I have a friend who flies off the handle. He is passionate about his politics and maybe a tad hysterical. Mendelson Joe had that gene, I think he owned the patent. My friend calls everything fascist if it reflects the other side of the coin and tries shutting down conversations that way. It works. Mark Kamenetsky called me a party pooper when I was five in the shallow end of the swimming pool at the Sun and Swim Club. I cried. I didn’t know what a fucking party pooper was. It hurt and Mark took much pleasure seeing me so confused and unable to fight back. But grown do well to take a different route. Treat these things like someone learning guitar who can’t yet figure out barre chords. You can’t make fun of them, you can’t call them names you have to wait and see and be kind. Maybe the magic moment will come to their hands and how they press fingers against the strings without pain. Words won’t make it happen. Sometimes in free improvisations accidental blending manifests itself. Suddenly things seem harmonic between the two of you, whatever that means, and you can more deeply enjoy the exchange you are having.