The Spiked One Reconsidered
Yes, it did in fact snow a whole bunch here.
I spent the better part of yesterday morning looking out the window at mass idiots digging out their Buicks, creating monstrously large berms of snow mere feet from their cars, getting in their cars, attempting to drive their cars, and getting stuck in the berms they had fashioned. It made me extremely tense.
Around 1pm I looked out and there he was: the Spiked One. He was digging out his Jeep. With a 4" x 6" Tupperware container.
I own about 140 shovels. 139 of them are in my gear closet (one is in my Jeep), along with my 428 ice axes, 35 backpacks and 59 sleeping bags. I dug around in there for a very long time and found just the one.
Of course it was an elaborate ruse. Of course it was.
"Hey, need a shovel?" I says.
"Thanks!" Spikey says.
I gave him the best digger of the lot. Karma, you see? It's all about karma.
So we dig, mostly in silence, for half an hour. Two and a half feet of snow. We're careful to put the snow we're moving in a location where it won't be re-plowed back onto our vehicles. We're being very touch-feely about it. I offer my name. The Spiked One offers his. We shake hands. The stage is set.
I'm just about to ask him what the loudest guitar on earth is made of, the one he plays day and night, when he says, and I kid you not, "Hey... can you hear me playing guitar in your place?"
There are so many ways in which I could respond. Synapses fire. How to play this one? Coy? Just be nice? Lay down the law?
But all I had in me was, "Yeeeeeaaaaaah. I can hear you." And a laugh.
"Oh man," Spikey says. "Sorry. If it ever bothers you just let me know." He looks really concerned. And then adds, "Sorry."
Now at this point I could feel sorta bad, but I don't. That would be typical of me, to be meek and non-confrontational, but I gotta be honest... Since I started recording stuff a year or so ago my ears have gotten more and more sensitive. And I just can't take chatter anymore. It's why I need to build the bunker.
So now, having accepted the gambit, I go on counter-offensive. Well, almost. I have to make one more positional move first.
"Can you hear me playing?" I ask. And I pepper it up a bit by throwing in this spice: "Because I play all the time."
The answer: "No. I've never heard you play."
And now, we move into endgame.
I tell the Spiked One to play whenever he likes. Just play, I says. But personally, I says, I always put the guitar(s) down at 11pm, you know, on account of kindness. I tell him the only time I've really ever been bothered is when he's twanged late into the night. It's a slight stretch of the truth, but it goes over well. (Last night: total silence. And I quite frankly wailed for hours.)
We chat a bit more about playing. I find out the guitar is in fact mahogany (he thinks; "I've never in my life heard a guitar with so much cut," I'd volunteered, somewhat cruelly). It's a Samick.
He likes Dave Matthews. We talk about Dave Matthews a little. I forget to tell him my very funny Dave Matthews story. I did volunteer that Scott's studio, where my record was mixed, is where Dave had his live stuff mixed. It's a completely ego-driven thing to say, and it's completely irrelevant, but nonetheless true.
And that's where we left it. We even talked of maybe playing together sometime. I doubt it, but maybe.
The Spiked One is a very nice guy. Yes, it's true. I almost regret calling Fat Tony to schedule a finger removal.
I dug for about two and a half hours. I dug out myself, some of the Spiked One, and quite a lot of my neighbor's Honda, before I set off her alarm and decided to stop. I think her kid needs some exercise anyway. Last night the plow came through and fenced us all in again.
I'm so all over volunteering personal information these days. Here's yet another juicy tidbit, because I'm just that bored.
I don't cook. At all. I have burnt water before. It probably all goes back to when I was five and tried to fry an egg and it came out like a hockey puck. But I digress.
Occasionally, like, when delivery is not an option due to roads being blocked by snow, I'll make soup. And you know what soup is really, really good? Pepperidge Farm gourmet soup. Lobster Bisque (make it with half n' half). Tasty. And last night I had Chicken Curry. Hooooly Chrrrrrist. Or Vishnu. Or something. It was delectable. I recommend.
Yes, I did watch Joe Millionaire last night, whilst bashing through etudes (so I was doing something constructive while having my soul further extinguished by reality TV). My favorite part was where one of the girls who had been cast aside early on made the comment that [she noticed], "Evan likes women with big boobies."
Yes, Evan is a simple man. Sim-po. I was not surprised.
I thought the redhead, what was her name... [yes, I am checking the official site] ... Alison. Ol' Ally was kinda hot, in a very "don't you freakin' touch me you lowlife jackass" way.
"Who doesn't eat goat cheese for chrissake?"
Don't I know it. Jesus.
Alison. I know this world is killing you. Alison. My aim is true.
Okay, time for more of The Big Dig. It is such a mess here.
Oh, I almost forgot. Pepperidge Farm gourmet soups are a product of Canada. I really don't know what to say. I suppose there really is a higher purpose.
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