Friday, July 24, 2009
The saXXXXX man
I’m the saXXXXX man. Oh yes, why I am THE saXXXXX man. I am not lying about this. There is no fabrication in this statement: The saXXXXXman is who I am- that’s me. It sure is nice to be me, and by me, I mean the saXXXXX man because the saXXXXX man can do things that only the saXXXXX man can do. For instance, as the saXXXXX man, I can play my saXXXXX in truly unique saXXXXX man style. That’s why they call me the saXXXXX man? Who are “they?” –that’s anyone who isn’t the saXXXXX man, and that’s me, the saXXXXX man. Oh my yes. Absolutely. I. AM. The saXXXXX man. It just rolls off the tongue- like the notes from my saXXXXX. T-H-E saXXXXX man, That’s me- saXXXXX man at your service. saXXXXX man.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Taxes
So today I was on my way out the door swoosibn out an ivory smooth improvisation when outside my apartment some Georgetown grad in expensive shades and a cheap suit/skirt taps me on the shoulder, “Are you Tom Garcia?”
Four sets of triplets rattled from my horn, “If by Tom Garcia you mean the saXXXXX man then that manila folder you have there is like a night with Stan Getz- spot on. What do you need, white blouse and tweed?”
“Sir,” she shifted her hips, “I’m from the IRS. You owe the government a large sum of money- you haven’t paid the large amount of residuals from your music.”
“Baybee,” I leaned back and slid closer to the income tax bunny, “Did Jesus charge for fish and wine? You know that I play most of my music for free- you can’t put a price of perfectivity.”
“Well, sir,” she flipped open her manila envelope while softly biting down on her the left side of her lower lip, “Due to the current financial crisis, the federal government has begun taxing notes played. The amount due is calculated by multiplying the number of notes played by the duration of each note by the tonal quality of each note since 2007. According to our records, the amount you owe should not only take the country out of debt but should also afford President Obama the bright yellow Pontiac Aztec with after market chrome pipes he’s always wanted.”
“Well,” a series of softly slurred scales sweetly slithered from my saXXXXX, “perhaps I can pay you in something other than cash…”
139 sweat drench hours later my debt was listed as zero point zero zero underlined.
Four sets of triplets rattled from my horn, “If by Tom Garcia you mean the saXXXXX man then that manila folder you have there is like a night with Stan Getz- spot on. What do you need, white blouse and tweed?”
“Sir,” she shifted her hips, “I’m from the IRS. You owe the government a large sum of money- you haven’t paid the large amount of residuals from your music.”
“Baybee,” I leaned back and slid closer to the income tax bunny, “Did Jesus charge for fish and wine? You know that I play most of my music for free- you can’t put a price of perfectivity.”
“Well, sir,” she flipped open her manila envelope while softly biting down on her the left side of her lower lip, “Due to the current financial crisis, the federal government has begun taxing notes played. The amount due is calculated by multiplying the number of notes played by the duration of each note by the tonal quality of each note since 2007. According to our records, the amount you owe should not only take the country out of debt but should also afford President Obama the bright yellow Pontiac Aztec with after market chrome pipes he’s always wanted.”
“Well,” a series of softly slurred scales sweetly slithered from my saXXXXX, “perhaps I can pay you in something other than cash…”
139 sweat drench hours later my debt was listed as zero point zero zero underlined.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Repair and Regroup
When I roll off the pad, the first sip of the bot cures me instantly of the rot I hold inside. Three PM creeps up faster than a crack addict in the alley. I look at the chair and note that my suit’s still there, pressed and ready to dress. Time is short and I put my shades on before I see something in the light that sends me back into the pit.
Saxxxx wakes up right after me and I blow a few centering G’s to give me strength in the knees. I have to leave this room and that takes a lot. Subtone Bb turns the door knob like an abusive father and I’m out into the house. Green walls sound grey through the RayBans and I arrange to have a meeting with a horse.
Five PM wakes me up in the easy chair and the only thing not weary is my hair. Four quick C sharps stand me up and I sit down to breakfast: cheerios with a whiskey back. Time to go meet a man.
