You are a dirty dirty old man, but I suppose you knew that already.

[what follows is a true story]

We weren't exactly hanging out at North Sea Jazz, but Tal introduced
us and you took a minor fleeting interest in the fact that I played
guitar.  Thank you for pretending to care.  This was at dinner in the
weird artist's buffet in the mall about a million kilometers away from
the bathroom.

I had played a show in the Yukon tent earlier that day.  Hands down
the hottest gig I've ever played in my life.  Rotterdam is not used to
warm warm temperatures, and we were playing in one of the outside
tents.  I have never sweated so much onstage before.  EVER.  Then came
my very poor decision to dump a bottle of water on my head about
midset.  That didn't do much good except make my eyeliner run and made
my head look scary.  (If anyone wants to feel my 'creature head,' as
Anna Bebee calls it, go ahead and ask me at any show.  Go ahead!  My
skull has a terrifying yet alluring shape when you get your hands on
it.)  Still, it was a great gig thanks to the audience who stuck out
the heat with us.

Anyway, Mr. Hancock, lacking a solid plan as to what to see next I was
swept up by your entourage and we all headed off to see Chick Corea.
You grabbed me by the waist and Tal kind of grabbed my creature head
and you both started telling me that I was so little and cute.  I am
used to such things.  Especially on down escalators.

Here is the rest of our conversation, verbatim:

KK: "Guys the only thing preventing me going from 'cute' to 'super
hot' is about five inches."

HH: "Oh, I'll give you five inches."

--stunned silence, giggles--

TW and KK: "Really, that's all you have going on down there??."

HH: "Oh baby, that's just my tounge."

Herbie, I want to be just like you when I'm 70.  Seriously.

I'm sorry Oranje lost, but the Spaniards were far better-looking anyway.

kk