This week, I got sick and tired. In my basement, there is a corner where little light shines. When I originally looked at the house, and ultimately decided to buy it, I never noticed the Brinkerhoff piano in the low-lit corner.

So after eight years of smacking myself in the forehead, I finally decided to do something about it - I wanted it out!!!

By looking at the piano, it became obvious that my house was built around the piano. There was no fricking way that someone was able to get that damn thing down the basement stairs! So a lightbulb went off in my head, and I decided that I needed to TEAR THE MUTHA DOWN!

With all due respect to the Brinkerhoff Piano Company, this piano was a very well crafted piece of art. I only felt bad tearing it apart after I had it down to the soundboard and saw someone's initials ("CLB") followed by a date (2-4-46).

Wow, I had completely destroyed a 60-year-old piano!

I needed to tell this story to get to my real point - pain.

Pain is relative. Pain hurts. Pain is exquisite.

On this beautiful Friday evening, I am sore as hell with bruises over my body. And I feel great!

I think there is a twisted part of us that can appreciate pain, as long as the overall event was rewarding. Look at cyclists... if you simply look at their faces while they are climbing a hill, you can tell they are in pain... but you really don't appreciate it until you try it yourself. When you get off that bike and your ass hurts, your legs cramp up, your back seizes up on you, you're hungry as hell and you see spots, you find yourself smiling, and saying, "Damn, look at what I did!"
And while you start to pass out, and you feel the relaxng calm of unconsciousness begin to wash over you, your head starts to pound...

Like a hammer, bashing the f*ck out of a 60-year-old piano.


Now in the CD player: