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10 Oct 03 - 10:40 AM (#1033124) Subject: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: John Hardly "Mr and Mrs Braun, have a seat" Doctor Billings urged as he entered the small office. The Brauns sat at the edge of the two chairs facing the desk across from the doctor, anxious looks on their faces. "The good news", he continued, "is that the baby seems to be, in all ways, a healthy baby boy". "But….?" Said Sam Braun, obviously waiting for the other, heavier foot to fall. "Well, as I said, your boy is healthy, but from the appearance of the sonogram he is going to be born without a guitar." At this news, Lilly Braun covered her face and let out a wail of pain. Sam leaned over to put a comforting arm around her, but the look of horror and pain was evident on his face as well. The doctor continued, "I know this is horribly disappointing, and I don't want to diminish your feelings of hurt, but I want you to know that there are wonderful things being done these days in the field of luthierie transplant. I have seen many prosthetic guitars that one would be challenged to tell from the real thing." "Will…..will…" Lilly began between sobs "…will he be able to use the prosthetic guitar like a normal child?" "Why, yes. I believe that with the help of qualified guitar therapists, your son will be able to lead a normal musical life" comforted the doctor. "I just don't know" said Sam. "I've heard that children with prosthetic guitars are destined to a life of songs like "Stairway to Heaven" and "Dust In The Wind". "Well, that may have been true at one time" said Dr Billings, "but we really are in a golden age of prosthetic luthierie. I really believe that a child born without a guitar can now learn to adapt to such a level that they can play almost anything a "guitared" child can. When you leave here I am going to give you the name of a family that has successfully raised two children, both born without guitars. Their twelve-year-old was playing "Windy And Warm" at age ten and his guitar looks so normal that I suspect it would just about take an expert to tell that it's not a natural guitar." "well" sighed Sam, "I guess we've got a long road ahead of us, don't we?" as he stood to leave. |
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10 Oct 03 - 10:42 AM (#1033126) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: John Hardly Jimmy pedaled furiously as he rounded the final corner and headed home. He was sweating from the effort, but feeling added heat from the magazine he had tucked discreetly in his belt and beneath his bulky sweatshirt. In one fluid motion Jimmy dismounted the bike and dropped the kickstand, deftly leaving the bike standing in the garage. He then flung open the kitchen door, and in a voice as airy as he could muster, hollered "I'm home, Mom!" as he fled up the stairs to his bedroom. Finally in the privacy of his bedroom, Jimmy dared to uncover the magazine and take the first good look….. Acoustic Guitar, November, 2003. He felt his heart pounding in his throat as he looked at picture after picture of beautiful acoustic guitars, lingering over some of the full frontal shots of Traugotts and Wingerts and Olsens, and fantasizing over the tantalizing hidden parts suggested by tempting headstock shots and soundhole closeups. Suddenly, there was a rap on Jimmy's bedroom door and from the hallway Jimmy heard his mother, "Jimmy! Are you in there?" Jimmy quickly slid the magazine beneath his mattress, next to the Elderly Instruments catalogue. "Yeah, Mom, come on in." He said, as he tried, with an over-done nonchalance, to hide the rapidly spreading flush that was creeping up the back of his neck. |
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10 Oct 03 - 10:43 AM (#1033127) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: John Hardly "I b'leev I kin fix that'n fer ya mister." Ed said as he discreetly used his tongue to tuck his chaw back between tooth and gum. "Let's jis bring'er inta the shop here and git'er up on th' lift and git a look under her soundhole." "Ed, I'm so glad you are still around" said Mr Braun. "These are such impersonal times with mega-guitar shops selling self-service strings and things. Why, I remember when I was a kid. Back then there was a guitar shop like yours on every corner with a respectful fellow like yourself – all decked out in your uniform and bow tie, topped off with that dapper cap. Why, back then I remember my dad would bring in a guitar and someone would change the strings, check the tuning and even polish his guitar – all the while free with a smile and a respectful "yessir" and "no sir". Times sure have changed." "Yessir" replied Ed. |
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10 Oct 03 - 10:45 AM (#1033128) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: John Hardly {all spoken very quietly} Pat: Well, if you are just joining us we are stage-side at the US Open guitar tourney. The leaderboard shows Emmanuel up by a tremolo but in the last four songs, Donohue has been closing the gap. Donohue has taken the stage. Roger: It looks as though Donohue has chosen his Ryan strung with, of all things, Elixers. A mistake? Pat: I don't know, Donohue has had some struggles of late with extraneous squeaks – He believes that may have cost him both the British and the Masters. Maybe the Elixers are an extreme measure but, you know, LJ has been using them ever since his PGA (Professional Guitarist's Association) win last month. Roger: I think the speakers are a bit strong on the judge's side of the stage. I wonder if Donohue will play that angle for a break. {Donohue plays} {the crowd lets out a collective "oooooh"} Pat: Well, it looked like Emmanuel left a door open for Donohue on that last round, but I wonder if the judges will score this performance high enough. Roger: Yeah, tough break for Donohue. Looks like he tried to play it safe instead of reaching for those high harmonics. Pat: Well, in today's game you just can't leave those harmonics and taps at home. You gotta have game. |
