I've done a number of blog tours over the years, posting on different sites. Now I'm bringing them to you!
Originally published March 4, 2014 for Deal Sharing Aunt
Thank you to Deal Sharing Aunt for having me here today!
Musicians are like cats—we don’t come when we’re called. In just a moment, I’ll tell you why.
I’m a bit crazy. Not from waking up to a husband who thinks he’s Robin Williams (or a coffee-bean-chewing comedian). It’s not the constant worry of having two boys in the service. It’s not all those seasons of Scrubs and Blackadder on Netflix (honest…well, maybe a little).
And it’s not just me. Most musicians are wired a tad weird, but I never knew why until the awesome Edie Ramer asked me to talk about musicians, and the big foam Clue Bat whacked me with the answer.
Picture your phone or iPod, its earbuds plugged permanently into your ears. All music, all the time. And now you know why musicians don’t come when they’re called, and may wander around as if they’re in a state with legalized marijuana.
My life has a constant sound track.
Not only does it make concentration hard, but the music doesn’t always fit the action. Believe me, nobody wants to hear circus clown music while making love, not even Robin Williams’s wife.
Here’s an excerpt from Downbeat, told by flutist Raquel “Rocky” Hrbek (edited for space).
I gave myself a stern scolding as Zajicek walked me to my front door. I could not, would not, get used to him helping me. He was an international conductor while the farthest I’d gotten from home was Chicago.
Although he was in Meiers Corners now. On my stoop. Pulling me into his arms… His brilliant black eyes were focused on my lips.
“Ahem.”
I turned my head, still in his arms. Friends Julian and Nixie glared from the walkway, Julian not bothering to hide his elongated fangs or the fact that his eyes glowed red.
As if that wasn’t enough, the scrape of metal on metal, like a door opening, caught my attention. Jaws music played in my brain.
Slowly, I turned my head the other way.
My mother stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over a smock that read “Artists Do It With Feather-Light Strokes”.
Her stare was actually scarier than Nixie’s or even Julian’s. Instead of a black scowl or a blood-red glare, her eyes twinkled with maternal delight. “Mr. Lambo man! What are you doing standing there with your arms around my daughter like a mummy’s bandages? Come in, come in!”
With a blare of horns, the shark strikes.
Thanks for reading!
Edie Ramer, author: http://edieramer.com/
Theme from Jaws: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZDcrMScGaj8
