Long entry coming up. I was the victim of a hit and run wheelchair accident at the castle last night. Wheelchair (the size of the Popemobile) hit the piano, caused it to lurch, and pinned me against the wall. I'm fine but bruised, piano is chipped. Promise to get some authorial mileage out of this one. Hopefully will post tomorrow.

Still waiting to read about that cake accident.

I played this party yesterday and Robin and Greg were absolutely right - everything went fine. The setting was outside at a small house with a large garden area which sloped away from the house. I was set up on a deck which overlooked the gardens where I set up my digital piano and had an external powered speaker on a stand. Fortunately there was a large cafe style umbrella keeping me shaded, without this I would have been fried since it was a bright sunny day. I did a sound check before the start to make sure that I could be heard but was not so loud that people would have to raise their voices to hold a conversation.

I had previously done a trial run of the performance a week before the show by setting up my DP outside and running through the setlist, one thing which was apparent was that even the slightest breeze made it very hard to play from a score because the pages would change on their own. I could use heavy clips to keep the page open at the right place but then page turns became more cumbersome. I tend to play 80% from memory and 20% reading so I figured I would make sure that I could play my entire repertoire by memory and just use the score as a safety net and spent time working on playing

I started playing just before the guests arrived and as they were arriving. I started to hear people talking around me, a couple of people complemented me on my playing and I did my best to keep playing through my set despite the background noise. By about halfway through my set the background noise was louder and while I could still hear myself play I'm not sure anyone else could so I just kept playing until I had completed the 12 pieces I had rehearsed, total time about 75 minutes. The only piece which was rough was a Chopin waltz where I really needed to read the score and the wind was making this hard - I had to keep rearranging the clips I was using to hold the score down.

I would definitely do this again although I have to say that playing outdoors adds a new set of challenges not found when playing indoors.

Way to go, Chris! Thanks for letting us know how it went. Smart of you to memorize the music. In addition to avoiding wind-related accidents, it also looks about 300% more professional to play without notes in front of you.

It's almost always a drag to play outdoors, so it seems like you had a pretty good day, weather-wise. I once had a sun umbrella collapse on me (and the piano). And don't get Greg started about wasps and other insects.

Anyway, so happy to hear it went well for you. ONWARD!!!

Here you go, my friends. Hot off the press. True story, by the way. Just sayin.'

The Wheelchair Guy

©2010 RMG

Here’s the thing about having a steady piano gig in a hip place. You drift along night after lonely night, artistically satisfied, planning your next project, grateful to all the lovely people who stop to listen, make nice comments, and buy your recordings. You start to think you have a dignified job, one that will carry you into your senior years with a little style but not too much drama. Then the Wheelchair Guy shows up.

*

I arrive at the castle for my 6:30 PM start time. It’s a Saturday night in June, in the middle of the World Cup soccer tournament, an event in Germany that commands tremendous attention. Beer is guzzled, hunks of meat are grilled, and large public viewing screens appear on every corner. Fussball is the buzz word. I’m a vegetarian, non-beer-drinking American artist who hates crowds and knows nothing about soccer, and even I enjoy the hype. I particularly like the outfits. The players are adorable in their tricots and matching kneesocks—sort of a Brazilian boy scout look—but this year I’m really into what the German coaches are wearing. They look like they stepped right out of the fall-winter Talbot’s catalog. At the first game they sported twin sets. No pearls, but still. Second match featured double-breasted jackets and perfectly knotted cashmere scarves, sort of a snappy Dutch sailor look. Last night they were wearing Easter-egg lavender silk knit sweaters, like they might be getting ready to play a jazz concert at a chi-chi supper club owned by Calvin Klein. Who’s their stylist? Sign me up.

