Yay! Can't believe June 24th is already here... I'm leaving with Jessie's family today for Newark, NJ, headed towards Cape Liberty for a five-day cruise to Bermuda on the Explorer of the Seas.
I know, I know, I hate me too!
I'll be out of internet range, but I'll post pics when I get back on Friday. Stay well :)
Martin
Hey.
Short post this morning. I think my muse is loose sexually - I've come to her the past couple of nights asking for a blog entry and she barely had the energy to pull the dried cigarette from her lips. I'm rubbing her feet now, sneaking a few words out while she isn't looking.
Jessie was rifling through boxes today and found literally hundreds of the e-mails we exchanged in the first year of our relationship. I was in Florida, she was in Meadville, PA, and so it was an exercise in IM, e-mail, and the occasional phone call. It's hard to remember what it felt like early on - we're very different now, of course - but I remember that we had perfected the art of e-combat. Somehow fighting over e-mail and IM would make us feel closer, give us something, even something sour, to keep the taste of each other's company in our mouth. We'd talk for an hour and a half over IM starting at 10 PM, and then by 11:30 we'd be getting tired so we'd fight about something stupid, she'd go to bed angry while I wrote a furious 2-page e-mail, she'd write back in the morning, and by noontime we'd made up and apologized.
Rinse. Repeat. It's a miracle we made it through that first year. I was a lost cause as a boyfriend for lots of reasons, most too interesting for a blog of such stunning mediocrity, but she stuck it out with me, and so far so good :)
As fun as it is to find old letters, it's dangerous to read old e-mails. A friend once warned me that old e-mails, like old spirits, were best left undisturbed. Unlike a handwritten letter, an e-mail is so casual, so intimate, like a bandage over a fresh wound or wet saliva sealing an envelope. They are little pieces of you splattered about, and the old ones, loving or hurtful, draw blood on their way into fresh air. Mourning for a lost friend, nostalgia for a young love, promises unkept... add as many melodramatic instances as you care to. Old e-mail is risky business. The little rivers that seemed like raging floods, the grand proclamations that were really semi-colons... It's a miracle anyone is afloat, no?
I wish my muse had a name. Mat's is named Caissa, which is lovely, and I've borrowed her many times, usually returning her naked but satisfied. My own muse hasn't told me her name yet. She usually crashes on the couch long after I'm asleep. I haven't minded not knowing until right now, watching her ease softly into sleep. Names are really the only things connecting us sometimes.
sweet dreams,
martin
(just put a bag over her head, poke a hole for the mouth, and yell "did I tell you you could turn around?")
Other possible titles for this post were "Tennyson's Titties" and "Your Gun is Digging Into My Hip," but only this supreme quote of the night from Benjamin could truly capture my first titty bar experience at the Tennyson Lodge.
The Tennyson is set amidst the picturesque hills of Bethel Park, PA, a quiet little town nestled between a laundromat and a Dairy Queen just off Rt. 88. The Lodge's small, unassuming structure has the charm of an Elk Lodge and the cameraderie a Kiwanis Club, only all the elk are naked and everyone is staring at the flapping pairs of kiwanis. And they were small kiwanis at that, little flapjacks flitting back and forth like a hummingbird's wings to the singing warble of, you guessed it: karaoke.
Curious buttf*cking George I hate karaoke. I know this makes me an almost unbearably wet blanket in 19% of social situations, but the only things I hate more than karaoke are brussel sprouts and child molesters. Karaoke. Killmearaoke. Put-the-microphone-in-a-boat-and-implode-it-araoke. Not only are we going to make bad music, but we're going to make it LOUDLY, insert it directly in your brain past your shriveling cilia, and wedge it right between your will to live and your need to destroy.
Only at the titty bar they don't call it "karaoke," they call it "baraoke," and so for three hours every Wednesday and Friday night people gather to stand up on stage and get fondled by "Sage" and "Seven" and, God help you, "Kimmy."
Now, before you think me some heartless purist with a piano up my ass, I should note that I have nothing against people who enjoy karaoke. All of my friends love it, and I've been told there's others like them. It's a small, relatively harmless (unless you're an eardrum) way for people to be a star, for non-musicians to make music, for regular Janes and Joes to express themselves and have the spotlight on them after a hard day's work. For them I have nothing but quiet admiration, because they have the balls to get up and do it and I don't.
