JAUQO III-X
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I'd be scared outta my mind, but then I could say I beat Jauqo in being the deepest bassist posting on TB
Edit: I'm referring to your contrabass, Jauqo, peace
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Interviewing bassist stories
- Thread starter Arthritic_Tom
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I was featured once as a bassist in a magazine. In Pumpkin, a Japanese fashion magazine, the September 10, 1988 edition. I played in a bar band in Tokyo for three years. I'm the lefty with the P-Bass and the milky white upper arms. Our band was called A Window. I always hated the name. I wanted to call us Geyser Head, but my lead singer--Steiv Dixon--refused. He's the handsome guy in the inset.
Steiv and I had a love-hate relationship. He was incredibly kind sometimes, but he could be incredibly insensitive other times. He was very narcissistic, but he was also hilariously funny, and it's flattering for ordinary-looking schlubs like me when model-handsome dudes want to be your friend. He could make me laugh until I was crying.
We mostly fought over the stage show. He wanted to do one acoustic set per night, with just him sitting on a stool strumming his guitar and crooning. In bars! Where people were drinking and dancing! I never gave in, and it caused friction. Eventually the band broke up; I left Japan; and I fell out of contact with Steiv.
A couple of years ago, I Googled his name for fun, and I discovered that he had died. He had asthma, but he was a heavy hash smoker. So was I, in those days. I found out he died in 1997 of an asthma attack, still living in Tokyo. I remember his attacks. He'd be terrified, trying not to show it. It broke my heart to imagine him dying in panic, suffocating, and probably alone, because he didn't let people get close to him. I was the only one, and our relationship was iffy. He once told my girlfriend that he loved me. I was shocked.
Well, after weeks of feeling just horrible about Steiv's death, I had the most vivid dream of my life. Steiv and I were walking down a street in the fall, wearing long coats, and he was telling me not to worry about him, because he was fine. He was happy where he was, and I should stop being upset.
"Seriously, now, Tom. Stop it, okay?" he said.
This was the only time I've ever dreamed about him. And you know what? Steiv was so vain he dyed his prematurely gray hair jet black. In my dream, he had gray hair. And he was addressing me with real affection and warmth, emotions he never showed in life.
I think he really is fine, and I've stopped being upset. Nothing's ever forgotten. Nothing's ever lost.
Ebay - Toyboat - YouTube
Steiv and I had a love-hate relationship. He was incredibly kind sometimes, but he could be incredibly insensitive other times. He was very narcissistic, but he was also hilariously funny, and it's flattering for ordinary-looking schlubs like me when model-handsome dudes want to be your friend. He could make me laugh until I was crying.
We mostly fought over the stage show. He wanted to do one acoustic set per night, with just him sitting on a stool strumming his guitar and crooning. In bars! Where people were drinking and dancing! I never gave in, and it caused friction. Eventually the band broke up; I left Japan; and I fell out of contact with Steiv.
A couple of years ago, I Googled his name for fun, and I discovered that he had died. He had asthma, but he was a heavy hash smoker. So was I, in those days. I found out he died in 1997 of an asthma attack, still living in Tokyo. I remember his attacks. He'd be terrified, trying not to show it. It broke my heart to imagine him dying in panic, suffocating, and probably alone, because he didn't let people get close to him. I was the only one, and our relationship was iffy. He once told my girlfriend that he loved me. I was shocked.
Well, after weeks of feeling just horrible about Steiv's death, I had the most vivid dream of my life. Steiv and I were walking down a street in the fall, wearing long coats, and he was telling me not to worry about him, because he was fine. He was happy where he was, and I should stop being upset.
"Seriously, now, Tom. Stop it, okay?" he said.
This was the only time I've ever dreamed about him. And you know what? Steiv was so vain he dyed his prematurely gray hair jet black. In my dream, he had gray hair. And he was addressing me with real affection and warmth, emotions he never showed in life.
I think he really is fine, and I've stopped being upset. Nothing's ever forgotten. Nothing's ever lost.
Ebay - Toyboat - YouTube
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This is an incredibly interesting thread. I've never seen anything quite like it on TB. To top it off, Tom's writing would be outstanding no matter what the subject. Actually, the existence of this thread is like an unexpected stroke of luck for TB itself (especially since it seems there has been an unusual amount of trolling here lately.) Reading this thread makes it worth it all.
Priceless. Classic Tom.
