Pressing pause on the Melbourne Olympic album. I’m just not feeling any sort of inspiration at the moment, maybe because it’s too cold to frolic outside in the Melburnian air and drink in the ambient juices. My own juices are running low, so I need to visit the metaphorical juice bar so I can top up on the low-sugar, natural flavour kind. I also like it with the metaphorical juices have antioxidants.
What was I talking about?
Oh yeah, dry needling, which is the bee’s willingly-given and sustainably-sourced knees. My friend Connie (short for Lolitacongee) went to one of those dry needling courses hosted in the middle of Melbourne, and I was healthily skeptical. Acupuncture is a proven science with thousands of years of development. Who IS this usurper, this strange art of unknown origin, this scandalous copycat with the beautiful mysticism removed?
Well, it’s great, it what it is. My back has been killing me ever since I started trekking to the CBD with both my cello and my Japanese shamisen, which I can play at the same time by the way. One of the local shop owners came out and gave me a hundred dollars to stop playing outside, because I was ‘scaring away the customers’. Uh-huh, yeah pal. Just because you’re short-sighted with your music tastes doesn’t mean everyone else is.
But those are heavy instruments and my back was killing me. Connie came back from her dry needling course and asked if she could practice, I said ‘Connie, you can work your modern medicine magic once for everyone to see how bogus it is’ and now I feel like I want to run seventeen kilometers. Give me more dry needling; I can admit when I was wrong.
Heck, I wrote a song about this triumph: ‘Oh, this Dry Needling Course, It Makes My Spine Sing, Ohh-La-Baby-Yeah, Needle Me Up!’
As always, it’s a work in progress. I’m thinking I can pull it off with a combination of harpsichord and honky-tonk piano, leaving me free to also sing the lyrics.