baggage's Diaryland Diary

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Artistic My Ass

My fingers, well, are giving me the finger.

Which is rather appropriate considering that they are, well, fingers.

I mean-what other appendage is more qualified to give one the finger?

Certainly not the nose-although the nose can boast of prime facial real estate.

If the nose could give you the finger-well, you wouldn't be able to avoid it now would you?

I mean the nose-finger would be right there-in between your eyes after all-every moment of awake.

You'd be forced to view the nose-finger all day-your eyes would be unable to turn away.

Yes. The nose would make a good finger. But-well, you know, for all the arguments one could make about the importance of facial real-estate, it can not be denied that the fingers are uniquely qualified. They own you in many ways. They control your day to day proceedings-specifically when you're asking them for favors.

Last night, I begged them to find this obnoxious little tune in my head and play it back for me.

And, what did they do? Well, they gave me the finger! Actually-ten fingers; ten disobeying, maladjusted digits acting like spoiled brats.

So, after staying up well past midnight, I gave up-went to bed, read Updike's New York Girl, and fell asleep to dream about other things besides music.

Now, it's 9 a.m.-and I'm ready to resume the argument. We'll see who wins this time.

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For guitarists only: E major, by far, is one of the coolest keys to improvise in-since it offers the entire range of the fretboard. I love E-major. I do. I do. I do.

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I think, thank Allah, the preaching has ended. At least for now. I hate preachy. Dear Jehovah-I hate preachy.

Yada don't preach-I'm in love with diaryland, Yada don't preach-I'm in love with diaryland, cuz I made up my mind, ohhhhh, I'm keeping my baybeeeee, oooohhh, yeahhhhh...I'm gonna keep my baybeeeee, oooohhh, yeahhhhh...

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My apologies for the wandering entry. I have magically acquired the wisdom to renew my subscription to the New Yorker (I let it lapse years ago during a more hairy and scholastic part of my existence) and have been bit by the short-fiction bug. Between the New Yorker's wonderful short stories on glossy, flimsy stock and John Updike's descriptive and heart-string-pulling prose, I'm feeling, well, massively mediocre. Such a way with words these folks! How wonderful it must be the weave such a beautiful tapestry of images and emotions solely with the magic of verbage.

I suggest Mr. Updike's *The Cats* or T. Coraghessan Boyle's *My Widow* for the feline-minded amongst you. But, first, the disclaimer: these are melancholy images, sad verbs, dark appositives. They turn me inward-and in the face of their eloquence, anything I conceive regarding the simple complications and joys in my life pale by comparison.

I feel a little combination of over and under-and, well, I think I'll just go solo in E-major thank you very much. That, my friends, I can do, at least somewhat effectively. That is, if my fingers would cooperate.

8:44 a.m. - 2001-04-10

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