And the winner is….. Bradley hosts a form of American Idol every year called Bradley Idol (obvious comparison). And last night was the preliminary round. Each dorm has two of its own “idol’s” which move on to the big dance (Bradley Idol). Most people put on their favorite song and sang with it or did an accapella version (reference eminem hahaha) but I decided to do it alil differently. After the first girl sang a fantastic do-wop song I had my work cut out for me with a high bar set in terms of standards. “And now Joe Cutrone singing ‘different kinds’ by Joe Cutrone.” A slight giggle runs through the audience with everyone thinking, “here’s another cheesy song written with 1,4,5 chords possibly throwin in a minor 2 once and a while, big whoop right? Wrong baby, I jumped up when my name was called, clumsly jogged to my baby ( thats what I call my guitar, best gf ever), slung her over my shoulder, put on my Dylan headgear (harmonica holder), and confidently stood in front of an easy 40 people. All eyes were on me and I stared back combating my nervousness and fear with exitement and confidence. A Amajor7th 2sus chord resonating with a harmonica blowing later I won, came in first and am now moving on to the real deal. Our schools president is one of the judges for this one and everyone is going to be bringing their A game. $200 on the line and hungry college students all wanting a piece of the pie, who’s gunna win, well on March 25th at 7pm we’ll know.
March 9th, 2009 in
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On one of my many trips to the cafeteria I stumbled upon a flyer which read “musician wanted, needs to be able to play all genres.” It was somewhat of a demanding flyer I thought, but hey a little audition never hurt anyone. I shot off an email and after a little game of email pong the audition date was set; 10:30, Monday night. I found the audition to be in my favor as I am an insomniac. I arrived with my guitar, dijambe (reference “we will rock you” post), and an arsenal of harmonicas. After introductions I unsheathed my guitar and awaited instructions. The games we played were a series of impromptu games very similiar to the popular tv show Whose Line Is It Anyway. I played everything raging from the blues to darth vaders imperial march. At midnight I was asked to leave the room so voting could proceed. Anticipation griped at my heart as I stood awaiting acceptance or denial. I heard no words from inside the room which only catalyzed my worries. The captain of the group approached me as I sat trying to appear apathetic. “Your in” he said. I let a smile run accross my face. “Nice” I said in the most somber of tones trying to disguise my joy. Our first performance is December 9th and I promise it’s gunna be one heck of a show.
December 2nd, 2008 in
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If the weather is right you can find me on my front porch playing a tune on the ol’ six string, and just recently was one of those days. The sky was a uniform gray and the sun was blotted out completely. The day was a dark one, but ominous would not correlate with it’s feel. I sat on my porch singing about them old riverside blues when a squirrel approaches apprehensively. I noted the squirrel’s appearence while continuining to tribute Mr. Johnson. He was very stocky, fattening up for the ever closer winter no doubt, with a dark brown coat highligthed with nice auburn shades. His thick, bushy tail charismatically floated through the air as if a separate entity. He is within ten feet of me at this point and stops to stare. Either this squirrel knows a good song when it hears it or it is eyeing down my sunflower seeds. I stopped playing and he still stood, cautiously assesing the situation, determining me friend from foe. I picked up a seed and held up my hand. It’s head slides to the right as if to note any trickery. With a few quick steps it was almost within arms length. Two little hands come to pluck the seed from my hand and methodically tear it open for the protein which lay inside. I couldn’t help but smile at such an innocent creature trying to merely survive the bitter cold of winter. So I dumped a large portion of seeds for my furry friend and let him eat as I played. He didn’t seem to mind the music because even at the distance we were at he showed no signs of fear. He trotted off in the fashion of a rude guest leaving a mound of shells for his gratious host to clean up. Of course I am speaking facetiously because there is no way I could harbor any bad feelings toward such a cute criter. I have come to find that the friendliest squirrels I have ever encountered are right here at Bradley.
November 14th, 2008 in
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I stand afoot the daunting three story wall. As I look up I stumble back in awe realizing the task before me. “A race to the top,” he says, “winner pays for dinner.” A small wager for some, but I’m hungry all the time and low on funds. A handshake sparks the deal. “Three, two, one… GO!” We were off grabbing desperately for the next gripping stone. I was trailing behind near a whole bodys length intitially, but there was still two and a half stories to go and I’ll do anything for a meal. Clawing and grappling with weary arms I pushed on. I thought of two things as I escalated up the rock wall; the thrill of winning and a subway footlong with all the trimmings. These alone motivated enough to conquer any opposition. Neck and neck at the last story of the wall; both exhausted, both hungry. A hand falls upon mine and rips it off the wall leaving me to dangle with one hand clutching a stone. My competitor continued on as I struggled to refrain from falling. I swing around and clutch his ankle; a standstill. I pull down and he succumbs to the treacherous one-armed dangle. I press on. Sweat pouring down destroying friction between my hands and the rocks. Again we find ourselves neck and neck. Battling strain, reaching for the bell, and oblivous of the crowd which had formed. “Ring, Ring,” the sound of the bell had awarded my roomate the sandwhich. I released from Markin Center’s rock climbing wall and cascaded down effortlessly to the sound of another’s triumphant laughter. And now I am in training because the next time we meet I will be the one eating a free meal.
November 5th, 2008 in
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Ah nothing brightens my day like a nice game of intramural softball. Unfortunetly my co-ed team had been eliminated, but why miss the excitement of the preliminary championship game!? Now, I live by a Ron Burgandy motto, “go big or go home” and as a fan I do the same. I had painted my face half blue half red screaming “FREEDOM!!!!” the whole time while my friend painted his half red and half yellow (sry no Gibson quotes for those colors). I had painted “Go Beavers” on my chest as the team I was going to cheer for had no name. So I took the liberty of naming them a dam good one (excuse my pun :). As an aside I enjoy music more than most people and I play almost every instrument. So…. I brought my dijambe (african drum but the easiest way to think of it is a huge bongo) to the game and let me tell ya I banged on that drum all day. We arrived to the game blastin’ biggy smalls a sa scare tactict to instill fear in the opposing team’s hearts. We sat down on the bleachers as the only two fans at the game, but I held no remorse or fear because I started banging away. Bum, Tisch, Bum Bum, Tisch. “Buddy your a boy, make a big noise, playin’ in the street gunna be a big man some day. You got mud on your face, you big discrace kickin’ yo’ can all over the place!” As the title presumes the chanting in unison began. Oh how the opposing team cowered. As our pitcher steps to the mound a new beat was manifested. Bah Bah, Dun Dun, Bah Bah, Dun Dun “Wild Thing! You make my heart sing. You make everything…groovy. Wild Thing!” I dont know if the batters were laughing or our pitcher was just kicking butt but there was easily six k’s that game and our team won by a landslide, 8-2. They were headed to the championship game at nine p.m. and our services were requested again. We complied. We knew we could not attend the game in the same manner as earlier, I mean this is a night game for goodness sake, a different atmoshphere. So, we put on our nicest pair of jeans and dress shoes along with a tucked in button down collered shirt covered up with a nice argyle sweater. Did I mention we parted our hair to the side mimicking a 50’s engineer (sry granpa I know you were a 50’s engineer)? We arrived in the good company of biggy again, but the air was different that night. No matter what the chant, no matter what the cheer our team could not prevail. We were stomped 12-4. A most harrowing of losses, but a good laugh none the less. Well, I guess the moral of the story is having fun and being spontaneous is as easy as $1.59 childrens paint and a good ol’ drum.
October 16th, 2008 in
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