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10 Oct 03 - 10:47 AM (#1033130) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: John Hardly Doctor Edwards watched with interest as the white gloved hand of his assistant, Alice Wentworth, using a soft bristled brush, whisked away small amounts of loose debris from the ancient artifact, uncovering the rest of what appeared to be lettering. "What does it say?" He asked her. "Well, we are uncertain as to its meaning at this point. It appears to be lettering. L-A-R-R-I-V-E-E. Our studies show that this is possibly ancient French Canadian, and dates all the way back to the "Pre-Warm" period. We are still waiting for some kind of translation." responded Alice. "Is there any speculation as to what the device IS? What it DID, if anything?" Asked Edwards. "Well…" continued Alice, "…there was a time during the "Pre-Warm" period … remember now, this is before Canada was THE major world power, and there was still much of MesoAmerica still above water. In the Northern part of MesoAmerica there was a region called "Wisconsin". Back then, the divide between the then less economically advantaged Canada, and this region called "Wisconsin" was referred to as the "Cheddar Curtain" because the ancient peoples of the region showed a cultural obsession with dairy curd products. Anyway, trade was quite vigorous over the "Cheddar Curtain" and one of our best guesses as to what this device was used for?…. …a cheese slicer. You will notice the obvious slots where wires used to stretch from one end of the device to the other. The wires would also span the "reservoir" near the middle. It is surmised that cheese was passed through the wires, being thus divided into five equal-size slices. It would then fall into the reservoir for keeping. We are guessing that the reason we don't find many of these cheese tools as we have been digging in the Michigan/Superior Sea region is because it was so difficult to retrieve the cheese from the reservoir once deposited there. As an experiment in trying to do so, we took a small triangular shaped piece of plastic that was handy and took turns trying our best to get the plastic piece back out of the reservoir. Hardly any of us could do it easily. One can only imagine how much harder it would have been with the wires still in place!." "Interesting" said Doctor Edwards. "Oh!…." she looked around to make sure not to be overheard, and then Alice continued with obvious amusement in her eye, " Y'know what Glen's theory is? Guess what HE thinks this tool is!" "I couldn't hazard a guess" said Edwards "Glen thinks it may have been a…" Alice paused for effect, and then blurted, "…a musical instrument!!!" The two shared a good laugh. |
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10 Oct 03 - 10:49 AM (#1033131) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: John Hardly The room was wall to wall with tuxedoed men and elegantly gowned and bejeweled women. Suddenly, a hush fell over the room. The eyes of all the women were drawn toward the doorway through which entered the tall, dark gentleman. Advancing through the crowd, the most beautiful woman of all, Luthia Rosewood boldly stepped up to the handsome stranger. "…..And you would be?" she purred. "Bond ….. James Bond." He responded Luthia leaned toward Bond, nearly spilling her ample bosom over the top of her golden gown. She whispered "May I get you a guitar?" "Martin. DADGAD not EADGBE" he responded as he absentmindedly fingered his gold cufflink. |
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10 Oct 03 - 11:12 AM (#1033144) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: Uncle_DaveO Wonderful! Dave Oesterreich |
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10 Oct 03 - 11:24 AM (#1033155) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: jeffp John, you are a genius! A twisted one to be sure, but a genius nonetheless! BRAVO!!!!! |
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10 Oct 03 - 11:31 AM (#1033160) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: Partridge Great stuff, encore, encore! Pat x |
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10 Oct 03 - 12:20 PM (#1033201) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: Amos ROTFLMAO, John!! Well done. A |
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10 Oct 03 - 06:29 PM (#1033408) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: wysiwyg I'm working on one, too John, since I know you like people to add in their own stories once you set the tone. It's just taking awhile! ~S~ |
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10 Oct 03 - 09:36 PM (#1033505) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: McGrath of Harlow Yes, when you start it doesn't seem such a big deal. You're at a party, and some smart-ass kid pulls out a ukelele maybe, and gives it a strum. And then he offers it round, and hell, what's the harm, and you're a bit curious. And the others are going to think you're a wimp if you say no. And maybe you don't like it much the first time. Maybe it's not in tune anyway. Maybe you didn't even listen. But it doesn't stop there. Pretty soon four strings aren't enough, and you've got to move on to something bigger and louder. Six strings. Even 12 strings. And you start trying the really funny stuff - mandolins, maybe, or a fiddle. Perhasps even, God help you, some fiend might turn you on to a five string Banjo. And from there on there's no turning back. And what's at the end of the line for you? Stuck in some bar with a bunch of wrecks who have given in to this craving to play "musical instruments". "Folk Music", gateway to degradation and Hell. Say NO before it's too late! |
