My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [54]
“Wait, what’s tomorrow? I thought you didn’t leave for your tour until next week,” Angie says.
“I don’t. I’ve got a dinner with a retailer tomorrow who carries my books.”
“Are you nervous about talking to them?” There’s clicking in the background, and I can’t tell if Angie’s checking her e-mail or initiating a launch sequence.
“I get the feeling I’ll be okay. I mean, I’ve been putting in a lot of effort on the whole Jenaissance thing, so I’ve got some great topics of conversation. For example, you know my friend Gina? Well, her dad’s this famous blues musician, so I set up a time to talk with him about why I hate jazz.”
“Yeah? How was that? You still hate jazz?”
“Actually, yes. But now I know why I hate it. Gina’s dad explained how jazz doesn’t really follow the standard format of orchestral music, which is four movements which go from theme, to theme development, to buildup, to the fourth movement, which wraps it all up. Symphonies totally make sense to me now, whereas modern jazz is harder to follow because it doesn’t stick to typical linear progression and I’m all about a good story, you know? I need a beginning, a middle, and an end. I have a better appreciation for how technical jazz is, even if I don’t like it.”
“Cool! Can you eat waffles again?”
“Had ’em for breakfast, baby! Anyway, you know what’s funny? I’m totally fascinated by the blues now. I used to hate them, too, because I always thought they were totally depressing.”
Angie laughs. “Hence the name.”
“Hence the name. But Gina gave me this huge box series of DVDs by Martin Scorsese about the birth of the blues, and I’ve been so drawn in by them. I can’t stop watching. Plus, Mr. Barge explained to me that they started off as slave chants and progressed into what they are now. Men would sing about how much their woman mistreated them while they were sweating in the fields, but really the lyrics were just code about how awful the foreman was. Workers used the blues to express themselves in situations where speaking the truth was too dangerous.”
“That actually does sound interesting!” I can still hear her tapping away on her keyboard. Her ability to pay attention to so many things at once astounds me, particularly if she’s, like, repositioning satellites and not just checking comments on her blog.
“That’s what I’m saying! So I was sitting there in Gina’s kitchen with my notepad, all Jen Lancaster, Girl Reporter, but the minute Mr. Barge started telling stories, I put my pen down and just listened. Fletch was with me and we were both . . . I guess enchanted, for lack of a better word. Enraptured? I mean, we started off talking about music, but as he told us about his past, I began to pick up on stuff that blew my mind. Back when he was touring in the sixties, he wasn’t allowed to stay in the hotels he’d play in. He had to check into guesthouses on the edge of town, which led to a discussion of the civil rights movement. He mentioned how his friend Doc did this and how Doc did that, and I was all, ‘Hold the phone. Do you mean you knew Dr. Martin Luther King? ’ And he did.”
“Holy shit!”
“And then—then! Mr. Barge tells Gina to show us some of her scrapbooks, and very matter-of-factly, Gina pulls out photos of when she was a kid hanging out in the recording studio with the Jacksons—”
“As in Michael?”107 Angie’s always had a soft spot for Michael. She’s tried to turn her kids onto him, but they somehow can’t grasp that the creepy sunglass guy with the blanket-covered kids used to be the most beloved man on the planet.
(Sidebar: My theory is if you grew up in the eighties, there’re a couple of icons you just can’t help but love, no matter what stupid shit they pull. George Michael comes to mind. Have as many public bathroom trysts as you want, buddy! We’re still pulling for