind of a brilliant plan, which took full advantage of self-perception processes and cognitive dissonance theory. Maybe I would use this as an example in class if I ever taught social psychology in the future! (You will soon find out why I've never used it as an example in class.)


And so, I found myself swaying back and forth on the dance floor with Jesse and his anemic moustache. I looked at Erin and Matt, who were dancing right next to us. Erin was beaming. I looked at Jesse, who had a strange gleam in his eye. Was he stoned? That kid who sat across from me in study hall was always stoned, but that kid's eyes were always red-rimmed and glazed over, not . . .


Suddenly, Jesse was moving us across the dance floor, away from Erin and Matt and toward a kid who apparently thought he was a member of House of Pain, and whose dance partner appeared to be passed out. Jesse pointed at me, signed the number two then the number four, and then to make sure his message was abundantly clear, mouthed the words, "She's twenty-four." A high-five was exchanged.


O.K., so no one will ever know about this, right? No one could possibly find out about this incredibly ridiculous experience I'm having right now. . . Right?


Jesse managed to reveal my age to two more of his hoodlum friends before Erin and Matt managed to catch up to us and trade partners. I was incredibly relieved until I said to Matt, "You know, you're a good friend to Erin."


To which Matt replied, "Are you kidding? It's not everyday I get to dance with a twenty-four year old woman." The way he said "woman" made me very, very uncomfortable and also made me wonder how much longer this song could possibly go on. Was it some kind of extended dance remix?


The song finally ended. Erin was giddy. "Can they come over? Just for a little while? Please??" Images of "Cops" returned, but she was just so hopeful. I told her they could come over for one hour, and if they didn't leave after the hour was up, I would call the police. She laughed.


I soon found myself in the professor's lovely home with four obnoxious adolescent boys and one adolescent girl who was wearing way too much eyeliner. And the worst thing that happened was that one of the boys had brought his Cypress Hill cd with him and insisted we listen to it.


At one point, I went upstairs to the guest bedroom where I was staying to get a sweatshirt. When I came out of the room, there in the dark, blocking my way, was the shadowy figure of Jesse, chest thrust out, head thrown back. He swaggered toward me.


"I'm a really good kisser," he announced.


In the most matronly tone I could muster, I ordered him to go back downstairs.


The hour was almost up, and I worried about what would happen when I finally asked the boys to leave. What happened? They left. No harm done, unless you count having "Insane in the Brain" stuck in your head for the next several days, and I might count that.


Who you tryin' to get crazy with, ese? Don't you know I'm loco?

Oh, man . . .

I told him, I said, "Becks, really, I'm married. You're not my type anyway. Just try to forget about me." But there's only so much I can do, you know?

More Misc

• Where did this summer go? I honestly can't remember what I've done for the past 2 1/2 months.
  
• The pharmacist looked askance at me when I requested more pseudoephedrine yesterday. I have purchased 2160 mg in the past month, which is 5340 mg below the maximum I could purchase according to state law. So stop looking at me like that, lady. The only reason I remotely resemble a meth addict is because I haven't had a decent night's sleep in weeks. Because of the congestion, you see.
  
• When I arrived home last night, Mr. Banality asked me to listen to a phone message. "You'll be surprised," he said. I immediately thought, We've been matched with an expectant mother. I suddenly experienced a sense of sheer dread, not because I don't want to adopt a child, but because now is not a good time for me to have to prepare for a child, given that I'm woefully unprepared for the upcoming semester. The message turned out to be from our former boss, a big-wig researcher at a Big 10 university. Mr. Banality inexplicably had sent her an e-mail message to "catch up," and she was calling in response to the message.
  
• OK, so the e-mail message was not completely inexplicable. Mr. Banality has been making noises about whether or not we'll stay here long-term and has been thinking about letters of recommendation. What are my thoughts on this? Mostly, holy crap, I'd have to go through the tenure process again. This is not a positive thought.
  
• How did it get to be 11:45 already? This might help answer my question about where the summer went.
  
• I purchased a handheld recorder online the other day and received a phone call from a sales rep the next day. It was an unexpected and disorienting experience. If I order something online, I expect correspondence to be via e-mail, not phone. The guy was very nice, though, and it turns out that he works quite often with the woman who recommended the site to me.
  
• Well, I should get back to the batch of meth I'm cooking up in my basement class preparation.

For my sister . . .

I swear this is the last time I'll talk about jazz camp this year because, honestly, there are other things going on in the world (not that I know anything about them). Plus, I really need to get back to work. *sigh*


My sister (hi, sis!) will be coming along to jazz camp with me next summer (she'll sing, and she's also a trumpet player), and she wanted to hear a recording of one of my rehearsals or my performance from this year's camp. She couldn't receive the mp3 file I sent to her via e-mail, so I'm posting it here, and because Blogger doesn't let you post just an mp3 file, I had to turn it into a video, and because I had to make a video anyway, I added some pictures. So, DB, let me know when you've checked this out. And feel free to keep the "don't quit your day job" comments to yourself.

Edited to add: Yeah, I removed the video. I wasn't comfortable with my rehearsal recording floating about in the blogosphere.

That being said, I'm available for weddings and Bar Mitzvahs.

jazz camp wrap-up

Yeah, so I wasn't very good about blogging from jazz camp. The schedule was hectic. I mean, I didn't even have time to proofread the previous post. (Horrors! I put a comma splice in the title!!)