Because of all of the football mania, I’ve expected to find a half-empty castle. But the place is swarming. A huge wedding reception is taking place in the back garden. I’m not playing for the wedding because the bride wanted a solo saxophone for the two-hour cocktail party. As much as I love the saxophone, this doesn’t seem like the greatest idea to me, but I admire the bride’s resolve to do something different. I’ve recommended a guy named Torsten, a kick-ass jazz musician who is now in the rose garden blowing like crazy in the steamy late afternoon heat. It’s a wedding gig, so no one is listening. He spots me in the doorway, and gives me a military salute while continuing to play with one hand. Cool guy. In the banquet room, a DJ is setting up to play post-dinner dance music, which will probably include a Gloria Gaynor/Village People/ Donna Summer medley. I’ll be long gone by then, but my co-workers, the hardest working bunch of twenty-somethings in this part of Germany, will be pouring champagne and serving gourmet delicacies until tomorrow morning.

My job tonight is to play the piano for our regular Saturday night guests. I sit down and begin playing the “Theme from Romeo and Juliet,” trying to block out the residual saxophone sound coming from the garden. Fine. If I don’t take too many dramatic pauses the saxophone won’t distract me. But the DJ decides to hold a sound check and all at once the lobby rings with the sound of Celine Dion. The DJ cranks up the music. It’s loud enough for a football stadium. I pause and wait for Celine to stop but she keeps singing about how her heart is going on and on and on. I ask Herr Ries, our intrepid banquet manager, to put an end to the sound check before Ms. Dion can modulate to an even higher key. I don’t know what Herr Ries does to the DJ—maybe he conks him on the head with an ice bucket— but the music stops abruptly. I continue with Romeo and Juliet.

The guests float in and out of the lobby, checking out the blushing bride, the little boys in their starched white shirts, and the nubile young ladies in their sorbet-colored evening gowns. One dress, a turquoise strapless chiffon creation, makes me wonder if I should revamp my Piano Girl wardrobe, but I realize that to wear this dress I would need to lose fifteen pounds, have breast reduction surgery, a tummy tuck, and give up playing the piano. Better to stick with the German football coach wardrobe. It’s more my style these days.

The service staff, smiling and carrying enormous trays of crystal glasses, glide through the lobby, sidestepping around the guests, dodging the children who dash back and forth in a chocolate-induced race to the front door, where they will be given more chocolate before they race back to the other side.

I play some of the music from the Amelie film. On top of the piano is a silver urn holding a cluster of eleven dark pink orchids. I know it’s eleven, because I count them while I’m playing.

Beautiful colors, beautiful clothes, beautiful people, and a soft light washing over it all. It’s a European castle ballet, one I never grow tired of watching.

Four pre-teen boys discover the antique kicker table in the corner of the lobby. The kicker table is a low-tech toy, with little soccer players operated by levers turned by the players’ hands. Four players can play at once, two on each side. It’s hardly an attraction for a five-star hotel, but this table, made with burled wood and hand-painted players is more of an art statement than a recreation device, meant to give a nod to World Cup fans. No one counted on a bunch of sixth grade boys showing up and starting a tournament. The sound of the little wooden men kicking the ball echoes through the lobby, along with the shouts and cheers of the boys. They are cute for about three and a half minutes, at which point the noise reaches an almost unbearable level. Where are their parents?

Kick, kick, kick, kick, kick.

I am playing “Fly Me to the Moon.”

“TOR!!!!” one of the boys shouts.

I can hear Torsten playing a blues in a key that clashes with my song.

Kick, kick, kick, kick, kick.

The DJ cranks up Celine again. Her heart is still going on.

“TOR!!!!” the boys yell again.

Monsieur Thoman, the Maitre D of the gourmet restaurant, peeks through the French doors of the restaurant into the lobby. He smiles at the boys. Monsieur can flip out when he needs to with unruly adult guests, but he is always kind to children.

“Bon soir!” he says to the boys.

“TOR!!!” they scream.

“Mon dieu,” says Monsieur.

Kick, kick, kick, kick, kick.

