If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Of course, if everything's broke, you better leave work early.

There's a philosophy in certain businesses called "Planned Obsolecence." Perhaps you've heard of it. If you haven't, you might be able to surmise what it's all about. If you're not in either of those boats, sit down over here next to me. I'll explain.

Basically, the idea is that you create a product that is actually engineered to break after a finite number of months. Toasters are famously shitty this way. So are American cars. I've also come to the conclusion that iPods have a chip inside them that causes self-destruct, Inspector Gadget-style, about thirty days after the warranty expires, so that smug pricks at the Apple store can put it next to their ear, shrug, call you "bro," and explain that there's nothing they can do. But you can get 10% off your next one. Such generosity at that store; Mother Theresa has met her match, posthumously.

Why do I mention this? It's because, after a week of leisure, procrastination, and practice on acoustic instruments, I suddenly realized that nothing I own works. This goes beyond the holes in my shoes, and my pants, and, come to think of it, this shirt, which, all considered, would make my mother quite sad, being that her son currently resembles a scarecrow in dire need of a haircut. We're talking about instruments. See, my amp broke a few weeks back. Why? Because I was playing it, silly. And every chord too. Because, you know, I was using those and apparently unplugging them too often. And my poor little melodica has a smashed key, so that note you're hearing, that's a F sharp, which is a bad note to hear when you're trying to play a natural C. It sort of sounds like a cat dying. Loudly.

(Cool tangent: That particular interval is called a diminished fifth, which was considered in earlier days to be downright diabolical and is now used primarily by fat, angry metal dudes.* Seriously).

So, today, I go make repairs. Hopefully. As long as people, you know, show up at their stores when they say they will. Plan B, as always, is to put on my leech robe and get leeching. If you have one of the above pieces of equipment & don't want to loan it to me, turn your phone off, throw your computer out the window, ignore the smoke signals I'm sending from this roof on Market Street.

*Apologies to Tony Iommi.