sparquelito

I had the opposite situation. I barely had the credits to graduate in my senior year. Didn't enjoy high school at all. In fact I barely tolerated it. We were pretty poor, so I spent all my time at my job as a 3rd Manager at Hardee's. Extra work house meant extra money, and all of us kids helped our mom to pay the mortgage and utility bills. I made good grades in the classes I enjoyed, and flunked the classes that didn't inspire me. I made A's in Jr ROTC, English, Biology, History, Chemistry, etc. But math was another story. My Geometry teacher was bored, and hanging on for retirement. She put me right to sleep. My Algebra teacher was a narrow minded, dogmatic, angry person, and I literally couldn't understand a word he said. I don't mean to say that he spoke in concepts that were beyond my comprehension. I mean to say that he spoke in a form of southern colloquial English that was unintelligible to me. He may as well have had a mouthful of marbles for it mattered to me. One day early in my senior year in high school, a teacher handed me a note, telling me to report to the Principal's office. I left class and wandered the halls, looking for the Principal's office. I had no idea where it was, as I had never been in trouble, and had never the opportunity to visit there. Some girl coming in from the smoke break area pointed me in the right direction and I reported to some secretary lady. She ushered me into a Counselor's office directly. "John, I called you in here today because you lack the math credits to graduate with your class this year." "Wait, that can't be. I attended summer school just to get ahead. I have taken all kinds of math since I came to this school." "Yes, but you flunked most of those math classes. And Mister Fleming says that you regularly sleep through his Algebra II class, which you have failed out of more than once." "Well, this is not good. What can I do to graduate and get myself out of this place?" The counselor smiled. He sensed correctly that I detested the high school, and wanted out of there. "It's actually quite easy. You are about to finish the first Semester and go into the 2nd and last Semester of your senior year. I'm signing you up for Math 101. It's basic math aimed at Sophomore students, and I think you'll do just fine. Complete that class, and you will have enough credits to graduate with your class." "Outstanding. Thank you, sir." I shook his hand and went on my way. Sure enough, Math 101 was great. The teacher was brand new to the school, as he was fresh out of college, and just getting his feet under him. His name was Cletus Ray Faulk, and he was a great fellow. Lean, blonde haired, and wearing black horn rimmed glasses, he was pleasant, articulate, and possessing of a great sense of humor. I was seated in the middle of his class, among a small number of Sophomores, and a larger number of Seniors who, like me, needed that one math credit to graduate. Those guys were all football players, and barely fit in their school desks. I caught fire, and really loved the class. In short order, I was a teacher's assistant, and I spent time after class, tutoring other kids who weren't catching on so well. It was a great time, and one of my few positive memories of the high school experience. I graduated of course, and ended up joining the Army, and flying helicopters. The high math that I later took in college was a breeze to me, as I was blessed with one the best and most entertaining instructors I have ever known, Embry Riddle's Dr. Byrd. I spent most of my Army career as an Instructor Pilot, and I can honestly say that I turned out to be a really good teacher. I had learned the lessons that Dr Byrd, Mr. Faulk, and my Jr High school home room teacher, Ms. Susan Ray taught me; Make learning challenging but fun. Maintain high standards, but keep a sense of humor about yourself. No one single approach/method works for all students. Tailor your instruction toward each student's unique strengths and weaknesses. and, Aim for the highest levels of learning, not just "rote memorization and whatever it takes to pass the next test". Anyway. I'm gonna shut up now. 😐

I don't know why, but this thread and topic reminds me of a school tour to the German Leather Museum (Deutsches Ledermuseum) that I attended in the early 1970's. I went back years later in the early 1990's, and the place and the groove hadn't changed that much. It's still there, just east of Frankfurt. https://www.ledermuseum.de/en What is a common thing that we all use and/or wear, and take for granted? What's the history? How ornate and intricate can it be in art and form? Anyway. I'm gonna shut up now. 😔

Dreadnought. Definition from Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dreadnought_(guitar_type) JBP (or JB Player) was a brand of import guitars. Acoustic and electric. I'm not sure they even make them anymore. Here was the magic guitar that I accidentally destroyed with my lazy packing:

I don't think that there is a brand or a price point to "the nice playing acoustic". I have owned and played some off brands, and I have owned and played some rather dear ones. Hands down the best and easiest playing acoustic was my JBP acoustic electric dreadnought. I got it many years ago, on sale for $138 (down from $189 I seem to recall) and it became my workhorse, go-to guitar. For years. Sadly, I loaded out and packed poorly after a gig on the river years ago, and a stack of PA speakers fell on it. Crushed it to kindling. 😐

So, because I'm a giver and all, I made you your own custom avatar. I call it, "fortyearspickn". You're welcome. 😗

Well, that's certainly the most popular way to play a Fender. Though I do recall one guy famously using his teeth. (A method not recommended for kids wearing braces, by the way.) 😗

A very cool video, and some really nice guitar playing. Thank you for that, Bottier. Have you made a video of how one plays a Fender? 😃

Gosh. Rest in peace, good musician. You are missed. 🥲

I'm working on recording a song that my girl drummer and I first performed at a sports fest back in late September. She helped me to improve the song lyrics a bit, and then we practiced it maybe two times, and then performed it at the gig. But we never properly recorded a clean version of it. As a father of a softball league daughter (and a granddaughter active in her local rowing club), I have a soft spot in my heart for athletic girls. Heather and I laid down a live track last Saturday, with my intent to layer some bass guitar, lead guitar, and vocal harmonies. But I didn't save the file properly, and I lost all that we had done. 🤨

You are speaking my language, John. I love taking pawn shop prize guitar amplifiers and cleaning them up nicely to make them like new. The last one I got my hands on was so dusty and crusty, you felt like you needed to update your tetanus shot before even picking it up.

