INTERVIEW ONE
[recorder click]
GARY CAPELOUTO: —go everywhere with your own tea bags?
HUFFERINGTON ROOT: Yes, any British person travelling to America without tea bags should be forced to surrender their passport at customs. Put the kettle on, please. Did I press the correct button here?
GC: What button did you want to press?
HR: The “record” button.
GC: Yeah, that's the “record” button. Are you sure you know what you're doing?
HR: I will learn as I go. Let us begin, shall we? [pause]
Hello everyone. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Hufferington Root, and I am about to begin a series of music interviews. They are being recorded in the interest of factuality and preciseness. My inaugural interview shall feature an Atlanta musician and songwriter. I am with him now, having navigated my way past his loud collection of dogs and chickens. For the record, please state your name.
GC: For the record, my name is Gary Capelouto. I feel like I'm in court. With your accent, all you need is a white wig those lawyers wore in the old British courtroom dramas. Personally, I think they tried to copy the look of George Washington.
HR: Most certainly. [clears throat] You have an interesting name. Gary . . . Capelouto. As a man of words, I notice it contains all the major vowel sounds: ah, eh, ee, oh, oo. It has a nice ring to it. Italiano, no doubt. An Eton classmate was of Italian heritage and taught me a few friendly phrases. Tu sei una testa di cazzo.
GC: I have no idea what that means.
HR: Vai a farti fottere.
GC: Excuse me, Hufferington, but we've been shooting the bull mierda for an hour. I think we should, you know, start with the questions.
HR: I agree. No more faffing about. Sorry, I am a bit excited.
GC: Well, I'm happy you want to talk to me, but I don't know if I'm the right person for you to be launching—didn't you tell me you're launching a blog and magazine?
HR: Yes, I needed a musician to interview and thought you could share your experiences. I read in the local entertainment rag about your many years of guitar playing and remembered hearing your music as a student. Perhaps you can give us insights into the life of an American musician. I am intrigued, not having a musical bone in my body. There are millions of musicians, and they are my target audience. I have recently changed careers from law into the lucrative pop culture field.
GC: Why did you get out of law?
HR: Sorry, but I do not wish to discuss it. It is a private matter. Besides, I should be asking the questions. And if I may be frank, I must mention I do not know a single person in the music business. I must begin somewhere. You live in Atlanta, you were easy to find, and you could meet immediately. I rang you this morning, and here we are having tea in your sitting room. Let us give it a go, shall we? [pause]
Gary, would you please tell us whence do you hail?
GC: Whence do I hail? Do you mean where I'm from? I'm from here in Atlanta, Georgia.
HR: Ah, a rare Atlanta native, as they say. I am from across the pond, now making my mark in one of our thirteen original colonies. Georgia was named after King George II, if my memory serves me correct.
GC: Yeah, I could tell by your accent you were from England or Ireland or Australia.
HR: There should be no doubt as to my accent. I am English to my fingertips. As an Old Etonian, I speak only the Queen's English.
GC: They all sound pretty much the same to me. Hey, are you an aristocrat? I've never met a British aristocrat, but I've seen them in movies. Did you see The Remains of the Day? You act like those guys. Your speech is stiff. You should try using contractions.
HR: I beg your pardon.
GC: Eton is one of those old British private schools, right?
HR: Yes, however, we call it a public school. I was packed off to study there as a lad.
GC: You didn't live at home?
HR: No, it was determined best to board at Eton. My home was not a happy one. My dear mum was in mourning for years following the death of my father. [pause]
She was profoundly depressed.
GC: I'm sorry. Are you okay, man? I didn't mean to …
HR: Sorry, I do not usually open up like this. It is not very English. I have been too long here. [pause]
I spent most of my early years in the company of my rather strict grandfather, known to all as The Admiral. He even insisted that I, his five-year-old grandson, address him as Admiral. A typical conversation between us went,
Ahoy, Admiral, sir!
