CONVERSION NOTICE: This is one of 250+ blogs that originally appeared on MySpace. I’ve done my best to represent it with as much historical accuracy as possible, but there are limitations. Read about it in the FAQ.
Current Mood: contemplative
I checked out the “Louder Than Bombs” monthly Smiths night in San Francisco this last Thursday. I usually don’t go, for a variety of reasons, but this was their first night at Beauty Bar in the Mission and Orlie and Nick were both free and so what the hell? I didn’t plan it this way, but I ended up getting a little intoxicated. I was only planning on having one drink to loosen up. But when I went to get a second, I was left waiting in line for a while. The ‘tender (who happened to be the Capt. Jack Sparrow looking guy from the local band “Immigrant”) was taking forever to get to me, and when he passed me by for the umpteenth time, I dropped my head and let out a sigh. He took offense and called me out with something like “there are a lot of people here, and I’m doing my best!” I honestly hadn’t meant to send him a message with my sigh, but I guess he felt bad after snapping at me, so he showed up with a free shot to share with him. In the face of this goodwill gesture, I obviously had to drink the shot. And then still order my original second (now third) drink! So yeah, I was pretty loose. Lots of dancing, singing along, stumbling, and loss of inhibition. I won’t lie… it was a lot of fun. At one point, a couple of girls stumbled into the men’s bathroom while I was… erm… peeing. It took me a minute to remember and assure myself that there aren’t urinals in the women’s room, so I was not the one out-of-place. So one of them is looking in the mirror, putting her lipstick on while I’m talking at her over my shoulder from the urinal. I think we discussed Morrissey. Anyway, yeah, I was not myself. The boys and I ended up at Sparky’s. I got to bed after 4am. Then had to get up for work around 7am. I was in a haze all that day. Sour stomach. Blech. I hear the young folk can do this night after night and bounce right back. I guess I’m passed that.
I hate salesmen. All kinds. Just in general. I wouldn’t call myself an expert by any means, but when I go into a music store and try to discuss guitars with guitar salesmen, it’s like I’m talking to a little kid. They’re always trying to bullshit me, and I don’t even get the feeling it’s all that malicious. I really think that they just make something up when they don’t know an answer, assuming I won’t know enough to call them on it. As a consumer, there is no quicker way to cause me to lose all confidence in your ability to help me. The only useful thing you can do for me at that point is ring me up and get the commission for the sale that you didn’t earn. (It’s not always like that — sometimes they know what they’re talking about, but it’s the exception, not the rule.) My point is: if you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, you’ll get my respect and trust if you just admit that you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. But you really should know more than I do… you do this for a living, you know.
The only reason I even thought of all that was because, despite all logic, I’ve bought a new guitar. But in order to more comfortably afford it as well as have room for it, I have begun a very painful but necessary process of… selling… some of my less-used guitars. I don’t really want to do this, but it’s the responsible thing to do for many reasons. I hit a peak at 20 and am now whittling down to a more manageable “family.” And since I really want this new one (a Gibson 335!!!), I had to start letting some others go. If you’re interested at all, I’m currently selling the Flamekat and the ES-295.
With my recent knee-to-the-face incident, I’ve been considering looking at orthodontia for the first time in my life. My teeth aren’t really that crooked at all, and I’ve always said I’d wait until the technology existed to put me under and have a single procedure to straighten them all in one sitting. But I figured, I’m pretty settled now; what’s the harm in finding out what my options are? Well my options turned out to be 18 months of my life and a price tag of about $6,000. With all due respect to the good doctor, fuck that. Which is to say, I’ll not be pursuing orthodontics any further at this time.
There have been mysterious (but credible) threats of mass evictions of everyone in my building for some firecode something or other. Apparently the city of San Francisco has sued to shut us down? And the scary part is that they may not even be the bad guys in this whole mess. As the days have passed, this sounds more and more far-fetched. But I’ll be sure to update you all if I’m about to be homeless. If anyone wants to trade guitars for room and board, you may be in luck.
At work the other day, I accidentally came across a new Oracle page, and my immediate reaction was to let out an audible hiss! Like a cat or a vampire. A totally automatic response. I had to laugh at myself. A fleeting moment of being connected with whatever’s left of my animal instincts. For one brief instant, I thought I understood how/why cats do that.
I must be having good hair days lately, or maybe I’m getting better looking in my old age? Because I’ve been getting way more attention than is normal. Have I been doing anything about it? Of course not. When women flirt with me unexpectedly, I quite literally flee! So my apologies to the intellectual-looking girl on BART in Berkeley the other day, and the pink-haired girl at the restaurant in the Haight today, and the other one that works in the rockabilly store, too. You’re all beautiful and probably very worthwhile people, and I would have loved to have struck up a conversation with you… but apparently I don’t like girls.
Have you seen this? An Old Spice commercial… uh, yeah, just watch.
And finally, the quote of the week is yet another sobering truth from Taxi Driver Wisdom:
“People look so much better alone.”