E-I-E-I-O

Old McCampbell had a farm, e-i-e-i-o.
So, while I'm home seeking new employment, I'm taking the time to get back down to bidness concerning my music. I'm always playing, but the later part of the year saw it become hard for me to get my groove on, on a daily basis. So now, I'm getting my chops back. Back to the hypnotic metronome, click, click, clicking away, much to the annoyance of anyone within earshot. But what's funny to me is some new elements that have entered my practice regime.
Time was, in my Unabomber shack in Williamsburg, I lived the life of a true Bohemian artist. Bare bones, ascetic, with no television and a mattress on the floor, I honed my craft, old-school woodshed style. By myself, every day, the picture of focus. Now, I am married with three animals filling our one-bedroom apt. Remarkably, all of the animals are fascinated by playing. So now when I play, I've got three "groupies" who like to jam with me. First off, there's Orville. I thought he, big chicken that he is, would be petrified, but quite the contrary. Sometimes I sit on the couch to play, and the Big-O wants in on the deal. Next thing I know, I've got a pig on the left of me, his snout buried in my side while I play. He loves it, unless it gets to rockin'. Apparently he's an "easy listening" pig.
Then there's the cats. Ol' Jack Sprat is a veteran of the process. He LOVES to camp out on my amp while I play, soothed by my butter tones, and the warmth of my amp. He sprawls out on top, reminiscent of the old RCA dog fixated on the Victrola. Meanwhile, Touille has become his lil' protege. Where he goes, she goes. What he does, she does. So now I've got cats sitting on my amp in stereo. Throw in their love of swatting my chords, "killing" my loose guitar picks, and their completely hypnotic staring at the dangling strings when I change them on my guitar, and I find myself asking Bubba time and again, "Do you think Hendrix did this?"