From a 7-year-old’s perspective

While singing along to the car radio this morning…

She: Wow, Mom how do you know the words to all these songs?

Me:  Well, I grew up with this music from the 70s and 80s.

She: Oh yeah.  So the people singing are all dead now, right?

Me:  Yup, deader ‘n doornails, those ancient old farts.

The (dreaded) Guitar Lesson

The guitar lesson loomed but I wanted to eat chocolate cake

vacuum the cat hair off the green velvet sofa

find the perfect rhyme for “was”

organize my socks

and sleep

 —  anything but The Guitar Lesson.

Somehow I slumped my guitar and my body into the car

and something sucked me towards my guitar teacher’s house

    guitar teacher’s house

                 guitar teacher’s house.

I passed parks

passed signs hungry for dollars and votes

passed obscenely green palms

and merry fountains who didn’t have guitar lessons

                                                        they hadn’t practised for.

Passed a boy on a bicycle picking his nose

a homeless man wearing nothing but a skirt

restaurants and dens of probable ill repute.

I waited at ten red lights with my shoulders hunched,

bottom lip out like a kid who can’t have candy until after dinner.

At the final red light my migraine lifted a bit

and I thought of Noam Chomsy, 

then of Charles Bukowski

then of Jim Ignatowsky.

Soon I was outside my guitar teacher’s house

ten minutes early but still not too late to flee.

I grew more anxious,

told myself I’d lived through worse

hummed a new song, (one I might put bagpipes on)

turned off the motor

put the keys in my purse

went around to the other side

                                     got my guitar

— had a sudden urge to punch it in the face

locked the car

turned in slo-mo to my teacher’s door

rang the bell and readied a smile

To Jim of the Church of New Hope

Dear Jim, 

In regards to your kind inquiry about you and I possibly trading blog links via SiteSell Exchange, please take into consideration that I’ve an Mp3 on this site of a song I wrote about having a wedgie on my wedding day.  (Yes, a wedgie — as in my underwear firmly lodged up my buttock cheeks.  At my wedding.  In church, with God and angels watching and no man putting asunder & such.)

Although I tried to write said song in as good of taste as possible under such wedgieful circumstances, I fear in light of this divulgence you may not deem my blog unworthy of such a link exchange, which I am fully prepared for, as I understand you to be a Man of God by your e-mail header.

Also, I am known to use the phrase “kicking ass” or “ass kicking” on my blog with some regularity.   And do write the “f” word once in a blue blue moon.

If all this doesn’t bother you and you wish to proceed, please let me know.

Thanking you, I remain  your humble wedgied servant,

Jannie Funster

Now, to sleep 14 hours

Made it!  Safely back from the woods to the warm and welcoming bosom of the world wide web.  

Really, really tired from camping.  But here’s a pic to tide you over until my next riveting post, which may include allusions to nervous goats and what they really do when sheep are out at sea.

Oh, and I think the guy with the chainsaw will be named Helmut! (Hell-moot, oh Hell-moot, love’s not the point…)

(Yes, face-painting very popular in the deep wilderness too.)

How will I ever survive??

Soon I’ll be away from this computer for over 48 hours and I’m already starting to freak out at the terror of it all.   No Internet for two days!  Help.

Going camping…

Any new commenters will have to wait until I get back Sunday at 3:18:29 p.m. Central Time, to have their cherished words go live.

Here are a couple pix from last year’s trip.

See you Sunday!