Dear Mr. Junge,
I am writing you via this relatively public venue in the interest of honoring my part of our agreement, which was to offer you advice concerning your future career path. I warn you in advance that I may take a disapproving, even chiding tone with you. But you needn't worry that I will insensitively expose your fecklessness to any and all, Mr. Junge. I have changed your last name in the interest of protecting your privacy. Besides, your real last name is hilariously inappropriate, so I have re-christened you with your right and proper name.
To remind you of our acquaintance: you are currently stuck in a job with a low thread count and an even lower potential for tonier togs. You would like to move up in the world—and wouldn't we all—so you expressed your thoughts about a potential career in arts management to a chap who, as it happens, knows me. Since I am a solidly established professional in the San Francisco arts scene with contacts and experience galore, and since I am a professor at a major conservatory and a mentor to any number of worthy young hopefuls, your well-met chap asked me if I would be willing to offer you some trenchant career advice. Sure 'nuff, I replied. After all, it's something I do on a regular basis.
We spoke on the telephone and scheduled an appointment on your forthcoming day off—11:00 AM at a popular café in San Francisco's sprawling Civic Center arts complex.
At this point I would like to offer my first nugget of advice, Mr. Junge. That is: do not reschedule an appointment for silly reasons.
You contacted me the night before our meeting and stated that you "had to meet with a fellow who was buying your car" as your conflict apropos our appointment. Now, I may not be Einstein, but I do have some experience with the nature of Time, having lived within its stream since the Eisenhower administration. Thus I can state with absolute certainty that there are multiple hours in a day. You could have met with me at 11:00 AM and then your potential buyer at 1:00 PM, for example. Or just about any other time other than our appointed half hour. It was your day off, remember? That's why we were meeting then and not some other day.
Whatever my immediate misgivings, I agreed to a week's postponement and there we were, scheduled for the same 11:00 AM at the same café in the same sprawling arts complex. I arranged my morning accordingly and arrived about 10:50 AM, not just on time but a shade early. That's what I do. You show me a successful professional musician and I'll show you a stickler for punctuality.
I ordered myself a capuccino and a nosh, then seated myself in a prominent location where I was likely to be spotted easily by you, Mr. Junge, upon your entrance.
That entrance was not to be, however. You stood me up, Mr. Junge. I drank my capuccino, munched my nosh, and indulged in some idle people-watching. Then I left and went on with my day.
You called me at 11:40 AM, Mr. Junge. You called me from your cell phone, Mr. Junge. I let your message go to my voicemail. You were stranded by the side of the freeway in San Mateo, Mr. Junge, waiting for a tow from Triple-A. That's why you weren't where you were supposed to be, Mr. Junge, when you were forty minutes late to a half-hour meeting.
You called me from your cell phone, Mr. Junge. Let's reason this one out: you were stuck by the freeway, you had your cell phone, and your cell phone had my telephone number. Yet you called me at 11:40 AM, Mr. Junge.
11:40 AM. Unless your cell phone had just then materialized into existence, you could have called me at 11:00 AM. In fact, since you were a goodly distance away from San Francisco, you had been no doubt aware of the situation even earlier.
11:40 AM, Mr. Junge. 11:40 AM.
So I would like to offer my second nugget of advice, Mr. Junge: until that obviously distant day when you have grown into your real last name, stay with your current job.