| 71 year old Indian Jazz Pianist |
[Aug. 12th, 2009|09:25 pm] |
Yes, I know - the title of this post sounds like the set-up to a bad joke, but in this case, it's straight on the money.
In 1984 I was a 16 year-old kid and had a part time job working at a long-gone music store called Palings on Pitt Street. This was back in the days before Pitt Street even had a mall. Christ I'm old.
I worked in the rock section, selling guitars, amps and synths. The brass and woodwind section was managed by a guy called Andrew Speight who must have been in his early twenties at the time and has long since moved to the States and earned a reputation as a seriously good saxophonist.
One afternoon in late 84 as we were closing up, Andrew asked if I wanted to go for a beer at a place close by called Centrepoint Tavern. I told him I was underage and he said, "No problem, the bar staff are all friends of mine, I'll take care of it".
So we closed our sections, left work and wandered a hundred metres up the road and walked into the place.
He introduced me to the resident pianist/vocalist. To be specific, I was introduced to "Cec Dorsey". My first thoughts were "'Cec Dorsey'? Bullshit - that's a stage-name if I've ever heard one", simply because the guy loooked like he'd crawled out of the Ganges after a hard day sacrificing Tree-Frogs to Krishna or whatever the hell it is that hard-core Indian guys do.
Within five minutes of that meeting, I no longer gave a damn what he called himself.
Cec played jazz piano, and Cec played beautifully. I'd never heard jazz played live before and Andrew and I stayed there listening to the guy until closing time. From that day onwards I was a jazz fan and if you know me, you'll know that I still am.
Cec and I got on very well. I loved (but couldn't play) his jazz work, and he loved (but couldn't play) the Jimi Hendrix material I was immersed in at the time. We spent a lot of time together and of course I learned far more from him than he ever learned from me.
We lost touch for about ten years, but I'm happy to say that in the last few months we've started hanging out again.
He's an old man now and doesn't get out that much anymore, but still he managed to make the journey over to my place about a month back to catch up, do a little cooking and spend the afternoon playing some music.
I beefed up my home studio last November when I turned 40. I now have a 200 track digital studio in my study and on the day Cec turned up I realised I had someone with some real talent within range of my microphone.
I always liked Cec's version of "Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole, so I asked if he'd play it for me.
He nailed it on the first take like a true pro,
And for those of you who are even remotely curious, here it is (click on the "free-user" option to download it):
http://rapidshare.com/files/266528859/Cec_Dorsey.mp3
He's 71 now, so of course his voice is a little frail, but sweet Jesus, he still sounds wonderful.
And you know what? After all these years I've still never asked him what his "real" name is. When you can play like this, you can call yourself whatever you damn well want.
I love this man to death.
SD |
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| I'll make this Succinct ... |
[May. 15th, 2009|07:34 pm] |
The problem with Socialist Governments is this:
They eventually run out of everyone else's money.
SD |
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| Spare the Rod and Frag the Fish |
[Mar. 12th, 2009|07:19 pm] |
A friend of mine who works in the legal profession made a short post this afternoon in which she related the following tidbit of info:
So, my building and most of Phillip Street, including the entire Court building was evacuated just before lunch over a bomb threat.
Accordingly to SMH, it was a fishing tackle box accidentally left behind by a forgetful fisherman.
The post made me immediately recall a great part of my childhood, so I sent the following response:
Mind you, if it was the sort of fishing equipment that my friends and I used to use when we were 13 years old, then evacuating the building was exactly the right thing to do.
When I was a kid, I counted myself lucky that my parents owned a house that backed on to the Georges River. If I was bored and it took my fancy, it would take me no more than five minutes to go from lazing around the house to cruising about on the river in an eight foot aluminum boat with a 4.5 horsepower engine.
I kept company with a group of about eight kids, all of whom owned similar boats and at least once a month , winter or summer, we'd cruise along all 30 kilometres of the Georges River, from Liverpool Weir to Botany Bay, looking for new places to pitch tents and set up campsites.
Boat license? Screw that - it was the early eighties and no one batted an eyelid over a bunch of kids cruising about a river.
The areas that we discovered were always isolated islands or generally inaccessible parts of national parks.
Now when we set up a campsite - we well and truly Set Up A Fucking Campsite.
My tightly-knit, aquatic convoy of pubescent deviants weren't satisfied with merely building a campfire and pitching tents. Oh no, too easy.
