Interviewing Bassists Stories part 2

[Arthritic_Tom]

"Two Weeks to Do Whatever I Wanted," Part 2

Lynn was very earthy. After our Christmas dinner together, she began talking about sex. I've always had a problem doing that, but with her, it was easy. She was so funny and clever we were able to discuss in plain English what we liked and didn't like, as though we were talking about movies or food.

"'Ave you ever--?" she'd ask and describe a technique or position. "'Ow d'ya like that? Not for me, mate. One thing Ah 'ate is 'avin' me [fill-in-the-blank fill-in-the-blanked]." We never talked about Carmen. Lynn didn't ask, and I didn't bring her up.

It was a weird but exhilarating experience to speak so frankly with such an attractive woman about these things.

Lynn was also a bass fanatic. She loved the bass because she found it much sexier than the guitar. Male bassists were far more masculine than male guitarists, and the lower registers affected her lower register, she told me. "Noodge-noodge; wink-wink. Say no more; say no more!" I played for her at school during our lunch breaks. Her eyes gleamed, like a panther's.

On New Year's Eve, we went to a Japanese club where they rang in 1990 with the traditional smashing open of the sake barrel with a mallet, splashing everyone nearby. Lynn and I got soaked. As the crowd cheered, she grabbed me, pulled me into her ample chest, and planted a big, wet smacker right on my lips. It was the best kiss ever, no question. We'd reached the point where I had to make my decision. There was a week left before Carmen came back, and Lynn had made it clear that she was up for some fun.

I didn't do anything about it.

Why not? I had permission, and Lynn obviously didn't want anything except a nice, friendly romp.

And that was why I didn't. I was already madly in love with her, so if we'd had our tryst, she would've thought of it as a simple dalliance while I'd be left with another hole in my life when it was over. We were too well matched. I was committed to my flawed, difficult Carmen, so if I'd gone the extra step and consummated with Lynn, it would've turned into a giant mess that would've gotten really ugly, since we all worked together.

When Carmen came back, she realized right away without asking that I hadn't done anything with Lynn, and that was the last hurdle we had to go over. It was smooth sailing from that point on, until it ended in a level of hate and verbal violence I've never experienced before or since. But when Carmen recognized that I'd turned down my perfect match in favor of someone who was a hell of a lot of trouble, it calmed her and allowed her to finally lower her defenses. She and Lynn became friends and would often go out together. I never asked what they talked about. It was none of my business.

On January 26, 1990, Carmen, Lynn, and I--along with my friend Steiv and his date--went to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers at Club Citta in Kawasaki. Lynn hated them.

"They're rubbish!" she scoffed. "'Ow can ya listen to this shite? That's the great Flea you always talk about? 'E's awful! Every solo sounds exactly the same!"

She preferred the crappy Japanese opening act, these pathetic, Bizarro World Chili Pepper clones who performed with hats made of egg-crate mattress foam.

So Lynn and I weren't a perfect match after all. Actually, I think she said what she did just to be perverse and tweak me a little. I hate being teased, but like Steiv, she could do it to me without making it hurt. How many men wouldn't mind being teased by Naomi Watts?

I don't regret my decision, even though Carmen dumped me three years later in the most inhumane, painful, selfish way possible. I still think I made the right choice, because now I have the memories of the best Christmas Day of my adult life; the best New Year's Eve; some of the frankest conversations I ever had with a woman; amazing intimacy that didn't end negatively; the hilarious improbability of a beautiful blonde Brit offering herself to me and not being offended when I declined; Carmen's joy when she came home and realized I'd chosen her, warts and all; and the three years of total fulfillment she gave me before it ended.

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

[miles'tone]

Great to read some more Tom, REALLY can't wait for the book.
The thing I really love about the way you write is that as you're baring your soul so to speak, you do lay it down in such a way that is universal. I seem to have learned as much about me as I have you as time has gone by.

