My own private jet

So i was at a piano bar in the village last night, hanging out with a friend. I was asked to sing a song, so I sang You Go To My Head, one of my very favorite jazz ballads. After I was done, this guy that was sitting at the piano drinking his vodka martini was so very impressed with me that he hands me a very cryptic business card which identifies him as the "Chairman" of a limited liability corporation with some acronym or other that I had never heard of. He tells me to call the number on the card on Monday morning and tell his assistant to put me in touch with him. The mere fact that I have his card will establish my bonafides with said assistant, he says. With a flourish he makes his grand exit from the piano, leaving the martini sitting there, half finished.......Ummmm....ok.

Five minutes later he returns. He immediately begins grousing about someone taking his martini away. (The barback must have cleared the piano of abandoned drinks). After we get through that he asks me what I'm doing next week. I tell him I have a flexible schedule. He asks if I could be in LA. I said, sure, if there was a reason to be there. "What if I were to send my private jet to pick you up?" He then goes on to tell me that his holding company (mysterious acronym on business card) of which he is chairman, owns a world-wide talent management company, XYZ..."surely you've heard of them?" Yes, of course. Well, I am so impressed with your singing that I want them to meet with you, blah, blah, blah.

Well, having worked in NYC for many years, I have to tell you that I've heard this all before, although never with the private jet coming to pick me up. I have to admit, that's a new twist. And of course, you gotta follow this through, on the extraordinarily slim chance that this guy might be for real. So, on Monday morning (11:30am, after my coffee, thank you very much) I will happily call his assistant and find out what time I need to be on the tarmac. What fun!!!

Oh, yeah...a foot note to the story: Some black guy with a voice wandered over to the piano after we had finished talking. My fancy chairman asks if he would sing "Sing Low, Sweet Chariot." Oy-fucking-vey!!