Today, another milestone in the epic journey of musical (and personal) discovery that is my midlife dream of guitar glory: I lost my first pick. I think the TVPI, who seemed so innocently to pick up my guitar and show off while we talked, slickly pocketed my little black shark fin. Now I know why real players have picks planted all over themselves and their digs.
Today’s exercise in strumming determined conclusively that when it comes to substitute picking, a yellow paperclip beats a polished, pointy black rock. (I was cheering for the rock. It was a sleek little implement with a high Funksmanship quotient. I had promised to make it my professional trademark – you can see what a subtle bit of marketing coolness it is – until I realized it didn’t work worth a butterfly fart. Pick shopping tomorrow.