after all this fucking time thinking about it

I finally figured out how to carry all my instruments at once (what even the slide whistle?) yes! even Little Cosh, the Slide Whistle. (What even the tambourine? Yes, even the unnamed tambourine, which I intend to arsonize in a parking lot as the coda to Dave’s reading at his book launch. Yes, even though he is instantly appalled at the prospect, I intend to set that evil-sounding fucker on fire in a parking lot immediately after his reading, which will be sometime in November, or maybe some other time, planning sucks. (What even the spoons?) The spoons known as spoons, the ones Cindy gave me, are coming too. (What even the ukelele?) Yes, Queen Lili’uokalani was also called Lydia. I have finally named my ukelele, so I can say Lydia, formally known as Queen Lydia, the ukelele will ride along, and I will think of Mike who gave her to me as I play her. (What even Smokey?) Yes, Smokey the six-stringed electric-acoustic cutaway with a built-in tuna will be, er, crucified to it, or at least his case will be. The guitar case has plenty of attachment points, and bungees’ll fix ever’thin else. (And the mallets?) Why, yes. (What even Rowena, the howling twangy-boxed mountain dulcimer of threat, sacrifice and curse?) Yes, even that loud and demanding Melusine of magic and mayhem will be along for the ride.  (Even Ovie the Shaker Egg?) Yes, even him, if he hasn’t rolled under furniture agin. (Even a rainbow of kazoos?) Indeed. (Even Otto the octave mandolin?) Especially Otto. Despite everything he remains my favourite.

It’s a golf club cart!

If only I could look under my own dash and see what the hell was happening. If only I had a manual and could tweak my own hypocrisy, here limned by a total stranger, into non-existence. But as long as I live with humans I’ll be a hypocrite. The problem seems insoluble to me.