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Tuesday, February 2, 2021
Monday, January 18, 2021
I am disappointed my new Sorel bedroom slippers already smell this bad, only a few weeks after Christmas. My wife bought them for me, and the fleece lining was so comfortable, I did not want to wear socks with them. I knew something was wrong after about three days of wearing them. One night, I was practicing a song on my guitar ("Carefree Highway") when I got an itch on my foot, so slipped one of the slippers off my foot partially to scratch it. That's when I got a whiff. It was pretty bad, so I figured I better air these things out for one night. I took them off, took a shower, and figured everything would be okay the next morning. I should have known there was a problem when I got out of the shower, and the dog was sitting next to them. He only comes in my room and sits there when I order the Salt and Pepper chicken wings from the Chinese restaurant across from Southwestern College. Anyway the other night I was in a rush to get up to bed because my wife and I were going to watch the Tiger Woods special - the documentary about how he cheated and his wife beat him with a golf club. I took the slippers off and climbed into bed I somehow knew to let my feet air out first before I put them under the covers. Good thing
"Wait a second. What the hell is that God-awful smell?" asked my wife Tracy. Yes, it was my feet. I had to admit it."Oh my God! Get your feet and those slippers out of this room right now!" I had to go downstairs and take another, unplanned shower. When I got out of the shower I had a text message. "Your feet left a horrible smell on the bedspread. You're disgusting." That text was from my wife. I went upstairs and I did not smell anything that bad, so I think she was exaggerating. But none of this is what I expected. I've researched on YouTube "How to Clean Your Ugg Boots." I thought I was just going to be able to throw them in the washing machine. Like I did with my five-year-old purple Adidas sneakers- they look brand new now. No, instead I have to buy some fancy Ugg Boot cleaning kit. This is far too much work, and I feel embarrassed to ask Tracy to do it.
I guess I'm just saying that there should be a warning label on the box- "Don't wear these slippers more than three days in a row, without a break," or "Slippers May Stink if you Don't Wear Socks." It's just a bummer.
Tuesday, December 29, 2020
The Bridge of Sighs
Is it too late to turn back?
Jack St. Desmond opened his eyes and looked over at lead guitarist Davey. Seated on the floor, Davey's eyes opened, and he smiled and nodded his head. Davey closed his eyes again and put his head back against the wall.
"Boys, that's the best fuckin' album you've ever made, and that's the best fuckin' closing track I've heard in a long time. Congratu-fucking-lations" came a deep Southern voice over the speaker from the mixing room."
The studio erupted with cheers and clapping.
"Absolutely amazing, lads. Welcome to the rest of your debauched rock star lives," came another deep voice with a British accent over the microphone from the control room.
Catcalls erupted, and a Champagne cork popped.
"Now that was a cliché, whoever popped the champagne!" said the English voice, that of Cliff Daniels, the legendary record producer.
This was the band Mound of Venus' listening party in the studio at the end of a two-weeks long recording session at the engineer Tommy Ridley's home studio in the Hollywood Hills. No groupies or girlfriends were allowed for this first listen.
"I think it might be better than 'Lotus Eaters' said one of the studio sound men, referring to the MV's last smash album and handing Jack a glass of champagne.
"Dude, I'm on the wagon, remember?" said Jack.
"Aw shit, Jack, sorry," said the tech.
"Holy crap, Dude, we did it! Can you believe it? We made an even better album!" Denny said to Jack, arms pumping above his head, with drumsticks in his hands.
"Man, that's gonna sound so good on the radio," said Nicky, the bass player.
"You boys should take a copy down to KLOS right now and get it on air with Julie. I can call her and tell her you're coming down so she can play the whole Side One," said Tommy Ridley, patching through on the microphone from the control room.
"Yeah, right when the crowd is getting out of the Gnomes show at the Greek," said Elliot Zinder, the MV's manager.
"Oh my God, The Gnomes are gonna be so pissed. How yesterday are they now? After what I just heard?!" said Nicky, smiling at Jack.
"Aww shit, man. I don’t wanna get into it with them again," said Jack, the Mon's lead singer, and songwriter. "Cheyne is just such a jealous . . . I don't wanna say it."
Cheyne Eastwood was the cross-dressing, song-writing wunderkind frontman of the band The Gnomes. The Gnomes had taken L.A. by storm the last week with promotions at the records stores, leading up to the sold-out show tonight at the Greek Theater, up in the hills.
The Mound of Venus was Jack, Davey, Nicky, and Denny. This was their third album, 'Clean Autumn Afternoon,' and a giant step ahead of the last.
"Wait til the Lazors hear this . . . they're just gonna quit! First, they're gonna shit, then they're gonna quit!" said Denny.
The British bands 'The Gnomes' and "Lazorzap" were the MV's closest rivals on the scene.
Jack hugged each of the guys in the band, then they walked into the control room.
"Dude, it's like early, folky Phylodelphya meets psychedelic Taintball Gun. You guys did it this time. How do you feel, Jack?" asked Trevor Gordon, lead singer of the band Gleek.
Trevor had come to listen with legendary British music producer Cliff Daniels. Daniels was himself a guest of the MV's manager Elliot Zinder.
"Oh Man, thanks so much, Dude. I'm not gonna lie. I'm fuckin' proud of this thing. We knew right away from the demos. We could hear it, we could feel it right away!" said Jack.
"Tony's right. You should get it down to the radio station. How would it be to hear that song "Avalanche Appointment" cruisin' on Sunset Boulevard right now?" asked Trevor.
Jack got the vision, and it did give him a tingle up his spine.
"C'mon Dude, let's do it," said Trevor.
"Alright, let's go," said Jack heading into the mixing room.
"Robin Trower called, and he wants his song "Bridge of Sighs" back," said Clyde Stafford, chuckling. The southern gent producer of "Clean Autumn Afternoon," Clyde was seated at the mixing desk with Cliff Daniels, and engineer Tommy Ridley, who was still twiddling the knobs of the huge desk.
"Lucky for you boys, poor ol' Marc Bolan is still dead, so he won’t be coming after you for nicking 'Mambo Sun' on that fourth track," muttered Cliff, teasingly.
"Oh, God. There's nothing new under the "Mambo Sun" for you two old bastards. You're the only people on earth hearing those things," said Elliot Zinder. "Nobody even knows who T Rex is in this country."
Jack paused for a second. Now that they mentioned it, he did hear echoes of those songs.
Fuckin' Davey. He just plays whatever I hum to him, thought Jack.
