Wednesday, December 26, 2007

A timeless tale

So one time I was talking to some girl and made the comment "Johnny Cash...hit me with fish...tell you more later..." A couple days went by and she kept bothering me about an explanation, which resulted in the following story I found in an old email. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.


So I was out shopping for cheese (Wensleydale, of course) at Smith's a couple years back. There I was, minding my own business, when I heard a loud crash from the next aisle over. I went around the corner to see what the commotion was about and what I saw made my jaw drop. There, lying on the ground in a pile of Ravioli cans, was the Woody Allen of country music himself; none other than my old nemesis Johnny Cash. My eyes narrowed.

"What are you doing here," I said, in the most threatening way possible.

He scowled as he rose form the pile. Apparently, I had just interrupted one of his infamous little-kid-cart joy rides.

"None of your business, backwards hands. You'd better leave before I have to whip you."

At this, he drew the guitar from its place on his back in a fluid, threatening motion.

"You don't want to do this, Cash. Have you forgotten what happened the last time we had a duel?" my own guitar whispered from the guitar case at my hip. His scowl greased to an evil grin.

"Last time was different. You had the advantage; we were in Tiajuana, you had your freaks to help you. But not here. Here there will be no populace to cheer you, no witnesses to see! It's almost a shame no one will watch the fall of the great Trevor Kelley." He laughed wickedly.

A bead of sweat ran down the middle of my back. He was right; Juan, Alexandra and the rest of the Sunshine Burritos would not be here to cheer me on. It seemed he had me.

My fear hardened into resolve. If I was going to die here, there would be a price for my blood.

"Then let it be done."

It began.

With a twisted smile, Cash picked a wickedly fast series of notes. I responded in time with him, keeping up with ease. Back and forth the duel flew; eash of us trying to gain a foothold of some kind. Cash was playing aggresively, throwing everything he had at me all at once. I could barely keep up with the deluge of picking patterns, chord progressions and tassets which he drew from his seemingly endless musical quiver. Desperately I held on, waiting for the country music star to make a mistake. My fingers started bleeding, my vision was going dark.

The end was near.

Time slowed. Seconds turned into hours as my enemy mercilessly beat me into submission. My guitar slid from nerveless fingers as I dropped to my knees. My entire life began playing back, the memories, regrets, and dreams all flowing before me in one hopeless instant. This was it. I would die here in Smiths, alone but for the mocking laughter of my nemesis and the cold embrace of Ravioli can aluminum. A cry broke my reveree.

"What are you doing?"

I turned. At the end of the aisle stood a store manger, his hands on his hips and a puzzled look on his fat, beet-red face. Relief flooded into me. I was saved.

Cash stammered a response. "Uh... we were just..."

The manager cut him off. "You ruined that Ravioli display! Get out of the store! Now!" The manager reached for the in-store phone. Cash's look of confusion turned to one of dread.


"Clean up on aisle 12."

The sound of rushing feet filled the store. I rose to my feet with a grunt.

"Give it up, Cash. You're through."

I started forward, reaching to grab his grubby flannel sleeve. Before I could react, a giant halibut slammed into the side of my head, sending me reeling into another carefully constructed can-pyramid. I cursed my stupidity. Johnny Cash had two arms! I stumbled to my feet, struggling to regain my bearings. I saw a flannel red shape loping off to my left. Desperately I heaved a can of olives at it. I cursed my poor aim as the can clunked harmlessly to Cash's left side. He was gone.

The sound of rushing feet suddenly filled my ears. Remembering the impending clean up crew I bolted, drawing a white ball from my guitar case. I slammed it into the linoleum covered floor and yelled, "Ninja vanish!" The ball worked its magic; I found myself once again in the comforting darkness of the Danger Cave.

"I'll get you next time, Cash. Mark my words."

See you later, space cowboy.

Saturday, December 22, 2007

Guitar Sword Room

Recently, there has been a large and rather one-sided debate between Andrea and her friends and myself: the fate of the room which I have come to lovingly refer to as the "Guitar-Sword Room". As I am extremely outspoken on this issue and feel my points and arguments aren't really listened to or fairly considered, I have chosen to blog about it. The only way you can really get your point seen as valid is to put it in written form.

So the deal is this - we are moving into a two-bedroom apartment. The first bedroom I have already conceded to let my fiance and almost wife do absolutely whatever she likes with. In fact, I have already come to terms with the fact that basically the entire apartment will be decorated and furnished the way she likes, with my things being a mere smattering of the overall decor. My one solace has been the fact that there is a second room where I will be able to escape the pink, frilly girl stuff that is sure to become a constant weight and companion.

My intentions with this room, my "Guitar Sword Room", are fairly self explanatory and of course harmless. I have a collection of approximately 8 swords, all of different styles and from varying historic eras, which I would like to hang from the walls. I also have two electric guitars, two amps and an acoustic guitar and the ongoing habit of writing music.

Now to write music really takes a certain environment, and the way your furniture is arranged and what kinds of items are in the room are definite factors in the process. Also, when I am upset or stressed out or sad or whatever, I really like to take an hour or two and just give my frustrations over to the muses. This is all I ask and I don't really feel like it's a lot.

Let me preface my presentation of the resistance by saying that the girl I love with all my heart is NOT totally opposed to this. The conflict, however, lies in the fact that she would also like to put her sewing machine in this, my sacred and hallowed Guitar Sword Room.

She claims it will be easier for her to use if it is out. Why can't we have it in our bedroom? I have, as of yet, not heard a valid response to this question. "I've let you have the rest of the house, isn't that good enough?" Usually some tooth-grindingly sweet reply follows that one. If I let her have this one little thing, will it stop there? Undoubtedly no. The curtains, doilies and deep-blue painted walls are sure to follow. The garage feel as I know it will fade to memory along with my pride.

The worst part about this entire thing is I have already lost the will to carry on with my little underground resistance. What is it about a beautiful woman that inexplicably pacifies my inner freedom fighter and lulls the vicious hunter to sleep? That's love for you, friends. It makes so little sense, yet we need it to realize our full potential.

In the words of King Theoden "What can man do against such reckless hate?" Except it's not really hate... well you know what I mean.