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11 Oct 03 - 01:36 AM (#1033558) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: rangeroger Hi, My name is Roger, and at last count, I have 374 musical strings in my living room. I can quit at any time. I know I can. rr |
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11 Oct 03 - 07:17 AM (#1033611) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: John Hardly MofH, sounds like you got it bad. That's good! Your "pain" is humor's gain! (oh yeah......humoUr's gain.) |
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12 Oct 03 - 02:27 PM (#1034173) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: John Hardly John Hardly Statement on Electric Guitar Stories. October 10, 2003 You know I have always tried to be honest with you and open about my life. So I need to tell you today that part of what you have heard and read is correct. I am playing my guitar plugged in. I first started using amplification some years ago when my luthier installed a Highlander pickup system in my Martin following a bad open mic in which I didn't feel as though I was properly heard. Unfortunately the Highlander was so successful, that I continued to be a severe pain in the butt to so many who prefer the sound of a microphoned acoustic. Well, I am no role model. I refuse to let anyone think I am doing something great here, when there are people you never hear about, who face long odds and never resort to such escapes. At the present time the authorities are conducting an investigation, and I have been asked to limit my public comments until this investigation is complete. So, I will only say that the stories you have read and heard contain inaccuracies and distortions, for instance, I still have not, nor will I play an ACTUAL electric guitar. But I will clear that up when I am free to speak about it. I deeply appreciate all of your support over this last tumultuous week. It has sustained me. I ask now for your prayers. I look forward to resuming my burgeoning amatuer music career. John Hardly |
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12 Oct 03 - 02:50 PM (#1034180) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: McGrath of Harlow I did not have musical interaction with that instrument... |
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12 Oct 03 - 03:19 PM (#1034191) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: C-flat ...it doesn't count if it's not plugged in. |
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12 Oct 03 - 03:39 PM (#1034202) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: John Hardly Though "humor" should not be explained, I suppose my last post needs this to be understood. |
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12 Oct 03 - 05:10 PM (#1034234) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: wysiwyg This just in-- Hardly Impersonates Asshole, No One Fooled-- Film at 11! ~Susan You won't believe the shocking conclusionnnn! |
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13 Oct 03 - 12:56 AM (#1034393) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: DonMeixner Thanks John. What a hoot. |
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13 Oct 03 - 02:26 PM (#1034774) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: John Hardly ~Susan, Impersonates?! |
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13 Oct 03 - 11:07 PM (#1035047) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: Bee-dubya-ell As pointed out in a previous thread, the work of a potter is such that less than one percent of one's mental abilities is actually needed to perform the activity known as "throwing a pot". That leaves the other 99+% available to wander into weird little rooms where people with more demanding jobs, like making French fries or wrapping lettuce, are afraid to go. In fact, the existence of these particular rooms is information to which potters, and potters alone, are privy. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? The jury is still out. In fact, the jury is down at the music store checking out the used Collings OM that some moron was actually dumb enough to trade in on a Taylor. God only knows when they'll be back. Bruce |
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15 Sep 04 - 07:42 AM (#1272245) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: John Hardly I put my hand across the strings, stopping mid-song, and gave a nod over the shoulder of my brother-in-law, Scott, who was sitting opposite me and listening to me play. "Watch this guy" I said. I was visiting family in Buffalo and Scott and I were taking a break from the family chaos by hanging out in Scott's favorite guitar store. Scott turned in his seat and we watched as a fellow strode across the acoustic guitar room, and approached a group of young players who were gathered there to show off their newest hot licks. We watched as the guy hiked his pant leg up a bit and lifted his foot up on a nearby stool. Then, with crossed arms casually resting on his upraised knee, made as if listening to the young guys with great interest. With somewhat thinning hair and deep laugh lines at the corner of his intelligent blue eyes, he was that inexact look that could be 40, could be 60, but whatever the age, he exuded the look of wisdom one only acquires by having "been around". "This is great" I said to Scott. "You'll have to listen carefully" "You know this guy?" asked Scott. "Not exactly" and I again nodded to direct Scott's attention back toward the action. We just weren't close enough to catch all the conversation, so I nonchalantly hung the guitar I was playing back on the wall, and Scott and I moved a bit closer. I picked up a different