Why can't he catch these things? How can an idiot savant guitar genius not know shit about other music?
The Mound of Venus got hit with a lawsuit on their last album for alleged infringement of an obscure garage rock song "Psychotic Reaction" by The Count Five.
"Where's Davey? I wanna talk to him," asked Jack to Elliot Zinder.
"He's already gone, Jack. Said he was meeting Dianne at the Gnomes show. What's wrong?"
"Is this gonna be a problem again, Elliot? Are we gonna get sued-again?" asked Jack.
"Honey Baby. No way," said Zinder confidently.
. . .
"And now, have I got a special treat for all you freaks and sleazes out there . . . Guess who just docked at the Mothership and delivered an early present for the three-day weekend?" said the voice of DJ "Julie Jewel" through the radio.
Trevor slammed down the accelerator on the 70's Lamborghini and pulled out westbound onto Sunset Boulevard. Traffic was congested on a hot Friday night.
"Alright, alright, don't get us killed!" yelled Jack, looking for the seatbelt.
"Jack St. Desmond from the Mound of Venus and Trevor from Gleek just teleported into the control room and dropped a little early Christmas present on yours truly, my little peoply-poos," said DJ Julie.
Trevor pulled the vintage Lamborghini around the cars stopped at a red light, and they ran the intersection in front of the Tower Records. As they passed, Jack looked at the billboard above the brightly lit music store.
It was the Gnomes, with an emaciated Cheyne Eastwood looking backward over his shoulder. Cheyne was dressed in a pink dress and a blonde wig, meant to look like Marilyn Monroe.
Making a coy face with his finger pressed to his lips, Cheyne was surrounded by the other band members, all dressed in tuxedos. It was unclear whether the scene harkened back to the original movie, “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” or the Madonna video for “Material Girl,” or both. No matter, the effect was hilarious either way, considering how loud and obscene the Gnomes music was. The album title was written in pink satin "Ribbed for Your Pleasure."
"That's right, it’s the new Mound of Venus disc, baby, and it's Fab and I got it in my sticky little fingers here. I couldn't get those two hotties to stay with me, cuz of the restraining order they got and all . . . but I got Jack Sprat's permission to play all of Side One. So here's track one of the new album 'Clean Afternoons,' ooooh spooky, this one's called, well . . . I guess we have an "Avalanche Appointment."
. . . .
Trevor sped down Sunset Boulevard weaving through traffic.
"Listen to that song, Man! You did that!" shouted Trevor. The tires squealed. "You did that, Man!" he said one more time for emphasis.
Jack grabbed the armrest and put his left hand out towards the dashboard, but it was too far away. The two of them were practically lying down in the sleek Italian car.
"Here comes the solo!" shouted Jack
A bluesy guitar played a talking solo, complete with squawk box effects thrown in for good measure.
"Dude, is that Davey, or Joe Walsh?! Is that Davey, or David Gilmour?!" said Trevor jokingly.
"Davey's something else, isn't he?" shouted Jack.
Trevor weaved in and out of traffic until the road was clear ahead. He turned down the music.
"Jack, I see you getting bummed out. Forget what that dumb bitch Julie said to you in there. You guys don't owe her a goddam thing. You'd be right exactly where you are now, whether you ever met her sorry ass," said Trevor.
Jack looked over at Trevor, unconvinced.
"Hey, did Julie Jewel, or Julie Jacob, whatever her fuckin' name is, sit down and write "Pantomime" or "Jetty Kiss"?
Jack smiled weakly.
"Did she ride around in a van and play "18 and up" clubs from Modesto to Tijuana?" Trevor asked. "Let me answer that for you- No! So she can fuck right off!"
"No. No, she didn't do those things, Man. But she did introduce us to the right people. And she helped a lot. She's mostly right, Dude. Most of what she said in there at the station was right."
"Well, y'know what I say. I say fuck it tonight. Don’t ruin this night. This night is about you, and the band and, and. . . . Me har-har! and the soon-to-be-biggest-album-in-the-world. C'mon, let's go to the Greek and rub it in the Gnomes' faces!" said Trevor.
"Nah, there's no time, let's just go straight to The English Disco. We'll catch up with everyone there," said Jack.
"Yeah, ok Man. Yeah, yeah, yeah!" Rock n' Roll! Rock n Roll!" shouted Trevor cranking up the music and flooring the gas again, making the backend of the car fishtail, before the tires caught and they sped away.
. . .
Rodney Bigenhiemer's English Disco was the most exclusive spot in town. A spotlight beamed out in front, and a big crowd waited outside to get in. Trevor pulled up to the valet stand and pumped the gas to make the throaty exhaust purr.
The crowd recognized Jack and Trevor, and chaos ensued.
"Oh my God, Ooooh, oooh, look at me, please Jack!" one girl screamed. The crowd laughed.
Trevor gave the keys to the valet, and three security guards intervened and pulled the girls away from the car. The guards lifted a velvet rope and ushered Jack and Trevor towards the door, but not before Trevor stopped and leaned over, grabbed their faces, and kissed two of the girls on the lips. The crowd cheered, and the girls who did not get kissed screamed their disappointment.
Inside, the club was tiny and packed full of all the beautiful and weird people, dancing, singing, hugging, kissing, drinking, and popping pills, and snorting cocaine. The music and shouting were deafening. Marijuana smoke filled the air.
A DJ spun records from a booth above the crowd, spinning "In A Gadda Da Vida" by Iron Butterfly. Blacklight posters glowed on the wall, most of them torn, and the red lights and wood beams gave the impression of being inside a pirate's ship.
Gradually the faces turned to Jack and Trevor, and a throng started to push towards them when Rodney appeared by magic.
"Oh, Hi guys, what a lovely surprise! Ooh I'm so glad you’re here, let's go to the booth!" said Rodney, sporting a Beatles haircut and mod outfit.
They followed the elfin Rodney to the tiny VIP area that was elevated above the dancefloor and separated by yet another red velvet rope. As by magic, a bevy of "it girls" appeared, taking Jack and Trevor's arms and leading them to the big Naugahyde booth.
"'How do' ladies," said Jack
"What’s with the outfit," said the girl on Jack's arm. "Did you guys shoot an album cover tonight or something?"
The music changed to "Ride My See-Saw" by the Moody Blues.
"No, Sweetie. You mean this little number? This is what I wear to the grocery store," said Jack smiling, brushing the sleeve of his burgundy velvet waistcoat, and adjusting the cravat.
