I haven't posted in a while, as some of you may have noticed.
It's not for lack of things to say (far from it, as a matter of fact), but I've been busy as hell for the past few months. In addition to everything else, Mags and I have expanded our sphere to include copy-editing and advertising. This is hardly what I imagined myself doing when I began writing seriously (neither was working for a newspaper -- ain't life full of surprises?), but it pays better than endless attempts to puke up the Great American Novel.
Speaking of which…
I don’t think I'm destined to be a novelist. In October I churned out 75,000 words (too many of which were articles, pronouns, and conjunctions), but the book became ever longer, with no end in sight. I'm still working on the project, but I need to decide where to take it. It's more-or- less a fantasy novel; for all that it's certain to infuriate the target audience.
Barring Tolkien, Lewis, Dunsany, Zelazny, Vance, and a handful of others, I don't even like fantasy. In the main, it's sappy, pretentious, clichéd and boring.
Yes, we get it. You have seven unpronounceable names. Your ancestry includes beings who, while less than gods, are more than men. You bear a sentient, aeons-old weapon that devours souls, communicates with you, and erases ATM fees from your bank's records whenever you will it. You're physically unfit, mentally unstable, and your survival actually requires more exotic chemicals than I needed to endure high school. Moreover, your graduating class voted you "Most Likely to Have His Remains Added to the Reliquary in the Shrine of Our Lady of the Turd of Misery."
But despite your obvious failings, I'm supposed to believe that you defeat every foe who engages you, and that you get laid as often as cheap tile.
What's that you say?
Fuck me?
Fuck me? Fuck YOU!
I'm calling bullshit on you, "Special K!" Moreover, I'm calling bullshit on your sub-creator. You're not a hero! You're a Rockefeller, a Bush, an Obama, or an inbred Euro-nabob: Were you not born in a mansion, with a silver spoon in your mouth; you'd be living under a bridge on the Southside, with a crackhead gangbanger's dangler in place of the flatware. You are not a mighty man of renown. You are, quite frankly, a wanker.
Having said that, I'll add that I've written a few fantasy shorts in my time (more about 'em later), but I based them on Celtic, Norse, and Buddhist mythology rather than Dungeons and Dragons -- and most of the characters get laid without falling back upon non-human ancestors or magical trinkets . One offering, a short piece entitled Thorkill's Conquest, which I scribbled twenty years ago, actually doesn't suck, and will appear in another book -- as soon as I choose between the PG-13 and X-rated versions. I'll probably opt for the former, as the latter will likely enrage a few of my ex-girlfriends, and I don’t live that way anymore. (I can already imagine the phone ringing off the hook…"Disclaimer, my ass! Who else have you done it with in the funhouse at Myrtle Beach?" Or better still: "Listen, jerk-off! The only reason I put out was because you told me you were in the band. If I'd known you were just helping them set up their equipment…")
Hey, the key to realism is writing what you know, n'est ce pas?
The novel has been fun to write, as I decided to use the conventions of the genre as toilet paper from page one. There are no cutesy, pixie-ish beings as comic relief, no sentient weapons, no wise and powerful wizards, and no talking animals -- except for a wharf rat with Tourette's Syndrome. Without giving too much away, it's equal parts Cannery Row and high fantasy. The working title (swiped from either Ben Jonson or Thomas Kyd -- I can't remember which) is Sons of Swords and Fortune; which, while describing the characters perfectly, is faggy and pretentious. I'll probably change it.
Like Leiber's Fahfrd and the Grey Mouser, the protagonists are a pack of degenerates who'd be more at home among British football hooligans than at Arthur's Round Table. Although the standard disclaimer horseshit applies, some of their antics may or may not have been inspired by actual experiences with my drinking buddies (most of whom my wife and mother consider degenerates who'd be more at home among British football hooligans than… yadda yadda yadda…).
Now that I've gotten ahead of myself, I suppose I should backtrack. The publishing company is operational. Maggie and I have put it together a little at a time for the last three years. (If I ever write a work of nonfiction, it'll address the unnecessary red-tape and BS small businesses face in this country. "Free enterprise," my rosy, Irish ass…) Our debt-free status and determination to remain that way should explain the timeframe.
As I have nothing but contempt and loathing for usurers, I was damned if I'd borrow illusionary money and pay a cabal of tapeworm conjurors interest thereupon. Our way required time and perseverance, but the company is all ours, and we're beholden to no one. We're incorporated, we have a license, we have an attorney, and we've even taken on an intern.
