I finally brought my guitars home today. That was certainly an unnecessary ordeal. What many messages, face-to-face talks, unanswered calls, and unanswered knocks on the door didn't accomplish, two police officers did. I have no idea why shit got that crazy, and I'm not even going to guess. My imagination is only so good, and my time is precious. Too much of both has already been wasted on the situation.
I have learned a couple of lessons though. One is a repeat that's hard to put into action: If a woman starts dating a male friend, and she tries to get close to his friends and immediately make them her friends, maintain distance until her motives have been determined. I've learned this one the hard way and more than once. The other part of the lesson is that you'll probably lose the male friend anyway if he stays with her, because .... well, because. Who gives a shit? It's a thing that happens. As my daughter Elvira tells me, friendships are fluid. She's such a Buddha.
Second ... duh. Don't loan guitars to said girlfriends to use as props for sexy photos. Even I'm rolling my eyes at myself over that bit of stupidity. I'm not going to say I'll never loan a guitar. I've got one out on loan now, and I won't be worried if I don't have it back 2 years from now. But never again for a frivolous reason.
I'm sure more unpleasantness will surface from this stupid bit of assholery, but for tonight I can only report that Free to a Good Home finally, finally, got to have a band practice. As we were playing through a new song we're learning, I realized a sense of euphoria that only comes from playing music with close friends. The kind of friends you'd ask to witness your will or share an orgasm on stage.
At one point Chicken Grrrl said she had decided she would sing the part of the song that sounds like an orgasm ... ah ... ah ... ah. And I said I'd sing the harmony, and we could have a double orgasm on stage in harmony.
We looked over at Joe, who was standing there with a blank expression on his face, just holding his bass. I said, "Joe, we're talking about having orgasms."
He said, "I wasn't really paying attention. I was thinking ...."
I said, "That's how I know you're like a brother to me. You don't even listen when the two of us are talking about having orgasms together right in front of you."
He said, "Oh, I know what you were talking about, but I was thinking about two other women while you were talking."
Flattering. Like a brother. Then he told us every man fantasizes about making two women come at the same time, and Chicken Grrrl that would never happen except maybe in porn.
I said, "Even so, you'd have to have a plan .... Ready ... set .... come!"
Get it? Come instead of go. Maybe you had to be there.
Anyway, I hope I don't have to call the police again for a long time. I've needed them for four situations in the past month. The first was somebody breaking into the house next door to steal the copper pipes. The pedophile who lived there is in prison, and it's in foreclosure. Those of us who live nearby are not going to let thieves do any more damage than was already done by the former owner.
The second time was when a dog attacked Drake's dog Duke while we were on a walk.
The third times were while I was trying to get my guitars back after they were held hostage for over three months.
And the fourth time was this afternoon when I got home from picking up my guitars. Somebody kicked in my back gate last night and broke the lock. For now, it's booby-trapped, and my friend A Man Called Horse is coming over to fix it tomorrow. It will be better than ever when he's done.
And so two more lessons came to me today. First, no matter how much bad press they get, the police can be effective guys to have on your side. The two who wasted the taxpayers' money helping me this past week were courteous and efficient. It's kind of embarrassing that I had to bother them with something so stupid and avoidable, but neither of them treated me like that.
Second, hold your good friends close and kick your enemies to the curb. It's easy to become cynical about people, and I'm guilty of that, but focusing on the friends who love me feels a lot better than obsessing about the idiots who prefer to wallow in their own drama. Running around the barnyard pecking and squawking is for the chickens, and we all know how smart those birds are.
In this year of unpacking, I'm grateful this is one nasty experience I can unpack and put behind me. Moving on ..... I think it's about time to write about some vaginas.