Thunder Lizard Be Thy Name

One of the most fun things about moving to a new place is discovering the quirks of an unfamiliar neighborhood. So far, my favorite Jersey City quirk is the graffiti that's scrawled in white letters on the mailbox outside of the First Baptist Spanish Church on Jersey Avenue. It says, "Thunder Lizard be thy name." You've just got to wonder how that phrase originated and why the graffiti artist was compelled to share it with the US Postal Service.

I'm also enjoying the entrepreneurial tactics of a Path Train frequenter who calls himself Teddy. "Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Teddy," he announces as the train doors close, "and I'm here today from [indiscernible mumble]." I've heard Teddy's speech at least seven or eight times now, but I still haven't been able to make out the name of the organization that he's representing. I'm fairly certain that he mumbles the name of the organization in an effort to hide the truth, in much the way that people say, "I'm thirty-[indiscernible mumble]," on their 39th birthdays.

The mumbling is the first of two clues that have led me to believe that Teddy is not, in fact, representing a credible charitible organization. The second clue is that the photo ID he wears around his neck and holds up during his speech is not a company-issued employee ID but rather a valid public assistance benefit card. I'm not yet familiar with the laws of the state of New Jersey, but in New York a benefit card does not entitle the holder to solicit donations from the public, even if it hasn't expired.

Nevertheless, Teddy gives a sales pitch that many Path Train commuters find irresistible. "Ladies and gentlemen, there are many homeless who need our help," says Teddy. He carries an official-looking clipboard and draws in his listeners by talking about togetherness. "We are here together on this train, ladies and gentlemen, to do everything we can to help out the homeless with food and milk, and any help you can give to help get the homeless off the streets and out of the Path stations with food and milk because we are all here together on this train," says Teddy, who does not need to use grammatical sentences to make his point. As it turns out, very few commuters carry food and milk with them, so Teddy is graciously willing to accept cash. "Thank God," he says to each person who hands him a donation. "Oh, thank God, mm-hmm, yes." Teddy does not give receipts, even when asked nicely, and he is unable to provide information about whether or not donations are tax deductible.

I'm not planning on giving Teddy any money anytime soon, but I can't help appreciating the effort he puts into his craft. It's very entertaining, actually, like watching a little skit during the train ride. I also admire his work ethic. On rainy days when many members of the Metro New York workforce such as myself have a hard time dragging ourselves out of bed, Teddy shows up to do his job with the kind of enthusiasm you just can't fake.

Like any groundbreaking artist, Teddy's work has been imitated by copycat artists peddling a similar, but lesser-quality, product. I'm thinking here of a performance I witnessed earlier this week wherein a gentleman who might benefit from anger management classes paced back and forth in the train car shouting, "Pennies for the homeless! Excuse ME for getting pennies for the homeless while you eat TURKEY!" This man did not identify himself, nor did he mention the name of the reputable non-profit agency for which he was collecting donations. He did not display a photo ID. Instead, he demonstrated his validity by carrying a medium-sized cardboard box labeled "CHARITY FEED THE HUNGRY" which held informative brochures about the AIDS crisis. I know that the brochures were about the AIDS crisis because I was fortunate enough to see them up close when this man approached me with the time-honored fundraising technique of positioning his face inches from mine, thrusting the CHARITY FEED THE HUNGRY box into my personal space, and demanding, "Pennies for the hungry!" I happened to be breathing at this particular moment, making me privy to information that proved that this man was probably not currently as hungry as the folks for whom he was collecting pennies: this man had recently eaten something with extra onions.

Several of my fellow commuters had already contributed to the cardboard box, and I completely understand why. A handful of change seems like a very reasonable fee for the valuable service of removing a dirty old cardboard box from your chest. But I recently spent several years working for an agency that runs three homeless shelters upstate, so I've already been approached with every panhandling technique, short of an outright mugging, that you can imagine (including having bottles smashed at my feet). Angry strangers demanding spare change only make me nostalgic.

