Saturday, August 04, 2007
At 6:10 this morning, Flip pried Truffle out of my hair and fed her so she would leave me alone. At 6:24, we learned that barfing on guitar effects pedals does not have the same effect as pissing on the third rail of a train track. Bulimicat had struck again.
I opened one eye and saw Flip kneeling under his recording table, naked and muttering "Dickhead" as he swiped at a large gooey chicken-smelling puddle that oozed over his chromatic tuner, tube screamer and onto the digital delay pedal.
"What is she trying to say?" he asked me. "It's a hell of a statement."
I had no idea. It's hard to know with a cat. By this time, she had crawled miserably back into my hair, seeking comfort because she sensed that Flip might be annoyed with her. I stroked her little head and she began to purr.
We both turned our attention back to Flip, who had just discovered that his noise suppressor and compression sustainer were also tainted with liquid chicken mixed with cat hair.
"No more feeding her in the early morning," he announced. He seemed to be speaking through clenched teeth.
"It's not a matter of when she eats," I said. "It's how much. We should give her less." I reminded him that it could have been worse. She could have yakked inside the Martin, the Les Paul Goldtop, or one of his other guitars. That would have been much worse, trying to scoop it out with Q-tips through the sound holes.
He would have had to kill her.
It was easy for me to be a cheery Pollyanna because I was still in a nice warm bed with a purring cat snuggled beside me while Flip was ass out in the cold morning air, swabbing. A musician's life is fraught with peril.
Posted by heartinsanfrancisco at 10:43 AM