Although being a reporter wasn't always fun, I'm grateful for my hitch with John Fredericks at the Beacon. Insofar as publishing is concerned, it was an education.
Maggie is soliciting contributions for our first offering, an anthology to be released next spring. I'm editing the collection; and -- sweet, kind-hearted SOB that I am (and because saying "no" to one's spouse is unwise) -- contributing a piece under a pen name. I'm also assembling a collection of my own short fiction, to be released whenever I have enough material to justify charging ten bucks for it. In addition to the fantasy shorts I mentioned earlier, Bill and Dave will be lurking within the covers, as will McVann. I also mean to include a period piece set in Scotland -- but lest anyone bust my clackers for bandwagon- jumping, rest assured that my Scots have body-hair, use profanity, and commit murder for next-to-nothing. Except for a few mercenaries, there are no kilts or claymores to be found. My story takes place on the Borders, a few years before Jamie th' Saxt sent everyone packing for the Ulster Plantation.
Self-pub entails certain risks and difficulties, but it affords me complete artistic (chuckle) freedom, and there's no way I'll spend year or more, writing a book for ten or fifteen percent of the swag. This way, once we get our costs back, everything goes to us. No risk of making agents, publishers, and other second-handers rich while we pick shite with the chickens.
Unfortunately, the cookbook had to be shelved for the time being. The underlying idea was making gourmet meals from dirt-cheap imports. Due to the sagging dollar, though, said imports are no longer dirt-cheap. For example, a four-ounce packet of black sesame seed, which cost $0.99 now costs $1.79. Even my favorite brands of noodles (Vifon, Indo-Mie, Nong Shim and Sapporo Ichiban) have increased in price. These developments necessitate revamping and updating the text.
In other news, I hit a book sale this weekend and made out like a bandit. I picked up a hardcover copy of Pasternak's Dr. Zhivago for a dollar; a volume of Cicero's dialogues, Erasmus's Ten Colloquies, St. Thomas Aquinas's Treatise on Law, a book on colloquial Spanish, Glenn Greenwald's How Would a Patriot Act (One of the most important books of the last decade, in my not-so-humble opinion), and a stack of guitar magazines. (Whilst sorting through them, I exclaimed: "What the hell? Who slipped an issue of Fangoria into this pile?" The wife says: "That’s not the cast of The Hills Have Eyes, dear. That's My Chemical Romance." Sorry. That was mean.)
This reminded me that four of my guitars needed restringing. My next stop was the local music store, wherein I did something incredibly stupid. One of the axes in question was a Höfner classical acoustic I've had for thirty years. Like an idiot, I wasn't paying attention when I grabbed the pack of strings. Lazy, shiftless ne'er-d-well that I am, I'd meant to buy ball-ends. Instead, I picked up the traditional variety. Not having played that particular axe in years, I couldn't, for the life of me, remember how to tie the damned things to bridge. Thank God for Google…
Finally, a full hour later, I had it strung. Another hour later, I had it tuned. I took it into the kitchen and played a few bars of vaguely Flamenco-ish noodling for the wife, who, never having heard nylon strings up close, was pleasantly surprised to discover that she very much enjoys the sound of them. I, to reiterate, did not very much enjoy changing them.
"Dear," says I, "next time I put myself through this, feel free to poke me in the scrotum with a knitting needle."
As she is not a neocon, and I am not a Muslim, she declined.
I'm bitching about it (changing guitar strings --not my wife's fundamental decency) because complaining is what I do best, but I admit that the strings are wonderful. They're D'Addario Pro Arte silverwound, and the tone is incredible. Remember your first girlfriend? Remember the first time she said "yes" when you asked her for -- well, you know? Well, these strings are that "yes." They sound that good.
I also picked up a package of 80/20 Bronze for my Fender F-210 (a present from my stalwart, long-suffering comrade, Ronnie Watkins, on my thirty-something birthday) and two packs of XLs -- .009s for my brother's Höfner Jaguar-knockoff, and .010s for my SG.
Whilst restringing the Fender, I hit another snag. The pegs in the bridge were old, and made of plastic. During the struggle to extract them, one broke. This necessitated yet another trip to the music store, and the purchase of multiple pegs in whichever colors were available. When next you see a hippie/bikerish-looking guy playing an acoustic guitar, the bridge pegs of which induce cognitive dissonance or vivid hallucinations on sight; it's probably me.
