The other day I said that I felt like I was doing something wrong at the most basic level.

Well, today I decided that I was correct. There are were two things that I was doing which were just incredibly wrong. I am now trying to correct those things, but only time will tell if I'm successful.

First, my left hand should never ever ever ever be used to support the guitar. My left hand's sole purpose is to form chords. If I feel the need to support the end of the guitar with my left hand, then I'm doing something wrong. I'm out of balance somewhere. My left hand needs to be completely unencumbered, so that it can reach all of the strings easily. Supporting the guitar with my left hand is a distraction at best, and a total hindrance at worst. Usually, for me so far, it's been the latter.

Second, strumming should be about 95% elbow action, and only 5% wrist action. This particular problem is a little harder to describe, but I'm still sure that I'm right. It has to do with how and/or if I hit the proper strings when I strum, especially on my upstrokes. I'm working on this, but it's proving to be really tough for me.

It's fun for me to pretend that anyone cares about this crap.

I'm dewrinkling some clothes now, so I have a little bit of time to kill. This one stupid shirt probably won't get dewrinkled, and I'll have to iron it. I hate it when that happens.

Yesterday I had a dentist appointment. It was routine, except for the girl who did most of the work. She was far from routine. She was gorgeous. Way too pretty to be working in a dentist's office. I mean, I generally like for any girls sticking their fingers in my mouth to be of reasonable appearance. I wouldn't want some old hag doing it, neither would I want a super-model doing it. At least not in that context, super-models should all feel free to stick fingers in my mouth at other times. And this chick was as pretty as any super-model I've ever seen. Especially when she had her cute little mask on, and all I could see were her incredible eyes.

So I spent all of my time in that chair thinking about baseball, so I wouldn't spring an erection and distract the poor girl as she worked inside my mouth with sharp metal utensils.

The greatest moment that I ever personally witnessed in baseball was several years ago. The Mariners were playing the Indians, and Kenny Lofton had spent about a week calling Randy Johnson a headhunter. When the game started, Lofton was the lead-off batter, and for the first pitch Randy threw a fastball straight at Kenny's head.

A big to-do ensued. There was no fight, but there was a lot of arguing. The umpire gave Randy a warning not to do that again, ever, young man.

Things settled back down, and the game resumed. For the second pitch of the game, Randy threw another fastball straight at Lofton's head, then he walked off the field. Classic.

Anyway.

Last night I went to Rich O's. I hadn't been planning to go, but LaptopGirl wanted me to take a look at her computer. That's not a euphemism. Her computer has been acting up.

So I had a nice pleasant evening talking with LaptopGirl. It didn't seem as surreal as it has lately, so I guess maybe I'm getting used to this new reality. I hope so.

Her computer is running Vista, and it's got some crap wrong with it. I managed to correct one glaring problem, but the rest will have to wait until we can scan the thing for spyware. I'm fairly convinced that's what's causing most of her computer woes. Also, the damn thing bluescreened on us three or four times. I didn't think Vista was ever supposed to bluescreen, and I'd definitely thought that Microsoft would have done away with that particular anachronism by now.

Like I said, it was a nice night. I had most of two bottles of yummy Koningshoeven Quad (722), and I had most of three bottles of yummy Schlenkerla Marzen (1938). LaptopGirl had the rest.

Later, the place turned back into a sausagefest. I stayed around for a little while, though. Talking to MusicalYuppieDude and a couple of other guys. I left just before they started kicking every out.

Crap.

I had this really clever thing that I was going to write about. It was going to tie in perfectly to my current life, and it was going to set me free.

Problem was, once I actually wrote it, it ended up saying pretty much the exact opposite of what I'd originally thought it would say. I blame beer for this lapse in judgment.

In this case, see, the fucking glove fits perfectly. Like my own skin, it fits. So acquittal is out of the question. Guilt is certain. Beyond a reasonable doubt. Even beyond an unreasonable doubt. Beyond a shadow of any kind of doubt whatsoever.

I'm guilty as fuck.

It really was a good idea for a while, though.

There. I think this is cryptic enough to pass my internal censors.

Lately, I never seem to know how to start an entry. I know what it is that I want to write about. I know all of the major points that I want to make. A lot of times, I know what the last sentence will be. It's that first sentence that's eluding me. I want the first sentence to grab people, and to not let go of them until they've read the entire entry.

Tonight, I wanted to write about overflow. And, for a first sentence, I whined and complained. That's just not right at all. But, lately, I don't seem to be able to do any better. And that's the point I was making with that first sentence.

Anyway.

I've been doing this blogging crap for over four years now. I don't even want to count how many entries I've written, but MoveableType tells me that this is the 2,422st entry in my barenada.com blog. Off the top of my head, I'd guess that there are another 100 or so entries scattered about my other blogs.

Over 2,500 entries. And you know how many have been readable, meaningful? You know how many have been completely honest and candid?

