Good music is like a religious experience. By “religious” I mean having your lungs crushed by a lyric or note, and feeling like you’re on to something sublime and so rare that you believe only people who shared your soul could have the capacity to understand, and in that shattering moment you feel like you’ve merged with this music, and that the particles in your body are being edited, as though you’ve been teleported through a transpod and come out The Fly on the other end.
When I was in college in San Diego I wanted to meet the man of my dreams during one of these religious experiences, and what better place to find twoo wuv than the place where souls are most open and receptive?
I was taking a Jazz History class and required to attend live jazz shows. In the Gaslamp District of San Diego was this place called Dizzy’s, and one jazzy night I got all gussied up. I put on a cute black dress, tied a red ribbon in my hair, grabbed my favorite coat from the closet and went to Dizzy’s.
When I arrived, I grabbed my coat from the backseat and threw it over my arm, and walked. I could already hear the brass from half a block away, and I thought: this could be the night I meet him, the one. Am I the only girl who does that? Holds that silly feeling that maybe, here (wherever here is), I’ll meet him?
It’s a bit puerile, but fuck it.
Inside Dizzy’s, I felt a slight chill so I pulled on my jacket. I whipped out my little notebook (so that I could write about the concert for my music class) and I listened. I let my soul open so I could feel that slight mingling with the stars in the heavens. Then I got a whiff of cat piss.
My roommate, Bette, had an unusually large-testicle’d cat that she called “Big Poppa.” Big poppa was an outdoor/indoor cat who liked to drain his nut sack into the furry, loose pussys that roamed the block in Normal Heights; it seemed he liked to come home and drain his bladder on my clothing.
I knew something smelled strange, but I didn’t want to admit it was me. I had just walked in and didn’t want to leave. Dammit, I came here to meet my son-of-a-bitch soul mate who, might I add, was taking his sweet-ass time finding me on earth. Where the hell was he, anyway? Africa? I’m right here, pal. Ma’ can’t ring the triangle for eternity. You come and get it, for fuck’s sake or you’re going to be assed out.
I sat in cat-urine stink for one entire song before leaving. I knew that others had probably smelled it, and I knew that if my soul mate smelled Big Poppa’s piss he might avoid me.
I don’t know why, five years later, I’m suddenly reminded of Big Poppa’s bladder issues, but it got me to thinking that perhaps beautiful, live music is one more place to meet the loves of our lives–whether friends or lovers. I guess I must search Ventura for a venue which plays good, live, fresh music.
Published by permission. Visit Mari's blog at http://www.mari-go-round.com/
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