"Seriously? Is this going to be the new look for the MV's," she asked teasingly, showing she was comfortable and was not at all intimidated by rock stars, or anyone famous, for that matter.
"That's right. We're channeling the 60's Bee Gees. Or the Hollies. We're gonna drive around in Rolls Royces and Citroens to each others' Country Mansions too," said Jack.
The young girl rolled her eyes. It was clear she had no idea what Jack was talking about.
"You're weird," said the girl.
"Ooh, I'm getting the vision. Can I come and stay in the guesthouse. Maybe I can be your like Brian Jones housekeeper?" purred Rodney, eavesdropping.
"Didn't Brian Jones' housekeeper kill him?" asked Jack.
"Just a rumor!" said Trevor.
The boys and Rodney scooted into the booth, and no less than eight girls piled in around.
"Everybody's talking about the new Mound album Jack. They played it on the radio tonight!" Rodney shouted.
"Oh Yeah?" said Jack.
"Yeah, everyone who went to the Gnomes tonight says they heard it on the way over, and they're dying for more," said Rodney, trying to get a waitresses attention.
"Sissy, get over here," Rodney called out to the waitress.
A girl who looked to be underage came to the table. She had large breasts and wore a tank top with no bra.
"Hello, hello,' said Trevor, in a lecherous voice.
"What would you guys like?" asked Rodney.
"Ladies first," said Jack.
The girls put in their complicated orders while "Sissy' rolled her eyes and chomped her gum, annoyed.
Scotch and Soda. No, I take that back. Brandy Alexander please, right, Jack? Isn't that what you said The Beatles and the Stones drank when they got together?" asked Trevor.
"That's it. At The Scotch of St. James Pub," said Jack.
There was a great commotion near the entrance, spilling onto the dance floor. Rodney stood up to try to see what was going on.
"Oh shit, it’s the Gnomes," shouted Rodney, looking down at Jack. "I heard they're kind of pissed, Jack! They think you guys showed them up on the radio."
Cheyne Eastwood and two or three of the others from the band pulled away from some grasping groupies and swiveled their heads, looking around the room.
Cheyne made eye contact with Jack, and Jack knew in an instant there was going to be trouble.
"Oh shit," Trevor yelled, standing up to leave the booth.
"They're dressed like The Furies, from that movie "The Warriors," said Jack
Cheyne and the Gnomes began pushing their way over to the booth, knocking people aside, and climbing over chairs. Jack reached for the cane he'd brought in.
The one with the handle that concealed a six-inch dagger.
. . .
"You're really going to let me go home alone tonight?" said Hermione, in a French accent.
"It will be even better next time, I promise," said Jack.
"It must be really important if you can resist . . . . this," she said, sweeping her hand around the inside of her exotic sports car.
"If you only knew . . . " said Jack. "It couldn't be more important."
"Do you know how bad your good friend Trevor wanted me tonight! He's chased me all over the world, and now you're just blowing me off!" shouted Hermione.
"Listen, this is something I have to handle immediately! Like, tonight! Please be reasonable, Dear," pleaded Jack.
"Well, I may not wait for you. We'll see if I'm still around L.A. next week. I have many invitations all around the world, you know," said Hermione in a sing-song voice.
"Hermione, I have to talk to Davey tonight, right now in fact," said Jack. "They're going to stop production on the album, which is supposed to be released tomorrow.”
"Close the door, then!" Hermione said.
Jack closed the car door with a solid, satisfying thud. The window rolled down. Roxy Music's "The Bogus Man" was still playing in the car.
"I've changed my mind. I don’t want to see you next week. In fact, I don’t care if I ever see you again. I don’t want to see you or your ridiculous outfit, or your stupid cane, or your silly silk shirts and scarves. Fuck you!" Hermione screamed.
The tires spun on the dirt shoulder and threw mud against Jack's tapered pants and Cuban boots.
"God, French chicks are psycho . . ."
Hermione's car appeared again, and she rolled down the window.
"By the way. Since you're too dumb to figure it out. Trevor told me your guitarist is purposefully copying other songs so you can get sued. Now you can go have a nice talk with him! All night long!"
. . .
A Mexican woman splashed water across the parquet dance floor and began mopping. As her son lifted the bag out of the narrow trashcan behind the bar, beer bottles clanked together.
A heavy-set white man in his sixties, with a severely pocked marked face, went behind the bar, poured himself a cup of coffee, sat in a high bar chair, and read the horse racing form. He took off his racing cap, lit a cigarette, and poured some whiskey in his cup.
Above the man’s head read the still lit sign "Rodney's English Disco," and beside it was a small TV mounted on the wall. A commercial ended, then a news program began, and a male newscaster came on the screen
"Thank you for joining KCAL News this morning, we have rather shocking breaking news to report to you this morning . . .
“The body of rock star Jack St. Desmond, leader of the group The Mound of Venus was discovered by a jogger on Zuma Beach in the early morning hours today . . .
The male jogger reportedly came upon the badly mutilated body around 5:00 AM. . . .
According to one eyewitness at the scene, the body appeared to have severe wounds on the face and torso. . . .
Now let's take you out to Geordie Coleman on-scene in Zuma. What do you have for us Geordie?
"Yes Bill, it’s true, the body was discovered in the early morning hours by that jogger, and as soon as word got out, the crowd started showing up down here, as you can see behind me."
"What details can you tell us Geordie?" asked the newscaster.
“Well, this investigation is just beginning obviously, but the questions are piling up. What was this well-known celebrity doing on this isolated beach in the early morning hours? Who was with Mr. St. Desmond last night? Who would want to cause him this terrible harm?”
“Are the police giving any information, Geordie?”
"Well, what I'm hearing informally is based on the violence . . . As you said, there injuries to the face and torso, the assumption would be that the attacker had a personal motive. More simply put, the assumption is the attacker knew the victim and meant to inflict very personal harm. We’ve learned that Mr. St. Desmond's wallet and other personal items were not taken.
“A few last details, and I want to warn our viewers that the information is graphic, and disturbing. According to one eyewitness, the victim was, partially undressed and there was a message scratched or written on the victim's chest. Speaking to a person who actually saw the body, but wishing to remain anonymous, they said that it looked to be a sequence of musical notes. . . .
Finally, the perpetrator or perpetrators staged, or left some sort of a scene, if you will, with a music player device, a CD Walkman, left beside the body playing a song on a repeat loop- a relatively obscure 70's rock song called "Bridge of Sighs."
Sunday, October 11, 2020
There is a Light That Never Goes Out
Can you go back and fix your biggest regret?
