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For all those wedding gig players out there - remember to turn off your phone during the gig... Not that I speak from personal experience or anything...

Alternatively, change your ringer to 'applause' - works a wonder!


Olly

On another note, has anyone actually been given a tip whilst playing a set... to STOP playing?!?

It's not the kind of thing that boosts the ego...

Greetings from Germany, my fine forum friends. It seems you've carried on just fine here without me, but I do owe you an apology for jumping off the wedding ship.

First things first, and then I'll explain my prolonged absence. I've been playing a lot of weddings in the last few months. Brides 'r Us. I refer to the banquet department at the castle as The Bride Squad. I keep threatening to make t-shirts for them that say, "No one in white gets past this door."

Some of the weddings have been just gorgeous, some of them downright silly. Details to follow in future posts. One short story for a wedding ceremony I'm playing on this coming Saturday. The bride (OF COURSE) wants the Forest Gump theme for her aisle march. It's a nice piece, but all I can think of is poor Forest saying, "Stupid is as stupid does." Anyway, the bride is most concerned that her hooped skirt won't fit through the rose arbor and she'll have to go through sideways. Gump meets Scarlet O'Hara. "I may not be a smart man, Miss Scarlet, but I know what love is." The ceremony will also feature the Bach Air on a G String (I know how much you love that, Clef), and the Glasgow Love Theme which has one nice chord in it. Recessional is the Comptine piece from the Amelie movie. They wanted a solo piano version of Ave Maria, but I talked them out of it.

I should add that this particular bride and groom look like they are about 16. I spent the entire Bride Squad conference wanting to tell the groom to pull his pants up and sit up straight. The bride was wearing high-tops. I hope she has different footwear for the Big Day, although high tops with a hooped skirt might be a nice Gaga look.

Guess what? In between weddings this summer I went and played two pieces in concert for Chancellor Merkel. I was onstage for five minutes. There were 1000 people there and I even managed to stay calm (without drugs). Five minutes in the major leagues. It made me realize something, though. If you play weddings, or any kind of steady cocktail gig, everything else seems easy. People sit up, they pay attention, they even applaud when they're supposed to. No one tells you to keep it down, the clipboard babe treats you with respect, you even get a dressing room and cute security guards who make sure no one hassles you. I really didn't play any differently from the way I play on my regular gigs—but because of the context, I got to be a star for five minutes. Angela Merkel even smiled at me. Once. She was wearing a lilac-colored blazer, for those of you who want to know. I took my bow, exited stage left, but what I really wanted to do was shout, "I'M NOT FINISHED YET, I"VE GOT MORE!!" Instead, it was back to the hotel, back to the airport, and back to the wedding reception I was booked to play the next day.

My dad always says that's the beauty of a musician's life—you're a star one minute, a peasant the next. He once played at the White House (with the Mister Rogers Trio) for the Reagns (they played "Nancy with the Laughing Face" but no one recognized it). Anyway, the next night he was playing for a senior citizen's dinner at the Swissvale Moose Club outside of Pittsburgh. He said the Mooses were way more fun than Nancy Reagan.

So. I've got a hundred stories from recent months, and if you'll allow me, I'll start posting them here. Please forgive me for my extended absence—I love this forum and so much enjoy reading about all of your adventures. I can't wait to go back and catch up on everything I've missed. Without going into detail (who, ME? Detail?), I had some health problems earlier in the year—I had been spinning plates for so long that I had a bit of a physical melt down—and I needed to put my health and family back on the front burners. Those of you who are over fifty and parents know exactly what I'm talking about. But I'm back on track, back on the bench, smiling at the brides, and happy to be back in touch with all of you.

Cheers!

You are right.



Cathy

Welcome back, Robin -- we missed you!

Glad you're feeling better.

Thank you, ClsscLib. Nice to be back.

I played a cocktail party last night for an investment company that was "auditioning" men and women who were looking for start-up money for their inventions/projects. I spent the entire time at the piano wondering if I should get in line to pitch something to them, but what? Interesting group.

