Work hard, play hard

Happy New Year everybody!  The statute of limitations on New Years salutations, according to my watch,  has not yet expired.  That would be January 15th, OK?  If you’re still wishing people a happy new year on Martin Luther King Day then I’m going to have to have a talk with you.

I have been faithfully plodding along on Tinder, but truthfully I have almost zero interest in dating.  I feel like I’ve been getting things done musically, what with all of my increased time for practice.  The thought of having to go through first date exposition is too daunting to deal with.  I would have to prepare as if I’m taking an SAT.  Who has that kind of time and energy?

I still peruse dating profiles, however, and I have noticed a couple of tropes that I would like to comment on.  (I mean besides the preponderance of photos in scuba regalia.)

I had no idea that there were that many women criminals on Tinder.  I would estimate that 1/3 of the profiles I read state that [she] is looking for a partner in crime.  Since I’m not into crime I usually swipe left.

The other thing I’ve noticed is that many many women not only work hard, but play hard as well.  The thing is, I’m an adult.  I put away my Twister and silly putty years ago! I suppose you could talk me into playing a game of Monopoly or Scrabble but how hard can you play those games?  Do I need to take steroids to up my level of intensity?  YESSSSSSSSS, BOARDWALK!  IN YOUR FACE, LADY. 

 

 

Waiting for the ball to drop

Earlier this week I told my friend that I wouldn’t be hate posting re New Years Eve because it was too obvious. Consider that to be my last broken promise of 2015.

Just how much of a moron do you have to be to schlep out to Times Square, stake out a 2 square foot patch of concrete, and wait hours in sub-freezing temperatures to watch a plastic ball drop a few feet?

It’s bad enough that you’re standing in the asshole of New York City. It’s a cesspool of capitalistic corporate, kitsch, and you have willingly planted yourself there amidst the drunk Long Island and Jersey Broncos and Broncettes, not to mention the pickpockets and Aqualung-style dirty old perverts. And to do it for no good reason?!

It boggles the mind that people would do this on the most cynical, contrived holiday there is. Don’t feign irony now. DON’T PLAY THAT. It’s a corny holiday. At least us musicians get paid for going out on 12/31. I don’t care if I play the Chicken Dance & a 40 minute conga line song. At the end of the night I’m driving home with fat stacks of cash! We don’t need an excuse to drink; it can be go time on Jan 2nd, what do we care?

NPR weighed in this afternoon with a hard-hitting feature on the guy who is in charge of organizing throwing the confetti from the Times Square buildings. With Paul Simon-esque acoustic guitar music playing in the background this nimrod breathlessly described the minute planning and intricacy that goes into confetti-throwing. “…and when it’s 20 seconds to midnight I speak into my walkie-talkie: Go confetti, go confetti, go confetti!”

Happy fucking New Years everyone.

New Years memories part II

Alcoa presents: Keitho’s New Years gig memories!

I used to do this solo gig at the Empire diner on 10th Ave & 22nd st. My slot was Saturdays from 11pm-3am. It paid $25.00. After a couple of years it went up to $30.00. I was living large after that. They had an upright piano which was right next to the bathroom. One day this lady went into the bathroom followed a minute later by this guy. The next thing I knew I heard this rhythmic pounding and I turned to my right to see a woman’s face plastered against the plate glass window. What could I do? I went right into “Easy to Love.”

Anyway, one year in the late 80s New Years eve happened to fall on a Saturday and the Diner asked if I wanted to play the late set for $100.00. The hours were 3-7 AM. Cha-ching!

I already had a normal New Years gig in Englewood, NJ with this horror show club date band who shall remain nameless (R*bby S*ott). In between gigs I came back to my apartment on the Upper West side at which point my buddy, Jeff, gave me a ride downtown. People were so drunk at that hour that Jeff had to have the reflexes of a Mario Andretti to avoid getting into several accidents. It was like being on Mr Toad’s Wild Ride except instead of Disneyland we were in Manhattan. Things were so much more interesting when everybody was drunk and high on blow. These days on New Years Eve people only need to grab their pipe and slippers and they’ll fit right in.

Home

How strange it is for me to associate home with the Bay Area but that is indeed the case.  This afternoon I flew home to the west coast for the first time in 27 years.  The trip to New York was a good one, both work-wise and personally.  I got to spend some great time with my friend Jeff in the Bronx as well as see other friends and former colleagues. 

It’s bittersweet, however, as I return to a life bereft of gigs.  In New York I was working three to five nights a week as well as teaching.  Here I have had to start from square one in a jazz scene that is not as busy as New York’s.  It is daunting to say the least.  Still I look forward to the few gigs I have, as well as getting back into hanging out and meeting new people.     

I have to say that San Francisco kicks ass when it comes to airport transportation.  It’s a quick walk through the terminal to the elevated air train.  From there it’s a five-minute ride to the BART station which gets me to within two miles of my home.  In New York you have a choice between a 40 dollar cab ride, for which you’re going to have to wait on a long line, or an air train that takes you to a subway station in Jamaica Queens.  It’s confusing, cumbersome, and unpleasant. 

So put that in your crack pipe and smoke it, New York!