sparquelito

I recall that Gibson produced some inexpensive student guitars with Maestro on the headstock. https://reverb.com/item/49320576-maestro-les-paul-junior?utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=12293041888&utm_content=campaignid=12293041888_adgroupid=117735256979_productpartitionid=1464137203824=merchantid=239655408_productid=49320576_keyword=_device=c_adposition=_matchtype=_creative=497345965888&gclid=CjwKCAiA55mPBhBOEiwANmzoQg0LxsFyXxf3Qv3j_a6sX6JBqM7-ossc9sZ824l1rkptF-uZthVCjxoCQIUQAvD_BwE

Great song. I do so love it. One of my favorite Don Henley and Dan K songs, ever. A wry, sardonic commentary on the American news media, and their vulgar practice of dishing dirt for corporate profit. Thanks for sharing that splendid live version, as I had never seen that one before! The Eagles were tight that night, for sure. As usual, I imagine. I was never blessed to see them live. And such joy on display onstage, at nearly the 3:00 minute mark. I love that. Joe Walsh's guitar interplay with Steuart Smith near the 5:00 minute mark is sublime, and noteworthy for its attribution to Don Henley's solo recording from many years earlier. Again, thanks, zigzag. I enjoyed that, and it reinforced my resolve to dig deeper into the Eagles and Joe Walsh playbook in my lead guitar playing. 🙂

I'll just leave this here. 😗

I don't cop to being a scum bag with my first wife, zigzag. I was good to her. And I $till am, (hand$omely good to her). We just didn't fit, get along, or enjoy life with each other, as each of us were. And I must disagree with you, re; shouting out details on a public forum. On a public forum, shouting is generally typed in ALL CAPS. In the therapeutic sharing of my story, (the beginning and ending mostly true, and the middle section pure fantasy), I made sparing use of all caps. And then only where it served the delivery of the story. Let's face it; Songwriters and authors who express their personal stories, triumphs, tragedies, and pain in a song or a novel are just doing what songwriters and authors do. In turn, I'm just doing what thousands of other writers, autobiographers, bloggers, and creative fiction writers do. If you would rather I kept my absurd and fanciful writings to myself, I am willing to submit to one compromise: Whenever I post anything on here that is even remotely creative, personal, painful, or intimate, I'll post a disclaimer at the very top of the posting. That will afford you a fair warning so that you may stop reading, and move on to something more interesting. Fair enough sir? 🙂

a. Reflecting upon (and writing about) a miserable relationship many years after it was all over is a lot different from appearing on trash television and being paid minimum wage to screech like ill-mannered zoo animals about it before thousands of viewers. and, b. Is Jerry Springer still on television anymore? 🤫

I really love your artwork as well, but as a sketch cartoonist mostly, I am not qualified to comment correctly. I know what I like though! 😃

It sort of depends upon how bad it really was. I must confess; I have crystalline clear memories of many chapters of my own life, and it has been a rich, happy, and rewarding life, all in all. But I can scarcely remember: * the last two years of my first marriage and, * anything at all about my three years in high school And that's okay. 😐

Wow, she's a beaut, Clark. I myself love the black pickguard, but White Pearl is great too. Anything but Mint Green. 😉

I would not say that I am a huge fan of Dave Grohl, but I admire a lot of what he has accomplished. I like most of his songs. I loved his movie Sound City. And he seems like a good dad himself. His daughter seems happy and well taken care of. When I was a dad with my daughter living at home, I must confess that I didn't listen to music to impress anybody. I just listened to that which interested me, turned me on, or inspired me as a guitar player. Being cool wasn't my thing. My first wife surgically removed my ego and self esteem, so endeavoring to woo any people, let alone neighborhood kids, wasn't part of my genetic makeup. My daughter pretty much thought that most of what I listened to was weird. Though she liked most of my original songs and my guitar playing. I am glad that my daughter (and my granddaughter) have lived to see me perform with the band, and in two-man performances with their uncle, and enjoyed the live music. Weird as it may be some times. 😐

Very nice, Stephen. I particularly liked Try Outs and My Dreams. 🙂

On 1/20/2022 at 10:48 AM, Farnsbarns said: Blimey. Have you ever written a book? You should. I'm writing one right now. One absurd, fantastic, painful chapter at a time. On 1/10/2022 at 07:41 AM, kidblast said: I laughed, oh yes, I laughed. quite a few times.. and.. who says you can't write? It may have been the ex-wife. I'm not sure. Truth be told, the healthy mind suppresses miserable memories, by and large. I may have made up some of that chapter there. 😗