Missed you! I'm glad you're back and that you took time for yourself and family. In the end, that's what counts!

Thanks, Sandy! Good to be back.

Okay, yesterday's bride went with her Option B wedding dress, the column shaped dress with the fish tail train instead of the hooped skirt (I am amazed that some brides buy TWO wedding dresses). She fit easily through the rose arbor. But it was quite chilly for an outdoor wedding—I had to do meditation exercises to keep my hands warm. The bride's dress was strapless, so I can only imagine how cold she must have been. She was 30 minutes late for the ceremony. I felt bad for the groom and started playing just to get the crowd to chill out (or warm up, since it was already freezing). Anyway, she hadn't gotten cold feet, but her make-up artist had gone to the wrong castle and was extremely late. Stupid is as stupid does.

And speaking of our friend Forest Gump, the groom gave me a box of chocolates as a thank you gift. Since I am on the serious health program here, I almost threw them out, but instead brought them home for the kids, who promptly opened them. Tucked inside was a substantial tip (the money kind, as opposed to, say, the advice kind). Tonight our family of four went out to dinner on the tip from the groom.

Lessons learned:

1. Always take a warm wrap with you if there is any chance you'll be playing outside. Mittens are also good, in case you have to wait. And a fly swatter as well, since those end of summer wasps are both desperate and angry.

2. Learn to play the Forest Gump theme. It is pure gold in the wedding world.

3. Never ever throw out chocolate.

I used to have a button on the console of my vehicle--- handy by my right hand--- which was labeled, "Laser Cannon," and with which many a traffic offender was excited into a cloud of ionized vapor, to trouble my travels no further. I can feel, right through my computer console, that some of you are smiling with satisfaction at the thought (though you may deplore it), and so did I. But in the end, I had to put a stop to using it. It was giving me a very bad attitude on the road, and I found it was not in my best interest.

There have been people whose society I enjoyed, over the years, and yet I had to let them go their way; it was too patent that they were bad company, and were dragging me down with them. It was the Laser Cannon all over again.

Need I say that there have been times, plenty of them, when I realized I was spending far too much time online--- indeed, on this very site--- when I had better things to do. Running the vacuum, cleaning the toilet, feeding the hummingbirds, sitting for meditation, visiting the gym, loading the dishwasher, doing my back exercises, making something for dinner that doesn't come out of the microwave, writing that overdue letter or making that overdue phone call, or reading the book which would do a lot more for me than overlooking the too-often vapid conversations, or blistering firefights, which overdecorate the forum. I'm not referring to this particular thread, of course, for it has been exceptional in every regard. There is no need, either, to tell this crowd that the piano lesson is not going to play itself while I indulge in what I call amusement... in a sense which may be over-broad, even in all generosity.

What I'm trying to say, Robin, is that you have touched on all my favorite excuses, and although I've missed you, I really do understand that there are things which are more important, and outright pressing. If we don't like to indict ourselves even so much, it is a fact that parting is the way of the world, and it is a rare thing to find ourselves in an orbit which does more than intersect someone else's every so often. Blame celestial mechanics--- it is really my favorite excuse--- for all orbiting bodies find the very stuff of space and time morphing right under their feet, and even at our best, none of us can hold someone else's whole interest forever.

There is less wear and tear if we can accept life for what it is, and change for what it is, and make up our mind to be happy about it. Allowing this space for ourselves gives us the truly golden and generous ability to grant it others, as well. We might exist for a great deal longer, in some cases, as the gorgeous butterflies do in someone's prize collection. We might even tell ourselves that the creatures would not have lived for more than a few more days anyway. Yet they do so at the price of being stuck through the thorax with a pin, collected and killed in their very prime. Call me selfish, but I believe I would even prefer to be eaten alive by a bird, or snapped out of the air by a fish--- or even a salamander.

