Build Up

The dogs start getting toey - seems a storm is brewing. Either that or the dogs are all just fucking psychopaths. Jury's out. It could go either way. The clouds build like great grey mountains in the west. It's raining somewhere over there - you can almost smell it. The temperature drops ever so slightly and the first cracks of thunder call out from the distance. It's going to rain, you're almost certain. Then the winds comes. Hot and thicker than before. By the time it gets dark the clouds are ushered back to the horizon. There'll be no rain - just another sticky night. That's the way it happens - every night. They call it the Build Up. I call it the bullshit fucken.

Frustrating as that is, things are getting pretty interesting around here. It's as humid as a fat man's bathroom and I smell like an arse-full of compost. I traced the sour-metal smell developing in my armpit back to the soap I was using. I've since switched brands and ordered a new set of armpits on the net - the ones with the braid-able hair. I was going to wait and treat myself for Christmas but fuck that - Christmas is for Jews. I've spent all my time up here stowing my money in an account I don't have internet access to, so I'm gagging for a little retail therapy. Sadly, splurging on crappy plastic water pistols at the top shop wont cut it.

There is something truly satisfying about dropping the wad on something you really want. I shop in that proper blokey way. I can tell from the outside of a shop if there's anything inside that I'll want. I don't even leave the house on an expenditure expedition unless I know exactly what I want and whereabouts in the shop it is. And once I get there I don't give a fuck how much it costs. No haggling, no 'shopping around' like some kinda bitch - if you can't afford it, don't even bother wanting it, dickflop. Spend confidently - be oblivious to the fact that you're getting ripped off. That is how ninjas would shop if they ever needed shit. But ninjas don't really exist - they're like Eskimos, or 'victims'.

Guitars are my weakness. I'd buy a new guitar every week if I thought I wouldn't starve - you know, like if they came with a packet of peanuts or something. And the great thing about guitars is that there are heaps of really good ones that float around the $2000 mark. THAT is a satisfying spend. It's also the an amount of money that will make those smug pricks that work in music store kiss your arse for a while. What? If you're such a fucking good musician, why are you working here for 16 bucks an hour? Maybe if you spent more time developing people skills, and less time alone in your room 'practising' you might have enough machismo to inspire an audience at your local RSL. Take your long hair and your Zappa albums and go. eat. a. dick.

But then come the really good guitars. The pant-creaming, face-melting, ball-bursting beauties. Guitars so well made, so pure of tone, so free in action that they need not be played - just held - to achieve musical greatness. These don't come cheap. So it is that any time I get more that $5000 in my bank account I think, 'Shit, THAT may just be the $5000 woman I want to marry!' She's curvy, she smells nice and looks great in my lap. She could be the one. The one guitar I don't treat like shit, neglect and butt cigarettes out on. The one to last a lifetime. And fuck me if I don't get a bit of that feeling right now. I'm also a bit hungry, and slightly Asian.

I know the one I want. I know what shop it's in, on what rack and how much it costs. With Melbourne looming on the horizon, only three short weeks away, I can almost taste it. This is my gathering cloud, my mounting humidity, this is my Build Up. But no. Not yet. Not this time. Not this year - probably not the next. Because what does one do after he has everything he wants? I can wait. She'll wait for me. Until then I'm more than happy to linger in the the bullshit fucken.