Staccatto taps of my heels notify people to get out of my way because given their druthers, they’d stand there like any other, transfixed by the cold hard Saxxxx that plays itself so early in the day. When the sun goes down, I’m on the bad side of town and looking up the man that keeps me down.
I turn and face into a brick alley dotted with dumpsters and cats. I let loose on Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring and out pops Johnny. In cold coded tones of a harmonic scale, I let him know my checks and balances. He drops the pack in the bell of my sax and I thank him with a Stevie Wonder masterpiece. The Saxxxxxxman bows and gets onto a bus to make the babies dance and the old ladies crawl.
Afterwhile, back at the ranch, 9 Pm sneaks up on me as I pan fry steaks with a scintillating high D. Thomas Edison’s wax reels would melt if we met. And eventually his intrigue would give way to a sagging fatigue of the fighter who can neither take any more punches nor sit down.
I roll out of my apartment on dubs letting the music drag slack in the trail of my saxxxxx. The girlies start to drip out the windows ruby red drops of lipstick and love. Grand Earl Duke Viceroy Ellington drives over my head in a Cartier Cadillac as I let moonlight serenade play out in its own sweet way over the street.
At the club the bouncer steps aside when he hears the fat base pumping out of my grind. Specially reinforced keys made by NASA are the only thing that keep my horn from disassembling itself. I walk past owner, patron and Mexican bus boy to take the stage. When I turn about the winkywonky lives of the patrons disappear and without my shades, I would burn holes in each one of them. But they say below flashpoint for a while until I start letting the right notes slip in at a safe frequency. When the first table gets overturned, I take that as cue to be slightly more inflammatory and I let call from the SAXXXXXx the entire catalog of booker T on Staxxxxx.
Drained and dried after a binge of catastrophic proportion, I step off the stage, untie the horse’s bridle and leave the club.
Hassan’s rumpus room would start to look like the Playland Ball pit at Mickey D’s if the camera were to follow me out into the wees. But I can permit no more scrutiny tonight as I have several bullet wounds from which to recover and many hearts to sew back into whole.
Saxxxx wakes up right after me and I blow a few centering G’s to give me strength in the knees. I have to leave this room and that takes a lot. Subtone Bb turns the door knob like an abusive father and I’m out into the house. Green walls sound grey through the RayBans and I arrange to have a meeting with a horse.
Five PM wakes me up in the easy chair and the only thing not weary is my hair. Four quick C sharps stand me up and I sit down to breakfast: cheerios with a whiskey back. Time to go meet a man.
Staccatto taps of my heels notify people to get out of my way because given their druthers, they’d stand there like any other, transfixed by the cold hard Saxxxx that plays itself so early in the day. When the sun goes down, I’m on the bad side of town and looking up the man that keeps me down.
I turn and face into a brick alley dotted with dumpsters and cats. I let loose on Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring and out pops Johnny. In cold coded tones of a harmonic scale, I let him know my checks and balances. He drops the pack in the bell of my sax and I thank him with a Stevie Wonder masterpiece. The Saxxxxxxman bows and gets onto a bus to make the babies dance and the old ladies crawl.
Afterwhile, back at the ranch, 9 Pm sneaks up on me as I pan fry steaks with a scintillating high D. Thomas Edison’s wax reels would melt if we met. And eventually his intrigue would give way to a sagging fatigue of the fighter who can neither take any more punches nor sit down.
I roll out of my apartment on dubs letting the music drag slack in the trail of my saxxxxx. The girlies start to drip out the windows ruby red drops of lipstick and love. Grand Earl Duke Viceroy Ellington drives over my head in a Cartier Cadillac as I let moonlight serenade play out in its own sweet way over the street.
At the club the bouncer steps aside when he hears the fat base pumping out of my grind. Specially reinforced keys made by NASA are the only thing that keep my horn from disassembling itself. I walk past owner, patron and Mexican bus boy to take the stage. When I turn about the winkywonky lives of the patrons disappear and without my shades, I would burn holes in each one of them. But they say below flashpoint for a while until I start letting the right notes slip in at a safe frequency. When the first table gets overturned, I take that as cue to be slightly more inflammatory and I let call from the SAXXXXXx the entire catalog of booker T on Staxxxxx.
