Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Ten

"Nice presentation," I said to the woman toting a tray of artfully arranged pigs-in-a-blanket by my piano.

Museums usually bore the shit out of me. Especially art museums. Not enjoying art is definitely a character flaw I possess. The Jazz Record Mart is my museum of art. Ben and I spend, or I should say spent, hours flipping through the bins. I'd get a history lesson each time.

"Monk, now there was one freak," Ben said.

"How can you say that? He was brilliant."

"I'm not saying he wasn't brilliant, I'm just saying he was one badass freak. He had it going on though. Hangin' with Bird and Diz, Bud Powell ... Bop was his thing when it started. But the thing about Monk was his compositions were bad, man. Divine influence."

"'Round Midnight,' 'Blue Monk'?" I added what I knew.

"'Straight No Chaser.' That's the one I wish I'd penned." Ben stopped for a moment and seemed to get lost in thoughts about the good ole days, but then he snapped out of it, and went on to tell me about the Kansas City blues, West Coast jazz, and why the Blue Note was such a big deal.

Without notice, my memory was shattered by a couple of art patrons standing before a large painting of nothing in particular.

"Well then, you tell me what the hell it is," a portly man with glasses and a goatee said to his haughty wife.

"Oh, Stanton. Don't you recognize the cosmic relation as a direct expression of the cosmos? I feel the rhythm. I see the material reality with which the artist dug deep to express his subjectivity."

"That's just great, Celeste. Are you going to finish that pig-in-a-blanket?" Stanton had his priorities straight.

As usual, I found the conversation about the art abundantly more interesting than the art itself. It's always enjoyable to watch people read into things. Infer what one artist meant by using this color or that image, or the hidden meaning behind the artist's life-ending car crash.

On the surface, this crowd was different than the one I was accustomed to. Tuxedos, elegant gowns, jewelry that was, well ... real. Dig a little deeper and things weren't as different. These people had the same hang-ups and problems that the drunks at Andy's Place had. But, unlike those at Andy's, these people were able to harbor, deflect, and protect that special ache of loneliness or sadness. Money tends to be a good insulator. The more you have the less you feel.

Before I got too annoyed, I grabbed a plastic vessel of white wine from yet another passing tray, sat in solace at the piano, and got ready to provide an atmosphere of contrived, shallow, and meaningless music.