Round Two

Q: What's the difference between a rock 'n roll musician and a jazz musician?

A: A rock 'n roll musician plays three chords to an audience of thousands. A jazz musician plays thousands of chords to an audience of three.

The bitter reality behind this old quip shone through late last week when I received the disappointing news that my entry into the Nabisco Oreo and Milk Jingle Contest was not chosed as one of the five finalist renditions. At stake was a $10,000 grand prize, or at least the free trip to New York City to compete in person. I thought we had it all -- a unique and catchy acapella jazz arrangement, a quartet of skillful and attractive young singers, a dynamic performance (replete with cute choreography) caught on tape, a large list of supporters voting for us online... the list goes on. But what I am left with is, perhaps, a pill I've been meant to swallow for a while now: in spite of my best intentions, nobody really gives a rat's tail about jazz. Except, maybe, jazz people.

I taped my rejection letter on the wall of my bedroom as a reminder of how it feels and how eager I am to pick up the pieces and start again. I'll have to, anyhow, because my budding jingle career has hit a number of other snares. The weeks following the sale of the Holiday Skating Center jingle -- my first real success -- were devoid of any blog entries because, in short, nothing happened. I had two other customers in Victorville, both of whom had convinced me they were going to buy. Yet after waiting weeks and weeks and churning out multiple editions of jingles that were well worth a buy-out from the first draft, I'm left with the proverbial cold feet. My very first potential customer, who had ignited that strange and magical spark of hope the first morning I set foot in the alien terrain of meeting cold call clients face to face, has decided finally not to advertise on radio. And the other fellow, a gentleman in charge of advertising for a large and powerful car dealership, suddenly saw fit to stop returning my calls, but not until we were on the verge of closing the deal.

And so, my friend, I hope you'll forgive me for not being in touch these past several weeks. I was waiting for a train that never came. And now I'm broke, without the prospects that emboldened me when I dug cautiously into my savings account for this month's rent.

So I'm starting from scratch tomorrow. The location I've picked out for my next adventure is Oceanside, California, a sleepy suburb of San Diego largely populated, it seems, by U.S. military personnel. Like last time, I have little idea what to expect, although I drove through there two months ago to drop a friend off. Just like last time, I'll have my two boomboxes and an abundant store of batteries and cassette tapes. Victorville was far enough northeast that I could get a good homespun radio signal. At 5:00 tomorrow morning -- a little over five hours from now -- I'll try my luck to the south.

As a consolation prize, Oreo is sending me and my fellow performers a "complimentary gift basket." No need to hold my breath. I'm sick of that damned cookie anyway.