guitar, acting interested in it, and Scott and I re-sat ourselves close enough to now pick up on more of the conversation. The fellow was by then engaging the kids with flowery compliments on their play. The kids, in turn, asked him if he was a guitar player, to which he answered that he was… …but, said he, "I'm a bit more of a guitar expert." By then it was becoming clear to Scott that everything that came out of the older gent's mouth was carefully crafted to elicit the next question from the kids. Scott looked at me again with a "What exactly are we watching?" look on his face, but turned back again to the action. "I can tell the difference in tone between any three guitars in this store .... hearing only one string... ...and blindfolded!" he said. Well, the kids got looks from suspicion to incredulity on their faces. "No way!" one of them said. "How do you kids say…..oh yeah…..way." He retorted "Prove it!" said another of the kids. "It'll cost you" he said, "But I'll make it worth your while. I'll assume some of the "risk". How about a little wager?" Well, this little conversation went in a circle for a few minutes with one of the kids saying, "No way. Pop always says never bet a man at his own game" But eventually their outright curiosity got the best of them and they start talking terms. In this "negotiating period" Scott took the opportunity to ask me again, "How do you know this guy?" "I saw him get thrown out of Elderly Instruments one day. I just happened to be there when he came in and…" I interrupted myself to direct Scott back to the old guy. "Watch this" I said. Now the older gent starts describing how the demonstration will go -- The kids can be the ones plucking the string, but each guitar must be freshly tuned. The kids can be the ones who set the blindfold, but the old man gets to set how close his stool is to the guitars when they are plucked. The three guitars chosen for the test must be three different models. They can be the same maker, but they must be different models. And just to make sure there's no trickery, the old man suggests that they get a non-interested third party to be the one who tunes the guitars. "Now watch this" I nudge Scott, but this time I direct his attention over to young kid who has been standing across the room on the other side. He's a skinny kid of maybe 14. His shoulder-length brown hair is hanging beneath a tweed cap turned backwards in beret fashion. Nobody has really been paying attention as the kid is just checking out the guitars on the opposite wall, but now, just as I point him out to Scott, the older guy calls to the kid. "You know how to use one of these?" he asks as he pulls an intellitouch tuner from his breast pocket. The kid squints and crinkles his nose like he's trying to focus across the distance "Is that an intellitouch tuner?" he asks. And then, seeing that it is, says, "Sure. That's easy to use." So the guy has the kid tune the three guitars, The gang of kids chose one from among them to do the plucking – they decided on the D string. And the other kids blindfolded the fellow. One of them even remained by his side to make sure the blindfold stays in place. Well, it wasn't a great amount of money that exchanged hands, but sure enough, he matched up the models to the pluck. He even matched them three more times just to prove it was no fluke. The kids were now circling the guy and peppering him with questions. Even in their naiveté they were at least worldly-wise enough to know they'd been had. They weren't angry so much as just dying to know how he'd done it. The old guy would have none of it, but he was all smiles, and good naturedly rubbing the kids noses in their loss. Then he abruptly looked at the young kid in the cap – the stranger who'd done the tuning. A surprised look of sudden recognition came over him as he said, "You're not……You're Jim South's kid, aren't you?". The kid demured, then shyly replied, "yeah, that's my dad". "You wanna pick a few with me?" the old gent said, "I've been hearing rumors that you're becoming one right good picker. 'zat right?" "I'll play a tune or two, but then I gotta go" replied the kid. Well, I'll tell you, that gang of kids lost a little pocket change in the bet, but now their young jaws just dropped right off their faces as the old man and the young kid launched into the hottest picking that store had likely ever seen. They ripped through "Blackberry Blossom" just for a warm-up, reeled through "St Anne's", and finished up with a medley of "Cattle In The Cane" and "Jerusalem's Ridge". As they played Scott and I enjoyed the picking. It's then that I explained to him that the fellow and the young kid work together (as though he hadn't figured that one out). The guy probably can't tell the sound of a D string on a Martin D45 from the D string on a Cello, tone-wise. But the guy has perfect pitch. Most people don't. If you tune one string to the instantaneous response of the tuner, and tune one string after a moment's decay, 99% of folks can't tell the difference. The old man can. He figured out that if he had the kid tune the three guitars in stair-step pitch to match the value of the models being tested, he could tell the guitars apart, even though, most likely, nobody else in the room could. The old man and the kid wrapped up their play and the young kid wandered off. The old man said a few final words to the kid, By then I had resumed playing the guitar in my lap. As the old man passed our way, I launched into a fingerstyle version of "The Entertainer". At this, the old man did a double take and looked our way. When he did I just winked and said, "See you 'round, Jim". He just grinned. |
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15 Sep 04 - 09:01 AM (#1272297) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: Amos Bravo, John!! A |
