baggage's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Wide Awake and Hungry Yuk. The grand 99 cent lunch idea? Ewwww... The food might be cheap, but it lays in your belly like a rock. And today-the 99 cent burger from C. Jr. was pathetically awful. It's like they set out to make the lousiest, blandest most god-awful hamburger ever. I may have to find other ways to save money. Maybe, I need to cut back on chocolate. Drastic scenarios require drastic measures, eh. __________________________________________ I've been misplacing things lately. Like the passes for this weekend's gig. Those damn things are precious-and managers don't take too kindly to musicians who conveniently misplace passes three days before a show. But, misplace them I did. And despite the suspicious tone of voice Ms. Manager adopted today after I explained my predicament, I was able to slither my way into eight more. I'm lucky she likes bald Asian guitar players who play with lots of distortion. Speaking of massive amounts of distortion...last week, minutes before we were set to go on at Club Lush, I realized that the all-important cord connecting my pedal board to my effects unit was missing in action. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr. The accessories associated with being a musician get damn expensive, and losing a $40 dollar cord is not the kind of thing I like to do-specifically when rumors of layoffs and downsizing are echoing loudly in both sides of my brain. So anyhooz, I played the whole show without effects-which worked out fine-but just isn't cool considering that different songs require different guitar tones. It's funny when you're forced to plug directly into your amp-minus the benefits of distortion, delay, chorus, wah and the other sonic toys I usually have at my feet. You're forced to adjust your playing-and in some ways, it can lead to a wonderful shift of paradigms. Occasionally, it's good to be forced out of your comfort zone. __________________________________________ Today I had to step inside a recently condemned, rotting sardine-can of a home A smoldering candle gave birth to a small fire in one of the rooms and the visiting firemen found the interior of the formerly two-bedroom, one bath house subdivided and drywalled into 15 tiny rooms. By some stroke of strangeness, I was the only journalist allowed into the building. The enry hall featured skinny doors placed about a foot apart-all opening into identical rooms barely bigger than my cube. The house was a barely-standing altar to dirt and mayhem. The drywall looked as if it had been installed by 12-year-olds and the kitchen was so caked in grease and dirt that I could feel the ground underneath my shoes slip with a sickening consistency with every step. I made the mistake of glancing into a partially opened bathroom door and was instantly relieved to have, in my haste to leave my own home, skipped breakfast. The room where the fire originated had one rotting mattress in the middle of the floor and half-burned candles arranged in what looked like a makeshift altar. The deity worshipped was unclear. Most of the people lingering inside didn't speak English-but one woman I encountered looked at me as if I was Satan himself-coming to drag her and her children away. I wanted to apologize for the intrusion. I wanted to apologize for my disgust. I wanted to try and understand the world through her eyes-so maybe I wouldn't be so repelled. I wanted to not be such a fricking snob. But, in all honesty, I couldn't. Or rather, I didn't. I needed more time in the house to sketch, but my reluctant guide shuffled me out the front door five minutes after he shuffled me inside-maybe, realizing his mistake in allowing me in. I was partly disappointed because I didn't have enough information to do a proper graphic. But, mostly I was relieved. On the way back to the office, I thought about a caption to one of Gary Larson's Far Side cartoons: Same planet, different worlds. How true, indeed. __________________________________________ Yesterday, Girl-Unit left a very lovely message on my voice mail. Just a run down of her day-the marigolds she planted, the food she bought, the magazines she read; ordinary details that don't highlight anything spectacular or stupendous. I still feel a silly tingle when I hear her recall these details. I know that a phone call filled with the minutia of her day is synonymous with contentment. And, as much as I love hearing her say *I love you* and all those other deep-heartfelt romantic phrases that lovers decorate each other with, I very much prefer these little phrases and statements. Love, I think, is in the details. __________________________________________ I was up late last night-accompanied by the creeks of my house and John Updike's sad, melancholy language. Most of the short stories in *Licks of Love* all center around the conception, the duration, and the aftermath of extramarital affairs. Most of the characters are sad, misdirected folks-all trying their best to deal with the weight of their indiscretions. His prose saddens me-and hits me in ways that surprise. And I wonder why I feel guilty even though I've never cheated on my own relationship. 9:55 a.m. - 2001-04-20 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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