That said, I also applaud married people having great sex, childen recovering from surgery, and llamas having baby llamas, but that doesn't mean I want to watch them do it. Lots of life's little triumphs just don't translate onto the stage, especially not for three hours at a time.
Now, you may think that this being a titty bar and all, the aformentioned titties would be a welcome diversion from the karaoke onslaught. You, sir/madam, would be mistaken, because there were no breasts at this bar. The only real breasts there belonged to my girlfriend, and I could only see the top couple inches of them.
Now, I know what you're thinking: Why Martin, you are a strapping young man who is most likely outfitted with man parts of a considerable size and girth. How could you possibly not have enjoyed seeing boobs that belonged to *other* girls?
Well, for starters, the teeny tiny breasts were attached to teeny tiny women. I wanted to like the one girl, my sweet Seven, but felt nasty because she more closely resembled a 13-year-old hairless boy. Jesus, I have bigger tits than these people, and nobody has to pay to see mine.
Secondly, going to a titty bar is a lot like watching the Food Network: "Here is something absolutely delicious that I just whipped out and I'm going to now wave it in front of you, tell you how good it tastes, and then go to commercial." No touchie. No touch.
Thirdly, and more seriously, I couldn't help but feel really sad for all the girls dancing there. It's a strange sensation because they are all adults and have made adult decisions, but when even Howard Stern says, as he did on Sean Hannity's radio show, "If your daughter is dancing on a pole, you've failed as a parent," there's something unmistakably off about your profession. They are, after all, someone's baby girl.
I was listening to an interview on "Fresh Aire" today, and although it seemed extraneous at the time, Terri Gross was talking to an author about writing sex scenes. She was asking if it was hard to write a sex scene, and the author replied, "It is hard to write a sex scene, because what are you trying to accomplish? Are you trying to titillate me, to arouse me? Everyone's had sex, good sex. Nothing you can write can titillate me more than the real thing. So every sex scene I wrote I asked myself, 'What is this doing? What is this telling us about the characters?' Sex has to reveal someone, has to educate the reader. Sex needs to be in the context of a soul."
Looking back on it, I think that's why the titty bar just wasn't all that exciting. The dancers just took off their clothes, shook their vaginas, traded smiles with men and their dollar bills, and then kept on dancing. Sure it was kind of exciting for the first few moments when you don't know where to put your eyes, when you're afraid to look away because you might offend her, but then it became this sort of mechanical thing, this pussy production line, and I found myself longing for the intimate mystery of a girl with her shirt on.
Like music, it is the space between the notes that truly moves you.
Next up is a gay bar, because I am ridiculously curious, and then a straight bar with male dancers. I want to see Jessie's reaction, to see if she feels the way I did about the Tennyson Ladies. Maybe the Lodge was just a sketchy enough place that the tinge of desperation was able to rise above the cigarette smoke and that a more upbeat establishment would have left me with a different taste.
Much like the Food Network, however, it doesn't make much sense to be hungry in the living room when there's a good cook in the kitchen...
ever as always,
martin
I do. I really do. Even when he poses nude for Ford commercials or smiles at Lily Tomlin, he's still the frog for me.
I think this is because my favorite book to page through is a coffee-table book that I got years ago as a birthday gift called "Jim Henson: The Works - the Art, the Magic, the Imagination." If you love your inner child you will go buy it here: Click Me
All my other books have the stain of years on them, but not this one. This one I always hold gently and fuss after like it was a little plant, careful not to dent its leaves or get it too wet. As a kid I took it with me on beach vacations, had it constantly by my bedside table to read before sleep. It's a great book about Jim Henson and the people he inspired, about the Muppets, about the movies. It still appeals to me because in a lot of ways I aspire to be Jim Henson. He was a mythic hero of my childhood, the man who worked with Lucas and Spielberg, the magician whose spells cast the Muppets. He was a master storyteller, and he is part of the reason I love telling stories so much. [TMI sidenote: I actually just bought the LP of "The Great Muppet Caper" soundtrack a few months ago so I could crank up "Happiness Hotel" and dance around my apartment to it. I realized, upon listening to it, that this was some serious formative shit - that tune is total ragtime, and I loved it then without knowing why.]
And always Kermit was Jim, Jim was Kermit. So pose away, Kermie. You're the frog for me.
