The owner of the company was rich. Stupid rich. Old money rich. And he was a drunk. Stupid drunk. Old money drunk. He bought companies at whim. Most of them were bad ideas. I was hired to figure out if one of the bad ideas had a future (it didn't). But there were always new companies added to the portfolio. And I got to raise my hand and get involved with ay of them that I wanted to.

So. We bought a recording studio. The previous owner had died of AIDS, and his family didn't want anything to do with it. I worked there and at another company. Usually 12-16 hours per day. The Studio was "b-level", we didn't often record very many big name acts. But there were a couple exceptions. Bob Dylan recorded there. The Reverend Louis Farrakhan. And tons and tons of blues "artists".

Wesley Willis hung out in the Studio. I'd trade him recording time for drawings. And I'd hang in the engineering booth, fucking around with the recordings while he paged through his spiral notebook and pressed the presets on his keyboard. I dug Wesley. I got him. He was a sweetheart. He had a good heart, and he was lucky enough to be surrounded by people who took good care of him. Later, when his work had become popular over the internet, and he had a few CDs released by Rick Rubin and Jello Biafra, there was a good amount of legitimate criticism of his fans. The gist of it was, were they laughing at a cripple? Yeah. Probably.

But I knew Wesley before I ever heard his music. And the music was such a part of his whole personality - the way he needed to communicate where he was, what he saw, and his struggles with his mental health - that it never really felt like a joke. I laughed. But it honestly didn't feel like by laughing at the songs I was making fun of him.

I wasn't part of the immediate "family" of folks who took care of Wesley. But I was around. I'd take him out and buy him shoes. I visited him at home. And I talked to him on the phone pretty often. He recorded a couple CDs with us, and a couple with each of the other Studios in the neighborhood.

Unfortunately, I got tired of working for the drunk owner. I got fired. We were having a conversation where he was yelling at me (while drunk) for following instructions he had made to me earlier in the day (while sober). I suggested we continue the conversation when he was sober. That was not to be said.

Oh well.

I saw Wesley every now and then over the next few years. He visited me at my new job (and scared the shit out of the security staff). And we'd see each other fairly often at shows.

Wesley died of leukemia in 2003. I hadn't heard that he had been sick. My aunt died the same day. I cried for both of hem. Wesley more.

In the summer of 1993, we were recording one of Wesley's CDs. It was a hot summer day. Wesley arrived in his usual outfit of a heavy navy pea coat, lugging his keyboard under his arm. After recording a few tracks, Reza (the engineer) and I called Wesley in to hear something on tape. As he stood there listening, Wesley picked up a napkin, shoved it down the pack of his pants and vigorously rubbed the sweat out of his ass crack. He pulled the napkin out, held it up to his nose, and sniffed. Apparently satisfied, he dropped the napkin on the table. He turned and went back in to the Studio. Reza and I were dumbfounded. For about 15 seconds. "Wesley," I yelled, "Get the fuck back in hear and clean up your ass goo!"

Supposedly, on one of the CDs he recorded around that time, he had a song about me. I've never heard it. But those who have say it adheres to the "midas touch" template:

"(Sysm), you are the man with the Midas Touch.
You rock it to Russia with the Midas Touch.
You are my man.
You are my grateful one."

Right back at you Wesley. Merry Christmas.

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