Source of great irritation
As some of you are aware, I am taking a music reading class at MATC in an effort to refine my musical knowledge. I’ve been playing by ear for years, and feel somewhat deficient as far as reading music. For example, my sight reading is so poor that it’s not even worth mentioning. I’m slowly improving.
There is one guy in my class who noodles on his guitar while the professor is talking. It has become a real pain in my rump. Unfortunately, the professor is really laid back and the class can’t depend on him to say anything. I’m afraid I’m going to snap on the annoying noodler. It is so irritating having to hear him bend notes and pretend he is a wailing blues guitarist. For crying out loud, did he take the class to learn, or did he take the class to practice his scales? If I ever needed to hire a guitarist for a gig, it would certainly not be him.
This is turning out to be a type of rant. I can feel it now. I’m generally annoyed by guitarists. Why are they always wanting to draw attention to themselves? Why is it always, “look at me, here I am, me, me, me?” My conclusion, which is based on personal experience (and the fact that I, too, am a guitarist), is that guitarists feel deficient (most guitarists can’t read music and don’t know theory) and are consequently overcompensating. Compare the average guitarist to that annoying little companion dog that is always barking, while the Great Dane just chills.
I need to be careful with this guy. I don’t mind saying something to him, but I’m a little nervous about how he will react, and I’m likely going to have to deal with him, especially if I choose to take more music courses at MATC. I figure I can either approach him one of two ways:
- I can pull him aside and tell him it’s distracting, and that I’d appreciate it if he would stop. How could he say no?
- I can say something during class, when he’s noodling while the teacher is talking. This option is more likely to humiliate him. I will choose this option if I’m feeling especially cruel and want him to hate me.
Whatever.
Update:
I just got back from class, and for some reason, the aforementioned troublemaker was much quieter today. Unfortunately, the guy sitting right behind me seems to have picked up the slack. Guitar scales, noodling, and general sonic spaghetti were emitting from his fingertips as my teacher was explaining stuff to us. Thankfully, I took my quiz and got out of there quickly before I went ballistic.
Gotta love those damned guitarists.
I’m sick of being sick
I have been battling some type of cold/virus for several weeks. It was low-level for a while, but it just recently claimed my nose and throat.
I’m pretty bummed.
Motown Dennis Update
Motown Dennis stopped by the Wyndham hotel the other night (he has an irritating habit of coming right up to me while I’m performing and having a conversation with me), and I decided not to give him any more financial assistance. I sincerely doubt that he used the money I gave him on lodging. Who knows where it went? A crack pipe? A liquor bottle? Certainly not food, because that’s what he was asking for when he approached me. I don’t like being lied to and manipulated, so he walked away with nothing from me.
Bad Memory Come To Life
Last Saturday, I had the misfortune of running into my seventh grade social studies teacher, Mrs. Joan Jacobson. Fresh in from Sri Lanka, I wasn’t quite prepared for the ordeal of this awful woman, who did everything in her power to make me feel like I didn’t belong. Not only did she affect me badly, but my parents hated her too. My grades were terrible in her class, and for once my parents felt it had less to do with me and more the teacher. I think I got a “D” in her class. I don’t remember. I don’t care.
Why, the reader may ask, would one invite an encounter with such an individual? The answer is that I really didn’t want to, and she was the last person on my mind as I visited my parents’ neighbor’s rummage sale. Anne, the unsuspecting neighbor, introduced me to her friends as the son of the people next door, and Joan Jacobson happened to be sitting there. I recognized her immediately. She asked me what my name was, and I told her, and she actually remembered me as the foreign student. Out of respect for the neighbors, I refrained from telling her that I remembered her as a bigoted bitch, and that I had had the worst year of my life in her stupid class. I wanted to tell her that her concepts of IALAC (I Am Loved And Cared for) and IAHAD (I Am Hated And Dumb) were the most inane ideas that I had ever endured, and that she should rot in a hell designed specifically for fascist teachers for all of eternity. Fortunately, my friend Ragani stopped by and I had an opportunity to excuse myself before I let my tongue get slippery.
I guess I resent her. I’m trying to figure out how to either let go of this or contact her and simply tell her how awful a person she was. I thought she would be dead by now. Honestly, death would be too kind a fate for this ignoble excuse for a teacher.
Peeved
It boggles my mind when very close friends who I haven’t seen in a while tell me they’re going to spend time with me after hour n, and when said hour arrives, they are nowhere to be found.
So, I finally got the call from my dear friend Beth, and she pointed out that I had actually never given her a clear indication that we were supposed to get together after 6 pm. Furthermore, she pointed out that she has never, to date, snubbed me. Yet. (The Barbie/Fuel Cafe incident doesn’t really count, because she did [finally] show up.) I guess I was so needy that I was sure we had made plans. LOL.