In other amorous tidings, Jessie is the bomb. When we first started dating those many years ago, I used to worry that our interactions could never be "deep" enough. She seemed so surface-level, so situational, and I was the layered, troubled artiste who could never possibly be understood because I was so complicated.
Tonight, though, was a warm reminder of just how keen and "deep" she can actually see. She is my best friend, so I'm a little biased, but I can honestly say that Jessie is the only person I know who can interact with a person for five minutes and instantly know exactly what to say to make them cry.
Now, this doesn't sound like an admirable trait. I think it was one of those gifts developed as self-defense to survive being a tall girl in grade school. And, yes, it has been used for evil. Sometime you have to get Jess to tell you the story about the girl in band who picked on her, so to shut her up Jessie told her "At least my parents loved me and didn't put me up for adoption."
She was sent to the principal's office, which is hilarious on many, many levels.
The gift of the ability, though, at least for me, is her ability to put people into context. She keeps me from taking things the wrong way, from worrying about who feels what or who thinks such and such, from playing the same tapes over and over in my head. You see, the great illusion about me, and I assure you there is only one, is that I appear not to take seriously what is, in truth, for me life and death (all part-and-parcel of my own unique complicatedness that you could never possibly understand... Jesus Christ when does the teen angst ever die). Jess sees through it, both in me and others. Sure, the price is that she could yank out my soul, but it's a small risk to take for a sweet, savvy morsel of genuine interaction.
I love you. Each days yields a new reason why.
Giovanni DeChiaro is serenading me. I think its Joplin's "New Rag." The trio plays like a dream. I'm off to meet him somewhere in the middle.
sweet dreams,
martin
If you're confused and frightened by the title of this post, you should be. This is one of many deliciously sexual comments made tonight during "Total Geekout 2006," otherwise known as Margaret's-heading-back-to-New-York-on-Friday party. This particular gem was made by the inimitable Mat, whose idea it was to corral the Pittsburgh remnant into the same place for an evening of beer, pizza, and Soul Calibur III.
It was a blast. The fact that I'm typing this at 5 AM tells you the kind of fun it was.
This is an old ritual for this particular group, all of whom are part of the production company for "Hunt for the Holocron." We go all the way back to the first Soul Calibur, which tells you two things: 1) We've been working on the movie a long time, and 2) We'd rather play Soul Calibur than work on the movie.
Only because it's inevitable will I say that yes, indeed, the soul still burns. I got my butt summarily kicked, but I have always and will always hate Sophitia, so no news there.
It's always an adventure getting the movie crew together. I'm not really a "group of friends" kind of person, so the situation is always a little awkward for me. A guy I knew in Florida named Jeffrey talked constantly about his friends from back home in Texas. He talked about them so often that even though I only met them maybe once or twice, they became my friends too. They were all best friends, had known one another since birth, had dated each other, gone to high school together, etc... Jeffrey's entire life was spent in the company of a group, a pack, a tribe, and they were as much a part of him as he was of them.
I can honestly say my first friendship that wasn't pre-arranged or manufactured by my parents didn't come until I was in 8th grade. No joke, it took me that long to figure it out, and ever since I've found myself attracted to individuals and intimate interactions. I'd much rather conversation over dinner with a good friend than party night with a 'gang.' Not that I'm a stiff - it's just my wheels roll better in the company of one.
Regardless, tonight was great fun. I bought a six-pack of Miller Lite and enjoyed all six of them in rapid succession. Tipsy is always good, and nothing beats drunken Soul Calibur. Margaret, Luke and I hit Eat 'n Park after the responsible contingent had to go to bed. While waiting for our water with lemon to come, she pulled out the digital camera and we made funny faces and pretended to cut each other with the butter knives. Behind us sat three heavy-set truck drivers, tattered men who regarded us with a mix of suspicion and curiosity, and every time the flash went off I caught them looking at us with a sort of indescribable, melancholy look.
I felt bad for them. I think they'd forgotten how to be silly.
Birds are chirping. Soon the sun will come up (it rises ridiculously early this time of year). Best to shut the eyes before day breaks over the windowsill
Until next time,
martin
Jess and I made it to Hershey Park on Saturday. This is the first time I've been there in like 15 years, so I kept having weird deja vu moments. Random things would cause it: the bavarian architecture of the chocolate hut, the yellow letters of the "French Fries" booth, the line for the "Comet" rollercoaster. It looked much smaller than I remember. I felt taller than most of the buildings.