Did you swab down the galley this morning before breakfast?
Yes sir, Admiral.
Good. Carry on. Inspection at fourteen hundred hours. Now look alive.
Aye, aye sir.
GC: You were just five years old?
HR: Yes, he thought me too shy and was relentless in his demands. I must say, he did teach me the importance of being self-reliant. I certainly learnt to exercise self-preservation in his presence. [pause]
Sorry, Gary, we have gone off-topic. You are quite full of questions, but that is my job. I am the interviewer. May we return to music?
GC: Okay, but I'm just curious. Was he a real admiral?
HR: Indeed he was, retired. He began his naval career on the HMS Dreadnought in the First World War and survived the sinking of the HMS Ark Royal in the Second. He longed for his Navy days. He had the butler, Starnes, blow a ship's whistle when he entered the house as the staff stood at attention. I recall the clicking of heels on marble floors resonating through the hallways. [pause]
The Admiral owned a parrot named Matey.
GC: Matey? You're kidding me.
HR: No. Matey seemed as old as my grandfather. The Admiral would walk around—in uniform, mind you—with this parrot on his shoulder. They spoke in nautical terms and took part in Royal Navy traditions, including a toast for each day of the week. When The Admiral drank his Saturday port, he gave a toast “To wives and sweethearts,” to which Matey replied, “May they never meet.”
GC: [laughs]
HR: I wanted to adopt a rescue dog, but Matey would not allow it. Matey hated dogs. He chased three of our foxhounds off the estate and into the surrounding countryside, never to return. He squawked orders at the terrified staff, and no children would enter our house after attending my fiasco of a birthday party. We had a lovely time until Matey entered the room.
GC: What happened?
HR: It was a most unusual sequence of events. First he sampled everyone's cake and made a bloody mess while the children leant back in their chairs, wide-eyed as lemurs. Then he popped the balloons and squawked, “We're hit! Abandon ship! We're hit! Abandon ship!” Then he chased everyone out of the house—it was raining cats and dogs—and forced them to jump into the swimming pool while nipping at their ankles and squawking, “Abandon ship, you wanker!”
GC: [laughs]
HR: Matey also developed a taste for Scotch whisky and cigarillos. When he and The Admiral were in their cups, they engaged in the saltiest swearing displays imaginable. Oh, the insults! Alas, they were dear companions till the end. They died in a horrific car crash and were buried together. [pause]
My childhood was a bit … lonely. I had no friends before Eton. Anti-Eton sentiment may be rife, but it was a good place for me. I thrived there. It became my home. I lived there until I graduated and entered Oxford.
GC: Did you have your hair in a ponytail back then?
HR: No, the ponytail is new—crikey! Who is doing the interviewing here?! Please allow me to ask the questions! [pause]
Gary, what have you been doing these days?
GC: Well, I've been writing and playing my new electric guitar instrumental music. They’re theme-based melodies, and I use the element of surprise. I think of them as songs without words. I improvise and expand the melodies and return to the common themes.
HR: I see. How would you classify this new music of yours?
GC: Well, Hufferington, I don't like labels, but—
HR: Sorry to interrupt, but please do not call me Hufferington. It takes you so long to pronounce it, the way you drawl it out with your Southern accent, that we shall be here forever. Hufff-ferrr-riiing-tonnn. It is Hufferington. Say it quickly.
GC: I kind of like it. Hufferington.
HR: No, you are dragging it out. Just call me Huff.
GC: It's an unusual name.
HR: As is yours. I assume pronouncing the name Capelouto is not exactly a walk in the park for many of your countrymen. Four syllables in one word can be a bit much, I am sure. And if you must know, my full surname is Root-Shufflebottom. I learnt long ago that when in Atlanta, life is much easier for me if I shorten it to Root. I became tired of telling people here that my name was Hufferington Root-Shufflebottom, and their reply would be, “Your name is what what-what?”
