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this party sux During the lunch break I laid down for a few minutes, struck fetal by the horrible recurring hormonal surge that sometimes renders me, well, incapable of being civil. So as I lay there I had the idea that I would open up a clinic? community center? day spa? where folks who sometimes just feel like kicking the shit out of something can go and direct their fury at inanimate objects (and not have to destroy their own personal possessions). "Sorry, I can't meet you for lunch -- I'm going to be smashing plates at the PMS Center at 12:15." The fingertips of my left hand are upset with me too, having repeatedly pinned them against steel strings this evening. I do not aspire to be Django, but I do want to be able to strum out a blasted VU ditty or two-chord Cat Power wonder. So I persist, and the digittips cry out: "Stop it, please! The Playstation thumb calluses were quite enough, thank you." That reminds me of the Word Jazz of Ken Nordine: "I used to think my right hand was uglier than my left." My left hand is probably jealous of my right, hovering peacefully above the strings and merely, gently grasping the pick. Like Nordine I will seek to give both hands commensurate attention and TLC. I wish I had good news, but this has been a week of Kaiser visits, medication, disorienting dreams. I *did* start doing a regular radio show again, which is not at all like riding a bicycle. I started a bit funky/turntablist but spent most of the time glitching and bleeping -- and trying to shake the brain freeze that had befallen me, the trance-like, gaped-mouth permastare that results from merging with a monitor screen under flourescent lights for so many hours...days... Quick, someone tell me a funny story, my pity party could wake the neighbors. |
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