I'm just glad to hear from you again, Robin. Glad you're well, glad you're taking care of the important things, as we all should do and must do. Like that bride, holding up everything so the make-up could be troweled on. It sounded bad at first, until I remembered reading that American Indian braves used to smear themselves with bear grease before going out on the hunt. They said that it protected them, not only from the cold, but from mosquitoes as well. It may seem to be too much to the point, but what I really mean is, that I figure that whatever is supposed to happen, is happening. Even if it's not, far less wear and tear on me.

All the same, Robin: delight. And besides that, thanks to the chocolates we know that the groom is going to be cool, no matter how the bride acts up. What--- am I digging myself in deeper and deeper? Maybe I'd better just stop now.

Please do, they are often the highlight of my day!

Well, Clef, your post is full of wisdom. Thank you for your inspirational words. You are one smart guy.

I particularly liked the part about the bear grease.

Tim, nice to hear from you! Stories to follow. I just have to sit down and organize them in my bride-addled brain. Is addled even a word? Bride-addled sounds like an exercise for snare drummers.

And speaking of romance, there's news at the castle. Remember our two black swans? One of them insisted on running away (he kept deserting his mate, leaving the lovely castle lake, and setting up swan shop in a swamp back behind a BMW car dealership. No accounting for taste. Finally, a fox got him. Bad news for the remaining swan, Congo, who has been heartbroken and alone on the lake for several months. Our intrepid front desk manager called every animal shelter and zoo in Germany and finally found a mate, named Prince, who had also lost his mate to one of those nasty foxes. I got to watch the introduction of the two swans last week. They bickered at first, but they're now swimming happily in their own private pond. I feel like the world is round again.

Maybe I would have been wiser to have left it at the bear grease; at least it tied in with the wedding...

Two weeks ago I played a very intimate event for a very big company here in Europe. I didn't recognize any of the VIPS, but I knew they were important because the security detail out-numbered the guests. Note: I like the security guys and gals. They always lurk around the piano, and because they have nothing else to do, they actually listen to me. Anyway, I played my standard background music, nice grand piano, little contact with the VIPS, easy.

I got a call the next day from the event planner who wanted my address so she could send me a thank you gift. For a fleeting moment I was hoping she would send me my very own hulking security person, but that would have been tricky since there is not one inch of extra space in my little house (too many basses, too many pianos, too many teenagers). A few days later I received a huge box in the mail. First I pulled out a bottle of champagne so I was off to a good start. I noticed the champagne was manufactured by the company I had played for. "Ah," I thought. "They are sending me things they make." I reached into the foam peanuts and pulled out the next surprise. Toilet cleaner. I kid you not. Next up? Wood glue. Then came the glue stick (this people are big on glue). Then I got a bottle of dishwashing detergent, shampoo, shower gel, and a carton of disposable tissues to clean eyeglasses.

I have received flowers and wine and git certificates, and yes, chocolate, but toilet cleaner and wood glue? At first I was a little insulted, but after a few minutes I realized these were things we can actually use. My husband was thrilled. He already has a glueing project happening. Don't ask.

Alas, no bear grease in the box.

It is today's glue technology that has made the modern piano possible. They talk about it all the time on the Tuner/Tech forum, though I realize I don't think of it as much as I might. Soundboard, hammers, case, keycovers, the binding of music books, nice evening shoes.

And as for toilet cleaner, no more needs to be said, except, where would we be without it?

Now, I have to admit that anyone might eye askance a bottle of champagne which was keeping that kind of company. Still, one can hardly subsist three meals a day on champagne, especially with smudgy eyeglasses, and I think the secretary who put up the CARE package for you remembered that his or her boss wanted to do everything they could for you, to take some of life's little obstacles out of your path. They did you the compliment of letting you know who they really are--- some of these corporate cheeses can't cover their tracks fast enough--- and expressed their thanks along with their humility and humanity.

I trust, when you're serving the champagne, that you won't get the bottles mixed up.

That present of glue for your husband was a stroke of genius. How did they know just what he wanted? Maybe it's what all husbands want...

I am thankful the gift box did not include a staple gun.

Here's a nice story about a wedding I played that was perfect. Believe me, this doesn't happen often. Anyway, I thought this might be inspiring to some of you aspiring wedding pianists.