The title of this post comes from the Chocolate Ride at "Chocolate World," Hershey's scarily similar version of the Wonka Factory. The whole building, millions upon millions of dollars worth of rides and displays, is basically one giant corporate masturbation. This place puts the "milk" in milk chocolate, but the best part is they give away free peanut butter cups. There's even an interactive ride with singing cows! Hence the title... never mind that the thousands upon thousands of dairy cows who provide all that tasty goodness, the cows who are the reason Hershey was built where it was, are routinely artifically inseminated, unable to turn around in their stalls, kept in a constant state of pregnancy, and plugged into painful milking devices so they can produce the millions of gallons of milk that go into making milk chocolate.
Go ahead, Timmy. It's a tasty treat!
For those of you who don't know, I am a huge rollercoaster buff. I don't wear funny t-shirts or annotate videos for the Travel Channel, but I consider myself a coaster junkie. I especially like wooden rollercoasters, and on every one I ride I always try to sit in the back. It's the only way to ride - the back seat is the roughest, the fastest, and the most likely to fly off the track at any moment.
My favorite so far is the Thunderbolt at Kennywood here in Pittsburgh. My record is riding it 13 times in a row, 26 times in a day. It is, how you say, coaster perfection. When I was a kid my mum had a bag full of popsicle sticks, and I spent a week gluing 200 of them together in an attempt to recreate the Thunderbolt. I had elaborate plans on how to make the trains, too, and had visions of watching my own coaster fly around the tracks. I made it to the first hill and ran out of sticks.
Hershey has some awesome wooden coasters (must... ride... Wildcat... again) and I'm going to make it a point over the next five years to do a tour of amusement parks and hit up all the wooden coasters. I'll make a travelogue and sell it to some TV station. People loves the rolling coasters.
So, Jess and I had a great time. We managed to spend less than $150 on the day, and didn't get sick from the corn dogs or the ultra-sweet lemonade. The hardest part of the day was actually driving home. We didn't leave the park until 11 PM, and it's a two-hour drive back to Berkeley Springs, so it became a game of "how closed can martin's eyes get while still able to see the road"? Yah, we nearly died like three times. I never understood how people fell asleep at the wheel until Saturday night. Holy balls, it felt like a dream.
I'm back in the 'burgh now, along with Jess. The awesomest of awesome news is that I'm typing this on her iBook, which she's lending me over the summer. Sweet! I've been hankering for a laptop for some time now - oh the advantages of a computer in bed next to you - and now I get to enjoy a Mac for free. Good times. It's not one of those newfangled MacBooks. This is old school iBook, with a bona fide G4 processor. Sad but true, it's faster than my monster PC. Go figure. All it needs is another 512 of RAM... maybe I'll invest :)
We're heading to Idlewild tomorrow, which is a small amusement park in the mountains of Western Pennsylvania. It's the third-oldest amusement park in the country, and the 10th oldest in the world. It doesn't have lots of flashy coasters or anything
(it's only coaster, the "Rollo Coaster," is a simple out-and-back that's about as exciting as this blog) but it's got lots of good food, a decent water park, and a whole giant "Mister Roger's Neighborhood" recreation that I've never seen but heard is awesome. Should be a fun afternoon.
Stay classy. I'll catch you later.
Martin
I'm in the Springs with Jessie tonight, sitting on her full bed with the slats that fall out. I'm on the bed, she's on the floor. We both have laptops in front of us, and we're not speaking. Comfortable silence. I'm staying at her place through the weekend, a chance to be together before a summer spent living with our parents, stealing kisses when they aren't looking.
It's going to be impossible. I don't know about other people, but I like to have sex with someone beside myself at least once a month. To stay in practice. To stay sane. It becomes increasingly difficult when parents are asleep nearby, more exciting, yes, but more difficult, and I know soon I'll be yearning for the days when I had my castle on the hill, my own queen bed, my own candles burning.
I arrived in Berkeley Springs late last night after a tragic dodgeball loss. The only bright spot of the evening was when Margaret showed up as a surprise at the end of the last few games. It was a good surprise. I haven't seen her in eight months. It looks like New York hasn't dimmed her one bit. Mark's getting ready to go there at the end of the summer, and I am looking for roommates to live with in Squirrel Hill until I'm done with school next May. Seems like everyone's heading somewhere.
