Monday nights are golden.
My Daddy hits town, we bust out the Beansprout and the Stella, and we tear it up until my fingers are cramped and curled like the empty, skyward-clutching grasp of a stone-dead sparrow.
It mostly sounds awful, i'm sure. Me flinging chords wildly and trying to keep up, eternally shamed by my perpetual shortage of practice since the last lesson; Dadoo carelessly noodling out embellishments and solos, politely waiting for me to catch up and telling me its not awful.
the liar.
We drink beers and Dr. Pepper. We stuff ourselves with Pho and Pizza.
We bombard each other with youtube videos while we eat. Play our favourite tunes.
We talk about mum.
We play until my brain is stuffed to overflowing, the two of us stifling yawns; until finally we must throw in the hat. Put down the picks. Go home. And crawl off to bed.
Wake up the next morning, bleary eyed and underslept.
smiling for no good reason.
.
I wouldn't trade it for the world.
My Daddy hits town, we bust out the Beansprout and the Stella, and we tear it up until my fingers are cramped and curled like the empty, skyward-clutching grasp of a stone-dead sparrow.
It mostly sounds awful, i'm sure. Me flinging chords wildly and trying to keep up, eternally shamed by my perpetual shortage of practice since the last lesson; Dadoo carelessly noodling out embellishments and solos, politely waiting for me to catch up and telling me its not awful.
the liar.
We drink beers and Dr. Pepper. We stuff ourselves with Pho and Pizza.
We bombard each other with youtube videos while we eat. Play our favourite tunes.
We talk about mum.
We play until my brain is stuffed to overflowing, the two of us stifling yawns; until finally we must throw in the hat. Put down the picks. Go home. And crawl off to bed.
Wake up the next morning, bleary eyed and underslept.
smiling for no good reason.
.
I wouldn't trade it for the world.
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