This was my usual daily schedule:

5:30 AM Get up and mutter obscenities related to high pollen count

6:00 AM Poke Mr. Banality in the ribs a few times


6:30 AM Run



8:00 AM Breakfast



9:00 AM Rhythming class

Here's a picture of me during rhythming class:

O.K., so I only went to rhythming class on the first day. It was the same song and dance (literally) as last year, and there was way too much cowbell involved, so I decided the time would be better spent attempting to ingest as much coffee as possible. By the way, could my nose be more swollen?

9:30 AM Music theory

I actually attended this class. I did the beginner level class again, and I think I got something out of it this time.

10:30 AM Rehearsal

We spent most of this rehearsal time working on an ensemble piece, which I thought I would hate, but which turned out to be a lot of fun.

NOON Lunch

1:30 PM Rehearsal

We spent this rehearsal time running through our songs for our individual performances. I got to rehearse my piece five times before performing it on Thursday night

3:00 PM Master Class

Our instructor (love her) went through various vocal exercises and techniques and also told us bizarre stories about the business. We had to meet in her bedroom for this session, which was a little weird. Also, it made me very sleepy.

4:00 PM "Colors of Jazz"

This was a jazz appreciation session, and if you like to watch DVDs of jazz musicians from the seventies, this would be right up your alley. I found my sense of appreciation to be greatly enhanced by adding a glass of wine.

5:00 PM Mr Banality joins the party. Small talk ensues.

5:30 PM Dinner

6:00 PM Walk around the grounds with Mr. Banality It's good to get outside once in a while.

7:00 PM Faculty concert (Thursday and Friday were camper concerts)

8:30 PM Jam session

10:30 PM Attempt to leave jam session

11:00 PM Actually leave jam session (sometimes these things go until 1 AM)

11:15 PM Arrive at motel; watch coverage of the Olympics (I'm having some withdrawal symptoms now that I'm home and have no access to TV)

Midnight Attempt to sleep, but instead lie awake due to jazz standards running through head

This year's camp was even better than last year's camp, and that's hard to believe because last year's camp was fantastic. All of the vocalists were return campers, which was fun. I learned a ton. I was able to sing a bunch of my favorite songs during the jam sessions. My concert performance ("O Pato") went well. I got to perform with professional musicians (Rod Blumenau on piano, Ike Sturm on bass, and Dane Richeson on drums), which was pretty awesome.

Look! You can see Ike Sturm's left hand in the photo!

Drew (vocalist), Peter (guitarist), Rod (piano faculty), and The Banality after Friday night's concert

I'm signed up for next year . . .

Jazz Camp (don't get too excited, this isn't very interesting)

I'm blogging from Door County, WI, which is beautiful this time of year. (At least this is what Mr. Banality tells me. I actually haven't seen much of Door County because I've been in a building all day.)

So far, jazz camp has not been quite as great as it was last year. I'm still trying to get rid of a cold I've had for over a week. I've also discovered that my hearing aids suck for listening to amplified music. After twelve hours of it yesterday, I ended up with a splitting headache and had to leave the jam session early.

However, the people are incredibly cool, and the music is fantastic. Last night the vocal instructor and guitar instructor played a concert, including some tunes I was able to hear in Rochester, MN last spring.

That's all for now . . .

On Musicals

Yesterday I went to see a matinee showing of Mamma Mia! For those of you not familiar with the "Broadway smash hit," the show features ABBA songs, but the plot has nothing whatsoever to do with ABBA, which is not necessarily a bad thing. You will probably not be surprised to hear that this was not a very good movie. The audience for a matinee showing of Mamma Mia! was mostly elderly women, plus one younger woman who turned to give me a dirty look every time I laughed (which happened mostly when Pierce Brosnan was attempting to sing). Finally, the woman got up in a huff and moved to another seat, which was good because I was just about ready to start kicking the back of her seat.

Anyway, after accepting the fact that I was watching a musical, which I find to be a genre that requires a special kind of suspension of disbelief, I thoroughly enjoyed the movie. I know this is wholly unoriginal of me to say, but I'm going to say it anyway: I love Colin Firth.

In general, I'm not a big fan of musicals--all of that earnest singing grates on my nerves. My dad despises them because he thinks they're ridiculous. After all, no one in real life just bursts out in song about whatever is going on around them, right? Well . . . obviously, my dad doesn't know what happens when I'm driving by myself because I do burst into song about whatever is going on around me. The quality isn't Tony-worthy. In fact, it's often worse than Rogers and Hammerstein's Cinderella, which I played in the pit for once and hoo boy, I can tell you, that is one terrible musical.

On Tuesday I was driving down my street on the way back from running errands, and a guy was running on the sidewalk. It was a hot and humid day, and the guy's gray t-shirt was drenched. This seemed like a perfect opportunity to burst out in song. He passed me as I slowed down to turn into my driveway, and he gave me a strange look, which I first attributed to heat exhaustion. Then I remembered that earlier in the day, I had parked in a shadeless parking lot, and when I had returned to my car, I had opened the windows to air things out a bit. I realized that I had neglected to completely close one of the windows in the back. So, the runner got to hear me sing "Sweaty Dude Running Down My Street." Did he know that I was singing a song about him? I'll never know, but I'm certain it sounded better than Pierce Brosnan's rendition of "S.O.S."

Speaking of music, this is what I probably should have been working on yesterday:

This is what I spent three hours on instead:

Singing di-da-le-ba is a lot harder than you might think.