Once we'd identified a suitable spot, we'd go into hardcore, military mode and begin our plan of attack. We'd set out at six in the morning, our boats loaded not only with with tents, deckchairs, hammocks and provisions, but shovels, picks, rakes and fucking lawnmowers.
We'd spend the entire morning landscaping the campsite until it met with out satisfaction.
Those guys on "Backyard Blitz"? Bunch of pussies. We were hardcore, little SOBs.
Once we'd set up shop, then it was time to relax, laze about in hammocks, do a little underage drinking around a campfire and enjoy a spot of fishing.
There was nothing more satisfying then cooking a fish you'd caught and prepared yourself while sitting around a campfire at night with a bunch of like-minded juvenile delinquents. Good times.
We used to fish the traditional way, with rods and hooks and lots of sitting on a riverbank and waiting. Until one day, my buddy Peter watched a film that showed a bunch of Vietnam-era soldiers using hand grenades to catch fish.
Their method was simple and effective - toss a grenade in the water, wait for the inevitable Ka-Boom and within thirty seconds a bunch of freshly tenderised, stunned fish would float to the surface, just waiting to be scooped up with a net.
We listened to Peter's story. We were 13 years old. Our eyes widened as though we'd just stumbled upon the meaning of life.
13 year-old boys just love to Blow Shit Up. We're stupid like that.
In these days of anti-terrorism laws I'm reluctant to post our recipe for home-made grenades on the intertubez, but let's just say it involved jam jars, chlorine and a couple of readily available chemicals.
And they worked. Holy shit, they worked. Looking back, it's a wonder we all escaped unscathed, alive and intact.
Our method was simple - toss the 'nades in the water and FIND COVER IMMEDIATELY.
Chemicals? Four Dollars.
Jam Jars? Free.
Getting to scream "FIRE IN THE HOLE" like it actually meant something?
Beyond priceless.
Still to this day, whenever I hear the term "stunned mullet", it brings back an irreplacable set of childhood memories.
SD |
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| September 11th Remembered |
[Sep. 10th, 2008|08:01 pm] |
Good evening people,
I posted this entry last year. I'll probably post it again next year. I have nothing further to add to it. I feel now as I felt then.
September 11th Remembered - 2007
As you get older, the very nature of time seems to change a little.
There are some things you've experienced recently that seem to have happened a lifetime ago, and others that you know will always remain fresh. Today I arrived at the realisation that September the 11th is always going to be a fresh one for me.
I noticed it late yesterday when it dawned on me that the sixth anniversary was coming up. There was a reason for it.
The reason has a name, and I'll get to her in a minute.
In late 2001 I was living in London, partying in Brixton and happily working for a private Funds Management Firm in the City of London.
I loved my work. I was lucky enough to be employed by one of the few remaining private investment firms whose name still commanded a little respect within the barrow-boy dominated late 90s and early 2000's.
My boss was a 55 year-old, five foot, two-inch high Scotsman with the surname, "Savage".
And let me tell you something - he was.
That bastard had been known to reduce grown men to tears within fifteen minutes of a boardroom meeting. He was valued by the Senior Partners because he most definitely:
Did. Not. Suffer. Fools. Gladly.
The Scotsman wasn't naturally belligerent, he'd give anyone the time of day until something stupid tumbled out of their mouths - then all bets and gloves were off. I personally watched him cut bullshit-artist-salesmen and morons down to size on no fewer than five occasions and let me tell you this - it was awesome. Completely fucking awesome.
Somewhat like a drill-sergeant, he was as much loved as he was feared. He single-handedly built up his team over the course of three years and to this day I count myself lucky that he decided to keep me around because, as he put it, "you stand up to me when you're right and you make me laugh, you stupid Aussie bastard".
There were five of us in addition to Mr Savage.
Andrew - a quiet South Londoner who only opened his mouth when he felt we'd got it all wrong and needed to be "pictured in". He was never wrong when he opened his mouth, so we always listened.
Mike - One of the afore-mentioned "barrow-boys". He never closed his fucking mouth but at least he was entertaining.
William - one of the "Eton boys". Savage would have fired him in a heart-beat if his father hadn't been a senior partner. He was the quintessential chinless, in-bred dickhead (and as I found out later, his father moved him to a less influential position).
Mari - the youngest member of the team who had really earned the job after a long internship.
And me.
We got on well. We shared a few years worth of meetings, arguments and triumphs. We even shared in the little things like break-ups, births and marriages. We went to Brick Lane once a month for lunch and unlike any other people I've worked with, we looked forward to seeing one another on weekends on the odd occasion. After six years, Mike and I are still in contact.
