Perfect timing:The longer you work at something, the better you get.
At least that’s the idea, the story, and it’s true. Sometimes.
It’s not true when you don’t learn how do something the right way from the beginning.
Take a playing guitar for instance:
I like watching videos that guitar players post as ‘instructional.’
They look normal enough, then shred like they’ve got more fingers than a centipede has legs.
What they don’t say while they fire notes off their fretboard is how long it took them to learn how to do it.
Face it, some people are not coordinated enough to pull it off.
They don’t have the right wires connecting their ears, their brain, and their fingers.
At least that’s the normal excuse. “I don’t have the gift.”
What they don’t have is the patience to do it wrong until they get it right, which is a comfort.
It’s a comfort until I see some seven year old lighting it up like they’re been playing twenty years.
They have perfect timing.
Even better are the comments on the guitar videos telling the player just how wrong their technique is and how good they could be if they knew what they were doing.
And here I am, impressed as hell that anyone would want to put up a video of themselves playing so poorly, and I’m worse than them.
When I read that last sentence I think: I need to practice more.
Or blame my parents for having tin ears, my music teachers for failing me, anyone but myself.
But, as a mature adult, I can’t blame anyone and make myself believe it.
Sucks to be me, right? It would be a lot easier if I could tell myself I’m the greatest guitar player, that I know more about guitar than Django (silent D), Jimi, and Les Paul.
Who shit-talks themselves when so many are equally willing to do it for you?
If you practice anything, you get better. End of story.
All My Troubles Seemed So Far Away
Yesterday I quit caffeine and let me tell you I’m not better for it.
Yet.
It’s been a slow climb since my last cease and desist on coffee.
A slow climb back on the caffeine addiction started with one tea bag, then two.
Then the odd coffee in the drive-thru.
It escalated to looking for reasons to celebrate anything with a venti mocha.
January 31, 2025 is National Hot Chocolate Day, and I’m ready.
I’ll be better tomorrow than I am today, of that I’m sure.
Look Good, Feel Good
When I lived in Brooklyn I met a guy who said he was Puerto Rican, but called himself Greek.
Somedays he was one, some days the other.
I’ve thought of him when I need a pick me up.
If only I were a Greek, a Puerto Rican, because when I look at all the white men in the news these days I’m dismayed.
I haven’t kept up.
I’m not a billionaire and I don’t even know one to suck up to.
My Puerto Rican pal also gave me some style advice.
“When I’m broke I look my best. I put on my best clothes and it makes me feel better.
“But when I’m flush you couldn’t tell me from one of the guys laid out in the Bowery.”
It reminded me of my laundromat days.
I’d see people all dressed up to do laundry, because their regular clothes were in the washer.
The last time I stopped at the local for a beer my pal said, “Haven’t seen you for a while.”
I said, “Since I had on clean clothes I thought I’d better stop in for an update.”
“An update on what?”
“My look.”
“Looking good.”
“There you go.”
Add A Little Pep Talk For Perfect Timing
I have it in my mind that people want to do the right thing.
I like to think the American culture in general is one of looking out for each other.
To that goal, I got racked by the treatment to kill cancer.
It didn’t kill me, for which I’m glad, but it felt like dying might be a better option.
Then I got over it.
You hear the same story all of the time, ‘And then I got over it.’
But not everyone gets over it to their own satisfaction.
The counseling I got said never call it ‘My cancer.’
I repeated the good advice online and got a rash of ‘It’s my cancer, and only mine,’ sort of feedback.
My cancer goal was go through the cycle, survive, and carry on.
I offer my version of help when it’s someone I think could use it.
They don’t even have to ask, which sometimes creates a new problem.
My buddy called to catch up and finished by telling me he had a medical thing.
We went back and forth until I was certain of two things: He’d heard enough out of me, and I could tell he wasn’t checking out.
Some call it abusive, but since I’m a former Army medic and not a nurse, I belittle and denigrate health problems the way I fucking hated on cancer until it quit trying to kill me.
My pal will be fine is what I decided.
He agreed and hung up on me. (Hey Al.)
I called it perfect timing.
More tomorrow if you subscribe, or not.
About David Gillaspie