My friend F, who used to be a breakfast waitress at the castle where I have my steady gig, called me several months ago to tell me she was marrying her dream guy and wanted me to play for her reception and dinner. I have a special price for colleagues, so I checked the date, gave her a quote, and marked my calendar.

The reception and dinner were held at the romantic SCHLOSS DYCK. (No matter how you pronounce this, it sounds bad) which is about an hour away from home. F rented a lovely Yamaha C7 for me. I arrived at the appointed time and was delighted to find an incredibly beautiful castle with a moat. I had to be buzzed in through a giant wooden archway. It was quite a hike up to the main part of the castle and in high heels it was particularly challenging on the cobblestones (will I never learn?). I kept wondering about the piano movers and hoped, for their sake, there was a secret delivery entrance somewhere on the grounds.

The caterers, not knowing that I was a friend of the bride, were a bit nasty, but a little bad attitude from people with trays never bothers me too much. I did manage to make friends with the bar man. I'm not drinking much these days, but still, it was good to have someone on my side. The ceiling of the reception room was hand painted and I wondered how in the world I was going to get through the gig without getting a cramp in my neck. Really—it was so beautiful I could hardly stop looking.

The piano was excellent and covered with about five dozen red roses. It was stunning. F and her entourage arrived from the chapel and she looked about as good as any bride I've ever seen. I played for the reception, then F's father gathered everyone around the piano and I played F's favorite piece (Legends of the Fall from my Songs from the Castle CD) for her while everyone listened. She cried. I barely held it together. F insisted I join them for dinner, so I had a fabulous five course meal and played between courses. All in all I was there for five hours. I left just as the dancing was beginning (another band). Yes, they waltzed across the floor like pros. Like I said, it was perfect. And that little bit of concert performance was just enough for me.

By the way, F, our intrepid breakfast waitress, is now living in Dubai, where she runs a large company with her new husband.

The cobblestone path back to my car was lined with torches. Ah, the enchanting Schloss Dyck, silhouetted in the September sky. The stars were out. It was a happy end to a happy day. And even the caterers smiled at me as we drove out of the parking lot together.

I actually attended a wedding today, as a guest. The banquet manager I work with at Lerbach got married.

S and I have logged some serious work hours together, taking care of summer brides and their respective entourages. I play the Pachelbel, he coordinates the lobster appetizers. I have to say, he was the most relaxed groom I've ever seen. I guess if you do weddings for a living, you're bound to be pretty chilled out at your own event. I did notice that everything was running on time in spite of the rain and the dismal parking conditions outside the church. Also, I loved that S was wearing a top hat.

But here is what I want to tell you: There were two singers and a pianist (playing one of those 400 pound electric keyboards) on a balcony in the front of the church looking down on the congregation. There was also an organist up there (thought of you, Apple) and one of those immense pipe organs that makes me cry, even if I don't know the people getting married. The organist played the wedding march and the hymns—he had no sense of time at all, it's like we were in the land of invisible bar lines, but that was okay because he had power and that (kind of) made up for everything.

When it came time for the vocal selection, the keyboardist, who was wearing a plaid flannel shirt—he looked more like he was going on a hunting expedition than playing for a formal wedding—accompanied the two female singers with great style. He was a very good player. The singers were good, too, although "You'll Be in My Heart" in German doesn't back the same wallop. Plus, you know, I always think of Tarzan and those apes, which isn't the best image for a wedding, but whatever—they sang and played really well.

But here comes the dicey part—during the exchange of vows and rings, the keyboardist starting packing up his equipment, moving the keyboard, putting it into its case, collapsing the stand and stool. He continued packing up all the way through the benediction. In his defence, I doubt that anyone noticed—he was very quiet—but still. I thought maybe he had another job to get to, but when I exited the church, there he was, calmly smoking a cigarette. He didn't look like he was in a hurry.

And now I am off to play my regular gig. I hope the fireplace has been put into service—it's cold and wet this weekend. Wishing you all a happy weekend!

