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.
Showing posts with label saxophone. Show all posts
Showing posts with label saxophone. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
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.
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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