Friday, July 16, 2004

Rock you like a Bunnycane...

So there I was.
Last night was a treat, sort of. Abbypilot had returned from Iceland the night before with a case of lobsters packed on ice, as well as two cases of Icelandic beer called "Thule." Needless to say, a surf n' turf dinner took place amongst all the Fleet Street faithful. The Burgundy and butter flew like wine and butter, and a good time was had by all. My story is but a sliver of time in the greater scope of this evening (last night.)
So there I was.
I was sitting on the back porch, practicing guitar, enjoying the melding of scents and white Burgundy wine. I find myself practicing virtually every day now. I get irascible if I don't play; it's an out for me. Quite often, it's in the presence of my friends, and they tolerate it politely, often asking me to play "Stairway to Heaven" because they know I won't on principal. This evening, friends came and went on the porch, mostly to check on the steaks (the "turf" portion of our show.) As I was practicing, I notced I was drifting farther away from practice, and closer to free-form playing. I confirmed this a few minutes and a glass of wine later. I had indeed left the practice arena, and found myself purely playing. Bliss.
For any musicians out there, they know what I am talking about. The feeling when you are just can do no wrong. Everything you play makes sense. You play with a speed and clarity unrivaled in the annals of the universe. Unfortunately, it only lasts a short time.
I had sex three times last night alone, I was so fired up. (And I do mean "alone.")
Just kidding, it was only twice. But I did promptly walk into the house and say "boobies."

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