I give up. I do not blame the boys. They are eleven. In two years they will be sullen and subdued and doing everything they can to look like gangsters. Let them have their fun. I go to the bar, sip a glass of very nice champagne, and thank my lucky stars that I have a job. It’s usually so peaceful in his place. One night of extreme noise never hurt anyone, least of all a musician.

*

Fifteen minutes later I slip behind the grand piano to begin my second set. The lobby is blissfully quiet. I can see from the piano bench that most of our guests have been seated in their respective dining rooms. Torsten has finished playing his two-hour solo saxophone extravaganza, the DJ is in the bar eating an expensive dinner until it’s time for the Titans of Industry disco contest to begin, and the kicker boys have gone to the lake to feed the swans. Monsieur assures me that the kicker ball has mysteriously disappeared for the remainder of the evening.

I play through a selection of original music, songs I like to break out when there’s no one really listening except me. They are pretty songs from my younger years, with girly-girl names like “Twilight,” “When Stars Dance,” “Peaceful Harbor,” and “Following Your Light.” I close my eyes and play and play and play. It’s what I know how to do.

Zoom, zoom.

I look up and see a vehicle the size of the Pope-mobile rumbling through the lobby. Maybe it is the Pope-mobile; this castle is known for major celebrity sightings. Oh no. This is an extremely large electric wheelchair, being driven by a very assertive—and tragically disabled— middle-age man.

I’m now playing a piece of mine called Lerbach Nocturne, which has a Chopin feel to it. I try not to stare at the Wheelchair Guy, because I don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable, but I guess if he’s riding around in a Pope-mobile contraption a couple of stares from a curious pianist aren’t going to send him off the deep end. But I’m good at being discreet, so I avert my eyes and continue playing. An entourage of concerned adults chase after him, but they have trouble keeping up.

Yikes! He almost took out one of the banquet waiters on that last turn.

Zoom, zoom.

I decide that when he passes the piano I will acknowledge him with a warm greeting, in the same way I greet all of our other guests, even though most of our other guests are not riding through the lobby in wheelchairs the size of Hummers. Some of them own Hummers, but they usually keep them in the parking lot next to the smaller cars.

Did he just run over that woman’s foot?

Zoom.

Monsieur, who will be seating the Wheelchair Guy and his family in the gourmet restaurant, stops in his tracks when he sees the size of the vehicle. He smiles, greets the guests, then spins on his heels to begin rearranging the restaurant furniture. It’s a challenge: a party of four that needs space for sixteen, arriving right in the middle of a sold-out Saturday night.

“Did they call in advance?” I ask the reservationist as she passes by the piano.

“Yes,” she says. “But they said they were bringing a wheelchair, not a tractor with a hydrolic lift system. The poor guy has to eat standing up. He can’t bend. At all.”

“Oh no,” I say. Words fail me. Now the size of the vehicle makes sense.

I’m still playing “Lerbach Nocturne” when I hear Monsieur attempt to discourage the man from going into the bar. The entrance to the bar is directly on my left. “There’s a beautiful view of the park from the bar terrace,” Monsieur says. “But there are steps onto the terrace, so you won’t be able to get out there from this direction.”

Or any direction, I think. Unless you have a crane. It makes me sad. What a thing: A beautiful view that you can’t see, just because of a few steps. Just as Monsieur turns to talk to the other members of the party, the Wheelchair Guy, with what I perceive as a look of defiance on his face—he’s so high up I can’t really see him all that well—steps on the gas and speeds into the bar.

I hear a tray of glasses crash to the floor. Then I hear another voice patiently explain that the steps will indeed prevent him from getting on to the terrace. There’s no room for a three-point turn in the bar, so the Wheelchair Guy, pissed off, backs up at about eighty miles an hour.

Zoom. It’s as if he’s being shot out of a cannon backwards. The Pope-mobile crashes into the piano so hard that it lurches sideways and pins me to the wall.