Praying for you, John. For peace and healing. A story for you. Not precisely the same thing, but I understand catharsis, and how divesting sentimental things can help with moving forward: A few years ago, I advised a lady out west on the potential sale of her 30+ year old Stratocaster. I provided a valuation, and gave her lots of good advice on how to sell it via Craigslist, Reverb, or local Classified adverts. (She lived near a major metropolitan city in the western United States.) The lady was a really nice person, and I liked her a lot. I checked on her months later, to see how she was doing, and to see if she had sold the guitar. She was frustrated, and fearful of meeting strangers, and haggling over the cost of the Strat. Finally she blurted, "Well, why don't you buy the guitar? I trust you, after all!" I replied that the shipping costs would be wicked high, and make the entire venture not very satisfying for either of us. But I did check with FedEx, and it turned out that shipping from there to northern Alabama would be less than $100. And the guitar would be in its original hard shell case. So, I called her and chatted about it, and mailed her a check for $1,300. $1,200 for the 1991 Strat Plus, and $100 for the shipping. She shipped the guitar to me within the week. When I opened the guitar case, in the presence of my wife and my bass playing buddy, we were stunned. The guitar was pristine. Brand new. 31 years old, and it was untouched. Still had the original strings on it. All the original case candy, strap, spare strings, Fender picks, Fender strap locks. The original sales receipt from 1991. It had never been played. So, the back story. The lady who shipped the guitar had been a struggling young waitress in California, decades before. She was in love with a local guitar player. The moon rose and set on this guy. She was mad about him. He had only a crappy Strat-copy, and he had a birthday coming up. So she went to a reputable guitar store, and put a down payment on a brand new 1991 Strat Plus. She didn't make much money, but she paid on the guitar in installments, while the guitar store guy held it for her. At some point, she got off early from work, and drove by the bar or club where her beloved was loading in for a gig that evening. She walked into the darkened club, and headed for the stage area. Back in the dark corner behind the stage, she saw her fellow, leaned up against the wall, and smooching on a little bar girl. He was kissing on her, rubbing her tender bits, and whispering passionate sweet things into her ear. My friend turned and walked out, and never, ever called him or saw him ever again. Months later, the guitar was paid off, and she slipped the case under her bed. It stayed there. Life moved on, and so did our lady. She moved to another State, kept getting better jobs, and eventually married a wonderful, faithful man. The guitar moved wherever she moved, and it stayed in the case, untouched, under her bed. After many years, she decided that the old memories, and the guitar, needed to be put out of her life. The guitar playing lothario had died a few seasons earlier, and the guitar was just taking up space under her bed, and in her heart. She posted to a guitar valuation website where I worked as an Admin and Moderator, and requested the info on how to sell the guitar. A year of communication between us later, and much soul-searching on her part, it was in my hands, and everybody turned that corner. My friend is happy now. Life is good for her. And that (now 33 year old) Strat is my one and only. I can never sell it. I promised the lady that much. It's actually in my Last Will & Testament, going to my granddaughter whenever I pass on some day. Anyway, long rambling story. Peace to you, my brother. Life it going to be good. Not as good as when your wife was here with you, but surely a different form of goodness. I pray it is so. ❤️

The 1971 album, E Pluribus Funk. (Grand Funk Railroad's 5th studio album.) Round, shiny album cover instead of square. Looked like a big, irreverent coin, of course. The title is a jab at the Latin motto of the United States of America, E pluribus unum ("Out of many, one") and translates as "Out of many, Funk". I wore out that record back in the day. 🙂

God bless you, T-man. The prayers of a fallen former altar boy probably don't count for much, but I'm praying for you some peace, healing, and comfort. 😔

And meanwhile, at 221B Baker street; "Blast it all, Holmes. Don't just sit there scrubbing your bow across that retched fiddle. There's a mystery here to be solved!" "And a most vexing mystery it must be then, to have you in such a lather. Please elaborate." He put down the violin and tended to refilling his pipe with a course black shag. "The very thread in which we find ourselves this evening contains a guitar-related mystery, and then so two pages of posts follow of a highly detailed, (and dare I say) dark and sinister allusion to some very unsavory guitar photography staging misadventures!" Holmes scratched a kitchen match across the arm of his reading chair, and spent a moment smoking and reflecting upon the information before him. Finally he inquired, "Is this perhaps a matter for Scotland Yard, or perhaps even some Admin or Moderator to handle? Why should an esteemed physician and London's most famous consulting detective get involved?" "For the thrill of the hunt, man! How many weeks are we going to sit around these dark and musty chambers, reading newspapers and cataloging forensic cigar ash remnants? I yearn for the chase, the adventure, and the quest for truth. An infamous couch has gone missing, and there are numerous dissatisfied, perplexed forum members left flustered and befuddled. Aren't you the least bit intrigued?" "Is there a chance that Moriarty is at the bottom of all this, Watson?" "I'm convinced of it!! A couch once owned by a seasoned, sea-going NCO, disappearing into thin air'? Who else could it be, man?" Holmes rose suddenly and secured his coat and hat. He seemed to have made a decision. "Abandon your house slippers and lace on your sturdiest boots, John. And please bring your service revolver along. I believe that we just may need it." "You mean to say that we are taking on this case, and that newsworthy adventures are surely to follow?" "Yes! Let's move quickly, Watson, and make haste. The game is afoot!!" "Good show!!" 🙂