GC: [laughs] I like unusual names. I wanted to give our daughter the name Garianne, but I was outvoted 1-1.
HR: Garianne? You Yanks can come up with some corkers.
GC: The Yanks are up north. This is the South. I think you need to learn a little American history and geography.
HR: [clears throat] You spoke of labels.
GC: Yeah, if I had to pick a genre, I'd call it jazz. Or a type of jazz. Am I allowed to call it that? Does anyone own that word? I'll have to ask Mr. Marsalis.
HR: Jazz, right.
GC: My new stuff is extremely fun to play, and I often create on the spot. I play chords, but it's mostly a lead-type guitar laying out the melody and taking it from there. They are structured like the piano instrumentals I recorded in the 1980s.
HR: What were those like? I have not heard them.
GC: Not many people did. I wrote and recorded several extended piano compositions. Intergalactic Recording Company released two under the title Gabriel Louteau – Solo Piano. One piece, The Suite: Return, was written for ballet. The theme is the cycle of peace and war. It has seven movements including a village dance and a march to war. It begins with two lovers who meet and fall in love, and two different lovers replace them at the end of the dance.
HR: Why the name Gabriel Louteau?
GC: Intergalactic thought piano music played by a guy with a French-sounding name like Gabriel Louteau was more marketable than Gary Capelouto. I would never agree to that today.
HR: It does not sound like such a bad idea to me.
GC: Uh-huh. Anyway, I recorded The Suite: Return in 1987 at Curtis Mayfield's home studio in the West End of Atlanta. He had a nice-sounding grand piano. Carlos Glover was the sound engineer.
HR: Did you meet Curtis Mayfield? He was quite the famous musician.
GC: Yeah, I met him when I had a smoke after the session, and he came to see what was going on. It was before he had that terrible accident.
HR: You say you met Curtis Mayfield when you had a smoke after the session. I am curious as to what you smoked.
GC: What do you mean? I had a smoke.
HR: It is common knowledge that many musicians love to smoke wacky backy. Was it perhaps wacky backy that Curtis Mayfield smelt in his home studio?
GC: Wacky backy?
HR: Why else would he have come to investigate? Wacky backy has a strong odor. He would not have come to investigate common tobacco smoke.
GC: Who said anything about investigating?
HR: Well? What say ye?
GC: What say ye? That sounds like Shakespeare. Where do you come up with these old sayings?
HR: Suffice it to say I have never fully shaken off my old-fashioned upbringing. The speech of earlier generations from the North of England influenced me.
GC: Is that near London?
HR: [clears throat] I might add I am a lifelong student of the English language and a lover of classical British literature. It is not in my nature to boast, but I should mention I read Mr. Shakespeare at the age of three.
GC: Shakespeare is like a foreign language to me, Hufferington.
HR: Please call me Huff. And believe it or not, the North, like a lot of places in the UK, is not near London.
GC: Is it near Stonehenge?
HR: Bloody Yanks! No, it is near Bell End and Boggy Bottom, not too far from Nether Wallop and Crotch Crescent. Is there anything else you wish to say about that album of piano music?
GC: There's also a recording of Experiment on Black. It's played entirely on the black keys of the piano.
HR: What made you wish to play on only the black keys?
GC: I wanted to experiment. It was a challenge to compose. I wondered if I could write a special piece within certain limitations, in this case on the black keys of the piano. [pause]
I do it all the time when I write guitar instrumentals, too. I wrote one using only an E chord with various strumming that is a lot of fun to play—a one chord song. I just wrote a cool little guitar piece that is played entirely on two adjacent frets. It's amazing what you can come up with. I'll hear it and think, “That's all on two frets?”
HR: Does that matter to the listener?
GC: Good point. It doesn't matter to the listener. They hear a piece of music and don't know or care that it's all on the black keys of the piano or on just two adjacent frets of the guitar. They just want to hear nice music. The same with me when I hear something like Experiment on Black. As the composer, I know what went into writing it. You make challenges for yourself when writing, to make it stronger and original. I, too, am only interested in the result. That's really all that matters. I heard it recently for the first time in many years and got emotional and couldn't hold back. I burst into tears.