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15 Sep 04 - 02:08 PM (#1272658) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: John Hardly Sylvie ducked under the portico just in time. The sky opened up, sending raindrops like so many ball bearings pounding down on the metal roof. Sylvie turned briefly to watch the torrent as it battered a nearby flower bed, bounced off of pavement, and almost instantly transformed the street into a river. Then Sylvie turned back toward the door and started to knock. But the door swung open as she knocked. Though Sylvie hadn't noticed, the door was already ever-so-slightly ajar before she ever knocked. "Mr. Peterson? …….. Matt?", Sylvie called through the opening. When she got no reply she slowly pushed the door open far enough to look inside. In the dark that accompanied the storm all that illuminated the small room was the light of a single floor lamp. This was Mr. Peterson's music room – the room where she had been taking lessons for the past year-and-a-half with one of the west coast's most talented guitarists. But Mr. Peterson was nowhere to be seen. Sylvie cautiously walked in. She looked around the room one more time, and then walked over to where the floor lamp's single bulb cast its glow on a guitar in a stand. There, Sylvie saw this note attached to the guitar, pierced through and hanging from a bit of excess string above the winding post. The note read: Use this guitar today Check the tuning Practice your G scales Follow directions! mp How odd. Sylvie plucked the note from the guitar's headstock and re-read the note. The instructions were unusual because…. well, because that's just not how Mr. Peterson usually did things. Usually he just had her go over what she had been working on over the past week. "Oh well", thought Sylvie, and with resignation she walked over to a nearby chair, set down her own guitar case beside it, and hung her jacket on the back of the chair. She then moved another chair over by the guitar in the stand, sat down and picked up the guitar. She noticed right away that there was an electronic tuner attached to the back of the headstock. She thought about the note "Check the tuning". She lightly brushed the strings and was surprised to find that the guitar was in some strange tuning – but it was definitely a tuning – not "out" of tune. Not discordant. "Hmmm", she thought, "This has a sort of Major 7 sound to it, not a DADGAD kind of thing Mr Peterson usually keeps this guitar in". Setting about tuning the guitar, Sylvie started in on the E string and noticed immediately that, rather than being tuned down a step to D as one might find with so many open tunings, the tuner read "F". Dead on "F". That made Sylvie very curious. She checked the tunings of the other strings and found another curiosity – the strings weren't even the proper gauge. All the trebles were the same, and they were all the gauge of a typical high "E" string. So what was the tuning" Sylvie went down the course of strings, checking each as she went. F, A, C, E, E, A….. ….."that doesn't make any sense" she thought. "Fmaj7 tuning? …and if you're going to do that, why wouldn't you just leave the "E" on top and have the "A" a step down on the "B" string?". Well, since the tuning seemed to be intentional, and it would be hard to tune to standard with the string gauges as they were, Sylvie decided that maybe Mr. Peterson was intentional when he said "Check the tuning". That is, after all, different from "Tune the guitar". And didn't the note make a point of saying "Follow directions"? So Sylvie set about working on finding the G scale in this awkward tuning. Was this the point of the exercise? Was she supposed to discover how to find intervals regardless of the tuning? Sylvie resigned herself -- she was just going to feel foolish until Mr. Peterson showed up. She kept working on finding the "G" scale. Suddenly Sylvie got a funny thought. "What if……" Maybe what she was suppose to do is to try to play the fingering for a "G" scale as if the guitar was in standard tuning! "What would that sound like?" she wondered. Well, she tried to play the "G" scale, working so hard at trying to remember how the interval went. She failed miserably. "I need to just relax and let muscle memory do its thing" She thought with new determination. Sylvie closed her eyes, took a breath, exhaled and let fingers do the motion that they practiced so many times before… .."YES!! I got it!" She opened her eyes and exclaimed right out loud. But clearly, despite her feeling of accomplishment at having nailed the scale, she again wondered…. "So why does it sound like…..nothing?" "What if…….what if, when Mr Peterson said "Follow directions" he was serious? " Now Sylvie's imagination was running just a little wild because, as a self-confessed license plate reading junkie, Sylvie was habitual about finding word patterns in letters. When she first noticed the strange tuning in which she found the guitar, she had immediately noticed that it read almost like words – FACEEA. "Hmmmmm" she thought, "What if it means it? What if, by "follow directions", Mr Peterson means literally?… …what if he really means to "Face Ea"? Could that mean "face east"? Sylvie looked out the window where rain was still falling by the bucketful and determined from the street direction that if she would turn 90 degrees, she would then be facing East. Sylvie turned her chair. It squeaked a bit on the hardwood floor as she turned it. Then, facing east, she closed her eyes and tried one more time to play through the "G" scale as she had just done. What the……????? When Sylvie opened her eyes she was stunned to see that the wall in front of her had opened up!!! Not like a door, but more like a big, irregularly shaped opening. And beyond the opening was a beautiful grassy meadow. In the middle of the meadow was an immense old oak tree and the brilliant sunlight that lighted the whole scene dappled the shade of the huge tree. Confused and stunned, Sylvie turned to look out the music room window, only to see that it was still pouring rain outside! She turned back again to see that the sunny meadow was still there on the opposite wall, but the opening was disappearing, not like a closing door, but rather, as if disappearing beneath a rippling surface. "Should I…… |
