Two Things

You know, I've had a sum total of about two conversations all week. That's it. I feel like I might be forgetting how to talk. When this happens - and it has been more recently - I tend to go to where people congregate. It's not like I strike up conversations with strangers or anything, but rather that I feel a bit more re-attached to the human race. Of course, if I make small children flee and old people cry with my mere presence, then I suppose that's cause for concern. It hasn't happened yet, so hooray. I decided on a trip to Uwajimaya for dinner fixins and the Market for sundries. I knew that both places would be absolutely mobbed. And they were.

It's been an intense week. I was on a revision jag that had me eradicating music and lyrics that I've considered finished for well over a year. It was one of those cases when my focus is so narrow that I lose time. It's like I start in, I do stuff and suddenly it's two hours later and I'm working in the dark. That's what three days last week were like. I got a lot accomplished. And when it's over, there's a letdown and a period of adjustment. That's today.

Anyhow, as I was walking down to Uwajimaya, two things occurred to me. The first is that yesterday was the sixth anniversary of the best gig I've ever had. We were playing up at Julia's on Broadway. For some reason, everything worked. I can't explain why it did, but it was like no matter how fast the tune was, I always had time to think about each and every note. My side guys, Hans and Chris, sounded super-excellent, too. But as my luck would have it, owing to a light snow overnight, the place was completely deserted. I think maybe seven people came in all evening, which is weird, because it's Capitol Hill and people are there all the time, rain, shine, snow, hellfire. Well, it was also Veteran's Day, but I don't think that was much of a factor, either. Whatever the reason, nobody showed up. So we had this superb gig that no one except the fine employees of Julia's heard. That's always the way it is. You've got a large-ish crowd (I can't say "huge" because I've never played in front of one of those before), and you sound like crap (and nobody notices), but you always sound superb playing to an empty room (and nobody also notices, because there's nobody around). That's what happened November 11, 2005. But I haven't necessarily lost the magic in the intervening time; July 3, 2010 was the second-best gig ever. So legendary gigs are still possible.

The other thing that struck me on my way to the ID is that I have broken my own record in the annual Rivoli Heating Derby. See, every year I make a mental note of when I switch on the heat in my apartment. In 19 years of living in this dump, the earliest has been September 23rd (I remember because it's Coltrane's birthday) and the latest has been November 10th. Well, that previous mark has been shattered. Don't get me wrong here, I'm not sitting here shivering, trying to best some meaningless milestone. Oh no, that would be - what's the word? - ah, yes, stupid. To tell the truth, I've developed a greater tolerance for cold. I guess that's what it is. God knows, once the thermometer rises beyond 58 degrees, I overheat. It's only logical that I should be more comfortable at lower temperatures. I don't know how to explain this other than I might be turning into a walrus. I haven't gained any weight, but it might explain the tusks.

So this is what happens when I don't have conversations for most of the week. The way things are going now, with a dreary winter ahead of us and people going into hibernation and such, I predict a lot of weeks like this one.