When You're Really Big, They Call You Mr.

Friday morning, I woke up at 6:15. Not because I had an early flight, but because I had agreed to meet Rick at the gym at 7:00 AM.

I realized I may have turned the corner into what Hunter Thompson would call Body Nazism if I was exercising before a morning flight, not to mention going directly to the airport from the gym.

Still, it was nice to have someone to talk to, and we ate breakfast afterwards. I spend a lot of time alone, so the break is worth it.

The A41 from Sha Tin gets to the airport as fast or faster than a taxi, and at HK$13, it's a bargain.

I checked in at the counter, got the carry-on clearance for the Less Paul, and waited to board the plane. But while I waited I got to actually play guitar, which, as we know, is the Less Paul's raisond'etre (something illegal in 13 American states and 4 Canadian provinces).

Quebec, of course, not being one of them.

I used a Line6 Pocket POD (settle down, Beavis) and my mp3 player headphones. It's completely portable and silent, so I can sit and watch the jetway activity while playing guitar that sounds like it is loud enough to kill rats.

We boarded the plane, at which point I knew I was in for a rough trip. I was in the center seat, which is bad enough. I was also not in an exit or bulkhead row. As I leaned over to put the safety card back, I caught sight of a pair of legs that went rather high up to a skirt that didn't come down very far.

What was this? Where's the fat guy, or the mother of the wailing infant, or the person with bad hygiene and an aversion to shoes?

Well, as it turns out, the owner of the skirt (and legs) was easily 10 years my senior. And I do mean senior. You know how women get a facelift at 45? You know what they look like at 55? Yeah. The Joan

Rivers look.

I'm not slagging her off for being old; it's happening to me as we speak. But the wrong side of the facelift combined with a hoochie skirt was just more than I could easily concede. I'm all for people

dressing in ways they are comfortable with. But that doesn't mean I have to be comfortable with it. And I wasn't.

It's a selfI've lately become very self-aware of the image of a middle-aged man in camouflage shorts and t-shirts.

The mirror in my flat sees to that particular issue.

But never mind that. She seemed nice enough, and quickly covered herself in a blanket. Because she was cold, no doubt, a condition exacerbated by her skirt. The blanket made her much more comfortable.

Unbeknown to her, it had the same effect on me.

The woman on my right seemed nice too. She was reading The New Yorker and taking arcane notes and circling portions of articles. I was tempted to ask what she was doing, but realized it would be rude.

Speaking of which...

The two rows in front of me were taken up by young traveling French persons. As we all know, I dislike the French on principle, as part of my unfailing Americanism.

I tried to ignore them, even as loud as they were being.

The best way to ignore it, is of course, to watch a movie. Which I was looking forward to doing on the little screen in the headrest of Pierre's Le Merde's seat. Which he promptly reclined such that I couldn't turn the thing up enough to see it.

No movies for me...Reclining my own seat didn't work either. Not to mention that because my physical reality takes up more space from the front of my seat to the front of me, Pierre had roughly halved my available space.

I tried.

So other than that, the flight was great.

We landed, I grabbed a shuttle to my hotel, and I called Jae Leung. We were to meet Simon Yin and Darren Scott later on, but first I would meet Jae and Jeszlene Zhou.

Ye gods, when did I become so social?

I'm not sure, but I also had to ask myself when I had changed so much physically. It was a classic case of good news/bad news. I had brought some decent clothes with me (i.e. jeans and a shirt with a collar) for just this occasion. I had bought the clothes in the US in June. At that time, I didn't need a belt for the pants, and the shirt fit me.

Well, it's October.

In Singapore.

The pants were falling off of me and the shirt was too small. On the top, not the bottom. I was forced to undo the top button, something I normally avoid like the plague, as it does not generally look good

on people of my age (see above).

So the first thing I did after meeting Jae was to find a belt for these pants that threatened to fall off my (now smaller) @ss. Thankfully, I found one, and off we went to meet Jeszlene.

I also met Jae's friend Rochelle, who semed very nice. She spent most of the time texting, but it was just as well. To be honest, I had a difficult time speaking to her because she wore dress with a  suicidally plunging neckline that simply directed one's eyes towards her not insignificant cleavage.

I don't see a lot of cleavage in Hong Kong, and while it is (they are?) not one of my major distractions, it was nonetheless a bit difficult (but not hard) to concentrate.

I realize the preceding passage may make me sound more than slightly piggish, but I do not intend it to be that way. All I had to go on in terms of interaction with this young woman was Mandarin, texting, and her outfit. I don't speak Mandarin and I wasn't texting with her, since I am also 'Sino-illiterate.'

Perhaps if she had taken a larger role in the proceedings, I might have gotten over my distraction.

Though in truth, I did so anyway with the arrival of Jeszlene. She had been working all day and began apologizing for what she was sure was an inexcusably sub-par self-presentation.

Women are so silly like that.