Not even Frank Zappa, Annette Funicello, and Jack Nicholson could save the Monkees from the movie Head. A nice period piece though. (If you were mega-stoned during that period, that is.) 😑

I just looked around the interwebs, and it seems like you did really well at $99 a bottle. Good job by you!! PS I was in the right field bleachers when Cal Ripken Jr played his last game at Kaufman Stadium. Good times. 😁

I think it will be entertaining. Let's face it, it has to be better than: Head by The Monkees, KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band featuring The Bee Gees and Peter Frampton, and, with apologies to Prince fans, and bear in mind I loved Prince's guitar playing, Purple Rain I will gladly watch it some day, for free, on youTube. 😜

Did somebody say jib, or giblets? I love giblets. 😜

Oh MAN, I love that. I must confess, I'm not a big ES-335 fan. But that is one gorgeous guitar. And the P90's make it special and head-turning to me. 😍

My hearing actually tests quite well, considering that I have spent a lifetime in and around loud aircraft. A flight instructor tightened me up when I was just a young pup for not wearing my ear plugs out on the flight line. "You wear these things. You aren't going to be deaf like me, Junior!!" I have worn ear plugs in my whole life since, around aircraft, while mowing the lawn, and when using power tools. I do have a pretty good case of tinnitus however, and that can be maddening at times. The VA, blessedly, awarded me 10% disability for the tinnitus. That, coupled with neck, back, and joint issues, puts me at fiddy percent. So life is good. 😑

They sure did. And British students in the East End called him, "Sir" for a time. ☺️

Oh my gosh, now Sidney Poitier. Feb. 20, 1927- 7 January 2022 I was just watching (on my computer on youTube) Lilies Of The Field the other day. It was so good. So sad. 😑

This is very exciting!! 🙂

I don't think the problem was with either of us giving or getting, and in what ratios. It was most likely a matter of the 'fit'. We just never fit together. But alas, we married way too young, and didn't realize that we didn't really like each other until we had a daughter to raise. I'm proud to say that my daughter survived it all most splendidly. 🙂

It's okay. When moving past surviving a miserable or traumatic experience, sometimes just the writing and sharing can be cathartic. 🤫

