fiction: Music Horrors

Some ape shit stalker has been fucking with me since the Reagan era, he's a didactic gas-lighting SOB, and his BS crops up, not regularly, but with his trade mark each time. This is where I remember, and get agitated, over the precept of 'signifiers,' which came up in this shit heel phenomenology class I took. It was where I first met the stalker. Stalkers often identify a signal, like a red ant might, and are drawn to it. That was a long time ago. Here's some recent shit. 

I had switched from electric to acoustic guitars, and it brought out the stalker. Some asshole had to have told the guy about it, because I didn't see the Ape at the clubs I been squatting at. Which means the Ape has 'friends,' or at least, contacts, since 'friends' has become such a hideous word. Some of the worst pigs I dealt with in the last century all would sit together in the living room and watch the tv show 'Friends.' Something about that show always made me think a process of deliberate contamination was nearing scientific maturity. 

My first mistake was mail ordering an Egbert Schliazis all wood classical guitar. It's all real natural wood. None of that mostly filler plywood some axes are made out of. Stuff makes me earl. Don't like people who play those pieces of shit. There's a lot of 'em. Egbert Schliazis a very good low end acoustic guitar, and there is no need to labor all the goddam traditions and values and every fucking spiritualized horse shit point in history that may by signified, or symbolized, or brought up like like a bowl of bad clams and too much wine. Or so I thought. 

I was very tuneful one evening, thank you, on my oak stool in the back of Chief's Bar. I was playing some Simon and Garfunkel shit, some shit everyone at the time more or less remembered, and there were some people who were into it. I was being gracious as shit, and making a special point not to have an attitude, because that's fine if you're doing Sex Pistols. But it's asshole if you're playing "Like a Goddam  Bridge Over Fucking Troubled Water." So I wasn't doing attitude that night. 

I wasn't, but some ugly bitches were, I can tell you that. Soon as I put down my brand new Egbert Schliazis, one of the bitches gets in my face. "You can shove that guitar you're playing up your ass, you fucking pig," she says to me, her sour swarthy puss contorting with rage and mockery. "Yea, asshole, big end first," a member in her entourage added, for additional caution and indelible staining. 

"Egbert Shliazis' great grandfather designed Joseph Mengele's ukele. Joseph Fucking Mengele would strum his ukele while torturing holocaust victims, you lousy fuck," she continued. "Now Schliazis'   great grandson, Egbert, is helping to kill off women in the Yucatan peninula." 

Fuck me. I was helping Egbert Schliazis lll kill women in the Yucatan pininsula. Fuck me again. I feel really, really bad about all this.   Not even music can help.