I had the offer to go live in Japan myself in the late 90's and a part of me wishes I had, just to have experienced the culture there first hand.
The offer though came from my ex-girlfriend who I split with a year or so before.
She was a VERY jealous person and had gone so far as to fight with me because of how I would look at someone on the TV! She was very insecure but totally intoxicating at the same time - all or nothing and erotically beautiful.
When I got the invitation to go to stay with her in Japan, I hestitated not because I'd heard how she had been 'letting her hair down' with guys out there (I loved her) but because she herself had told me how beautiful all the girls are out there. This just set off all my alarm bells as I could envisage what it would be like to walk around there with her. It would've been total paranoia and jealousy from hell.

From reading how you describe things there Tom, I can rest easy that I made the right decision.

She was my own 'ghost' - maybe we all have one -and she affected me so deeply and the way she treated me so badly really f**ked me to the point that it nearly ended the marriage I'm now in.

Got those issues identified now, so I can move on and live in the now.

Sorry to be long-winded Tom, it's just very cathartic to read you're experiences and in many ways, find some answers. (hope that comes across ok)

All the best Tom,

hope the publishers get things moving soon!

 

[Arthritic_Tom]

Great to read some more Tom, REALLY can't wait for the book.
The thing I really love about the way you write is that as you're baring your soul so to speak, you do lay it down in such a way that is universal. I seem to have learned as much about me as I have you as time has gone by.

That validates my entire approach. It's the best compliment a writer can get, so thank you.

About twenty people have read the memoir, and all have said what you said. If anyone is interested in the technique of writing, the secret is to not reveal too many specific details of your individual circumstances. Instead, try to express broader themes to which most people can relate. There is a universality; it's our shared humanity.

It's a balancing act. I don't want to wear out my welcome by overcoming you with too much information. Always leave the readers wanting more. The story of Lynn doesn't appear in the book, by the way. It's a Talkbass Special, just for you here.

Japan was Disneyland for adults. The temptations there were astounding. Not only were Japanese women gorgeous and incredibly available, but western women flocked to western men, too, because Japanese men are culturally incapable--for the most part--of expressing or even feeling the concept of romantic love.

I'll let you read the book to see how I handled that.

To keep the bass theme going, one night I went to a "live house" to watch an American woman and her Japanese band. They did this amazingly original punk-disco-Led Zeppelin version of the Supremes' "You Keep Me Hanging On." The bassist used a Gibson Thunderbird and a pick, producing a growling roller-coaster line that had zillions of notes, but it worked. It was really brilliant.

And then a minute into it, his A string broke. Nobody did anything, so I ran up onstage where he had his gig bag and looked in it while he played everything high up on the E string. I found a set of strings and a pair of clippers and held them up so he could see him. My plan was to leave them nearby so he could change strings really fast after the song, but he jerked his head, gesturing me over, and yelled, "Help me! Please!"

So I knelt in front of him as he flawlessly worked his way through that killer bass line. I clipped the string off the tuning peg and cut the ball off at the bridge, threaded the new string through the bridge hole, and set it in the saddle. Then I had to stand in front of him to wrap the string around the peg and tighten it. While the string went into place, this guy began playing the bass line over the top of the neck, like Dick Dale, keeping his fretting fingers out of my way.

I got the string tuned and he smiled and finished the song. It was the band's signature tune, so they didn't want to stop. After the show he bought me a beer and told me I'd saved his butt.

At the time I felt embarrassed, like I was trying to impress everyone with how heroically and selflessly I jumped into action, but looking back on it that was actually a hell of feat on both our parts. He didn't miss a note and I found a new string for a stranger performing live and changed it in less than a minute.

The brotherhood of the bass.

You had to have a lot discipline to live in Tokyo. When you're twenty-four, drunk all the time, and in love with Meg Tilly, and along comes a Japanese girl who looks just like her--down to the vulnerable, pained Barbra Streisand smile--and who is culturally able to separate sex from love and doesn't think it's big deal to take you home with her, things can spiral out of control very easily.

 

[miles'tone]

Awesome string change story! Would've bought you a beer myself if I'd seen that.
yep, Japan sounds like a heaven where you could quite easily construct your own hell if not careful.
And sorry to get away from all things bass earlier. I should add that my 'ghost' was a serial 'basser' and is now married to a low-end brother.

Cheers for the TB 'director's cut' tale above Tom

 

[Arthritic_Tom]

"Nakamura"

While we wait for news on Ghosts...

Another Talkbass special, material that doesn't appear in the book. It's supplementary to it.