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15 Sep 04 - 02:13 PM (#1272662) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: John Hardly Well? "Well what?" replied Sylvie. Well, aren't you going to do that G scale thingy and open that portal to another world? "Now see...." said Sylvie, "..it's just that kind of stuff I hate." What kind of "stuff"? "Portal" she said. What do you mean? Isn't that a portal that just opened up on the wall there? "Heck if I know." said Sylvie. "'Portal' is such a science fiction kind of word, you know?" So.....so if I'd called it something else you'd have gone through it? "I don't know, but I'm not going to be the subject of some science fiction story. that I do know." Sylvie said with just the slightest tone of belligerence in her voice. I really had more in mind something like a "fantasy", not science fiction. So just because you see it as science fiction you're not going to go through the por...er...entrance? You're just being silly. What if there's some really great stuff in that alternate universe? "See?!..." She stared me down, and with sort of a smirk, continued, "....it's just that kind of stupid......"alternate universe" crap that just.......ooooh!.....It BUGS me!" OK, OK, settle down. What if you just do the G scale thingy and walk through that opening in the wall toward that really big tree? I think everyone would like to know where it leads, and I think it would just be nice if you show just a little cooperation. "WHO do you think you are?!", she blurted. "What makes you think you can just order me around?" I didn't order you around. I asked very nicely. And I might point out that I could have ordered you to do it. I don't even have to ask. "Oh really? Who the heck ARE you anyway, and what gives you that right?" She asked (and it was easy to see her temperature was rising). Look, around here I go by "John Hardly" and what gives me the right is that I made you up. I'm making this whole thing up! It's FICTION for gosh sakes! If I want you to do something I just write it and you do it. In fact, I'm the one who started the storm, and… "That was you? Well thank…you…very…..much!!! My jacket is real suede and your stupid rain storm probably ruined it! Yes. Thank you very stinking much!!" You weren't wearing suede. I was specifically imagining you in a sporty Gore-Tex windbreaker. I KNOW that because I knew it was going to rain…..I mean, I MADE IT RAIN, DAMMIT! "Nice language for a god-type being" she sassed. I'm not a god-type being, I'm just a writer… "You!!!!! A writer????!!!!!!" she could barely speak through her laughter. I made no claims to the quality of the writing, just that I am writing this bit of fiction. And just to get back to the point, what ever I write, you do. Look, I even named you Sylvie, but if I choose, I can change it. In fact, I'll prove it to you. You are now, heretofore, to be called "Karen". "I don't feel any different" replied Sylvie. "And look, see that right there? I mean right between the last two quotation marks? Right after the word "replied"? What's that word Mr. Smarty-pants, big shot writer guy? I think it said "replied Sylvie". You seem to be rather impotent after all" By now the replies were coming rapid-fire. She was on a roll. Look, this post is getting long and most folks have probably just given up hope that you'd ever go through the port…..er……entrance anyway. So won't you please? So we can get on with the story? What if I make you into a really great guitar player?! How about I make you better than Matt Peterson?! "Whoa!!!!!!! Now you are talking fiction!! REAL fiction!!.... but maybe we could deal here...... |
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15 Sep 04 - 08:21 PM (#1272927) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: Amos (John, I am awe-struck!! Way to go, man!!!) A |
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23 Feb 05 - 05:46 PM (#1418931) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: John Hardly Lefty: So, what is this? Nineteen an' ought-five already? Slim: Ee-yup. Lefty: 'At's a mighty fine banjer y'pick 'ere, Slim. Slim: Thankee kind, Lefty, but it's no banjer. It'sa Gee-tar. Lefty: Well, it's a mighty fine gee-tar then, Slim. Why, I'd travel me many a saddle-sore mile justa hear you strum a tune on that thing. 'N with this here campfar and starlight, why, that's just about a fine combination. Slim: Ee-yup Lefty: The world's a-changin mighty fast, Slim. Why, right now as we speak, through the miracle of the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe, just plain folks such as you an' me will be able to go all the way across this big ol' country in less than a month. Think of it, Slim! Slim: Ee-yup Lefty: ...and I reckon they'll be folks like me what'd come a good piece just ta hear a fella like you wax all poetical 'n' sing with that purdy li'l gee-tar. Slim: Ee-yup. Lefty: But y'know, it ain'ta gonna stop 'ere, Slim. No sir! Why, I betcha that in just a hunnerd years from now they's gonna be a lotsa "Slims" out there each a-playin they own geetars, makin' they own music. Slim: Ee-yup Lefty: ...an' what with the miracle of modern travel......some day they's gonna be a buncha fellers what'll be able to git together, somewhere's in the middle of the country, fer just ONE WEEKEND. Imagine, Slim, one guy comes from New York, another from Californy, another from Virginny, another from Minny-soda, and jus' fer one weekend they get together an' play they's gee-tars and make fine music like you're doin' t'night. Slim: Fer one weekend? Lefty: Ee-yup. Slim: ...an' just how do you suppose these fellers that's so far apart is gonna travel that many miles t'get t'gether so fast? Lefty: Well, Slim, I 'magine they's gonna hafta fly. Slim: Lefty, I reckon it's mebbee time you cork that there bottle. Yer saddle ain't zackly cinched too tight, 'n' I reckon you done dumped on yer haid. Lefty: Naw, I ain't crazy, Slim. Man's a-gonna fly some day. Slim: So how're these fellers gonna know each of 'em's out there a playin' they gee-tars by 'emsevs, an' 'll wanna get t-gether an pick some? Lefty: The internet, I reckon. |
