Buckle your seat-belts, cos I have news. Hmm… On second thoughts, this isn’t really the kind of news you can prepare for by buckling seat-belts. What was I thinking?
The breaking news from my side is that I have decided to take another shot at learning the guitar.
I expect all sorts of reactions from people about the news piece, different strokes from different folks, so to speak, but buckling seat-belts do not fall under the immediate reaction. So my bad, I guess. Expected reactions are more along these lines –
- From people who don’t know me at all –
- “Oh? That’s nice. Another wanna-be musician. Good luck to him.”
- From people who know my craze for music –
- “Wait a minute. He doesn’t know how to play the guitar?? Then what the hell was he doing carrying one around for all those years??”
- From people who have heard me pluck at the strings –
- “Wha??? No. Not again. The horror! The horr… sob sob sob…waaaaaaaaaaa” (stupid whiny prehistoric drama queens, the mumblemumble…)
- From my former roomie and guitar tutor, Nash –
- “Entamme!! Shut the door! Kill the lights! Jump ship. Hey, if anybody calls and asks for me, tell them… hmm… tell them I died last night.”
- From the batcave –
- “Holy dirty laundry, Batman”
- “Quick! To the batmobile!” (tada-dada-dada-dada…)
In short, I doubt if the larger population would take kindly to my new phase. It might be well in order that I give a sort of background to the whole thing. I am and have always been a rock music enthusiast. In fact, sometimes I think I can blame my hair loss to it.
“Yeah, I swear. One minute I was headbanging to Metallica, and the next thing I know, I won the Phil Collins lookalike contest. If only I hadn’t banged my head so hard…”
And I played a mean air guitar – the imaginary guitar you pretend to hold while listening to a good riff. But I never took classes on the instrument. I was thwarted from that attempt by a story surrounding my dad. My dad is pretty good on the guitar, as with most things. When I was young, people told me about how he cut his fingers on the strings when he started practicing. I had scary visions of my dad sporting tiny fountains of blood from his fingertips. The air guitar was good enough for me.
But the lure of the six stringed temptress was not subtle. I was getting surrounded by musicians, both amateurs and professional. And then I got Nash as my roommate. He kept drilling in the fact of how easy it is to learn the guitar. Oblivious to repercussions, he related his saga of how he coached himself from scratch.
In any case, the next time I went home, I sneaked away with my dad’s old guitar and started pestering Nash for classes. That wasn’t difficult. I let my pestering hours coincide with his sleeping hours. In effect, I held his sleep hostage.
To make a long story short, he hurriedly got married, kicked me out, and slept for around 20 days at a stretch to get over the phase.
So between groans and obscure references to the Geneva Convention Treaty, he taught me some of the basics. It didn’t take him long to regret it because my practice hours coincided with his sleeping hours yet again. And if you think it’s easy to catch your forty winks with some idiot with six strings and a plectrum making unseemly, arrhythmic noises throughout your slumber, then come on over – let me give you a free sample. To make a long story short, he hurriedly got married, kicked me out, and slept for around 20 days at a stretch to get over the phase.
And now…I’m back.
I told Nash about my re-entry day before yesterday… And yesterday… I SWEAR this is true – Nash called me up and told me his company is ‘sending him’ to America for a while in a week… I have to say… What a co-inky-dink!