I'll admit freely that it doesn't take a lot to derail me as a writer. In this case, it was my laptop dying on me. Which isn't to say I haven't had a computer at my disposal, but as much as I despise routine, and as much as I hate everything else about my laptop, words flowed easily from my brain to my fingers to that keyboard. And yes, it makes a difference, whether it be by pencil or pen (thousands of variations there), quill, brush, typewriter, voice recognition, or a keyboard.
Granted, it makes even more of a difference if you're aware that it makes a difference.
This keyboard has a much stiffer action to it. Not quite as aggressive as a typewriter, but firm and definitive.
But I doubt a post entirely about how the keyboard I was using to type said post effected how it turned out would interest many? Also? It would create a recursive feedback loop, as my equipment would not only influence my writing but would define it. Consumption of the resulting product would put one at risk for Mad Blogger Disease.
So you'll all be spared.
What I'm going to attempt to do is meld everything that's happened in my life recently that I've meant to blog about but haven't into one narrative. I'm not quite sure how I'm going to accomplish this, so I'm just going to feel it out.
I may have made note of my extensive experience and expertise in the matter of the awkward moment. One thing I've been working on lately is good ways to ditch the random weirdos. In some cases it's easy enough
"Can I give you a free personality test?"
"Sorry pal, fuck you.
"Where do you think you'll end up when you die?"
"in the ground. Hopefully deep enough that I can't hear you.
It should be noted that in two cases I omitted the first response when the Scientology in question was actually someone I'd gone to high school with. As for the second, he told me that if I didn't accept Jesus Christ as my one true savior I was a liar, a thief, an adulterer, and a murderer at heart. Apparently a follower of Christ doesn't need to be courteous, or honor the fact that you're trying to make a fucking phone call.
Where was I? Oh right. So I was taking in coffee with my friend Rosie, who may in fact be beginning a blog when she goes to spend three months in Australia. We were talking about music, going back and forth naming favorite bands/songs/etc. Occasionally one of us would have to sing a few bars before the other understood what it was. As I made a demonstration, to the best of my abilities, as to just who Howlin' Wolf was (bonus points if you can figure out what song), some guy in his fifties sat down at a nearby table.
"It's been coming from here all along? I thought it was the radio! You've got a great voice."
He turned to my companion
"If you don't marry him, I will."
At which point I extended my finger over her shoulder at an imaginary object out the window and said, "look at that," leaned in closer and asked if she would like to take a walk outside, which we did.
What I've decided is the best method of all requires two people who are of compatible or at least sufficiently malleable sexual orientation. A signal word or sentence is uttered and the two subjects engage in a spontaneous PDA for long enough to get whoever it is to leave.
There've been a couple of times that would have come in handy for me. And at least two where I could have easily rescued a friend with it. Whether they would have found it as such is of course another story. I have an odd habit of being friends with stoic ladies who will say that they are fine and nothing is wrong and everything is great even when a complete idiot and a stranger could tell that that was not the case. And I'm not a complete idiot.
"Go away Pat," she said as I attempted to help her away from a particular weirdo who gave his name as Jose. He had a handle growing out of his neck, I think. I may have been somewhat confused myself at this time.
No sympathy for the devil, keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride.
What I can be sure is that Ophelia didn't have a handle growing out of her neck. She did, sadly, have a hairline fissure growing down the length of it. The strap broke a while back and she fell head-first. Since then that part has been held in place by duct tape as I tried to get an opinion as to what to do. All of my guitar playing friends were stumped and said to consult someone at a shop. The shop dudes said that I should pay them money to fix it, but failed to give me a good reason why I couldn't do it myself. I finally figured that I could give gluing it a shot, and if that failed I could probably buy a replacement neck on ebay for less than the guitar shop dudes were talking about for fixing it.
I have a serious problem with a troubling percentage of guitar shop dudes. some of those fuckers act like you don't know shit. I think one of them even misused the word "resonance" when he was telling me how my fix was going to fail, hoping I didn't know what it meant.
Speaking of which, if you go to an art school and can't use the word "aesthetic," you are a bimbo. Hands down.
Anyways, I managed the task using Gorrilla glue, which I had to sneak into the crevice with a piece of paper, and secure with a bungee cord, as the clamp didn't work. It was a success
But I lost the goddamned strings.
And speaking of guitars, I feel obligated to point you all towards an instance of pure awesome as I check out for now. Cedric Bixler-Zavala fell ill just before the second set of a Mars Volta show. And there I doubt there's a dude alive who can sing like him. So instead of doing their normal set, John Fruiscante stepped up on third guitar, and they did 47 minutes of instrumentals, including this clip.