In like a lion, out like a punk-ass bitch

Faithful readers of GITGAW may have noticed the slowdown in activity around these parts. Hey I just follow the economy as far as that goes. It was while I was processing refund requests from subscribers irate over the low post total for March that I began wondering why I’d been so reticent the last few weeks. After all, the unexamined life is not worth living, so the more I gaze at my navel the more fulfilling mine must be. My life I mean, not my navel — that’s actually undergoing an existential crisis of its own, poring over the pages of Sartre’s seminal text Belly and Buttonness.

A thousand pardons. Anyway, I went through a bunch of excuses theories for my diminished output of late. Was I just uninspired? Evidently, but why? Was nothing interesting going on? As interesting as anything else that happens to a guy whose big night out is a trip to the all-night Walgreen’s. Were things just going so well I had nothing to complain about? HA HA HA HA HA HA HA, stop, you’re killing me! That’s somebody else’s job and they still aren’t getting it right.

Only this evening did I figure out the real reason I haven’t written a day’s worth of new posts over the last fortnight. Brace yourself for one of my patented, penetrating observations into the human soul, i.e. me.

I was tired.

I must have been tired, considering the astounding performance I put in today. It started round midnight, when I fell asleep easily despite my recent anxieties about death and taxes. Marrying some Ativan and Ambien will do that for you, with the added bonus fun of periodic sleepwalking, or sleep-jumping-up-and-down-and-giving-the-wife-a-heart-attack as I did around three a.m. Still, got in a solid nine hours before my internal alarm clock (that’d be the anxiety we just mentioned) had me bolt upright at nine. “Sorry I’m late boss I’ll have that earnings report on Sprint ready in an hour!! Where did I leave — oh wait, I’m only dying. Phew!”

So after some lunch I headed off 30 miles east for my 30th guitar lesson with a 30-year-old man. He was teaching me how to fingerpick Eric Clapton (gross) which I probably would have picked up on more quickly if I hadn’t been busy resting my head on the acoustic. The snoring helped to drown out my fumbling on the six string, itself a distraction from my knocking over a couple of the dozen guitars he has in his basement. To make nice I bent down to pick them up and proceeded to flip over a stool and two music stands. He sent me off with a book of sheet music where he had written down the day’s lesson, namely, “Acoustic guitar is not a contact sport.”

At least I think that’s what he wrote — my memory of this six-hour-old event is foggy because I crashed my Jetta on the drive home on the sofa the minute I got back. An hour later I heroically fought the brainy blurriness by ordering a pizza from Minsky’s. Even more heroically, I ate it and then passed out again, making it three hours with Morpheus over the prior seven, or twelve over the course of a busy, exciting, blogworthy day.

Time for bed.

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