Drained and dried after a binge of catastrophic proportion, I step off the stage, untie the horse’s bridle and leave the club.
Hassan’s rumpus room would start to look like the Playland Ball pit at Mickey D’s if the camera were to follow me out into the wees. But I can permit no more scrutiny tonight as I have several bullet wounds from which to recover and many hearts to sew back into whole.
Hackish Horns
This evening I was working on a new upbeat funk number on my saXXXXX when there was a knock at the door. “Well don’t just stand like a clam,” I shouted, “Turn the brass and move your ass.”
Well, the fellow that stepped inside wore a striking white suit and held his own horn. He was tall and limber, but his fedora covered most of his curly hair, though I could see his eyes reflecting yellow in the dusk light.
“Who is this third stringer coming into my abode with his own sword,” I blasted three staccato notes in his direction, “Bringing a sax to meet with the saXXXXX man is like bringing a compass and a number two lead for a meeting with Stephen Hawking. You’re already split over there, pea soup.”
“Oh, my, my, my,” the man chuckled while flipping a coin. “I’m not here to challenge you, I’m here to make a deal. All the great musicians have made a deal with me- Robert Johnson, Jim Morrison, Wagner, Kris Kross. Without making an agreement with me, you’ll never truly have the skill to be musician legendairre.” He pulled a rolled parchment from his breast pocket and produced a feathered quill from no where.
I let out a scorching d-scale, heavy on the low end. “Look at you, holding paper like I don’t know who you are- You might as well drop that Sears and Roebuck coupon special from your head because I know that you ain’t got no brains under there but you sure as Mrs. Butterworth have got a set of goat crowns.. Ol’ Nick, Abaddon, Mr-red-skin-sheep-leg!”
The devil himself removed his hat and grinned, “Indeed, you have caught me ‘pon first sight. But still, without my will, your sax will ne’er have a true thrill, so just be a good boy and take this paper and quill…”
“Ha!” I spat out a quick half time rag time ditty. “I don’t need your help! But I will do one thing for you. I challenge you to a duel. You pick the tune. If I lose, you can have anything of mine you want, but if you lose, I get anything of yours that I want.”
The devil stuck a reed in his mouth and smacked down hard, “Indeed, the deal is done Adam’s son, for now ‘tis too late for you to run. The challenge has begun and the tune I pick from under the sun is none other than lesson number one, hot-cross-buns.”
At once we both began to blow. Old pitchfork thought he was clever by picking something so simple, for there is only so much skill to be involved in a three note song, right? Wrong! Where the devil was technically proficient in his rendition, I added something he had lost long ago: Soul. The soul of a man who had seen the worst of Narlins. The soul of a man who had ridden a motorcycle in a circle around the country. The soul of a man who knew what it was like to pay to use a bathroom.
Once the song had concluded, the devil dropped to his knees, fully aware that he had been bested by his own ruse. He had the technical ability, but not the heart to back it up. “The game has begun and concluded, although at first I thought you deluded, it seems my title has been uprooted, you may have any item of mind that to you is most suited. Pick one item for yourself, mountains of wealth, unlimited health, the soul of the devil himself?”
“Bah!” I cut a sharp C followed by to grinding high octive B’s. “I don’t need nothing you got, crook nose. The only thing I want of yours is your absence. Get outta my house. I’ve got notes to play- saXXXXX’s don’t play themselves you know, or maybe by your skill set, you don’t know that. Get out!”
On his way out, Satan allowed himself a small tip of the hat in my direction. Compared to other’s I’ve bested, it was a minor award which I would tack on my fridge next to a little Ceaser coupon and picture of Barbara Eden circa 1961.
Well, the fellow that stepped inside wore a striking white suit and held his own horn. He was tall and limber, but his fedora covered most of his curly hair, though I could see his eyes reflecting yellow in the dusk light.