HR: And why?
GC: Well, to me parts of it are extremely beautiful. When I heard it, memories of recording it came flooding out because I remembered having to make so many decisions on how to arrange it. I'm self-taught on my instruments. I don't read or write music and had developed my own code of how to remember what I wrote. When I finished a piano piece, I wanted to record it as soon as possible while it was fresh. [pause]
I've always thought Experiment on Black would make a nice modern dance. It has eight movements. It opens with “The Grand Exit” and ends with “The Grand Entrance.”
HR: That sounds a bit daffy. Did you improvise as you played it?
GC: No, no. There was no freeform or improvisation like I do with my new guitar stuff. Every single piano part was planned. Every note, every pause. The same on The Suite: Return and Lost at C.
HR: What is Lost at C?
GC: It's another experimental piano composition I recorded in '88 or '89. It went through a lot of changes before I nailed it down. An early title was Non-Mathematical Mumbo Jumbo. Then I called it Optical Illusion in C. Then Where the River Meets the Sea because I had a couple of paranormal-type experiences where the Savannah River meets the Atlantic.
HR: What do you mean?
GC: Well, one night I saw the ghost of a cat on a rock jetty.
HR: My word. You and your wacky backy.
GC: At first I thought it was a real cat, and I went to rescue it. Then I realized it was just energy in the shape of a cat. I splashed water on it, and it would disappear in a cloud and then reappear. This really happened.
HR: Oh, I most certainly believe you, Your Highness. I am sure our readers see cat ghosts on a regular basis. Sorry, you brought up titles.
GC: Later the title became Lost at Sea and finally Lost at C because it's in the key of C, and I wanted the double meaning. I played it on grand piano at Songbird Studios here in Atlanta. One take, no edits. The owner wasn't too happy with me because the piano had just been tuned, and on a couple of parts I banged on it pretty good with the sustain pedal down.
HR: Right. What is the meaning of the title? How were you lost?
GC: Well, it's a piece about dealing with a crisis in your life and overcoming the storms—like being in a life raft lost at sea. All the movements have ocean themes. There's a heavy storm movement using all the reverberation of the grand piano. SOS in Morse code is tapped out on the high keys. There's also a hallucination movement where the music gets jumbled and out of order, caused by the sun beating down. It ends with a movement of survival when land is spotted.
HR: What will you do with this Lost at C?
GC: It's going on my website, with your technical help, of course. Thanks for setting it up, by the way. I'm not good at that stuff, and I can't afford to pay anybody right now.
HR: Not at all, but please remember it is part of a business arrangement. I am helping you in exchange for your participation in this series of music interviews. You provide content for the launching of my HuffRoot Media enterprises, and I will design and maintain your website. It is business, Gary. I hope it to be mutually beneficial.
GC: Sounds good. Count me in.
HR: I should also point out that if the interviews do not find an audience and turn a profit within a reasonable period of time, I have the right to terminate our business arrangement without notice. This enterprise must become profitable as soon as possible. I have a lot at stake. Now please continue. You mentioned a life raft.
GC: Yeah, I may also release a version with a background track of ocean sounds. I’ll have breaking waves as a climax of natural sounds to coincide with the musical climax of reaching shore. I sure wouldn't mind going offshore and getting ocean sounds for Lost at C. I know my old pals Hunter and Terry over in the South Carolina Lowcountry would take me out in their boat with my recorder. Have you ever been to the Lowcountry?
HR: No, afraid not.
GC: Oh man, it's nice. I met Terry when she lived as a teenage hippie in Savannah making stained glass windows, and we've kept in touch over the years. I lived for a while on Tybee Island outside Savannah, and I just love the beach. I moved there after leaving an exhausting photo lab job in Atlanta, working for my uncle.