After years of that sort of crap I guess we considered ourselves a team.
Mari had just been married in July of that year to a fund manager at a rival bank. She copped all of the ribbing we gave her with good-humour, and she in turn, inflicted every detail of her wedding planning on us as revenge.
Mari: Guess what we're serving at the reception?
Mike: Don't 'ave to. I've 'eard ev'ry detail 'bout ev'ry fucking ingredient. Why? Because that's all you've bloody well spoken 'bout for the last week, girl. Do some frigging work for a change.
Mari:
Mike:
Mari: We're serving Salmon, followed by ...
Mike: ARRRRRGGGHHH!!!!
It went on like that for months. Quite happily.
Mari went on a month's vacation for her honeymoon, returned with a ridiculous tan and life returned to normal.
Until her husband flew to New York on September the 10th. He had a meeting the next day with Cantor Fitzgerald on the 102nd floor of WTC1.
And I won't spin this out - he died.
We used to have TV screens everywhere in our workplace. They were constantly tuned to Bloomberg, Reuters and CNN. Anyone could pick up a pair of headphones and listen to the audio that accompanied any station in case there was something they needed to pay attention to. At about three o'clock that day, everyone was wearing headphones and watching CNN.
Everyone except Mari. She was on the phone trying to get through to her husband, but never did.
My boss, the drill sergeant from hell couldn't have been more like a father to her that afternoon. He took her downstairs, hailed a cab and took her back to her parent's house, a couple of hundred kilometres away. We never saw her again.
I hear she's doing well, and after a year off work she more or less picked up where she left off, but she aged quite a great deal in a short amount of time.
So here we are six years later and it still seems to have happened yesterday - and I still have the suit jacket that she cried on, although I've never worn it since.
Everytime this anniversary rolls around, I'm left with vivid memories of watching a young woman go through something that should never have happened, and I'm still angry about it.
What made it worse is when I heard some knee-jerk anti-american statement coming from the mouth of a twenty-something kid this morning. He was young enough to view 911 as remotely as he'd view Pearl Harbour.
"Yanks deserved it. Cut them down a notch, didn't it?"
This was from some twenty-year-old kid who thought that espousing an anti-american stance was an acceptable way to gain some cred at a lunch I attended today.
I gently told him the story of Mari and waited for it to sink in. Everyone around us watched as he turned red and realised what a career-limiting move he'd just made.
Then I gently told him to get out of my sight.
And then, more than ever, I was grateful that I'd worked for the Scotsman.
You were right Mr Savage, I was learning more from you than I ever realised.
Suit Dude |
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| How to tell when you've hit Middle-Age |
[Jul. 31st, 2008|09:09 pm] |
This afternoon I received a phone call on my mobile, and immediately dropped into hushed-tones and moved to a quiet area to continue the call.
It was a call from a guy I've never met, about the purchase of a rare, black substance that I needed flown in from Tasmania.
My workmates would have heard comments along the lines of, "so how was the harvest this year?" and "Can you ship me fifty grams?".
I sealed the deal (for a stupid amount of money) and I should receive it via the reception desk tomorrow ..
Yeah, I've just scored myself some serious, A-Grade truffle-action, bitches ...
SD
and, yes I know - cocaine would have been cheaper this year. |
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| "Pet goth girl on leash thrown off bus" |
[Jan. 24th, 2008|06:42 pm] |
Good evening people,
No, I'm not kidding; the title for this post was taken directly from a Sydney Morning Herald article that appeared in this afternoon's edition.
The article opened with:
"A bus company has apologised to a girl who is led around on a leash by her boyfriend and describes herself as a human pet after one of its drivers threw her off a bus".
So far so good.
"We have spoken to the driver who has talked about health and safety," a spokesman said. "Should she be attached to a chain and something happens on the bus, that could be dangerous. All we are saying is that she is very welcome to use the buses but not when she is on her lead."
All good and well I say, and in this instance I agree with the bus company.
Other people's pets are a nuisance at the best of times - you've been there and you know what I'm talking about. When we visit their houses we're often forced (out of politeness) to anthropomorphise along with the their owners:
"Yes, she really is adorable when she tries to communicate" we say, when what we really mean is this:
"that mangy, ugly fucking aging thing is frotting against my leg again - the moment you turn your back I'm going to thump her and say she slipped".
There is only one good reason for someone to take a pet goth onto public transport, and that's if the owner is handicapped and in need of a Seeing-Eye-Goth.