“Who is this third stringer coming into my abode with his own sword,” I blasted three staccato notes in his direction, “Bringing a sax to meet with the saXXXXX man is like bringing a compass and a number two lead for a meeting with Stephen Hawking. You’re already split over there, pea soup.”
“Oh, my, my, my,” the man chuckled while flipping a coin. “I’m not here to challenge you, I’m here to make a deal. All the great musicians have made a deal with me- Robert Johnson, Jim Morrison, Wagner, Kris Kross. Without making an agreement with me, you’ll never truly have the skill to be musician legendairre.” He pulled a rolled parchment from his breast pocket and produced a feathered quill from no where.
I let out a scorching d-scale, heavy on the low end. “Look at you, holding paper like I don’t know who you are- You might as well drop that Sears and Roebuck coupon special from your head because I know that you ain’t got no brains under there but you sure as Mrs. Butterworth have got a set of goat crowns.. Ol’ Nick, Abaddon, Mr-red-skin-sheep-leg!”
The devil himself removed his hat and grinned, “Indeed, you have caught me ‘pon first sight. But still, without my will, your sax will ne’er have a true thrill, so just be a good boy and take this paper and quill…”
“Ha!” I spat out a quick half time rag time ditty. “I don’t need your help! But I will do one thing for you. I challenge you to a duel. You pick the tune. If I lose, you can have anything of mine you want, but if you lose, I get anything of yours that I want.”
The devil stuck a reed in his mouth and smacked down hard, “Indeed, the deal is done Adam’s son, for now ‘tis too late for you to run. The challenge has begun and the tune I pick from under the sun is none other than lesson number one, hot-cross-buns.”
At once we both began to blow. Old pitchfork thought he was clever by picking something so simple, for there is only so much skill to be involved in a three note song, right? Wrong! Where the devil was technically proficient in his rendition, I added something he had lost long ago: Soul. The soul of a man who had seen the worst of Narlins. The soul of a man who had ridden a motorcycle in a circle around the country. The soul of a man who knew what it was like to pay to use a bathroom.
Once the song had concluded, the devil dropped to his knees, fully aware that he had been bested by his own ruse. He had the technical ability, but not the heart to back it up. “The game has begun and concluded, although at first I thought you deluded, it seems my title has been uprooted, you may have any item of mind that to you is most suited. Pick one item for yourself, mountains of wealth, unlimited health, the soul of the devil himself?”
“Bah!” I cut a sharp C followed by to grinding high octive B’s. “I don’t need nothing you got, crook nose. The only thing I want of yours is your absence. Get outta my house. I’ve got notes to play- saXXXXX’s don’t play themselves you know, or maybe by your skill set, you don’t know that. Get out!”
On his way out, Satan allowed himself a small tip of the hat in my direction. Compared to other’s I’ve bested, it was a minor award which I would tack on my fridge next to a little Ceaser coupon and picture of Barbara Eden circa 1961.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
The perfect song
I woke up this morning at about 3:15 pm and sure enough there was some buzzed out sorority sister lying naked right next to me. “Get up, you booty short wearing non-debutant!”
She snapped out of her drunken stupor, mascara smudged, and looked at me with surprise.
“How am is the saXXXXX man supposed to compose daring new inventive saXXXXX compositions when you fake blonde communications majors are always trying to flogg my hogg?! Get out!” I began to cook myself a hearty breakfast of three hamburgers and a bowl of molasses oatmeal as she collected her high heeled uggs and frilled skirt.
After she left I stared at my saXXXXX the entire time I ate my meal. I knew I’d need my strength. After I was done, I’d clicked my thirty-two track tape recorder on (I need all thirty two tracks to record at once because if I only record on one track the tape can catch my notes fast enough and some of them spill onto additional reels.) I picked up my sax and began what was a playing style that was surely unique to this universe- no, unique to the multi-verse!
I stole staccato from Sanborn. I took the rolling niotes from Rollins. I picked giant sounds from gEtz. I mashed them all together in a dazzling display of saXXXXX luminosity and began a seventeen hour solo. Sometimes notes were flying out so fast that the sound molecules could not snatch them up fast enough and one note had to piggy back on the air molecule of his parent.
