Nice Way to End a Shit Week
Why is it that companies often hire people who are staggeringly incompetent (but aggressively arrogant at the same time)?
After a week of dealing with people like that (okay, just one person, but she's so heinous it feels like there are 4 of her), I need something relaxing... like this:
And here's the original:
Showing posts with label Ben Folds. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ben Folds. Show all posts
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Producers with Computers Fix All My Shitty Tracks
Eleanor had a weakness.
She loved guitar players.
It didn't matter what type of guitar or what style -- electric, acoustic, classical, jazz, fuzzed-out garage. She loved them all.
"Some girls like flowers and moonlit nights," she told me once. "All I need is the sound of strings being tuned."
And for years, she'd date guitarist after guitarist. Punk rockers, power poppers, jazzbos. Each and every one would break her heart.
And then one day, she met a guy who played piano. Poorly.
She said he made her laugh. Made her feel like she was the only woman in the world. And he'd tell her stories about far-away places. "This is progress," she told all her friends.
And we agreed -- it was progress.
I wish I could tell you that Eleanor stayed with the untalented piano player. But she didn't.
One night she dragged him with her to an Eric Clapton concert. He couldn't help but notice that Eleanor was transfixed by the solos.
She sighed as fingers moved up and down the fretboard. She moaned as whammy bars made the axe scream. And she screamed as notes came hot and heavy like they were being spit out of a Tommy Gun in a 1930s gangster movie.
It was like the guitar was calling out to her and her alone.
She and the bad piano player broke up a week later.
Eleanor flew to Chicago to see Clapton again. And then drove to Milwaukee.
And Eleanor wound up marrying a guy from the band that opened for Clapton.
Nope, not the lead guitarist. The piano player.
She didn't bother to tell us it was progress. But somehow we all knew.
PS: On the other hand, who knew that the producer with the power to turn down the "Suck" sliders and turn up the "Rock" sliders would turn out to be... Weird Al?
She loved guitar players.
It didn't matter what type of guitar or what style -- electric, acoustic, classical, jazz, fuzzed-out garage. She loved them all.
"Some girls like flowers and moonlit nights," she told me once. "All I need is the sound of strings being tuned."
And for years, she'd date guitarist after guitarist. Punk rockers, power poppers, jazzbos. Each and every one would break her heart.
And then one day, she met a guy who played piano. Poorly.
She said he made her laugh. Made her feel like she was the only woman in the world. And he'd tell her stories about far-away places. "This is progress," she told all her friends.
And we agreed -- it was progress.
I wish I could tell you that Eleanor stayed with the untalented piano player. But she didn't.
One night she dragged him with her to an Eric Clapton concert. He couldn't help but notice that Eleanor was transfixed by the solos.
She sighed as fingers moved up and down the fretboard. She moaned as whammy bars made the axe scream. And she screamed as notes came hot and heavy like they were being spit out of a Tommy Gun in a 1930s gangster movie.
It was like the guitar was calling out to her and her alone.
She and the bad piano player broke up a week later.
Eleanor flew to Chicago to see Clapton again. And then drove to Milwaukee.
And Eleanor wound up marrying a guy from the band that opened for Clapton.
Nope, not the lead guitarist. The piano player.
She didn't bother to tell us it was progress. But somehow we all knew.
PS: On the other hand, who knew that the producer with the power to turn down the "Suck" sliders and turn up the "Rock" sliders would turn out to be... Weird Al?
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