Herein lies the very depths of my worldly pain.

I pour it out upon the page for you, the reader, to digest.

 

I hope you’re hungry. . .

Everyone gets 2 knives and you’re envited to eat with your hands.

Todays Special:

It has a briny crust of bitter truths and sharp shards of introspection,

but tear into the flesh of it, you’ll find that my gooey middle is delicious.

It may entertain you (although that’s not my goal) & it could offend you

(I don’t really care).

Throughout I will endeavor to be faithful in context and educating in prose.

Special attention should be paid to:

• Sarcasm
• Cynicism
• Allegory
• Rebus
• Thanatos

 

Along with other literary devices I will illuminate the scene 4U.

Examples will be plentiful but that is why we’re here.

My quill is at the ready. Let us begin……

Bitterness is an emotion of anger felt as a result of a real or imagined wrong done.

Etymologically from "ressentir", French re-, intensive prefix, and sentir "to feel";

from the latin "sentire". The English word has become synonymous with anger and resentment.

It can be an emotionally disturbing experience that is being felt again or relived in the mind.

When the person feeling resentment is directing the emotion at himself it appears as remorse.

 

(See Kierkegaard and Nietzsche; also 12-step discussion of Resentment)

See also

Anger Pain Punishment Remorse Resentment Revenge

 

• Bitterness is a warm coat.
• Remorse is a hole in your warm coat.
• Resentment is leaving your coat at home because you believed what you were told,
• “It’s beautiful out you don’t need your coat”
• Revenge is pushing that person in the lake and taking their coat.

 

 

OK, everyone has their coats on – lets move along to the next display.

These are the primary characters,

if you recognize yourself and don't like how you're portrayed -

STOP BEING SUCH A DOUCHE!

 

Larry – A metro sexual with a penchant for small shirts and the color black –

he represents ruthlessness, volatility and helps to bring out the most destructive me.

 

 

Graham – A coffee addict and a general sweet dude. He hides his bitter side much better than I.

 

 

Chuck - A good natured musician who just likes to take a beating. The modern masochist.

 

 

Bryan – A session player that knows money makes the world go round, an even bigger whore than I.

He is extremely neurotic. We have some great fun at his expense.

 

 

Bob Sr. – The smokestack captain of our crew. We’ll shorten his name to BS, the reason is obvious.

 

 

Bob Jr. – The underling of BS both figuratively and genetically. Henceforth known as BJ.

 

 

Jack – Our guitar tech. The eldest member of our motley crew and will likely enjoy more

birthdays than any of us, he deserves it too. I picked his pseudonym special,

he’s got as much reason to be bitter as anyone and allows the debris to fall off his back.

 

 

& then there’s me . . .

 

I’m Curt – A 30 something retail whore. Bitter to the core.

I’ve prepared for war & I intend to settle the score.

I’m well versed in lore, a wild boar with a tendency to roar.

Are you ready for more gore?

Behold! What’s beyond the trapdoor? . . . .

why it’s the sales floor of a busy retail music store.

Welcome to the ground floor.

The first hurdle I face is where to begin. I must find a way to balance both the classic tales of skull duggery with the never ending barrage of new What the Fuckisms.

OK, how about a note on color choices?

Electric guitars often come in a few different colors. . .actually many more as of just a few years ago. Why? To offer more options to the consumer? NOPE.
To aid in the visual identification of models available? WRONG. They call it Auto-Order or perpetual inventory.
In short, let's say the store decides to carry a single model of shit indonesian guitar. (NOT a comment on indonesians in general, but your guitars really suck)
Well, a perpetual inventory system will automatically order one of each color to provide a selection - not bad so far, the three options are red white and black.
Unfortunately somewhere along the way the Shit indonesian manufacturer (under contract with a US or Japanese Corporation) realize that lots of places use a similar inventory system.
In a stroke of marketing genius they see that it doesn't matter how many guitars the retailler sells . . . just how many the retailler buys "automatically"
So . . . . every new model becomes an automatic sale - add a color send one to every retailler, Maple fingerboard instead of rosewood - send one (in each color) to the retailler.
3 guitars that suck just became 8. It gets worse limited: editions, pickup options, gloss vs satin finishes, it's all a scam!
Get this - at the end of the model year they discontinue several colors and add at least as many new ones.
They just keep sending those shit indonesian guitars.

Any idea what happens to the puke yellow thing you sent me last year with the 3 humbuckers and the floyde bridge?

