I sat down to write the opening rant to my article and this little story tumbled out. I used it instead. I think it's called:
the Curmudgeon: Part 1
The Curmudgeon returns to his porch; hes crusty, full of bile and mustard packets. He wears a scowl that insists that the world crawl off and die. Hes so old, hes not even retro. He buys 30+ year old technology because its cheap, not for its cool-factor, Whatever that is, he mutters irritably; he is pure sloth and malice.
Young, smiling faces make him mean. He scoffs at Health, which left him alone so many years ago. He plays a busted Harmony guitar that has drywall screws holding the neck together. He has to use a pair of vice grips to tune the strings - and to hold down the bridge. He sings his songs of malaise into an ancient Tascam reel to reel and a queer old microphone. The take-up reel has a bit of a swagger and renders the timing and pitch at piquant angles.
In disgust one day - with the process; with himself - he tossed the whole lot into the trash behind his garage. Two delinquent boys found it the next day while they were rummaging about, as bored young boys will do on long, hot summer days. They lugged all of it home, not quite sure what they had, but certain it was a treasure.
With help they figured out how to set-up the recorder, glued down the bridge and found a tuner in the Garageband program on their MacBook. The tapes, with their lopsided lisps, fascinated the boys, who listened to the old mans rambling vitriol with growing curiosity and impish designs.
They grabbed a digital camera and stalked him, staging fake deliveries just to get him to the door for a photo. They took the photos and stylized them so they were unrecognizable. They digitized some of the songs and created a MySpace page, calling him Arnold Pain, and befriended every floozy and wingnut they could find. They never re-visited the page. They were high.
The Old Farts songs became a lo-fi sensation. There were thousands of people listening to them every day, some in horror, some with sheer delight. Friend requests multiplied, record companies sent emails. Sullen songsters quoted him and played his songs. He became a cult phenomenon.
One night the boys liberated a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 and set out to destroy the evidence, among other things. They dragged the recording gear to the top of the garage. The first boy heaved the recorder into the air. The other boy waited, cocked back his arms and swung the guitar with precision, meeting the tape-machine exactly 3 feet from the ground, splintering the guitar into so many toothpicks, knobs and wires. Later: mailbox tag took on a new dimension with the aid of the microphone and its XLR cable. The first boys broken arm is healing well, though his pitching days are over.
The Curmudgeon didnt bother to fix his mailbox. Nothing but bills and junk mail, was his acrimonious mutterance. The mail eventually stopped. When the royalty checks eventually came, they were all sent to the Dead Letter Office.
the Curmudgeon: Part 1
The Curmudgeon returns to his porch; hes crusty, full of bile and mustard packets. He wears a scowl that insists that the world crawl off and die. Hes so old, hes not even retro. He buys 30+ year old technology because its cheap, not for its cool-factor, Whatever that is, he mutters irritably; he is pure sloth and malice.
Young, smiling faces make him mean. He scoffs at Health, which left him alone so many years ago. He plays a busted Harmony guitar that has drywall screws holding the neck together. He has to use a pair of vice grips to tune the strings - and to hold down the bridge. He sings his songs of malaise into an ancient Tascam reel to reel and a queer old microphone. The take-up reel has a bit of a swagger and renders the timing and pitch at piquant angles.
In disgust one day - with the process; with himself - he tossed the whole lot into the trash behind his garage. Two delinquent boys found it the next day while they were rummaging about, as bored young boys will do on long, hot summer days. They lugged all of it home, not quite sure what they had, but certain it was a treasure.
With help they figured out how to set-up the recorder, glued down the bridge and found a tuner in the Garageband program on their MacBook. The tapes, with their lopsided lisps, fascinated the boys, who listened to the old mans rambling vitriol with growing curiosity and impish designs.
They grabbed a digital camera and stalked him, staging fake deliveries just to get him to the door for a photo. They took the photos and stylized them so they were unrecognizable. They digitized some of the songs and created a MySpace page, calling him Arnold Pain, and befriended every floozy and wingnut they could find. They never re-visited the page. They were high.
The Old Farts songs became a lo-fi sensation. There were thousands of people listening to them every day, some in horror, some with sheer delight. Friend requests multiplied, record companies sent emails. Sullen songsters quoted him and played his songs. He became a cult phenomenon.
One night the boys liberated a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 and set out to destroy the evidence, among other things. They dragged the recording gear to the top of the garage. The first boy heaved the recorder into the air. The other boy waited, cocked back his arms and swung the guitar with precision, meeting the tape-machine exactly 3 feet from the ground, splintering the guitar into so many toothpicks, knobs and wires. Later: mailbox tag took on a new dimension with the aid of the microphone and its XLR cable. The first boys broken arm is healing well, though his pitching days are over.
The Curmudgeon didnt bother to fix his mailbox. Nothing but bills and junk mail, was his acrimonious mutterance. The mail eventually stopped. When the royalty checks eventually came, they were all sent to the Dead Letter Office.
Love
Zuraih xoxo