Bye Again

So closes another blogbuster. (I just go by how small the slider gets on the side.) I've got work to do on my tunes anyways. Piling up the arrangements here. One thing at a time. See ya next post. Different blog title. Same blog channel.
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© 2010. Statements by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Medical Alert

Can someone help me? I need to know if I have a guitar cramp. All my guitar friends are too far away right now. Is a guitar cramp when you touch the tip of your thumb against a surface and it feels suddenly as if someone has taken pliers and pulled off your thumb and all the attached ligament and tissue extending up to your spine? Ever so briefly? Is it from not playing the guitar enough? Please. I need someone to tell me. I don't trust this damn internet where they let guys like me answer the question.
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East of Eton

I've lived in the same building now for four years. Seen a lot of tenants come and go. But I have a good location within my building. I have a corner suite. The patio has been unused since my last room mate left, but it's pretty decent. Very private. Why, you could scream your head off out there and no one would even notice. And I'm not joking. Very wide cross section of people here. But we know we're high class by our street names. Like Oxford Street and Wall Street and Eton Street. And we have both the Waldorf and the Astoria hotels in the vicinity. I've been lucky so far with the latest arrivals to my building. On one side the young Chinese couple I heard through my bedroom wall every night for a year and a half mercifully departed. I put up with a lot of crashing and slamming. And laughing and grunting. Then, yes, sometimes, the sound of me flipping and shouting and smashing - but I can do that all by myself! If it really bothered me I might go right to their door and yell something like, 'Hey! Wear some knee pads in there!' But they are gone. The tenant on my other side also changed. But I had no problems on that side. And I continue to live comfortably with the tenant over there (from over here.) And the new one in the bedroom wall is very considerate, I think. And they all have pleasant voices. I have chosen a smaller building to avoid the usual problems with other tenants. Anything under twenty units seems humane to me. Last year we changed to a new floor here. I helped out in my suite. Looks great. My mailbox is broken and I don't care any more. I'm just letting it jam and jam now. And I hope it swells up and starts breaking the other mailboxes. Until they fix my mailbox.
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I Have Feelings!

I might need to be taken seriously at some point because much of what I share is based on real life experiences. Refusing to candy-coat or bullshit can sometimes have the effect of looking wild and imaginary. I once submitted a resume that listed all my real occupations as accurately as I could. Used for comedy material. I shared troubling memories that could be backed up by witnesses. Comedy material. Opinions. Comedy. Observations. Comedy. Walking down the street with a blank expression. Comedy. I don't care if everyone doesn't find it hilarious. (I heard laughter. I'm not crazy. I heard unmistakable mirth.) If it makes you feel good to laugh, then do. I'm not a comedian. I receive no financial compensation for my laugh getting. I only ever started out by trying to be honest. We laugh at the absurd. And life is absurd if you're paying attention. And my stories are largely true, taken from real life. My life. Whatever the case might be, I'm not laughing about it. Not very much anyway. And I tried posting an image of my face so you could all see how emotionally devastated I look now, but I can't upload it here for some reason. It probably wants to wait so it can upload behind my back and make a fool of me. Everyone's against me!
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Par for the Nurse

I'm glad I injured myself. Have some time off. It's a serious injury. My four-foot vertical leap has been reduced by one big toe and a little pinky that went wee-wee all the way home. That's what happens when you hurt your knee bone. Your knee bone's connected to your foot bone. (By way of the leg bone, of course.) Getting hurt goes with the job. I was watching this gawky looking, white guy pulling a humongous fridge up these stairs the other day. He was pulling it up backwards and not looking behind him. Then, when he got to the top, there was another stairwell to his rear, leading downwards. After that I only saw the fridge. I have some fond memories of being off school, in the hospital as a child. That's when I got into reading science fiction - but only the very best. Plus I was an excellent jigsaw puzzle assembler. Seemed to me I was wasting my time in class with all those great hospital activities I could have been doing. And nurses can't give you a detention because you're already spending the night there! I get along well with nurses. If they need me to undress or anything, I know it's for the best. They are truly creatures of compassion and beauty - though the hottest ones seem to be reserved for the patients with the most serious needs. I understand this and I'm all for it. I'm afraid I like the food there, too. I don't know why. The meals of institutions appeal to me. I like the tray and the plastic cup with the handle. Those deserts are tasty. Pies and puddings. But, above all, I like mashed potatoes. And hospitals and other institutions just seem to know how to make their mashed potatoes extra creamy. All this means is that if you see me limping by, wave 'Gidday!'; but if you see me decathaloning my way to the corner store a few minutes later, turn your head and remain silent.
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In the Jeans

My father's a mix of Liverpool English and Polish Polish. The name is said to translate directly into the English word, 'ignite.' (Which I prefer to 'sparkle.' Too Liberace sounding.) My mom's name is interesting, too. It's from Ireland, but Norman. I've been trying to trace where the music came from. And my friend told me I had Cossack blood, too. So I figure the rock sound comes from the Cossacks, as well as the Normans, who were originally French Vikings. My visual art skills are said to have roots in the Polish side of me. I suspect that if they had beagles in Poland, Snoopy would have pranced around with his nose in the air in Polish. Lyrics would be the Irish blood, I'm guessing. Alcohol would be a combination of the Polish and the Irish.
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Seen

I should compensate the local art scene a little for cracking those jokes. We have a very lively art culture in Vancouver, with plenty of venues. Whether attending or performing, you're guaranteed a good time. And top notch service from the friendliest darn staff in the whole wide world. They never threw coffee or beer on me. Ever. And they always have cute smiles.
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