The Cat-faced Ghost in the Rising Sun is a woman I'll call "Nakamura." You'll have to wait until the book is published to learn why we were together. Some of you already know, and you're asking yourselves, "Was she really that...?"

Why, yes! Yes, she was. And more so. If I told you what I've left out--such as the Closet, the Morning Ritual, Feels pretty ----, They Stink, and countless other mind-blowing anecdotes--you wouldn't believe me but more importantly you'd go numb. So I was judicious.

She's a Japanese-American who found life in Japan extremely difficult because of the cultural attitudes and the fact that she'd been raised on an American diet and therefore had physical endowments that most Japanese women lack. That made Japanese men crazy. They harassed her constantly. Though she was tough as nails on the outside, she had a heart of mush, and the way she was treated upset her greatly. She was bilingual and understood everything said about her. Japanese tend to think that Japanese Americans can't speak the language; native-born Japanese will gossip freely about Japanese-Americans right in front of them. Nakamura caught it all.

As I've said before, Japan is the most bass-crazy nation on the planet. When I first met Nakamura, she had no real interest in the bass, but after we moved in together, she became a bass fanatic. I turned her on to the Levin-Belew-Fripp-Bruford version of King Crimson, and she fell in love with "Sleepless," a song we covered in our band. We did this version:



I started wondering if the Japanese passion for bass was genetic. Why would an American who'd never cared much about the instrument--even though she loved music--become a bass connoisseur, to the point that she could soon tell which bass was used in albums? She knew her P-Bass from her J-Bass from her Ricky to her Sting Ray.

I bought a cheap Aria Pro II, pulled out the frets with pliers, glued in strips of veneer, and covered the fretboard with epoxy and sanded it, just like Jaco did. Nakamura would sit on the floor in front of me and watch me play. It was very odd. I knew a Canadian couple in Tokyo, the male half of which was a bassist. The woman--a non-musician--knew all about the bass, too, including the slack-jawed expression her man made when he played. She called it "bass face." Their last names were Wormworth and Buttrick; she told me that she and her boyfriend wanted to start a law firm called Wormworth, Buttrick, Wiener, and Lipschitz.

In retrospect, was it me alone or me and my bass that kept my relationship with Nakamura going for as long as it did, despite the volatility? Would she have left earlier if I weren't a bassist? I'd love to see some research about whether couples stay together longer when one or both of them are musicians.

As William Congreve wrote in his play The Mourning Bride (1697), "Music has charms to soothe a savage breast[.]" Nakamura had quite savage breasts, as you'll read in the book. Boy, did she ever! Ironically, the other very famous line from The Mourning Bride is also appropriate here.

"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned."

I can testify to both. Nakamura had a terrible temper. Under stress and after a couple of drinks, she'd lose control. Men often wonder what they'd do if a woman initiated physical violence against them. Should you hit back? Deck her? Gently restrain her? Run away? All I can say is that you really don't know what you'll do until it happens. I'd recommend that your answer be, "We'll see."

Since it's not stated explicitly in the book--not being pertinent to the short story in question--I'll reveal that I never responded in kind. It simply didn't occur to me. She was small, only five-two; I'm six-one and weighed two hundred-plus at the time. However, I don't know what I'd do today if a woman physically assaulted me. Although I'm no longer chronically angry, I'm also much less bound by social mores, and I've experienced twenty-five more years of being attacked in one form or another. I'm afraid that my instinct now is Harry Truman's doctrine of "massive retaliation."

Or maybe not. Recently, I had to intervene to help a gas-station clerk who was being assaulted by a woman furious that the clerk had just changed the prices on the sign outside, raising them, of course. I know the clerk, a Mexican woman who barely speaks English. The customer screamed at her and shoved her, and I got between them and shouted, "Stop it!" as loudly as I could at the customer, who ran out to her car.

I asked the clerk if there was a way out the back in case the customer was going for a gun or a boyfriend with a gun. The clerk said no. We watched while the customer got in her car and pulled up right in front of the doors. Sure enough, there was a meth-head guy in the front seat staring at us as his witch screeched and pointed, so I went over to the food shelves and picked up two cans of bean dip and told the clerk to get ready to dial 911. I stood my ground and held up the cans in a baseball pitcher's grip so the meth head and the witch could see them, and after a few seconds the car pulled away. Bean dip against a gun, you ask? Well, I've got a hell of a left arm. Full of adrenaline, I think I could take a couple of bullets and peg the gunman in the skull before I slipped the surly bonds of earth. The important thing was the clerk, a young mommy who was sacred out of her mind. I hate predators who go after the defenseless.

