A Fun Fiction

O.K.  That was fun.  It didn't really happen, though.  Q is spending all his money on vacations.  Do you REALLY think he's going to get me a hooker and blow?  This blog isn't an accurate report of anything other than my emotional weather, but I don't usually go all out and write an entire fiction.  I am usually very bad at that, but writing about my new girlfriend, Jenna, yesterday was fun.  I might do more of that.  Fiction writing, I mean. . . though Jenna would be fun, too.  

In truth, what happened when I came home from my mother's house was something totally different, something very sweet and lovely.  I had a cocktail birthday call from Skylar, and we had a delightfully long chat.  At one point she asked me if I had gotten a package from her.  No, I said, I hadn't.  It should have come today, she said, so I got up and walked to the front stoop and sure enough, there it was.  

"It smells like coffee," I said.  "You got me coffee."  

"Don't open it now," she said.  "Wait until we are finished and you are alone."  

There was more than coffee in the box, but I will keep its contents private.  I will just say they were thoughtful and well-received.  

After all the birthday non-drama and lo-fi solitary celebration, though, I am living with the bare facts of (my) life.  Nothing healed, nothing changed.  It is still up to me to claw out some sort of extraordinary existence. 

Q asked me on my birthday if I still had a digital interface device he sent me over a year ago that would allow me to record live audio using my computer.  I got curious and looked for it.  Sure as heck, I did.  What I needed was a cable.  I ordered one from Amazon, but then I realized I had what I needed on the big, now useless, printer, so I used that to hook things up.  I opened GarageBand and the contraption was immediately recognized.  Shazam!  Then came the rummaging.  I tried several mics but none of the little ones worked, so I dug out my very expensive Rodes mic.  Boom!  That did it.  I decided to record something just to see if I could.  Sure as shittin' as the old folks say.  Sooo. . . I pulled out my old acoustic guitar with the strings that haven't been changed for years.  It was fairly in tune, so I didn't bother with the tuning aparatus.  I just hit the record button and did a take.  Abracadabra. . .  it worked!  I laid down a couple more tracks using that same acoustic guitar.  Oh, brother. . . this was going to be fun.  

But. . . and here comes the big "but". . . I don't know how to use the application.  All I can do is record.  I can't control the sound at all.  Now I am watching GarageBand tutorials, almost learning, then trying and not remembering.  It will take me some time, but hey. . . living my best life, right?  Living the dream?

(link)

There is a reason for everything--including that song, but like the contents of the box. . . . 

Friday.  What's a man like me to do?  Well, of course check in with his mother.  But then what?  Where's the party?  I decided to have dinner at what used to be my favorite bar only a few blocks from my house, but now that it has opened an outdoor beer garden and bought the building next door to use as a brewery, the place is always packed.  I thought, however, that I would be there early enough to beat the crowd.  Fat chance.  I had to park blocks away, on the street in front of my old studio.  That, my friends, is always heartbreaking.  I had a bit of luck, though.  When I limped into the bar, though, there was a lone seat waiting for me.  Score!  The old hipster bartender was walking around looking like a hipster manager.  He walked up, hand outstretched, and said hello.  It was nice to be remembered.

The new hipster barman was nice.  He took my order--shrimp tacos and beer--and struck up a conversation.  Conversation with the hipster barman.  I tried not to be awkward, but you know,  I am a terrible introvert and am out of practice.  I need to "rehearse the part," so to speak.  As I ate, he narrated the drinks he was making.  Fancy drinks, not the kind you make at home.  But home was calling, and home was where I was bound.  

Nothing fancy.  Comfy clothes, scotch and soda, and a book.  There was no Jenna.  This is my solitary life.  It is good and comfortable, but, you know. . . I want to share it with my Own True Love.  Selavy.  Life is complicated.  If you live long enough, you'll see how many things get fucked up.  You can't go back, of course, and you can't erase anything.  If you are a driven Romantic, you might suffer Gatsby's illness.  You might be able to invent yourself a bit and get away from your hillbilly roots, but never really so away.  She might cry and say she loves your shirts, but. . . . 

If you can bounce high, bounce for her too, Till she cry "Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover, I must have you!"

Yes, a gold hat.  God knows.  

But you will learn, if you don't get shot, that you can't stop the clock.  And so. . . inevitably. . . 

“We beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

I will, I guess, content myself with music and words waiting for that Golden Girl.  

Or, at least, until Q actually sends me an actual Jenna.