Click images for desktop size: "Untitled" by Michael Parkes Mediocrily bad day.
Too much having to be polite to people when all I wanted was for them to leave me alone.
Even my puppy was grumpy.
Then, worse luck, some kid with a band asked me if I was who I used to be. He wants me to join his band . . .
With sickening speed he sent me a few mp3's of his stuff, I guess with dead earnest seriousness that I'd want to help and help him build his home recording studio.
I like kids to have dreams. I wasn't flattered that he wanted me to be part of his. I wouldn't have minded bashing around on the guitar with him, but the whole idea of a commitment makes it dull and heartless to me.
As I told him, "When I was 20 it was fun, lots of chicks, success just always around the corner."
He asked about the recording deal and I told him how it worked, we were never paid, we were given advances against sales and after 3 albums still owed the record company money.
What I liked most about the kid was that my dead pan boring monologue did nothing to diminish his excitement and enthusiasm.
He told me about his dreams and his plans. He went into wonderful detail about his recording studio, an isolated building in the middle of 6 acres of pine forest.
He spoke with love about the gear he had and with far reaching eyes about the stuff he dreamed of having.
We spoke about guitars and amps and about tone. Guitar players will almost always talk about tone. It's a reverential subject to us and invariably will end up with John Lee Hooker who is the only great guitar player who never had tone, but made up for it with stultifying rhythm.
He sent me some mp3's of his stuff. Today the pain was near crippling. The idea of listening to his stuff depressed me beyond belief. If its good, what does he need my input for? If it's bad I'll end up spending time thinking about what's wrong with it and how it could be better.
I don't think I have time or energy for him and his excitement and enthusiasm deserves my respect and my help.
So I was lazy and self obsessed enough to forward one his tracks to a special friend and now I'm waiting for feedback to see if I should even listen.
I bought a bike today. Spent $5 on it.
I might have gotten ripped off . . . It's a Keno english racer, made in Japan . . . Keno?
It's got two flat tires, a red seat and lots of red rust. The mechanics still work though, at least the gears shift and the calipers grip when you pull the levers . . .
I thought that it was too tall a bike for me. When I sat on it my feet couldn't touch the ground! It took me a while to realize the seat was fully extended by like 8 inches and I could lower it . . .
I'm going to fill up the tires tomorrow, wait over night to see if they explode or leak.
I'm afraid of it.

Click images for desktop size: "Cisco Kid" For some reason my comment yesterday about getting one B my entire life has elicited some odd response. I guess it's a poor chart of comparison.I'm not particularly self deprecating or modest but I guess the better standard would be to point out that I had to take the SAT 3 times in order to get a 761 which qualified me for my athletic scholarship (NCAA regs.)
A lot of people always found it funny that I scored higher on the GRE that I did on the SAT. I have no idea why.
I think it's telling that people comment more on my grades then they do on Berlioz. Shows how effective some of my communication skills are.
But that's why I have a puppy. All she wants from me is a pet on the head and treats . . . lot and lots of treats . . . lots of treats . . .
More blood work tomorrow. I have no idea if this much pain means things are working or not. It's like this kind of constant agony should be penance for a sin I only dreamed of committing. It should be a cure for slow death.