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Go Play Shit Out ‘dat Superbaby

Tone deaf, tin ear. Whichever best applies could be worked out, but; Doctor Sax was starting to suspect that Stannie, his biggest meal ticket at a thousand a pop every week for however long it takes for Stannie to gain saxophone mastery, had one or both of these problems. And he knew that even though Stannie was in many ways bullheaded and ignorant, he was not stupid and sooner or later it would hit him that there was no path at all for him to master saxophone given these incurable maladies. Sax looked deeply down into his third of what would end up being many beers. The fast hot saxophone solo being played on the bandstand of the tiny members-only after hours club he visited nearly every night, wound down his arms around his hands his fingers wrapped and heated the glass top to bottom and between the beer and the music he knew that by the time the place closed he would be ready for tomorrow morning’s weekly full-day special sax lesson for Stannie. The sax bleats popping hot drum bombs fast piano pounding and bass whoop-sheets blowing behind him swirled the beer ‘round yah ‘round and ‘round and the surface of the liquid rippled from the middle like the glasses of water rippled from the middle when the tyranno-monster began closing on the people holed up where they thought they’d always be safe in the movie Gigundo-co-lipteeth-au-jagged, which had scared Dr. Sax out of his skin back when he was a not-too-young man with just three seasons of active saxophonic pedagogy under his vintage sixties’ hippie-belt. If you can drink a beer you got what it takes to bleat up a storm on any size of sax. The beer’s surface tension went on quivering from the sound waves moving across the glass top the eardrum and of course the horn way back behind that must be there because of one, the sound of the sax all around, mainly and, two, the sax being played was unseen in front or to the sides so must be way back behind; and sounds good enough to have a sip over. See sipping beer makes the sax growls wander. The glass ring atop the glass came up the bottom of the ring against his lip the tiltback with no-spill so there must be a mouthful because the bartop’s dry but for here and there a bed of condensation maybe mixed with some nearly impossible to measure level of alcohol content, because; the glass ring is all around the whole world when it’s tipped all of Doctor Sax’s world becomes the precise balance of angle of tip in degrees depth of remaining beer in the glass is the bartender going to automatically refill that depends on the history of number of times visited this barroom before amount of tips left previously as a percent of total value of beer consumed per visit before and the binary on-off one or zero yes or no dead or alive sink or swim up or down back or forth type of tips given across previous visits, of which type there are two possible choices as, one, tip given without thought by drunk grab and run random percentage drunk person’s tiplevel, or, two, carefully calculated to two decimal points’ precision, always the same from visit to visit rock-hard sober as a judge of the supreme court tip which can be either cheapskate level or spendthrift level. See see see, it’s true beerdrinking does it, the band’s totally raging. Additionally, the amount of revolving credit debt held by the customer can be used as a simple occam’s razor type signal switch; high debt, refill drinks without being asked, or, low debt, wait until asked and even then, maybe maybe, baby; the bartender pushed a new full beer glass against Doctor Sax’ simply bottom-damp empty as the bassman hit one false note after the other but because of the superfleet nature of the tune, all notes are passing notes so no no no bad. The empty snatched away by virtue of the bartender’s handgrab; the new beer gripped up by a circular standard barroom drunk’s issue handsqueeze; and the glass came up back and emptying toward the wide lightless quiet flowing gut; and the glass went down—ut uh, the behindmyback saxband is again crescendoing; the focus on the last inch of lowering of the sipped-back beerglass is lost and it half-dropped a millimeter to the hard bartop. This all done by the use of godgiven hands working properly hands that grip and grab up and open and let drop things of various sizes and shapes; this being only one of the miraculous appendages of the human frame; God-designed, the first set of finger fluttering muscular palm-driven grabbing things necessary to work properly as intended if one even dares have a glimmer of desire to play through any size or variation of the big brass family-sax. As a matter of fact all things considered, only a child would be foolish enough to dare pick up such a forbiddingly difficult instrument for the first time; an insane person or a child only would dare; and these are wise brainholders indeed for two totally separate reasons; the nine year old knows without knowing that anyone older picking up this thing will never ever be able to learn it so they better do it now before they’re old enough to know better if they are at all to succeed, and, two, the insane might as well pick it up as anything else because an endeavor in the spectrum from sax playing to lumberjacking they will believe they are doing it perfectly from minute one they master without mastering because only they know in their hearts that mastery is handed down from birth yes, just reach down and grab it mastery of this and that and everything as a matter of fact is drifting past everyone’s calm bark canoe drifting down time issued by God but the insanely sober will not dare look over the gunwales for fear of the fifty five story drop off the balcony of the condo they have always regretted signing the contract to buy for, but they think the regret is just for the cost of the HOA they were fool enough to never inquire about, when in reality the real cause is their dread fear of heights, which in fact is quite deadly; high HOA fees are not. Tip. Anyway; the tap of the drop of the beer in the glass let the tender of the bar think mistakenly that the dropper of the glass wants something. So be ready do not look up do not after having summoned waitstaff of any kind because they will think you are annoyed and they are stepping into the next confrontation due them in their life and may even spit piss or ejaculate in the product they next serve you, believing that this next confrontation may very well be that special one for which bonus points toward heaven are awarded if they prevail which is of course non-solid vaporous thinking; but every new instant ‘round the world, unreal becomes real becomes the result of whatever happens next between the involved creative beings which is always first and final draft and if slipped up can be as deadly as a shitty heart surgeon chatting up bitcoin in the OR to their adoring staff, leaving the actual slicing and dicing to the vagaries of the always-worked-so-far traditional justification, Doctor DeBakey, muscle memory being fully mistrusted being included in the folly of distraction problem textfile number one hundred and one in the book look it up—You call me, Doc? What can I get ‘ya?
