Crack Supply.
Good lordy, it feels like forever since I've posted.
I've been working, can you believe it? Busy little bee I am, setting up the shop, training my minions to do my bidding, shmoozing galore. It's been a ton of fun, but dang! I'm pretty tired tonight. Frankly, I hate work. Work sucks. It's nothing but a means to an end. I love finishing. Hence I tolerate the work.
At the Circus Where The CC is, there are several piano players who tinkle the ivories non-stop throughout the 14 hour workday. And the piano is mere feet from my shop. There is one woman who I swear to you must have called my dead piano teacher and found out what my childhood repertoire was and now plays it for four hours straight to torment me and make me feel guilty for giving up the piano. Rondo alla Turca is the background music to my nightmares. Seriously. If a tune could make one insane, reserve a room for me at Creedmore. ASAP.
There is another pianist who's a big soft rock fan. She plays waaay too much Elton John.
"What the hell is that? Hill Street Blues? Good god!"
"No, it's Goodbye Yellow Brick Road."
"You mean Goodbye English Rose."
"Yeah, whatever."
I've been working, can you believe it? Busy little bee I am, setting up the shop, training my minions to do my bidding, shmoozing galore. It's been a ton of fun, but dang! I'm pretty tired tonight. Frankly, I hate work. Work sucks. It's nothing but a means to an end. I love finishing. Hence I tolerate the work.
At the Circus Where The CC is, there are several piano players who tinkle the ivories non-stop throughout the 14 hour workday. And the piano is mere feet from my shop. There is one woman who I swear to you must have called my dead piano teacher and found out what my childhood repertoire was and now plays it for four hours straight to torment me and make me feel guilty for giving up the piano. Rondo alla Turca is the background music to my nightmares. Seriously. If a tune could make one insane, reserve a room for me at Creedmore. ASAP.
There is another pianist who's a big soft rock fan. She plays waaay too much Elton John.
"What the hell is that? Hill Street Blues? Good god!"
"No, it's Goodbye Yellow Brick Road."
"You mean Goodbye English Rose."
"Yeah, whatever."
My minion and I were chatting about shitty piano songs and she had a Richard Marx songbook. I had Chicago's Greatest Hits. It was awesome. And not only because Peter Cetera's mother lived in my neighborhood (The yellow house on the corner of 107th & Longwood). But what I really coveted was an Air Supply songbook. Oh, Graham Russell and Russell Hitchcock (Christ I didn't even need to google those names!) - how you serenaded me at such a young impressionable age, you hottie Aussie balladiers! You evil sirens! Maybe this is why I am so horribly addicted to SBM today. It's my crack.
posted by Oy Vey at 8:46 PM
1 Comments:
Dude, I had the songbook to end all songbooks. Lionel Richie - Dancin' On the Ceiling.
Oh, and let's not forget the sheet music to "Friends are Friends Forever". Ewwwwww.
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