Well, the guitar playing last night didn’t go any better than yesterday’s round of golf did. First of all, I’m woefully out of practice, which means my fingers have no calluses. So playing for more than fifteen minutes was out of the question. It just got too painful.
Yeah. “Painful” is the right word. The horrible noise that came out of that sweet instrument definitely hurt. It’s sad, really. I used to play all the time, all through high school and college. At one point, I had about an hour’s worth of original compositions. Today, I can’t remember any one of them in full. This, too, is sad. I mean, it’s not that they were fantastic pieces or anything, but they were mine. I liked them, and others seemed to, also.
My friend David and I used to play in his basement. He was an awesome drummer. He worked out a fantastic percussion part to my first composition, an eight-minute piece I’d called “Phases.” I haven’t been able to remember that whole song in years.
My high school had this annual production called the Varsity B Show. It was a combination of comedy skits, musical numbers, and so on. Invariably, the cheerleaders or color guard would get out there and do their normal, idiotic routine, and expect that people would fawn all over them. (What the hell’s the point, y’know?) The “comedy” was routinely bad. But every once in a while, you’d get something good.
And during my senior year, I played “Phases” in front of a few hundred people. Scared the shit out of me, honestly. I stood up there, under that hot spotlight, unable to move. Not just because of fear, but because my electric cable was only so long. I wore big heavy glasses in those days. Between my nervousness and the hot spotlight, I was sweating. And the glasses kept sliding lower and lower on my nose. (I was looking down at the guitar neck… not because I needed to watch my fingers, but because I was too afraid to look out at all those people). I just knew the glasses were gonna fall off my face and clang across the strings.
They didn’t, though. They stopped right on the tip of my nose and just hung there for the remaining minutes of the piece. It was a nerve-wracking experience, but I got over it as soon as I heard the tremendous applause.
And that surprised me, honestly. I expected only a polite bit of clapping. Instead… well, I can’t even describe it. Suffice to say that I totally get why performers are addicted to performing. I was instantly high.
I wasn’t a popular kid in school, but I was one of the few who learned how to play guitar. Even though the song was in a raw version (I’d “perfect” it later), and without David on drums (that came much later), people loved it. And for the last few months of school, I was popular. At least, among the crowd that was into rock & roll.
Pity I hadn’t done that years before. I might have actually enjoyed school.
This morning, I went to Coffee Bazaar for breakfast. I just can’t seem to find decent food anywhere, here. The bagel was a lame excuse for one. But then, in college, I used to have bagels that were imported from NYC. Nothing like a real NY pumpernickel bagel with cream cheese! Mm-Mm!
My bad luck with food here this trip is especially ironic, because one of the best meals I’ve ever had in a restaurant was one I had here four years ago. But that restaurant seems to be gone. Figures.
And of course, there was another cute girl working at the coffee shop. Cute, despite the piercings… one in the nose and one through the lower lip. There’s no way in the world I will ever find such things attractive. But they’re so ubiquitous that I’m starting to become used to them. And of course, I’m sure the fact that one of my best friends has them has something to do with me getting used to them.
Anyway, I was there for probably two hours, then roamed around town for a bit before coming back to my room for lunch, to listen to some Eels, and to work on this entry.
After lunch, I drove out to Armstrong Reserve for a drive and walk through the redwoods. I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned my passion for the redwoods elsewhere. Armstrong is a nice reserve, but it’s too regulated for my liking. Too touristy. When you walk through, you have to keep to certain paths. You can’t really get to any of the really good places.
For me, a walk through the big trees is what some people feel like when they go to church. It’s practically a spiritual experience. And just like in church, it’s rude for others to destroy the atmosphere with loud talking.
Problem is, that’s what you experience in Armstrong. Lots of people, some of whom don’t feel the same sort of reverential state of mind as I do, obviously. I wasn’t there long, today. Maybe I’ll stop by again on Sunday before I leave.
After that, I checked out Stumptown Brewery. I’m always seeking out quality microbrews, but this wasn’t even worth the one mile drive. They only had three of their own brews on tap: a wheat, a pale ale, and a double pale. None of these are the sorts of brews I care for. But I had a wheat and it wasn’t bad. I sampled the pale. Didn’t care for it. And keep the double pales away from me, thanks.
And now I’m back at Coffee Bazaar. Am I lame, or what? I guess I’m just not used to the relaxed life. I always feel like I need to be doing something. I need to get over that, I suppose.
Of course, the other thing is that for the past five years, I haven’t had any significant social life to speak of. Granted, this last year has been better than the previous four, thanks to D & T, but still… being able to just pick up and go out whenever I want to is something I’m not used to, either.
I’m not sure what I’ll do this evening. Surf the web while I’m here. Then probably have some dinner (frozen pizza and Ben & Jerry’s tonight) and maybe do some more writing.
Exciting, huh?
An interesting variety of music plays here. Earlier, “Words” by Missing Persons played. I really grooved on that; it took me back to my college days. Then one of the girls behind the counter said to the other one, “My mom used to really like this song.”
Super. Now I feel ancient.
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