January 23: Ernie, Playing the Piano, Country Music

...It was pretty quiet, though, because Ernie was playing the piano.  It was supposed to be something holy, for God's sake, when he sat down at the piano.  Nobody's that good.  About three couples, besides me, were waiting for tables, and they were all shoving and standing on tiptoes to get a look at old Ernie while he played.  He had a big damn mirror in front of the piano, with this big spotlight on him, so that everybody could watch his face while he played.  You couldn't see his fingers while he played--just his big old face.  Big deal.  I'm not too sure what the name of the song was that he was playing when I came in, but whatever it was, he was really stinking it up.  He was putting all these dumb, show-offy ripples in the high notes, and a lot of other very tricky stuff that gives me a pain in the ass.  You should've heard the crowd, though, when he was finished.  You would've puked.  They went mad...

Ernie is the owner of the nightclub/bar Holden has just entered.  Holden is lonely and wants to be around people.  Everything is depressing him.  The hotel, the streets of New York, the people he sees on the streets of New York.  And now, at Ernie's, he's depressed about the music being played.  Ernie is a phony, trying to impress his audience with "show-offy" moves on the piano, and, of course, Holden isn't buying it.

I have to say that I'm pretty particular about music.  I can put up with almost any genre of music, from classical to rap.  There is just one type of music I can't stand, one that gives me a pain in the ass, as Holden would say.  The type of music is country. This hatred stems from years of being forced to listen to my brother's Johnny Cash records in the bedroom we shared.  I knew that, if I heard "Folsom Prison Blues" coming from the stereo when I was a kid, it was going to be a really long night.

This morning, the cable for the TV was not working in the waiting room of the medical office.  It was just cracking static.  So one of the radiology clerks pulled up a country station on her computer and started giving me childhood flashbacks.  When I first heard the music, I looked at her and said, "Please tell me you're not playing country."  She smiled and said, "It's better than silence."  I looked at her with the same expression I'm sure Holden has on his face listening to Ernie play.

This Worry Wednesday, I was forced to listen to almost two hours of pluck and twang, songs about dead guitars and disloyal dogs and cheatin' trains.  You get the idea.  It was not pleasant.  It got to the point where I wanted to find a sawdust floor, drink cheap beer, and vomit.  And I've done plenty of vomiting in the last few days.

Thank God the cable came back.  I'll even take Kathie Lee and Hoda over Willie and Waylon.  It's cold outside.  All the schools are closed, and the university is shut down for the second day in a row.  But at least I don't have to hear someone singing about Jesus taking the wheel.

Saint Marty is not a country boy.  Thank God.