NOTES FROM A LUNATIC
I work really, really hard at business and it seems every time I go out into the world to have fun, something goes wrong. This past Saturday I went to the theatre and at first it was a little depressing. Outside the Ahmanson, one of the nicer auditoriums in L.A., on the sidewalk was a jazz saxophonist, straining to produce a sound and make a few bucks. In between licks he inhaled so violently, he actually swallowed part of his instrument, along with the ninety –five cents he’d collected. (I guess that made him flat broke in the key of C. )
Seeing a struggling musician got me thinking. After all, how secure are any of us in our jobs? Maybe we’re just an inch away from depositing the lion’s share of our profits in a Dixie Cup. I was so distraught at this prospect, that while waiting for my tickets at will call, when a woman came up to me and asked, “ Is this the end of the line?” I shot back, “How dare you, I have a terrific future ahead of me.”
She laughed and cut in front of me.
Now I will admit that my mood picked up, once I got inside and Dame Edna came on stage. A seventy-plus man dressed in a sequined gown. I thought how happy, free and dare I say gay he seemed. So uninhibited, living on the fringe of societal norms. It occurred to me that maybe we in the business world could use some of his spirit. We could follow his lead, without being corporately incorrect. We’d make it sound official by calling it cross-functional dressing.
It could benefit a company’s diversity profile. Now you could get two genders for one salary. Since the audit scandals, with all the hysteria around Sarbannes-Oxley and transparency, cross dressing CFOs would wear see through blouses. It could work wonderfully as long as you didn’t mind the sight of silk laying snugly against matted chest hair.
As I left I felt exhilarated, renewed and optimistic. Comedy has a way of helping you let things roll off your back. At least that’s what I told myself as the saxophonist was mugging me. I guess one of the advantages of playing solo on the street is that after you rob someone you don’t have to give fifty percent to your rhythm section.
So this is my reward for venturing out? Being teased with comic relief, only to be robbed
and humiliated by a man who can’t get through more than ten notes without so much spittle coming out the end of his instrument, that you don’t know if he’s playing Moon River, or drowning in it. Oh well, I’ve always said it’s important to contribute to the arts.
Anyway now it’s back to business as usual, as I sit in my swivel chair, behind my big oak desk and strap on my headset. Although this week in honor of Dame Edna, I think I’ll go strapless.
Over the top and out,