Ultimately, then, I didn't punch the woman. But if I'd had my own gun, I worry about what would've happened. And you know what else?

I haven't listened to "I Go Swimming" since 1988, and I just discovered that I still can't. That link I posted above? I wasn't able to finish the song. I'm not angry at Nakamura; I'm not sad about Steiv's death anymore; but I still can't listen to that song.

It could be the season. I'm not particularly fond of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year. Or maybe that song represents such a confluence of broken dreams and loss that I still can't tolerate it.

Baby steps.

 

[Reaper Man]

Still eagerly awaiting...

Thanks for the snippets, makes the wait palatable

 

[dug dog]

I've very much enjoyed the past few installments.
Thinking about moving to Japan!

 

[Arthritic_Tom]

I've very much enjoyed the past few installments.
Thinking about moving to Japan!

Here's how I spent the whole time in Japan.

Take a spare liver with you...

 

[dug dog]

Is being a fashion junky hard on one's liver?

 

[Arthritic_Tom]

Is being a fashion junky hard on one's liver?

Extremely hard. Deadly, in fact. Finding the right clothes left me with a liver like foie gras.

 

[Arthritic_Tom]

"The Wild She-devil"

Another story for Talkbass readers only, composed on the fly as I write it here.

In Tokyo, I taught English by day and played in a band by night. The first school I worked at had a strict policy of non-fraternization. Teachers could have nothing to do with students outside the school. Meeting with a student was a firing offense.

One of my students was an absolutely gorgeous young woman who'd studied at Paris-Sorbonne University. She therefore spoke English with a French accent. Her lips were unusually full for a Japanese; she had light-brown, almond-shaped eyes and very pale, freckled skin; and she usually wore sleeveless miniskirt outfits that showed off her long, slender legs. Students who paid a higher premium could request specific teachers. This woman usually chose me for her lessons. She was funny, smart, and extremely flirtatious.

"'Tis a shame you cannot meet wiz me, Toam. I sink we would 'ave a wondairful time, you know. In Paree, zey nicknamed me 'zee Wild She-devil from Zhapan.'"

"Really? Why?"

"Soarry, I cannot explain. 'Tis too embarrassing here. We would 'ave to meet in a nice, private place for me to tell you. So you will nevair know, will you?"

I lived with Nakamura at the time and I didn't want to get fired, so I agreed that I'd never know. One night the Wild She-devil showed up to see my band play in Roppongi. I didn't know she'd be there. Since it was a chance encounter, it was okay for us to talk.

"Toam, why did you not tell me you played zee bass? I sought you wair only a guitarist. I love zee bass! And you are so good! You play zee chopper style so well." (That's Japanese for thumb slapping.)

The Saturday after that show, my doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole, and there was the Wild She-devil in the hall. She wore a leather jacket, a scarf, and tight jeans. My stomach fell right to my feet. I was the Hindenburg heading toward the mooring mast at Lakehurst, New Jersey.

"Who is it?" Nakamura called.

"Well, it's one of my students."

Nakamura came into the little foyer. "One of your students? Who?"

"Someone I don't even know."

Frowning, Nakamura looked through the peephole. From the side, I watched her face tighten as she took in the Wild She-devil's astonishing beauty.

"Who is she, Tom?" Nakamura asked with terrifying calm. "What's she doing here? Is this someone you haven't told me about?"

"No. She's just one of my students. She came to our last show."

"Did you tell her where we live?"

"No. I have no idea how she got my address."

"So what are you going to do, Tom?" She was expressionless, but I wasn't fooled. White-hot magma bubbled just beneath the surface. She could erupt at any second.

"I'm going to tell her to f--k off. She's obviously insane."

"Why would you say that, Tom?"

"Look at her! Why would someone that beautiful go for me?"

