Sunday, August 31, 2003

Last night, I banged on my guitar for hours, exploring the myriad shapes and tones that can originate from a piece of wood with magnetic coils in its center. Playing guitar can be dangerous to my health, not only because of its ability to make a Milwaukee's Best or Alexander Keith's appear in my hand. I've been electrocuted several times in the past couple of weeks, including one jarring shock that occurred when I tried to wet my hair while having the guitar slung over my shoulder. One hand was touching the strings when the other turned the tap and **********zap*********** I was leaping backwards and screaming. 110 Volts is apparently not very much of a charge. I have a friend who's done some work in electrical systems and he claims to be able to stand 220/230 Volts without dropping his coffee.

Our tap never ceases to drip. It is like Chinese Water Torture, listening to it plop plop plop in our bathroom. I close the door but then you feel like you can still hear it, only quieter.

Why is this so? Our apartment is not at the top of the list of priorities, for our Bourgeois Landlord. He wears a top hat and those long coats, just like the dude from Parker Brothers. (What's his name? Bill Gates?) Seriously, we live in a Triplex and our landlord is a Great Man, one far too preoccupied with making his living to bother to take an interest in our lodgings. Our screen door is hanging like a scab on the back of the house, the tap drips, we pay electricity bills in excess of $200 CAD per month because there's no insulation (We'd be better in a snowbank, if you ask me). Etc.

To be fair, we're often late with the rent, so why should he really give a shit? We don't follow our social pact with him, so why should he return the favour? (Jeremy, you're not helping your case).

Now, I'm off to the tam-tams. Like Toucan Sam would say, "Follow your nose to the dope you fiend!".