I had a guitar teacher when Dan and I were staying in Vero Beach, and not that I remembered his name, but he was a nice chap and he was great at teaching guitar. When we left Vero Beach, I was bummed out that I wouldn’t get to learn with him anymore, and then used that as an excellent excuse to stop practicing guitar, but really it was because guitar is hard and it hurts my fingers and I’m never going to be Jimi Hendrix so what is the point anyway?
Now here we are in Brevard, and after having not played for many moons, I decided perhaps it was time to put aside my dreams of becoming a guitar legend and perhaps it was time to make my dreams a little more realistic and perhaps I could learn to play guitar enough to make it through a song without saying, “Oops, fuck, let me start over.”
So I connected with the Mountain School of Music, because Brevard is absolutely rife with string players, and the Mountain School of Music director said sure, we can teach you guitar, and connected me with a nice man in town who told me via text he would happily teach me guitar.
I arrive at the lesson ready to learn but also wondering what this guy’s style will be, because every guitar teacher is different, and breaking up with your music teacher is like breaking up with your therapist. Insamuch as you are telling them, it’s not me, it’s you, I hate you and everything you’re doing.
The guy comes out of the music place, and who do I see but my GUITAR TEACHER FROM VERO BEACH.
I am convinced now that I am living in a simulation and whoever is poking Cheerios into my cage like the rat that I am assumes that the Cheerios I want are not meeting new people (accurate) and instead meeting the same people over and over in different locations (also accurate and also perhaps I am in a horror movie I do not know about and this is how it starts).
In a horror movie, the guitar teacher is stalking you across the country