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guy got laid all of the time, for no other reason than him being a writer.”
    The idea of it had really boosted Sidebottom’s spirits. I was glad I had started the conversation, even if Sidebottom only viewed writing a book as a means to getting laid on a more frequent basis. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I had always heard writers were the absolute bottom of the barrel when it came to impressing women. The musicians are lined up well ahead of the writers. Maybe wealthy writers can draw a crowd of babes, but that’s only because they’re rich, not because of their literary prowess. I also restrained myself from saying that I wasn’t completely sure of the type of woman that Bukowski had tended to attract.
    As for me, I had decided to bide my time by learning to play piano. So the very day after I was escorted from the premises by bank security to make way for my Indian replacement, I went to the music store and purchased a console piano.
    While there I inquired about piano lessons. The salesman gave me a card with the name and number of a teacher. I had thought playing piano would bring me hours of peace and enjoyment. But, as I suppose so often happens in the homes of many others, my piano quickly ceased being a piano and instead became a rather expensive piece of living room furniture.
    I’d had about ten piano lessons before, out of frustration, I called it quits. My teacher was an old lady—probably in her early seventies—who, when she walked through the door, seemed quite cordial. Until, that is, she sat next to me at the piano, at which point she instantly transformed into a Marine drill sergeant. The woman mercilessly shouted into my ear during each lesson, criticizing every aspect of my play:
    “Sit up straight, young man.”
    “One and, two and . . . stop there. That’s a quarter note, not an eighth note.”
    “Fingers raised higher, wrists supple and relaxed.”
    “This is a waltz, not a march.”
    “Softer!”
    “Harder!”
    “Play with more feeling.”
    “This is a piano, not a typewriter.”
    “Pianissimo, not pianoforte.”
    If she’d had a ruler she definitely would have given my knuckles the treatment. How I put up with it for as long as I did I’ll never know. I should have received a congressional commendation of some sort.
    The metronome soon became a ubiquitous and evil force in my life. The damned thing sounded more like a tolling bell than a timing instrument.
    And the music: chart toppers like “The Traffic Cop,” “Swans On The Lake,” “The Merry Clown,” The Fairies’ Harp .
    As if all of that excitement wasn’t enough to keep me interested, there’s this terrible book of finger exercises called The Virtuoso Pianist . It was composed by some sadistic pedagogue named Charles Hanon, the godfather of musical monotony. I’m sure all of that happy horse shit would benefit a six-year-old kid aspiring to become a concert pianist and who has his whole life before him. But what about a thirty-something who just wants to learn to play for his friends at parties, or just for his own enjoyment? When I asked the dear old lady that question, she looked at me like I had snakes slithering out of my nostrils, so I immediately showed the door to her ultra-pedantic ass.
    I never touched the piano after that.
    But something happened on this Friday afternoon that rekindled my musical aspirations. While I was relaxing in the tub, attempting to once again divert my attention from the here and now, I lapsed into a sort of half-dream. No, it was more like a vision .
    In the vision I was sitting Indian style in the midst of a peaceful meadow, surrounded by an awe-inspiring landscape of immense mountains and rolling hills, plus all sorts of beautiful trees: dogwoods, maples, cherry blossoms, banyans, oaks, and willows. And perched on the branches of those trees were bluebirds, cardinals, spotted owls, blue jays, mockingbirds, and more. And to the side opposite of the mountains was