Posted by: Kathryn Hulick | October 8, 2009

The Bunny Songs

Waterville, Maine. February 21, 2004.

2-21-04 Bunny Show - 12

Hey, dude. What are you looking at? You wanna know how a normal guy ends up in a skirt, bunny ears, and sporting signatures all over his stomach?

It has nothing to do with beer. No wine, champagne, vodka, moonshine, and no other alcohol, neither. But that’s the easy explanation. The one I tell people who get too curious.

If you promise not to ask any questions, not to write it up in your blog or tell your mom, I’ll give you the real story.

It has everything to do with the guitar.

You know, you pick one up at a garage sale, 10 bucks. The guy across the hall knows how to play, he teaches you a few chords. Next thing you know you’re printing out tabs for the greatest rock of all time, feeling on top of the world.

That was me, normal dude with a bad voice and a pretty good hand at the guitar. I was a natural. I could play Free Bird and Stairway to Heaven with the best of them.

But that’s when Inspiration snuck in. Watch out for that bitch — she bites. There’s nothing like angry Inspiration to make you wish you never saw that guitar at the garage sale.

My first song was mostly strangled singing while I played the same stupid three chord riff. No good. But a week or two later… you would have thought I was possessed. Maybe I was. Eyes shut, my fingers danced across the strings, finding patterns I’d never even practiced. My voice dropped at least an octave, singing notes I had no idea I was capable of.

My roommate ran down the hall to get his girlfriend. The guy across the hall stopped writing his research paper and stood in the doorway. By the time I opened my eyes, I was famous.

“Play it again, dude?”

“Who’s that song by? I gotta download it.”

“Nah – he made it up!” The dude across the hall couldn’t be fooled. He knew something’s up, and reached out to take my guitar.

“You better give it a rest.”

“No!” I held the instrument like I guess how you cradle a newborn baby. I even stroked the sides a little, my vision tunneling til all I saw were the quivering strings, begging me to play more.

The next song zoomed up and down scales, mostly minor keys. I don’t remember the words, but whatever they were people were singing along by verse two.

That’s when I got the first signature. Roomie’s girlfriend walked right up, lifted my shirt, and signed my back while I was playing. I guess someone dared her to do it–figured I was probably too stoned to notice.

I noticed all right, but did I care? No way. All I wanted to do was keep playing.

Between songs, the shirt came off. The marker was passed around. More fans drifted in until the room and hallway were packed.

“Hey dudes, sign your name!” Laughter, but quiet, they wanted to hear.

Hell, I wanted to hear. Did I have any idea what was coming next? No way. Inspiration had me by the throat, and the spell was spreading. Roomie’s girlfriend started dancing first, swaying like she never would if anyone were watching. Her eyes gazed off somewhere distant, and she grabbed my cell phone charger, spiraling it around her arm like a weird bracelet.

Soon everyone was dancing and wearing weird stuff. Someone found me the bunny ears. Someone else threw me a skirt. No idea how that got on, since I never stopped playing. Must have been a neat trick, though.

My fingers were cramping up, the index finger felt ready to crack open and bleed, but I couldn’t stop. The Pied Piper of the University, I jumped up and led my followers up the hall, down the stairs, out onto the lawn, back into a dining hall.

The crowd kept growing, and I forgot my own name, forgot everything but the strings and the songs.

How’d it all end, you wanna know? Wasn’t anything I did. I was gone, man. All five fingers bleeding on the strings.

The guy from across the hall finally broke the spell. He grabbed his own guitar and played the worst chords imaginable. Horrible twanging messes.

I thought the crowd would kill him. I thought I would kill him. But he was smart–he climbed up high on a cabinet first, and no one was clear enough in their senses to get at him.

A second later, I looked down at my scribbled stomach, my skirt, my boots tied with ribbons.

“What the hell happened?”

The guy jumped down. “Hand it over, k?”

I took off the guitar, and he smashed against a table.

“What did you do that for?!”

“I’ll get you a new one. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Dudes still come by begging me for one of the Bunny Songs. That’s what they call that night. But I don’t remember one note. I’m back to playing Free Bird on the guitar the guy across the hall pitched in to get. $80 used at a music store.

No Inspiration here, and I hope she stays away.



  1. wow! you are on a roll with all of this posting, lately!

    • I actually challenged myself to post every day for the entire month of October. So far, so good…

  2. cool…..and the picture is awesome too, haha.

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