We saw "RV" tonight. Not your typical fare, sure, but it was genuinely funny and didn't pretend to be something it was not. There is something eternal in watching a man struggle to make others happy, especially when it's his own family. If you're looking for something light and airy to dissolve on your film tongue, I'd recommend it. Like water with lime, it goes down just fine.
To bed, to bed. We'll share our warmth and laugh, dream of tomorrows to come and yesterdays long gone. I believe a picnic is the order of the day tomorrow. Maybe we'll hit Hershey Park. The last time I was there I was a little boy. I wanted to go on the roller coaster so bad, so I made my mom wait in line to go with me and when it finally came time to get on, I freaked out and started screaming and crying and flailing because I was so afraid.
Upwards!
Click Here
Here's a little video clip from Sedalia. It's not exactly high production-value (note the lady's head in front of my fingers) and the sound isn't great, but it does show off my nice pink shirt from the Gap. The room looks empty, but there were about 30 or so people there. Thought you might get a kick out of seeing it.
So I just got back from Missouri and, as promised, here is the “full report” on Sedalia. It’s long – you may want to grab a cup of coffee. I’m writing to you from the airplane, basically curled up in the fetal position over Dad’s laptop because the guy in front of me insists on reclining into my lap. I wanted to write to you when Sedalia was fresh in my mind.
First things first: I had a blast. Dad did, too. We heard a lot of great music, and I got a lot of opportunities to perform. We arrived on Thursday afternoon after a highly entertaining drive down from Kansas City. The best part was the billboard for, I kid you not, the “Testicle Festival.” It had a picture of a bull on it, and all I could think about was what goes through a person’s mind at a testicle festival, what exact thought process made them go, “Hey, you know what I could go for right now?”
Missouri. Hmm.
We stopped at the ragtime store, picked up my performer’s packet, and to my great surprise I was scheduled to play not three times but six. I sort of freaked. I was only going to be there for two days – how was I going to stretch the two sets we worked out into six? In my surprise I almost knocked a $300 glass “Maple Leaf Rag” statue off the shelf, so Dad and I decided to find some dinner, check into the hotel, and head out to the “Easy Winners” concert to try and relax.
Back at the hotel Dad went to sleep and I went over to after hours, which was pretty tame compared to what I remember. After Hours is where the performers gather back at the hotel along with festival patrons to drink and play the piano. It's a huge room at the Best Western hotel that has a makeshift stage in the middle surrounded by big tables, and it's where you hear the best piano playing around. It’s really weird going to it alone, though, because when nobody you know is there you sort of just stand there, beer in hand, wishing you were at the piano so you could feel like you belong. I missed Jessie most in those moments. I was nervous about the next day, nervous about doing a good job, and I knew I had to get my hands on a piano before I could sleep.
I finally got up the courage to play, so I snuck up on stage and played “Loose Elbows” and “Kitchen Tom.” The response was pretty warm, nothing too crazy – I was in “I am an artist” mode, not “I am going to light this piano on fire and beat you all around the head with it” mode. Mimi Blais was there as I walked off, and she told me she liked my arrangement of “Kitchen Tom.” That was pretty cool. The best part of the festival for me this year though was the group of performers my age who were there: Michael Stalcup, Dalton Riden(h)our, Eytan Uslan, Bryan Wright, Adam Yarian, Adam Swanson, and me. Over the next few days we were to form a sort of ragtime “wolf pack,” and the most fun I had was hanging out with them talking music and playing duo-piano.
I wasn't a paid performer. There are only a couple of those out of the 138 musicians who were there (including 91 pianists. sweet mother of god that is so many... I didn't know there were that many in the country). I was there as a replacement for a pianist named Brett who broke his wrist. I found out later, however, that I wasn't the first replacement - they had a invited a German pianist named Hans, but he had died the weekend before the festival, so that's why I ended up with so many slots.
It's hard to talk about it in good taste because on the one hand it's kind of hilarious that someone would rather die than play at this festival. For what it's worth, I knew I was doing a good job when one of the performers came up to me and said, "I'm kind of glad he died. You're amazing."
I got the chance to meet Bryan Wright, who runs the "Elite Syncopations" radio station over at Live365.com. He’s 23 and a great player. Nick Taylor introduced me to him, and we found out that not only we were the same age, into the same music, but that we both go to the University of Pittsburgh. I asked him if he wanted to play something together, and we did a smoking version of “Charleston Rag” with Bill Edwards that brought the house down. We're going to put on a ragtime concert in Pittsburgh. You should come.