So I wasn't about to give this angry guy a penny, although I did consider donating a piece of spearmint gum. Instead, I used my sweetest voice to ask, "What organization did you say you're with?"

"THANK YOU, MA'AM," was his non sequitor response, and then he turned his attention to the person standing to my left. I'd guess he raised upwards of ten dollars for the hungry before moving on to the next train car.

I'm curious how much Teddy raises on an average day. I'm always tempted to give him my pocket change, but I just haven't been able to bring myself to reward fraudulent behavior, no matter how entertaining it is. Maybe if he starts marketing himself as a street performer, I'll reconsider. Meanwhile, I only ever give change to the nice, honest panhandlers who smile and open doors and say things like, "Have a nice day."

I'm also willing to spare a dime for the first panhandler to say, "Thunder Lizard be thy name!"

If it's such an honor, how come there are no sports teams called the Pilgrims?

You may be aware that today is Thanksgiving, a day set aside for Americans to give thanks for our many blessings, such as the NFL. I'd like to wish an extra special Happy Thanksgiving to my housemates, none of whom are home right now. Aaron is at work, and Maria & Moray are spending the week with Maria's family in western New York.

Speaking of Moray, it occurs to me that this is his first American Thanksgiving. And if European schools teach American history the way that American schools teach European history, it's quite possible that poor Moray has no idea why we celebrate this uniquely American holiday. So, Moray, allow me to fill you in.

It all started with the very first Thanksgiving, which occurred in some year between 1492 and 1776, which are two historical dates I remember better than the date of the first Thanksgiving. To truly understand the first Thanksgiving, you must examine the history of some folks who called themselves the "pilgrims". The word "pilgrim", of course, comes from the word "pilgrimage", which, as we all know, is a religious journey that misguided people who are not Catholic take to a place called Mecca. The pilgrims, who were tired of being teased for not being Catholic, all crammed onto a boat called the Mayflower and set off on their holy journey.

But the pilgims' navigational experience was limited and, like Christopher Columbus before them, they ended up far from their destination, in the New World. They landed at a tourist spot called Plymouth Rock, although I'm pretty sure that it wasn't called Plymouth Rock before they arrived. You see, before the pilgrims arrived, the land surrounding the giant rock was populated by uneducated people who didn't speak English. These people were called Indians, and they had no idea that they'd been calling the rock by the wrong name for thousands of years.

Now, we know from the name of their boat that the pilgrims arrived at Plymouth Rock sometime in May, and we know from drawings in our history books that they spent their first summer praying and polishing their buckles. From trips to New England, we can deduce that they probably subsisted primarily on seafood; Maine lobster is abundant and delicious, if a little pricey.

But soon autumn came, and the weather turned cold.

"Brrrr," said the pilgrims.

Many of the seafood restaurants closed during the off-season, and the chilly pilgrims soon found themselves in the midst of a great famine.

"Growl," said the pilgrims' stomachs.

As if it weren't enough that they were cold and hungry, the pilgrims were lonely, too. After all, they were the first people to visit this new land that would one day become America, unless we count the Vikings, which we don't, or the Native Americans, which we also don't.

Speaking of the Native Americans, the starving pilgrims quickly noticed that these primitive people, who were still called Indians, had an abundance of food on account of their population was dwindling since they weren't smart enough to stop contracting diseases from the white man.

Yes, the Indians were cooking up a storm, and the smell of sweet corn, squash, mashed potatoes, and, of course, turkey, wafted throughout the land. The starving pilgrims, who were down to their last packet of Ramen noodles and were starting to consider the nutritional value of their buckles, knew that they had to score a dinner invite from their primitive Indian neighbors. But how?

Suddenly, the holiest and most clever pilgrim (of whom, I'm pretty sure, I'm a direct descendant) put down his buckle and called a meeting of his fellow pilgrims. "Fellow pilgrims," he said, "let us bake a sweet dessert from our leftover Halloween jack-o-lanterns and bring it to our dark-skinned neighbors. Surely they will invite us to feast with them. And let us bring our firearms, just in case. Amen."

