Carpenter

Cruelly cropped from a photo whose concept I suggested.

If you have attended a soiree at my home, you will remember that as the waitstaff enter with the sausage and citrus platters, it is my tradition to regale my guests with a medley ancient German carousing tunes.  “Why have you not started a band?” the crowd often cries out, interrupting me around the 40-minute mark.  “How can you keep this talent from the world?” they weep, so touched are they by the delicate interplay of my voice, tuba and accordion.  I do not like to call attention to the fact, but I did in fact once start a band.  A very successful and beloved band.  Many have called it “the best band in all the world,” but I think it is tied for that title with another band that I wrote all the songs for in the late 90’s– a little known group called “Hanson.”

It started like all bands do– with a classified ad in the local paper and a slough of fliers tacked to coffee shop corkboards, stapled to lightposts, and taped to urinals.  Auditions!  Tuesday, 5pm at the Community Center!  Be there or be squared!  Hundreds showed up, toting along their zithers and harps, xylophones and mouth harps, theramins and autoharps.  I had requested that the auditions be cut down to an amusing montage with plenty of cutaways to me and Office Abbie woefully shaking our heads, rolling our eyes, waving goodbye, mouthing “we’ll call you,” and sleeping, but alas I was forced to sit through all six hours until the last two folks stepped though the doors.  We had been packing up, dismayed at not found anyone to join our band, and were reluctant to even let these two milk-fed bumpkins step on the stage.  But we agreed, and boy were we blown away.  We signed them up immediately.

At first things were good.  Practices were so fun that we forgot to take hallucinogens.  They happily filed the paperwork to change their last names to the name of the band.  It was too good to last.  Things started going south when I the girl refused to eat the salami and blood orange sandwiches I brought to each jam session.  Next thing you know, she was penning insulting lyrics about birds following me around.  It was very Hitchcockian, and I knew what she was implying– that she wanted me pursued and attacked with nothing short of avian bloodlust.  I feared for my life.  I could see the madness in her eyes.

I stopped going to practice, and on the very day I planned to quit, they kicked me out.  This time I didn’t mind being beaten to the punch as long as it meant that I no longer had to keep Office Abbie secreted away in my wine cellar, lest Karen decide in her fury to abduct and torture my poor darling.  Now I am content merely to entertain house guests each night, and enjoy the royalties that continue to fill my coffers.

Raise your martini shaker, oh barkeep!

Tags: carpentry, Cyrus St. Rid, Hanson, harps