She had asked me previously how I knew Anton Wong, and I told her it was from working on guitars for he and D'in. To prove I wasn't kidding, I had brought the Less Paul with me. It made a nice impression, and I hope it kept her from noticing the ridiculous nature of my undersized shirt.

Not to mention the ridiculous nature of the person in the shirt.[self-deprecating comment here]

Suddenly I feel better about myself.

Much better.

All four of us are in this photo, if you look closely.

There are three people in this one.We had a snack and talked about stuff, and all too soon it was time to go. Jae and I, along with Rochelle and her by-now-arrived boyfriend, set off up the hill to Sinema. Which is not, as you may

think, a dirty movie theatre. We climbed 100 steps to get there. In the balmy Singaporean air. In a tight shirt. And 43 year old legs. With 65 year old knees.

I hate getting old.

We watched some independent Singaporean films, one of which was very, very good. It's called The Release, and is a great character study of people whose lives are not often the focus of attention. I got to meet the director and principal actors, and I was very, very happy to see independent film doing interesting and relevant things.

There was an alivenotdead banner outside the theatre too, and I must say it was an odd yet agreeable sensation to recognize something and also realize that it was something of which I am a part.

As I said, who is this person walking around in my clothes? It can't be me, because the clothes don't fit.

After the movie, Jae and I met up with Simon and Darren at Timbre, an outside bar next to Sinema. Simon was meeting friends there, so we all sort of conglomerated and passed a very pleasant few hours talking about all kinds of things and taking pictures.

I got back to my hotel a little after 1, and promptly discovered that I had no idea how to switch the water from the spigot to the shower head. So I bathed in an uncomfortable position and re-learned something I had discovered earlier: the sink trap was stuck in the closed position. So the next morning, a pool of tooth-brushing water greeted me.

Lovely.

But I didn't care. I  slept on a monstrous bed in a foreign country after having spent more than 8 hours in the company of other people. A rare triumvirate of luxuries.

I got up, got dressed, and hit the streets.

I have been to Singapore before, so I knew exactly where to find the guitars. And I did. I didn't buy any, but it was just nice to look and to be air-conditioned. The weather in Hong Kong these days is very

nice. The weather in Singapore is equatorial, as it should be. But I figured it wouldn't hurt to sweat a little.

I should also add that I actually wore plaid shorts and a Polo shirt instead of camouflage and a Frosted Mini Wheats t-shirt (I'm saving those for the flight home).

It felt strange, but not as strange as the guy I saw wearing a Polo with a 'popped' collar.

When did it become 1984 again???

I met my friend Silvia for lunch. She is the niece of one of my colleagues. She's Vickie's cousin, though she is also 25 and a flight attendant for Singapore Airlines. She is also a devout Christian and

so I was very conscious of not swearing around her too much. Not out of fear, just respect.

She's a very, very nice person, and I am not, at least in comparison, so I try to minimize whatever negative impact I may have.

We ate lunch, looked at guitars (I am sure she was not very interested), then went to Little India. It was an Indian holiday yesterday, so it was perhaps more crowded than usual. It was also hot. We walked around until we both agreed that we'd be better off in a temperature-controlled environment. So we got in a taxi and headed for a mall with a cinema.

We watched The Hurt Locker, a remarkable and very recommendable film about Explosive Ordinance Disposal

teams in Iraq. It was by turns terrifying, engaging, and hilarious. I was surprised that there were no subtitles, either Bahasa or Chinese. It was nice to see all of the screen, but more than once I was the sole American laughing at very culturally specific jokes.

After the movie, we ate dinner at Outback Steakhouse. Silvia had previously mentioned the idea of steak for dinner, and I concurred. Dinner was a typically American display of excess, and I enjoyed it

thoroughly.

I went to sleep fairly early last night, as I was dog tired from all the walking and sweating. I figured out the shower and once again slept on a bed so big I didn't even have to hang my feet over the edge.

I got up at 8:00 this morning and went to the gym in the hotel, then the pool. I wanted to swim before the sun got too high.

My room is on the 13th floor. When I got in the elevator to go to the gym, an Australian couple was in the elevator, and the man said "Oooh, unlucky floor."

Good morning to you too, you f@#$.

I admit, Americans aren't really given positive images of Australians.

Outback Steakhouse, for example; an American restaurant trying to be Australian.

Paul Hogan. Enough said.

Those Foster's commercials.

All in all, Americans are trained to think that Aussies are not very smart. Unfair, I easily admit.

So it didn't help that  everytime I used the lift (down to gym/pool/back to room/down to restaurant), starting with Perth's Politest, Australians got out on the wrong floor and loudly announced that they did so.

Except the Chinese woman who said "Good day" to me in an Australian accent when she got out of the elevator. ABCs are better.