You Just Haven't Earned It Yet, Baby
The other day I was lying on the couch in the Man Cave, feeling sorry for myself because the San Diego Padres just lost to the Los Angeles Dodgers in the NL2020 playoffs.
My thoughts turned to some of the things I regret in my life, the missed opportunities, and the terrible decisions I made.
If only I could go back in time to fix things.
Is It Really So Strange?
Suddenly, the comedian George Carlin appeared in the bar stool chair.
"George Carlin, what the hell ...?" I asked.
"The powers that be sent me here to give you a chance to travel back in time to fix one of those regrets you're always stewing on," said George Carlin, rolling his eyes upward to indicate who the "powers that be" was.
"Are you serious?" I asked.
"Serious as November 4th," said George. Then he said:
"Let's have it. To when and where are you going back in time?"
Well I Wonder
George was dressed the same way as he was in the movie "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure," a movie I've never seen. He wore a trench coat, his hair was slicked back, and he wore dark wraparound glasses.
"Mr. Carlin . . ."
"Call me George," he said.
"George, I have a million questions," I said.
"Look, don't belabor this, buddy. Let's get to the fun part of the story," said George.
"I know, I know. But let me ask you a few questions."
"I've never seen 'Bill and Ted,' . . .are you like an Archangel, or are you, God?' I asked.
"I'm sort of like an angel today. I'm an anthropomorphic representation of your own psyche. They said I'm as good a representation of how screwed up, cynical, and sarcastic you are, except I'm way more funny and talented, and I did a lot more drugs. They were thinking about sending Anna Nicole Smith, or Chris Farley, but they were both working on other projects."
"Is this another one of my funny life stories that Hollywood has already stolen? Like all my tales that I tell down here in San Diego that somehow seep up there to that cesspool and get watered down and put into movie scripts," I asked.
"Yeah, that's it. That's exactly right," says George sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Jesus, you really are a buffoon. You think the whole world revolves around you? Are you really that bitter about the Dodgers? The Padres just need better pitching."
"If I go back and change events, does it change the whole course and trajectory of future events?" I asked.
"No. This is just a vanity project for you. You're gonna go back to see what would have happened if you had done the right thing and not F'd up as royally as you did the first time. But the fact you screwed up royally in real life will remain unchanged when you come back here to the couch."
"Oh my God. Is that supposed to somehow make me feel better? I already know I F'd up?"
"Look, Sunshine, the clock is ticking. If I just snap my fingers, I'll be out of this weird bric-a-brac "Fortress of Solitude" Man Cave thing you got going here."
The Boy With the Thorn In His Side
"Can I have a day to think about where I want to go back in time?" I asked
"No. You gotta decide now. Chop-chop," said George Carlin.
"I have so many regrets. Which one should I choose?" I asked George Carlin.
"Choose the regret that causes you the most pain. Get it out of your system," said George.
"Should I go back to the Rosarito Beach Hotel in Mexico to fix . . ."
"No! Not that one. Let sleeping dogs lie!" said George.
"How about Vegas? That time I wore the Elvis costume, and I got in those two car accidents on the same night?"
"No. That one actually panned out in the end if you look at the big picture. Wasn't there a lawsuit after that one, where you got some money? The money to pay for your wedding ring?"
"Yeah, I did," I admitted.
"That's a net gain," said George.
"Can I take someone with me on the trip? There's someone who needs to go back with me for this one. This is the biggest regret in his life too." I asked.
"No. But you'll see him there."
"Will Tracy know which regret I went back to fix?
"Only if you tell her," said George.
"Because she'll be pissed if she finds out I didn't go back to fix one of the stupid things I did . . . during our time together," I said.
"Better keep your mouth shut then. Let's go, you gotta decide now!" said George.
"You know what I'm gonna go back and do, don't you?"
"I've got a pretty good idea. Statistically, there's one thing you dwell on all the time. In fact, it shocked me to see how much you fixate on such a stupid and trivial . . " George caught himself, "I mean, really important event in your life."
"Okay. I'm ready. Take me back to 1986!"
This Charming Man
In an instant, I'm standing outside the San Diego State Open Air Amphitheater on a warm dusky summer evening. A big crowd of high school and college-aged kids are milling around, excited for a concert about to begin inside.
"Luis! Holy crap, look at how young you are!" I yell at my friend Luis standing by my side.
"What are you talking about?" asks Luis, looking baffled.
I run over to a car window to get a look at myself. I see my reflection in the Honda CRX.
"Oh, man! To be this young again! You Handsome Devil!" I yell at myself in the reflection.
"Hey, Fabio! Get over here!" says a familiar voice.
I look over, and it's George Carlin, standing under a canopy, behind a plastic table, working the T-shirt booth. When I run over to him, George says:
"Look, here comes your boy now. I can't believe it. You almost F'd it up again. Get over there and buy the tickets!"
"Okay, okay!" I say, running to gather up Luis. "Lu, follow me!"
Luis and I come face to face with a college kid, who looks like Robert Downey, Jr. He's wearing a fedora hat, a T-shirt featuring the band who is about to play, jeans that are tapered and rolled up at the bottom, with white socks and black wing-tipped brogue shoes.
"Dude, you're about to come offer me and my friend two tickets to this concert aren't you?" I say to Robert Downey.
"How much?" asks Luis.
"$20.00 each. I paid $17.50 face value."
"We'll take them!" I shout as I hug the repulsed scalper.
"Wait a minute Jack. That's too much. I just came here to stand outside the concert to listen to a few songs," says Luis.
Time comes to a halt. I see George Carlin, who is selling some kid a band poster. George and I make eye contact, and in slow motion, he slaps his hand to his forehead.
Classical music is booming out of the P.A. system inside the amphitheater, which only heightens my anxiety that Luis is about to blow this moment A SECOND TIME.
Snapping out of my fugue state, I turn to Luis and say
"Lu, this is one of the most important moments of our lives. If we don't buy these two concert tickets, no matter what the price, we are going to live to regret it for the rest of time- do you understand me?!"
Lu and the Robert Downey Jr. scalper's eyes widen.
"In less than twenty-four hours, Lu, for some reason we never understand, you will become the biggest most obsessed fan of this band in the United States. You start to dress like the lead singer. You buy every single T-shirt, poster, cassette, and vinyl record the band ever produces," I say.
Lu and the scalper stare at me like I'm a mental patient.
