Marr Piano Tuning

Scalpels and Scruples

(From the Diary of a Mad Piano Technician)

As you will clearly see from the photographic documentation presented in this and previous entries, we have managed to achieve significant progress toward our goal of reviving this retched creature and, therefore, will continue to maintain our expectations for a positive and pleasing outcome.

My apprehension, however, grows steadily as we proceed with efforts to restore the countenance of our subject.

It would seem that many of our experiments thus far have been destined to falter in some way, wither by deed or design, and that some have produced even more grotesque and horrifying results than we could have imagined.

Yet I am compelled, almost to the point of insanity, by my avarice to complete the project and am unwilling to accept defeat even in the face of continuing reversals.

As is my nature, I will not yield to any challenge before exhausting every option.

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The Face of Discontent:

Our first obstacle was the removal of any necrotic flesh and the establishment of a boundary that would limit our intrusion into the remaining viable material (upon which we dared not operate for fear of exacerbating the existing damage).

In order to maintain our aesthetic principles and produce a more or less symmetrical prosthetic (keep in mind that there were actually four adjoining surfaces involved) we chose to create this frontier at the extreme edge of the most damaged area and continue that delineation from front to back – as shown in this first slide.

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Once this was accomplished, the denuded underlying framework was found to have lost much of its original contour and structural integrity. After careful measurement and calculation we determined that our course of action necessitated the application of audacious and unprecedented techniques that would test our ingenuity and try our patience to their extremes.

Rebuilding the substrate proved to be a decidedly non-trivial matter. Many of our preliminary attempts were absolutely calamitous, forcing us to revert the subject to its previous state and begin anew. Ultimately, however, we arrived at a moderately acceptable cross-section that would allow us (or so we thought) to continue with the next phase of our experiment.

We then managed to graft a scavenged layer of dermis to the first section of our platform with relative ease. But the contrast in tone and texture of this new stratum were far too extreme and clearly no match for the original. Thus began a concerted effort to effect the coloration of both new and old so that they might present a less displeasing juxtaposition.

After applying what we believed to be the least offensive solution to our newly installed surface and concluding the results to be unacceptable, several attempts were made to rectify the situation but none proved satisfactory.

It became readily apparent at this point that the transplant was genetically incompatible with our subject and we conceded to the necessity of its removal. We were now forced to embark upon a search for fresh donor material to replace it.

My frustration had now reached a new plateau and I began to pull at the scant remaining hair upon my scalp.

Although somewhat vexed by the imbalance between our meager successes and numerous misfortunes, I am no less determined to persevere unto the very limit of my endurance and hold full faith in the future of our endeavor.

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As we continue our work on the facial prosthesis, I pray that you not be discouraged by the apparently slow pace of our progress and will continue to read my journal entries as they are here posted.

For even as we fall into the pit of despair, there is forever hope – and I am yet convinced that

Death Shall Not Defeat Us. . .

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Braces & Bolts

(From the Diary of a Mad Piano Technician)

Having cleaned and disinfected the victim, we were now confronted with one of our more perplexing problems. Being faced with layers of missing and/or distorted skeletal elements, we were required to invent bold and unusual methods for reconstructing the underlying framework of our subject before we could even consider grafting any new flesh onto the corpse that might give it the appearance of normalcy.

By now, I trust, you have identified the species of our specimen and I no longer feel it necessary to withhold images of our progress (as I have done before) until the end of the chapter. I believe, at this point, that the telling will be enhanced, and that you may be drawn closer to my plight, by providing photographic evidence from the laboratory that depicts the difficulties and dilemmas we encountered during our experiments.

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The first hurdle we faced was that of re-attaching the two inner layers of the outer rim (the framework that defines the shape of its body), which had been separated during its submersion in putrefying liquids. The problem we faced was the impossibility of injecting adhesive evenly and adequately between their layers, because there were areas that remained bonded and resisted our efforts to separate them. In order to prevent further damage, we elected to perform a series of radical procedures that both frightened and excited us.

We began by injecting a bonding agent into the crevice from atop and clamping it (as shown in this photo) but were left with areas in the mid and lower sections that remained bulging and distorted.

In order to bond these otherwise inaccessible regions we, in our depravity, contrived to bore holes through the outer of the two layers in areas that remained separated so that we might inject adhesive through them.

Another problem existed, however, in the absence of a means to secure the two layers against each other during the bonding process.

The method that we devised to overcome this obstacle gave rise to the title of my story and the photos of that process will provide all of the descriptive elements. Our solution was to bolt the layers together and anchor them to the inner rim (not visible).

In the next episode we will attach another layer of bone to replace that which was destroyed or missing from the corpse and discuss our efforts to repair the horribly disfigured lid (its visible face).

I hope you’ll stay with me as the horror intensifies over the next few weeks.  If you’re enjoying this story, I encourage you to comment (below) and sign up to follow this story (click the check boxes in the comment dialogue).  And, if you haven’t already done so, please register on my web site.