The best parts of In Cold Blood: Interview with Really Scary Musicians were the introductions. To the book and to each section. I re-read them over and over, having 'lived' my section and not caring too much about the other guys (sorry!). They were the only 'written' parts of the book that were "TOM", as it were, and I loved them.
Tom got in touch with me a month or so ago, and because I'm actually forced to leave the house, now, every couple of days - and I really didn't know what to say to the house-bound buffoon
- I didn't write him back immediately. I'm glad I waited, 'cause this happened and he told me about it today and I'm so ****ing happy about it.Tom's stories are things that I wish happened to me so I could write a book about my life. I feel my life and stories are completely boring - because I actually lived ROCK I know for certain how terribly life-sucking the soundtrack to that lifestyle is. Hell, I wrote some of it!
He tried to get me to agree to let him 'ghost write' the book with me, doing interviews and transcribing them, much like the BP interview went. But I wanted to go my own route, and now I'm the lesser man for it (I've yet to start that book). Tom, you were right, and if we'd followed our hearts, we'd be wiser and richer for it. As it is, we must suffer with our decision and try to make the best of it. Please don't hate me for assisting in the ruination of your career. You bettah off!
That said, I'd like to thank him for hepping me to this thread. I agree with everything all of you have said. He IS the man, and he deserves the cookies (I'll tell you the story someday, Tom. It came from Marty S).
Georgia says hi!
Oh, and HI everybody! Thanks for hosting this little party...
OOOH! I knew I was forgetting something.
The reason I just registered was so that I could remind Tom to tell the story of the guy at the Guitar Center who stood next to him while he bought picks (right after the article came out). Not to toot my own horn or nothing, but I WAS the guy that almost got you killed for nothing, so, you owe me... or something....
Tell it! Tell it! (like with the dialogue and everything like a screenplay like you do so well!)
Thank you for your kind words.
My favorite painter is a German named Otto Dix (pronounced "Deeks," wise guys). He was a soldier in World War One and produced utterly horrific images of what he saw. Some are almost beyond imagination. His most famous painting is The Skat Players, which shows maimed war veterans playing a game of cards called Skat.
Invalid Link Removed
"Painting is an act of banishment" Dix said when asked why he did it. Yet he also clearly had a mordant sense of humor, especially about himself.
I've never written publicly about most of this. I feel like a different person than I was when I started this thread. It truly has helped in so many ways.
Oh, and speaking of wise guys, the person correctly guessing names finally admitted it's because I told him some of these stories when they actually happened all those years ago, so he was punking me.
Smarty pants, what if I start spilling the beans about you, eh? Who'll be laughing then? I'll teach you to mess with my head that way!
This story is not about Mr. Smarty Pants.
Or... is it?
I was supposed to interview a bassist for a feature-length article. He showed up three and a half hours late, drunk, and was utterly indifferent to my panic when I was told we couldn't reschedule and I had 20 minutes to talk to him. He proceeded to fart nonstop for the next 26 minutes (Oo, thanks so much for the six extra minutes, Your Lordship! I'm ever so grateful, I am!), belch like a chainsaw, pick his nose and look at the results, call me stupid for asking my questions, and laugh at me for my state of near hysteria, the whole debacle taking place while Spanish-speaking cooks seemed to be engaging in a massive brawl behind us, tossing pots and pans around to produce ear-splitting, echoing metallic crashes, which caused me to experience adrenaline rushes that nearly made me leap to my feet and turn into a fist-windmill to lay everyone out dead on the floor so not only would they finally be quiet, it would make the farting, belching, nose-picking, drunk, laughing, sneering, smirking guy sitting in front of me experience at least a fraction of a second of fear.
Or maybe he just would've leaped up and smashed my head down into my body, and for a moment I'd be looking up out of the tunnel of my own flesh he'd created, and I'd see him staring down at me like I was at the bottom of a well, and he'd laugh even louder, the sound turning into a hideous, rheumy, croupy cough that gradually faded as the lights went out forever.
So I probably did the right thing by just sitting there and taking all that abuse like a the little beeyotch I was, eh, Mr. Smarty Pants?
One of these, days, I swear, pow, right in the kisser...
this is too cool, thanks for joining in, Scott, not to overdramatize things but this is an important piece of music history coming together before our eyes. Seriously 
G-D it all to hell, you effing SOB, what's this "we should've followed our hearts crap?" YOU'RE the one who refused! I TOLD YOU TO WRITE THE EFFING BOOK WITH ME, DIDN'T I? I told you we'd mop the earth together, but nooooooooooooooo!Priceless. Classic Tom.