"You buy unlistenable bootleg vinyl discs, recorded under raincoats at concerts. You correspond, PRE-INTERNET, with people in Denmark, New Zealand, and across the globe, trading band memorabilia, by writing hand-written letters and using stamps. You wait weeks for the British versions of the records you already have the American versions of to arrive in the mail. You know all of the secret messages carved into the run-off grooves of the vinyl discs."
"Lu, you will wear eyeglasses and a hearing aid that you don't need, simply because you saw the lead singer doing that in a music magazine. The lead singer wore that rig for a concert or two, to was pay homage to that deaf singer from the 1950s who Dexy's Midnight Runners sang about, named Johnny Ray. You, on the other hand, will wear the glasses and fake hearing aid for the first two years of college every single day. People point and stare at you."
I'm starting to get through to Luis now. He's such an obsessive basket case, none of this seems that far-fetched to him.
"Most annoyingly, you will take on the very persona of Morrissey. You will critique everything that normal people enjoy, and you go around quoting Oscar Wilde all the time. " I tell Luis.
"Finally, you will pretend you're 'consciously abstaining from sex,' when in fact, you and I both have so little game that we couldn't get laid in a Nevada brothel even if we had a ton of Bitcoin."
"What's Bitcoin?" asks the scalper.
A Rush and a Push and the Land is Ours
"San Diego, we are 'The Smiths!'" says Morrissey as he takes the stage.
My knees buckle. I almost faint.
The band launches into the song "Panic" then "I Want the One I Can't Have" then into "There is a Light that Never Goes Out."
"Jesus Christ!" I say to Luis, putting a fist up to my eye, embarrassed.
"Johnny Marr is the greatest guitar player in the history of the world," says Luis,
Lu is right. Johnny is a virtuoso, and every note he plays makes me wanna scream and faint like one of those girls in a Beatlemania documentary.
I see in Lu's eyes he's become radicalized. He's started his journey into The Smiths psychosis. It's gonna be about eight years til he gets deprogrammed and we see him on the other side. I can almost sympathize with his plight from this perspective.
"These seats suck," I said to Luis, squinting my eyes to see the stage from the second-to-last row that we're seated in.
"We gotta get closer to the stage. If Tracy were here, she'd walk us right to the front. Shit, she'd get us backstage!" I yelled at Luis over the music.
"Who's Tracy?!" yelled Luis.
Just then, George Carlin appeared at the end of the row, wearing a yellow security windbreaker. He beckoned us with his finger to come with him. We did.
"Whattya gonna stay up here the whole time?" said George.
I looked at him meekly.
"You gotta at least try to get close to the stage. You'll regret it the rest of your life!" shouted George.
Shoplifters of the World Unite
We followed George Carlin down the long flight of amphitheater stairs, right up close to the stage. When the Smiths start playing "How Soon Is Now?" the place erupts. The fans go batshit crazy.
George Carlin grabbed Luis and me by the scruff of our necks and pushed us to the front row, right at the foot of the stage yelling,
We tumbled right into a real douchebag-looking guy, surrounded by a bunch of bimbos. He looked like Donald Trump, but he was the local 80's San Diego version.
"We're getting close to the stage. We love The Smiths," said Luis.
"No you're not! Where's security?" said S.D. Donald, looking around over the crowd.
Damn, S.D. Donald is really tall, I thought to myself. Really tall. What the hell is a douchebag businessman like him doing at a Smiths concert anyway?
"Security! Security!" shouted the Donald, pointing down at me and Luis.
The Donald is dressed in a big 80's double-breasted business suit. His tie is tied way too long, hiding his fat belly. Donnie whips out an enormous 80's style mobile phone, and, squinting, he starts dialing a number.
"You know how much I paid for these tickets you assholes? One-hundred, twenty-five bucks each! Beat it!" said the S.D. Donald.
"Hold on! Hold on, Sir!" I shouted. I had an idea.
The music was absolutely pulsing from the stage. The whole crowd was hugging and singing the words to "How Soon Is Now?"
I reached in my pocket to pull out my iPhone.
"Excuse me while I whip this out!" I yelled at the Donald, with my phone illuminating his and my faces.
"Oh, No! The kid's got some kind of a gun!" screamed one of S.D. Donald's dumb girlfriends.
The crowd around us went into a panic and started scrambling to get away from me.
Paint a Vulgar Picture
S.D. Donnie didn't move an inch. He just stood there scowling at me.
"It's a phone! It's only a phone!" I shouted. "Look, check it out!" I took a "selfie" with me and S.D. Donald, then I showed him our picture on the screen.
"Where the hell did you get that thing, kid?!" shouted the Donald.
"I'm from the future! The year 2020. You invest in the stock market?" I shouted over the music.
"I sure do. OK great. What's the name of the company?"
"What is it?!" shouted the Donald, bending, and cupping his ear.
"Palm Pilot! Invest every penny you got!" I shout.
That's when the music stopped, and I felt the big arm around my neck.
Five or six security guards tackled Luis and me to the ground, putting us in chokeholds. I shoved the phone back into the deep pocket of my B.U.M Equipment pants.
The lights of the amphitheater came up.
"Stop! Relent! Stand down Philistines! You brutes!" shouted Morrissey into the microphone.
The security guards looked up, confused and disgusted at Morrissey on the stage.
"Unhand those gentle supplicants! Bring the buggards to the stage!" said Morrissey.
George Carlin appeared in his security windbreaker again.
"You heard Morrissey- get these two buffoons backstage now. Otherwise, we'll have a riot on our hands. Chop-chop!"
The Donald was on his huge 80's mobile phone. The bimbo girlfriends stood next to him, flirting with the security guards.
"I want 500,000 shares of Palm Pilot tomorrow morning, you hear me? 'A LOT OF PEOPLE ARE SAYING' it's a good thing. Just do it."
Steve West, the British D.J. from the New Wave radio station 91X, came up to the microphone.
"Alrighty! Now, now! It's been a right proper cock-up hasn't it?! A real wobbly!
We're gonna take a short break so you mingers can get your heads together. Hunky-Dory, - eh?! That's right, Lads- ta!
The Smiths will be back soon. 'How Soon Is Now?' I can't tell you." Steve West chuckled at his own terrible joke.
"Listen, there'll be no more kerfuffles, or the boys are going home- do you understand?! Cheers- ta!"
The audience looked at him, totally confused.
I wasn't sure what he meant either with those crazy British slang words.
But everyone grunted, "Yes."
The security guards pushed us to the side entrance of the stage. The kids in the audience shot daggers with their eyes at Lu and me. We had ruined the song, and now we were going backstage.