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24 Feb 05 - 11:39 AM (#1419670) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: HuwG Even in the heat of the late afternoon, the courtroom was packed. Looking wearily at his pocket watch, His Honour Judge Albert P. Lefort listened to the clerk intoning the charge against James R. Pickterns and his wife, two children and wife's uncle. Finally, the clerk wound down and Lefort cocked an eyebrow at the State Attorney. Deborah. Y. McLaury gave her immaculate coiffure a final push into place, rose to her feet and threw a withering look at Pickterns and his wife, who were flanked by State Troopers and looking forlornly at the front of the bench with its embossed state seal. "Your Honour", she said. "It is the State's contention that there exists at the property situated at Flatwound Creek in this State and owned co-jointly by the defendants, a major environmental hazard, to wit a collection of guitars, manufactured by various domestic and foreign companies, and home-made by various amateur craftsman. These and other instruments likely to adversely affect the environment are held by the defendants without any form of permit or licence, and withour any form of protection against reckless or deliberately criminal use." "The gravity of the charge, and the likelihood that the defendants, being without means, will abscond, means that we will strenuously oppose any application for bail." The Judge put his pocket watch away. "Are the defendants represented ?" he asked. James Pickterns looked up. There was a flicker of life in his puffy, bloodshot eyes. "Yer Honour", he croaked, then cleared his throat and continued a little louder. "Your Honour, as this lady says, we ain't got much, certainly not enough to pay a fancy attorney. Yeah, I've got a coupla guitars in my house. But I don't see why my two boys have to suffer 'cause of it. They're both good boys, serving their country, and I'm proud of them. And Uncle Jem, why, he ain't used a guitar for years." McLaury cut across him in harsh tones. "The defendants' children, Rufus and Charles, both serve overseas in the Military. They are being shipped home under custody, for questioning by this State's Environmental Department. Assuming that their parents are convicted, it is likely that they themselves will be dishonourably discharged, at the very least. "With regard to Mrs. Picktern's uncle, Mr. James. R. Klutterberg, it is the State's contention that he supplied Mr. and Mrs. Pickterns with some of the offensive instruments they are charged with possessing. He did so knowingly and without complying with any of the regulations governing the sale and transfer of such, such menaces. As Your Honour must be aware, possession of such instruments with intent to supply carries a minimum penalty of ..." "Yes, yes, I do know the Law", said the Judge, testily. "Is Mr. Klutterberg in Court ?" As Barbara Pickterns raised a tear-stained face to reply, McLaury cut across again. "Mr. Klutterberg is currently in hospital, and it is claimed that he is not well enough to answer charges. But be in no doubt that he will be arrested and brought before this court the minute he leaves the oxygen tent." Judge Lefort waited, but neither of the Pickterns could say any more. He turned over some of the voluminous and incomprehensible experts' statements in front of him, but finally the call of the bottle of Bourbon in the robing room became too insistent. "Ms. McLaury", he said. "I note that the last time the State demanded such damages and penalties in an environmental case, four and eighteen people people had died, and two major urban centres had been evacuated. I note also that it appears to be anomalous that no Public Defender may represent those accused in this case. "But, I am constrained by the Law regarding notorious polluters, and even if the defendants could post bail of any sum, I have no option but to remand them to the custody of the State Corrective Facility. Continuation hearing a fortnight from today. Adjourned." His gavel banged and in a whirl of black robes, he had gone through the door behind the bench. As the State Troopers pulled the Pickterns to their feet, and the newspapermen stampeded for the doors at the other end of the court, the thin man in the shabby suit pushed a tightly folded note into James Pickterns's manacled hand. Later, alone in the prison bus, James wiped the tears of anguish and frustration from his eyes, and unravelled the note. It read: "Dear Mr. Pickterns, I doubt whether you know me, but my Uncle Morty used to be an Attorney in Swampash County, near your home. I inherited his practice when I graduated last year from Idontgoto College. I am prepared to take your case. Yrs. Hiram P. Strumphard" He trawled his memory. Strumphard ? The only Strumphard he had ever heard of had been ridden out of town on a rail in 1884. But if an attorney, any attorney, was prepared to take a case which every other lawyer in the state had treated like a case of bubonic plague, then there was simply no choice. |