And so it was that the first Thanksgiving was held at the Indians' house. The Indians had plenty of turkey and stuffing to go around, and one of the pilgrims ran to the store for extra cranberry sauce. It was a time of togetherness, a time of friendship. The Indians explained to the pilgrims over dinner that they should plant the soil in the spring and tend the land during the summer to ensure a bountiful autumn harvest; the pilgrims showed the Indians how to sprinkle marshmallows on their sweet potatoes.

"Let us be grateful," said the holiest pilgrim, as he raised his glass of brandy for an after-dinner toast, "for our new friends, the Indians. May our descendants honor them by naming sports teams after them and frequenting their casinos. Amen."

The Indians, who were still uneducated and still spoke no English, simply nodded at the white men in appreciation of the fact that they weren't shooting at them. Then they agreed to trade Manhattan in exchange for some colored beads.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!

This is my caption on drugs.

Under normal circumstances, I'm not one to accuse unseen strangers of using hallucinogenic drugs on the job. Nor do I have many competitive tendencies.

That said, I'd like to announce that I wholeheartedly forgive the judges of the New Yorker's cartoon caption contest for neglecting to select my recent entry as one of the finalists. Drug addiction is a disease, and those who suffer from it deserve forgiveness, understanding, and help -- not criticism.

If you're unfamiliar with the caption contest, it works like this: Each week, the New Yorker publishes an uncaptioned cartoon and invites readers to send in caption suggestions. The editors then meet to select three finalists, based on criteria such as humor, creativity, wit, and which entries look like they have the fewest bugs crawling on them. The three finalists are then published so that readers from across the country and around the world can vote for the best caption.

The entry I submitted was for a cartoon that depicted a string quintet on a stage. Four instrumentalists were looking in shock and anguish at a truck with monster wheels that had apparently driven onstage, crushing their chairs, music stands, etc. The fifth instrumentalist was standing calmly out in front of them, center stage, mouth open, apparently addressing the audience. Now I'm not saying that my entry ("License plate CAE 7706, your vehicle is parked in a tow-away zone.") is better than the three captions that were published in this week's issue; I'm just saying that mine is better than at least one of them.

Nevertheless, I hereby graciously congratulate the three finalists.

And, of course, I'm not really upset with the judges. I'm sure that they do their best, and I'm sure that they have many more important things to do throughout the day than read cartoon captions. I'm sure that the caption judging is the LAST thing on their to-do lists before they get to go home, and naturally they want to finish it as quickly as possible so they can go home and watch C-SPAN.

And C-SPAN, I've heard, is much funnier when you're high.

Did I read that right?

You know you are all-consumed with your cats when you read the new Harry Potter movie as being entitled:

Harry Potter and the Gibblets of Fire

-Maria

Weill: the lesson

Performing is a beautiful thing.

Trusting in yourself - your ability to communicate - your ability to listen.

I don’t perform very frequently. But when I do, I realize how much I take it for granted on a daily basis. I forget what I’m capable of, how to get caught up in the momentum of the performance, how that mental space opens up, and allows for you to be flexible, to be in control of your actions. How much fun it is.

It makes me wonder what lessons could be learned if I made the effort to perform more often. I remember being in college, and being completely overwhelmed with my practice schedule, work schedule, homework obligations, and every other extraneous musical project I had going on… Concerts, recitals, lessons, masterclasses, auditions. Everything built up into one stifling anxiety attack. I wasn’t feeding off of these performances, I was overwhelmed by them, and ultimately paralyzed. There was a feeling in there somewhere I knew I was capable of feeling, but it was lost to me at that time. I’d go to a concert, and just when it was my opportunity to perform, I’d lose focus. It might have been fear, but it doesn’t seem like it. It seems more like I was distracted from the performance itself, like I was waiting in the audience to see what I would do, instead of in my own skin, listening.