There were times where I didn’t pause to breathe for 45 minutes. One note was so long that my clock actually stopped and waited for the note to end before ticking away another second because if it registered as any longer it would have disrupted the time-quantum relativity field. I invented new sounds that had never been played. My G’s mixed with A’s and my C’s initiated threesomes with D sharp and the slightly effeminate e flat. I buzzed and whirled and whirls and scuzzed. There were sounds coming from my saXXXXX that not only had never been created before, but were so pure they were beyond human ear processining.
Hour after hour I played, at times competently abandoning structure, basing my rhythm on the quotient of pi divided by 7. Other times I was so on the beat that I hit the timing so perfectly it causes the signature bars to move one spot to the left to accommodate my perfectionist playing.
As the hours rolled on I found myself achieving a transcendence! I was eventing new notes! The H-note! The Y-note! Even the 17 and a half note! At some point I lost all connection with the physical world and my saXXXXX and I merged, creating surely what was either the voice of God, or at least what is in his iPod.
Sometime later I blew so hard that the bell of my saXXXXX exploded off the instrument and blasted through the wall, damaging a nearby passing helicopter. But at that point, it didn;’t matter- my saXXXXX had been rendered useless until I could repair it, but I had recorded what not even Charlie Parker could have done- Over the past 37 hours, I had created saXXXXX music divine.
I went to listen to the playback on my tape from the session when horror struck. My notes had been so good that they had blown the fuse on my recording system causing it to light on fire and burn the tape to ashes.
Despondant, I wandered out into the hallway of my apartment building, pondering one all encapsulating plunge. Then my neighbor, Jim Falkin, tapped my on my shoulder. He had been suffering from the final stages of kidney failure, but now h seem sprite and vigorous. “Tom, you won’t believe what happened!” Jim slapped me on the back, “Last night, my kidneys grew back! I’m 100% healthy!” He smiled and walked away, chugging a handle of Jim Bean.
Next my other neighbor, Anthony Wilkes smiled and handed me a coffee. The spots over his faced had faded and his usually fail body had seemingly grown new muscle. “Tom, my AIDS has been cured! I woke up this morning and found that I felt so much better! The doctor says he has never seen anything like it before! Oh wonderful day!”
On my way out the apartment lobby, I ran into Judi, the gruff lesbian who lived above my unit. For some reason, she had replaced her form hiding men’s dress shirt with a v-neck blouse and her Sears-brand slacks had been removed in-lieu of a curve highlighting Dolce and Gabbana “A-line skirt.” Her no nonsense cropped mullet had grown out into luxurious silky locks and she had replaced her thick rimmed glasses with ocean colored eyes. “Tom,” she allowed herself a wry smile, “Won’t you come up to my apartment? I’ve been dying to learn about jazz and try out some new wine I’ve had imported from Italy.”
She snapped out of her drunken stupor, mascara smudged, and looked at me with surprise.
“How am is the saXXXXX man supposed to compose daring new inventive saXXXXX compositions when you fake blonde communications majors are always trying to flogg my hogg?! Get out!” I began to cook myself a hearty breakfast of three hamburgers and a bowl of molasses oatmeal as she collected her high heeled uggs and frilled skirt.
After she left I stared at my saXXXXX the entire time I ate my meal. I knew I’d need my strength. After I was done, I’d clicked my thirty-two track tape recorder on (I need all thirty two tracks to record at once because if I only record on one track the tape can catch my notes fast enough and some of them spill onto additional reels.) I picked up my sax and began what was a playing style that was surely unique to this universe- no, unique to the multi-verse!
I stole staccato from Sanborn. I took the rolling niotes from Rollins. I picked giant sounds from gEtz. I mashed them all together in a dazzling display of saXXXXX luminosity and began a seventeen hour solo. Sometimes notes were flying out so fast that the sound molecules could not snatch them up fast enough and one note had to piggy back on the air molecule of his parent.
