THE THING I DO WITH MY HANDS

The thing I do with my hands — no joke — is play the clarinet.  I have the same clarinet I had when I was 13.  Selmer Signet X.  I like pushing the keys and hearing the pads snap shut on the black wood.  My clarinet is pretty indestructible.  I once heard an expert say clarinets “get blown out” after a couple years.  Not mine.  It works fine.

Landlord and musician . . . I’m a hyphenated guy.  Depends what kind of cocktail party I’m at, whether I say “landlord” or “musician” first.

I don’t try to hide the landlord part.  I should!  Everybody hates landlords.  Nobody paid rent as a child, so people think they should live free as adults too.  The walls, heat and water — that should be free, like the wind, rain and baby food.

I used to feel guilty about charging rent.  I hadn’t really done anything to deserve the rent, other than to maintain a building —a building which I hadn’t even built. Now I’m middle-aged, and, hey, I feel fine collecting rent.  Somebody has to keep these old buildings from falling down.

Landlord-musician.  I know one more in Cleveland.  He’s a self-described “dago.”  Tough guy.  Wears a toupee, plays accordion and trumpet, and tells dirty jokes.  He’s got a strip center on the West Side.

Strip center — weird term.  Short for shopping strip center.

I don’t have any strip centers.  I have about 25 storefronts: Main Street-style.  The stores are on street level, with apartments above.  Like Disneyland’s Main Street.  But with mice.  Not Mickey.

There’s no money in the arts: I’ve rented to art galleries.  They all go under.  Things that don’t go under: bars, beauty parlors, tanning salons and flower shops.

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