Shit on Shit (SoS)
What prompted me to plop again is the SoS exchange between a renowned jazz pianist and a group of Tan Sris in a bar near my place. The pianist is a summa cum laude graduate of the Berkely School Music and is a noted musician in the world of Jazz. I didn’t know at first that the group was made up of Tan Sris. But I knew that they are from the upper class because they were a few articles of clothing less from being taken as Sultans. Anyway, for the benefit of those who don’t care like me, a Tan Sri is the second most senior Federal title awarded to individuals in Malaysia.
The reason why I highlighted their achievements is to stress how incongruent their pre-homo sapien behavior is to their social stature. What happened that night was totally uncalled for and unexpected from such revered people. It’s like watching monkeys throw shit at each other. It’s funny to watch; but it’s not funny anymore when you get hit by stray shit.
I was enjoying my Saturday night with some friends in this cozy jazz bar. It was my first time to hear this trio play. It took me two to three songs to judge that they are really great musicians. I told myself that the 30 Ringgit (8.50 USD) was well worth it. The bassist was perfectly plucking the right notes. The drummer was superbly beating to the songs’ tempo. And the pianist—well he was the one who performed most specially that night. His virtuoso and impassioned playing made me and my friends literally agape. But he should have stuck to playing the piano only.
After their fourth piece, the pianist introduced the band members and right after that, he commenced his tirade against the patrons who were chatting while they were playing. His ranting was forceful. It was something like blah blah blah blah with a capital “B”, and his final two words, “Shut up”, was in all caps and with three exclamation points. I consciously froze in my seat after hearing this, lest that I make any rustling noises.
After playing a few songs, the pianist grabbed again the microphone and commented that the louder they play, the louder this group of people chat. (It was already obvious that he was referring to the Tan Sris.) Of course, the Tan Sris being unable to swallow sarcasm served even on a golden plate, reacted by jacking up their voices 20 decibels louder. And this was when I started hearing the notes coated with shit.
The interchange of shit-flavored sharps and flats started to ruin my laid-back Saturday.
To top it all off, the Tan Sris handed a note to the pianist and demanded him to make an apology. But the pianist said that he doesn’t have a song entitled “Apology” in his repertoire. A couple of minutes later, the Tan Sris raucously left their table and one of them shouted something like, “This is not America…!” Bwahahahaha! That statement is subject to lots of “misinterpretations” and I don’t care about it.
Who is at fault? Who started it? Was the pianist excessively provocative in his rebukes? Does he have the right to reprimand his audience if he was being paid to entertain? Were the Tan Sris talking too loudly that they were disturbing the musicians? We would have different opinions; our differences would spawn death and destruction; and this vicious cycle will continue for ages.
"Mea culpa. I’m sorry." This line could have spared millions from misery. Since in the real world, the ego comes before the chicken, we can’t do anything but sulk in despair over life’s overflowing shittiness.
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