Saturday, November 17, 2012


I'm laughing.  I won't know why either.  Except maybe because it's party time.  There's no internet on the boat where I perform my night watch duties with the meticulousness of a four-year-old.  No, really, it's the best security you can buy for nothing.  With that being the case, I took a little jaunt to Pete's coffee or whatever this outfit is called and doubled up on five shots of espresso with my drip.  We're at ten now and I'm not sure if I need to go to eleven.  Pretty amped, but in that clean, legal, wholesome kind of way.  So if my jittery and non-compliant fingers can get through ten minutes of drivel, I'll spout off for a minute.

There have been complaints in our retention department (the single, solitary soul who bothered to read this) about my last post being a downer.  "That was negative.  Bummer.  All you did was complain about being hurt with your shoulder and having an abscessed tooth and missing your friends and being college educated but working all day every day for nothing blah, blah, blah..."  And she was right.  I like the boat in my own unique way and shouldn't complain.  That's not what I'm about.  I try to remain positive in all situations.  Is it wrong to vent a little?  Maybe maybe not.  But I'm done with that.  No more crying about this, that, or the other.  Except for one last thing...

How hard is it to get some decent internet?  How hard is it to listen to a Dionne Warwick song?  I really just want to listen to Dionne for a bit.  Buffering is still a thing.  Brutal.  I thought that went out with cassette tapes.  For those of you out there who actually have some bandwidth, I present you with a gift...

You are welcome.  I have so much to say with my super caffeine infused mind right now that I actually have nothing to say.  It's sad really.  It would seem that the title of 'stoooopid' is rather apt, no?  That's just the deal.  But it's fun if you make it fun.  I have a piano on the boat still.  I should probably play it or something.  I still have some skills, but am in a bit of a creative funk.  It's kind of routine to sit down and play some of my favorite progressions.  Then, after a few minutes or an hour or so I'm done.  For sure not complaining.  But the truth is I've never worked on stuff on the piano.  Or, more accurately, I haven't worked on anything since I developed rudimentary skill.  The only songs I've practiced to play and kind of get right are 'Canon' and 'Moonlight'.  And that was back in like 2001.

Maybe listen to something and try to play it?  Or whip up a new song?  I'm for sure not stressing about it.  It seems, though, that I have the most fun playing when I'm playing for someone who enjoys listening.  That kind of means I prefer the intimacy over the music, or at least a combination of the two. Nothing wrong with that, I guess.  It was similar in baseball.  I loved to play.  But I really loved to play in front of a big crowd and kind of refuse to play recreationally.  I'm sure there's some implication of insecurity there and needing praise or something.

And let me tell ya.  Seattle is a tale of two mindsets.  Really a dichotomy of smug and smug.  In all fairness, a coffee shop is not a fair sample to judge a city on smugness.  But it happens everywhere around here.  I always feel like people are trying really hard to be nice when they are, like it doesn't come naturally.  Everyone looks so serious.  Just kind of in an iron bubble that they would prefer not be penetrated.  I don't know if that means anything, or if it's just that I look so uncouth that people clam up.  That has happened before.

Fun anecdote: The times I've flown or ridden buses I've noticed that the seat next to mine is invariably the last to be taken.  It is a certain fact that I will have an empty seat next to me if there is even one on any form of transport.  I guess it has its advantages.

Just fun all around.  You know what is a bit torturous?  The world's largest yacht is on the dock about 500 feet away from my yacht.  That Russian billionaire's friggin yacht is within 7 iron range.  If you know me at all, then you know that I love yachts.  I seriously thought about popping in over there and trying to make myself at home.  Just showing up and finding the piano, which undoubtedly exists, and playing it like, "Huh?  Who am I?  Oh.  I'm the pianist.  Have I spoken to Andrei?  No.  Who hired me?  What do you mean?  I'm the pianist..."  You know, just kind of squatting there until the indifferent billionaire and his entourage just accept it and shrug.  That idea has some merit.

Part of the boat job thing is wanting to just go and do some crazy stuff and have some stories and whatnot.  I think stowing away on a russian billionaire's yacht and weasling a job as the pianist would be quite the feather in the cap.  If I were more certain of his English skills, I'd be more confident about my chances of talking my way into a gig like that.  It could be a good thing.  Put me on the payroll for like a thousand dollars a day to be the American pianist who is "much funny, da?"  Ahh.  If I disappear, there is a ninety percent chance that that is what happened.  If I never come back it's because they got tired of me and you can rest assured that I contributed to the food chain as shark food.

The barista just came over and asked how I was doing.  I almost made a Michael J Fox joke aobut not being able to text on my phone because I was jittery.  I didn't.  Mixed company and all.  Muhammed Ali would have likely been better received, but she probably doesn't know that the former heavyweight champion has parkinson's.  So I'll just leave it alone.

For sure I'm not out of ramblings.  But I am done for now.  It's still stooopid.  Except for the stowaway thing.  That is, quite literally, the best idea I've had in months.  And I've had a few.  Some of you have been party to these ideas.  In fact, just recently I had a great idea.  Wouldn't you like to know...I probably can't share it though.  Seriously.  I have one parting gift...

I like Dionne's versions better than Aretha's.  And Dionne was first.

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