There were times where I didn’t pause to breathe for 45 minutes. One note was so long that my clock actually stopped and waited for the note to end before ticking away another second because if it registered as any longer it would have disrupted the time-quantum relativity field. I invented new sounds that had never been played. My G’s mixed with A’s and my C’s initiated threesomes with D sharp and the slightly effeminate e flat. I buzzed and whirled and whirls and scuzzed. There were sounds coming from my saXXXXX that not only had never been created before, but were so pure they were beyond human ear processining.
Hour after hour I played, at times competently abandoning structure, basing my rhythm on the quotient of pi divided by 7. Other times I was so on the beat that I hit the timing so perfectly it causes the signature bars to move one spot to the left to accommodate my perfectionist playing.
As the hours rolled on I found myself achieving a transcendence! I was eventing new notes! The H-note! The Y-note! Even the 17 and a half note! At some point I lost all connection with the physical world and my saXXXXX and I merged, creating surely what was either the voice of God, or at least what is in his iPod.
Sometime later I blew so hard that the bell of my saXXXXX exploded off the instrument and blasted through the wall, damaging a nearby passing helicopter. But at that point, it didn;’t matter- my saXXXXX had been rendered useless until I could repair it, but I had recorded what not even Charlie Parker could have done- Over the past 37 hours, I had created saXXXXX music divine.
I went to listen to the playback on my tape from the session when horror struck. My notes had been so good that they had blown the fuse on my recording system causing it to light on fire and burn the tape to ashes.
Despondant, I wandered out into the hallway of my apartment building, pondering one all encapsulating plunge. Then my neighbor, Jim Falkin, tapped my on my shoulder. He had been suffering from the final stages of kidney failure, but now h seem sprite and vigorous. “Tom, you won’t believe what happened!” Jim slapped me on the back, “Last night, my kidneys grew back! I’m 100% healthy!” He smiled and walked away, chugging a handle of Jim Bean.
Next my other neighbor, Anthony Wilkes smiled and handed me a coffee. The spots over his faced had faded and his usually fail body had seemingly grown new muscle. “Tom, my AIDS has been cured! I woke up this morning and found that I felt so much better! The doctor says he has never seen anything like it before! Oh wonderful day!”
On my way out the apartment lobby, I ran into Judi, the gruff lesbian who lived above my unit. For some reason, she had replaced her form hiding men’s dress shirt with a v-neck blouse and her Sears-brand slacks had been removed in-lieu of a curve highlighting Dolce and Gabbana “A-line skirt.” Her no nonsense cropped mullet had grown out into luxurious silky locks and she had replaced her thick rimmed glasses with ocean colored eyes. “Tom,” she allowed herself a wry smile, “Won’t you come up to my apartment? I’ve been dying to learn about jazz and try out some new wine I’ve had imported from Italy.”
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
The Five-Oh
Oh man, so today I was scrusin’ down the street in my hoopty playin’ a sweet g-clef variation with my saXXXXX hanging out the drover side window when some penny-copprt flashes the buzzers on me!
So I pull on over and get out of my ride, playing a fierce rendition of the nightcourt theme which I like to call Night Court (after hours.) It’s a slow burning sensual number that has been known to ruin more than a few third-party relationships.
Well this woman brass gets out of the cruiser swinging her nightstick like she was envious of something. I said, “Hey baby child, why are you bringing the Iron Curtin down on the saXXXXX man?”
Well she ponies on up to me and parts her lipstick reds, “Tom Garcia, don’t you ever go anywhere without that saxophone?”
“Baby…” I let a salacious B-G-A combination slide from my horn, “Do you go anywhere without your tits and ass? I’m the saXXXXX man. My horn is a part of me. Separatin the two would be like one of those painful special episodes from M*A*S*H*.”
I could see that she was pondering my words which were almost as sweet as my notes (which is really saying something), so I whipped up a minor key blues solo in D and before you know it that badge was up above her head and that gun holster was down around her ankles.
So I pull on over and get out of my ride, playing a fierce rendition of the nightcourt theme which I like to call Night Court (after hours.) It’s a slow burning sensual number that has been known to ruin more than a few third-party relationships.
