There have been naysayers who thought I had not the sack that hangs between my legs to do the necessary to secure the goals I so arduously seek. You know who you are. And you know what?

Shut up.

I have faced, not once, not twice, but thrice the fury of the Brazilian salesman working on heavy commission. But I planned, schemed and executed beautifully, on time and under budget. In heavy traffic I crossed the Beast, found the places, got my wares and made it back alive, successfully.

And it wasn’t in the ease of the evening, after work when time is not a factor. And  it certainly was not on a weekend when I have better adventures to chase, more dangerous and less well-funded. No, it was during a maddeningly well-planned lunch hour that I sought my instrument, my talisman. With all my skills and wits about me did I face the insanity of crossing the Beast at mid-day, when the motorcycle boys are out in full force and when people are hungry. With all my innate sense of direction did I tell the cabbie where to go, in the rain, turning onto streets only known to me from a 300 mile orbit picture on Google Maps. With all my fierce ice-coldery did I stand in the face of the musical store sales-wretch and make him bow to my clear American Express Blue card, which apparently they don’t have in Brazil.

“I’m not sure we can take this clear, futuristic card of credit. I’ve never seen it’s equal.”

“Take it! Take it, vile scum! Feed from my credit, which is immaculate as it is foreign. You shall know no better reward (and I’ll get the points).”

“I cannot as I don’t know the card code. It’s written in some kind of alien language I can’t read.”

“Fool, the card is clear and you’re reading it from behind!”

“Ahh. I hear you master. Your power is great indeed. I will throw in a power cable and carrying case for you.”

“You are wise.”

–

And so it was that I bought my guitar.

Victory over the Beast, and I even had time to eat an esfiha when I got back. I am – and please understand that I say this with all my modesty – the shit.

…and my guitar rocks. Hard.