A couple of dozen. Maybe, If I'm feeling generous, maybe three dozen.

I can go back and read those entries, the ones that are readable. And I do go back and read them fairly often, for various reasons, most of which are of interest only to me. But one of the reasons is to remind myself and prove to myself that I'm capable of so much more than what I normally write.

Sometimes, it's like I transcend my own abilities. It's really an amazing feeling, when everything falls into place, and all of the right words just flow onto the screen. I know that I can write, every now and then. The trick seems to be in doing it all the time. Or, at least, doing it more often than not.

The people who know me, they know what I've gone through. And most of those people know what I'm going though right now. And yet, I continue to write mundane irrelevant drivel. Because, for now, that's all I can write. Because, for now anyway, I can contain myself.

Eventually, I manage to fear and hope with nearly equal intensity, eventually these words and thoughts inside my head will no longer be contained. They'll overflow my mind and run down my arms and out through my fingers and onto my keyboard and into the world. I will become a like a mountain spring. A spring of what, exactly, I'm not sure.

Honesty.

Candor.

Passion.

Sorrow.

Love.

Hate.

Anything, anything but drivel. I'm so fucking sick and tired of drivel.

Damn, I want to be free of these shackles. But, I fear, I'd be dangerous without them.

This isn't the entry that I thought I'd write.

It never is.

I was positive that I'd already written about this, but I couldn't find it, so I'll do it now.

Let's review.

1. Becomes a Jesus freak and pretty much stops all contact with a drinker sinner like me.

2. Moves halfway across the country, and then breaks a promise to call me.

3. Tells me, in both words and actions, that my friendship is not worth the time or effort required.

4. Goes to West Virginia, of all places, and breaks off all contact. Again.

5. Decides, out of the blue, to get back together with her old boyfriend.

6. Becomes an asshole. Or, possibly, unleashes the inner asshole that was already there.

7. Becomes a slut. Or, possibly, unleashes the inner slut that was already there.

8. Pisses off the bartenders so many times that he doesn't come into Rich O's any more.

9. Allows a woman to come between us.

Hmmm, I thought there'd be more. And there would be, if I hadn't limited myself to the last three months.

If I had a friend, then odds are that I either don't have that particular friend anymore, or at least that the friendship has taken a sharp turn for the worse.

But I'm not really complaining. People leave all the time. I'm not complaining, but I am certainly noticing.

It's like all of the rats are leaving a sinking ship. And I'm the captain of the ship.

At least that's one analogy that I came up with.

The other analogy is that practice is over, and all of these people are just clearing the field, because the real game is about to start.

I think that what's dragging me down is that everything is in transition. I suppose that saying I'm stuck in transition would be an oxymoron, but here I am anyway.

I mean, it was one thing to not know what happened. I got used to that, I suppose. It's been another thing to not know what's going to happen. I deal with that as well as I can, and I do what I can to maybe help steer things in a good direction.

But it's yet another thing to not have the slightest clue what's happening now. I get zero feedback. Am I doing a good job with this? A shitty job? Could I do this one thing a little more often, or this other thing a little less often? Should I just fucking stop altogether, or should I throw caution to the wind?

I look for signs all the time, but my world seems to have gone opaque. I know that things are happening, many of them as a direct result of my own actions and words. But I can't, for the life of me, tell what those things are, or whether they're good things or bad things.

Hmmm.

For the life of me

That's quite telling, right there. That's why this is dragging me down so much. Because the stakes are pretty high. I'm trying to save my own life here, and the patient is non-responsive.

I'm such a slacker when it comes to writing entries. This bothers me, but apparently it doesn't bother me enough to motivate me. Sometimes, I do get motivated, but then all this time has passed and nothing I write is contemporary anymore.

Anyway.

Some stuff happened, and now I have a date with NormalGirl. That's the girl from the comic yesterday. I was going to give her a different nickname, but NormalGirl fits my tongue better.

At least I'd like to think so.

That's bad. I shouldn't have written that. Oh, well, can't be helped now. It's not like I have some magic button, labeled backspace perhaps, with which I could erase stuff I've typed.

But my date with the hot girl isn't what I was going to write about. Nope, I was going to write more crap about this guitar and how I'm trying to learn to play make non-deadly noises with it.

I suppose that my strumming has gotten better. At least the upstrokes are better. That whole pointer that MusicalYuppieDude gave me, about turning my wrist when I strum upwards, has worked wonders. I still have a big problem with hitting extra strings when I strum. I can only hope that the frequency of these errors will diminish over time.

I also mentioned before that I may be tone deaf, because I couldn't seem to ever get the blasted contraption in tune. Well, I found this nifty guitar tuner program. It lets me pluck a string into the microphone on my computer, then it tells me how far off, and in which direction, I am from the desired note.

All of my strings were way the fuck off. But now they're not. I can tell this because the computer program tells me so, but I can also tell because of my cats.