Say in the cloud of a l laugh man, I think I’ll have a shot of the hard stuff. That’s why I called you over in case it’s on your mind.
Huh? Hey. No, I didn’t know you had called. I am sorry to have kept you waiting did I keep you waiting long I hope not but tell you what since I did the shot’s on the house the house the house, hey hey hey—my God that sax played up on the stand tonight, lord God, he’s s got some slickfeeted beans. Who’s that guy Doc I bet you taught him you taught every sax player who’s any kind of yakity-sax player blowin’ through town for about the last fifty how to get around the old brass big-belled buttoned-up curvytube all sizes from bass to piccolo huppity hey! I am hot. Didn’t even see me go over and get you yer shot at the same time I was right here telling you the latest superlong nonsensical sentence, the kind that are said everynight to and from bothshores of this cabinet top labeled trinkejo in Esperanto, which dead language I chose because the English bar could be taken to mean bath-soap, oh wow; there goes that solo down the otherside of the summit, the first of what will be ten progressively higher and steeper summits, which fact I know even though he is improvising because all times are really one and if we believe that hard enough behind a super-jolt of good schnapps, we already know exactly what will happen so why pay any attention at all to whatever actually does? For your trouble here’s a hit of Esperanto; Dankon, ĉi tie, al ĉi tiu starigo, kion mi farus sen tia asentaro, ofte ofte akiri bonajn aferojn por eltiri mian cerbon, por ke mi parolu kaj prezentiĝi por la nokto kaj tage antaŭen, mi eĉ ne povas diveni. And, since guessing is a time-wasting exercise for the frustrated super-emotional lower columns and rows of humanity, which levels of any denomination’s entombment walls are the cheapest in the house. Goes to show. But hear that saxman all behind belting and bleating while keeping the rickety thing in tune all the while. My students should aspire to this level of playing. The fingers fly the teeth and tongue vibrate the lungs pump and blow and to boot to boot the foot probably taps in time all wonderfully synchronized and the mind’s all wired down to this flesh and blood temporarily animated tool to make whatever sound at all the whirlycued brightassed greybaby plugged in his head thinks sounds good mighty good plentygood supergood oh oh oh the shot’s gone already hey tap the beerglass down it made the last shot come it should work again thank God you’re a quick study oldSax that’s what it takes for both you and all your students to face down the terrifyingly recalcitrant air-column wrapped in brass. It takes first; fingers that work; non-arthritic; unsprained; harelinefractureless; long; supple; full of healthy nerves blood vessels lymphatic vessels clean and unscarred. Got to finger many buttons brazed and wired and intertubed together on pivots look at the key mechanism of the sax almost brainlike in complexity but; already figured out and built for us thank the Virgin herself. To have to design it and build it and all before even thinking about playing it, thank God for the development of mass production God bless Henry the Fordman way up in heaven himself. Never even drove one of his cars is that a little known fact or a lie? This does bear analysis. The topmost element of any size of sax is the reed. The quivering quavering melody rocketing into my ass from behind here begins at the reed. The beer gets tossed back through the lips swished and swallowed; the reed gets pushed back between the lips is tongue licked and blownthrough. See? This analysis is sweetly worthwhile. Because from this if you ascend to thirty-thousand feet you will see the circle is only closed if you drink a beer, then bleat the sax. There’s no need to anal-sis this to death and present it in fifteen different ways across a fifteen page span of logical prose. Take it in swallow it down then blow on through and repeat. There’s one missing logical bit but it won’t crash the system. Nothing is perfect. Only God. The child looking down where the adults don’t bother sees the four-petaled flower where all the others have five. Why is it proper? Huh hah hah hah look it up. Anybleat Wayfair’s a shit name for a retail chain. Only chosen because the paperwork can all be changed at once with a single global command each time the firm submerges packs the money to some offshore gamble-ship recognized as a country in its own right. Then let things blow over issue the global command start over and start to pack in the next crimina-moneybundle. But the next piece of the sax is strapped onto the reed; the mouthpiece. There is one school of thought that says the reed’s strapped to the mouthpiece. There’s another that says the mouthpiece is strapped to the reed. The first implies the reed is dominant. The second implies the mouthpiece is dominant. In general this illustrates the rule applied across all sexually reproduced species that the strapped upon is the dominant and the one which is strapped is the submissive. Use imagination when the beer glass empties and it is time to tap. Be sure to tap the same as every other time before. It brought the tap-meister several times already and yeh here he is.