“Mon Dieu!” says Monsieur.

“Help.” I say. The piano is jammed against my upper thigh (thank goodness for fat). My upper arms and elbows are flush against the wall, and my wrists and hands are flapping in the air over the keys.

I reach down with the tips of my fingers and resolve the cadence. What a pro. Soon to be a pro in my very own wheelchair. The piano is wobbling and the Wheelchair Guy doesn’t realize that his Pope-mobile fender is hooked onto the underside of the lid to the piano. He jams his stick shift to forward, then reverse, then forward, then reverse. The piano rocks back and forth and I am certain it is going to crash to the ground, taking me, the Wheelchair Guy, Monsieur, and six waiters with it.

“Straight ahead, drive straight ahead, s’il vous plait,” says Monsieur to the Wheelchair Guy.

“Robin, don’t move,” says one of the managers. Like I have a choice.

Zoom. Reverse. Zoom. Reverse.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Straight ahead!” says Monsieur.

Finally, like a mother lifting a Volkswagon off of her trapped child, someone picks up the piano enough to unhinge the Pope-mobile. It races forward and nearly collides with the teacart. For a moment I think I have escaped having my legs crushed by a grand piano only to be hit with the world’s largest tea samovar., which is, of course, full of boiling water.
But the Wheelchair Guy misses the teacart. Instead, he zigzags over to the entrance of the restaurant, followed by the newly appointed Pope-mobile Task Force, a group of employees designated to prevent more damage. A lot can go wrong in a gourmet restaurant, especially when a disgruntled disabled man with a Hell’s Angels mentality starts zooming around during the soup course.

I am still pinned to the wall. A member of the Wheelchair Guy’s entourage, a lovely young woman in a perfect black dress, returns to the piano.

“Has the piano been harmed?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I squeak. I’ll have to unpin myself before I can check out the damage. For a second I wonder why she doesn’t ask me if I’m okay. But she hangs out with the Wheelchair Guy. Maybe to her a pianist with a bruised thigh isn’t such a big deal.

I heave the piano forward enough to slide out from behind and limp around to check out the damage. Amazingly, only a small chunk of wood is missing. The legs seem to be stable. I’ve always claimed this Yamaha Conservatory Grand is a warhorse. Now I know it’s true. I wonder if the Pope-mobile has a dent, a ding, or at least a couple of good battle wounds.

That’s enough music for me tonight. I leave the castle through the bar exit, step down onto the terrace, and take in the lush green of the June evening. The trees droop in the weighty twilit heat, and the roses seem plump and content. I walk down a stone staircase to the little lake, where two blacks swans coast across the water like they own it. I think of the Wheelchair Guy and how angry he was to be denied the very simple pleasure of stepping outside in the summer night. And how angry I am that he almost caused a really serious accident. And never apologized.

I skip a stone across the dark green pond, and watch the ripples in the water spread. When the surface becomes calm again, I look down once last time and see a sadder version of myself.

"Was the piano harmed?"

Your personal gentility exceeds anything I would have been capable of. Out of my mouth would have been sure to come, "The piano? I'll give you a piano where the sun don't shine, lady--- get this thing off me!"

And I would have smiled as I looked in the lake. Bruises, and yet a warm glow. Apology? Never mind. My lawyer will accept an apology from his lawyer. The lady with the crushed foot might find it expedient to join you in a single settlement action.

Witnesses galore, video footage from the security cams, physical evidence...

Why, he might be surprised to learn how much a crushed lady's evening slipper costs.

Being disabled is no excuse to be a jackass.

What a story!

well, imagine the frustration of constant barriers and prejudice and how very difficult it would be to be graceful in social situations.

That was a beautiful account of an unusual night Robin.

I have my own entourage of the disabled.. an autistic brother, and brother in law with Down's syndrome, and elderly piano student with advanced cancer.. 2 blind piano students. i resonate with those that need extra help.