The pungent smell of marijuana filled the air. At the last minute, I saw the face of the handsome scalper who sold us those shitty seats. I met his eyes, but he was so stoned, I don't even think he remembered who I was.
"Bring 'em up here, boys!" said George Carlin, who was holding the backstage door open. George was now wearing a dungaree jeans outfit, with a crocheted Rastafarian tam on his head. He had transformed into a backstage roadie.
Luis and I stumbled as the security guards pushed us hard through the backstage door. Then George and two other roadies dragged us to a hallway, where, in all their staggering genius stood The Smiths. Johnny Marr's guitar parts from the records were so complex now, they needed two guitarists on stage, so they brought Craig Gannon from the band Aztec Camera. That's like being invited to join The Beatles.
I got so nervous, I nearly pissed my pants. Morrissey said:
"Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom . . . Blessed are you who hunger now, for you will be satisfied. Blessed are you two tossers, because you're here somehow"
Now that's some cool Samuel L. Jackson "Pulp Fiction" shit right there, I thought to myself.
The silence was painful.
"Luis loves you, Morrissey. And I do too," I said, regretting the words instantly.
"Call me Steven," said Morrissey.
Luis and Morrissey walked away and sat in two metal folding chairs in the corner, talking quietly face to face. The rest of the group broke off too.
George Carlin leaned against a rigging cabinet smoking a joint with Andy Rourke, the bassist, and Mike Joyce, the drummer.
Stretch Out and Wait
I run after Johnny Marr who's gone off to find his wife, Angie. Johnny grabs a beer, lights up a cigarette, and then we all three sat down. I started telling Johnny about my guitar playing, and I gave him some tips and tricks that I'd picked up along the way.
"Johnny, can you explain to me how you get your tone on "Some Girls are Bigger Than Others," that's one I've kind of struggled with," I asked Johnny, pretending like it was even remotely possible for me to play.
"Sure, why not?" said Johnny picking up his Fender Jaguar.
Then Johnny explained his tone settings and showed me the riff. Everything was going really good, and I was saying "Yeah, yeah," you can hear me on the video. I was nodding my head while he talked, but when we got to (1:11) suddenly I got light-headed, the room spun, and I was out cold. [The nice video player does not show up on the mobile version of the story sometimes- so please click the underlined link, thanks].
Next thing I remember, I was coming to on the floor staring at the ceiling, with George Carlin, Johnny, and Angie, fanning me with towels.
"That's so beautiful Johnny. How can you be so talented when you're only in your twenties?" I asked him.
"Lot's of hours sitting alone in me room there, Jack-O," said Johnny. "Right Angie baby?"
"Don't I know it," said Angie.
"So, Jackie, what's the story here? Why did you cack up our concert here in sunny San Diego? What's all the fighting about?" asked Johnny.
"Johnny, I'm here from the future. From the year 2020. George Carlin is an angel who visited me to let me come back in time to fix one of the biggest regrets of my life."
"See, in real life, I blew it and passed up the opportunity to buy a ticket for this show. My friend Luis screwed up even worse. Within like 24 hours of this concert, for some unexplainable reason, he becomes the biggest Smiths fan in the world, and we had to stop him from committing suicide whenever he thought about missing this show."
Johnny and Angie stared at me. Then they both burst out laughing and clapping their hands.
"Oh, Jack-Man! What did you smoke tonight, Son?" said Johnny, looking at Angie grinning.
"Check this out," I said as I whipped out my iPhone.
"Oh wow!" said Angie as the phone lit up.
I did the selfie-trick with Johnny and Angie.
"Top gear!" Brilliant! You must be joking!" said Johnny. "Real Star Trek stuff, that!"
"Can I see it?" Angie said.
"Yeah, flip through all the screens," I said.
"So wait a sec. You're from the future? You know everything that's gonna happen from now to 2020?" asked Johnny.
"Yep," I said.
"And if you tell us, will that affect the future?' asked Johnny. "I love science fiction! I've read all them science fiction books y'know!"
"No. George Carlin says even if I tell you everything that happens tonight, you won't remember any of it when my little trip back in time is over."
Johnny looked at Angie and then back at me.
"Tell us everything!" they both said.
This Night Has Opened My Eyes
I told Johnny and Angie everything that happened between 1986 and 2020.
"And the election is on November 3rd, in like three weeks, and they don't have a cure for the Coronavirus, and Keith Richards is still alive," I said, exhausted.
"I can't believe Manchester City wins the Premier League," said Angie. Johnny shook his head in astonishment too.
"And I can't believe the Bruce Jenner thing," said Johnny.
Outside, the crowd was going berserk for The Smiths return to the stage.
"Jack, everything you told us was so amazing, but you didn't tell us what happens to The Smiths," said Johnny.
"Oh, yeah. Well, Johnny, you stop drinking and smoking. And you become vegetarian, and run lots of marathons," I said.
"Really? Cheers, Jack, cheers," Johnny said, clinking his beer with mine.
"Yeah, and you and Angie stay married the whole time- real high school sweethearts!" I said, trying to avoid saying more.
They looked at each other and cuddled.
"What about me and Morrissey, Jack?" asked Johnny sheepishly.
"Johnny, before I tell you that . . . can I play "Please Please Please Let Me Get I Want" on guitar for you and Angie?" I asked. "It's a short song, and one of the only Smiths songs I can play."
"You play guitar do ya, you chancer? Yeah sure, here play this one," said Johnny.
"Johnny, do you have a left-handed guitar I could play?" I asked, embarrassed.
"Jack, nobody plays left-handed guitar," said Johnny
George Carlin presented me with a left-handed guitar.
"Thanks, George," I said.
Sadly, I can only show you the end of my performance as the video (my talent) is too big for the blog website to handle. You'll just have to use your imagination how good the rest of it was [Please click on the link if the video player does not appear:
"Johnny, that song really meant a lot to me and Luis when we were in high school. Y'know like when we had a lot of disappointments, like crushes, and missing this concert and stuff."
"Cool, man. That's cool. Thanks for sharing that, Jack," said Johnny.
Bigmouth Strikes Again
Luis and I walked with The Smiths to the stage and stood by before the curtain opened. That's when Johnny couldn't hold back anymore. Johnny got up in Morrissey's face.
"You fuckin' prat! Do you realize you become a right-wing fascist in your fat old age?!" shouted Johnny.
Poor Morrissey was in shock, having no idea what Johnny was talking about.
"What are you on about?" said Morrissey. "You don't actually believe a word he says, do you?" pointing at me.
