Hey, my bass is back (so you better start a-runnin)

Strange day; I woke up for the dozenth time in the semi-light of my room, this time because my alarm clock was chattering rather than the other times, because it seemed like a rouse-worthy idea until the necessary time passed in which I recognized my surroundings and went back to sleep. Then there was the arguement to stay in bed; the boiler is still in a state of half-repair, so convincing myself to slip out from under that exquistively warm comforter is exceptionally tricky. Sadly, the little voice in my head reminded me that if I stayed there too long, I'd fall back asleep, and that would mean I'd be late for work, and then I'd be fired, and oh, the horrors. Overall laziness, to avoid looking for other work, overrode temporary laziness. The next task was to make it to the shower and wash the smell of hippy out of me. (Surprisingly enough, the elderly are not generally fond of hippy-smell. I myself like to twiddle with my hair and get a nice little whiff of Nag Champa, but at some point in your life span I'll apparently cross a line where it must, MUST be only Herbal Essences.)

Work was the usual tedium; stay awake, do Nonograms for eight hours, go home. Except this time, I swung by the music building, picked up the loaner bass I'd been leant, and skipped back to the mall to switch back for my beloved Phinaes. I hung about Borders, trying to look nonchalant (which is hard, with the nice-work-outfit with the cashmere and the heels, and a wonderful blue lump strapped to me. Small children watched me in fascination. Teenagers milling around Hot Topic, struggling to be alternative, stared in silent awe. I stood and read, keeping an eye on the poor sales clerk who couldn't decide whether they should start a conversation with me or not. Eventually my cell rang and I booked across the mall (Note: Attention whores! Jogging through a mall with a bass on in heels is an INSTANT attractor), stopping only once to laugh in the face of that one, necessary, ballsy bastard that asked if I wished I played piccolo. No, of course I don't! I was getting my bass back, my delightful darling dearest!

And life was all roses and gumdrops again.

Everything in this blog will probably be about music.

I'm at work now, and rather irate about it; partly because I didn't sleep at all last night, and partly because, in the rush to be presentable and make breakfast and dinner and get that tangled lump out of my hair and get to the dealership for my new plates, I neglected to brush my teeth, and my hands still reek of garlic. At least the hangover is gone. (So strange, to feel one develop, to feel each of my teeth stopping in the course of their daily activities and say hello...)

I got a call last night from Aaron Reiley, who is the wonderful man fixing my baby Phinaes. (Had I read A Seperate Peace before I named my bass, I would never, ever, ever have decided to name my bass that.) He left a voice mail on my cell, saying "Hey, this is Aaron Reiley; we've got your bass opened up, and it looks like you have a pretty decent sized bass bar."

Strange pause.

"If you could give me a call, my cell number is..."

I puzzled over this on the way to the grocery store; why would he call and leave such a bizzare, confused message? I called him back, got his voice mail, and asked what it was that he was implying in his message. He called back, with startling promptitude, and asked if it would be alright if he removed the current bass bar and put one in more appropriately sized; he felt that the thing was too much support, crudely carved from the front of the bass instead of a seperate piece glued in, and that since the bass was already open, a big portion of the labor fee would be waived...

On the one hand, it would do magical things for my sound (he tells me), but on the other hand, it would mean another week or two of waiting to get my baby back, another two weeks of mediocre practice on their loaner. Don't get me wrong, it's an alright bass for orchestral playing, but all of my solo work sounds like I'm hearing it with wax shoved in my ears, and maybe in my nose for unnecessary extra blockage. I covet my bass, and am wary of random, excessive surgery to its delicate, curvy frame.

Oi.

Things that aren't supposed to happen.

So let's go through things my bass has done to betray me:
1. Let's see... a week before my jury my first semester of sophomore year (maybe?), the eyelet in my bow stripped itself. Just on a whim. "You don't need bow tension to play," the eyelet decided. "I'll just relax for a bit."
2. During one concert, the G string just started buzzing. Apparently leaving the bass in the hall overnight wasn't enough to adjust it to the temperature, because out of nowhere half of the notes on the string started wailing away with this extra, unnecessary noise.
3. Let us never forget the performance of Michael Schelle's Samurai, where my bass, restrung with lower tension solo strings, vomited the bridge onto the stage, and then had some sort terrible spasm that left the sound post rolling along the bottom of the stomach.
4. The day of my junior recital, my professor decided I should keep the E string tuned to D, rather than adjusting the string up a whole step as the rest of the strings had been. I guess that's not something my bass did, but I hope that during my next recital, I don't have "Remember! Your E-string is STILL a D-String" written on my wrist.
5. Last night, as I was putting my bass into the car to move it to Pease auditorium, the right shoulder caved in a little, in a little mold of my right hand. If there's one thing I'm pretty sure about, it's that your bass should never make a squishy noise. EVER.

I think I should change my bass' name to Lady Macbeth; just as likely to stab you in the back at the most inopportune time as not.
Sigh; off to Grand Rapids to get a good fixing.