See, before, when I'd strum the guitar, three things would happen. First, Happy would come running, hopeful that whatever animal torture ritual I was performing would leave edible body parts strewn around the room. Second, Nugget would haul ass down to the basement, for fear that he was about to become my next victim. Third, Buddy would ignore me, just like he always does when I do something interesting.

But now when I make noise with the guitar, all three cats ignore me.

Seriously, let me try to read a book or take a shit, and Buddy is all over me, but let me move and make noise and actually do something interesting, and he ignores me. What's up with that? Cats are weird.

My ability to count to four while strumming hasn't improved, but my ability to at least stick with a certain rhythm has gotten better. Not getting caught on a string when I strum has helped with that. So I can kinda fake it like I know how to count. So that's cool. Chicks dig guys who can count.

It's really amazing how much more fun and satisfying it is to strum a well-tuned guitar than it is to strum one that's badly out of tune. I estimate, in fact, that it's 833,241 times more fun. That's a lot.

The tips of every finger on my left hand are numb. I'm finding it difficult to type coherent words. This, I also assume, will get better as time progresses.

I've gotten better at making chords, but I still suck badly at changing from one chord to another. You're supposed to change chords between notes. I'm lucky if I can change chords between geologic eras. This has to get better, if only because it couldn't get any worse.

That's about it I guess. I'm getting better, but I'm still guitarded.

Did I mention that I have a date with NormalGirl?

Sometimes I think that I was born on the wrong planet. That just might be the most reasonable explanation for my utter incapability to explain this to those around me.

See, sometimes I hear shit. And it's the same tired old shit I've been hearing for at least 20 years. And it's just as wrong now as it was 20 years ago, and 100 years ago, and 1,000,000 years ago.

It's like people just take the easiest explanation, that the person they're dealing with is flat-out wrong, and they run with that explanation as far as they can.

Tonight, I heard this dude talking about how he'd ended a relationship. Why he'd ended a relationship. His girlfriend had a problem with his platonic friendship with another woman, so he dumped her.

Everyone in the area pretty much stood up and applauded. I'm surprised that nobody got their dick sucked, so frenzied was that orgy of appreciation.

Well, I guess the night is still young. Dicks may yet be sucked.

Anyway, I, like a dumbass, decided to contribute my own two cents worth to the conversation.

Sometimes, it's not jealousy or mistrust. Sometimes, it's simple insecurity. Sometimes, it's not unreasonable. Sometimes, it's understandable, if only the slightest attempt at understanding is made.

Sometimes, a little reassurance can go a very long way.

I've tried many times, over the years, to get people to accept these simple ideas into their heads. Not as absolute truths, merely as possibilities. I just get sick of hearing the same old shit over and over and over. So I speak up.

Each and every time, I've been met with ridicule and derision.

I should just stop trying, but I probably won't. It's a subject that's very relevant to me. I know a lot about it, because I've seen both sides of insecurity several times.

Sometimes, things can be fixed. It only takes a bit of effort and empathy. But people don't want that. They want the path of least resistance, and quite often that path leads right out of a relationship.

I wasn't planning to go to Rich O's last night. Or all weekend for that matter. But, after the week I've had at work, I really wanted to relax for a while. Sure, I can relax at home, but it's just not the same. Plus, I think that I was actually fit for human company for a change, and I didn't want to waste that rare opportunity.

The place was fucking packed. Standing room only everywhere, even out in the Special People Room. The crowd was about 99.999% strangers and weirdoes. I recognized a couple of people at the bar. PlantDude and this other dude who looks like my friend Eric's dad. But that was it.

I stood at the end of the bar, ordered an NABC Old Bob's 15B (284), and surveyed my surroundings. It didn't look good. The strangers in the living room area seemed fully-entrenched, as did the weirdoes at the island. But luck was with me, because some dork left the seat at the end of the bar, and I sat there.

I didn't do much of anything for the next hour or so, except listen to PlantDude get progressively louder. Oh yeah, I did get to talk to MisunderstoodGirl for a few minutes, so that was very cool. She was wondering if I'd seen NotHideousGirl at all. I hadn't.

Then LaptopGirl came in, then some strangers left the loveseat and the throne, and we ended up moving over there. She with her obligatory Guinness, me with my second pint of 15B (304).

The next couple of hours were very nice. Even though it was still pretty crowded and loud, I managed to ignore all of the petty distractions so I could talk to LaptopGirl.

Let's see, I had a pint of Guinness (1528) next, in a fancy new Guinness glass that I might have to buy someday. Then a while later I had a half a Guinness (1538) that LaptopGirl donated to me. Yay for free beer!

Once LaptopGirl had gone, I stuck around for a little while and had a Diet Coke. I was thinking about maybe going over to The Pub to see BikerGirl. Her boyfriend's band was playing there. But I really couldn't justify the cost, so I just came home and shot pool until the Sun came up.

The night was much more interesting and wonderful than I've made it seem here.