Sunday, May 18, 2014
I got my hand stuck in my guitar.
The only place where you can get your hand stuck is in the little hole in the center. One would think that one would have enough sense to know not to stick his bearpaw hand with the hotdog fingers into the little hole in the center of the guitar because chances were better than not one would get his hand stuck.
And I donít.
I suppose I could offer an explanation.
I was cleaning my guitar and changing my guitar strings. I had the strings and the little guitar string changing kit so I figured Iíd change the strings and clean up my guitar and then play some.
The first string I removed just fine. I used the little wrench thingie on the kit and popped the string peg out just fine.
The second string though, I wasnít so fortunate.
The string peg broke and there was no way to remove it from the little string hole.
I was left with a conundrum, and for the record, I donít do so well with conundrums.
When I ponder, bad things happen.
Like when I set myself on fire... three times. The last time the only reason I didnít go up in flames was because I smelled bacon frying.
I imagine my surprise when the pork belly frying turned out to be me.
There was also the time when mowing the lawn that I came upon a patch of unruly looking weeds along the back fence.
Do I leave the weeds or trim them down?
If I left the weeds my dad would surely fuss at me for not finishing my job properly.
So I weed-whacked the weeds that turned out to be my momís herb garden of chives, parsley, oregano and thyme.
I didnít know what Iíd just weed-whacked but I had a strong hankering for a baked potato and Italian food.
It probably would have served me better had I removed the remaining strings first because my hand got stuck.
I pressed harder to reach the broken peg, which I was successful at unsticking ó it popped right out.
But like trying to refold a road map, my hand would not retreat from whence it came.
I thought about Lucille Ball and her hand stuck in the brass flower vase, and then how she tried to hide it from Ricky. This was a guitar and not a flower vase.
It was not easy to hide at all.
Plus, because I didnít remove the guitar strings, they acted like a garrote wire you see in spy movies. The more I wiggled my hand trying to get free, the more the guitar string sawed into my forearm.
A thought hit me:
What Would MacGyver Do?
MacGyver was that super spy from the 1980s who could escape from a jail cell using a tablespoon, a wad of chewing gum and a toothpick.
He was the Mac Daddy of escape wizardry.
So I figured Iíd be like MacGyver and escape from my guitar.
I assembled my ingredients necessary for my escape - one handed, mind you - fingernail clippers and a bath towel. The towel was to drape over my head just in case there was some recoil from the snapped guitar string.
Just like Iíd seen MacGyver do on TV.
So I slipped the towel over my head and commenced to clipping the guitar strings.
Probably not how MacGyver would have done it.
He would have had the sense not to put the towel over his head first.
Never underestimate the value of proper vision and sight lines.
I clipped everything that night but my fingernails.
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