Thursday, May 6, 2010

Everyone just needs to settle down...

Taliban hysteria descended on Hanover Street in Portsmouth, right around the corner from Gillies, denying me my afternoon chili-dog/burger. FBI, Swat team, Robot bomb sniffers, guns and fear. If I were back in Santa Cruz I'd say it was arranged by the military to set us up for a curfew, to justify a military presence. America has provoked more than one war. Things are getting tense around these parts.

I'm more worried about getting a Korg Digital Grand Piano that I saw for sale. I want that piano in my apartment as soon as possible. It was a real test of my convictions today as the only way to get that piano is to work for it and the job that I went to interview for was assembling weapons (small arms) in Newington. Is it worth putting into the world hundreds of devices I know will have to be disassembled by some similar asshole in the future, so I can have that piano? I don't think it is. I'm just not being creative enough about my options. But I went through the motions (grinning and flirting with the HR lady) anticipating that I'll never have to actually assemble any small arms since the world should be ending in the next week or two. I just wanted the piano until the apocalypse comes. Maybe I should get a cash advance. But that isn't responsible either. Even if we'll all be dust in a few weeks. I could trade the car for a piano...

Then I took a tour of temp agency purgatory, talking to three different agencies with my best shirt on and firm handshake and "Newburyport? Of course I'll drive to Newburyport at 5 am for a 12 hour shift servicing water pumps. Who wouldn't?" I laid over like a dog on a rug. The piano is all I want...and a 1975 Cb550 Honda to get to the job in Newburyport.

The high point was a slice of Tuscan pizza in North Hampton, watching Hanover Street be overrun by swat teams on the news. Then I went to the fancy supermarket on the hill and browsed until I just about had a nervous breakdown in the meat section. I could not buy anything. California raisins? What the fuck? I gotta eat a raisin shipped 3500 miles? That's insane. But I couldn't eat anything there...all packaged crap from Chile and Arizona. It was a tense moment in the aisles with my empty basket, reading the fine print for something local. More than once I've walked into a supermarket and left with nothing ("I'll just eat what's left in the house," I say which is usually an orange and carrots.) but this time since the world is ending I thought I should really eschew my puritan values and buy some booze or imported flesh. I ended up with Ice Cream from Maine, which is where my piano is waiting for me.

Oh, my god it makes me sick to my stomach that I don't have a piano. I've struck out at the senior citizen home, the Unitarian church, St, John's church, the Press Room. I swear it would be easier to buy crack cocaine than play a piano in this town. The lady at the Unitarian said, "We don't even let our performers practice on the piano." Is that right? Then what the fuck is it there for? I'll bet it has a sign that says, "Do Not Play" like the one at the Press Room. I'm making a sign for guitar lessons and I'm gonna get $125 an hour and call one of those hookers in L.A. and say, "Yeah, are you a hooker, will you let me fuck you for an hour? IF I PAY YOU $125 WILL YOU LET ME FUCK YOUR PUSSY? Good, because what I really want is a whore to pretend to like it when I fuck her. That makes me feel groovy! If you were a good enough actress to make me believe you like being..."

No, I can't finish that sentence. I told everyone to settle down and I'm going to do that. Mom, if you're reading this, excuse my attitude. I gotta play tennis. Damn. This would not happen if I had a piano.
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Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.