It’s late. Here. For me. Other places it’s earlier. It’s earlier in Chicago. Only an hour, but still, some old guy with an acoustic and a harmonica hasn’t even started his second set. Me I was in bed. My head was throbbing, so now I’m sitting up, typing.
A name came to me, this guy I used to work with. I was thinking of his ex wife and then his dog, but I couldn’t remember their names. I mean the random thought was standing outside Circuit City having a smoke with his then current wife. At the time I was thinking how rough she looked, like a dame in a Tom Waits song. I remember going over to their house one New Years Eve, must have been 97 or so. I remembered going to his bachelor party which was funny for so many reasons; one was that part of our party was a strict muslim, the other I don’t think had ever drank before, the manager knew all the strippers by name and … other stuff.
But I remembered his name. I looked him up. He’s playing piano in Phoenix. He’s listed as single. He looks clean (they were both bad drug addicts, um, by bad I mean you could tell by looking at either one of them that they were either freshly high or badly needed to be). I only met the dog or heard him actually play and sing on New Years eve. I was impressed. He was a shitty salesman, well, no, he was ok, except you could ruin his confidence with a word and he’d be in a fould anti-social mood all day. You’re wondering why someone would do that — we were commissioned, Personal Computers had hit a high point in price and ownership, and we were all sort of dicks. I have no idea why he didn’t know we were all sort of dicks.
I very rarely ruined his confidence. Not out of some moral code, my moral opinion was you needed thick skin to sell shit, but because I was too young and fast for low hanging fruit. Anyone in sales who doesn’t know this axiom is either a liar or not doing very well; It’s not enough that you do good, the other guys have to do bad. Most of us would make fun of each others fuck ups and poke at one another all day until there was blood in the water and work to do.
I’ve said before, maybe even in type, that I went from social work to sales as penance. Usually in context that’s funny and ends further inquiry. But yeah, social workers spend a lot of time being nice to one another, salesmen don’t. Social workers try making the world safer, salesmen try selling shit, like guns if that’s what you’re selling. You might see the distinction between guns and consumer electronics, but the money is the same. I’m not saying Sales made me change my position on handguns (no, you are not hunting with them) I’m just saying the guy with the name tag isn’t a bigger enemy than the one selling sofa’s.
I don’t know. Online Brian looks happier than he ever did in real life, of course they are all promo shots. I betcha if someone asked him right before a gig if that one tooth was dead (it’s not) he’d be off his game all night. If I could remember the wife’s name I’d look her up. I want to say he had a brother too, I’m sure he did, but the brother isn’t listed anywhere. I hope they are just estranged. The brother was a likable guy. Way too nice and naïve for sales, but likable.
- EDIT *
Oh shit. I went to his myspace page. Other places, like youtube, have him doing covers, mostly Elton john covers. He plays the piano well and has a good voice (Hmmm, I know a lot of musicians; well and good are actual compliments from me) but Jesus H Christ. There was a reason Bernie Taupin had a job, Elton John couldn’t write lyrics either.
I have no idea why motherfuckers who know me don’t ask for my help writing songs. I was married to a singer song writer who played ok and had a great voice, and the best lyrics by and far of any of her songs were written by me, and I was just fucking around. Um, not beating my chest here, in fact it’s humbling because I know how to write music I just really suck at it. But if I hear the music — I can write a song. I can write a song better than those two.
My dad, who was a great musician, I don’t think he ever tried to write an original song, and yet every time a clarinet solo came up he’d do something original with it, I mean improvise, the way Jazz works, or at least the way it used to. Depending on the patience of the crowd you had thirty six to a bazillion bars to riff on a melody. My dad had a good voice too, but in his mind the band didn’t sing.
I’m still impressed brian is clean and working gigs. I pray to god he isn’t doing original stuff to sober people.
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