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Posts Tagged ‘jazz’

  1. A Dating Affidavit

    April 21, 2014 by Diane


    My ex, half-jokingly, suggested that I write up a one-page affidavit for potential suitors to sign. This sounded like a brilliant idea. So I drew one up.


    I, _____________ (potential suitor) upon oath state:

    1. When I take you to dinner, I promise not to label you persnickety when you interrogate the waiter about dishes that are  gluten-free, dairy-free, meat-free, and caffeine-free.

    2. If I wear stinky cologne, you are allowed to gag.

    3. If my radio plays anything other than jazz, you have permission to reprogram it.

    4. If I do not appreciate your wry sense of humor, I promise not to laugh in a fake way.

    5. I have been advised that more than a quarter inch of wine will make you loopy. I will pour accordingly.

    6. I agree not to talk to you when you are reading, although cuddling is allowed.

    7. Ditto when you are meditating, except for the cuddling part.

    8. If I wear button-down shirts and never roll up the cuffs, you are allowed to raise one eyebrow.

    9. I will not label you a hypochondriac when you use hand-wipes after touching door knobs.

    10. Whenever we disagree, I promise to say: “You’re right, I’m wrong, I’ll never do it again.”

    11. When the temperature drops below forty degrees and your fingers turn blue and white, I will not be horrified by their wax-bean appearance. I will stand patiently by as you whirl your arms around like an airplane propeller to force the blood back into your digits.

    12. Ditto with your toes.

    Signature ___________________________________

    To be fair, I also drew up an affidavit that I would sign.


    I, _____________ (your ideal date) upon oath state:

    1. If you say something genuinely funny, I will laugh so hard that I might stream tears. Do not be alarmed. I am amused, not hysterical.

    2. If you engage me in intellectually stimulating conversation, and you are smarter than me but not too much smarter, and you don’t have a know-it-all complex, I will look upon you with utmost respect.

    3. If you think I am attractive and sexy and you tell me so often, or at least beam it from your eyes while leaning toward me, I will believe everything you say. I might even straighten out your sock drawer.

    4, I am content to stroll along the beach, share a picnic dinner and watch the sun set and call it a perfect date. If the date also includes time to read, I will look upon you as a God.

    5. I will always tell you the truth. At least the truth as I believe it to be.

    Signature ___________________________________



  2. Music is My Mission

    September 30, 2013 by Diane

    Trumpet player

    Music is my mission.

    So said a seventy-five year old jazz musician on break during a gig.

    What’s your mission?

    Dunno, you say.

    What do you mean you don’t know? You know. You know. Get past the squirrelly thoughts.

    When you’re in dharma, you’re living your purpose, you know the reason you’re here on this big blue sphere and you’re living it, you’re digging your passion, you’re putting forth in the world whatever it is that juices you up in all the good ways.

    What’s your juicy passion?

    Be-Bop. Riffing on all things political. Well-thumbed books. Cowboys. Vintage fashions. Watching golf on TV. Dagwood sandwiches.

    Who cares, you say.

    Be-bop loving, cowboy-riding, political fashionistas who golf, read, and nosh on gargantuan sandwiches.

    You! That’s who.

    You’re doing your thing, you’re singing your birdsong, you’re tweeting your tune, you’re blogging your big bad be-bopping bottom and you’re not taking any of it with you when you’re gone because you’ve left it out here, where it matters.

    That kid in you who believed in the word possible, the one you drop-kicked to Fantasyland when you skidded into Realityville and possible became impossible; when you started paying the rent oh, that—that kid in you wants you to grab those dreams again. Not the bad ones; not the dreams about the wall heater lurching after you—the good ones. The ones where your mission was music, or tiddlywinks, or driving a miniature ball down a swath of green. Pull those dreams on like old pajamas, the snuggly kind with feet, and go forth. Make your mark. Piss on your hydrants. You can do it.

    You can.

    Listen to the voice inside that says you can, and ignore the other one, the one with the breath of a thousand dead dreams.