Tiptoe through the Weltschmerz

Last night, at songwriting class, I sang & played Monster Dinner in front of Tom Paxton. It was one of those things where I didn’t have to admit that I had a song ready. I could have just sat in that room of 12 people, and let the few others who had one go. But the thing is, in the rearview mirror, would you rather say “I decided not to perform in front of Tom Paxton because I knew I’d be my crappiest,” or would you rather say, “I did it, and I was my crappiest?”

Well, if there’s one thing that’s true about me these days, it’s that I have long since given up trying to hide my abject pointlessness* from the world...I mean, hell, you might as well be honest about what you are, right? It’s not like you self-selected your genes. I guess. Maybe you did. I guess we’ll find out later. Anyway, I did it knowing full well that nerves would choke out any capacity to function, and so they did. So it was bad. Yeah, yeah, thank you very much. (*and don’t worry about the pointlessness remark. I may self-loathe just a tiny, tiny bit, but I do it with a certain fond acceptance.)

I’m taking songwriting class because it interests me greatly, but I’m beginning to laugh at my being there. Cathy Fink is a Grammy winning musician, and she heads up this 8 week course. Last night, before class got rolling, she noticed that my uke case says “Collings,” on it and, being knowledgable, she wanted to see my uke. So I got it out and let her noodle out a few notes of a caliber far beyond my reach this lifetime. She admired it. She said “two-thousand?” I said no, and gave her the actual price paid which was [not-that-much.] But the thing is...she now knows what a nice uke I have, and the level of crapitude with which I play it, and it’s a little embarrassing for someone to have that combination of facts about you.

But then again, I feel like a weirdo in The Writers’ Center, Bethesda branch, in general, so feeling weird in songwriting class is ok. The WC is housed in what looks to be an old library building. It’s full of literary journals, and just the right amount of down-at-the-heelsness, and all sorts of evidence that it’s haunted by souls, both living and dead, who are ever so much more legitimate in their right to exist there than I am. Just flip through a journal and you’re faced with a dozen 30 year olds who are being lionized for some brilliant accomplishment or other. I hate being around other writers, actually. (I had to think about whether I could use the word “other,” but I did it anyway.) I could pretend I’m worthy because I built 4 books myself, but...you know.

Tom Paxton is about to turn 75, and he has wiry, curly, stick-outy grey hair, a Gilligan cap, a Land’s End fleece pullover (in addition to other clothing,) and Harry Potter glasses. He said my song was “terrific.” He said it needed a refrain or chorus. I will write one. (Ok, he also suggested changing the line about "inviting your boss" to something more cohesive with the theme of the verse. Makes sense too.)

A couple of the guys in class did their songs. Gerry, who looks like the nerdiest example of a middle-aged engineer, did a great job with his entertaining country-style song, and David performed his song with some mean uke accompaniment. (His lyrics otoh, in the opinion of this wordsmith, need some serious editing.) His uke chops merely highlighted the preposterousness of me having custody of a Collings-made anything. Ok, yeah, so be it.

But here I am, fifty years old (almost more than 50,) with nothing else to try but what I’m trying, and I’m surely not going to pretend I’m self-actualized just to make you feel better. Thing is, Jeff’s job was to absorb and buffer my crazy, which was there in full force pre-Jeff and is back to stay, I guess. Which is why I just own it now. I think Jeff tried to help though. Apparently, he fell last night, and he got up this morning with a bruise the size and color of an large eggplant on his right hip. His carers were so concerned he’d broken it that we spent all morning in the ER at Anne Arundel Medical Center. It was not broken...just monster-bruised. It’s tricky to get a person in stage 6 Alzheimer’s through x-rays. Don’t try it sometime. He’d been sent out in an ambulance, but (as I figured) I had to drive him home to Sunrise. It went ok. His hand would hover near the door handle now and then, and I’d hit the lock button obsessive-compulsively, for good measure. Got him back. Fed him chicken, potatoes, and sweet potato pie. I think he’s pretty happy, and he’s got Tylenol on order. I assume that he was, in some intuitive way, trying to make me feel less redundant.

This weeks assignment: a song that puts a new twist on a trite topic. I should go with that Brady Bunch idea--where they incorporated Peter's awkward changing voice into their song. I'll use random mismatched chords, and sing in falsetto like Tiny Tim. That should work.