"She looked left, she looked right, but Daryl was nowhere to be seen. Should she forfeit her music lesson to return the book she held so tightly in her hand? Daryl had written her name on it, but no address."(Pretty bad, huh? And maybe that's not a book.)
Disguised as a cello case, the young CIA operative confused the young emigre, who after all did not play the cello and wondered how she came to be carrying one.
"Oh please bus hurry this guitar case is just breaking my back because it's substituting as a suitcase!"
"He was standing by the highway/ with a sign that just said "mother"/ when he heard a driver comin', 'bout a half a mile away/ So he raised the sign up higher/ so no decent soul could miss it/ Ten degrees and getting colder down by Boulder dam today"(Gordon Lightfoot)
Which way to Juilliard?
Bus Stop, SundayHe goesI stayNo one shares his cello.(with apologies to the Yardbirds or some other late 60's British group)
Oh she's on her way to Carnegie Hall where she will play her first solo! I'm lame and I know it.V
"Play me a tune," the waif had said, leading him along the dusty streets of Bessemer Street. Yet he had no song to give, no notes to play, his talent blocked from his mind as he cursed aloud and blushed while the girl flicked a glance back.They turned one hurried corner and then another, a maze of brick walls enclosing the backs of bistros and cafes, the smell of mocha and biscotti flowing all around, distracting his hungry belly as his eyes lost sight of the tiny waif around the next bend.He hurried forward and found a brick wall. No doors. No small nook where the girl could have gone. At his feet, a sheet of note paper rested. He stooped and lifted the page, his mind suddenly filled with those bereft chords he has longed for these past many weeks. Within his mind, the debate on whether the waif was real or not ebbed and flowed with indecision. After a moment, he shrugged. It didn't matter now. He had his songs again."Thank you little one," he murmured. His case popped open. His bow string slid along the strings. Along with the smells of mocha and biscotti, his muse wailed along the bricks walls in song all the way to Bessemer Street.
Having refused to backstop Pachelbel's "Canon in D" ever again, she set out with her guidebook in search of a new career as a pop-folk cellist. If she could only make her way to L.A., she was sure that she could find a gig if she hung out at The Troubadour long enough. The only real question remaining was how to work her way 3000 miles to the Promised Land.
After moving to New York City from California, Brad spent his days auditioning for one gig after the next with no success.Just as he was leaving, discouraged, from the last audition of the day, he hailed down a taxi. AS he was getting in, a man--clearly in a hurry-rushed up, ascertained the direction they were headed, and asked to share the cab with the musician.As fate would have it, this man was well connected to the music industry, and before the end of the shared cab ride, the musician was offered an opportunity to audition for an outfit that provides jingles for commercials.The audition was a success. The musician went on to become wildly popular and always in demand.Whenever he was asked to what he attributed his success, his reply was, "Fate." That one cab drive changed his life forever.The End.
Down to his last $100 bucks, James was determined to make it across the sea of traffic, where he hoped to land his next job. Actually, it would be his first job playing guitar publicly. He knew that if he could get this D. Edelstein to listen to him play, it would be the beginning of a new start in his so far pathetic resemblance of a life. Little did he know that D. Edelstein had already hired the young man in her mind... He was her long lost nephew that she'd been looking for, for years.Ms. Edelstein audibly caught her breath at the very sight of him. It was like staring into the eyes of her brother, when he was alive. She had to handle this carefully. It had taken her years to locate him & she wasn't going to risk losing him again....
Sure am glad I don't play a damn piano!
Oh I'm no good at these but it's fun to read everyone else's
"on the road again . . ."