The 80/20s are very nice. Brighter (and, admittedly, a little tinnier) than the Phosphor Bronze I usually play, but they're growing on me -- kinda like jock itch. They’re light enough (.012s) to spare my dignity (I've been wimping out and playing electrics for the last few months), but just heavy enough to restore my calluses and finger strength. Ran through Ozzy Osbourne's "Diary of a Madman" as soon as I'd tuned them -- and rediscovered the meaning of the term "self-contempt." But I stuck with it, all the same.
Two hours later, my fingertips felt as if I'd tried to pick Darth Vader's nose through his mask, but I made progress. Picking up the electrics, by way of comparison, was rather like playing that pathetic "Guitar Hero" game.
And speaking of electrics…
XL's aren't my favorite strings, but they're not at all bad -- and they're reasonably priced. Once upon a time, I only played Fender "Bullets," but I haven't seen them in years. I tried Ernie Ball "Slinkies" during the late '80s or early '90s and found myself hoping for a chance to kick ol' Ernie right in the -- well, you get the picture. For the time being, I'll keep D'Addarios on my electrics.
Not much to say about the SG. It's a stock, mid-'90s Epiphone. Looks nice, sounds nice, plays nice, and aside from the rinky-dink neck (which feels like balsa wood) I'm very fond of it.
The Jag knockoff is a different story. During the autumn of '82, my late brother expressed an interest in playing -- probably my fault. Not entirely convinced of his sincerity, Da bought him an inexpensive German model (A Höfner 164, as nearly as I can tell) at the Heidelberg PX; reasoning that if Chris was serious, plying him with a better instrument would be a matter of course.
Chris hated the guitar. His disappointment upon opening the box was obvious, and I honestly wanted to be somewhere else, for my father's sake. In retrospect, I don't think his feelings were hurt, but one can never tell.
For my part, I didn't understand. I'd been nagging the old man for an electric guitar since the spring of '81, to no avail. As I'd have considered even a cheap PX or Sears-Roebuck model a Godsend, Christopher's ingratitude flabbergasted me.
In time, Daddy relented and bought me a midline classical acoustic for Christmas of '81 (with a stern warning that I'd damned-sight better enroll in a guitar class within the next two semesters). But one can't play heavy metal on nylon strings; all the more reason to marvel at my brother's uncouth reaction.
My first electric was the payoff for working the 130th Station Hospital Pharmacy as part of the DOD's Summer Hire program. Six weeks of fulltime blood, sweat, tears, hopes, and dreams (and of forsaking movies, the video arcade at Campbell Barracks, LP purchases, and the water park in Leimen -- all heroic sacrifices for a boy not quite fifteen) bought my first real axe.
It was an Aria Pro II CS-350, and a case of love at first sight. Aqua blue and shaped like a lopsided, wasp-waisted SG, it had chrome hardware, two humbuckers, with separate tone and volume pots; a standard, three-position toggle for a selector, and coil taps. Best of all, it felt like a real guitar -- heavy, solid, and unyielding.
One of the amber-colored tone knobs has long since become stripped, fallen off, and rolled into oblivion. My own perspiration has corroded much of the chrome plating, and several frets are worn nearly to the fingerboard. I've played, taught, composed, recorded, and moved on to other pursuits -- while never abandoning that teenage ambition of mine, or the instrument. However battered, it's still a part of me; so inseparably, it will be even when it ceases to exist. The bond transcends sentiment and attachment: when wood dry-rots and metal rusts, when the guitar disintegrates into oxidized flakes and termite-shit sawdust, it will be as heavy, solid, and unyielding as ever -- perhaps even more so.
Hopefully, this explains my failure to understand my brother's fit of pique. He'd been given something for which I'd have killed -- and yet he stuck his nose up at it.
"OK, so it ain't the best axe on earth. But it's a freakin' electric, dude! An' it didn't cost you one red cent! Shitfire! You can even use my amp whenever you want!"
I didn't remind him that I'd begged for the amp, and gotten my wish -- the cheapest POS the PX had in stock. By then I'd already bought a guitar, so was one more year? Save my allowance, work another summer; and a better amp was as good as mine. Another season; and I'd have an arsenal of stomp-boxes. One more; and I'd be back in the Land of the Big PX -- wherein innumerable apsaras of gainful employment supinated themselves, bared their hooters, spread their legs, and promised me a HiWatt, or at least a Crate for my trouble. Why hurry?
