I seem to have turned 48. I was just typing in the date into this Word document. That date that you have to put into forms of one sort or another all year long, assumes a magical quality, when the globe-spin settles on your day itself. I always used to love to see the physical newspaper with your date up there on the top. It’s already one in the morning back home. I went to the online site. My date’s up there. It glistens for me.
As with every day, I need to find a chengyu for the entry.
I looked for one that had the word “birthday” in it. Why am I not surprised to find that there
was only one and that it was a western pun that had nothing to do with the
concept of a birthday. If there is
one “holiday” concept that struggles to span the divide from my wife’s worldview
to my own, it is “birthday.” We
won’t go into it. Let’s just say
it’s “different.” But, she like me
was born 一丝不挂[1], and essential commonalities run deeper even
than civilization.
I figured I’d look to see if there’d be any live music in
town for this evening. Usually there is one reason or another why we never get it together to
go take in music as a family.
Today I get to insist. I
looked on line and there was a show that caught my eye. The Ray Lema Quintet is in town. I wasn’t familiar with the Congolese
pianist, so I dug in.
Rdio had about five of his albums from about ten to fifteen
years back. They’re good, if a bit
wispy somehow to my ears. I found
a track or two from his latest album on youtube, that’s a fuller afro-bop swing
and it settled it for me to call the venue and get us some seats for tonight.
I looked up the spot.
It’s a reasonably convenient location. Let me dial these guys up. “Hi, can book four seats for the
Ray Lema show tonight?” I ask in Chinese.
The guy on the other line effectively responds in a thick, urban patois
of non-service “Huh? Oh. You want what? Seats for tonight. Um sure.” “Well. Yes. Can
you put four down for tonight under Mr. Fang?” “Four. OK. You want to see the show?” I’m wondering if I’ve got the wrong
number. The dude’s accent coupled
with his attitude is just about indecipherable. “Yeah, so I think you have some seats for five-hundred yuan
each. What are those like? Are they near the place?” I can’t recall the proper term
for “stage.” “Alright let me get this down . . . Mr.
Fang? Alright. And so you want a zhengfeng fengzheng?” He didn’t say that but with his dees-doos-dems diction I’m
lost and I’m not sure I want to commit to buying anything with Snappy the helpful box office manager.
So I cop out.
Never cop out. But I copped
out. I called for the wife. She’s busy. Of course. I forcefully call for the wife,
pleading that I need help on this one.
She’s busy. “So, like, do you want five of the zhengfeng fengzheng or is your deal for
like fuwuzhengfengli?” “Um just a minute.”
“Honey can you hop on with this guy. I’m trying to get four of the 500 yuan seats for this thing tonight. Can’t you just . . . ?
“Who is this person? Where
is this place?” “Reasonable, but
irrelevant my love. Just get four
tickets for this evening please.
OK?” Handing her the phone. “Wei? Wei? Wei! WEI! WEI!” This isn’t
going well.
“Wei” means is the effective equivalent of “hello” when you
get on the phone. “Do you know what
he did?” “No honey, what did he
do.” “He asked me “why wei?” That is so rude. What is this
place.” “It’s like an art
collective. It seems fine. Can’t you just call them back and nail
it honey?” “I need to look at this place before I take my girls there.” Oh dear. “Fine, I’ll do it myself.” I call the number back three times, no one answers. OK. Verified. The
guy’s inarticulate and a dick. I fantasize calling
the number seventeen times until someone answers the phone and then barking
something absolutely inappropriate about their mother into the line, but reason
this is a dumb way to spend my good-vibe morning on my birthday. Breathe.
My birthday New York Times carries a gut-wrenching story over across
the brine in South Korea. A ferry
on its way to Cheju Island, where I’ve imagined traveling to with my kids many
times, took a hard turn and
capsized. Now 273, mostly all
students from one school, are missing and presumed dead. The vice principal who survived the
accident was found hanging from a tree, presumably a suicide. The captain and first mate who were
rescued are under arrest.
In this modern era we can now share in the some of the final
minutes of such a tragedy. The
students, suited up in life preservers were all texting their parents from
aboard the ship and the Times had these messages translated for
consideration. The kids were all
still in the hold. Some parents
counsel the kids to follow instructions, which is probably the same advice I
would have given and makes sense until you realize the people who should have
been organizing the evacuation were too busy being rescued. One father is
telling his daughter to head up to the top of the ship so the rescuers can find
her. She says she can’t because
there are too many people and the ship has already listed over.
I shared these with my kids. They are, as regular readers know, keen fans of all things
South Korean and, as expected the texting exchanges hit them as well. “Why did they just go up top?” Why can’t you just hold your breath and
swim to the top?” “That girl
should have listened to her father.”
“What does this line mean ‘has not been heard from since’ . . . ?"
I suggested, more than once, that my wife read the articles
the kids had read as well. “When I
have time.” She is still smarting
from the encounter with the ‘please-don’t-come-to-our-venue’ ticket man. Ah well. It’s the birthday blues that happen every year. “No bad vibes on my day.”
Impossible. My younger
daughter made me a salad. That was
sweet of her. The carrot slices
where the size of hockey pucks, but it was lovely. I’ll let you know if we get our selves on to actually see
Mr. Lema. If I do, I’ll have a musician to write about for Easter Sunday.
Today, I took my advice from yesterday and dug into both
Wilbur Ware, the bass player whom I wrote about and the other guy, whose solo
it might have been but probably wasn’t on the Blue Mitchell number “Kinda
Vague”, Sam Jones. The two discs
of Mr. Jones that Rdio has available are beautiful. There is one from 1977 that is called “Something in Common”
that comes on strong and an earlier album packed with tunes from that
unbeatable hard bop year of 1960 “Soul Society” on Riverside. Blue Mitchell himself is soloing as we
speak on a track called “Off Color.”
And where as Mr. Ware’s playing was almost pared down pugilistic, this
feels more like some swift moving figure skating.
[1] yīsībùguà: not wearing one thread (idiom);
absolutely naked / without a stitch of clothing / in one's birthday suit
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