I don't want that

So much sound.

First the neighborhood of dogs were shouting a chorus of “what the fuck are you looking at?” to each other. It would die down for a minute. Then one of the bigger dogs would get huffy about how the light reflected off a certain thing and voices its disgust, thusly. The dog next door, not to be out done, joins in. Across the street the tiny one speaks up, but only timidly at first. Next a few moments of all out canine rage. Until each respective parent admonishes out the screen door does the octet hush. An hour rolls by.
The crickets call. The dogs are now so pissed. An open air board room of clashing opinions, back and forth the crickets want it one way, the dogs another. Then...then the cicadas. Oh shit-thanks. The chairmans of the board have seemed to arrive. Looks like I am not the only animal in Stifft Station creeped out by cicadas.
A few weeks ago a mother and her two young daughters came up to the deli. It was post-lunch. I greeted them with my usual effervescent self. The older of the two girls (she was maybe four) looked right at me and said, “I got this, for YOU.” In her hand a fully intact, petrified cicada shell. Skinny legs and all. As she was setting it on the counter- immediately flashes of bleach soaked rags and flame throwers came to mind in order to sanitize the area- I was trying to say something as to not offend this young lady yet let her know that I, just me personally, am not really into, you know...scary fucking bugs. Shawn, my best friend from kindergarten until about fifth grade was really into collecting insects and shooting guns. I cannot really say what I was totally into at that time, but it definitely was not that. I went along because he was the only boy my age willing to hang out with me and his parents tolerated my ballooning need to be anywhere but my house.
So I says to this little girl, desperately scrambling for the most delicate of phrases, “ I......I..........I don't want...that.”
The little girl immediately turns dejectedly and walks away. The mother is just cracking up.
I really do try to be nice and please everyone. Once in a while though you just have to break a girls heart.

Why I love Matt Beachboard

Yesterday I could not whistle for a while. That is, for a time I lost the ability to whistle no matter how I tried. The sound would not come. So I focused harder, then stopped and relaxed, eased up on the gas. Still nothing. I waited a minute then attempted to sneak up on whatever was thrusting silence. Now I am not an accomplished whistler by any means, despite the title. The Teriffic Whistler name(consciously mis-spelled, I thought it clever at the time) comes from The Catcher in the Rye. Say what you will about the fit for middle school brochure on teen alienation and the F word, its an old favorite. There is a part in which he is talking about one of his schoolmates that is a bore, a jock, I guess. However, this kid, Harris Macklin, happens to be a phenomenal whistler. Acrobatic yet tender, mastering all music genres. But this kid only performed when he thought no one was listening, much how I prefer to work. Holden went on to say that maybe everyone, despite being painfully irritating in person is, behind closed doors, a secretly terrific whistler. Much how I would like people to think of me. “Man, this guy better be good at something.” they think as I talk aimlessly at them. I demonstrated for Christine my lack of ability, she laughed, but at this point I was beginning to be overcome by actual medical concern. A checklist of what I had eaten that day or the night before. I had taken some ibuprofen that morning. Was I dehydrated? Over-hydrated? Is this the first, normally neglected, sign of exhaustion? I told Matt and he, being him, heard me but did not actually listen to what I was saying. He began to teach me, step by step, how one whistles. “Yes....I know...yeah,” I tried to interject but, bless his heart, the man does love the sound of his own voice. I did not forget how to whistle. I did not leave that particular tool at home that day. It felt as though one of the local Wiccans just got Baby's First Spell book. “Thou shall not create tone with air through thine lips, pursed.” An hour later it was back without a note from the nurse. No explanation. Delightfully out of key once again. At full rich titanium silver quality. Ahh, I was so excited I showed Matt, “Your mouth is more scruntched up than it was before.” Yes, Matt. You are right.

Apples and Trees.

