Mother of Pearl

The light was still on, and my arm was numb. The throw pillow was wet. I must have been drooling. I was still wearing my glasses, or more precisely, my glasses were still stuck to my head. Lord knows what time it was. I thought about going to bed, but I was too tired. So, I lay there, on the marshmallow couch, using what resources I had left in my mostly-powered-down brain to calculate the cost/benefit analysis of just sleeping there for the rest of the night. As I tried to quantify the value of the imminently stiff neck, I noticed a sound coming from the bluish aurora in the corner of the room.

The sound was like a symphony of mariachi angels. My glasses, they were still stuck to my forehead. I pulled them slowly into place, and just as slowly, the television came into focus. It was then that I saw HIM for the first time. It was the man in the black poofy shirt. He wore a broad-brimmed black gaucho and black broad-framed shades. He played guitar, like a blind musical Zoro. Ole! It was ESTEBAN!!

He plucked and strummed his instrument with such pure puissance that at times his hand movements didn’t even appear to be in sync with the rhythm of the music… Such talent! My cognitive center was not quite up to fully processing words, but there was something mentioned about overcoming a tragedy and training with Segovia.

Not only was this Esteban a Maestro, but he was also some sort of Humanitarian. He wanted to share his gift of music with the world, and was losing money in the process. He had hand made-guitars (American Legacy!) with powerful amps and instructional videos! These magical packages each had a fair market value of over $800, but Esteban, god be praised, was GIVING THEM AWAY for three easy payments of $66.99.

Now, I know his product is crap, and I have no desire or inclination to learn how to play guitar (or any other instrument for that matter.) However, due to some witchcraft, or subliminal post-production mind tweaking, I can’t get the son-of-a-bitch out of my head. I will be driving down the road, minding my own business, chatting with the howler monkey (who now says “daddy”) when thoughts will start to drift into the fringes of my consciousness.
“Might be nice to play guitar…”
“Only three easy payments…”
“Easy to follow instructional video…”
“Lustrous shine with real mother of Pearl detail…”

“AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!” I nearly hit a semi truck.

I had no time to play disc golf this summer, so I don’t need yet another hobby. And, as I’ve mentioned before, these bratwurst finger weren’t made for fine work. So, no guitar for daddy, mother of pearl notwithstanding. Although, come to think of it, I may look good in a Gaucho…