Unlike my sisters and friends, I cannot play Guitar Hero sitting or standing still. No. I have to clear a three foot circle around me, because I need some space to walk back and forth in front of the TV. Then I have to stand with my legs about a foot apart — my left leg behind me, the right one in front of me, make sure my knees are nice and loose, lean back so my weight is on my left leg, and then thrust my hips forward with the guitar at my waist. Only then am I ready to rock.

And because that’s not dorky enough, I also have to constantly run my tongue over my top lip. It’s what I do when I am concentrating.

Really, it’s a wonder to behold. Sister #4 announced last night that what I lack in actual skill (Jaycie and Max are about the only people I can beat), I make up for in stage presence.

In my defense, it’s hard. Every time I get up to play, I think of Laurie Lindeen’s Petal Pusher. In the book she talks about Zuzu’s Petals’ first gig and how much it sucked because they had only been standing up, playing, and singing for about a week.

See? It’s just as tough to stand up, lick your lips and press the buttons on a fake plastic guitar.

But I am getting better. My goal is to play Wolfmother’s “Woman” (my song) at 100% by Sister #2’s rockstar party in November (where I will go as Elvis Costello, because allegedly I hold my guitar like he does).

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We had storm sweep through the city last night and apparently on its way out it decided to take my access. Lucky for me the The Vatican is totally connected. Plus it has Guitar Hero (and all my lovely sisters). Allegedly the cocksucking Comcast lying bastards are gonna call me when I can access civilization from Supergenius HQ. Somehow I doubt they will call.

In good news, I found out that even though I didn’t get into The Loft’s Mentor Series, I was named a finalist. Of course this itty bitty bit of writing validation does not make up for the fact that I still DON’T HAVE INTERNET ACCESS.

However, shredding some face melters while rocking some guitar hero Strutter does take some of the pain away.

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It should come as no surprise that my all-time favorite song in the history of songs is “I Will Dare” by The Replacements. I love this song with a passion that borders on creeping me the hell out. I hear that opening jangly guitar bit and my heart immediately starts to smile. Seriously. I can feel the change right in the middle of my chest. It’s exhilarating and wonderful, and it makes me happy that a single song can make me feel physically different. It seems to prove to me that I am alive in a way that I often forget about. Art can do that to you, that’s why it’s so magical.

And even though “Can’t Hardly Wait” by The Replacements is my second-favorite song by them (which is different then my second all-time favorite song in the history of songs), lately “Left of the Dial” has been giving me that heart-happy feeling.

I don’t know why this comes as such a surprise to me, because when it comes to the all-time Replacements’ triumvirate of songs that shake my soul, it’s always I Will Dare, Can’t Hardly Wait, and Left of the Dial.

But for some reason, since I got my guitar, I have clicked into “Left of the Dial” like I never have before. Whenever my hands are aching from trying to strum a stupid chord on Lucinda or from practicing some scales, my mind leaps to the day that I can play “Left of the Dial” and scream out the line “pretty girl keep growing up, playing makeup wearing guitar” and I get goosebumps.

So now “Left of the Dial” is infused with this whole dream-coming true, realizing potential thing. And that just makes me giddy because not only does it remind me of the whole heart-art-moving-happiness, but it also reminds me that at 34 I still have dreams that I can make come true.

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There are events in one’s life that are so horrific that while they are unfolding you can do nothing but watch it happen. It happened so fast, so quickly that I was stuck to my chair unable to stop the carnage. I knew there would be emotional and psychological damage to repair and yet I could do nothing to stop it.

We were just sitting there, chatting. The wine was all gone, the kids were upstairs in the guest room of Supergenius HQ watching a movie, and Wolfdogg could no longer contain himself. I had been watching him give ol’ Lucinda the elevator-eye all night, his hands itchy, and a bit of drool glistening on his lips.

He waited until we were done discussing The Picture of Dorian Gray before he asked.

“Can I play her?”
“She might not want you to play her,” Heather, Wolfdogg’s wife said.
“I don’t mind,” I said, reaching behind my chair to grab my green-hued baby. “Be gentle.”

And he was not gentle, not gentle at all.

I think it was Sister #2 who made the request. I thought she was kidding.
“Play some Barenaked Ladies,” she asked.
“Nooooooo,” I howled. Because if there’s anything you can do in your own home, it’s howl your disapproval at bad bad music.
“I only like one song,” Sister #2 said. “The Apartment.”

I’m sorry, I get a little choked up at his point. I am a bad, bad guitar owner, because I allowed what happened to happen. I sat idly by as that bad, bad man started strumming a Barefuckingnaked Ladies’ song on my nearly virginal LuLa. She didn’t deserve that.

“I hope you know I’m reconsidering our friendship,” I said.
And he just grinned maniacally at me over LuLa’s lovely green humps as Sister #2 laughed at my distress.

Some amends were made, I can’t deny that. There was some lovely ‘Alex Chilton’ played and I sang all the words, oh and “Can’t Hardly Wait” too. Sister #2 was amazed at my willingness to just sing right outloud. Sometimes you can’t control yourself.

However it does not make up for the dirty, bad stuff played on my baby. I have promised to make it up to her. She seemed okay tonight when I practiced my scales, but sometimes it takes years for the effects of this kind of damage to show. Maybe if I can get the delectable Mike Doughty over here to caress her lovely lady lumps things will be alright.

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You know how people always post pictures of their dogs and kids? I’m gonna be like those people and post pictures of my guitar, Lucinda, all the time. It’ll be, “Oh here’s Lucinda in the comfy green chair.” “Here’s Lucinda sitting on my bed.” “Here’s Lucinda and Kathleen Turner Overdrive riding around in Ruby.” I figure if you’re gonna act out your unfulfilled mothering desire by naming the inanimate objects in your life, you might as well just go totally batshit insane, no?

In other news, I am still totally in love with the guitar. I am not, however, totally in love with learning how to play the guitar. It’s not even that I’ve grown bored or frustrated with learning the fundamentals. Generally, that’s what kills most of my new hobbies. I learn just the very littlest bit and then get bored with trying to learn anything beyond that. Which is why I can only crochet stripes. I got bored half-way through Learn to Crochet in 24 Hours, and settled for stripes.

But with Lu, it’s different. I want to learn more than just scales. I want to pay actual songs, and not just “When the Saints Go Marching In.” (See, I took piano lessons when I was a sophomore in college and never made it past When the Saints go Marching In. I was pretty good at it. Just ask Sister #2 or the Stink.)

The problem here is not that my impatience is impeding my progress. It’s that my damn fingers are so soft and tender. After about fifteen minutes of playing, my fingers hurt so bad I want to cry. Allegedly, you will build up some supersexxy fingertip calluses (and if that doesn’t make the boys come a runnin’ ain’t nothin’ gonna) over time. And by time, I guess they mean more than four days.

Tonight I realized that I’d probably get more real practice time in if I didn’t spend at least six of my fifteen pain-free minutes just strumming wildly while singing random songs where I try to work the names Lu, Lucinda, or Jodi into the lyrics.

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