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Being poor sucks a big fat ass. Not that I'm destitute, or anything. I mean, I live in my parents house, which is nauseatingly fashionable, and I have various gadgets and gizmos and luxuries that they've afforded me. But me... myself, that is....I am poor. And thus, I do not have cable in my room. Now this may sound like the lamentations of a spoiled and unappreciative individual, but I assure you it is not. I don't mind not having cable in my room. I don't mind having only seven channels. In fact, it keeps me from watching mindless tedium like "The Real World" and old reruns of "Married with Children." However, I just wish that those seven channels, those seven beacons...buoys in a sea of migraine inducing static...I wish they would just come in clear once in a frickin while. I mean, is that so much to ask? Is it? Huh? So anyway, I don't watch much TV. I spend my time these days....hmmmm, what the hell have I been doing lately? I'm busy. I'm what they call a "go getter." I spend my weekdays painting. Not art, oh heavens no. Walls. You can really lose yourself painting walls. You can relish in the power of reinventing a room. You have total power in that room. You can kill it, or heal it, or completely remake it. You are God to that room. Well that may be a bit dramatic. I may be a bit dramatic. I played tonight. Music that is. That's where I spend my weekends. I spend my weekends plugging away with a band that has great potential, working towards the day where I can wake up and not have to go to work. I hate work. But this gig was a little different. It was a retirement party. A hundred antiques crowded in a small banquet room, reminiscing about when they still had both hips. Now I don't have anything against retirees, in fact the only difference between them and most of the people I work with, is that the guys I work with come in to work to play solitaire and look at furniture catalogs. So anyway, a teacher was retiring, and I knew the principle, and he had asked me if I would play for a few gag songs that he had planned. He would change the lyrics to be about the Urn-to-be in question and everyone would laugh at his cleverness, and there I'd be, tucked away in a corner, playing the bass to a slightly butchered version of American Pie. It was fun. I love to play no matter where it is, or what it's for. And the aging kindergarten instructor about whom the hoopla was enjoyed the show thoroughly. I told her to call me if she ever retired again. I'm guessing I won't be hearing from her. On the totally bizarre side, I ran into my third grade teacher at the shindig. It's a strange thing when you run into someone who played such an intimate role in an entire year of your life after twelve years. She looked the same, she must have been right out of college when I had her. Third grade...man that was a long time ago. I believe I had a big crush on her too. Even though I was constantly bitching about one of the slower kids in the class getting breaks, and extra chances on spelling tests. That kid happened to be the principle's son. The same principle whose hand I was now shaking after having done him a decent size favor. Turnabout is the spice of life. I bolted as soon as the thing was through of course. You don't want to be hanging around the scene when it's not your party, and all the old ladies want to tell you how big you've gotten. So I didn't. The rest of my evening since then has been uneventful, except for my recent reflection on my rabbit ears. I think they have a few good years left in them before retirement. Either way, I'll beat it out of them.
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