HR: I once worked for my uncle, the Duke of Kent, on one of his gormless ventures. It was a disaster. How was your experience?
GC: Well, my uncle was a great photographer, and his knowledge was immense, but he worked me hard. I learned every job in the place and worked late every night to please him. He built his business from nothing, a “self-made man,” and I admired him and did whatever he asked. After two years I was exhausted and realized he didn't give a mierda about me—he just wanted production.
HR: That is the second time you have said mierda. Is it an American word?
GC: It's Spanish. I sometimes use Spanish cusswords. [pause]
The work was interesting. I shot a lot of photography and made big prints and transparencies. I processed color film, which required total darkness. I had a mental checklist for loading and operating the machine in the dark, but one mistake and I'd ruin thousands of dollars of film, much of it shot by professional photographers. It happened once or twice. I finally burned out.
HR: Sorry. I see. May we—
GC: I'd gone to school to get a good, broad liberal arts education. I was idealistic and wasn't concerned about a real job or my money-making prospects. I never used my college degree, but I still believe in the value of the humanities. Anyway, I ended up working a variety of odd jobs, which is an education in itself.
HR: Sorry, may we return to music?
GC: Sure. After the photo lab job, I moved to a little wooden beach shack on Tybee Island to be near Savannah where my longtime music partner had moved. We continued our music playing right where we had left off in Athens—didn't miss a beat. I loved my days on the coast and didn't evacuate when Hurricane David passed through. The rain blew sideways, and a lot of big oak trees fell. It was quite an experience for a newly arrived beach bum. For six months on Tybee I drank beer and chased boyo and hung out in the sun.
HR: I beg your pardon. What is boyo?
GC: You know . . . girls. Man, I used to catch mullet with a net, fishing with my beach dog, Kay. She was smart. I trained her to take one end of the net into the Savannah River when the tide went out, then swim upriver a ways and curve around and bring it to shore. Kay then took the mullet out of the net and dropped them in a cooler. I just sat in a beach chair wearing cut-off jeans and a sun hat, giving her verbal commands.
HR: Sorry, I find that a fishy tale.
GC: Kay would usually draw a crowd and was great for meeting girls—a true boyo magnet.
HR: Speak English, please.
GC: Then I moved to midtown Savannah and worked all kinds of day jobs and played music at night. I also fixed up my first house and set up a little furniture stripping operation, Gary's Strip Shop, in the garage. I made decent money, but the chemical was very caustic—methylene chloride, now banned. A rubber suit protected me from head to toe, but if one little drop got on my skin, it burned so bad I had to stop work and wipe it off. The fumes made Kay walk around like a drunkard. I can't believe I'm still alive after being around that mierda. Plus, the photo lab chemicals. Plus, I used to smoke cigarettes. Man, I don't take anything for granted now. I'm happy to be here and try to show my love to my family every day.
HR: Right. Okay, where were we?
GC: Savannah. I wanted to be near the water, so I got a job on the docks working for a ship chandler—you know, a marine supply company—and selling any provisions from tools to booze to fresh vegetables when the ships came in. These were not cruise ships but cargo vessels and container ships. I would visit the captains, and they received a ten percent cash kickback on any goods they ordered. The shipping company paid the bills but didn't know about the kickbacks. We had a big warehouse and delivered the stuff to their ship. I gave them their cash afterwards in a plain envelope.
HR: Did you now?
GC: I didn’t know it was improper and possibly illegal. The boss said do it, so I did it. I was 23, 24 years old and street-smart but naive about the business world. The same when I bought my Savannah house. I didn't know what to do—how to get a loan, none of that. I'd saved a little money for a down payment, and this man was selling his brick bungalow for $24,000. I looked it over and said, “I'll buy it. What do I do?”
HR: This is irrelevant.
