Potion of Petulance

Spring has sprung!  Since this is the third year I've kept this blog, it's possible that it is the third post that has begun with that exact phrase.  Of course, spring sprang in January in San Francisco and July in Edinburgh, so it's hardly consistent.  March 9th is a reasonable time to feel such a sentiment at my current latitude, and I certainly did today.  The sun was shining, melting away the previous day's snow, as I left the house with only one layer of leggings and one sweater.  The digital display at Silverscape Designs announced that it was 56° out as I drove into town.  Wow!

Town was hopping.  On one hand, locals were out.  Students who might normally avoid the walk into town passed by, as did my own parents who stated the reason for their journey to Northampton to be that it was too nice out to not do something special.  Fair enough.  Additionally, the famous bulb show is on at the Smith College greenhouses, which always draws spectators.  I put on my Sherlock Holmes hat when several people walked by with the thick, hard-cover maroon books that I deduced could only be the Sacred Harp songbook (yeah, I dabble in many things).  Sure enough, one person's copy was facing forward so I could see the title.  Huzzah!  I know of the Sunday and Tuesday sings, but not Saturday.  Maybe there's a big regional Sacred Harp (shapenote) sing thing this weekend?

On the other hand, it must be parents weekend at a college.  The people walking by were clearly out-of-towners because they were holding Starbucks and Dunkin' Donuts cups and they were surprised to see me (more on that).  Although it isn't yet Spring Break at all the local colleges, I hypothesize that it must be vacation at other universities, specifically those with grad programs, because I saw an extraordinary number of people I went to high school with who I don't usually see.  Therefore, the only explanation is that they're in grad school and it's Spring Break so they're visiting their hometowns.

Things were good (on paper).  I got my spot, I was in the sun, and there were ample people.  More on that later.  Here's the easy stuff:

Saturday, March 9, 2013:

1. "Was that the Rolling Stones?"  "Yes it was!"  "Wow!  I was thinking, 'She could sit in with the Stones' and there we go!"

2. A guy came up to me and asked if I know any Korpiklaani.  I said I do not.  He told me that they are a "Finnish folk metal" band.  Sounds cool!  Apparently they heavily feature accordion.  I'll have to look them up.  He also told me about a website, Jellynote.com, that is supposed to be really good for sharing Midis.

3. Someone asked for Radiohead.  I've got to step it up!

4. Two little girls hung around, commenting that the puppet looks like me except for the hair.  I told them that I used to put my hair into two braids when it was long, and that I looked more like the puppet then.  I suggested that I could still try, but that the braids might stick straight up.  They were not amused by this idea.  Tough crowd!  One of the girls pointed out that Flaca is a tap dancer, and revealed that she, too, is a tap dancer (and a ballerina).  She told me she has a pet snake who dances.  The other girl enthusiastically told me that she was on her way to the first girl's house for a sleepover.  Sounds awesome, snake and everything!

5. I used the student loans sign this week, since I sensed the out-of-town snobbiness of some people who would think I'm homeless, and I got a few comments on it.  One man asked, "Are the student loans yours or [Flaca's]?"  Ha, I'm surprised I didn't get that one sooner.  Flaca's of course.  I told him she was studying Modern Dance.  Next time I'll choose an irrelevant major for her.  Organic Chemistry?

6. I received suggestions to play in a few places, which include Woodstock.  On Sundays.  More on this later.

7. A friendly old woman who I didn't recognize tipped me, put her arm around me, and said, "I'm an accordion player and you're never going to get old--pay it back!"  (I'm not sure about "pay it back" but the first part is verbatim.)  I was a little bit puzzled by this.  Was she saying that accordion music is immortal, so as long as I play my soul won't age?  Or is she a Good Witch and her touching my arm granted me eternal youth?  Hey, I'm freaking out about turning 25; I'll take it!  I realized a second later that she must have seen me several times before, even though I didn't recognize her, so she must have meant "never going to get old" in regards to her being accustomed to seeing me.  Yeah.

