Folks, I have always liked to think of myself as a modern day Renaissance Guy. I have a Bachelors Degree in Science. I minored in Psychology. I studied literature. I play guitar. I climb mountains. I hunt. I dance with the reckless abandon of a 4 year old. I can do math in my head. I know how the internet works. I jump. I clap. I make a mean turkey sandwich. Kids like me. Mothers adore me.

All of these things I do, I do with pride - with Renaissance Pride. I've always assumed that, as a Renaissance Guy, I would excel at everything I tried. Up until recently, I have been more or less right.

A while ago, I had decided that it was high time that I start writing music. The Artist that lives in my head had been shaking his fist, screaming and stamping his foot. He was bored. He was frustrated. He was mean.

Normally, I placate this bothersome little git with a carefully measured volume of gin. Artists love gin. Even imaginary ones. This time, however, I didn't. Instead, I listened to him. He told me, in that horribly contrived French accent of his, that I needed to expand my artistry, you see. He smoked a long, slim cigarette and paused to blow rings in between sentences. It made my eyes water. The Artist-that-lives-in-my-head told me that I needed to touch more people with my craft. I told him that I needed to touch more people, alright, but not with my craft. He swore and threw his beret at the backs of my eyeballs. Eeediot, he called me. I shook my head violently until he fell down, knocking his paints all over the place.

That'll learn him.

I decided, though, that the obnoxious French bastard might have a point. Perhaps it was time to stretch my wings again. It had been a while since I had tried something new. Well, actually, I should clarify that - it had been a while since I had tried something new that didn't involve physical anguish. But what to do? Paint is expensive and messy. I already knew how to play the guitar. Writing a novel takes too long. Poetry is gay. Sculpting requires a lot of space. Pottery is a little cliché. Acting is… well, acting is just part of a normal day for me.

And so, I went through the list of various forms of artistic expression, eliminating each, one by one, until I was left with just three to choose from: Post-modern interpretive dance, lyrical song writing, and macramé. The dance thing, frankly, seemed like more work than I was up for, and I was pretty sure that macramé wasn't going to get me chicks. That left song writing.

Fair enough, I thought, song writing is cool - I can do that. I grabbed my guitar, the Beginners Guide To Chords, a pad of paper, and then plopped my creative ass on the sofa.

It went expectedly well. In a few hours I had spit out a half dozen workable chord progressions and melodies. I had pieced together 3 terrific bridges. The lyrics poured into place.

At then end of the afternoon, I stood back and looked at what I had created. I smiled at my newfound talent. When you're me you get pretty used to picking things up quick, but it's important to never let that desensitize you to your own greatness. The songs were good. They were clever. They were witty. They syncopated. They staccatoed. They arpeggiated. They did a bunch of other things that don't even have names yet. Yet.

I blew on the tips of the fingers of my left hand. They were hot and red from over-enthusiastically bearing down on the strings of the guitar. Just then, Shaggy D, my roommate/slumlord walked in.

"New nail polish, Flip?"

"Shut up and listen to this…" I was too excited about my new songs to sling an insult back at him. I started strumming out the intro to one of the new tunes.