GC: Okay, but I bet those cash kickbacks are still going on today. It never occurred to me to steal any of the money in those envelopes. Sometimes there'd be $3,000 in there, and it was all off the books. Many captains had drawers filled with cash, and they'd casually toss the envelope in the drawer. There were strict divisions between officers and crew on many of the ships I went on. Did you see Mutiny on the Bounty?
HR: No. May we please—
GC: It wasn't that different, but of course I never saw a captain who was abusive or cruel like in the movie. Many of the crews were from all over the world and some seemed to be dressed in rags. I went deep inside those ships, and some were rusty and nasty. Anyway, the company owner I worked for was a real psycho and a loud racist, and I couldn't stand him. I finally quit. Yeah, Hufferington, I loved—
HR: Sorry, I do not mean to carp, but I politely asked you to call me Huff. I am unable to tolerate your pronunciation—
GC: Huff. Real quick, I loved that little brick house and spent a lot of time fixing it up. I learned about old-house restoration, and I re-plastered every wall and ceiling. My next-door neighbor was a river pilot who twice ran large ships into the Talmadge Bridge. Twice! Man, he got the job when his dad retired, and his son got the job after him. What a cushy job. He made tons of money, and he wasn't fired when he ran into the bridge.
HR: All right, Gary, calm down.
GC: Okay. His wife was a trip and very nosy. She phoned me when I partied, “Gary, it's gettin' kinda loud over there.” I used to have oyster roast parties in my backyard that could get raucous. I taught Kay to add wood to the fire. Whenever the flames got low I'd say, “Kay, fire.” She'd get up, grab a stick, and drop it on the coals. Eventually I didn't have to say anything—she'd do it on her own when she noticed the flames getting low. Kay had more sense than most of the people down on River Street. I've always loved seafood, but in Savannah I learned to love oysters. So did Kay. I could eat a whole bushel by myself, including saltines. For a thin guy I could pack it in.
HR: I do not believe your dog stories. Utter tripe. We really must—
GC: Get this. My neighbor on the other side was a plumber who owned about ten houses around town—a couple of really nice houses on Victory Drive, too. Then one morning I read my Savannah Daily News and, lo and behold, there was my neighbor on the front page after getting arrested for smuggling a large quantity of boracho in on a shrimp boat.
HR: You and your unusual words. What, pray tell, is boracho?
GC: You know, wacky backy. The cops watched and waited till they unloaded the boat into a truck before they busted them. That was pretty smart. Another neighbor down the street whose son delivered my newspaper—and threw it on my roof half the time—also got busted for illegal importation, but he was bringing in cocaine. My neighbors across the street were a helicopter pilot from Hunter Army Airfield and his wife. He was gone a lot, and his wife took an interest in me, but I wasn't going to get involved with her and had to tell her “No way” several times. She was lonely, but I would never do it behind that pilot's back. He was a nice guy and invited me to his parties. It would have been wrong . . . and unpatriotic, too.
HR: Unpatriotic? What are you—
GC: Real quick, there were a few snobbish types in Savannah, too, mostly downtown. They looked down their noses at anyone who wasn't an old-time Savannah blue-blood or was “from somewhere else.” I worked for a bunch of those snobs and would-be snobs. I had no desire to enter their social world. That reminds me of somebody. Did you ever see Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil? I did a few furniture stripping jobs for Jim Williams, the guy who murdered the other guy. He dealt in high-end antiques. The shooting and trial took place when I lived there. I've never met as many characters anywhere else I've ever lived.
HR: I am sure. All right, we really must stop.
GC: Hey, Hufferington, have you ever—
HR: Huff! For the umpteenth time!
GC: Huff. Have you ever been to Saint Patrick's Day in Savannah? It's huge there. I've got lots of Saint Patrick's Day stories. During the parade drunk girls ran up and smooched the Army Rangers who marched in formation, and the soldiers didn't blink an eye or break stride. Real quick, one year this undercover cop grabbed my wrist and screamed “You're under arrest!” because I held a boracho stick. I saw five or six sad-looking teenagers he’d just nabbed, tied in a row like a string of ponies, so I threw my green beer on him and twisted out of his grip and ran off through the crowd.
