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  • Writer's pictureChoo Choo

Can't Tuna Fish

I'm writing this as my piano tuner hammers away downstairs on a particularly wonky E3, stabbing the note over and over into the key bed, demonstrating precisely how not to make a beautiful sound. Just about two more weeks left of relative calm, composure, and diligent preparation until October and November arrive like a coupla jerks, sending me into exhaustion mode and this poor blog back into a post-less purgatory.

D4...D4...slightly sharper D4...D4!!!

I've often wondered about what tuning pianos does to one's psyche. Zeroing in on minute changes of pitch, fractions of a hair different on either end, 88 times per piano, 3-4ish times a day. It's gotta be doing damage on a neurological level. I'd ask my tuner, but A) I'm way too shy and B) knowing me, I'd try to be super casual about it and somehow end up offending him in some way.

So I sit upstairs and twiddle my thumbs (which is essentially what this blog has turned into, a thumb-twiddling of sorts) and wait for him to finish...C4...C4!...and make to-do lists and think about score studying until he completes his perfunctory note-jabbing and leaves me in peace with my miraculously well-tempered instrument and that innuendo would work so much better if I were a man.

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