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25 Feb 05 - 04:57 AM (#1420401) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: HuwG Michael Gandalfi pored over the shipping ledger. How the hell do you disguise a Lamborghini sports car, several bolts of fine cloth, a silver-mounted shotgun and three people wanted by Interpol, as the ingredients for spaghetti carbonara ? he wondered. The door opened without warning, and two men stepped in. Both wore identical pinstriped suits, silk ties and shades. "Don Vitello wants to see you" said one. He placed a match in his mouth and began worrying at a stubborn piece of tartar. Michael desperately tried not to stammer. His broken-nosed neanderthal minder had made himself very scarce, he noticed. "OK", he said. "He say what it's about ?" "When Don Vitello says jump, you just ask how high", said the other visitor, placing a black-gloved hand into a pocket. "You want to greet him with only three fingers ? That's not showing respect." Michael found himself propelled effortlessly down the stairs of the ofice building as he tried to put his jacket on. He was bundled into the back of a limousine, and reflected that at least he wasn't travelling in the trunk. This time. The dark windows prevented him from seeing much, but it was no surprise when they halted outside the Trattoria on the Lower East Side where the old man held court these days. Don Vitello was seated like a beached whale at one of the tables inside. Michael noticed the guitar case on the floor next to the Don's chair. So this was it, he thought. At least the shotgun wasn't as bad as the garrotte or the cement socks. But the Don pried open the case, wheezing slightly, and produced nothing more lethal than a guitar. "What you think ?", he breathed. For the moment, Michael was too busy hoping that the warm liquid trickling down his leg was sweat. He opened and closed his mouth twice, and managed to say, "Looks nice, boss". Don Vitello frowned. "Looks nice ? That's all you got to say ? You who ran the music store for Frankie di Taranto ten years ago ?" "That wasn't a real music store, boss", said Michael, eyeing the Don's two legmen who were standing either side of him. "That sign was just there so that when Frankie was asking a guy a few questions, they could say somebody was practicing on the violin or the melodeon." "OK", wheezed the Don. "But you should still have made the effort to learn the trade. It's not good for business, when a favourite great-nephew doesn't learn the trade he's in. Now, my son Vincenzo, he's back in the old country. And he remembers it's his papa's birthday and like a good boy, he sends me this and says it'll be good for trade in this place." The Don waved a bejewelled ham of a hand vaguely around to indicate the Trattoria. "Have some guy singing O Sole mio, give the place that romantic atmosphere. Now you still say you don't know about these things ?" Michael shook his head. "Please boss, I'm in shipping, and export, remember ? I don't know all the words to O Sole Mio !" The Don regarded him for a moment with his rheumy bloodhound's eyes. "You disappoint me, Michael", he said sadly, and from the table next to him he picked up a wicked semicircular metal clamp, studded with springs and screws. Panic gripped Michael. "No, boss, please !", he shouted. "I always respected you, I never gave you cause to distrust me ! Please don't do this to me !" The Don frowned. "Hey, this isn't showing proper respect", he said. He waved the vicious-looking clamp. "This, this is the capo di tutti capi." |
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25 Feb 05 - 10:23 AM (#1420666) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: GUEST,Sir Amos of California Man that's good stuff, HuWG!! |
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28 Feb 05 - 01:37 AM (#1422647) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: HuwG (cont.) McLaury sat down. Judge Lefort nodded at Strumphard. Hiram put down the papers, which were trembling slightly in his hand, and stood up. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have listened, no let me rephrase that, you have paid attention to the concluding speech by the State Attorney." He paused to let the signers catch up. He had been allowed to base his defense on aesthetic grounds only after the judge had ruled that the jury be empanelled solely from among the profoundly deaf. This had made the trial interminably slow, but on the other hand, four days ago, one of the lip-reading signers had seen Deborah McLaury make a sotto voce aside to her junior after an objection had been overruled. The signer had faithfully and innocently repeated McLaury's remark, "Why doesn't the old bastard recuse himself and go into rehab ?" to the court. Since then, the judge had been noticeably more indulgent to the defense. At least he was pronouncing Strumphard's name correctly, with the silent 'P', although this was obviously not apparent to the jury. |
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04 Sep 06 - 11:09 AM (#1826598) Subject: RE: BS: Guitarist's Walter Mitty Mind From: John Hardly "Boys…" Mr Wampler the troop leader addressed the young scouts that sat in a semi-circle at his feet, "…the easiest and most accurate way to tell the age of a guitar is to carefully count the growth rings apparent in the spruce top. If you'll notice, as with any wood, the top of the guitar will carry with it the exact age of the guitar by simply counting the stripes of grain…" From the circle of boys a hand shyly rose "Do you have a question, Jimmy?" Jimmy nervously replied, "Um, yes, scout leader Wampler. Wouldn't it be easier to look at the serial number and check on the internet?" "But, Jimmy, that isn't the boy scout way, now is it?" Mr Wampler sternly replied. "But….." Jimmy began again. "Jimmy, do you want your luthiery merit badge or not?" |