It’s half past three when my telephone rings.

A man from a gallery says he wants to give me an electric guitar.

“I can’t play guitar”, I tell him.

Two weeks later on the 23. of October I go to pick it up. It’s very pink.

Like bubblegum on teenage braces. I wonder what this guitar did

to deserve such mockery.

November 4. brings some clarity. The guitar has 8 siblings, I learn.

All of them as pink and dandy as my guitar. And come February next year

they will pump and grind the legs of 9 rock n’ rollers.

What utter masculine joy this gallery has planned.

By December I’m feeling generous.

I will assist my little pinky on it’s way to the halls of fame and fortune.

And a fur coat just might do the trick. I decide to mail a letter

to 27 women. And by January 17. I receive the first mop in the mail.

No letter or note attached, just a bunch of pitch black hairs donated by a

stranger.

I leave them untouched for a while