A down-and-out conservatory graduate is reduced to playing gigs at Nordstrom's and dinner music for restaurants since there's little market for his serious orchestral compositions. One day, he is giving an audition for an owner and maitre d' and starts to play rhapsodically at the ivories. The listeners are dumbstruck. After a few minutes, the owner says, "THAT was awesome.
What's the name of that piece?" Composer says, "Your hair is disgusting because you haven't washed it for so long that birds and insects have taken up nesting in it." The other two look at each other and shrug. "Play something else." Again, they are overwhelmed by the playing, hugging each other and sobbing by the sheer emotions evoked by the music. "Wow, " says the maitre d', wiping his eyes, "what's the name of that tune?" "I call it: You are such a slob that I can see everything you ate for breakfast because it's all over your shirt." "Look, " says the owner, "you've got the job--just do me a favor. Don't tell anyone the names of your works, OK?" That night, when he sits down to play, nobody moves. Forks stop in mid-air on the way to opened mouths. The wait staff is frozen in mid-service.
The patrons are silent.
No glasses clink, no food sizzles on the stove, no cash registers clang. Everyone is spellbound. Finally, the maitre d' tells the composer to take a break so that normal restaurant business can continue.
He gets up and goes to the bathroom to thunderous ovation. While in there, some kids decide to play a prank and come running into the men's room yelling "Fire! Fire!" The composer dashes out panicked into the the dining room. A patron grabs his sleeve. "Excuse me, " she says, "do you know your pants are down around your ankles and you have toilet paper stuck to your ass?" "KNOW it?" retorts the composer haughtily, "who do think WROTE it?" |