"Did you hear the barmy story he's got about Bruce Jenner?!' shouted Morrissey at Johnny.
Luis and I watched the rest of the show right from the side of the stage. When the band played their final song, Luis and I ran out and joined the other crazy fans who made it past security up onto the stage. We picked up and played a tambourine and maracas.
I Know It's Over
When the show was over, we said goodbye to the band, and they zoomed off in the limo-bus. I took a bunch of photos with my iPhone, but it was sad to think the photos would probably disappear later.
"Alright 'Gulliver's Travels,' it's time to say your goodbyes," said George Carlin, who was now back in his "Bill and Ted" outfit.
"Okay, man. I'll say goodbye to Luis."
I walked over to Luis, who was standing where the bus had left.
"Hey Lu, was this the best night ever or what?" I asked him.
"Yeah. I'm so glad we bought tickets. We would've regretted it for the rest of our lives," said Luis.
"You know what dude? If we missed this concert, we'd have gotten through it together. We'd have spent hundreds of hours listening to The Smiths, imagining we saw them at this concert. And that wouldn't have been so bad would it?" I asked.
"Dude, are you kidding me, tonight was epic," said Luis.
"I know. You're right. I played guitar for Johnny Marr and his wife, and they clapped politely. Who's ever gonna believe that?"
"Morrissey told me I should be celibate for a few years, and wear fake eyeglasses and a hearing aid in my ear," said Luis.
"Why did he say to do that?" I asked.
"I don't know. But I think I'm actually gonna do it," said Luis.
I know you are, buddy, I thought to myself. Even at school.
"Hey Lu, it was really great seeing ya here tonight. I wish I could just stay here and do everything we did in high school and college all over again. Most things I wouldn't change at all, really," I said.
Luis gave me a curious look. Then he said:
"Oh yeah. Morrissey told me something else too. He said he couldn't believe that of all the things in the world, you chose this concert. He said it made him proud for what The Smiths achieved with their music and the connection they made with their fans- with us."
"Really? He said that? Geez, Morrissey is such a difficult bastard, it's hard to imagine him giving us a sort of compliment like that," I said.
Luis and I took it all in for a moment.
"Hey Lu, you never even asked me how I knew how to play guitar," I said.
"Yeah, what the hell? You learn how to play guitar in the future?" asked Luis.
"Yeah. Actually, you play guitar first, and I get jealous, then I learn how to play," I said.
"Hmm." Luis thought about it. "Do we form a band?"
"No. You're too difficult to work with - like Morrissey. You lose interest anyway, and you start exercising, just as obsessively as you followed The Smiths. You become like a super fit Ironman." I explained.
"That's rad," said Luis.
"Hey, Lu. You just go ahead and drive your Volkswagen Fox home, I'll get a ride home with our new friend George Carlin here, okay?" I said.
"Later dude," said Luis, and we did our soul brother handshake that we always did, cupping our hands to make a real loud "pop" sound when our hands clasped.
With a whoosh, I was back in the Man Cave, lying on my couch. George Carlin was on the barstool.
"Well? You feel like you got it out of your system? No more regrets?" asked George.
"Yeah man, that was a blast," I said. "Thanks for all your help George."
"Whattaya think the lesson is, 'Sunshine?'" said George Carlin.
I thought for a few seconds.
"That anytime I need to, I can go back in time in my imagination, and rewrite my life any way I want."
"That's a start," said George. "Kinda shallow and narcissistic, but a start."
"And if I hurt someone, and that's my regret, whether they are dead or alive, I can write them a letter, and as long as I'm sincere and honest, I can probably make things better," I said.
"You know, sometimes a well-timed, sincere letter can do just the trick," said George.
You've Got Everything Now
"Here, someone asked me to give you this," said George, standing up from the bar chair.
He threw me a piece of paper folded into a square. Then George snapped his fingers and disappeared.
I unfolded the paper. A guitar pick with the initials "JM" fell out on my lap.
On the paper, were the lyrics, written in Morrissey's handwriting, to "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want"
Beneath the song it said:
"Luis and Jack . . .
signed Morrissey and Johnny Marr-SDSU 1986.
© Copyright Jack Clune 2020
Thursday, October 8, 2020
Those Two Foreign Kids Who Moved to the Neighborhood
Another stark reminder of an era gone by
I have a friend who is a fellow attorney. He's about ten years older than me. When I took up guitar twenty years ago, he went to the guitar store with me and helped me pick one out.
That's because even though my friend is 5'4" tall, balding and weighs 145 pounds, when he plugged in an electric guitar at my loft, he unleashed a torrent of rock n roll licks like he was Jimmy Page.
After I picked my jaw up off the ground, my friend told me this story.
He told me about two kids he grew up with in his neighborhood. They came from some foreign country and they could barely speak a lick of English. The boys' parents could not speak any English at all.
The one kid played classical piano, and the other learned guitar. The young one hated the endless piano lessons and played drums instead, whenever he could. But the older brother who had the guitar got jealous of the drum kit and insisted they switch.
The two kids formed a band. My friend learned guitar, but he was not good enough to be in the band. The brothers played at backyard parties, and my friend has tape cassettes of the shows.
As they got older, but before they could drive, my friend's mother drove them all to see concerts in Los Angeles, and sometimes on the Sunset Strip.
Leaving the show, my friend would ask the younger brother what he thought of the famous guitarist they just saw.
"He's okay I guess," was the usual response.
The brothers' band had a rival band they played against in contests and with whom they competed for shows and parties. The brothers stole the lead singer. Or something like all that.
My friend the attorney is Jewish, and he grew up in Pasadena, California. The lead singer of the rival band was also a Jewish kid from Pasadena, whose father was a doctor.
His name was David Lee Roth.
Will we ever know such a relatively blissful, carefree time again?
I doubt it.
Saturday, July 18, 2020
How to Shred on Guitar at Killer Parties
15 things playing (mostly bad) guitar for 23 years taught me
1. Years of air (tennis racket) guitar does not give you a “leg up”
I always wanted to play guitar, even as a kid. I played air guitar with a tennis racket in front of my bedroom mirror up until I had to move out of my parents’ house for Law School.
It was disappointing that all the things I learned playing air guitar all those years did not really transfer when it came to playing “real” guitar.
2. You should take guitar lessons, even though lessons did not work for me
My parents got me a “real” guitar when I was in Third or Fourth Grade. My mom took me to one guitar lesson at the Lemon Grove mall. It was such a traumatic experience, that I don’t want to discuss it here. I’m saving it for a whole chapter of my novel loosely based on biographical material.