I find it truly astonishing how common this is.

I have a tentative theory: that the delay between key press and sound filling a large acoustic space somehow interferes with organist's sense of time becoming locked in. The ones who play a lot of piano don't seem to have as much trouble with this.

You may well be right, Tim! That said, I have nothing but respect for good organists. That whole foot pedal thing completely wigs me out. When I was 18 and didn't know any better I had a job, booked by an agent ( or was he an Egyptian curse?) who told the client I was a professional organist just back from a tour of European cathedrals. I didn't even know how to turn the darn thing on. And then, once I got started, I scared myself to death when I stepped on one of those bass pedals. I spent most of the gig playing what sounded (to me) very much like ice skating music.

Couples only.

Ladies choice.

Here's a little story I wrote a few months ago. It's fiction, I swear. And I cleaned up the language a bit so it would pass the PW Censorship Board.

The Wedding Musician
©2012 Robin Meloy Goldsby

“So. Where do I set up?” Paul Lewinsky, also known as the Great Handini, has arrived at the Turtle Creek Moose Club in Pittsburgh, ready for his Saturday afternoon gig. He scopes out the hall. Acoustics might be tricky in this place.

“I don’t really care where you set up,” says Lois, the waitress. She is a tiny thing, barely five feet tall, and she’s balancing a huge platter of goldfish bowls on her hip. She waves in the direction of a small platform at the end of the room. “Maybe over there? On the stage?” Water sloshes onto the linoleum floor. “Jesus Christ. Whoever thought of using live goldfish for centerpieces? I feel like I should call PETA or something.”

“Are those real fish?” says Handini. He peers into one of the bowls long enough to see a tangerine-colored creature swimming in circles. Handini has worked his share of classy joints, but this isn’t one of them. Low ceilings, linoleum floors the color of muddy water, no curtains on the crusty windows. Glossy magenta paper plates with matching napkins and plastic forks adorn each of the twenty picnic tables. The room smells tangy and musty at the same time, like leftover olives.

“Yep. Real fish. Plastic plates. Go figure.” Lois knows how to handle musicians. She used to play bass in a local metal band, a five-piece ensemble called Turtle Whack. She quit when her second daughter was born. The baby’s father, Turtle Whack’s lead singer, had run off with the chick drummer, and, well, here is Lois now, paying the bills by waitressing at other people’s weddings. She has always felt sorry for wedding musicians. Not much better than waitressing. “So you need to load in your equipment or what?” she asks Handini. “You play keyboard, right?”

“Uh, no. I’m a hand artist.”

“A hand artist? What? You paint or something? Onorfrio said there was music for today’s reception.”

“I am a musician. I make music with my hands,” says Handini. He steps closer to the waitress, clamps his fists together and makes squishy farting noises through the air holes next to his thumbs. Hear that? That’s ‘Alley Cat.’ He plays another eight bars. The waitress stares at him.

“That’s friggin' weird.”

“Trust me, people love this stuff.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatev. What’s your name?”

“The Great Handini. And you?”

“Bad Butt Lois. How do you do?” Lois knocks over a bowl and a goldfish flops on to a magenta napkin. Handini grabs the fish by the tail, tosses him into a pitcher of water, and wipes his hands on his pants.

“Nice to meet you Bad Butt Lois. Sorry, I can’t shake,” he says. “Have to protect my instruments.”

“Right,” says Lois, extracting the fish from the pitcher with a plastic spoon. “I’m just wondering what’s gonna happen to these poor fish once the party is over.”

“You got an aquarium?”

“No. Do you?”

“No. So. What time does the sound man get here?”

“The sound man?”

“Yeah. I need amplification. My music is very delicate.”

“I gotta call the boss.” Lois slips a cell phone out of her apron pocket. “Onorfrio! It’s me. Some guy named The Great Handini is here and he needs a microphone.” She hangs up. “So,” she says to Handini, “I’m curious. What’s your opening number?”

“Usually a waltz. I like Strauss. But this is a Baptist wedding. No dancing. So I think I’ll start with ‘Pop Goes the Weasel.’ Always a big crowd pleaser.”

