Good evening. Please, stay awhile. Allow me to introduce you to my friends above. Yes, boys and girls, feast your eyes on the Center City Brass Quintet. They came into my class today. They were sarcastic, playful, charming, adorable, talented, all fucking married to musical wives…and after they played a little awesomeness, we had a Q&A. I steadily got more obsessed as they discussed why they started playing their instruments, how the group got started, and why, after 26 years, they still loved getting together. About fifteen minutes into class, I had taken out my waitressing pad and had a list of questions going. I had just asked a two parter and had another in line when Rodney Rock, instructor of our class, spoke the dreaded words. “Well, unfortunately, we’re just about out of time…” My very audible “Noooooooooo” showed how I felt about that little announcement. Good ol’ Roddy Roddy Rocko Rock (we don’t actually call him that) shot me a quick apology but did nothing to ease the pain this cat feels after being killed by pent up curiosity (god, that’s corny. I won’t delete it, but know that I am aware of the lameness and will think about deleting it every time I read it). My friends watched me writhe in my seat for awhile, staring at all the questions that would tragically go unanswered. I sat in sorrow for a moment and then decided that this would just not do. Guest check in hand, I slither up to the stage. “Um, so hi, my name’s Sylvia…this was great, and I just wanted to say I would really appreciate if you guys wouldn’t get in any fights or start hating your instruments or anything because I would really love you to play at my wedding.” Although I opted not to mention then that for one lucky member, musician would be but a secondary job to the greater role of ‘groom,’ I was pleased. Let it be known that on the 1st of December 2011, I confirmed a quintet for my wedding.
Cut to…me, at the Jorgensen for the 7:30 performance. Between pieces, Craig Knox (tuba), says “Oh and by the way, we have CDs at the front and we’ll stick around after if you want to say hello.” I check my purse and confirm what I already suspected. I have no pen on me. I proceed to curse my cursed life. And yet alas…newfound mission. At intermission, I sprint to the Union. Purchase pen, purchase coffee, hide coffee under coat to get past ushers, back in my seat before intermission ends. Part two continues with cuteness…ridiculous talent…and ends with a truly orgasmic Porgy & Bess medley. Performance is over. I immediately doubt my plan to ask for autographs. I wouldn’t want to be annoying…and it would be so embarrassing…and and and…
NO SHUT UP SYLVIA YOU PAID $2.55 for those pens, and you WILL have them sign your program. The next time you’ll see them you’ll be in a wonderful white dress, so get over yourself and ask for their fucking signatures.
So I did. And French horn player (3rd signature) said “Sylvia, right?” Me, the pinnacle of cool and collected, “Wha—what? You remember my name? I am so flattered, that is just…” Ramble, ramble, stutter, fan girl, ramble. And then Ko-Ichiro Yamamoto (new trombone player, not pictured) said “Oh yes! Hello! We’re playing at your wedding!” and I just about died. Walked back to Shippee, talking to myself, giggling, exclaiming “that’s just great!” every couple of minutes. Ah. Yes. Just another night.
Okay, Dylan and I are trading massages and he keeps bothering me to get off my computer¸ so although it pains me to leaf you, I must make like a tree. G’NIGHT.
