Okay, for real this time

When was the last post?

September 24th.

Fucking weak.

I haven't sat my ass down and done this in four months. A third of a year. 1/81st of my life has gone by since I assumed you're all somehow interested, and I just let it slip through my fingers like a million bad similes.

Do I tell you what I'm doing these days? No. I'm doing much the same things I was before. Do I ask what you're doing? Will you tell me? Possible, but unlikely.

So we move to the third option: Retract a previous post, then turn around and unretract it, claiming to have been right all along.

If you were to scroll down, you'd see-- no, don't scroll down now, it'll fuck up my chi-- fine, do it; I'll wait. Okay. So the last post is me bitching about jazz. Bitching about how it's often overinflated, self-righteous, masturbatory horseshit and that fully ninety-five percent of it is a flagrant waste of recording media that could go to use pressing some perfectly good Winger records. Or maybe Dokken. Night Ranger, perhaps. Bitching about the majority of the people who play and promote it; skinny sweater-vested twats who are not quite retro enough to be cool and camouflage themselves among other sweater-vested twats in the vain hope that one day a girl will think it's one of those magic eye pictures, and look at them. If all jazz-affiliated people were one person, that person's little fingernail would contain the sum total of all its talent and usefulness.

And so it is irony which leads me to the meat of this post:

La-Nai Gabriel has more awesome in her little fingernail than most of us will ever see, the rest of our lives. I just saw her final recital at Humber, and I'm sure she was holding back. Every so often she'd cut a tiny bit loose, and you got the feeling that if she ever did bust it all the way out, they'd be sending a hundred burly orderlies into the auditorium after the show, to pick up a hundred comatose audience members, struck blind and sung senseless by that goddamn show. It was a near thing. Have you ever been to a show that was so good that after a tune you sat there and forgot to applaud because it was still fucking with your head a little bit? And then you clap, but you look around hoping no one else saw it and thinks you're a dick?

So put it this way: If we have to have all those millions of miles of shitty jazz tape recordings, and billions of pounds of shitty jazz CDs and LPs, and petabytes of shitty jazz mp3s, just so we can listen to the three or four people like La-Nai we're lucky enough to bump into, well, that's cool by me.

And if you read this, my dear, I think your shit is fucking tight.

So G'night.