The best parts of In Cold Blood: Interview with Really Scary Musicians were the introductions. To the book and to each section. I re-read them over and over, having 'lived' my section and not caring too much about the other guys (sorry!). They were the only 'written' parts of the book that were "TOM", as it were, and I loved them.
Tom got in touch with me a month or so ago, and because I'm actually forced to leave the house, now, every couple of days - and I really didn't know what to say to the house-bound buffoon
Tom's stories are things that I wish happened to me so I could write a book about my life. I feel my life and stories are completely boring - because I actually lived ROCK I know for certain how terribly life-sucking the soundtrack to that lifestyle is. Hell, I wrote some of it!
He tried to get me to agree to let him 'ghost write' the book with me, doing interviews and transcribing them, much like the BP interview went. But I wanted to go my own route, and now I'm the lesser man for it (I've yet to start that book). Tom, you were right, and if we'd followed our hearts, we'd be wiser and richer for it. As it is, we must suffer with our decision and try to make the best of it. Please don't hate me for assisting in the ruination of your career. You bettah off!
That said, I'd like to thank him for hepping me to this thread. I agree with everything all of you have said. He IS the man, and he deserves the cookies (I'll tell you the story someday, Tom. It came from Marty S).
Georgia says hi!
Oh, and HI everybody! Thanks for hosting this little party...
OOOH! I knew I was forgetting something.
The reason I just registered was so that I could remind Tom to tell the story of the guy at the Guitar Center who stood next to him while he bought picks (right after the article came out). Not to toot my own horn or nothing, but I WAS the guy that almost got you killed for nothing, so, you owe me... or something....
Tell it! Tell it! (like with the dialogue and everything like a screenplay like you do so well!)
"Who are you to tell me how to live my life! Harrumph! Waaaaah! Nobody tells me what to do! So there! How do you like them apples, eh? Besides, what've you done for me lately, huh? Change my diapers, dammit!"
Well, guess what? Right before you posted, I was thinking about posting THE SECOND INTERVIEW YOU GAVE ME! The one that I never did anything with, but which I transcribed every G-D syllable of, WHICH ALMOST KILLED ME BECAUSE YOU SPEAK FOURTEEN TIMES FASTER THAN ANY NORMAL HUMAN BEING, but I got it all down anyway.
Remember that one? Another two days of you talking until my tape recorder was smoking and the built-in mic burst into flames and I was already dizzy with some kind of pre-Meniere's even back in nineteen-ninety-G-D-seven because it was impossible to please you no matter what I did? Remember?
Let's see you apply that famous total recall to that interview.
No, wait: Scratch that. You will.
I didn't ask about Georgia, because I don't read about my heroes. I was afraid to ask. Thank God she's still with you. Tell her I love her deeply for everything she did for me. Your kids won't remember me, but tell them hi.
There's a phrase you may have heard: "God did a little dance around him."
Miraculous talent, unbelievable intellect, the undying love of a perfect woman, and beautiful children.
No fair. No effing fair. Why do some guys get all the breaks? Who do I have to kill to get a life like yours?
You're going to have to e-mail me the details of the pick story. I told you I've blocked most of that period out. It's on the tip of my tongue, but still too hazy to flesh out.
B*stard.
I was wrong.
This thread just out-epicced itself.
/+1111111111111
This thread just out-epicced itself.
/+1111111111111
Oh, don't worry. I was kidding. I'm perfectly happy to have it done 'my way or not at all'.
For instance, I ****ing HATED The Real Frank Zappa Book. And no, not just because it didn't mention me at all. But because it was so plastic, even though it was 'in his voice'.
His voice was perfectly described in 'Them or Us' the stupid gigantic waste of paper, copied directly from his home's dot-matrix printer. It was ungainly, and horribly overwrought, but it was what he wanted it to say and it said it in an uncopyable fashion.
But that book. It was so dry and lumpy and sad, really. I have a deep fear of coming off that way.
So, no. I'm happy the way it turned out. And I'm happy we get to start over again.
EDIT: [DEL]Now, could you tell the pic story, please?[/DEL]
Tom informs me that he has forgotten the details so I have sent them to him. If he wishes, he may post my 'details' as the story. There's not that much else to it, unless he applies his prodigious skills, which I hope he does.