One of the pianogirls is actually a singer (a recitalist who is booked often at football stadiums because she is blind, beautiful and has a huge mezzosoprano voice). I accompanied her on the Ave Maria in one of the most beautiful, acoustically sophisticated buildings in Kansas City. Too bad they don't have Steinway or something in that space. The 5'1" Kawai adequately filled the venue.. altho the bass (actually anything below middle C) was funky.

glad you weren't injured Robin

I would hardly try to argue with you, Apple, since I pretty much agree with your views about public accommodations for people with disabilities, and people's attitudes about them. I say 'them,' but we all have something of the sort going on, later if not sooner. And I agree that Robin's story was well said.

It seems to me that the venue did try to accommodate this person, and make him feel welcome, even though they were not properly informed about what to expect.

I've had my troubles trying to get through a crowded bar on foot, let alone in a Hummer. One would hope the facility would take thought for the future (more about that later). Maybe there's some other way to that terrace area that could have been offered to the gentleman, one that involved the exit. Calming customers who are displeased or aggrieved about one thing or another is something bars and eateries do every night of the world.

I recall one evening when a customer backed his chair out suddenly and a waiter's try--- loaded with cordials and sticky liqueurs in every color--- went flying... alas, onto a lady in an expensive fur evening wrap.

Yes, there was a fuss. Yes, the manager came. But no, she didn't charge through the place like a bull in a china shop, injuring persons, property, and propriety.

Oh where is the little girl with the wrinkle creme when we need her?

It's purely a guess, but Robin may be waiting to see whether that proper note of apology arrives, accompanied by flowers and chocolates, before she says anything more. Or maybe, having good manners herself, she'll say nothing. Sometimes, when people make enough of an ass of themselves, they're too humiliated to apologize like a decent person should.

A canny maitre'd, if the Hummer presents itself at the dining room door again, might say... oh... how about, "Look out--- the wasp's nest, someone knocked it over! Run!!!" And slam the door.

PS-

Unlikely, you say? This very minute, a news story came over the TV: "Over Seventy People Stung By Wasps at the Alameda County Fair--- Fireworks Show Blamed!" I've heard of mishaps with either fireworks OR wasps, but I have to admit, combining them is a first for me. Although it seems I heard something about wasps at a wedding...

Apple: Thanks for being so understanding about what happened. I'm still reeling from the wheelchair hit, but my leg is fine and I'm back on the bench. Maybe I should get a purple heart.

Jeff, it almost seems like you KNOW Monsieur, our Maître'd. Canny is his middle name. He would LOVE that wasp line. By the way Monsieur is completely bald, quite striking, and on the night of the wheelchair hit was wearing a black satin (satin!) suit with a deep purple shirt and black tie.

He once looked into a salon where I was playing a wedding for an unruly group of guests and referred to the room as the GARDEN OF THE APES.

I am so pleased that my rendevous with the Hummer did NOT involve a tray of cordials. Imagine, just imagine, what that would do to a piano. Dave Stahl, I can feel you cringing all the way from Market Street.

No apologies yet from the WG. No chocolate. No flowers. We have moved on to the next Event. This weekend's shindig was glorious. The bridal party had booked the entire hotel for the entire weekend, with music on both Friday and Saturday. I played for a very fine but very informal dinner in the rose garden on Friday, the night before the wedding. The weather was perfect, the piano was right on the terrace, the technician was there to tune it immediately after it had been moved outside. Dream job. I played for four hours under the stars. Even the wasps were behaving.

I was off on Saturday night, since the wedding party had booked a small orchestra for the big day. I stayed home and watched Germany beat Argentina. I must say, Germany has the best looking coaches.

Apple, what theater were you playing in in KC? I spent 6 weeks there many years ago in a fabulous old vaudeville theater that had perfect acoustics. Maybe it was the same place? the name escapes me. I love Kansas City.