The other day I realized I have not spoken to my dad in over a year. In my family that is not so unusual. Even when I lived at home we could go weeks without seeing each other. Most of our conversations were not much more intimate than those shared with a recognized grocery cashier. Really the only time he was interested in what I was doing was when I was building something like a bookshelf out of a baby grand piano shell. When I was about 23 he picked up the guitar again. He never played as I grew up but I think he dabbled a bit before I was born. He bought a pretty nice acoustic and spent a good amount of time in the garage he built, practicing. I was and am impressed how well he played so quickly. So we talked about guitars a lot. Having been in bands since I was 15, guitar talk is the cornerstone of 90% of my conversations, and also the time for my girl friends to find someone more interesting to hang out with for a while. The love of a specific amp or guitar or pedal or tube brand or string diameter is the basis for most of my current friendships. If I met a woman playing a Rickenbacker through a blackface Fender amp you would have to keep me off my knees, hopelessly proposing. My dad liked to jam with his buddies every other weekend. Mostly playing Chicago and Peter Gabriel songs. Stuff I could get behind. I stepped in a couple times. The guy that hosted had a Rhodes and an Hammond X3, which I was told is the first solid-state version of the B3. It sounded amazing and is the closest I have ever been to playing a B3. They drank Old Style and smoked weed. The latter never in front of me. I figured out my dad smoked weed the first time it was smoked in my presence. I learned from a MASH episode that the sense of smell is the strongest memory inducer. Still to this day if I smell almond extract I think of my grandmother's kitchen. I was thirteen and my best friend's older brother smoked in front of me. Immediately I was sent back to an image of me just out of diapers with my dad in the basement. It was a revelation likened to the feeling of being hit in the face with a fly swatter. Not long after, the hunt for the stash was in affect. On a bright summer afternoon it was found. In exchange for a few hits one of the older boys rolled it into a joint for me. A skill I have yet to master. Oh. My. God. In the succeeding years I had not been much of a smoker. A hit or two here and there. I pretty much abandoned it all together for ten years. Only smoking with trusted people in the appropriate situation and with quality grade. Never had I encountered a blend as potent as my fathers contribution. That afternoon was spent behind a curtain, the infinite lies stretched in smiling repose. As if I had become a dogs tongue after a dozen fetches. I recall regaining consciousness in a bathtub of room temperature water. After that I found more pleasure selling my dads weed rather than smoking it. Turns out I do not so much enjoy handing over large chunks of my day to oblivion. I could sell a nickels worth for twenty bucks. That is how good it was. I funded a trip to Six Flags with a dime bag. He may well have known but never, never broached the subject. How does a good natured guy such as my father bring himself to accuse his fifteen year old son of ganking his good stuff? Well, time has indeed told, he could not find a way. Good for me. Having been the subject of my fathers rage, luckily, in only verbal outbursts, I consider it a gift from the gods that I was cunning enough to not get caught doing much worthy of anything more than a spanking. About six years ago I was living at home and it just-so-happened I had to do some work on my Mexican made 72 Telecaster Re-issue, blonde, semi hollow body with the F hole, upgraded pick-ups. I played 11s at the time. A small allen wrench was needed to adjust the string height. Dad was in garage and I knew the door was locked. I had a key but out of respect and fear of an uncomfortable conversation, I knocked on the garage door. This time however I was in a reckless, kamikaze even, mood. In one swift motion I unlocked the door and walked in, like I owned the place.

Whatever my dad had in his hand, he threw it. In a direction and trajectory, I imagine, my dad tried very hard to remember. Parts per million, was a phrase that came to mind. How much oxygen could be left in here? A question I glanced at. Busted. I walked in determined to find the proper tool for my task. I felt like a nature photographer in the midst of a lion devouring a conquered gazelle. “Oh, pardon me, excuse me while I just....” Intentionally I took my time. More practically I could have taken the bag back into my room but instead I stood at the bench carefully choosing the select few that could perform the task. In the next few seconds the cloud of smoke was replaced by the pulsing, flexing, tension of my fathers will to remove me from the room. Somewhere, a joint was disappearing. Here, I stood in the way. Purposefully I combed over the angled hexagonal shafts, admiring their six sided beauty. Science is awesome. Finally, he erupted. As I anticipated. “Ju..Jus....Just take them all inside!” So I did. Like a good son should.