8. A young man in a Haverford sweatshirt tipped me, then hung around with his friends for a while.  Then he tipped me again during the "Wallace and Gromit" theme!  Must be his fave, cooool.

9. "Tico Tico?  You have to be my age to know that!"  Eek, I'm older than I thought!

10. This is uninteresting to any non-Wellfleetians, but I finally met Martha's oldest son!  (I'll refrain from writing other names in case someone Googles him and this comes up.)  Martha is one of my Wellfleet mamas, and I know her younger two sons.  I have heard a lot about the oldest, and his adorable son, and I know they live in the area.  I recognized him from photos when he walked by, and we talked.  Excellent.

11. I've mentioned this before, but my favorite spot is across from the bank, and once it closes people can still swipe their cards to enter the atrium and use the ATM.  People, however, have trouble finding the card-swipe thingey, so I've taken it upon myself to shout "behind you to the right!!!!!" at them.  This works like 15% of the time.  Usually they don't realize I'm talking to them (or ignore me).  But today, one man heard it but went to far: to the ATM behind him and on the right but a block down, and from another bank.  I bellowed at him (see what I did there?  An accordion player bellowing?) and he found it.  Another young man heard me and found the swiper, but he was so amazed that I knew that.  He seriously asked, "How did you know that???"  I know things.  Probably too many things.....

12. A dad who had been listening asked if I could play the Star Wars theme.  I said I'd try, assuming he was just a nerd.  It turns out it was for his little son who's obsessed with SW.  Much better!  I did okay with it, and the kid recognized it but then hid behind his dad.  I've really got to prioritize arranging my John Williams medley!  I've also got to search this blog for the word "prioritize" to see what else I declared top priority but haven't followed up on.

13. Down a little ways, Girl Scouts were selling cookies.  They were predictably cute, and they took turns parading around holding signs advertising their goods.  This was going to be the first year in a while (except for when I was out of the country) in which I didn't consume a single Girl Scout cookie, but luckily these girls prevented that by bringing me three Thin Mints as I was packing up.  Score!

14. Finally a local, someone I recognized, walked by with people and said something like, "This is legit.  She's the only one who knows how it's done."  High five, Flaca!

15. I was sooooo sick of my songs, so I decided to play one that I'm still sort of learning: Shakira's "Hips Don't Lie."  I had the idea when I brainstormed songs about dancing that would be fitting for Flaca.  But as I played it today, I was worried people might perceive it as being sort of racist.  "I never really knew that she could dance like this, she makes a man wants to speak Spanish, como se llama (si), bonita (si), mi casa (si), su casa."  It's a song about a Latina woman looking really hot while she dances, right?  Flaca is a Latina woman.  Are people going to think I chose the song because Flaca is Latina?  Or that I'm stating that all Latina women are good for is hotly dancing?  Or something?  What do you think?

16. Someone recognized "Werewolves of London."  That is all.  It happens so rarely that it's worth noting!

17. My grumpiness, which I will explain in this post's conclusion, came to its apex when I smelled a horrible smell.  I finally turned around and identified it: a dog had just had diarrhea on the road behind me.  It was yellow and stinky and horrible (but generally solid enough to pick up).  Some people commented on it, commiserating with the woman who identified herself as the friend of the dog's owner.  Naturally, she was going to wait for the dog's owner to reunite with the pooper and let her clean it up.  So, yes, that meant I had to stand in the stench until this friend arrived.  And do you know what the woman did while she waited for her friend?  She lit up a cigarette.  This is right next to me/behind me.  So now I have to try to earn my living in a cloud of both horrible diarrhea scent AND secondhand smoke, the latter of which can't be great for the accordion.  Congratulations to this woman, for she is the new recipient of the "worst passerby ever" award.  This has actually been awarded twice before, but I can't be bothered to go back and find the past recipients.  I was very happy to see a friend of mine right then who agreed to watch  my stuff while I could go get a chai, stop myself from strangling this woman with a trolley bungee cord, and take my beloved accordion away from the toxic air.  Thank you, Nora!!!  Eventually, smoky the bear finished her cigarette (which she dropped on the ground, unextinguished) and her friend cleaned up after her pooch.

