I've done it again. I took one of the perennial little ditties I've kept in my brain and given it the Garage Band treatment. I was, however, inspired on this one by the fact that it actually has a discernible rhythm (which I obscured by attempting to use rhythm instrument voices).
I titled it Spanish Influence because, frankly, the chords remind me of Spanish music. But what the hell do I know?
An accomplished musician will hear the uneven tempo... Well, now that I've mentioned it, even a musical idiot will hear it. Nonetheless, I was quite surprised with the sound, and even moreso surprised when I realized that, yes, I created it.
Please listen, reflect and let me know what you think (notice I didn't write "enjoy?" I didn't want to get your hopes up).
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Damsel
What is it, eons after we emerged from caves and the forests, ages since we shed the suits of armor, that still drives men to come to the aid of damsels in distress? No longer is it snarling, snaggle-toothed beasts or heinous evil-doers posing the threat, yet we men still feel that pulse in our chests when a fair lass in our midst is vexed.
Or do we?
So I was shaving. Pardon the visual; it’s necessary for the purposes of the story. I was standing at the bathroom sink, naked, and shaving. There was a light tap at the door and Mrs. Farrago opened it gently. With great anxiety, she told me of how her morning ritual of preparing our birds’ food had been interrupted by the disturbing sight of a “huge” centipede in the kitchen sink. Naturally, this heaving beast sensed Mrs. Farrago’s desire to see it dead, so it took refuge under a dirty dish of some sort, certainly to formulate a plan to capture her and torture her until she relented to become its wife.
What is it about a man – perhaps not a burly, manly man, but your average regular guy kind of man…say, a man like me, for instance – who would throw himself in front of a moving bus if it would protect his woman from harm, who would wave his juicy, fleshy forearm in the face of a pit bull if it meant his woman’s skin would remain unmarred, who would offer himself up in the illusion of a fight to be pummeled by the burly, manly man who had questioned his woman’s honor, yet who breaks out in a blanching wave of goose-bumps at the mere mention of the word “centipede?”
“Well, maybe turn on the hot water, and then when it’s hot enough fill a cup, and then pour the water on it. That should kill it pretty quickly,” I offered my fair lass.
“But it’s UNDER something…” she countered. “And it’s HUGE,” she reminded me, needlessly.
I could see her distress, the fear in her eyes. But I was shaving. And naked.
There aren’t many things – save for possibly a 100-foot-tall redwood tree, engulfed in flames and falling right in my direction, something like that – which would make me scream like a little girl, but a “huge,” leggy, fast-moving creature from the black depths of the earth making for my toes as if they were in its diet plan is certainly one of them, especially – and I know he couldn’t jump up there without some help – especially if I’m naked!
“Maybe use the sprayer thingie. That’ll get ‘im,” I encouraged her, nakedly, from behind the bathroom door.
“But I…” she halted, an image in her head stopped her from speaking.
I knew the image. In order to accomplish any of my suggestions, she had to reach across the basin, at which point she was certain the creature with the fangs of a wolverine would leap up and climb into an ear and eat her brain from one side to the other. Okay, that was MY image, but I’m sure hers was just as comforting.
“You really want me to do this, don’t you?” I asked her, the humoring smile on my face as fake and forced as fake and forced can be.
My fair lady closed her eyes and pursed her lips, and she turned away from me, her hero no more, as she steeled herself and walked to the kitchen to face the battle that lay before her.
I closed the door and continued shaving.
A few moments later there was another tap at the door, and when I opened it she presented me with her kill, squished and wadded up in a thick – THICK – tuft of paper towels, a look of self-pride…or was that a look of disdain aimed at me?
Whatever. She killed it, I didn’t scream like a little girl, and I finished shaving relatively undisturbed.
Or do we?
So I was shaving. Pardon the visual; it’s necessary for the purposes of the story. I was standing at the bathroom sink, naked, and shaving. There was a light tap at the door and Mrs. Farrago opened it gently. With great anxiety, she told me of how her morning ritual of preparing our birds’ food had been interrupted by the disturbing sight of a “huge” centipede in the kitchen sink. Naturally, this heaving beast sensed Mrs. Farrago’s desire to see it dead, so it took refuge under a dirty dish of some sort, certainly to formulate a plan to capture her and torture her until she relented to become its wife.
What is it about a man – perhaps not a burly, manly man, but your average regular guy kind of man…say, a man like me, for instance – who would throw himself in front of a moving bus if it would protect his woman from harm, who would wave his juicy, fleshy forearm in the face of a pit bull if it meant his woman’s skin would remain unmarred, who would offer himself up in the illusion of a fight to be pummeled by the burly, manly man who had questioned his woman’s honor, yet who breaks out in a blanching wave of goose-bumps at the mere mention of the word “centipede?”
“Well, maybe turn on the hot water, and then when it’s hot enough fill a cup, and then pour the water on it. That should kill it pretty quickly,” I offered my fair lass.
“But it’s UNDER something…” she countered. “And it’s HUGE,” she reminded me, needlessly.
I could see her distress, the fear in her eyes. But I was shaving. And naked.
There aren’t many things – save for possibly a 100-foot-tall redwood tree, engulfed in flames and falling right in my direction, something like that – which would make me scream like a little girl, but a “huge,” leggy, fast-moving creature from the black depths of the earth making for my toes as if they were in its diet plan is certainly one of them, especially – and I know he couldn’t jump up there without some help – especially if I’m naked!
“Maybe use the sprayer thingie. That’ll get ‘im,” I encouraged her, nakedly, from behind the bathroom door.
“But I…” she halted, an image in her head stopped her from speaking.
I knew the image. In order to accomplish any of my suggestions, she had to reach across the basin, at which point she was certain the creature with the fangs of a wolverine would leap up and climb into an ear and eat her brain from one side to the other. Okay, that was MY image, but I’m sure hers was just as comforting.
“You really want me to do this, don’t you?” I asked her, the humoring smile on my face as fake and forced as fake and forced can be.
My fair lady closed her eyes and pursed her lips, and she turned away from me, her hero no more, as she steeled herself and walked to the kitchen to face the battle that lay before her.
I closed the door and continued shaving.
A few moments later there was another tap at the door, and when I opened it she presented me with her kill, squished and wadded up in a thick – THICK – tuft of paper towels, a look of self-pride…or was that a look of disdain aimed at me?
Whatever. She killed it, I didn’t scream like a little girl, and I finished shaving relatively undisturbed.
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