Having experienced both, I can tell you that receiving terrible medical news is only marginally more upsetting than realizing you've just said the absolute worst thing you could possibly say. The words come out of your mouth, and you instantly construct an involved what-if fantasy of having never said them. In the fraction of the time before the listener reacts to your words, you build a whole alternate universe in which you never said what you just said. It's like Ambrose Bierce's short story "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge," in which a man being hanged imagines that he escapes and makes his way back to his wife, all in the instant between being dropped off the bridge and his neck snapping.

Part 2 to follow.

 

[Arthritic_Tom]

"The Wild She-devil," Part 2

Nakamura's face darkened. "Oh, hey, thanks, Tom! She's so beautiful she'd never go for you, huh? Only repulsive hags like me would go for you? Only desperate, ugly, lonely cows like me would want you because nobody else would have us, right?"

"No, no, no! This woman doesn't even know me! I meant she's coming after me without knowing me because she's got some weird mental problem. And anyway, you knew me for months before we got together. I hit on you right away and you turned me down, remember? I was instantly attracted to you, but you weren't attracted to me. I had to grow on you. Like a tumor."

Though she had a terrible temper, Nakamura also had a great sense of humor. She laughed. "Yeah, okay. You're right. I didn't find you attractive at all when we met."

"Nobody does. That's why you have to know this woman's insane."

"Okay. Just get rid of her."

I opened the door and stepped out into the hall. Nakamura stood behind the door and listened.

The Wild She-devil smiled at me. "'Allo, Toam! I decided to come veezeet you! Are you 'appy to see me?"

"Well, actually, no. We're not supposed to meet outside of school. I could get fired. Also, I told you I have a girlfriend. We live together. This is a really disrespectful thing for you to do. You've put my job in danger and made my girlfriend suspicious of me."

"But I only wanted to see you! Zat's all. Maybe we could 'ave coffee and talk. I 'ad such a good time at zee show talking wiz you. It's so 'ard for me to talk wiz Zhapanese people and most foreign men want only to 'ave sex. I 'ave nobody to talk wiz. You make me laugh and you listen to me. I like zat."

"I'm sorry, but we can't talk outside of school. And how did you find my address?"

"You said you lived near Minami-Senju station on the Yamanote line, so I come to zee station and go to zee police kiosk and describe you to zee police, and zey give me your address."

Nothing like knowing that the cops are keeping such close tabs on you, eh? For those of you thinking of moving to Tokyo, keep this in mind: In a metropolis of that size, all you have to do to find a foreigner is describe them to the local cops. Better stay squeaky clean if you go to Tokyo.

"Why did they give you my address, though?" I asked the Wild She-devil. "What did you tell them?"

"Oh, I told zem zat I 'ave to speak to you. I say zat we met in a nightclub and you gave me your address and telephone numbair, but I lose zem. So zee police are very 'elpful."

"Well, I'm sorry, but we can't talk. You'll have to go."

"But I come all zee way out 'ere to see you!"

"I'm sorry. You'll have to go."

I closed the door. Nakamura stood with one hand against the wall and the other on her hip, her legs crossed at the ankles.

"Yeah, she's nuts," she said. "When I first saw her, I gotta admit I wanted to kick you in the balls because I thought for sure you were screwing around on me and it blew up in your face, but I believe you now."

"Thank God."

Nakamura went to the peephole. "You're not gonna believe this."

I groaned. "What now?"

"She's sitting on the stairs, watching our door."

She moved aside to let me see. Sure enough, the Wild She-devil sat on the stairs going up to the floor above us. She leaned forward with her forearms braced on her thighs, staring in my direction. She looked like she was trying not to cry.

"What do we do?" Nakamura asked.

"Wait her out."

She sat there for three hours. After Nakamura and I had dinner, I looked through the peephole and the Wild She-devil was gone.

On Monday I reported her to my bosses. They had a talk with her and told me that I wouldn't have to teach her anymore. We never spoke again, either. Eventually, she stopped coming to the school.

It's really too bad. She was neither fish nor fowl. The Japanese cultural traits engrained in her since childhood were at war with her French education, so she had no idea what was appropriate. She couldn't interact with either Japanese or westerners. I'm sure she was lonely as hell, but there was nothing I could do about it. Her lack of self-control made her dangerously unpredictable, like a tiger raised in captivity. I hope she found the happiness and fulfillment that she so desperately wanted.

