Non Sequitur

Two, that's right, TWO non sequitur photos from the July 4th parade in Round Top, Texas (a stone's throw from Dancing Oaks)

Experimental Spazz

Honestly. I really do think of myself as culturally open-minded. I enjoy potentially dangerous foods, have no problem immersing in the unknown, and generally appreciate an eclectic experience. However, this was challenged, SEVERELY, yesterday as I experienced what the Houston Press called experimental jazz.

To be clear the venue, Super Happy Fun Land, should have been the first indication that perhaps this evening would push the boundaries of a euphemistic "experimental" but my fellow Morehouse alumnus Brian (an amazingly open-minded Memphis native and engineer who braves Nelly Furtado and Three Six Mafia and Indian food in a single sitting) was in town for the evening.

The Heights is a notoriously counter-culture mecca, and the home to the aforementioned Super Happy Fun Land. After a short time trying to find the place among the small ranch homes, a bright green, well-light home made its presence known. We hop out of the car and entered a bright red door. As I make my way through the door, the first thing I notice is a mountain of Connect Four, Othello, Twister, and other boardgames marketed to those not-yet worried about the SATs. Opposite this was a corner replete with My Little Ponies and clown toys...children's toys. This should have been my first indication that this place doesn't attract med students nor engineers normally.

After a slightly widened gaze, and an exchange of raised eyebrows, we pay a donation and enter into a back room. Houston has a history of flooding, mild winters, and hurricanes which forbids the general utility of basements in homes, so in lieu of a damp, dark, sofa/quilt-laden, underground, Super Happy Fun Land has an ABOVE-ground one. Very fitting. We sit down in a couple of reclaimed theater seats as a middle-aged bald gentleman sets up small electronic Casio keyboards and various switches. Brian and I continue to evaporate our personal histories post-Morehouse. During a quick glance, out of the corner of my eye, the same gentleman that was setting up before, now dons a black wizard hat, a black bedsheet-poncho with silver stars and moons, and begins immediately to bang away a cacophonous non-melody using these keyboards. My mouth was agape and my ears startled into submission.

While a written media prevents me from accurately describing what horrible things I heard (under the guise of 'experimental jazz') it can be described as what an autistic child would experience if high on crack...bad crack. He continued to pound away and garnish his work with infrequent and intelligible yelled phrases into an echoed microphone. This was all in addition to various head rolls that recognized some rhythm that was thoroughly hidden from all but the performer. As I my eyes consumed what my ears pained from, some furry creature leaped from the ceiling to the floor in front of us horribly shaking any remaining sanity and safety that I had gathered. Apparently the cat, whose apparent home was jarred by the works of the wizard, found escape as I pained to do so myself.

I stayed. If only to warn others.

Near the end of this performance a rather loud and spare series of a non-rhythmic "shhhwwwww-POPs" counterbalanced the rather kinetic, saturating, and bewildering sounds previous to it. Startling. More startling however was the clapping that came from the audience. I took comfort that it was over. The pseudo-music wizard before us the yelped, "its not funny, I'm not doing it." Apparently his performance was abridged by an unfortunate and welcome technical malfunction.

The second set was better in that the 'band' included real instruments, albeit unwillingly abused. As I sat there amazed at what I had witnessed, Brian's friend Stephanie ( a Spelman graduate with a Texas Sun-kissed accent and equally strong and enjoyable persona) called to invite us to the Sky Bar. We left. Shell-shocked a bit, but at the very least appreciative of Houston's very large and accommodating arts scene.

Non Sequitur

Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the beach. Here's one of the many feral chickens of Castara, Tobago.

Wedding Bells

Just when I thought I could give my toiletries valet a rest, two of my good friends from Columbia University College of Physicians & Surgeons' Minority Medical Education Program's inaugural class of 2001 are getting married this weekend in Southern California (Noé, the guy on the right is getting married to the beautiful Colombian Columbian Dina who is not pictured). Nice, eh? They'll get you admitted and hitched. Anyway, I'll be sure to upload the pictures.

In other news, yes I am back from lovely Trinidad & Tobago, with about 300 photos to share. I clearly need to get crackin' on that this weekend. Furthermore, I'm LOVING my elective rotation at this subacute psychiatric clinic. Why doesn't everyone want to be a psychiatrist? I guess I'll never know. Anyway, off I go to my flight.