The Clingers

I’ve been thinking about “Clingers,” people who cling onto you like black tar on the soles of your feet. I went out last night and I was introduced to a clinger first thing upon walking into my favorite bar. Because I’ve been thinking about it, I didn’t let the clinger get to me. I shook his hand and said hello but quickly moved away. I know a clinger when I see one.

             I think we’ve all been a clinger at one time or another. I found myself acting like a clinger at a party the other night. There’s a man named George who I like to talk to. We’ve talked before. He’s very creative. We've had good times together. We talked about interesting concepts and ideas and made things up on the fly. We'd ask stupid questions about the ordinary. It was a lot of fun.

The other night when I saw George, I thought we could continue with the same funny banter, but no, George was snubbing me. 

There was something about the snub that turned me into a clinger. I wanted it to be the way it was, fun and interesting. I found myself standing near George waiting for a chance to talk to him. The snub had consumed me. I wasn’t thinking straight. I lost myself for a moment. I fought through it and finally came to my senses. You can’t force things. When you're clinging, you ain’t swinging, so stop your clinging and move away.  

               

Busting

I went to Martin’s house yesterday to lay down bass lines for the cover band. We’re making a demo so we can get some paying gigs.

            It’s taking longer than I expected to record the bass parts. I thought I’d go in and play the songs a few times and that would be that. Oh no, not with Martin. He’s a perfectionist. I found myself pushed to the brink. I was playing the same part over and over and making up new parts on the fly. I was working hard. I felt like we were making an album for Capital Records. My resolve was being tested. I started to feel insecure with my playing, as if I wasn’t good enough.

            “You can do it tighter, “ Martin said.

            I wasn’t sure if I could. Martin has a way of pushing me. I went along with the drill sergeant’s request, but deep down inside I wanted to give up. I battled through it. My personality is more about pleasure than pain and to Martin’s credit the music does sound tighter.

            I wrote an email to my band mates. They have to record their parts when I'm finished. I said beware! Martin is busting my balls.  

Hemmingway’s

Last night I went to a place called Hemmingway’s in Hollywood. My friend Lou’s nephew was playing bass in a band called Kiev. I’ve known Derrick the bass playing nephew since he was a kid.

I liked Hemmingway’s. The walls were lined with vintage books and typewriters, there were stacks of papers lining another wall above the bar. I felt at home there. I’ll have to go back sometime. The typewriters were amazing. 

I wrote a book once (currently unpublished) where I used vintage typewriters as an element to the story. I love old typewriters. There was a time in my life when I was considering starting a typewriter museum. People laughed at me when I told them my idea,  but I was serious. Now all I have to do is go to Hemmingway’s to get my feel.

You never know what kids are going to be when they grow up. I have a secret hope that they’ll pursue physics, or computers. Last night as I was watching Derrick play bass, I knew he made the right choice in life. He’s in the right place, with the right people, and as far as I’m concerned, that makes him a huge success.