Christine’s in town this weekend, so I’ve been solo with Wes most of the day. Which means I’ve been free to suck my teeth and clear my throat with impunity. It also means I can play my guitar as much as I want, since Wes and Franny don’t speak English well enough to tell me I suck.
When people ask me to describe how good of a guitar player I am, I tell them I sound like I’m awesome for 7 minutes. At first, I rule. Then I run out of material. So I’m trying to expand my repertoire.
Ideally, I’d like to play Wes songs to sleep, instead of reading him stories. In part to satisfy the rockstar oblongata in every dude’s brain. In part so I don’t have to read the same story over and over again. But mainly to brainwash my son into liking my music.
So I spent most of the day crooning my way through a bunch of Stones songs that I can hack out on the guitar. Midway through my 14th rendition of Loving Cup, Franny looked up at me sharply, jumped off the couch, and trotted over to the farthest point across the room from me.
Which is the universal language for you suck.
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