HR: Crikey.
GC: My friends Whatley and Wayne couldn't believe their eyeballs. I finally found them about three hours later—this was way before cell phones. I was young and stupid and wrong to do what I did, but at the time I thought the cop was wrong, too. My thinking was, “Come on, I'm not bothering anybody, and a guy in civilian clothes grabs me. And wants to send me to the slammer for a boracho stick on Saint Patrick's Day. Me along with those scared kids he'd nabbed for doing the same thing? When the entire population of Savannah is silly drunk by the end of their green grits breakfast and stupid drunk by the end of their green shrimp lunch?” [pause]
It was a split-second decision, and I'm sorry he got wet, but can you imagine his conversation with the police dispatcher when he radioed headquarters?
Dispatcher: Hello, police station.
Officer: Yes, this is Officer … Cacaloo. You need to send out an All Points Bulletin, an APB, to catch a guy who just threw his green beer on me.
Dispatcher: What happened, Officer Cacaloo?
Officer: Well, I was bringing my latest batch of teenage arrestees to the paddy wagon when I observed the suspect on Factors Walk in possession of a burning boracho stick, at which time I attempted the apprehension of said perpetrator. He escaped my clutches and proceeded to evade and elude me, requiring the immediate necessity of a police perimeter around Bay Street and River Street. I really want to get this guy. My new, white undercover shirt is now stained green.
Dispatcher: Bay Street and River Street? There's half a million people within that area, along with a few marching bands and a green elephant or two. Can you give me a description of the suspect?
Officer: Yes. White male. Oh, I'm not sure about his height. Hold on, let me ask these arrestees. Hey, how tall was that guy I just tried to apprehend?
Busted Teen #1: Do you mean that dude who held a tiny boracho stick, a little roachito, and minded his own business?
Officer: Yes.
Busted Teen #2: Are you talking about that guy who tossed his green beer on your new, white undercover shirt when you assaulted him and shouted in his ear?
Officer: Yes, that guy.
Busted Teen #3: Oh, I'd say he was about five foot two.
Busted Teen #4: No, man. He was at least six foot ten. I thought for a minute it was Yao Ming.
Busted Teen #5: You did? To me he bore a striking resemblance to Mini-Me.
Busted Teen #6: I'm confused, officer. Are you talking about that one-legged guy on crutches you chased into the path of a Sherman tank during the parade?
Officer: We are unable to determine said height.
Dispatcher: Okay, what was he wearing?
Officer: That I know! He was wearing a green shirt!
Dispatcher: Thank you, Officer Cacaloo. That's the break we needed. I'll put out an APB for a White male in a green shirt. He'll stick out like a sore thumb. I'll send every available officer we have and contact the surrounding counties.
HR: What insanity.
GC: Seriously, I was lucky I didn't get caught like those bobos who run from the police on Cops. Nobody gets away on Cops. That's my favorite TV show. I watch it every Saturday night with my daughter, and I teach her things and tell her how stupid those people are to run from cops. Why do you have that look on your face?
HR: What in the world? May we please—
GC: I don't even want to start talking about the Savannah women I had relations with.
HR: Good. Thank you.
GC: Yeah, it was never love, but I guess it beat loneliness. I wasn't ready to settle down or make any commitments to anyone. Although I sowed my wild oats, in my personal life I was restless and unsatisfied and searching for … who knows what. The girl of my dreams, I guess. [pause]
HR: I have a history of being unlucky in love, but I recently met the girl of my dreams.
GC: That's great.
HR: She was beautiful and loved me dearly. I was so happy.
GC: Why the sad look? What happened? An accident?
HR: No, I woke up. [pause]
I will continue to search for my true love. I know she is out there. Please continue with your wild oats.
