Band practice is now over. My ears ring with the sound of my machines. It's as if they live in my head, the whine of fans blends with the sounds of my damage. Unlike the machines, it will last forever. No one wants to be permanently damaged. I want to believe that medical science will come up with some way to repair the tiny hairs and nerves inside my earworks. Someday. I believe in this in the same way that people who love life hang on to ideas of resurrection or continued existence outside the perceived world. I don't believe you can survive past this life and maintain your identity. I'm still holding onto my faith in nanotechnology, though. Tiny robots to save my hearing, please, science.

When you let someone into your thoughts, you accept the risk of predictability. I'd rather not say or do things exactly as expected, but once you've seen my viewpoint, how can I avoid it and still act truly? On the other hand, much of effective communication is anticipation of the most probable things to be communicated. This is how I understand Brian when his thoughts get ahead of his verbal articulation, and it's how I reconstruct what someone said when I didn't quite hear them. I think of the possible things they would have said and match the sound of each one against the sounds I heard. This might contribute to the wackiness that occurs between very close friends as they try to come up with things to say that are NOT so easily predicted. I sure know that when I'm talking to Kris, I say a lot of weird things that would never be heard in other company. Man, with him, it's like I don't have to finish my sentences. Sometimes even, begin them.

Tonight the crabby girl who sometimes staffs the rehearsal studio called me "Mr. Smarty Pants" as I left. Brian wondered why she hates everyone so much. I think she's just like the "joe" character on that old sitcom with the three histrionic girls. Hmm. That could be a lot of sitcoms. I can't remember the name, but "Joe" was an argumentative, caustic person who was habitually disagreeable. That's what I think of this woman. When I asked her name as I handed in rent payment, months ago, she scowled at me and boomed "my name is STEVE." Pause. I said, "Okay. Thanks, steve." Then very softly, as she wrote out the receipt, she said, "it's Kelly," without looking up. I suppose working in a place where you have to deal with musician after self-absorbed, irresponsible musician, you could possibly get fed up with the type. Well heck, I'm in the right place, am I not? Still. She is quite abrasive. It's kind of endearing in a weird way, but I like dealing with the old guy who yelled at Brian for drinking straight out of the water tap more. And for the same reason.

Gig on Saturday the 1st. Another gig on Saturday the 29th. I bought a staple gun and a trio of flashlights in preparation. Staple guns are fun to wear on your hand, like gigantic brass knuckles that can shoot metal ]'s.

Tomorrow is Tuesday. I love Tuesday.

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Oy, I have to remember not to read the web when sincere. Gah. The other thing I have to remember is that THOSE PEOPLE ARE NOT LIKE ME