Give me a warm bed to rise from,
A guitar to write songs with,
A pad of paper for my poems,
A ham and cheese sandwich for lunch,
A mid-day walk around my neighborhood,
A friend to talk to on the phone,
A something sweet to eat,
A clean and tidy room,
A midnight walk up to the deserted campus,
And I will be content.
TS
My sister showed me this song and damn, does its make me feel good.
I have been doing nothing over the past few days other than filling my head with information about guitars. I’ve been researching what guitar is the best band for your buck. I have looked high and low. Virtually and in the store for my perfect guitar…my baby.
I’ve played $5,000 Gibson Hummingbirds. I’ve played $3,000 Martin D-28s with Indian Rosewood back and sides, sitka spruce tops, and mahogany necks. I’ve played 50 year old instruments with more character than an old, smokey-lady’s face.
I’ve talked to salesman from big chain stores, I’ve talked to techs from small mom and pop shops at great length and learned everything I could from their expertise. I really want to find a guitar that speaks to me and I’m doing my due diligence.
You might look at the guitar pictured above and think that I’ve found the one. But I haven’t. The Martin Streetmaster above is an all-mahogany guitar with a “distressed” finish, which makes it look bad ass in my opinion. I might still pick it up one day, but I haven’t yet and this is why.
I got the idea, as I headed to my 4th guitar shop during my quest, to bring my Yamaha FG-203 along with me to compare its sound with the other guitars in the store. To give you an idea, my Yamaha acoustic is currently selling different places online for about $150. Thats $150 for a basically brand new acoustic.
Well, I got to the shop and set up all these beautiful (and expensive) guitars all around me. I played my Yamaha first and played a simple chord progression rather loud. Then I tuned one of the instruments next to me and played the exact same chord progression and compared. I repeated this process with all the acoustics in the room and it was quite a big room.
You know what I found out? I liked my $150 Yamaha’s sound as much, or in some cases, more than I liked the supposed grander and definitely more expensive guitars. I had a thick wad of cash in my pocket when I entered the store – burning a hole like you might expect. I wanted so badly to throw my money on the table and buy a superior instrument.
But that didn’t happen.
I came downstairs at the shop feeling a little dejected. The guy at the front desk looked at me and said, “Your guitar won didn’t it?” He was right, my little Japanese acoustic beat all those flashy name brands.
I might still get a new guitar, but not right now it seems.
I have so much knowledge in my head about body sizes and wood tones it’s coming out my ears. But it doesn’t matter what experts tell you. It doesn’t matter how much better a guitar is supposed to sound. All that matters is what YOU like. What YOU think sounds the best and fits what you’re trying to play. Don’t let anyone bully you into thinking because its got a name brand and flashy inlays that it’s a better sounding instrument.
I got so caught up in having the Martin name across the headstock of my guitar that I almost made a rash decision.
I’m a person who has never been up on the latest trends, but I remember in school wanting the new black Nikes or a Easton baseball bat with the big barrel or getting older and envying the kid down the street’s BMW M3. I want to pay attention to the bullshit of brand names and remember when my $150 Yamaha crushed a 60s Gibson.
It’s hard to find the right poem
for “Clever Poetry Publication”
Something ‘hardy har har?’
No, way too trite and meh
Something ‘weepy weepy?’
Yes, but not quite so weepy
Disjointed? Well, of course
It can’t have those wishy-washy
metaphors or ones we’ve seen before
In fact, your meaning has to be so so
Obscuro that well, there is no meaning
Does it have any je ne sais? “Oh, loads
of it!” Editor #1 says to very cute, very cute
Editor #2 with those spectacles and the
joie de vivre hair color from Laurelle Paris
When I look at my stuff, it’s all like:
Too much concrete! Not enough postmodern goop!
Then I slink away, reduced to nothing
but bottom-of-shoe-ooze
What happens when you push back
a little and make fun of “Clever Poetry Publication?”
“I dunno,” I say out loud to a room full of nobody
“I guess we’ll find out”
Today, your son is born. You are elated for the future in store, but then you remember that in your teenage years, you promised a witch your first born son in exchange for a spell. You reluctantly tell your spouse only to find out that she has promised your first born to a different witch.
Bacon with your pancakes? Obviously.
Bacon on your hamburger? Yes (unequivocally).
Bacon bits on your donut? (surprised) Please!
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
It’s 4:35 in the am. I roll over and feel the assorted liquors sloshing in my stomach. Last night was a blast, but was it indeed, worth it? The age-old question on every (bachelor) party-goer’s mind.
The last bar was a mistake. None of us were even conscious. Dancing like boneless, mindless, gelatinous, undead things; with just as much rhythm. We were however, the life of the party – almost forcing people to join our debauchery – how our mothers would be proud.
Even more of a mistake than the bar, was the street fare from food trucks. A kebab should never be green no matter what country it’s from!
Face down in the tan carpet, I pass back out until 7:15am dreaming of falling ill at sea aboard a sinking pirate ship, captained by none other than the perpetually disappointed, Mrs. Shugg, my elementary school reading teacher.
Then something breaks my slumber.
Something unmistakable. Something devine.
You know what it is. I don’t have to tell you that it is made of pork belly. I don’t have to tell you that the ideal strips are that perfect blend of succulent and crispy. Eggs’ forever counterpart, going together like jam’s synonym and spreadable peanuts.
It’s Bacon motha lickas! (Sorry, that’s the unfortunate name I affectionately call my friends)
Somehow that hangover is all gone. I seem to have energy to burn. My legs should ache from carrying the soon-to-be-groom on my shoulders all last night, but they do not.
Why you ask?
Because it’s bacon motha lickas!
The smell, it always starts there: smoked meat that seems somehow candied like your favorite burbon-whiskey. Wafting into the room of 10 men sleeping on the floor, covering their disgraceful scent with something heaven sent (damn, I is so clever).
The sizzle: fats frying in grease might as well be the national anthem (and Ron Swanson our president).
The taste: oh the taste!. They say red meat is going to kill us. I say, I’d rather die with freedom in my mouth than live a life without bacon!
You don’t need an alarm clock after a bachelor’s weekend if someone brings the bacon. That’s the kind of power I can get behind … the power to set time.
Tyler Strittmatter 