El Rey Chancho's Gente

Don't send me anymore questions. I'm no longer going to read them or respond to them. STOP. It's become painfully obvious to me over the last 10 years that people, when engaged directly, are rarely candid, and usually about as obtuse as a dead circus clown. NO

While this decision has been coming for a long time, I was finally prompted to stop taking questions, not by a stupid submission from Max Delay (Leeds) asking whether or not green belt land in England should be converted into permanent settlements by gypsys (no) (duh), but by a man right here in the Chancho's own back yard.

As most of you know, I play the piano at The Torch Light Inn on mondays, wednesdays, and fridays from 7:00 to 9:00. The Torch Light is a nice place on the banks of the Wapsipenecan River, some 20 miles north or Davenport, Iowa on old highway 61. It's a quaint, quiet place, with large windows facing the river, and clean hardwood floors. I enjoy the time I spend there because it gets me out of the house during my wife's T.V. time.

I usually play what I'm in the mood to play, but recently I've been taking requests, which gets me to the other reason why I'm not taking YOUR questions anymore.

Last friday, while I was just finishing up a rather arduous rendition of Chopin's Largo in E Flat Major, when someone in the crowd shouted, "Play us some Bach."

Usually, the requests are to be written down and put on my bench before I arrive, and I can't say I liked this man's monkey-house shout, but I decided to be as gratitous as possible, under the circumstances. I played some Bach.

When I was about mid-way through Masses and Magnificants, I noticed the man who'd made the request was having a rather heated argument with the bartender. I looked back at the keys and paid it no more mind, until i was tapped on the shoulder. I looked up and it was him, the request man, standing behind me, with a whiskey in his hand and a frown on his face. "STOP," he said.

I stopped playing and turned around in my seat and said, "yes?"

He paused for a moment, and then turned and looked at the crowd. All was quiet. Then the man shouted, "WHY IS THIS GUY PLAYING BACH LIKE A FUCKING WETBACK?" He turned to me, hesitated, then threw his whiskey in my face and ran out of the room.

WHY IS THIS GUY PLAYING BACH LIKE A FUCKING WETBACK?

WHY?

Now there's a question. That's good. Much better that YOURS. SWEET. SPICK, BEANER, WETBACK--you name it--I've heard it.

I'll answer that.
Or try.

I'm German-Irish. I've been to Cancun. I've never worn a hairnet, I don't work at gonzo's, don't wear dark glasses at night, hate burritos, work legally, don't steal jobs from honest americans, when I say essay, I mean 5 paragraphs, 12 font, double spaced, no tattoos on this stomach, when a man looks at my wife, I don't knife him or her, never knifed anyone, don't inhale paint thinner to get high, don't have a mexican accent while having no working knowlege of the spanish language, don't jump borders, Fox's not my president, mexico city not my capital, hate texas and arizona and southern california, and I don't have a 64 chevy impala.

In short, I don't know why this man thought I was PLAYING BACH LIKE A FUCKING WETBACK, but I'll keep the question in mind when I make decisions about what to play next week.

Until then, take care

El Rey Chancho