So...despite the sunshine and hoards of people, I was pretty grumpy all day.  Here's why:

1. Reason #1 for being grumpy: 
People I don't know were suggesting places for me to go.  If you meet a busker and you feel strongly that she should play in Paris, here's what you do: You ask her if she's ever played in Paris (or in Europe in general). You ask her how she feels about it.  Finally, if her answers to the former questions indicate that it might be appropriate, you may gently encourage her to try playing in Paris someday, IF AND ONLY IF you know a single thing about busking in Europe.  (FYI, I did not play in Paris because I had strep and I slept through Paris in 2012.  I did, however, play in other parts of France, and in Europe, as you know.  It is highly unlikely that I will ever play in Paris because...you know why?  Yeah,  it's pretty obvious.  Accordions are big over there.  I could be the 14th and worst accordion player someone sees on a given day in Paris, or I could be the only and therefore best accordion player someone sees somewhere else in the world.  Like, in Reykjavik.  So there.)

(No, rant not over yet.)  Same thing with Glastonbury....consider the fact that it's a possibility that the busker knows the UK.  Maybe she lived there for a while, had the opportunity to go to Glastonbury, and chose not to.  If you're a pro busker and actually have good advice, then you know better than to give it to another busker unsolicited.  If you're NOT a pro busker, you shouldn't be giving buskers advice.  Period.  (I put that in bold and blue because it's super important.) Either way, don't just walk up to people and tell people where they should go busk.  I could go on, but I'm getting mad again.

2.  Reason #2 for being grumpy:
Legs.  Bare legs.  It drives me nuts when it's 57 degrees and suddenly the girls are bearing all.  57 degrees means you swap your winter coat for your spring coat.  You don't freaking get naked.  I know I'm too young for a "kids these days" speech, but I found it super depressing.  In addition to baring their legs, all these girls paraded by with their sundresses and full makeup and stuff, and you could so easily tell how hard they were trying to look good.  Like, glittery eye shadow.  It sort of made me sad.  Who are you trying to impress? I've actually always had a weird thing about warm weather; it stresses me out.  Like, the perfect nice days.  Maybe it's just the societal norm thing of wearing a sundress and studying on the green, two things that don't do much for me, but I get uneasy.  Actually, I think this Springtime Sulks phenomenon is the sole reason for today's grumpiness, but I haven't sufficiently psychoanalyzed myself to be able to correctly report it.  Stay tuned.

3. Reason #3 for being grumpy (the unreasonable one):
Snobs.  The past two weekends have been full of [rich] out of towners, and it wasn't until this evening that I figured out why they distress me so.  It's because they don't appreciate the Valley (maybe).  I love the Happy Valley so much.  I feel it even more this time after a year abroad; it is just so clearly a good part of America, and full of good things.  I love the earthy crunchy bumper stickers and the unshaven legs and the people who recognize the Wallace and Gromit theme song.  I feel so at home here, and I fit in so well.  Then people come from out of town with their straightened hair and fancy clothes (THAT'S a generalization, sorry) and walk around with Starbucks and Dunkin' Donuts cups, get excited exclusively about the Eileen Fisher store and Urban Outfitters, and say patronizing things loudly about the beggars and the buskers.  Do they realize what kind of environment we have here?  Do they care?  This is in stark contrast with the people who come for a Saturday knowing perfectly well what the Valley has to offer, and happily get their fix of Haymarket coffee and Deals and Steals deals and steals.