I'm on my way to Berlin. I've written all the lyrics for a new CD by singer Jessica Gall called Little Big Soul. Tomorrow night is the press launch/concert/party. Looking forward to being in the audience, doing the queen's wave from the third row, and listening to someone else do the work. Should be fun!

Robin, I bet it was the Folly Theater.

That is a gorgeous building. I wish I had played there. I did used to cater and bartend and once was called onto stage to bring a 7&7 to Tina Turner who was giving a concert. "Thank you baby she said".

I've attended many performances there.

I was playing at a church for a wake.. a gorgeous church with a 900,000 $ organ, seating for 1000 and INCREDIBLE acoustics. It hosts quartets, choirs, etc. They offered me a job playing the chapel organ (it weighs about 50 pounds) in a chapel on Saturdays.. no thanks. I would love to play that big beast.. and I have as a sub, but apparently my pedalling is too inaccurate for the high standards.. heh.

Actually I used to play there when I was a teenager... 15 bucks a Mass. The church was remodeled a while back and is now high falutin.

I hang around a lot of blind people.. it's kind of a family mission. My bro Joe was letting them drive golf carts and filming them when one of them hit me. the golf cart then had a little tipover with the blind kids and my bro Joe inside.

(I didn't realize you were in Cologne.. I've been listening and trying to memorize/transcribe bits of the Koln Concert by my all time favorite, living pianist in a popular way, Keith Jarrett.)

News update from Channel Two:

"A nest of wasps has been removed from the Alameda County Fairground after over one hundred people were stung during a fireworks display over the weekend. Some were treated at the scene for stings, but no one dropped dead suffered from anaphlactic shock brought on by an allergic reaction to the stings, Fairground management said."

Please convey my compliments to Monsieur. A good maitre-d makes all the difference in the world. Of course, I knew the Castle would have a very fine one.

I played one of those little chapel organs for the English language services in a big cathedral in Wuerzburg. Like you I wasn't allowed near the big pipe organ in the main cathedral section.

The little consort organ was fun. One manual, no pedals, the blower was in the seat, and there were only four stops. But it was a real pipe organ, with the pipes folded to fit into the console, and a nice sound.

thank goodness I didn't take that chapel organ job.. because I got the Saturday job I wanted... two months after i auditioned for it.

darling little pipe organ in an adorable church.. I am organist #2, so I doubt if I will ever get to do a wedding there. I need to learn how to play that little organ.. i sounded pretty timid and trepidatious yesterday. i know there are ways to boost the volume and make it sound fantastic.. just haven't figured it out.

(I am having my piano and organ moved to my new house this week on Thursday).

cheers.

Hi everyone, I guess it's official and I'm "booked" for my own sister's wedding in October, if things go well, that won't be the only event I get play at! I'm very excited at the moment but I get the feeling as the time approaches nervousness will start to kick in (hundreds of guests). The setup of the wedding is just a banquet with all the guests already seated at round dinner tables. The bride enters twice and I'm planning on going with the following program:

1. Bride enters the first time: Canon in D, I was leaning towards Claire de Lune, but Canon is more traditional, going to stick with the Lee Galloway version, it's simple yet very pretty and a bit new age.
2. Some formal introductions da da da, people start eating then I start with more light hearted Chopin Waltzes (3 in my head at the moment, 64/1, 64/2 and 69/1
3. The bride changes into a evening gown and enters again: Chopin Nocturne 9/2
4. The people then start getting drunk, and I go with another Chopin Nocturne 9/1
5. When nobody is listening anymore, I go with a few pieces from Yiruma like Kiss the Rain and background music.

What do you guys think?

I'm sure that will be so much fun for you. When the bride enters again in an evening gown I'd do something pompous and ceremonious.. perhaps a rocked out version of the bridal march.. just for a bit, to gather everyone's attention. You may need to have more music ready. Will there be recorded music? dancing?

on a different note, I moved my piano into my new house yesterday.. actually paid for a mover. We will be moving our furniture ourselves. (yuk). I knew the piano would sound better in the new space but I was blown away by how absolutely awesome, powerful and divine it sounded. it's in a bit of an indoor ampitheatre... so I am very happy. that's my daughter.

