The charm of air-guitar is the irrational-yet-logical transitions one can accomplish. From rhythm guitar, then to the bassline, then a drum fill, then back to rhythm guitar to lead-in drums to the chorus where you are lead singer back to the bridge with the bass until you hit the lead guitar doing a solo. It is a private moment that involves more heart than picking someone up at a bar but less balls. It is the thrill of someone waiting for 6pm to ticktock its way into the past.
I spent my lunch break feeding ducks, but I soon realized they were all Pavlovian and circling me like wagons to a wild-west villain when they saw me as the owner of free shit. I briskly left the scene and found shelter underneath a tree. Watching the ducks from afar, viewing families and cliques and the daily routine of domesticated serenity made me feel like the enemy, their enabler. I will return tommorrow with a new plan of attack: come when they're not so fucking hungry.
Tonight is Bluegrass night at Mission Pizza, the locale of one of the most existential crises of my life and probably the determining factor of how and why I took that flight to the Philippines. I will repay my thanks with a curious ear and a tall glass of Boddington's. For now, my heart sweats like a candle, from a fragile flame that can be easily vanquished with no blame, no rhyme, no reason, no depression, no heaven; just the way I like it.
"Doing dirt on sex, it is the crime of our times, because what we need is tenderness towards the body, towards sex, we need tenderhearted fucking."
-D.H. Lawrence
-Kenneth Koch
"He walked out of a party one night because somebody used the word 'creampuff,' it seemed maliciously, in his hearing. The man was a refugee Hungarian pastry cook talking shop, but there was your Mucho: thin-skinned."
-Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49
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