I’ll Show you Magic

Woke yesterday at 8 am, to the sound of J Hoppa on the “Milkshake” ringtone, calling to relay best-friend secrets that stay on the phone, in the phone. This is a declaration to our best-frienditude: no one, absolutely no one, but Jessica may call me between the hours of 3 am and 9 am and expect an answer, unless it is news of death, lottery-winning, four-alarm fires, or a Trail Blazer sighting (and then only starters). Booty-callers are evaluated on an individual basis, and may be called out on my outgoing message if proper respect is not paid. (What up, Nate Preston.)
Jessica’s phone call was yesterday’s stupendous event #1.
Stupendous event #2:
My previously mentioned dear friend/ex-housemate Jay Winebrenner is lackadasiacal RE: his hygiene, but is so charmed/-ing he is allowed to tend bar at an upscale restaurant on the Westside. In general, his customers love him, despite his being a self-described “scrubby weirdo.” One such customer is the also previously mentioned world-renowned mitochondria guy, Keith, who invited us to his flat last night to discuss a $10,000 painting he was thinking about buying.
In certain ways, none of them having to do with misogyny or violence, Keith is the Bukowski of mitochondria: sarcastic and sloshy, smoky and rough-hewn. He is upscale barfly, and a genius, and owns a 16th-century harpsichord. I did not play the harpsichord, thank god, because a key was stuck and it is awaiting time and love from the harpsichord doctor. I narrowly escaped playing Scriabin on his grand piano by pleading deformed hands, which is true; I have two short ligaments and two short fingers, which makes the octave stretch impossible under duress. The finger stumps saved both Jay and I nightmares-long embarrassment; my arpeggios are dumpy, and my Opus 8 has checked in at 8:12 minutes over the clock for about three years now. As Keith put it, “Well, you’ll never play Liszt.”
Apparently, owning a harpsichord is nothing extraordinary, because Keith’s friend, Ian–a British botanist/mitochondria researcher with a penchant for The Well-Tempered Clavier–also owns a harpsichord. Ian’s harpsichord, however, needs no love doctoring, because it is not from the 16th century. It is not from the 16th century because Ian actually built the harpsichord himself. He does not play it, but he knew that if he had it around, eventually someone would come over who would. As such, it gets used every 15 years.
The painting, a modern impressionist work made of pasted letters and envelopes and overlaid in red (Ian called it “too lipsticky”) was unremarkable in comparison to the rest of Keith’s art (a pre-Raphaelite fantastical lithograph, a vaporous representation of fog over the Hudson by a woman named Lynch, a profound dark surrealist image of a woman in a bonnet). But it looked good over the mantle. Some of Keith’s students came by, Suksma and Sarang, and a lengthy discussion of vegetarianism ensued after Keith ridiculed us for not having any salami with our goat brie and crostini. Ian brought up the Indian Mutiny; we all agreed that cartridges are bad, but worse when greased with animal fat, in general. Keith’s addendum: chicken fat is okay.
Ian explained why he is not a fan of 20th Century music–that there is a reason its audiences are smaller than audiences for, say, Bach. “Roses and daffodils don’t just smell nice to humans, you know,” he said. “They’re meant to attract moths and things, and animals like their smell, as well. This is why I believe there’s something we all have in common, something in popular music that resonates with our most basic instincts. You can intellectualize Schoenberg, but I’m more interested in human beings—why does the man on the street like Beethoven over Kurtag?”
He put it more eloquently, but this conversation led me to believe I need to discuss music with botanists on a more regular basis.
After Jay ate all the goat brie, and told Keith he ate all the goat brie, and Keith ribbed him for it, we all moved onto the balcony. We complimented Keith on his flat and he told us he was sweating it for a bit, because his house was still on the market when he moved in, and that, “At one point, I was a million dollars in debt.” He laughed like he thought it was the dumbest thing he’d ever uttered, and took a drag of his cigarette. “I think the place upstairs is on the market, you two should pool your money and move in.”
Keith is my favorite mitochondria genius millionaire ever.
Stupendous Event #3:
Last night’s Diverse/Lyrics Born show was the best show all week—LB is pure charisma, pent-up and sparkling; Joyo Valarde has a voice with wings; Diverse came and conquered an initially disinterested audience—he tried hard, it paid. He charms, too–complimented me on my earrings, said I was wearing my hearts on my ear, yet he’s “wearing his heart on his sleeve.” Awwww. But the best part was Quannum sneak-peek: LYRICS BORN, D-SHARP, JOYO, VURSATYL, JUMBO AND SHINES FROM LIFESAVAS, AND DIVERSE, ALL FREESTYLING TOGETHER AS ONE, ON THE TINIEST STAGE THAT’S LIKE, THE SIZE OF MY STUMPY FINGER.
Every day, my mind breaks a little more with all the magic. There is no denying that I am lucky, and blessed.