My husbands' stalker, Mrrmph Walker

As I've mentioned before, Scott plays guitar. Technically, that is an understatement; he plays, practices, collects, trades, buys and sells, repairs, tinkers with, modifies and generally loves guitars of all kinds.. In fact, he's gently strumming (While My Guitar Gently Weeps) as I type this, on one of his accoustic peices. Fynn is lying on me, a front paw stretched out and gently resting on my arm. Every once in a while, I crane my neck down and inhale the sweet scent of the fur on the top of his head. In a little while his gentle breathing will segue into kitty snores.

Back to Scott, though - he's been in or around the same band for the last twenty years - they aren't doing much together these days, which is a real shame. To fill the time (until some of the other members get their heads straight, cough, mama-bear growl) he's been taking some lessons lately. I've really noticed a big improvement in his playing lately... but don't tell him that, please. Truly, is there nothing more embarrasing than a wife gushing over her husband?

He's also a frequent visitor down at one of our local guitar shops. Jensens' is the typical music shops. Home to a few of the characters from High Fidelity, typical musician-types, all rabidly passionate about their various niches of musical culture, Jensens' has good prices and a pretty impressive stock of instruments. Hardly the type of place that you expect to bump into this guy (ladies, please, stop your drooling):
Much less twice in two weeks. The good news is we've had dealings with Mr. Walker before, and he is, so far as we can tell, a Nice and indeed, Normal/Regular/Not Head-Swollen guy. Despite that picture, which makes him look like someone who gets waxed from the armpits down on a bi-weekly basis. (Not that there's anything wrong with that, right?) Oddly enough, in real life, he looks just like that, albeit with a shirt on. You know, someone who you might expect to have a hissy fit if forced to wait in line or if faced with an accidental milk-instead-of-soy in his latte. (Well, that is, you might not be surprised by this sort of behavior. Not if you live within one hundred miles of L.A., in a town that does a fair amount of pandering to the Hollyweird ilk.) He's nothing of the kind, actually - Scott came home last week, laughing and shaking his head. "You'll never guess who I saw again at Jensens'," he said.

Note: My one and only close encounter with Mr. Walker was sitting at Baja Fresh and eating burritos when he came in and got the same. He was very kind to the staff, who were blithering on about, "Duuuuude... aren't you the guy from The Fast and the Furious! Oh man! I LOVED that movie, man!," etc. He seemed a bit embarassed to be recognized, just mumbled something along the lines of, "Yadude, 'scool, can I have a mrrmpph please? Yeah, dude, I know, the new movie's coming out next month." He was really pretty keen to get on with eating his mrrmpph with his pretty, surfer-looking girl/friend, and they looked to be having a nice, low-key time together.

Scott however, just can't be rid of him, I tell you. One day he turned up at Jensens', asking for music lessons but not wanting to leave his name. Next, he wanted to change the lesson time because he "had to ... uh... fly...to uhh...do this mrrmpphthing..", as if anyone at Jensens' gave a rats' patootie about him having to fly off to an audition, or a reading, or a shoot in Phukhet, or what-have-you. Than Scott went in to leave one of his guitars for a (who knows? Probably something along the lines of a mrrmpph, I'm thinking) service of some sort, and guess who left their guitar right next to his? I've simply got to start going to Jensens with him more often.

Oh! Yeah! I've almost forgot - we're going to Magic Mountain tomorrow! Yeah! With E. and Chiada! Double yeah! For half-price, thanks to Chiada! Triple yeaaah!