This may have something to do with weddings, or it may not. I was just enjoying my first bite of a delicious Haagen Das bar, covered with chocolate and almonds, when the news came over the TV: this Sunday is National Ice Cream Day.

Technically, it may apply only to the United States... but I like to think that, in the name of international solidarity, people all over the world might like to join in, if they care for ice cream. Even people who are getting married; even people who are moving house.

I agree. Ice cream for everyone. Even the brides. Just don't eat it at the piano.

Some guests at the castle, who mean well but just aren't thinking, insist on giving me food while I'm playing. I once received a tiny dish of raspberry sorbet at the piano, as close I've gotten to ice cream. I took a break and ate it at the bar.

Apple, that new place look gorgeous! Congrats on having such a fabulous spot for your piano!!!

Rui, I think your program sounds lovely. Just remember one thing, the bride will be down the aisle in about 5 seconds flat. If they want to actually hear the entire piece of music, I advise telling the bride to WAIT before making her entrance. Sometimes I even cue the bride, with a subtle nod. (You could get creative here, right, Clef??)

My friends, I am headed to Ireland for a few weeks, where my husband is teaching at the Sligo Jazz Workshop and I shall try to get some writing done. I'll be checking in.

Happy summer!

have a wonderful trip Robin.

Jeff.. I will eat anything tasty but ice cream.. I have never enjoyed it much. My family adores ice cream. My dear mother (bless her soul) was an addict.

((((I am enjoying my little job at the church erected in 1892. I was told I could play more emphatically, so I went to listen to the head organist who has been there 35 years. OMG - he is a theatreorganist, able to get that little pipe organ to do all sorts of cheerful, rhythmic things. I've never heard anyone play at church like that so I look forward to learning some new skills.

This will be the week from hell for me. I have been cooking for my father in law for 10 years now and we had to call hospice for him. Relatives are coming in to help care for him and eat my cooking. It will be an absolute zoo. the weather here is dreadfully oppressive nice and warm. I went to check my piano last nite. It has been sitting under 5 quilts in high humidity.. and it sounds still fantastic. I envision a clean organized home and 3 hours sitting in front of me, maybe in September when my tvzombies darling children go back to school. )))

back to weddings

Sherbet, gelato, snowcones? Well never mind, dear Apple, you eat what you like. As for ice cream, we're safe for another year. Anyway, it's not like it's health food; some say it exists only to pad the bottom line of Jenny Craig and 1-800-DENTIST.

I'm sorry about your father-in-law. Thank goodness hospice is there. Is he to receive palliative care in-home, or to go to a facility for skilled nursing care? There's something to be said for either.

I enjoyed your strike-throughs, though I think you're wise to replace your initial thought with the most positive outlook you can muster. Don't ask me how it works--- I don't know--- but sometimes these 'replacement thoughts' have a way of coming true.

My own little darling, my bitch Roxie, just came back from a short office visit with the vet to have her sutures removed, after a bladder cancer was detected in time for a surgery to do her some good. She is well and happy now, and we will do everything we can to keep it that way. I'm not much good at predicting the future--- I'll be lucky if I can tell what the future holds when it gets here--- but she ate enough ice cream yesterday to make up for you. So, you're excused for this year.

i like snowcones.. yep. I like creamy sauces.. mixing cold and creamy doesn't work for me... I guess I'm fortunate.

Rui, I'm working on that Galloway version of the Canon right now myself. (And I wish that *I* could call it easy! ) I think it would work well if you could tell the bride to time her walk down the aisle to start right when the bass changes to all those 16th notes. If she walks slowly, that would give you the chance to finish up the piece, even if they have to stand there for a little bit until you wind up the big concluding chords.

