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2002-06-28 | 6:33 p.m. This afternoon I dragged my ass to Bhargava's to finally buy new strings for my guitar. There was a guy there, roughly my age, who was looking at guitars to buy for himself. The salesman there showed him a whole variety, picking up and playing the ones that he recommended, i.e the most expensive ones. I couldn't really judge the quality of his playing because he stuck to the standard C,G7,F routine. After choosing a particular guitar (it might have been a Hobner, but I wasn't paying too much attention), the salesman handed the guitar to the boy and said, "Here. You try." He took the guitar, held it as awkwardly as a child holds a beer glass, and "strummed." His hands were positioned in such a way that his middle finger met his thumb in the centre of the first fret. Clang clang clang. "Sounds good to me", he said cheerfully. It was the funniest thing ever. Not because he was so clueless, but because he had absolutely no qualms about being clueless. I love people like that. After buying the strings, I went to Dida's house, and re-stringed and re-tuned the guitar. There's something very attractive about a boy when he's tuning a guitar. The expressions of concentration, of disgust, of success. That makes it sound like I am a boy, but I'm really not. The guitar was really fucking out of tune! It was awful . It's better now, but I don't like the new strings too much. They're more fragile than usual or something. I practiced for a bit, and now my fingers are wonderfully sore. The sad part was that I couldn't sing because my throat is still in a very unhealthy state. I sound like a cross between a pre-pubescent boy and Juliette Lewis. Gah. I contemplated singing along to 'Desire' but I love my family too much to subject them to that kind of torture. Besides, I'm pretty sure it would have incited an emergency evacuation. I miss people right now. I miss the Thames. I miss the smell of stale beer. Hell, I even miss Naguib, and that is what worries me. |
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