ITS STILL ON THE FUCKIN WALL! Surprise!

It goes down 2 ways - either A) The customer wants a discount on the instock model because it's a discontinued model
or B)The customer wants a color that is discontinued and not available. This is the beginning of a huge saga of calling around to find a store in the chain that still has one in stock.

Finally the guitar will arrive - "this is brand new right?", "I don't know about this color", "do you think you could find me another one?
"Bring it in and I'll choose between them."

I typically wash my proverbial hands at this point. Even if I see 3 more in the local area my answer is No.
" Yeah, but I when I told you to bring in an orange-red guitar, I was hoping it would be more red and less orange."

and my internal response is

"when I took this job it was to work with artists not chodes",

Did Shakespear whine about the color of his quill?
Something even the average redneck knuckledragger can comprehend -

Jeff Gordon doesn't care what color his car is - as long as the stearing works.

You don't hear what color the guitar is on the album (and you can change the cover in photoshop)
Just buy the damn guitar and get your ass into the woodshed. While you're in there be sure to play with the band saw.
There you go! Is that the color red you were hoping for? Looks great! sounds even better!

Wow! It felt great to get a few drops of the venom out.
Sadly, I didn't even get to tell you about the Blind guy we call "Mr. Peepers".
Don't worry I'm not going anywhere and he's not getting off the hook that easy.

Saturday is Hell in the retail world.

It's the day when all the tirekickers plan to meet up with their kinship to try out the electronic drums.

A note about drummers: TEMPO is kinda important!

How do you know when the drummers at the door? The knocking keeps speeding up and slowing down.

And since I mentioned the door. It is the big rectangular glass thing with the store hours taped to it.

Apparently a hard concept to grasp - often I am accosted on my way to the door, people wait like birds of prey

biding their time . . . waiting to pick out my blood shot eyes...

" I know you guys don't open for another 20 minutes but can I just grab a pair of sticks?"

Here's how this goes - he comes in and grabs his sticks then prodeeds to wander throughout the store.

I only turn the lights over the drum stick display to help him focus on his Raison D'etre.

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The New Dictionary of Cultural Literacy, Third Edition. 2002.
raison d’être
(ray-zohnn DET-ruh) A basic, essential purpose; a reason to exist:
“Professor Nay argues that in the nuclear age, infantry forces have lost their raison d’être.”
From French, meaning “reason for being.”

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Unfortunately the man-child has developed great night vision and scurries into the nether-regions of the percussion dept.

I collect BAMBAM and escort him to the till.
(which of couse is not open - CAUSE THE STORE IS CLOSED!),

after booting up the ancient POS (pun very much intended)
I manage to get him moving toward the door.

As you may have guessed - by now it is 10 minutes to show time and 3 more simpletons are peering in past the huge sign that says what time we open.

Look at the sign - cup hands and peer inside - see movement inside - pull ferociously on locked door. knock. wave. repeat!

If only I had a bucket of tar and feathers perched above the door. Better yet, a crucible of molten lead. Back to reality . . . .

I put my key in the door . . . Thunk! Thunk! The dollard outside pulls locked door. I make uncomfortable eye contact through the door.

History of the term Dollard


I give the key a half turn . . . Thunk! Thunk! AGAIN! "Well. . ." I turn to Ringo and say "Looks like someone else can't read."

"um . ., yeah . ." he responds sheepishly.

I reach for my key a third time and stare down the uber-tool through the glass.

The door opens and I'm greeted with 3 more cases of garlic morning breath.

It's pointless to try to explain anything to them, obviously, they cant even read the sign.

I shrug it off and turn on all the lights . . . " I guess we're open".

There is only one thing to do - adjust to clock to compensate.

My day has just begun & I can't help but think about the happy mask. . .

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In the back room, just above a silk-screened mirror painted with Jim Morrisons face

is taped an old plasic bag. On one side it bears the logo if its originating establishment

and on the other is a crudely drawn happy face. Its purpose is two fold -

put it on your own head and nobody can tell you're not happy, the world will slowly fade away.

or put it on someone else and you just can't help but smile when you see it smiling back,
puckering ever slower as time passes.

Below is an artists rendition of the happy mask. Enjoy

Can't you read the Fucking Sign!

Come back tommorow.

Damn . . . . 

Respect the Day of Rest - I need it if I'm gonna be fake nice next week.