Robin, great story about the wheelchair guy. I loved the last few lines especially.

Hi Everyone!

Ireland is just as green and lovely as one might expect.

Apple, I'm sorry to hear about your father-in-law. With the new job, the new house, and the illness in your family you certainly have your hands full.

Rui, Monica's advice is sound. It would be tragic to learn that piece and not be able to play it through. Frank Baxter posted something about this way back at the start of this thread--it was very funny!

Clef, happy to hear that Roxie is on the mend!

Monica, glad you like that story. It has been revised about 12 times at this point and has gone to my translator. It was kind of tricky to write, but at this point I feel as if it's ready to go. That may well change in a few days---I tend to agonize over these things and re-write everything up until the last minute.

It's a foggy and damp morning here on the Emerald Isle, so I intend to use the time to write a bit. We're here because of the Sligo Jazz Project, so there's lots of music!

Cheers!

I hope you remember not to confine yourself to the facts.

You are a storyteller, not a historian.

Hee, hee.

Hi Tim,

There's a new term floating around literary circles. "Faction"

Fact = Fiction = Faction

I think that comes close to describing what I do. The minute a writer puts pen to paper (or fingertips to keyboard) the truth becomes blurred by the writer's point of view. My friend, the esteemed author and hobby pianist William Zinsser, calls this "Inventing the Truth." But I think calling it storytelling is just as appropriate. My stories are all true stories, but, you know, they have my spin on them. So they destined to be a bit warped.

Okay, I am staying in a place in Sligo that was a former MENTAL HOSPITAL. The name of the road is Mental Hospital Road. Perfect spot for a jazz workshop. They also do weddings here. Hoping to check out an Irish wedding on Saturday.

There is music EVERYWHERE in this country!

faction = excellent


I prefer not to confine myself to the hard cold truth.. it's too boring. facts often need a bit of pizazz... just a little exaggeration works for me.

btw Robin.. i love how a white scarf looks over a black outfit. why haven't i thought of that?

Oh yes, get yourself a beautiful white silk scarf. It will become a critical part of your wardrobe. I try not to wear all black (my outfit of choice) to weddings, so I often throw the white scarf over my shoulders. It's the girl-version of a tuxedo. Perfect!

And "Today in Wedding History:"

1986, Andrew, Duke of York, marries the Duchess Fergie at Westminster Abbey.

I'm dying to tell a joke to lighten a dark occasion, which I am sure the Royal Family is not celebrating--- just for once, I'll leave bad enough alone.

thank you all (particularly RMG) for this wonderful thread. It's a delight to read through.. calms my nerves and makes me laugh. It's definitely worth a re-read. There is so much going on in my life it's absurd... two major deaths, freaking grieving relatives, a move postponed weekly, and genuine grief for two of the most absolutely wonderful people who were a major part of my life.

My relatives are wearing me out.. my sister, the drama queen of the universe who hates and blames everyone and everything for her supposed horrid life (she really had nothing to complain about), the inlaws from Wisconsin who'll boost anything not nailed down, who let my FIL lie in his own **** because they were too ****ing lazy to wake him up, feed and nebulize him, my SIL, the micromanager of the world who is so stressed out and grieving that she is demanding that everyone else lose it too..

The main organist at my new job asked if he could go on vacation for August. He hasn't had a vacation in 13 years (poor guy). I'll happily play the 4 services weekly, one wedding scheduled, and any funerals that pop up. I'll just perform those moving chores Mon. thru Fri. and hope I get it together before the school year begins.

I now have a guest room. .. if anyone pops thru Kansas City and wants to test drive the Estoniette.

thanks for the advice everyone!

I've decided to just do Darth Vader theme and have my sister pay for pushing me around when i was kid hahahhah...

just kidding!

I was chatting with her about the music, she said she actually wouldn't mind walking down the aisle with the Darth Vader theme, just that the parents would not be so keen on this idea....