Thursday, April 20, 2006


Right now, as I type, Billy Joel is singing "Tell Her About It" on my office mate's radio.

Relationship advice from a guy who's on wife number 3, and who just stumbled out of rehab, is something I don't need, especially when delivered in that strange cadence Joel seems to have been perfecting since 1976 or whenever he hit it big, a fusion of drill-sergeant-meets-Liza-Minelli.

The second floor office has bad air circulation, which was made worse when the administration decided to move the coffee machine from the third floor, where it was never used, to the second floor copy room, where it is never used. In an effort to cram the coffee machine in with the photocopiers, the back door to our office was shut and blocked as they rearranged the machinery. Now the air hovers thick as a blanket, and Margie and I sweat.

Two projects are stalled as I wait to receive information from other agency employees.

Tell her about it, tell her everything you feel
Give her every reason to accept that you're for real
Tell her about it, tell her all your crazy dreams
Let her know you need her, let her know how much she means

Billy sings the line "crazy dreams" the same way he sings "lunatic" in "You may Be Right (I May Be Crazy)", over-the-top with emotion. He's the George C. Scott of rock music, a ham munching the scenery.

And then my bandmates... oy.


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