Monday, January 30, 2017

A splotch from my continuing fiction saga about a terrifying guitarist

Jeevers, heavens, who would look there if someone bothered to mention that wooden well as a place worth taking into thought?   I know what's under that stainless steel cap.   Some fairly simple electric components, and they are dead, dead, dead.  Unusable.  Unsightly, too.  I'll grant the guitarist, singer, entertainer, Mikey Mumbawumba has animal cunning, even for matters of beauty.   The women like this man, and naturally his exceptional height and hair twangs electrifying bent notes of Darwinism, as Mikey has reproduced offsprings far and wide more so than many by way of his music and beastly exotic good looks.   Why, I haven't reproduced none of my own dainty ass, and I can play guitar at least as good as Mikey.   But he's got the height advantage.   I'll concede there is another thing longer than me in this competition for a place in memory and in daily life.

You are always quick on the uptake, and need to know now how I know of Mikey's shit ass soldering.  I was there.  I was there when he was installing the pick up.  He barely noticed that I was in the entourage that evening, though not as a regular item.  I have been in entourages on an itinerant basis, and this accounts for not getting a lot of hits on my blog.  Jesus tits, it is so hard to explain  humanity. It effects the number of gigs you get, if anyone fucking cares.  Mikey Mumbawumba angrily unfolded his hard wood six foot ironing board, pulling it out of the closet like a punk who owed him money.  Then he slammed his sulphur yellow fake Stratacaster on top of it, swearing, sweating and praying all at the same time, also he was fishing tools out of the filthiest used  American Tourist locking hard shell brief case ever similarly jerked out of a filthy, disorganized closet.  We were all smoking like chimneys, but the entourage was otherwise inert as Mikey dislodged, lodged, yanked, screwed and soldered a 1967 Gibson pick up into what used to be a pristine looking cheap ass imported copy of God's divine inspiration, the Fender Strat.  If I was betting on the All Mighty's mood, at the time, I'd say it might have been one of shock and displeasure.

Everyone in the dank ghetto apartment was too downed out to fully appreciate the end result, in all it's many meanings.  This is one reason people still buy business cards, off the internet, that say 'philosopher.' Mikey was a genius, in his cleft footed way, for inverting the goddam stainless steel cap the use to cover the hoojie you stick the quarter inch jack into. The thing looks like he didn't fuck anything up.  It looks unusual, too.  It was an excellent move, and the man always gets an A+ for style.  But I saw what he did with his soldering iron, and as usual, I had to know I'm a better technician than that mean son of a bitch.  For people who look hard at the future, Mikey may have produced an entire generation of people with with deficient technical skill sets.

Doesn't matter just this passing second.  As always, the asshole looks like he is supposed to be on stage,  his band mates aren't fucking up too many runs, he's able to sing better than a hard number of competing hopefuls with shitty guitars and little hope, and there is ample ETOH and some illegal drugs, too, all serving to equalize good, bad and indifferent.  It is worth noting here that members of the audience are unified in their appreciation of Mikey's performance.  Just now it's Fly Me To The Moon.


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