“You’re gonna play ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ for a wedding reception? With farting noises? On your hands?”

“Trust me, Lois. Works like a million bucks. Oh! One other thing. I’m gonna need a table for my merchandise.”

“Your merchandise?”

“Yeah. I sell CDs. My latest recording is The Great Handini Plays Mancini. You know, ‘Pink Panther,’ ‘Moon River,’ all the Mancini classics. I’ve also got Handini does Garth Brooks, Handini Meets Handel, and Be-bop Handini. They’re all pretty good. But, two years ago I recorded a nice set of lullabies for kids. That’s the most popular CD to date. It has kind of a New Age vibe. Parents tell me they play it at bedtime for their kids and—bam!—the little snots are sawing logs in minutes. Better than George Winston.”

Lois, not sure what to say, folds each napkin into an origami swan. Handini follows her from place setting to place setting. The goldfish, crescents of light in the dingy hall, stare at her from their glass spheres.

“Poor things,” says Lois. Handini laughs, and Lois glares at him.

“You know, I also got t-shirts and coffee mugs with a full-color picture of my fists. They make great Christmas presents. If you want one, let me know. I offer a special price to my co-workers.”

Lois picks up her phone again. “Onorfrio, we need a table for The Great Handini. He sells stuff. What? I dunno. New Age CDs and coffee cups. Good. See you in fifteen.”

“Wow,” says Handini, picking up one of Lois’s origami swans. “You’re a hand artist yourself. Ever consider selling these? You’d make a fortune.”

“Look, I got work to do. Don’t you have to warm up or something?”

Handini lifts his hands and begins playing the piccolo solo from “Stars and Stripes Forever.” He whizzes through it while Lois looks on, her pierced lip curled back in shock. Or awe. Or horror.

“Darn,” says Lois. “That’s really, uh, quite impressive. Guess you really don’t need to warm up.”

“Nope. I’m ready to go. That’s the beauty of my profession. I’ve got my instrument ready at all times. I just keep my hands in my pockets for a few minutes before I go on, and —giddyup!—it’s off to the races with The Great Handini. Want some help with those swans?”

“Wouldn’t want to you get a paper cut.”

“Right. Good thinking. One little skin injury and I’m screwed. Back in 1995 I grabbed an envelope the wrong way and it put me out of business for an entire month.”

“Yeah,” says Lois. “I hear you. Back when I was still playing I—”

“Whoa!” says Handini. “I knew there was something special about you. You’re a musician?”

“Was,” says Lois.

“Let me guess,” says Handini, looking her up and down.

“Flute?”

“No.”

“Clarinet?”

“No.”

“Oboe?”

“What, are you gonna guess all the wimpy instruments just cause I’m short?” asks Lois. “I am—was—a bass player. Electric bass. Bad Butt Lois.”

“Ah,” says Handini. “The pork chop.”

“Yep. A metal band. I quit a few years ago. Long story. Now I’m schlepping trays of innocent goldfish through a tacky catering hall.”

“Too bad you don’t have your ax with you,” says Handini. “We could do a couple of duets.”

“I haven’t played for a long time,” says Lois. “Besides, I don’t think you’d much like my music. Metal is a long way from Mancini.”

“What? I love metal. I recorded a CD of Iron Maiden covers—you should have heard the solo I took on “Wasted Years”—but my PR guy told me I’d never be able to sell it. So I’m sitting on the master, waiting for the right moment.”

“You’re certainly versatile,” says Lois, finishing up the last of the napkins and tucking a loose stand of hair behind her ear. She is astonished to find herself flirting, just a little, with a man who plays Metallica songs with his fists. But then again she is tired and wired and sort of lonely. When she’s not at the catering hall, Lois works part time for a dry cleaner, trying not to inhale the fumes or get her arms tangled in those thin plastic bags. She misses music, but her work schedule doesn’t leave much time for jam sessions and practicing.