DON'T ENCOURAGE HIM! He's like a, like a...this is too cool, thanks for joining in, Scott, not to overdramatize things but this is an important piece of music history coming together before our eyes. Seriously
He's like some kind of ancient machine that you'd heard about, that had been assumed lost forever, and there were all these legends about what it could do if only it could be found and reactivated, so you called around and spoke to some experts who gave you hints and little details here and there, and then you had to gird your loins and plunge headlong into the jungle, hopefully not dying because you were no explorer, you were just an enthusiast, and then by God you found the thing almost fully buried in the dirt, and you dug it out, brushed it off gently, started it up... and then it started chasing you!
And you were screaming, "Wait, wait, wait! I'm the one that unearthed you! I'm your friend!" And it was gaining on you, with these whirling blades you didn't see before, and you crapped your pants in terror because you realized that this machine saw everyone as an enemy, just like in the ancient days when it was first built and it was fighting nonstop for survival, so it's still in survival mode, and it bears down on you and you close your eyes and scream--
And then it picks you up and kisses you with its metal lips and goes, "Ha-ha! Just kidding! Of course you're my friend. I knew it the whole time! Just messin' with ya!"
So you're lying there with your pants full of crap, your heart ruptured from the terror, and right after you die, THAT'S WHEN THE G-D MACHINE STARTS TO DO WHAT IT WAS BUILT TO DO.
So don't encourage him. Not unless you have an I.Q. of about 370, lightning reflexes, and the ability to think ahead by decades.
What in the name of all that's holy and unholy is that supposed to mean? Is that a yes or a no? Are we back to "Yes. I mean no. I mean maybe. I mean screw you!" because if we are, I've already told you I'm not supposed to be stressed anymore.
STOP MESSING WITH MY MIND!
Holy Christ, and you have the nerve to be angry about the Bass Player editors who diddled me nonstop for all those years? They should've hired you!
I'll go check my e-mail. Thanks.
Dude. It's all good (as the kiddies say).
I apologize for getting you all riled up, but I never meant for it to be taken seriously. My story is my own. It was always mine to **** up. Your generous and gracious offer was the best thing that had ever happened to me (besides Georgia) up to that point in my post-Zappa musical life and I thank you for it. But it was not something I would ever have enjoyed, seeing as how my wife was always up my ass for not writing enough (still is) and my story needs to be told by the ******* that lived it. EDIT: (wow, really, TB? Censoring swear words automatically? Man, I have now seen everything. Guess I won't be staying here.) Your assistance would have made a book that could not have been created by me. My musical life story is dull, lifeless, and means absolutely nothing to anybody. But a story I wrote? It would be as great and as interesting as a story YOU wrote, about anything, really.
As long as I don't write that story, it remains the great story, greatly told. As it is, I'm spending that extra time that could have been applied to sitting down and writing to drinking beer, loving the wife (heh heh), inputting Hindemith into Logic, playing video games, and helping put the house into some semblance of order (along with my various teaching duties and the rock and roll that has permeated my life as of late [Go, Mother Hips!]). The second I start to write that book will be the first day of the rest of my life.
I apologize for getting you all riled up, but I never meant for it to be taken seriously. My story is my own. It was always mine to **** up. Your generous and gracious offer was the best thing that had ever happened to me (besides Georgia) up to that point in my post-Zappa musical life and I thank you for it. But it was not something I would ever have enjoyed, seeing as how my wife was always up my ass for not writing enough (still is) and my story needs to be told by the ******* that lived it. EDIT: (wow, really, TB? Censoring swear words automatically? Man, I have now seen everything. Guess I won't be staying here.) Your assistance would have made a book that could not have been created by me. My musical life story is dull, lifeless, and means absolutely nothing to anybody. But a story I wrote? It would be as great and as interesting as a story YOU wrote, about anything, really.
As long as I don't write that story, it remains the great story, greatly told. As it is, I'm spending that extra time that could have been applied to sitting down and writing to drinking beer, loving the wife (heh heh), inputting Hindemith into Logic, playing video games, and helping put the house into some semblance of order (along with my various teaching duties and the rock and roll that has permeated my life as of late [Go, Mother Hips!]). The second I start to write that book will be the first day of the rest of my life.
Aha. My memory has been refreshed. A certain someone has reminded me of an encounter that I had utterly erased from my aching brain.