Now, the reason I changed Reason #3 from "snobs from out of town" to just "snobs" is another demographic of people: former high school classmates.  (Now, just to warn you, this one is a total overreaction, and I know that, but I get off on victimizing myself occasionally, and this scenario is as good a chance as any.)  If there's one reason I don't like playing in my general hometown (and avoid playing in Amherst), it's running into people from the periphery of my past.  Old bitchy high school classmates.  I often run into people I went to high school with and they stop to talk, surprised by what I'm doing, but up for a smile and a chat.  But other times, like today, they just walk by.  Since it's the [girls] who were cold and unfriendly in high school, it's easy to assume the worst, that they're thinking a holier-than-thou "Oh...THAT's what she's doing now?" and whispering mandates to their friends not to look up.  In this line of work, silence is interpreted as disapproval (although disapproval is not always silent, in the case of my grandmother).  What, worried what their cool new post-high-school friends/partners will think once it's revealed that they know me?  (Although, in a moment of victory, one boyfriend indicated that he wanted to stop and listen but the girl I knew dragged him along.  Ha!)

Don't get me wrong; at seven years out of high school, I don't give a shit.  Without knowing their situations, I can say for certain that I am happier, more fulfilled, and more successful than any of those "****y ******s," as my badass former boss would call them.  It's purely sad that they haven't outgrown their adolescent "girl on girl crime" stuff (and I have.  Yeah, totally).  I'll spare you (and, telepathically, them) the "I am woman, hear me roar" speech, since 80% of this blog is that anyway, and just leave it with my pride and joy and all that.  But you'd think the ones with whom I shared the experience of a student exchange program in a foreign country would at least stop to say "hola."  Two of them.  So yes, snobs both from high school and out of town joined diarrhea, secondhand smoke, undesired geographical destinations, and bare legs in the potion of petulance.  (Isn't that good??  It was initially "potion of grumpiness," but I couldn't think of a good title for today's post, and that was the best candidate, so with the help of a thesaurus I nailed the alliteration, if I do say so myself.) 

4. Reason #4:
I'm used to it.  It's as simple as this: I know how Flaca works, I know she's cool, I know we have matching outfits, and I know that I play "The Final Countdown," so that stuff doesn't take me by surprise.  It's completely flattering every time someone takes the time to stop and comment on these things, and I cherish each comment, but for some reason today I couldn't simulate the novelty of hearing them.  I have a lot of experience being sick of my songs, but I believe the phase of my career where I'm sick of Flaca's current role is upon  me.  It's been five months now with her.  So I either need to start drinking on the job or revamp the act to feign/procure my own interest in it.

I talked to a friend about this, and he told me about his friend that ran into Steve Martin once.  Mr. Martin merely handed him a card, the text on which I just Googled.  The card says, "This certifies that you have had a personal encounter with me and that you found me warm, polite, intelligent, and funny" with the great man's signature.  That made me smile, on a grumpy day like this.  I should just post a big sign that answers the FAQs: "Psychology.  Minor in Music.  No, but I made her outfit.  Mexico.  Yes, with some help.  That was "Paint it Black."  Thank you!  Oh, your grandfather used to play the accordion? NO, I DO NOT WANT TO BUSK IN PARIS!!!!!!  Yes, I would love a hot beverage!" etc.  What am I talking about again?

I discovered recently, in the context of open mic, that the one song I'm always up for playing, despite my mood, is the theme from Twin Peaks.  It's wonderfully, eerily, secretly depressing, but random people walking by don't know that.  So it's my cheeky way of projecting my irritability, yet if someone recognizes it and stops to say so it cures my grumpiness, so it's a win-win situation.

***

In conclusion (finally), the weather will only get warmer, and there will only be more bare legs.  Therefore, I have to brace myself for Saturdays, and start doing an additional weeknight to get the true locals.  I need to get Flaca working better, eliminate the songs I can't bear to play from my repertoire, and have a marathon song arranging session.  Alternatively, I could start pretending I don't speak English on these parent weekend days.  In the immortal words of The Count, "I see a rrrred doorr and I vant to paint it black...ah ah ah!"

Till next time.