September 25, 2011-September 26, 2011

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Henceforth, I shall refer to the girls as The Girls. There isn’t a better way to pay tribute to them. Not only did they stay out till 4:30 last night, but they also seem none the worse for wear this morning.

It’s 9 a.m., and Karen is in the kitchen cooking homemade gummy bears with Liv. Meanwhile, Sharon and Sue are at the dining room table regaling me with tales of their Rush Street escapades.

Shortly before noon, The Girls depart. They’re perfect ambassadors for the indefatigable city of Cleveland—I’m tired just thinking about them. I laze around for the rest of the day and build up my strength. Week 4 of my metamorphosis into something or other awaits.

Monday, September 26, 2011

It occurs to me that I’ve been going about this thing all wrong. I’m a bundle of nerves, which isn’t healthy. Maybe I need a little less ass-kicking and a little more Zen.

Enter my Fender acoustic guitar.

The newest addition to my set-up
at the dining room table.

Before proceeding, I want to be perfectly clear: I suck at guitar. But for the purposes of this blog entry and my life in general, that’s not important. I know I’m never going to be Jimi Hendrix or even his brother Leon. Playing guitar is simply a stress reliever for me, a great escape.

Anyway, it took a long time to reach that point. When I was a kid, my parents made me try an orchestra pit’s worth of instruments—piano, cello, trumpet, baritone, tuba—and I hated every one. All I really wanted to do was raise a little hell on guitar, but my parents had other, more refined ideas.

Everything changed about five years ago. Spurred on by creative boredom at Crushed Soul Publishing and midlife angst, I finally took up the guitar. (This is where I must give a nod of appreciation to Cassie and the kids, who bought me a little starter Starcaster for Christmas and have probably lived to regret it.)

After a year of noodling around on my own, I signed up for lessons with a guy named Lem, who stands about 6-5 and has long, frizzy hair and a ZZ Top beard. Through a mixture of encouragement and intimidation, Lem took me as far as he possibly could. I never progressed beyond being a campfire strummer, but I was still smitten (with the guitar, not Lem).

Guitar Center became my home away from home. In addition to the aforementioned Fender acoustic, I bought an Epiphone Joe Pass hollow body, a nasty Squier Stratocaster with hot-rod pickups, and a Gibson SG. I also purchased a little four-track TASCAM recorder and began writing songs.

I wrote “Booby’s in the Laundry Room,” a ditty that has a cameo by my cat Friday, who is nicknamed Booby; I wrote “Suck Me, Joe,” which is about Joe the Plumber’s rise to fame during the 2008 presidential campaign; I wrote “Satan’s Daughter,” my tribute to the lyrical stylings of Robert Plant. I wrote a lot of songs, many of which are best left unheard.

Until last Friday, however, I hadn’t so much as looked at my collection of guitars since being laid off. Given these dire times, I didn’t feel as if I could justify an escape or a distraction.

But like I said, I’ve reconsidered that strategy. I now keep my Fender acoustic right next to me at the dining room table, and I stop to play it whenever I feel the stress building. I don’t know about you, but that’s how I roll.