Before she came to my house, I drew a cartoon of her while pretending to take notes during one of our classes together. She was such a good English speaker that she was allowed one-on-one sessions with teachers, since there were no other students who could keep up.

I didn't show her my cartoon. It's been in my filing cabinet; this is the first time it's seen the light of day since 1986.

 

[Jack]

Yes yes yes, but can Santa bring me a copy of Ghosts?


Lol, seriously Tom, I love these stories. Please keep them up.

 

[Arthritic_Tom]

Yes yes yes, but can Santa bring me a copy of Ghosts?


Lol, seriously Tom, I love these stories. Please keep them up.

Thanks, Jack. I really appreciate it.

Santa has to wait until the publisher has finished the book. I'm as anxious as you are, but I'm also nervous. Scott Thunes said one of the reasons he won't write a memoir is he's afraid it'll bomb. There's always the possibility that something we thought was a sure thing fails miserably. Since I'm used to failure, I won't be devastated, but it'll be disappointing.

Also, I need to clear up something I've been asked a few times.

Talkbass.com owns the copyright to everything I've posted here. When I set up my own Web site to promote Ghosts, I intend to link to these stories rather than make them available at my Web site. These stories are owned by Talkbass, but more importantly I think it would be the right thing for me to do to link them so that Talkbass gets the hits.

After all, without Talkbass the book would never have been written.

I'm sure the owners would cheerfully give me permission to reprint this supplemental material on my own Web site if I asked, but I'd rather direct readers to this site as a way of paying back.

As for Scott Thunes's fear that his own memoir would be a bomb, he's full of poo. When I met him in September--for the first time in twelve years--all he did was tell stories. They were great. I won't reveal what one of his initial plans was for making a living (because it was a private conversation and I don't have his permission to talk about the specifics) but he would've been a natural at it. And it still might happen.

By the way, Scott's secret weapon is his wife Georgia. She's not a Goth, but she once played one in a movie. Since this photo is posted on the 'Net, I'm sure the Thuneses won't mind me reproducing it here.

I don't know what it is about Goth women that drives me nuts. Just the look, I mean.

 

[Arthritic_Tom]

"Learn from the Japanese"

When I went to Japan, I found that the festival of Obon moved me intensely. Obon, or the Bon Festival, honors the spirits of the dead. There are three different time periods for celebrating Obon in Japan, depending on the region, but the most common is three days in... August. Those of you who've read my book won't be surprised by that. The most significant events and learning experiences in my life have taken place in August.

During the Bon Festival, families return to their ancestral homes and clean the gravestones of their dead. They also perform Bon Odori or Bon dancing. The music, vocals, and dancing are extremely hypnotic.

Invalid Link Removed

The singing and dancing represent your sadness for that which is gone, while the drumming expresses the joy you feel for having had that which is now gone. Both emotions are equally important. Both are vital to the process of navigating through life. Too much sadness will destroy you, but being impervious to sadness makes you a vacuous weirdo or a monster.

One night in Tokyo I heard music in the distance. I followed it until I came to a plaza in front of a department store, which had been set up to celebrate Obon. They had erected the wooden scaffold called the yagura, where the musicians played and around which people danced. I stayed and watched for a couple of hours, mesmerized. Young, old, wearing traditional Japanese or western clothing, they all danced in a circle around the yagura, clapping, gesturing, welcoming the spirits of the dead.

It was an embracing of the departed rather than an attempt to erase them. They were honored, celebrated with grace and gratitude.

The answer for how to overcome loss was there all along, right under my nose, and I knew it the whole time. I only had to recognize it. Obon also gave me an insight into something that had always inexplicably moved me: a V-shaped flock of geese flying overhead into the dusk, honking to each other. Once I grasped the meaning of the Bon Festival, I understood what the geese were saying to each other as they flew into the unknown together.

"Are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"And you? Are you there, too?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"What about you? Are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here. We're all here with you."

 

[Arthritic_Tom]

The galley proofs for Ghosts and Ballyhoo will be ready for my final review next week. I'll need every ounce of concentration I can muster to catch the last typos, so wish me luck.