3. Guitar envy is probably a terrible reason to start playing
One of my best friends decided to learn guitar in the late ’90s, and it was annoying watching him get pretty good.
Then one of my favorite all-time albums came out in 1997, The Verve’s “Urban Hymns,” and my friend was able to play four of the songs right away. They were simple four-chord songs.
I was so jealous, I had to break down and buy a guitar and try to learn how to play the damn thing.
4. Malcolm Gladwell is wrong (in my case)
Twenty-three years later, I can still just barely play the four songs off that Urban Hymns album. I have definitely disproved Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000-hour theory.
Malcolm G. says if you do anything for 10,000 hours, you’ll become a master at it. Wrong.
23 years is 201,480 hours. I definitely spent more than 10,000 of that time playing the guitar. It’s probably too much information to tell you where I sat for those 10,000 hours while I practiced most of the time.
5. Playing the guitar is really hard if you suck at it
I was terrible at math as a student.
I’ve learned that playing guitar and music are a lot like math.
6. Playing the guitar is really easy if you’re great at it
Sometimes when I’m watching T.V. with my family, we’ll see something that I know I could do with complete ease. My lovely wife or one of my kids will say something like:
“Isn’t that amazing?! Can you imagine being able to do that?”
It’s not amazing to me at all, because I know I could do it with complete ease (i.e. hot dog eating contests, “Jeopardy” questions about 80’s sitcoms, etc.).
That’s what guitar playing must be like to a great guitarist. If you’re a great guitar player, it’s easy, it’s not hard.
7. Just because you practice for years doesn’t mean you will get any better
When I’m learning something new I like it to be like this:
a) I’m a natural at whatever it is, and I’m great without trying (i.e. like switching from lite beer over to IPA’s);orb) I can just memorize something without having to think hard, and fool people I’m good (i.e. reciting the complete lyrics to the “Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” by Gordon Lightfoot).
The guitar is neither of these things.
8. You either got it, or you don’t
I have some Cuban friends, who I never knew to sing or play guitar.
Then one day, they heard me practicing “Hotel California.”
“Can we try?” one of them said, smiling like Sammy Sosa.
He grabbed my left-handed guitar, turned it upside down, and started strumming it in perfect 4/4 rhythm. The other one started doing that impossible syncopated hand-clap thing like the Gypsy Kings (1:20).
My natural rhythm and strumming are like Elaine’s dancing in “Seinfeld.”
9. People will not like the songs you chose to master
Here’s what happens at parties.
“Do you know ‘Satisfaction’ by The Rolling Stones?” asks the party guest.
“No, but I know ‘All Down the Line’ from side four of Exile on Main Street,” I say, “I’m sure you’d like it if you just let me play it for you.”
The party guest walks away angry and whispers in the host’s ear. Suddenly, “Satisfaction” starts blasting from the Sonos speakers.
10. It’s better to learn when you’re young
At Guitar Center.
A little kid asks her mom to pull a Gibson SG model off the wall. The kid plugs it into an amp, and she starts playing the intro to AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck.”
I catch myself whispering “Thunder . . . thunder . . . thunder.”
11. Being left-handed sucks
Guitar Center again.
Every beautiful make and model of guitar manufactured hang from the walls.
Senior citizens, guys with tribal tattoos, and boys and girls are all taking the guitars off the wall, strumming a few bars and high-fiving each other. They play acoustic guitars decorated with inlaid gold hummingbirds on the body, and flowers running up the neck. It’s beautiful, and I want to participate.
“Hi, do you have any left-handers I can try out?” I ask the guy at the counter.
“Ha, ha, good one,” he says sarcastically, going back to drinking his Red Bull and reading Kerrang! Magazine.
“No, I’m serious. I’d like to try out a left-handed guitar.”
“Oh . . . okay, um, hold on,” he says looking deep and confused into my eyes. Then he rummages under the desk. “Here try this one.”
“This is a right-handed guitar,” I show him.
“Yeah, but the strings are on it upside down,” he says. “We keep it here, for people like you.”
“This guitar’s a piece of crap!” I say.
“You’re not from Undercover Boss or anything are you?”
12. Being left-handed rules!
Back at the house party.
I finish playing the “Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” I’m sweating and a little light-headed, because that one’s a doozy. I need a break, so I put my guitar down on its stand.
A party guest accosts me.
“Hi, yeah that was really good. I haven’t heard a Gordon Lightfoot tune in a long time. A very, very long time actually,” says the party guest, standing there with his twelve-year-old son. The boy is wearing a tank top, and arm bandannas.
“Hey, I see you’re taking a break, do you mind if my son “Yngwie” plays a few tunes? “Yngwie’s been accepted to the U.S.C School of Music, early admission,” says the party guest.
“Um, I don’t usually let people touch my guitar. It was a gift from my Grandaddy.”
The kid picks up my guitar off the stand.
“Dad, it’s a left-handed guitar! I can’t play this piece of crap anyway!”
13. Your family will always say that the guitarist on the street, on the boardwalk, in the subway, or in the restaurant is “way better” than you
The waiter shows you to your table, near where the tortured singer-songwriter-guitarist is setting up his gear.
“Ooh, good, I love live music,” says your wife.
After the shock of that statement wears off, you close your slack jaw back up and say:
“You’re always asking me if I could please move the guitar into the other room when we’re at home.”
“Well, that’s because I don’t want to hear the same Molly Hatchet song 5,000 times,” your wife says.
The guitarist starts playing the flattest version of “Blackbird” you’ve ever heard in your life.
“Ooh, he’s really good!” your wife says.
14. Everyone will be mad at you for not “writing a song about me”
You’re lying in bed watching “The Bachelorette” with your wife. The male contestant trying to win the woman whips out his guitar and says:
“Here’s the song I just wrote for you,” and he begins playing the most ridiculous song you’ve ever heard.
You feel the hot glare of your wife’s stare. You try to ignore it, and make the mistake of saying:
“God, this is really embarrassing, isn’t it?”
“How come you’ve never written a song for me?” asks your wife.
The next day when you’re practicing “Lick It Up” by KISS, you look up and catch your wife shaking her head disgusted.
15. Learn to play the piano instead
Well, my “call to action” at the end of this article is to encourage you to learn to play the piano. Unless you are a great guitar player, just learn to play the piano and start young.
Every hotel and restaurant lobby has a community piano for you to play. And just look at what happens if you sit down and belt out a tune on a piano. The world is your oyster!
© Copyright 2020 Jack Clune
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