Serial Mama

There she was. She didn't sit in a display out by the front window, and she wasn't one of those hanging by the checkout counter, nor was she anywhere near the front of the store. Not for this beauty. She hung in the hallway leading up to the sound proof playing rooms. She was a murky bluish shade like the actual color of the ocean, and she had a small knick near the side of the whammy bar. But that gave her character far beyond any of the other shiny brand spanking new models out front. She had time and experience on her side, and you could tell from the first look that she would treat you just right. That was why I loved her.

"Bullshit."

"You know it's not proper to curse in front of a lady you uncouth barbarian," I said to Wingnut in a very gentleman like fashion.

"Don't give me that proper shit you little prinny. You and me both know you know next to jack about guitars bro."

"Hey, you don't have to be Les Paul or Steve Vai to appreciate a fine guitar when you see one you instrumentalist snob. She demands respect I say! You should apologize to her before she snaps a string in your face!" Which I kinda hoped one would do. It would give me a good reason to fetch the grizzled guitar tech from behind his fortress of amps to see how one would replace a broken string on a guitar. You see, Wingnut actually had a point with my lack of guitar knowledge. I loved that sweet piece of polished wood and string with a passion, but my passion extended only to loving it. I never took the time out of my day to learn about it. Cough it up to being a lazy bastard. At twenty three years of age, I figured I should learn this sucker sooner than later.

"Apologize to my ass Sushi! Quit drooling over that monstrosity you stupid fish, and come over here. You gotta check this out!" shouted Wingnut across the quite compact store.

Why am I Sushi you might wonder? Well to the obvious person who uses a tad bit of logic, one might deduce that I A) Have a fondness for the raw delicacy, or B) Am a sushi chef, or for the over analytical C) Use sushi as a covert name as I am really a secret assassin sent from the Russian underworld to infiltrate the very inner workings of American society to cause its predestined collapse from the core outwards. Those of you that answered B would be correct. And your thinking holy crap, it's never B though. Well too bad, no re-test for you you over analytical punk.

I worked as a sushi chef for a nice little dive out in Santa Monica near the coastline. And before you even ask, no, I am not of Asian descent. I've theorized that I probably have some Asian in my family tree way down the line, but I've never done the research to back up that claim. The lazy bastard excuse comes up once again. Anyways I attended a sushi culinary school in the area with a buddy of mine who we refer to as the Cuban. I highly recommend you don't refer to him as the Mexican for that will wrought upon you the punishment of him wing chuning your ass back to the land of your ancestors where you won't even get to say greetings to them before you die of massive heart failure. Just trust me on this one. Those little shockey paddles EMT's use really work, as Wingnut will surely vouch for.

Well the Cuban and I graduated at the top of our class, and we got to stay on at the school which happened to be a Japanese restraunt that doubled as a sushi culinary school. We learned even more tricks of the trade and built up a nice list of regulars for ourselves. The one nice thing about California besides the constant sunshine is the over abundance of rich and famous residents that happen to adhere to any trend like a military regime. And lucky for us, sushi was at the top of the chic food trends. God bless our hungry little soldiers!

I temporarily parted with my ocean blue beauty and went off to see what Wingnut was gaping at. It had become sort of a ritual of ours lately. Coming to Howling Symphony every Friday that is, and slobbering over the instruments we could in no way afford. It wasn't the biggest or greatest music store in the area, but it had what the other music stores lacked. Real freaking musicians who knew what the hell they were talking about.

You know how you can go to a Best Buy and find all sorts of high class electronic refuse? And you know how when you're looking for something really specific and you try to ask the highly efficient teenager on duty to kindly get off their bloody handy and help you out, but they have no idea what in God's good earth you're talking about? And all the while you're feeling like you're trying to explain quantum physics to a froofy hamster who uses too much styling goop. Yeah, some of the bigger music stores hire little shits like that, and for me who is brainless with the instrument I love, that completely sinks my kayak and barrels me into the rocks.

I found Wingnut staring at some mics with the same glazed over love expression that I gave off when I looked at Serial Mama. By the by, that was the name I had given my beauty a while back. I'll explain it later.

"They're mics dude. They look like the ones from last week." I shrugged a bit not really understanding Wingnut's obession with something so plain looking.

"Shows how much you know tako sauce. These aren't just any mics," and he paused ridiculously for anticipation, as to which I responded with an equally ridiculous yawn. "These are the new stock of KSM9 handheld microphones with a dual gold layered diaphragm design, switchable polar patterns from supercardioid to cardioid, an advanced suspension shock mount, premium electronic components including class A transformerless preamplifier circuitry, gold plated external and internal connectors, and they have a full range frequency response from 50 hertz to 20 kilohertz!" He spouted this off like a child explaining his favorite cartoon for an oral report at school.

"Thank you Professor Frankenstein for that wonderful explanation that was ever so thorough and thought out. My life has gained new meaning from the knowledge I have obtained here today."

"My name is FRONKENSTEEN you sarcastic piece of fishing bait. And YOU wouldn't understand you musicless dreg of flotsam."

"Whoa there hoss, a bit above your vocabulary level now aren't we? I know you've been working on lyrics and such, but don't unload your lexicon on me now. Seriously though, I know you have a good voice, but this mic isn't gonna make it great. It's just gonna make it louder or distorted or something. You have to do those breathing technique thingies the Cuban was telling you about."

"Yeah, yeah, I know all that. I've been working on it sorta. It's hard to do those breathing techs and try to think of meaningful lyrics at the same time. The guys have really been breathing down my neck lately." Wingnut kinda stood there staring forlornly at the mics then.

I knew it was getting pretty hard on him. Wingnut really did have a good voice too, he just didn't know how to work it. His stage presence was really what got him into the bands he played with. When he would perform on stage, the whole world moved with him. He had this aura up there that would just suck you in, and the music would sound like pure unadulterated bliss no matter how shitty the band really was. What really cracked the board in two for him was his lack of self improvement. Most of the time the other guys in the bands would write the lyrics for the songs, and everyone who heard him sing knew he had natural talent, but talent that could be on a much higher level if he trained himself.

The Cuban and I met Wingnut when he became the new bartender at Osoroshii Sakana, the sushi dive we were the head chefs at.