I was buying picks at the Guitar Center, and as I was signing my name on the check this massive goon standing next to me was apparently in the habit of peering at everyone who signed checks, because he did one of those Warner Brothers cartoon yubbity-yubbity double takes and stared into my face, the gears slowly clicking in his prehistoric skull, his lips moving as he pronounced my name to himself, and then suddenly he says to me, "Hey! You called me a moron! I oughta kick your ass!"
Since I hadn't actually said anything to him, I didn't know what the eff he was talking about. "Me? When?"
"You wrote that all bass players are morons!"
Oh. My. God. He was talking about the pull quote from the Scott Thunes interview, "Requiem for a Heavyweight?" in Bass Player.
"No, I did not call you a moron. The person I interviewed, Scott Thunes, said that bass players are by definition morons."
"Yeah, well, you wrote it!"
So I have to die? Is that it?
As I recall I finagled my way out of a physical confrontation, but talk about the backfiring of an attempt to disprove a statement made about a particular group. "You think we're all morons? Well, I'll be even more moronic than you can imagine, then. Whattaya think about that?"
For the record, I understood Scott's quote to be in the context of what was required of bassists by the restrictions imposed by the various forms of music being played and the people writing that music, most of them not being bassists. Scott could have phrased it, "To be a bassist, you're expected to be a moron."
It's so ironic, because all these years later I find myself seething at the way people willfully misunderstood and refused to educate themselves. For God's sake, all you had to do was listen to Make a Jazz Noise Here to understand that this is a person who is capable of conveying more emotion with that limited instrument than entire ensembles. He obviously didn't think that you're a moron for wanting to play the bass, because look at his body of work! It's unparalleled, and IT'S ALL ON THE BASS! HOW HARD IS THAT TO UNDERSTAND?
I said that to literally hundreds of bassists, and none of them would listen to the effing CD! NONE OF THEM! I begged them. I pleaded with them. What the hell is wrong with you? LISTEN TO THE MUSIC! WHY WON'T YOU DO THAT?
Christ, the roles are totally reversed. I'm now the raging, frustrated, housebound desk pounder, railing at the idiocy I see, and Scott is happy, out there playing beautiful music again.
It's just too funny.
I was buying picks at the Guitar Center, and as I was signing my name on the check this massive goon standing next to me was apparently in the habit of peering at everyone who signed checks, because he did one of those Warner Brothers cartoon yubbity-yubbity double takes and stared into my face, the gears slowly clicking in his prehistoric skull, his lips moving as he pronounced my name to himself, and then suddenly he says to me, "Hey! You called me a moron! I oughta kick your ass!"
Since I hadn't actually said anything to him, I didn't know what the eff he was talking about. "Me? When?"
"You wrote that all bass players are morons!"
Oh. My. God. He was talking about the pull quote from the Scott Thunes interview, "Requiem for a Heavyweight?" in Bass Player.
"No, I did not call you a moron. The person I interviewed, Scott Thunes, said that bass players are by definition morons."
"Yeah, well, you wrote it!"
So I have to die? Is that it?
As I recall I finagled my way out of a physical confrontation, but talk about the backfiring of an attempt to disprove a statement made about a particular group. "You think we're all morons? Well, I'll be even more moronic than you can imagine, then. Whattaya think about that?"
For the record, I understood Scott's quote to be in the context of what was required of bassists by the restrictions imposed by the various forms of music being played and the people writing that music, most of them not being bassists. Scott could have phrased it, "To be a bassist, you're expected to be a moron."
It's so ironic, because all these years later I find myself seething at the way people willfully misunderstood and refused to educate themselves. For God's sake, all you had to do was listen to Make a Jazz Noise Here to understand that this is a person who is capable of conveying more emotion with that limited instrument than entire ensembles. He obviously didn't think that you're a moron for wanting to play the bass, because look at his body of work! It's unparalleled, and IT'S ALL ON THE BASS! HOW HARD IS THAT TO UNDERSTAND?
I said that to literally hundreds of bassists, and none of them would listen to the effing CD! NONE OF THEM! I begged them. I pleaded with them. What the hell is wrong with you? LISTEN TO THE MUSIC! WHY WON'T YOU DO THAT?
Christ, the roles are totally reversed. I'm now the raging, frustrated, housebound desk pounder, railing at the idiocy I see, and Scott is happy, out there playing beautiful music again.
It's just too funny.
Wait. Bass players...you knew...were offended I called them morons - but not really - and wouldn't listen to Frank Zappa's music, the last live music he produced on this Earth... because I played on it? After pleading with them? You're actually saying this...
