So what’s this book about?

A wildly imaginative and intellectually humorous account of 30 years of experiences, people, places, and remembrances of a somewhat reformed nightclub entertainer. It’s a delicious balancing act upon that delicate thin line formed at the intersection where fact meets fantasy.

Gary Finkelstein, a native New Yorker, began his musical training early by playing the bars on his crib with his rattle. Formal piano and percussion lessons came shortly thereafter. In high school he had achieved a level of proficiency so as to win a position in a national symphony orchestra, which performed at Carnegie Hall. Instead of pursuing sports teams, he formed and booked a seven-piece band that was kept busy playing all the local dances and parties.

His education continued as a music major at the prestigious School of Music at Indiana University. Upon graduation, he returned to his home state and attended New York Law School. Soon after, the call of the inner-musician took over and he launched a thirty-year career, which carried him from coast to coast.

He put together his musical talents, his passion for comedy, and his extensive education to create his own unique brand of entertainment. As he says about himself, "I’m not the best piano player by far. I’m not the best singer at all, and I’m not the funniest comedian you’ve ever heard. But I do all three better than anybody!"

Today he lives in the Seattle area and limits his public performances to special events, private functions, and the occasional concert or two, whenever he wishes to expose his latest musical crop of political and social satire. He continues to write all kinds of music and toys with the ideas of channeling his creative efforts towards television, movies, and perhaps Broadway.

Chicago is a great many things to a great number of great people who can really start grating on your nerves if you’re not careful. (Oh that’s just great!) We got a gig right away, well sort of a gig. It was a room Howard worked as a single and we just added me as an extra bonus for a nominal fee. The purpose was to start working together and get a "professional feel" for each other. Even to the untrained eye and ear, it was obvious that we were compatible, we both wanted to date the same waitresses. This suburban intimate and cozy American Express type night spot catered to the average white collar, nine to five, professional and several Harley biker gangs. You can imagine what a wide variety of music was called for at the drop of a hat, or a table. But what the hell, it was work.

Soon it was November, and the wind was whipping in off the lake, serving as a gusty reminder that on the impending horizon was winter. One off night we doubled dated and had a lovely evening at a local couples spot. It was a combination Japanese restaurant and cock-fighting arena. Let me tell you, the sushi was flying that night. I can’t even begin to express how fortunate I felt to have talked Howard out of wearing our chicken suits. I mean no matter how much fun you’re looking for, no sense going off half cocked.

We took the three girls home and headed for "The Last Stop," a little bar right around the corner from our pad. There was some serious business to discuss. It was clear that time was needed to practice. The way to our lofty goals was paved with high standards. Neither one of us was opposed to multifarious practice sessions; after all we were compiling the consummate entertainment package. Hard work was not a frightening prospect nor a subversive enemy. We had all day, everyday to rehearse, and none of that would get in the way of nighttime activities. It was not so much a question of how, but rather of where?

The focal point of the discussion was this; it was going to take the next few months to get to a point where we could take on any job. Did we want to spend another winter in Chicago? Maybe the more appropriate question was, did we have to? We looked at each other and I guess the light went on, the obvious answer was "Hell no!"