“You gotta be flexible in this business,” says Handini. “ You wouldn’t believe the requests I get. Hey, do you think I could get something to eat before the show?”

“I dunno,” says Lois. “The caterer is in the kitchen. You could go back there and see what’s up. From the look of this event, we’re talking chipped ham sandwiches and potato salad.”

“Wanna join me?” asks Handini. “A professional musician never turns down a free meal, especially if there’s a pretty girl attached to it.”

Lois hesitates.

“Dinner music! I think I still have some Black Sabbath tunes in my hands,” he says.

“You can teach me the bass line to ‘Electric Funeral.’ ”

“Never liked that one much,” says Lois. “How about ‘Wicked World?’ ”

“Sounds good to me. Oh shoot,” says Handini, pointing to the dead fish in the bowl next to him. “We got a floater here.”

Lois, upset, reaches for the fishbowl. Handini grabs her arm, then pulls back and puts his fists together.

“Don’t, says Lois. “Don’t you dare play anything.”

“Taps?” says Handini.

No.

“Something from Finding Nemo?” he says.

“Don’t.” Lois looks at the fish in the neighboring bowl. “Do fish cry?” she asks.
Handini pauses for a moment, puts his hands in his pockets, and says, “Maybe. But not this one. He's a goner.”

And with that, The Great Handini and Bad Butt Lois retreat to the Turtle Creek Moose Club kitchen, where they are served Isaly’s chipped ham on Wonder Bread. Handini protects his hands, Lois frets about the dead goldfish, and together, they sip diet colas through plastic straws that bend in the middle.

You certainly know how to put a bend on an off-the-rack boy-meets-girl story. But wait--- there I am again, mixing my Irons up--- you've got me thinking back to Mancini and the Thousand-and-One Strings Plays In-a-Gada-da-Vida--- but I can see that I'm confusing Iron Butterfly with Iron Maiden. They're---duh--- not even from the same decade; not even adjacent decades. But events get compressed when one gets this elderly, and if I opened my old 'record' collection and saw Music for Easy Listening Drops White Owsley I would figure they were simply juxtaposed in Time's trash compactor. You not only get old, you turn into an archaeologist... and the only thing that really saves you is that most things are not worth remembering. That is why we become so forgetful. It is deliberate; a mercy of grace itself.

Then again, the quality of memories begins to seem more interesting than their actual content. The feel of the texture, and the smell, of a bolt of new fabric comes back; it was a time before the invention of polyester, and clothes were made of cotton or wool--- very occasionally, leather--- (or maybe, silk; we can leave fur out of our story though a great many ladies would have crawled through concertina wire for a mink stole), and these formed the boundary lines of whole wardrobes. Whole departments of department stores carried the smell of dye and sizing, but music stores smelled like brass band instruments and electronics stores--- always dark and fearsomely grimy--- smelled like solder.

The kids will never believe it, but there was a time before the invention of the plastic trash bag, the felt-tip pen, the video recorder, and the digital watch. Believe it or not, though, we did not feel all that deprived: we had time told by dial clocks, pens that wrote with ink, In-a-Gadda-da-Vida, and Tang was just around the corner--- though I believe that wherever it came from, it has gone back there. So have the fabrics of yore, once so malleable and fresh but, washed a thousand-and-one times in hard water and hung on the clothesline with clothespins, became completely stiff and harsh with minerals and ghostly as to color.

But the mud-colored lineoleum and magenta plastic plates will never fade--- how could they; they are the archetypes of a romance novel penned by H.P. Lovecraft--- and, most heartbreakingly of all (even more than the waitress and the hand music guy), the goldfish. After the reception, no doubt, to be flushed down the toilet, to become giant of size and albino of aspect, the Radioactive Sewer Carp of Hollywood nightmare, there to vie with the Albino Alligator for suzerainity of a dark and savage realm.

What could redeem such a vision. Thank goodness all its elements are fictional.

Thank goodness still further, that we did not meet the bride and groom, and the matron of honor, and the wedding planner. I'll leave it at that, with no mention of the vows they wrote, and recited, themselves.