GC: Where does that phrase come from, “I sowed my wild oats”? It sounds like those old sayings you like to use. I guess it's better than something vulgar. Vulgarity has become so common it's almost turned me into a prude. But my love life in Savannah was either one night stands or big, messy affairs. One girl tried to break up with a pseudo macho guy who beat her up and wouldn't leave her alone. He followed her to my house. Guys like that who beat wives and girlfriends and harass and stalk them are nothing but weak cowards. Why can't they just move on with their lives?!
HR: Tone it down, please.
GC: Another girl had once dated a Chatham County cop who traced my license plate and called me up. I don't like to use the term “pissed off,” so I'll just say I was pretty pisharred.
HR: A copper?
GC: Yeah, James Cagney, a copper. I met him at the Krispy Kreme on Skidaway late at night, and he tried to intimidate me, but I held my ground. It was pretty tense. Man, I had written his name on a piece of paper and put it in an envelope before I left my house. One of my sisters was visiting me, and I told her, “If anything happens to me tonight, open this envelope.”
HR: Bollocks. I do not believe that. Okay, enough of this. Listen, let us—
GC: It's absolutely true. She never visited me again. And although me and that guy—who wasn't in uniform—kept our voices low, the looks on our faces told the other customers at the Krispy Kreme that something was going on. They cleared out like in those old Westerns where people exit the saloon when they see trouble brewing. Luckily nothing happened. Again, some people are so dang insecure when it comes to relationships. He couldn't accept that she didn't want to see him anymore.
HR: Exit the saloon? What in the—
GC: There was another girl I met on the beach who moved in with me for a while, but it didn't work out. Another time, and this is by far the weirdest, I fell for a girl who I later found out was having intimate relations with her bro—
HR: Gary! Gary! Stop! I beg of you. Please, let us take a break. [pause]
What is going on here? Where did all of that come from? I do not recall asking you about the beach and Savannah parades and your love life and all that lunacy. Cat ghosts? You were talking nineteen to the dozen, and I could not stop you to save my life.
GC: I'm sorry. I didn't mean to run my mouth, but I got excited. I've always enjoyed telling stories. I used to have a regular storytelling gig—
HR: You constantly interrupt, and I totally lost control of this interview and do not ever remember being so flabbergasted. I got dizzy and could not get a word in edgewise. Chasing boyo? What odd words you use—I need a translator. And that Officer Cacaloo story? What did that madness have to do with—
GC: I moved to Savannah to continue playing music with my partner. I haven't thought about that stuff for ages and got carried away.
HR: Carried away? That is the understatement of the year. You can talk the hind legs off a donkey. And look, Gary, I mean no offence, but your piano talk is not my cup of tea, either. My blog and magazine are targeted to a young audience with money in their pockets. I mean, piano compositions? I thought you were a guitar rocker.
GC: I was a rocker but was just answering your questions about the piano stuff. They're part of my musical past.
HR: We shall make them available on your website. I have them all but Lost at C.
GC: Yeah, it's coming. It's on quarter inch reel-to-reel tape and being digitized.
HR: Okay, let us change the subject and speak of topics my audience might appreciate just a bit more. I do not wish to turn them off before we even get started, with all your Savannah escapades and rusty ships and—
GC: I thought that stuff was interesting, wasn't it? That was my life when I lived in Savannah. I love the place, but a lot of craziness happened to me there.
HR: Sorry, but just because those things happened to you, does not make it interesting to us. This is a business, and I must cater to my targeted demographic—musicians.
GC: You know, maybe you picked the wrong guy for these interviews. Why don't you go find a pop star to talk to?
HR: No, we have just begun, but please remember that I am in charge here. I ask the questions, and you answer them. It is a simple process. [pause]
Gary, you must understand that this is a high stakes venture for me. I am risking the last of my inheritance, and I must succeed.
GC: Okay, okay.
HR: Let us conclude for today and give it another go tomorrow. We shall try something different. I have an excellent idea for the next interview