The cool cat walked in with his four-pocketed, Hispanic-style embroidered shirt hanging at a mellow slant on his colored soul, white-boy shoulders. CD case in his right hand and CD player in the left. Cooler than James Dean in his best performance and smoother than hip shaking moves of Elvis, he walked to the head of the long workshop table in the small conference room where we met for class. With a voice not as deep as Barry White but just as harmonically hypnotic, he asked us if we were ready to write. As a brain washed collection we nodded. Plugging in the CD player he pressed play and told us to write as it came to us. Let the music guide you.
From the speakers came some jazzy drum beat (a three piece set no doubt) accompanied by a stand-up bass. The two combined to create a beat that would drive your passion to reach goals and dreams in clouds, or rock your pulse to sleep so you could chase those dreams if you closed your eyes. My eyes were wide open and I remember scratching scribbles of words non-stop, sometimes as he was changing CDs.