Some people finish a book off, and they say, “Well I killed that book. Time for another one.” I killed a book one time. In a manner of speaking. It was about 25 years ago, in another life and another marriage… Her: “ Ahem… What are you planning to do today after the game is over?” Me: (Relaxing on the couch, watching the Dolphins and the Bills on TV) “Huh?” Her: “I mean, do you have any special plans after you’re done watching football today?” Me: (Sinking into the couch a bit, and taking a careful sip of beer from my commemorative 1972 Perfect-Season Dolphins mug) “No, no special plans really. The Packers come on after this game is over, and I think there’s a TNT or ESPN broadcast this evening. All things considered, I’ve got my day pretty well mapped out.” Her: “Well, I was hoping we could sit down together some time today, and talk about this book I’ve been asking you to read.” The next swallow of Hefeweizen hung in my throat. ‘Oh God,’ I thought to myself, ‘She wants to talk about Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, by PhD John Gray. The pop-psychology drivel du jour.’ She had been leaving it by my bedside for weeks, hoping that I would read it, and learn something from it about warm, loving, and committed communication. The missus and I were in a slump, and hadn’t actually talked or had marital relations in many months. Me: (My eyes wandering back to the game) “Um, we’d better plan on doing that another day. I started the book, but I haven’t quite finished it. We better let me read it all the way through before we try to have a conversation about it.” I feigned sincere interest in a Ford Truck commercial, and hoped that she would just go away and leave me alone. The truck commercial finished, and the game resumed. I glanced toward the doorway, and took another sip on my beer. No dice. She was still standing there, holding that book like it was The Ten Commandments fresh from the burning bush. Crap. This wasn’t good. Her: “Well, how far did you get with it? I stuck it in your suitcase when you went TDY to Texas last week. Surely you had time to read the whole thing while you were out there at the Bell Plant.” My mind wandered for just a second, recalling the good times the previous week out at the helicopter plant. And the evenings spent drinking beers and splitting orders of fish & chips at the Fox And Hound with Gonzo, Alan, Steve, and Dan. What a great bar, and what great guys! That damn book had stayed nice and safe in my suitcase back at the hotel the whole time, naturally. I’d actually tried to read it a few weeks earlier, but found it a bit too fluffy and cutesy, in a repetitive, kinder-gentler New Age candy-*** kind of way. The very thought of having to actually read that chicken-**** book from cover to cover made a load of bile and beer want to rise up in my throat. I killed my Hefeweizen, and stood up to face the music. Me: “Look, I just didn’t find that book to be particularly well-written. It doesn’t speak to me at all. And all that ‘women are kind, nurturing, communicative nest-builders’ and ‘men are bumbling, ignorant, clueless Neanderthals’ is pretty damn insulting to my intelligence, if you want to know the truth!” I shouldered my way past her, and went to the kitchen sink to rinse out my mug. I then hit the ice-maker for a short load of cubes, and brushed past her again on my way to the bar. This conversation was going to require some Jim Beam. Her: “Look at you. You’re going into your cave. You’ve lost touch with our intimacy cycle, and you’re going into your cave. It’s all right here in this book!!” I sighed. I kept my back to her as I cracked open the bottle of bourbon. I poured a tall measure of the comforting brown liquor over the ice, and savored the smoky-sweet aroma for just a moment. I kept my eyes closed. Me: “I’m glad that book is helping you to figure it all out, really I am. But I just can’t do it. I don’t want to discover my emotional needs, I don’t want us to write each other love letters, and I really don’t want to learn the Venusian phrase dictionary!” I tried not to raise my voice, but it was impossible at this point. I popped open a can of Diet Coke, and added a small amount of the mixer to the four fingers of bourbon in my mug. I took a large swallow, and tried to enjoy the icy burn of the drink going down. I turned, and looked her in the eye. “You know that I love you, and I know that you mean well. But I can’t do that book. It’s no good. Just like this marriage. No good.” Her: “John Gray is a PhD! He’s a doctor! He knows how to write, he knows what he’s talking about!” Me: “No, he doesn’t. His book is insulting, it’s repetitive, and it’s poorly written.” Her: “You’re so Goddamn smart. So tell me, how would you improve that book!!?” She snarled, "You’re no writer, you’re just an Army pilot. What could you suggest that would make this more palatable and useful??!!” I must admit that I saw red for a moment, and I damn near lost my cool. But I didn’t, I maintained my composure. Me: “Well, for starters, it’s too damn long.” I grabbed the book from her hands. “See here, he makes his point in the first two chapters, but then he rambles on and explains that in order for his ‘lessons’ to take root, he must repeat himself again and again over the next 15 chapters!!” Suddenly, I tore the book in half right at the spine. It ripped with a satisfying noise. “THERE!! Now, it is a much more useful marriage manual!” Her: “Gasp!!” She flinched, and involuntarily tinkled a little bit. Me: “Here, let me edit it down a little more!!” I tore the book into thirds and fourths. With each tear of the spine I became a little more maniacal and rabid. And satisfied. “YES!! That’s more like it!!” Her: (Crying now, loudly) “You