The Guide-Goths association has a long and proud history in this country, and for decades has trained baby-gothlets from birth to help the emotionally-impaired safely navigate through a world of cripplingly beautiful sunsets, bad 80s synth-pop and sycophantic editorials about Heath Ledger's supposed fucking "genius".
They are also trained in alerting us to the presence of James Blunt CDs by bursting into tears and adopting the foetal position.
I would be lost without my Seeing-Eye-Goth, but as an emotionally-impaired person, I would like to remind people not to bother her when she is working:
1: Do not offer a Seeing-Eye-Goth pats or "hugs" while it is on duty; this will cause it to seize up and become immobilised in a negative-feedback-loop that will cause it to avoid its duties.
2: Don't offer "squeeees" either. That's a whole different world of fucking hurt. Moreso for the owner.
3: And for the love of God, don't comment on its myopia. Not unless you're trying to get me killed. And you don't want that, do you?
Do you? Do you?
Send me Hugs,
Suit Dude |
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| Writing Fanmail to Down's Syndrome Kids |
[Jan. 15th, 2008|07:58 pm] |
Good evening people,
This weekend, at the ripe old age of 39, I wrote my first piece of gushing fanmail - and I sent it to a guy with Down's Syndrome who stars in a series of videos entitled, "Retarded Policeman".
Read that sentence again if you need to, because I assure you it's all true.
His name is Josh Perry, aka "Ponceman", and he and his brother have produced a number of vids that are without doubt, the funniest 90 second shorts I've seen in the last year.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I humbly present Josh Perry in "Retarded Policeman - Episode 3". Watch this before you read any further:
He's a comedic genius - and I almost squealed like a little girl when he responded to my fan mail this afternoon thanking me for my letter and support:
"your funny also and thank you"
That's all there was to it - but I didn't need more than that. The guy has Down's Syndrome so I didn't expect a reply to rival War and Peace in length.
Now it seems that a lot of people who suffer from a surfeit of knee-jerk political correctness posted a batch of ill-considered negative comments in response to Josh's video. They claimed it was exploitative, evil, unfunny and on par with raping kittens.
Josh himself posted this 30 second response:
This guy is a genuine, bona fide inspiration to us all, and that's what the gist of my drooling, gibbering piece of fanmail to him was about. Seriously, I gushed like a pubescent 12 year old girl with a crush on Justin Timberlake.
Far too often on LJ, I'll come across attention-seeking posts from people who are unnecessarily wallowing in their own misery and blaming it on their parents, their partner, their friends, their priest or the fucking Energiser Bunny. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Those sorts of posts should all be entitled "I'm Feeling Insecure (again), so Please send me Hugs and tell me I'm Popular".
Consider a guy like Josh. Josh was born with Down's Syndrome, so if he wanted, he really could justify blaming the world and bitching about it like a little kid with a scraped knee - But he doesn't, does he?
He's taken what he's been given and he's run with it.
And he's one seriously talented, bitchin' Down's Syndrome Motherfucker.
Suit Dude |
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| 911 Remembered |
[Sep. 11th, 2007|06:53 pm] |
As you get older, the very nature of time seems to change a little.
There are some things you've experienced recently that seem to have happened a lifetime ago, and others that you know will always remain fresh. Today I arrived at the realisation that September the 11th is always going to be a fresh one for me.
I noticed it late yesterday when it dawned on me that the sixth anniversary was coming up. There was a reason for it.
The reason has a name, and I'll get to her in a minute.
In late 2001 I was living in London, partying in Brixton and happily working for a private Funds Management Firm in the City of London.
I loved my work. I was lucky enough to be employed by one of the few remaining private investment firms whose name still commanded a little respect within the barrow-boy dominated late 90s and early 2000's.
My boss was a 55 year-old, five foot, two-inch high Scotsman with the surname, "Savage".
And let me tell you something - he was.
That bastard had been known to reduce grown men to tears within fifteen minutes of a boardroom meeting. He was valued by the Senior Partners because he most definitely:
Did. Not. Suffer. Fools. Gladly.
The Scotsman wasn't naturally belligerent, he'd give anyone the time of day until something stupid tumbled out of their mouths - then all bets and gloves were off. I personally watched him cut bullshit-artist-salesmen and morons down to size on no fewer than five occasions and let me tell you this - it was awesome. Completely fucking awesome.
Somewhat like a drill-sergeant, he was as much loved as he was feared. He single-handedly built up his team over the course of three years and to this day I count myself lucky that he decided to keep me around because, as he put it, "you stand up to me when you're right and you make me laugh, you stupid Aussie bastard".
