Thursday, April 5, 2012

4-04-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #92 (Mr. Attitude Plus -- Maybe Just Havin’ a Bad Day?)

Art Garfunkel had a minor solo hit, “I Love You, And It’s All I Know.” Not a bad ditty, really -- but I could never listen to it without wincing after that night at the Main Squeeze. 

A big “after party” was being thrown for Simon & Garfunkel on the occasion of their opening concert of a big reunion tour in 1982.  I didn’t have connections and wasn’t at the show, but I’d always been a Simon & Garfunkel fan (had The Sounds of Silence and The Bridge Over Troubled Waters albums back in Douglaston, Queens, when I grew up and loved to sing along).

As I mentioned in the last blog, Art Garfunkel came into the room with an entourage of unhappy looking Eurotrash & London Scenester types.  They proceeded to walk to the largest, big round table in “my” section of the bar room.

Eager to do a good job, I hustled over to the table, serving tray in hand, dressed up in my Main Squeeze one piece zip up black “catsuit.” 

“May I help you?  May I get you some drinks?”  I said that several times, trying to get the attention of Mr. Garfunkel and his table.  The volume in the room was nigh punitive, and perhaps some of them were hard of hearing, but believe me, when necessary, I can make my voice P-R-E-T-T-Y   L-O-U-D. 

“Excuse me, I’m here to get your drink order. May I help you?  Please, can I get your drink order?”  I asked in vain for the 8 or so obnoxious people in Garfunkel’s party -- himself included -- to give me the courtesy of at least acknowledging that somebody was trying to communicate, in English no less!!

Frustrated, I turned heel and went back to the bar, where I complained bitterly to Greg, the bartender: “Greg, those assholes!  They didn’t even acknowledge my presence!  They didn’t order any drinks at all, and I tried!”  Greg tut-tutted, “It’s all right, darling, there’s a good girl. Stay with me and keep washing up, all right?”

I got mad at those dirty glasses and set to washing, rinsing, dunking with great energy.  After a few minutes, I looked up and saw -- no! It couldn’t be! -- a short guy with short dark hair, maybe around 40 years old, leaning against one of the mirrored walls, not 12 feet away from me, quite alone.

I knew it had to be Paul Simon.  I knew that maybe HE would want me to get a drink for him. . . 

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