Scab Face

Okay, I got an email from my friend Mike that he was playing Jardine's, Tuesday.

I don't get out much, okay? As in I was last in Jardines, one of the only places still open in Kansas City booking live jazz at all, back when Chuck Palahniuk was touring with 'Haunted.'

So I emailed him that I'd try to make it, and he said he'd buy me a beer. And I have this cool poster I made with a photo I copped from an ad for the Mutual Musician's Foundation, a big-ass thing, suitable for framing, though kind of an odd dimension.

Killed time before the gig at Barnes & Noble on the Plaza.

Time was when I went through a major bookstore and felt there was nothing for me on the shelves. I'd read it if it was of interest. I despaired of my own novel being published in a world so inclined to publish garbage and ignore art.



So here I am checking out Don DeLillo's new book, 'The Falling Man.' And I love DeLillo, with a couple of exceptions. I didn't dig 'The Body Artist,' I thought he missed on the autism thing, and I think 'Americana,' his first, is pretentious and too long for what it is.



I read the first two chapters, then decided to wait until I could actually finish it to get further in. Good stuff, what I read.



Then I see Cormac McCarthy's 'The Road' is out in trade paperback. Hmmm, too much money but not as bad as a hardback of 'Falling Man.'

Still, I resist.

Then I spot a new book by Michael Lewis. I adore Michael Lewis, and I've read all of his stuff until this new football book, 'The Blindside.' Hell, I loved 'Moneyball,' and I hate, hate, hate baseball. So a football book by this guy, I could put it on a card...



But of course, I don't want to be putting shit on a card. Even good shit. It's like with new cars: if the bait wasn't good, no one would be in the trap. Look away.



Then I see the Yiddish Policeman's Union, Chabon's newest. And I read a couple of chapters of it.



And I spot 'Rant,' from my old buddy Chucky P. And I read a couple chapters in, and I'm pretty sure it's not another 'Haunted.' Dunno if it's another 'Survivor,' but I'd keep reading and hope. He has a disclaimer about the format up front, referring to biographical novels such as 'Capote' for comparison if the reader is frustrated. Personally, I think if you want a disclaimer like that you're not done with rewrites. Anything I have to be taught how to appreciate, maybe I shouldn't be that appreciative.

But maybe his publisher wanted that there. Who knows?



But I resist. Now I'm not even thinking of the credit card I could charge these books on.

The Post Secret book, well, I read his blog, I can resist that, even though it is totally awesome.

Then I spot a book called 'Bank' by David Bledin that looks totally up my alley. Then not one but two Jay McInerney titles.

I was a good boy, I left the store empty handed. Damn. When I had money to spend on books, I couldn't find one worth the paper it was printed on. Here I walked out on a half dozen plus. Including a book about lobsters.

The book about lobsters, I read part of it about superlobsters. That's the postlarval stage, where they swim like crazy. Thing is, it lasts like two weeks. They pick the bottom, they molt, and they never swim again. Kind of like getting married and middle-aged, the best part of their life is over and they can't get it back, even if they inject Human Growth Hormone, take steroids and gobble amphetamines. They are going to crawl on the rocks up to when they are dropped in boiling water to be scalded to death.

So I get to the club, Jardines. This is a post about going to Jardines, remember?

Pay attention. I'm only going to write this once.

So the band is setting up and it's not Mike. I'm four weeks early for Mike's gig.

The waitress wants my drink order. She has raccoon eyes, makeup so bad it must be intentional. I've been curious to try a Sidecar for awhile. I'm not even a hundred percent clear what's in a Sidecar, except I read a recipe once and it was too much trouble to stock the home bar to try it.

She brings me a martini glass filled with a murky, fruity liquid. It's delicious.



I drink about five ice waters to space things out. I know the waitress is probably wondering if I'll order food, which is not going to happen. The cheapest appetizer is $9, and I only have $15 on me to cover everything, all in. But the club is only half full, so one booze hound isn't the worst table she could have.




And I figure I'll stay for a set. I'd already ordered the Sidecar by the time I figure out my mistake. The Mo City Jumpers are the act tonight, a jump blues band I'd only heard of. It's not really my thing, but they do it well. And it made me realize why my music career never amounted to shit. Nothing to do with the injury, the misdiagnoses.



Jonathan Lethem nailed it in 'Motherless Brooklyn:' Everyone wants to be Scar Face, but they don't get they have to want to be Scab Face first.

And not just be willing to be Scab Face: they have to want it. You have to want to be a contender. The shit I struggled with studying jazz, it was the Scab Face stuff. I wasn't happy learning to play a cliché well, I wanted to jump straight to the bleeding edge, be the innovative figure I fancied myself. The result was, as it always is for such people, mediocrity.

So anyway, I'm taking pictures of the band as best I can in low light with my cheapie pocket camera. Then a dude shows up with the real thing, a Nikon D200.

The owner of the club comes and offers to pull the curtains so the band isn't backlit. They just don't do this for some asshead with a PowerShot in his pocket.

I noticed this photographer using his flash. I hate flash, personally, and try to never use it. He seemed to want to not use it, but he must not have been getting the shots he wanted without it. He wrapped his flash in a napkin to minimize the glare. I tried turning mine down, the 'flash output.'

I'm sure he got better pictures than I did. Mine tend to be blurry and noisy. Nightclub shots play hard against every weakness a camera like mine has.




The waitress wanted to know if I wanted a second Boozemobile, and while it was good, I feel the urge to try something different. I asked about a Mojito, another cocktail I've never had. They didn't have mint leaves, which are apparently de rigeur.

What about a Stinger? Why not? I'd never had a Stinger.. I had a vague notion that a Stinger had either gin or brandy as an ingredient.

It's brandy. And Crème de Menthe. I'm not a big one for mint, but this was quite pleasant.

So then I get my check, and remember I had $15 to work with, right? I'm thinking $5 or $6 a round, two rounds, still enough for a respectable tip.

The Sidecar was $13. The Stinger was $7. Plus tax. Plus tip.

For crying out loud, has it been that long since I went out? Last time I paid $7 for a cocktail was in Greenwich Village. Last time I paid $13 was, well, there wasn't a last time for that. I've never paid $13 for a round of anything, ever. Closest I've come is a $11 bottle of Trappist Ale, and that was a 25 oz bottle, not really 'one' round.



Remember that card I didn't get out in the book store? Sucks to charge booze, but it's better than trying to sneak out on a tab.

And yeah, I could have bought a book or two for what those drinks cost me.