Beer, Doc? he says swiping away the empty, and please note he came already armed with a refill. This could mean different things considering. He may have formed the impression that his customers are just shit caked spraypainted field-sheep of habit fit only to be given attention at shear-time. The sheep sit at the bar all season wool growing waiting and being paid no mind. The sheep are just systems for wool-growing that are each one without exception totally expendable. The bar lined up and down and across with beer-swiggers. Exchanging his or her beer for money is the only aim of the woolshearing barstool hopping proprietress, or proprietor, which labels apply depending on their species, if they reproduce by sexual union or not, if they are strapped on or strapped upon or a number of other sociological triggers—
Shot too, Doc? Hey, here you go.
My God taken for granted again figuratively pissed-upon; I’m slung a shot without asking and his ask was just a formality because this tap-meister thinks he got me sussed. Hey you smoking mother nature—this is a bust. He deftly avoids being corrected being told hey I don’t want this hey I got work tomorrow hey I came to hear the band hey not to get fucked up; what a term what a term what a funny funny term this fucked up with quite a sparkling bead-string of interconnected derivations, but—need to stay on track. Sling it down chase with a beer mouth move the limbs in and out and live through the wave of alcoholic shimmer radiating out from the center to the fingertip and wave them back at yourself to remind yourself of the flow of the topic being spread vomit-like across these fifteen leaves of quite prime foolscap; the neck leads down from the sax’s oral-bits. The sound flows from the oral sucky sucky hot down the neck to down deeper but—that is for later. The beer flows from the oral greedy drinkback down the fleshly overheated simian breed’s classically made head-stalk hole to down deeper yet still and all, but—this is very insignificant. But see if you can send your mouth of beer flowing back down way through your head-stalk you can do the same with the sax-blow. Just let it happen yah you know it’s what all the students don’t get they look even thicker when they’re told when you stop trying so hard to do it is when it will start to happen all by itself and all you will have to do is rock back your La-Z-Boy sink back and listen. Plus it is worth noting that thank God you got to the point where it picked up took off and went on its own because you are just the first stage of the missile and by the time you burn out you will have hopefully pushed the whole fat bleat bleat rocking rolling saxophone up to fast enough to catch the ratchet rise up the midsummer coasterhill get to the top where you drop away spent and off on its most mystical superhigh journey the whole mess of brazed brass hooked to brazed brass and more brazed-up brass and brassy brassy go—out the big hardhammered superpolished bell it goes and there you are on the floor, used up. And all this for just one single perfect note that’s gone as soon as it comes. Hey, a whole song you expected? How green is your hole, student—how very green indeed, to expect that so easily! You require many many many more lessons before you can even spell the word song. You are still mere midseason sheep. Not fit to be sheared yet not fit. No not. No money in you yet. None. But it’s time to downtap to get the fill-meister to bring one more last top-off-the-evening purposed special one for the road yes road road road, beer.
Here he is so think fast; One for the road, must be said before he speaks. That way when the inevitable next full glass is slid atop the bar, it has been chosen not shoved on the sheep even sheep for the shearing must exercise initiative and walk away with the pride-glow of having done so. The fill-meister whose title changes with the ripple of the band’s piano-geek, says, Sure thing. Here you go, before turning away not wanting to show his slightly flushed up skin-ripple which though imperceptible, is still there and now he feels that perhaps he has not been serving just another member of the sheep herd, but an individual with purpose and with what it takes to achieve it, which type he must quickly cull from the herd; otherwise, to sum up the situation facing him, it is now check time for this critter. Across the bar he stands before a glowscreen hung with punchkeys and taps in random patterns it seems, too fast to be able to possibly keep track but, this ritual is performed flawlessly hundreds of times a night. The check is produced; it is gripped up and the start button pushed; the sheep-shears whine; and the bloody business begins. Off the barstool demands routine; out the wallet demands routine, too; as his hands flash over the computerized register the last but not least dimension of the ascension to virtuoso-level sax playing, is the patterned pushing so fast it seems random but each push has a purpose a name and a meaning and more and more to it, depending on how deeply into the documentation you dare to delve; thirty two keys stud the body of each sax; nine fingers are used to press the sax keys; this is next near impossible to manage. How does anyfucker ever learn saxophone, anyplace? But if he keeps throwing up money we’ll keep on mopping the floor clean.

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