jerk! You’ve ruined it now!!” Me: “NO, I was just taking your advice, and making some improvements. In fact, I think I’ll improve it even further!!” I lurched toward the bedroom, and retrieved a rather large Smith & Wesson handgun from under the mattress. “Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus indeed,” I huffed. “It oughtta be Men Are From Mars, Women Ought To Go To The Kitchen And Fix Me A Sandwich!!!” Her: (Following me out the back patio door) “STOP IT!! What are you doing?” Me: “Just exercising a little creative license!!” I tossed the drawn-and-quartered book out onto the back lawn, and drew a bead on it. “So, Dr. John Gray… tell me punk…do you feel lucky??” BLAM, BLAM, BLAM!! I pumped some .357 magnum hollow-points into the shards of the marriage manual. PUFT, PUFT, PUFT!! Three very satisfying holes erupted right in the middle, and the pieces hopped and skipped across the lawn. The dogs hauled-*** around the corner of the house, and cringed by the side gate. “EXCELLENT!! Thanks for the advice, honey. That is much better…. In fact, it’s almost perfect!” I turned and went back into the house. A few moments later, I came back with my .12 gauge shotgun. Her: “NO!!! Stop it, somebody is going to call the cops!! You drunk son of a *****, you’re out of control!!” Me: “Hmmm. I must disagree. I thought I displayed admirable control with that last shot-group. Here, let’s see how I do with buckshot!!” KABOOM!! The book fragments exploded into confetti, and flew into the air. I turned to my wife with a satisfied grin on my face. “There you go. Now your book is just right!” Tiny pieces of paper floated over us, and began to fall like snowflakes. She sobbed openly. “Oh God, you’ve ruined it. You ruin everything!! Marriage to you is HELL!! I don’t want to live like this anymore!!!” A speck of tattered paper clung to the stream of tears running down her cheek. The sound of sirens approaching forced my hand, and propelled me toward an inevitable conclusion. Me: “Don’t want to live like this anymore? Good. I can fix that for you!” I pulled the large, shiny silver weapon from the small of my back. Its warm, heavy bulk felt good in my hand. Her: “What is that??!!” She sniffed, and wiped a stream of snot from her face with her sleeve. Me: “This is a Cobalt Particle-Beam Vaporizer. I studied the handguns from the movies Star Wars and Blade Runner, and made some improvements! I’m quite handy out there in the shop, you know.” The sirens were getting closer, and I leveled the weapon at her from a distance of approximately ten feet. Her: “You wouldn’t dare!! You don’t have the balls, you son of a *****!!” She wailed, “You don’t have the balls, you’re a bad husband, and you’ll never be as good a writer as Dr. John Gray!!” Me: “AAAAAGGHH!! Take that, you blubbering, opinionated harpy!!!” I angrily fired point-blank, directly into her chest. KA-FOOOOMM!!! My wife vaporized from the inside-out, in a horrible, white-hot burst of incendiary plasma. I stood there for a moment, and listened to the sirens drawing closer and closer. The last of the paper confetti drifted slowly down onto my head, along with no small quantity of ashes from my wife’s vaporized remains. The blood pulsed in the veins of my neck, and everything became deathly silent for a few moments. All I could hear was the raspy sound of blood corpuscles surging past my inner ear. My vision tunneled, and I hung my head to clear my thoughts. She repeated herself, “You’re so smart. So tell me, how would you improve this book!!?” I opened my eyes, and focused on the white burber carpet beneath her impatient shoes. Bringing my gaze slowly upward, I noticed that she still clutched the precious book to her chest, in defense of her position. I could hear the sounds of the game on the TV again. I looked to the screen, and was please to note that Dan Marino had just tossed a first-down completion to OJ McDuffie. Things were looking up. Her: “You’re no writer, you’re just an Army pilot. What could you suggest that would make this more palatable and useful??!!” I sighed, and collected my thoughts for a second. I took a sip of courage, and swallowed painfully. “You’re right, that book is perfectly fine, and I don’t know what I’m talking about, as usual. I’m no writer, and I couldn’t possibly do any better.” Her: “You’re damn straight!” Me: “Tell you what, give me another week to re-read the thing, and then we can have that talk, OK? Next week, alright?” I patted her shoulder in an awkward motion, and for a moment she thought I was going to step forward and hug her. She moved slightly forward in expectation, and then realized that no hug was forthcoming. Slightly embarrassed, my wife turned and departed the room. Moments later I heard the bedroom door close and the lock turned quietly, almost imperceptibly. I sighed, and seated myself back on the couch. I grabbed the remote control, adjusted the volume, and drank deeply from my mug. The house returned to normal again. 😣

Temps here were mighty cold. 19 degrees F at sunup, and a high of 32 this afternoon. The Arsenal was closed, so I did a bit of work over the phone. Walked the dogs, twice. Did some clearing and redirecting of water flow in my creek. (Chilly Godawful work, that.) Took a chainsaw to a neighbor lady's fallen tree. The most recent storm knocked an old dead hardwood over, and right into her side yard by her apple trees. I trimmed limbs and branches off of it up and stacked it by the curb for somebody's free firewood. Somebody with a stronger back and a bigger chainsaw is going to have to tackle the main trunk. But I made the job for them a whole lot easier and neater, with all the branches and limbs out of the way. 😛

That sure is pretty! 🙂