How I gave a concert pianist the clap

 I like to think that I have a healthy appreciation for all kinds of music. From electronica to acoustic rock, from mushy love songs to angry hateful ones, from Broadway musicals to hardcore gangsta rap, my tastes are as varied as my similes are bad. I’ve even recently begun getting into the underground indie-folk-dubstep-skacapella scene. I can always find something to enjoy in every genre, so as long as it’s not country.

Still, my unabashed love for Ke$ha and Lady Gaga may throw my preferences in doubt for the more sophisticated music connoisseurs out there. To prove that I do not have an inclination to always listen to horrific pop music, I make it a point to always name-drop various bands that “you’ve probably never heard of,” that may or may not even exist.

That’s why when an Artist Series involves a musical act, I go out of my way to be in attendance. What better way to boost my rep than to mingle and discuss internationally-renowned artists in a snobby British accent? One such occasion came with the performance of pianist Jerome Rose this past week, which was attended by anyone who is anyone. (Oh, you didn’t go? Well, it’s probably because you’re lame. I’m actually glad you didn’t, in fact.)

It is common knowledge that for every Artist Series students are encouraged to dress up like little kids on Easter morning. Now, I have something to confess: I have a rather peculiar puttin’-on-the-ritz routine. First, I take a two-hour shower (or until I use up all of Trustees’s hot water, whichever comes first) and then slide down the hall in only my underwear, socks, and dress shirt, at least two of which have Spider-Man on them. The next step is to put on way too much cologne and pick out a tie that doesn’t match. Lastly, I blast “Sharp Dressed Man” and dance until covered in sweat. Repeat.

Once I finished the sacred ritual, I was off to listen to the musical stylings of Mr. Rose. Dressed in my favorite vest and a yellow tie with pigs on it, I was feeling suave as could be. And, though my seat was practically in the back of the sophomore section, it was a breath of fresh air compared to the cage in the balcony I’m normally constrained to for chapel. This time, I could at least make out what gender the performer was.

Before I had time to wonder exactly how they rolled in a second one-ton grand piano, the virtuoso launched into “Rhapsody No. 1” of Op. 79 by Brahms (my second favorite, only behind the Bohemian one). He performed the piece in B-minor, which I guess is all right if you’re into that kind of thing. After a few minutes of beautiful pianistmanship, he played the piece to a close with unparalleled skill. The final chord was punctuated with booming applause and much anticipation for what was to come.

Upon finishing the rhapsodies, Rose calmly bowed and strode offstage and through the doors, only to return mere moments later. I like to think that he was just pumping himself up for the five-part piece that would be coming next, or perhaps scolding himself for almost thinking about playing one of the measures forte instead of fortissimo. Either way, he returned to more applause and excited whispers.

The following sonata, composed of several very Italian-sounding words, was flawless. Rose once again ended the song in dramatic fashion, whipping his hands away from the last notes and letting the tones ring out for a moment. After a few seconds, I realized that there was no applause. “Yes, this is my chance,” I thought. “I can be the clap-starter, me!” A full three or four seconds passed again, and I brought my hands together with a loud, meaty slap. “I did it; this one is mine!” Encouraged by my victory, I clapped my hands together a few more times with vigor. Then I heard a cricket chirp and a tumbleweed rolled in front of me. I was the only one applauding. To make things worse, Rose subtly brought his hand up as if to say, “Please, do you not know how this works?” I sank into my seat faster than the Titanic.

From that moment onward, whenever a song came to its conclusion, I sat on my hands and gritted my teeth. No longer would I be tempted to be the first one to clap, and I definitely wasn’t going to start the standing ovation. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you never, under any circumstances, celebrate.

CMT: Country Music Torture

Being low on blood is not a good thing (if you ever find yourself bleeding profusely from several orifices, I suggest you get that looked at). Because this vital fluid is inimitable and donated blood is a life saving necessity for millions, I give away my primo blood as frequently as I can. Just imagine, if you ever cut your arm off or something, the doctors could potentially be placing my blood in your body. That's a neat thought, isn't it? You would be, like, 3% cooler.

Anyway, I was at a blood drive a few months ago where I intended to give a double red blood cell donation, which basically just means the process would be twice as long as usual. I walked into the room, becoming aware that there was a large screen on which something was being projected, and began filling out a questionnaire - one of those designed to ensure that your blood is free of viruses and disease, that asks stuff like, "Have you ever had sex with a hypodermic needle?" I couldn't recall that I had, so I checked "No".

The next step was generally a painless prick of the finger to test the iron of my blood. However, this time, I think the poor woman misread the direction of "gently press against finger" as "stab violently into bone, bruising finger for three days." At least she tried to make up for it with a compliment: "Your iron looks really good, sweety." Uh, thanks?

"It's a little piece of paradise," I heard being sung. "Way out here in the woods." I reclined in what would be my seat for the next hour or so. "There's always something going on," I cringe. "Down in the trailerhood." I squirm in my seat. Yes, country music videos - the bane of my existence, the ever-present mucus in my ears, the spoiled milk in the refrigerator of the music industry - were being displayed mockingly on a jumbo-tron screen worthy of Jerry Jones.

I grab the nurse violently by the collar and scream, "I meant to check 'yes'! I did it! My blood is unclean! Get me out of here, now! Please!" I snap back to reality. "Okay, looks good," the woman informs me politely. She had pierced my arm with a pencil-width needle without me even noticing. I sat silently and prayed for the vampiric machine to suck the life out of me before I was subjected to any more songs about abusive husbands, cowboys, or tractors. "God, I don't ask you for much, but if I could just pass out for like half-an-hour..." My prayer went unanswered.

Feeling as if I were being water-boarded, I began to meditate and focus solely on the changing color of my forearm, to keep my mind off the pain: tan to red, red to purple, purple to - is this Reba!? "Come on, think of a good song... 'Once upon a time there was light in my life, but now there's only love in the dark. Nothing I can say; total eclipse of my achy breaky heart, I just don't think it'd understand.'" I emitted a scream of ultimate suffering. The poison had overtaken my subconscious.

Upon finishing the donation, I walked numbly over to the refreshment area to to get a snack (if you don't fill up pretty quickly, you tend to get a little fainty).  As I gazed at the abomination before me, I gobbled down Nutty Bars like Snooki would pickles. I felt utterly desensitized, like a young soldier who returns home utterly broken by the horrors of war. No longer was I disgusted. No longer was I even human; I was a zombie.

I stammered out the door and to my car. The engine revved and the radio clicked into action. "I don't know how I can do without - I just need you now." I didn't change the station - in fact, I hummed the tune. I pulled out of the parking lot with a smile on my face. "Ya know, I could get used to this." I then drove off a cliff and died. The end.