Thanks to everyone here for encouraging me to write the book; thanks to the proofreaders from Talkbass who volunteered their time; and thanks for all the kind words you've had about my writing.

I recently re-established contact with a guy I went to college with. We shared an amazing adventure that I can't write about because it's so memorable that a public account of it might get back to him and I don't want him to read what I'm going to say next.

We hadn't spoken in thirty years, so he asked me (through e-mail) what I was up to. When I told him that I was publishing my memoirs soon, he had no reaction. Nothing. It was as though I hadn't said anything. His next message was just banal reminiscences of some of the people in our dorm. I'd congratulated him on his current job, but he had no reaction whatsoever to what I told him about me.

If you read my book, you'll see that this has been a lifetime curse under which I've labored. My first (unpublished) novel was titled Invisible Idiot. It was an autobiography, basically. Being ignored that way used to drive me insane with rage. I explain in Ghosts why I have that reaction. Today, it no longer makes me crazy, but it still mystifies me.

Every single positive message I've received from people here has reaffirmed our shared humanity. We come from all walks of life and disagree about politics, religion, gender issues, sexual orientation, and--most importantly, of course--whether or not to use a pick or your fingers.

I'll quote myself here, from the chapter of Ghosts titled Lessons Learned:

Writing my book has taught me one immutable fact: None of us are alone. Distance, circumstances, or even time may separate us from our kindred spirits, but that ought not diminish the power they have to sustain us.

I am, thanks to you, sustained. So thank you.

Now: I need a Web designer to help me create a Web site. I'd like to ask the Talkbass readers first, so we can keep it "in the family," so to speak.

I'll pay your going rate. My ideas are pretty straightforward. I just want the thing to look good. It'll have links to my books, a gallery of images to supplement Ghosts and promote my brother Tim's work, a page with my video and an audio file of me playing a composition that includes every bass technique I ever learned, and the usual "about me" and links and other other junk that Web sites have.

I'll also want a page that'll allow people to download some of my writing for free. I don't really want to blog, because I don't want to end up like one of my favorite actresses.

Link Removed

My approach to trying to restart my writing career will be like my memoir, meaning I'll withhold much more than I reveal. I plan on being relatively remote. The readers will have access to the writing but not the writer. Personal contact has brought me lots of grief in my life, and I want to spend my remaining years free of stress and conflict.

When you read my book, you understand why. It's different for me to write here, because we're all members of the same club, those who have the innate good taste to play the bass. Also, I had no plans to publish a book when I joined here. If I make myself as accessible to the general public as I've done here, it'll be very unhealthy for the readers and for me. I intend to maintain my distance, but in a friendly way.

I've already had a couple of lunatics from here send me really spooky things. Just remember: I'm armed (see below). Ten .40-caliber bullets will ruin your day. I keep ten clips loaded at all times. My carbine is in one of the bass cases standing upright against the wall. Nobody except for me knows which one.

So thanks again, all you non-spooky people, and if there are any Web designers, drop me a PM.

The book just might be ready for Christmas after all...

 

[TinIndian]

I can't wait to get my grubby mitts on a copy! Too bad you've had such terrible luck with self-absorbed people like your aforementioned college acquiantance. Their loss and our gain.

Best Wishes to you Tom! and I hope you have a wonderful Holiday Season! (Damn political Correctness!)

 

[Arthritic_Tom]

I can't wait to get my grubby mitts on a copy! Too bad you've had such terrible luck with self-absorbed people like your aforementioned college acquiantance. Their loss and our gain.

Best Wishes to you Tom! and I hope you have a wonderful Holiday Season! (Damn political Correctness!)

Thanks Tin Indian and MERRY CHRISTMAS.

(The following salutation was not meant to exclude anyone of any religious faith, belief, or lack thereof, nor was it intended to elevate any religion or faith. Equal opportunity employer. Member FDIC.)

 

[Texan]

(The following salutation was not meant to exclude anyone of any religious faith, belief, or lack thereof, nor was it intended to elevate any religion or faith. Equal opportunity employer. Member FDIC.)

Now THAT's funny!

 

[TinIndian]

Thank you, Tom. That Disclaimer is sig worthy!

BTW, shouldn't you have a flamethrower?