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January 16, 2006
First they came...
When they came for the blondes,
I remained silent;
I was not a blonde.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 11:18 PM | Comments (0)
January 13, 2006
I got it.
(from the train platform, Embarcadero Station) The gig is mine.
Decent base salary, benefits, 401(k), and for the first time ever, performance-based bonuses.
Ambivalence? Banished.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 02:35 PM | Comments (0)
January 09, 2006
Account Cancelled
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Posted by Your Protagonist at 04:54 PM | Comments (0)
January 06, 2006
Lou Rawls: smooth and soulful.
"Ladies and gentlemen, without any further ado... the dynamic, the soulful Mr. Lou Rawls!"
According to his AP obit, Lou Rawls was credited with having the "silkiest chops in the singing game." Sinatra said that.
I discovered Lou Rawls in my early teens. My parents had divorced and my sister was at college, so I had the house to myself most afternoons. Mom and Dad had divergent tastes in music -- my mother favored classical and jazz; my father was much more into R&B and soul. Fortunately for me, he was only able to fit his suits and ties into the back of his Celica. The records stayed behind.
Sometimes, when I was actively engaged in trying to figure out who the hell my parents were, I'd go through their books and music. The turntable and receiver were in what might have been a den in a more social household. After my dad left, the room was claimed in the name of Mom. The walls were still lined with shelves of pulp and vinyl, but the floor was taken up by a sewing table and chair, drawers of sewing patterns, bolts of cloth and other domestic detritus. (For the record, I don't remember the woman sewing a damned thing.)
The first Lou Rawls album I found was Lou Rawls: Live!. I knew the name because of his disco hit, "You'll Never Find," and of course, his ads for the United Negro College Fund. In many ways, the album expanded my consciousness.
Reading the liner notes as the music played to an empty house, it was easy to picture a room full of black people wearing their best clothes, crowded around small tables to hear one of the great singers of the day. I could imagine a woman sitting for hours in a salon chair, casually informing anyone within earshot that her 'do was for a Lou Rawls show.
Except in movies, it hadn't occurred to me that people would get dressed up and bring their sweetie to a club to hear a favorite crooner. The audience reactions engaged me as much as the music; polite applause for his erudite cover of "The Shadow of Your Smile," as opposed to thundering acclaim that drowns out the first bars of a gutbucket favorite like "Stormy Monday."
I was mesmerized by the man's ability to tell a story. More than one of the tracks on this album are preceded by a monologue. I know he was a gifted performer and that these stories were honed by their telling. But listen to his rap before he goes into "Tobacco Road" and you'll learn that he had an emotional connection to these songs that the audience could borrow, if not share.
I was just a 13-year-old kid from the suburbs, but he chilled my bones with his description of "The Hawk," the cruel wind that cuts through Chicago's winters. I understood the concept of loss more clearly after hearing "St. James' Infirmary," and better appreciated the white-hot anger of poor men with big dreams in "Tobacco Road."
Today's music by and for African-Americans purports to keep it real, but it falls short in my estimation. The ice clinking in cocktails in the digitally remastered background of "Lou Rawls: Live!" belonged largely to southern blacks who'd moved north to get out of the fire and into the frying pan. Which is not to say that there weren't any pimps or drug dealers in the audience that night.
It's just they weren't interesting or authentic enough to sing about. They weren't strangers, nor were they representative of the collective experience.
His monologues could even expand into full-fledged raps. His sing-speak patter about the heartbreak of infidelity in the midst of "In the Evening When the Sun Goes Down" is just as picaresque, heartfelt and downright funny as anything I've heard out of Master P or Calvin Broadus.
In high school, I made a cassette copy of this LP. It moved with me around the country after college and played in the tape decks of two different cars I owned. It's still somewhere in this house, though I have no idea where. By this point, the oxide has worn and flaked off the tape anyway.
So, after I received news of Lou Rawls' passing this morning via email from a friend to whom I'd introduced him, I made my first purchase from Apple's iTunes store. All it's missing are the liner notes, and of course, the familiar pops and crackles.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 12:16 PM | Comments (0)
January 05, 2006
Possibilities.
I had a job interview this morning. I got up, showered, shaved and put on clean clothes first thing. Normally, I usually shower just before I prepare to leave the house on an errand. The life of a fledgling freelance writer is glamorous, no?
I wore a navy shirt with a vaguely Indian print, a pair of Levi's, black loafers, no socks, and my crepe Versace jacket. The 4-button is a relic of days gone by, the Internet boom years when office parties offered bellinis instead of Bud Lite. I don't have a closet full of such clothes; the jacket's versatility provides myriad sartorial pleasures.
I was comfortable in my duds, but I was nervous nonetheless.
I am qualified for the position, no question. I offered the interviewer a laundry list of ideas to help redefine and expand their product offerings, and he seemed receptive and enthusiastic. By interview's end, he'd transcribed each of my suggestions onto three pages in his notepad.
But I was still a mite unsettled. I've never worn jeans to a job interview, something I hadn't thought much about until I was pushing open their office door. I was raised to believe denim is for "play time," not for making First Impressions. Hell, if they hire me (and I accept), I'll expect to be wearing jeans at least four days out of every five. Why shouldn't they see me in my element?
Today, the jeans were just a representation of my ambivalence. I was comfortable enough to walk in, confidently express my qualifications, and engage the hiring manager in easy conversation. I made him picture me at the vacant desk adjacent to his office, Making Things Happen.
In the past, I'd have worn some pressed khakis, socks and a tie to signify a professional demeanor, a nod toward the sort of presentation my dad and yours might appreciate. But I can do some damn fine work wearing blue cotton pants with rivets and orange stiching. I've always resented dressing up for interviews in clothes I'd never wear to the job.
On the way out, it occurred to me that I was so relaxed because I was entirely divorced from the outcome.
After I got home, I had an extended chat with my agent in LA. We haven't signed any papers yet, but I'm gonna start calling him my agent anyway. He worked with me to refine the script and is planning to begin marketing it early next month.
Here's the process he nutshelled: he works the phone and calls production companies on a Friday. They take all weekend to think it over and call on Monday to request a copy of the script. Some producers take a night to read it, and some take two days, but offers are usually made within 24-72 hours or so.
By the following weekend, the script is being sent to the studios where the producers have distribution deals. A script sale can come as early as the following week.
I kept asking him how the process would play out assuming we got to a certain stage, and he urged me to be a little more optimistic, noting that mine is "one of the most marketable scripts [he'd] read in a very long time."
Still, it's a spec script, and there are no guarantees. He seems very bullish that I can turn it into meetings with producers sometime next month, so that's nice. We shall see.
I'm getting my jacket dry-cleaned, just in case.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 02:36 PM | Comments (0)