I'm sure it's my own fault that there are no chocolate, chocolate-chip muffins in the break-room vending machine this week. Karma has her foot on my neck, while she laughs in my face as I moan over my lack of breakfast cake.
I'm getting a karmic smackdown because I spent a fair amount of time Saturday night sharing my keen (albeit somewhat petty and mean-spirited) observations on some of the performers with which we shared a stage that night.
Our band was invited to be part of a line up of female musicians last weekend. There were eight acts in total. Several consisted of a woman, an acoustic guitar and songs spun from her most sincere feelings on the nature of being a woman with an acoustic guitar.
One performer had a truly beautiful voice and a truly unfortunate hair style. It looked like she had sideburns. If I hadn't been introduced to her, I would have bet my Aunt Verla Mae's pearl onion jelly that she was a 14-year-old boy.
And then there was that thing she did with her guitar. At one point during her set, she began thumping her guitar with a closed fist in order to make a percussive drum beat. She pounded the guitar just below the sound hole. It looked like, um, yeah, it didn't look good.
Of course, I had to make note of this to my bandmates in a way that left me dissolved in a pool of giggles.
That's right, a grown woman wearing a pair of bedazzled men's overalls criticized a fellow musician's performance and I wonder why there are no chocolate, chocolate-chip muffins in the vending machine?
Maybe if I promise to try harder next time, there'll be at least a banana-nut muffin next week.
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