I really do love and appreciate Australia. I seriously admired Steve Irwin. I respected his gangster. I'm surprised he could walk, as big as his b@lls were. The feature film he did was no great narrative, but if you realize that the wild, deadly animals he was wrestling were not animatronic or CGI and don't take direction well, you really do appreciate that this guy was braver than a Cape Buffalo in mating season. I hope his wife cooked and ate that punk-@ss stingray.

Now that I think about it, many of my favorite things come from Australia, whether movies, music, or people: The Road Warrior, Blood of Heroes, The Odd Angry Shot (book and film) AC/DC, Rose Tattoo, The Living End, Grace Huang...

Australia rocks.

So as I sit here typing, I...

Wait.

Let me says something about this hotel. It's not cheap. It's the Novotel in Clarke Quay. Even though I got a deal, it's not a cheap deal.

So the sink being f@#$ed up is already bad enough.

But here's another thing. The last time I was in Tokyo, I stayed in a business hotel that was about US$70 a night. It was small, and had a single bed. It also had free internet access.

The Novotel is more than twice as much. And the internet isn't free. It's SG$10 an hour, or SG$30 for 24 hours.

So I am typing this in Notepad offline, and have cut and pasted it.

Go ahead and call me cheap. I don't care.

Another thing: this is one of those hotels that make you use your room key to activate the elvator.

Which theoretically says 'we're keeping you safe, and the Great Unwashed out.'

Guess what? You're also inconveniencing me and making me do part of your job, which is to keep the scum out to begin with.

 So all the card system really says is, 'We can't do our job.'

From now on, when my travel agent (who is my god-daughter's aunt, lest you think I actually have a travel agent) asks about Novotel, I will say "First syllable, thank you."

Then again, they do allow you to leave the air-con running all day, so at least there is that.

That brings us up to the present, and for the present I will ta ke it easy.Some of you may ask yourself, why is Sean in Singapore?

It's not the weather.

Though the clean air kicks @ss.

But I'm not here for that either.

I have previously written about Paul Gilbert, guitarist extraordinaire (both with Mr. Big as well as solo,From the Budokan show I missed...writer of fabulously catchy songs (with amazing guitar solos)

and a very, very good teacher who is willing to show you exactly what he is doing and break it down into very digestible steps (before illustrating what these bits sound like at hummingbird speed:

I have tried to learn these things, and I would say I've becomebarely intermediate at a number of them.

In addition, his refusal to take himself too seriously results in remarkably entertaining instructional videos as well.

Paul Gilbert makes no secret of his email address, so last month I wrote to him thanking him not only for an awful lot of music I really enjoy, but for being such a great teacher. I sent it from my work address so that he would understand that I was an education professional and a professor. Not to blow myself up, but to reinforce the qualification of my compliments.

There is a small industry in getting guitarists to sit down and explain how and why they do what they do (with the guitar, anyway). I've watched a lot of these things, and Mr. Gilbert is far and away the best of them in teaching terms.

I didn't tell him this in my email, but an awful lot of his contemporaries come across as befuddled, arrogant, drug-addled, grossly camera-shy, and thoroughly incapable of being educational except as examples of how not to act and who not to be.

I didn't expect a response, since Mr. Big was, at the time, in Europe, on tour.

In October, they tour Southeast Asia, including Mumbai, Bangkok, and Bali, as well as two other cities.

Pop quiz: How can you tell Hong Kong is between Singapore and Seoul? Because of those three cities, Mr. Big is only playing two, and they both begin with S. World city my @ss.

I was very pleasantly surprised to find that Paul Gilbert actually emailed me back:Hi Sean,

Thank you for the compliments.

I hope all the various teaching that I've done will result in some great new music from young players. So many of the students that I listen to only concentrate on the fast things, and need help with vibrato and rhythmic structure. If they cite me as an influence, then I'm to blame for not inspiring them to look into these areas. I'll keep trying!

Rock Hong Kong!

Paul

I thought it was very nice that he took the time to write to me.

As for 'Rock Hong Kong, I thought "Well, somebody's gotta do it."

I began, typically, to feel even worse about having f@#$ed up and being lazy about seeing Mr. Big play the fabled Nippon Budokan on June 20th (the show I now own on DVD after my last trip to Tokyo).Just for sh*ts and grins, I looked for information about the Singapore show. There were tickets available.

There were also VIP tickets.

Meet the band.

Take picture with the band.

Have the band autograph stuff.

Watch the show.

SG$350.

Where's my credit card?

I've done a lot of good and bad things in my life, and I regret none of them.

I regret the things I didn't do, and they will haunt me forever.

One thing I won't have to regret is not seeing Mr. Big.

Twice.

It's not the Budokan, but I doubt I'd have met the band in Japan.

So at 6:00 tonight, I will go to the venue, pick up my VIP pass, and meet the band. I will ask Paul Gilbert to sign the Less Paul, and hopefully take a picture with he and it. Then I will watch Mr. Big.

Then I'll come back here and tell you about it.

I'm fairly certain I will enjoy myself for a lot of reasons.