Man, after all the things I've said, done, and even regret, I've probably only said to myself a couple of times "I don't think I went far enough". That is definitely one of those times.
That quote is easily one of the most UNDERSTANDABLE things anybody has ever said about the bass, and you're telling me that people use that as an excuse to not listen to music?
What. Are. Their. Phone Numbers.
Man, after all the things I've said, done, and even regret, I've probably only said to myself a couple of times "I don't think I went far enough". That is definitely one of those times.
That quote is easily one of the most UNDERSTANDABLE things anybody has ever said about the bass, and you're telling me that people use that as an excuse to not listen to music?
What. Are. Their. Phone Numbers.
I get it. You're trying to kill me. Of course!
Look, don't get all pissy about the "censorship." You signed up; their place, their rules. Anyway, why do you have to be a pottymouth all the time? Use it as an opportunity to think of more creative ways to say the same thing. Don't you get tired of eff-bombs nine million times a day?
Do you kiss your wife with that mouth, hah? Well, do ya, punk?
That video you just sent me was so astonishing. I presume I'm not allowed to link it here, so I won't, but God, you must be proud. It's been a great, great day on so many levels.
Did you read my story about Steiv? I never told him I loved him, and he died without knowing it.
I love you. And your rationalizations for not writing your book are total bovine excrement (see what I did there?). I was never talking about me putting my own input into it, as I've explained I don't know how many times now, but just serving as an amanuensis. While idiots are refusing to grasp what you say, you're still refusing to grasp what I'm saying. All I'm talking about is setting up the frigging tape recorder or whatever digital nightmare they use these days, because I wouldn't know, HAVING BEEN DRIVEN FROM THE INDUSTRY...
Where was I? Oh, yeah. I'm talking about serving as a convenience. You're a father, a husband, and a touring musician. You know my story; can you think of a better person to just capture what you know and get it on paper? And then I can turn the whole thing over to you, and you edit it, and then it's done?
Why does it have to be this nonsense about, "Oh, I can't pollute my precious story with any outsiders witnessing my creative excretions, or else it won't be pure?"
I've published three books and have a fourth coming out in May. I'll send you a copy of that one, even though it's all about icky war 'n junk. E-mail me your address again.
You have no clue how hard it is to write a book. All I'm talking about is letting me capture everything, and then YOU shape it how you want. You can even go out and tell everyone that you tried to cooperate with me, but I made a pass at your wife, so you threw me out on my keister. So what? Who cares?
You once told me that you didn't care about your reputation, because you no longer had a reputation to damage. Well, that was BS, but you know that's a true statement when it comes to me. Nobody cares anything about me from a professional standpoint, so I'm the perfect vehicle for your grandiose plans.
So what's the hangup?
NO! NO! STOP IT! NO!
You are NOT to go off on another years-long festival of rage because a bunch of completely unimportant strangers are so tribal and immature and insecure that they're impenetrable.
Nobody allows in new information. Don't you get that yet? I didn't understand that when we first spoke, but now I accept it. Why can't you accept it? Yes, I begged your critics to listen to Make a Jazz Noise Here, and yes, they wouldn't, because you were the guy playing the bass. So what?
Since I last saw you, I've become the world's leading expert on World War One flamethrowers. I've done research that has astonished the three people on the face of the earth who appreciate what I've accomplished and the history I've saved from being lost forever, but the entire rest of the field of military historians don't care, and they hate me for providing facts that disprove their preconceived notions. So what? I don't care about them now, either. They're buffoons, if that's their attitude.
My best friend is a former Soviet Army colonel whom I've never met in person. He's a commie, but he has a heart of gold. When the USSR broke up, he was a full colonel, and he was sent to Moscow with his wife, also an army officer, and they had to live in his office for eight years because the state couldn't afford to pay him enough to buy or even rent an apartment. He's a medical doctor whose job was to create treatments for WMD attacks, and he was reduced to shoveling the snow from the sidewalk of his office himself because there was nobody else to do it, living with his wife on cots in the office that they put away during the day, and washing in the sinks after everyone else had gone home. For eight years.
He's taught me a lot about hardships and ignoring people who don't matter.
So no more of this "How dare these ignoramuses be ignoramuses!" They say what they say because that's their job, just like a cow's job is to say, "Moo!" Anyone who dismisses your playing without ever having heard it is not worthy of comment, much less anger.
So enough. And I have 18 e-mails piled up here that I have to read. Give me a minute.
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