That sort of underscores something else that was kind of disappointing. At the festival they have a number of paid concerts named after pieces Joplin wrote. When I was there in 1999 they were a huge deal - it was scandalous that I was playing at one of them - and all the good performers would gather there and put on amazing shows. This year, thought, the level of playing just wasn’t that good (with the exception of the “Music Hall” concert which was awesome). The performers who were there didn’t seem to take it seriously – all the headliners were in the tents at the same time and playing better. There wasn’t any reason to go to the concerts. And, what kind of sucked for the younger players, they arranged it so that all the headliners played at different times, so a huge swath of people would just travel from one major performer to the other. I played after Sue at Gazebo Park, and she generously introduced me (and sang a song to my dad, haha) but when she finished her set 80% of the audience stood up with her and she said, “Don’t go! You have to hear Martin play! Don’t make me come down there!” When they left it was kind of a bummer, but what could I expect? My name wasn’t in the program. In the program it said “Open Piano: 2:00-2:20.” People couldn’t put a name to my face or read my bio, so why would they stay?
The flip-side of this is that contained within those 91 pianists were a large number of amateur players who really struggled to get through pieces. If I wasn’t following Sue Keller I was following some well-meaning amateur who would inevitably chase the audience away. It was a pattern that repeated itself for almost all of my venues and I found myself playing to really small audiences, but I played just as hard for 10 people as I would for 100 and it worked out great. The people are just so nice there, so appreciative. They’d stop me in the street to thank me, to say they enjoyed my playing, to ask me my name (again). It was easy to want to play well for them.
I met Dave “Mazak” (I’m not even going to try spelling it), and he was hilarious. I met Hal Isbitz and am learning his “Midnight” and “Miranda.” I had like a three hour conversation with John Gill where I got to know him a lot better. When I met him in 1999 I was really scared of him. I met pianist Virginia Tichenor for the first time and really enjoyed listening to her play. She's the daughter of a very famous ragtimer named Trebor Tichenor. She saw my last set at Maple Leaf Park and told me I had a “monster left hand.” I played “Swipesy Cakewalk” with John Gill at after hours late Friday night but I played it so fast that he said afterwards, “Christ, man, no need to stain the bed sheets.” Coming from him, wow – in the ragtime textbook this is under “How to know you’re playing too fast.” I was totally seduced by how good it felt, and I made a note to avoid that for the remainder of the weekend.
The only bummer was that I didn’t get to play for/with Brian Holland at all – he and Jeff didn’t stay at after hours more than a few minutes, so I barely got to say hi. They remembered me, though – lots of people did. My name, anyways.
Speaking of which, Dad was amazing. He helped me to gauge the audience, and was always encouraging when I got stressed. We expressed often to each other that we wished you were there, too. Performers like you really bring a lot of class with them, and I know I missed that. I played Euphonic Sounds in almost every set because I wanted people to hear some Joplin that wasn’t in a barrelhouse style. I carried the Billy Mayerl torch – I was the only person playing him there- and people absolutely loved “Railroad Rhythm.” When I asked Dad how I did after it was all over, he said a good job. I kept my mouth closed while playing, told stories, and smiled a lot. I may have even been too engaging – we filmed one set with my camera and I’m bouncing around like Jo Ann Castle.
I'll post a clip from the video. It's pretty funny.
I finished off last night with a set of four pieces to a packed after hours: Charleston Rag, Maple Leaf Rag, It Came Upon a Midnight Clear, and Railroad Rhythm. People went crazy. One thing has always been sure about my life - I can play the piano really, really fast. They loved it and clamored for my name - it was most likely the first time many of them had heard me play (there were 6,000 people at the festival) and it was really exciting and a great way to end the weekend. People were clamoring to know who I was. They kept asking for my name and where I was from and shouted “more!” Other performers came up and shook my hand and asked me "How do you do that?"
I felt like I belonged there.
It was a unique, emotional experience. When I was there in 1999, I was the "prodigy," the kid who could play stride piano. It took some cahones to go back, to return as a balding 23-year-old who has other priorities now besides the piano. I'm grateful to have been invited, grateful to have gotten a chance to perform again, and I'm excited for next year.
They haven't heard anything yet.
Martin