Corpus

(From the Diary of a Mad Piano Technician)

After many years of struggling to recuperate patients with terminal and calamitous ailments, I was recently confronted with a dilemma that I would soon realized to be an opportunity for making a monumental paradigm shift in the science to which I have devoted my life.

The beloved friend and companion of a family that I have know from childhood was recently discovered in a flooded basement infested by rats. The corpse had been decimated and devoured by the water and rodents over several months and was barely recognizable. The amount of deterioration and decay was astonishing. My initial viewing of the corpse left me pale and retching.

Saddened and dismayed by the loss of their trusted family retainer, I committed myself to investigating and rectifying any inequities that may have been at the root of his demise. Unfortunately, my efforts to solve the crime that resulted in this horrifying scene proved fruitless.

Because of their trust in me and my selfless devotion to finding a solution to the perplexing cause of his demise, the remains found their way to my facility for internment preparations.

On the slab in front of me was the most decrepit and mutilated specimen I had ever encountered. The flesh was flailed and peeling from its bones. The noxious stench of rot was overwhelming and almost brought me to my knees. Tears flowed from my eyes at the sight of it and emotions welled from my heart that I had not felt in the many years since the death of my parents.

I was, at first, inclined to relinquish the corpse to the incinerator and be done with it, as I had so many times before.

On this occasion, however, for reasons that I can’t explain, I made a decision that may haunt me the rest of my days. I chose, in my arrogance, to attempt what no man had done before. . .

To resurrect the dead!

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Whatever your impression may be of this little story (which I hope you enjoyed reading),I assure you that it’s true to a word. The victim, however, is not human nor was ever animate.

Pictured below is the subject of my tale as it was first presented to me. The series will continue over the next several weeks as I reveal the unusual and unprecedented processes that we chose to use in bringing this little beast back to life.

In the spirit of Halloween, I hope that you will follow us as we attempt to revive our old friend.

The Monster Will Live Again . . .

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After visiting a friend in an old apartment building downtown on a cool and cloudless summer evening, I walk downstairs to the lobby and, as I near the front door, I hear a loud rumbling sound and people screaming outside. Exiting the building onto the sidewalk the noise level increases to a deafening roar and a crowd of panicked and screeching people are running through the street toward the east. The scene is one of utter pandemonium!

I manage to snake my way through them and, turning the corner toward where my car was parked, have my first glimpse of what has them so terrified.

Descending from the sky above a park in the next block is an enormous, glowing white, inverted cone shaped object belching smoke and flames from rocket engines at its base.

Someone runs into me and knocks me to the ground. I scramble to my feet and run back up to my friends apartment. She’s standing frozen at the window staring down into the park below. . .

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I wake up in a cold sweat and stumble into the bathroom, splash some water on my face and prepare to meet the day. I have an appointment scheduled in the Hollywood Hills so I put the dream out of mind and go about my morning routine.

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My new customers’ piano turns out to be almost as disturbing as my nightmare. The inside is covered with a yellow mold that I’ve never encountered before. It takes me and the owner more than an hour to clean and disinfect it before I can even consider tuning the poor little thing – which required a major pitch raise and some minor action regulation. After three and a half hours of work I collect payment and hit the road.

On the freeway, heading west toward the beach, I suddenly have an uncontrollable urge to sneeze and, with no time to reach for a tissue to cover my nose, a spray of large salt crystals (?) spews across my dashboard and windshield. Alarmed by this I exit the freeway and park so I can collect myself and clean up the interior of the car.

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That evening, after describing these two oddities to a friend on the telephone, there’s a long pause in our conversation. Finally he blurts out “Dude, you were abducted!”.   He was dead serious.

Certainly the coincidence is a little weird and I have no idea how all that “salt” got into my sinuses but I imagine it was a reaction to the mold. My friend wasn’t buying it, however, and urged me to install surveillance cameras in my room to document the next close encounter.  He has a vivid imagination and is a very inventive and prolific song writer who often makes bizarre connections like this which I find enormously entertaining.  I put down the phone and laughed until my sides ached.

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I hope that you [Like] this little story.  Halloween is just around the corner and I have more fun tales on the drawing board of shocking and, dare I say it, terrifying experiments from our laboratory.

Years ago, I went to a tuning outside of a small town in West Michigan, in the heart of the Bible Belt. My customer was an average looking middle aged woman, who worked as a truck driver. She had an ordinary spinet piano in the basement. As I began to work, I noticed about 20 small tables, each with a candle and surrounded by chairs. She said there was a hot tub nearby.

Going to the bathroom upstairs, I walked by a table with a sign-in book, and a money container. There was a bulletin board covered with flyers about swinging sex parties, and couple swapping. Returning to the basement, a light started going off in my head. During the ride home, the light in my head grew brighter. Upon arriving home, I told my husband all about this whole weird scene. In dull West Michigan, we were both amazed. Ever since, we refer to this customer as Mrs. Hot Tub. I went back a few other times, over the years; you know how hard humidity is on pianos.