Try as I might, I never managed to soften Chris's attitude towards his guitar. He regarded it with undisguised contempt, never touched it, and took up bass in '85. I can't remember him learning more than two songs on the guitar: "King of the Road" and "Black Sabbath." Bass was another matter. He picked up Thin Lizzy's "Renegade," Black Sabbath's "Black Sabbath," Deep Purple's "Love Child," and a few AC/DC tunes; but being a lazy, unmotivated bastard ("We should play more AC/DC. You don't have to move your fingers much, and it doesn’t matter how stoned you are…"), he shelved it and took up vocals when my friend, Jon, bought a Squier P-Bass knockoff.
Chris wasn't a good singer, but he wasn't a bad one, either. Despite his limited range and galling, Maryland accent, he could manage a Johnny Rotten-ish snarl; and never stooped to "Cookie Monster" bellowing. As fate would have it though, his muse eventually led him away from music, to the seedier end of Ponce de Leon Avenue. And if he was happier working construction and car-washes, and spending his earnings on booze and hookers, who was I to fault him? At the time, music was my life -- but it was only the soundtrack to his. He went his way, I went mine -- and gained an orphaned guitar in the process.
In time, it became mine.
Until I bought the Stratocaster, I was rather a ham-fisted player. This is to say that I routinely broke strings. It's also worth mentioning that I'm rough on equipment, period.
"Uh, Dave, buddy? You're a damned good customer an' all, but I just gotta ask you one thing. How the f*** did you manage to melt three tubes?"
"Awnknow. Mus' be the conditions inna g'rage."
"You’re still playing in your f****in' garage?"
"Not always. Sometimes I play in the basement -- and other people's garages. "
"Otis was asking about you a couple o' weeks ago. Said he asked you to audition. I heard Charlie offered you a chance to jam onstage, too."
"Yup."
"Man, I don't get you. What are you? Just a total asshole?"
"Nah. I'm more of a chickenshit. Now can you fix the f***in' amp, or what?"
Christopher's guitar was a Godsend and, more importantly, a backup. Granted, it didn't sound like the Aria, but it spared me the trouble of installing an entire set of new strings when I broke one. Moreover, I really liked it.
Until so-called "Alternative" became all the rage, no-one played anything that looked even remotely like a Jaguar. During the '80s, as a matter of fact, most of the big-hair bands preferred instruments that more resembled microorganisms one might catch in a Haitian brothel. Aside from a brief dalliance with Explorers, I always preferred the more traditional shapes: SGs, Strats, ESs, etc. (The sole exception to the rule is the Les Paul. It's blasphemy to say so, but I've never cared for them. To me, they play like hunks of flotsam, and they all sound alike. I'm far more partial to Stratocasters.)
Given my predilection for all things passé, the outdated look of my brother's guitar appealed to me -- and still does. When next I jam with my cousin, I'll play it and have the wife shoot a few photos or a video clip. I'm sure to look like an art-fart, 90's grunge-rocker -- but I like it that way.
As you can see from the photo below, the instrument has a no-frills, sunburst finish, two ultra-primitive single-coil pickups, one tone and one volume pot, and a mongrelized bridge and tailpiece. Crude though it may be, I love the sound. The bridge pickup is a little tinny, but its counterpart in the neck position has a nice, fat "woman tone" that lends itself to blues-rock -- or to kicking back and mimicking Grand Funk Railroad. The bridge pickup's tinniness is easily overcome by fiddling with the tone settings on the amp and pedals, and it has a raw, jagged, punk sound that warms the cockles of my Grinchy li'l heart. Although it doesn't howl as fiercely as my hollowbody, it's quite capable of spitting out controllable feedback. For a cheapie (and this is quite surprising, considering the instrument's relative lightness), the sustain is very nice, and the Cro Mag bridge makes adjusting the action a cinch.
Best of all, it has 22 frets, and the cutaway is deep enough to allow access to all of them. This enables me to cop the solo from Judas Priest's cover of "Diamonds and Rust" note-for-note, without going an octave lower -- or bending a string until it snaps.
One man's trash is, indeed, another man's treasure.
Höfner 164 (?)
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