I spent those years trying to figure out why that was, and what I could do to stop it.

During Saturday’s recital with Andi, I was paying close attention to myself. But not as a critic, almost as a scientist. Noticing what I was thinking, how I was feeling. I purposefully tried to keep my focus, allowing myself to let go, not to get in the way of myself. All the things I’d learned these past few years.

But how did I get there? There’s always been these musical extremes… Performing my own songs has always been like home-base, that comfortable ground where I knew I was free to experiment without being compared to other saxophonists, to other pianists, to other jazz players. Performing this way these past few years, away from expectation, allowed me to become more of myself when I perform. A more natural musician. Slowly trying to undo the unnecessary pressure I’d put on myself for so much time. Learning new interpretations to songs, seeing what I had to offer them, was the first step for me. Knowing you can create your own boundaries to help focus you, not to distract you. For example, here is the melody to a song you like! But how do you want to hear the chords? Harmonies? Do you even want to change the melody? What would it sound like if I sang it? The first step is knowing it in its original context, but accepting that that performer is only a performer, just like you. It’s hard with Kurt Weill, who is a composer that is performed frequently, but you wouldn’t hear him in a concert hall to the extent that you would hear a Mozart aria. However, I’m sure his Foundation would have a thing or two to say about our performance. Regardless, Andi and I tried to approach the recital as an outlet for ourselves to BE ourselves as performers, instead of trying to recreate what is already out there. We hadn’t had that opportunity for a while, and I think we both really wanted to see what we were capable of. It was a difficult process, because, for example, we really love Anne Sofie von Otter. Her interpretations are great. And part of us wants to experience what she experiences. But neither of us ARE Anne Sofie von Otter. So what would be the most effective and rewarding way to perform these songs? We let them develop on their own. Yes, having the luxury of, well, 3 years to play through them over and over helped this process a little. But ultimately, we learned a lot about each other as performers, and our visions for these songs by letting them find their way out naturally.

I ‘spose you could also just have a beer before you sit down at the piano, as well. But I have a predisposition to hiccups, so that route probably isn’t best for me.

In any case, I’m very proud of Andi and I for sticking to our guns, and Andi even more so for really taking the reigns and making this happen. There’s no better motivation for the future than knowing you were part of a good performance.

Masturbation, just a different kind....... ooh, did I get you interested

The old lady and I went to see Rob Balbucci last night at the 'knitting factory' NY, friggin hell guitar wank never looked so good, It was a 3 member set with Ethan on bass and a foxy female drummer 'banging' away at the back. His Ibanez was completely used (I'm sure I saw steam at one point), I have to admit I was impressed, my only real experience with 'Rock guitar' solo's really came in the from of 'Transformers the Movie', anyone who has seen it knows that the music made it cool, you cried when Optimus Prime was out-witted by Megatron, only finally to die with a tear filled guitar whine playing whimsically through a mono speaker in the background. (you all know you did), (Aaron back me up here)sniff.
Anyway it was like watching an animal in it's natural habitat, imagine someone with a ferrari and actually pushing it to it's limits on a private track. Not for everyone but then in a world full of corporate music Phish mush, you can't help appreciating someone ACTually giving a shit about what they do. I really enjoy watching and listening to music even if It isn't my particular taste, if it is done with the love and passion that it deserves.

I write in the present tense today.

So I see that Moray's earlier post has a comment from Friend Sue, and I visit Sue's fabulous blue blog. Alas, I am unable to post a comment because her blog is mistaking me for a spam robot. Curses. I want to leave a comment that says something like, "Susie Q!! I don't have your email address, so I hope you read your comments. Wanna go for a little cocktail sometime soon?"

I am not defeated! I post to the Our House In Jersey blog, and I hope that Friend Sue is a repeat visitor.

Shameless plug!

Kurt Weill rules!
Andi and I are gonna rock the house (or the Liederkrantz) this Saturday, Nov. 5th.

Surabaya, Johnny!

-Maria