Not Me

It has recently been brought to my attention (I Googled myself) that there are other Ryan Rosts out there. So let me be perfectly clear:

I'm NOT the Dean of Judicial Affairs at Villanova University.
I'm NOT the conservative person who blogs.

I AM a bassist (what do you call a bassist with no wife or girlfriend?).
I AM a dude.
I AM procrastinating.

Thanks.

Thank You, Cleveland!

I just got back from a jazz tour. We hit five cities in about 30 hours. How is that possible, you ask? Well, I'll provide the itinerary:

Saturday, 1:30am. Flight from LA to Houston - city one.
Saturday, some-other-early-hour. Flight from Houston to Detroit - city two.
Saturday, late-morning. Flight from Detroit to Akron, OH. City three.
Saturday, 2pm. Drive from Akron to Cleveland, pick up rented bass from a violin shop that has no idea about basses. Good news, it wasn't that bad. Bad news comes later. By the way, Cleveland is City four.
Saturday, 6:00. Set up for gig with sound guy, who goes by "Ramhog." Yes, that's "Ramhog" of "Ramhog Productions, Inc." Once again, his moniker is "Ramhog." And here's the bad news: good bass, lame pickup, and Ramhog decided that it's a good idea to run an upright through a 12'' KEYBOARD AMP! So, the lesson is: don't hire a guy named Ramhog to do your sound for a jazz gig.
Saturday, 6:30. Play the gig at Mentor Lake Yachting Club. Good food, good folks, fun band. Good local drummer. Good free JWBlack on the rocks.
Sunday, 1:30am. Nighty-night.
Sunday, 3:30am. Up-and-at-'em.
Sunday, 6:30am. Flight from Akron to Chicago. City number five.
Sunday, some-other-time. Flight from Chicago to LA.
Sunday, 10:15am. Land in LAX. End of insane rite of passage into an actual travelling musician. Phew.

5 cities, one gig, a day and a half. Yeah, I'd probably do it again!

The highlight by the way was the pulsating, electronic, tunnel of space love in the Detroit Airport. Just ask the singer, Chris Williams.

How Do You Remember What A Perfect 4th Interval Sounds Like?

Well kiddies, it looks like the day has come. The time is near. The end is nigh. In only 3 days, I shall take that headlong dive off the cliff, and see if I can fly. I will be marred... oops, that's married.

It's time that ol' Rosta-man, Ry-Ry, ol' R2, shuffles off and makes room for the new, improved, mature, aristocratic gentlehusband - who will then leach off his wife as much as possible in order to maintain his position as musician.

Remember chil'ren, I've been with this chick for 7 years. We've lived together for 5. The only thing that's changing is our marital status. But there's a mystical quality in standing before the people you care about most in life and basically promising not to fuck up too badly. Therefore, I'm getting a little nervous. Every once in a while, there manifests in my stomach a twinge, a mere pang of anxiety that I haven't felt in a long while, and I gotta say, I'm glad it's there. It reminds me that I'm not always composed, in control, or absolutely ready for this. It whispers to me that I actually mean what I am doing, that it is important, and that probably I should have another beer or five.

As much as a slam dunk as this wedding and marriage is, I still feel like it's fragile, and we had better be willing to work on this just as hard as we work on anything else. Et cetera, et cetera. I'm done with the emotional download, the keyboard masturbation. I will return next time (whenever that will be) renewed, and a holy shit husband!

Down the rabbit hole I go... dun, da, da-dum!

But More Importantly

Healthy Choice Cheddar-Filled Sausage

Well, it's that time again, kiddies. No, not Super Bowl. Time for me to kill time by blogging. Yep, every couple of months I wind up teaching for half a day and need to kill anywhere between an hour to two and a half. Today was two and a half. So being in Carson and having never been 4 minutes away to Alpine Village, off I went. I don't know about you, but I feel sometimes, being American and all, that I'm a cultural chameleon. If I'm around Italians, I feel Italian; around Germans, German; around Vietnamese... well, American. I felt very German today.

Alpine Village is everything that Pea Soup Andersen's is not. It's an Inn, not a crappy Best Western. It's a deli, not a crappy gift shop. It's a cafe, not a crappy... well, actually the restaurant isn't that bad, but you get my meaning. Alpine Village is all about Germans helping Germans. The deli had fresh sausage hanging from hooks, sitting in the case, asking you to do the right thing. There were old women behind the counter speaking German. There were old women in front of the counter speaking German. I ate at the cafe - this time, literally short for cafeteria (trays and everything) - and had Goulash for the first time and listened to four old German men play dice. It was wonderful. From the deli, I purchased two packages of non-traditional Jalapeno (sorry, no tilde) and Cheddar Sausage, and two packages of Smoked German Bratwurst for Super Bowl with the in-laws-to-be. The Jalapeno/Cheddar was at the recommendation of my good friend, and food know-it-all, Hung Pham (not that one, the other one). I don't know how a Vietnamese import gets to German Heaven-On-Earth before me, but it never fails, he has always been there (where-ever that is) and tried the food.

So now I'm back in this classroom waiting for the clock to move so I can go home and refridgerate my day's haul. Super Bowl will be great even if the Bears lose, thanks to Brat.
If you never hear from me again, know that I died satiated and smiling, with half a sausage hanging out of my mouth, a half-drunk beer next to me, and cheese on my chin.


In other news, I finished Hemingway's The Garden of Eden, and it was great. So there.

Here's a hint: it's not about abortion.

OK. I subbed a sweet little computer class today which means the 11th/12th graders didn't do shit but look stuff up on the internet. What did I do? I announced the folllowing: "What you're supposed to be doing is" blah blah blah. I also read more than half of Hemingway's The Garden of Eden. Good? Vintage Hemingway, whatever that means to you. To me, that means short stabbing sentences, subtext all over, and it lulls you into a complete giving over of yourself to the characters. Is he brilliant? No. Is he a genius? Yes. Do I love him so far? He'll make me.

This, by the way, is my first Hemingway novel ever read by me, and I love everything about it, except that it's (of course) posthumous. Shit. And to answer you're question, how do you know what "vintage Hemingway" is when this is your first novel? Dude, you need to shut your lips and learn: ever since "The Hills Are Like White Elephants" I get it. Duh.

How 'bout rowdy ESL kids who can't shut up? I did not like today until I came home from Wilmington Middle School. No lesson plan, kids that couldn't even shut up to play freaking Hangman. No learning occurred today, except that I learned my Spanish sucks, and I need more gigs.

When I did get home, though, I ate, slept, shat, and practiced. Yep. That's right, practiced bass in the music room. I worked on Dolphin Dance and Out Of Nowhere. Ain't that a kick in the head?

I do have some pictures to work on and upload. Maybe I'll do that now...

...here's what happened this week at the house:

Guest bathroom before. See the hammer? It's excited.

Guest bathroom after my pops and I got through with it. See the tub? It's not the same one. Brand new tub. Good news: we have a brand new tub. Bad news, it's cast iron and weighs fourteen tons. I'll buy a beer for anyone who can tell me how two people fit that in there without cutting, trimming, or busting holes in walls. 60" of space, 60'' tub.

Our fantastic original hardwood floor. That's felt backing to the linoleum I ripped up.

After sanding. Wanna see what they look like finished? Come over.

And that's the dang deal. It's almost time for Jeopardy! and way past time for booze. Wish my lovely fiancé good health: she's not feeling well. Nighty night, kiddies.