There were five of us in addition to Mr Savage.
Andrew - a quiet South Londoner who only opened his mouth when he felt we'd got it all wrong and needed to be "pictured in". He was never wrong when he opened his mouth, so we always listened.
Mike - One of the afore-mentioned "barrow-boys". He never closed his fucking mouth but at least he was entertaining.
William - one of the "Eton boys". Savage would have fired him in a heart-beat if his father hadn't been a senior partner. He was the quintessential chinless, in-bred dickhead (and as I found out later, his father moved him to a less influential position).
Mari - the youngest member of the team who had really earned the job after a long internship.
And me.
We got on well. We shared a few years worth of meetings, arguments and triumphs. We even shared in the little things like break-ups, births and marriages. We went to Brick Lane once a month for lunch and unlike any other people I've worked with, we looked forward to seeing one another on weekends on the odd occasion. After six years, Mike and I are still in contact.
After years of that sort of crap I guess we considered ourselves a team.
Mari had just been married in July of that year to a fund manager at a rival bank. She copped all of the ribbing we gave her with good-humour, and she in turn, inflicted every detail of her wedding planning on us as revenge.
Mari: Guess what we're serving at the reception?
Mike: Don't 'ave to. I've 'eard ev'ry detail 'bout ev'ry fucking ingredient. Why? Because that's all you've bloody well spoken 'bout for the last week, girl. Do some frigging work for a change.
Mari:
Mike:
Mari: We're serving Salmon, followed by ...
Mike: ARRRRRGGGHHH!!!!
It went on like that for months. Quite happily.
Mari went on a month's vacation for her honeymoon, returned with a ridiculous tan and life returned to normal.
Until her husband flew to New York on September the 10th. He had a meeting the next day with Cantor Fitzgerald on the 102nd floor of WTC1.
And I won't spin this out - he died.
We used to have TV screens everywhere in our workplace. They were constantly tuned to Bloomberg, Reuters and CNN. Anyone could pick up a pair of headphones and listen to the audio that accompanied any station in case there was something they needed to pay attention to. At about three o'clock that day, everyone was wearing headphones and watching CNN.
Everyone except Mari. She was on the phone trying to get through to her husband, but never did.
My boss, the drill sergeant from hell couldn't have been more like a father to her that afternoon. He took her downstairs, hailed a cab and took her back to her parent's house, a couple of hundred kilometres away. We never saw her again.
I hear she's doing well, and after a year off work she more or less picked up where she left off, but she aged quite a great deal in a short amount of time.
So here we are six years later and it still seems to have happened yesterday - and I still have the suit jacket that she cried on, although I've never worn it since.
Everytime this anniversary rolls around, I'm left with vivid memories of watching a young woman go through something that should never have happened, and I'm still angry about it.
What made it worse is when I heard some knee-jerk anti-american statement coming from the mouth of a twenty-something kid this morning. He was young enough to view 911 as remotely as he'd view Pearl Harbour.
"Yanks deserved it. Cut them down a notch, didn't it?"
This was from some twenty-year-old kid who thought that espousing an anti-american stance was an acceptable way to gain some cred at a lunch I attended today.
I gently told him the story of Mari and waited for it to sink in. Everyone around us watched as he turned red and realised what a career-limiting move he'd just made.
Then I gently told him to get out of my sight.
And then, more than ever, I was grateful that I'd worked for the Scotsman.
You were right Mr Savage, I was learning more from you than I ever realised.
Suit Dude |
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| Snack for Thought |
[Jan. 18th, 2007|01:34 pm] |
Leading British writer on terrorism and Islamism Martin Amis, in The Independent, on Western apologists:
QUESTION: What is the most depressing thing about Britain you have observed in recent times? And the best?
Amis: The most depressing thing was the sight of middle-class white demonstrators, last August, waddling around under placards saying, We Are All Hezbollah Now. Well, make the most of being Hezbollah while you can. As its leader, Hasan Nasrallah, famously advised the West: "We don't want anything from you. We just want to eliminate you."
Similarly, when I went on (BBC television program) Question Time the other week, a woman in the audience, her voice quavering with self-righteousness, presented the following argument: since it was America that supported Osama bin Laden when he was fighting the Russians, the US armed forces, in response to September 11, "should be dropping bombs on themselves". And the audience applauded. It is quite an achievement.
People of liberal sympathies, stupefied by relativism, have become the apologists for a creedal wave that is racist, misogynist, homophobic, imperialist and genocidal. To put it another way, they are up the arse of those that want them dead. |
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