Mysterious Barricades

So long, 2011, and good riddance. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you go. I don’t much care about welcoming in the new year so much as I just can’t contain my excitement at saying goodbye to you forever. I can’t remember a year when I’ve ever felt more dejected, ostracized, lonely, led-on, angry, exploited, inadequate, worried, or just plain crappy. I’m choosing to blame you, partly to send a message to those that might really be to blame, but mostly because you’re about to die and you can’t do anything about it. You never were easy to write. I had to write a check with your name on it recently, and even in your twelfth month it was awkward to write. Took me a whole ten seconds. You were a year of big expenses and small paychecks, big effort and little to no return. I’ve got one thing to tell you that rhymes with vacuum. 

I guess I should thank you for one thing: my new guitar. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever played a more perfect instrument. It’s loud and clear and round and sweet. But you know me, I’m going to complain anyway. You see, even though it’s a guitar, and I know that, it’s still a bit too much like a girl. I’ll ignore the obvious jokes that comedians before me have already had their fun with. I’m no mere comedian, I’m a satirist. A subtle one mind you, but satire of the most transcendent order. (If you don’t understand my satire, then you are obviously not an intelligent person. That was satire.) “How could a guitar be womanly?” I hear you ask. Hunker down.

For one thing, it seems neither one comes without strings attached. Clever, I know. Both are a terrible burden as well. Can’t leave the guitar in the car because it could get stolen while I’m away, or it could get too hot in the car and the glue will melt and the wood will warp, or it could get too cold in the car and the wood will crack. Both require what seems like too much attention. If you don’t play a guitar for long enough, it will actually be ruined. Don’t read too far into that one. Freud might have something to say about that. And who could forget, neither one of them could give a damn about me. That guitar would be just as happy whether I play a good gig or not. It doesn’t care what my Friday nights are like. It doesn’t care about my insecurities. It thinks I’m ugly all the time, even when I’m wearing my brand new sweater. I’ll keep buying it stuff so that it’s maintained and clean and intonated, but I’ll never get a Christmas present from that guitar. You know the worst part? I can practice and practice and practice with that thing all day long, but it won’t work any harder at all to help me sound my best. It won’t stretch a bit to help me. It doesn’t matter if all it has to do is move that one fret one half centimeter closer to my third finger for that weird stretch JUST ONCE so that I can hit that all important climactic chord, it’ll leave me stranded every single time. Then it will leave me for someone who practices (not a euphemism or entendre) a whole lot less than I do. Clear?

And to the new year: “The future’s all yours, you lousy bicycles.”