Oops. I knew I'd forgotten to do something.
Not much happened this week. Last Sunday, I went out to Cleopatra's needle, a restaurant on 92nd St., to check out their jazz vocal open mic. It was pretty cool - the trio was good, and some of the singers had their moments. Definitely an older crowd, but hey, I can hold my own. There was one singer in particular whose name I can't remember. She sang with a pronounced Japanese accent and had a surprisingly good ear. I smiled and I clapped.
On Saturday, I went to Barnes and Noble to look for a book on Gdel. (Yeah, so I'm a nerd. So what?) I couldn't find it, but there was an author there by the name of James McBride giving a talk and playing with his jazz group. I stopped to listen to them for a while, realized how much I miss playing jazz, and was about to leave when...lo and behold, the same singer from Cleopatra's Needle got up and started singing! And playing congas!
This is a sign, I thought. I have to sing tomorrow and talk to this woman. So I reviewed the lyrics to Lullaby of Birdland and Here's That Rainy Day and set out the following afternoon with charts in hand. I got there at about 5 and signed up dead last on the list. This woman was nowhere to be found. I sat through about an hour of singers when finally, at just a little bit after 6, they ended it. Right before my turn. Nuts.
Thought about playing some covers at the Sidewalk Cafe on Monday to make up for it. Monday morning, walking around my messy apartment, I decided to jump over some particularly obstructive obstacle. I landed, stopped short, and crumpled to the floor. Sprained ankle. Very minor, but I spent Monday night Resting, Icing, Compressing, and Elevating.
Tomorrow, however, I begin my vacation. I cannot imagine the sigh of relief I will breathe when I don't have to go back to awful tech support and customer service for a whole week. I'm not going anywhere, so I plan to spend my vacation doing a few choice things:
1) Writing songs. 2) Writing PHP so I can get a job. 3) Looking for jobs. 4) Chilling in my apartment.
I am PSYCHED. When I have to go back, I will probably cry. Or shoot myself. Or shoot somebody else.