Well this woman brass gets out of the cruiser swinging her nightstick like she was envious of something. I said, “Hey baby child, why are you bringing the Iron Curtin down on the saXXXXX man?”
Well she ponies on up to me and parts her lipstick reds, “Tom Garcia, don’t you ever go anywhere without that saxophone?”
“Baby…” I let a salacious B-G-A combination slide from my horn, “Do you go anywhere without your tits and ass? I’m the saXXXXX man. My horn is a part of me. Separatin the two would be like one of those painful special episodes from M*A*S*H*.”
I could see that she was pondering my words which were almost as sweet as my notes (which is really saying something), so I whipped up a minor key blues solo in D and before you know it that badge was up above her head and that gun holster was down around her ankles.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
New song coming!
I have been working on a new piece, entitled "The Apartment to Which I Always Return" for my band, "Silence for the Anarchy of Solitude." Mostly, the tune is geared around a drawing I did of a circle of fifths around the soft spot of a baby's head. It's free/experimental jazz piece, but I signal changes by carefully tonguing then blowing into a goat anus that I acquired in Europe.
I'm not feeling as wordy as yesterday, but keep an eye out for my next show. I'll send out a ton of facebook, myspace, twitter, and blog invites for it.
I'm not feeling as wordy as yesterday, but keep an eye out for my next show. I'll send out a ton of facebook, myspace, twitter, and blog invites for it.
Monday, July 13, 2009
The super market
---Do a doo do doo da doo da doo.. Oh sorry, I was playing my sax and decided to start a blog while I was playing my sax so I guess a few of the last notes of my avant garde solo wound up on the blog instead of my sax. Yeah, I’m pretty awesome that way- I am able to transmutate fierce sax sounds from sonic vibrations to an ASCII character set.
So today I was doing some shopping in the super market, playing a fierce Coltrane inspired solo on my tenor sax and while I was in the baked beans section, some peroxide up cougar flashing the tan in a can said to me, “Excuse me, but what are you doing?”
An' I was like, “Chill with this deal, baaaaay-bee!” And then I buzzed out a sweetand sour half time routine in d minor. I said, “Baby, I’m the sax man, it’s what I do, I say, I’m the sax man.” I made sure to accentuate the “X” in sax, so I guess really, I’m the saXXXXX man.
Well she thought I said, “Sachs” as in “Sachs Fifth Ave” so she quips back, “Well, then, maybe you can help me shop for some new summer clothes, hmmm…?”
And I was jiving like, “No you planned tanned flashin your gams, I play the sax so smooth you’d think your ears were on a slip and slide.” With that I ripped out a nice 32 bar upbeat ragtime ditty, and slid up to the check out counter.
The teenage cashier smacked her gum, jangled her plastic earrings, let her gut sag out, and said, “That’ll be seventeen twenty three.”
I blasted a sharp B flat in her ear, grabbed my bags, and woozed out the door along with some nice vibrato.
So today I was doing some shopping in the super market, playing a fierce Coltrane inspired solo on my tenor sax and while I was in the baked beans section, some peroxide up cougar flashing the tan in a can said to me, “Excuse me, but what are you doing?”
An' I was like, “Chill with this deal, baaaaay-bee!” And then I buzzed out a sweetand sour half time routine in d minor. I said, “Baby, I’m the sax man, it’s what I do, I say, I’m the sax man.” I made sure to accentuate the “X” in sax, so I guess really, I’m the saXXXXX man.
Well she thought I said, “Sachs” as in “Sachs Fifth Ave” so she quips back, “Well, then, maybe you can help me shop for some new summer clothes, hmmm…?”
And I was jiving like, “No you planned tanned flashin your gams, I play the sax so smooth you’d think your ears were on a slip and slide.” With that I ripped out a nice 32 bar upbeat ragtime ditty, and slid up to the check out counter.
The teenage cashier smacked her gum, jangled her plastic earrings, let her gut sag out, and said, “That’ll be seventeen twenty three.”
I blasted a sharp B flat in her ear, grabbed my bags, and woozed out the door along with some nice vibrato.
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