The Bullet got an electric guitar , which should be interesting, especially for the neighbours. It was for his birthday, and we went into town today to collect it. It was cool. I wish I could be fourteen again and live in a world where guys like the Bullet get to stroll through town with a cool axe slung over their shoulder. I bumped into the Infant Jesus on Saturday, and anybody who knows what I’m talking about will know that the Infant Jesus is one motherfucker of an electric guitar player. In fact I was trying to explain this to Bullet.
Bullet, I said, the Infant Jesus has now become so good that he hardly plays any notes at all. Soon, he’ll be so good he’ll play nothing. He’ll just stand there. If I tried that, they’d boo me off the stage, and they’d be right. Well, to be truthful, if I tried to stand up on stage at all they’d kill me, but let’s not split hairs here, ok?
Bullet isn’t interested in this line of discussion. Bullet wants to be able to play 40,000 notes per second, and that’s fine too. That’s what being fourteen is about. Anyhow, as I said, I bumped into the Infant Jesus, and I told him that Bullet was getting an electric guitar. But he isn’t able to play, I said. The Infant Jesus is a wise man. That will come later, he said. Right now, all he needs to learn is how to carry it with authority, and what T-shirts to wear.
So far we’ve had Smoke on the Water about three hundred times and Seven Nation Army another two hundred or so.
That’s fine by me.