Wait, haven't I seen this before?

Whenever I teach middle schoolers the wonderful art of jazz improvisation, I always start by crushing all their dreams and telling them that there is no conceivable way that anything they do will be regarded by anyone who listens as anything other than derivative crap. Saxophonists, that obnoxious yet innovative group which happens to include me as a member, have this problem in spades. Play lots of notes in key? You are officially a Charlie Parker clone (or a Cannonball Adderley clone, who is essentially a Parker clone with a darker tone and less reliance on "I've Got Rhythm" changes). Don't play so many notes, but are still willingly playing within the chord changes? Then you must have erased everything recorded after 1950 on your iPod - I'm guessing you transcribed a lot of tenor players whose day gigs consisted of getting high/drunk and playing for one of the "big four" big bands (Glenn Miller, Woody Herman, Ellington, Basie, Benny Goodman - wait, that's five. So, "big five," then), unless your tone is so whispy the audience thinks you're using tissue paper instead of a reed, in which case you might as well be Stan Getz. Play lots of notes, but aren't so keen on playing the changes as they were intended on being played? Generic saxophonist, meet John Coltrane. Sporadic notes, no changes? Ornette Coleman. Going for your own sound? You will inevitably be compared to any one of a dozen saxophonists gigging today, who were in turn directly influenced by one or more of the preceding groups. Everything's already been done before, which is sad considering that jazz has reached this conclusion barely 100 years after its inception. And some 12 year old who discovered the joys of a 12-bar blues three weeks ago is supposed to turn the heads of the editors of Downbeat? Pssshhh.

In Defence of Idiots (before I eviscerate idiocy)

I'll be the first to admit that I am not renowned for my love of the human race. Although I may begrudgingly become fond of specific members of my species, on the whole people are awful. Most writers who cling to their clichés like one of those "Baby on Board" signs that come standard with every minivan will, at this point, tell you to simply look at the news to witness, second- or third-hand, the sheer barbarism of man: in the first world, politicians and bankers are paving the road to financial success with the despondent shells that used to be their co-workers and constituents; in the less fortunate parts of the world, war and famine rage without notice or care from the haves, leaving the have-nots to sort out their own problems by their own damn selves; countries invade other countries for reasons that give hippies aneurysms just to think of it -- in short, we're pretty messed up. I get it, we're a horrible, terrible species, and if the whole world were run by puppies or squirrels or dolphins or something we'd all be a lot better off. Maybe. But that's not what I'm arguing right now. Rather than focus on the cruelties of human nature, maybe we can find a more likely cause in examining the idiocy of the average humanoid, and to witness stupidity at its finest, you need look no further than your local retail shop - in my case, the Wal-Mart where, for four or five days a week, I labor under the delusion that escape is imminent, that I can become a teacher or a writer and make enough money with a real job that I can run from the store leaving a trail of petrol and throw a lit match behind me from the safety of the parking lot. You can take that last bit literally or figuratively. Reader's choice!