sparquelito

WOW, what a beautiful guitar!! Welcome, Juliana. It's great to have you here with us. 😀

I ran the audio set up and soundboard for this aerial demo today, quite early this morning. Crazy stuff, this. 🙂

Me likey. A rot. I mean, a lot. 😬

Did they come in a box like this? 😬

A fantastic guitar, KenRu. Congrats! 😃

A fabulous, life-affirming guitar, Steve! I really like that, a lot. 😀

I just went to a very emotional wedding. Even the cake was in tiers. 😬

Thanks for posting that, mihcmac. I really enjoyed watching that. 🙂

Benvenuto, Elmut. It's very nice to have you with us, and I love your guitar!! 😃

Matt, Do you need an OEM neck plate, or will a generic one do? Is the Beretta Special a 1980's vintage, or a more recent re-issue? 🤔

I would say so! She's worth a lot more than $180 nowadays. 😛

This guy Jeff Slate (who wrote the 'NBC-News-Think" bit on Paul Simon) is a nitwit. A disrespectful dirt-bag. A typical New York City elitist jackass. 🤨

Congratulations, Beerad12. That's a really great guitar!! 😛 In honor of this occasion, a limerick then; Our friend got a Flying V a prettier guitar I never did see an object to cherish but if he should perish, I hope that he wills it to me! Okay, I'm gonna shut up now. 😔

I have two. I call them, "my Les Paul" and "my fake Les Paul". There's not much else to say after that.

You named most of it, good sir. * Practice * Playing with others, and picking up on what everybody has to offer and, my personal favorite, * Performance-oriented motivation. When you have a gig or show or performance to get ready for, you will step up your game, get it all right, and you will improve. Because you have to. Without a goal or an upcoming performance (even if it's playing for the elderly at an assisted-living place, or playing/singing at a wedding, whatever) you tend to waffle and noodle aimlessly, and you never get any better doing that. 😉

Hey, that was one of my happier and more up-beat postings. You should see me when I'm feeling depressed. 😔

ALL purchases are life-affirming, when you think about it. Except for caskets, ashes urns, funeral plots, and tombstones. But everything else surely is. 😬

I have everything I need. But I have been wanting this lately. No good reason for it either. I just want it. 😬

So, a little over a year ago, a very nice lady posted to another guitar forum where I moderate (and frequently provide guitar valuations), looking for information and advice. She had a 1991 Fender Strat Plus Deluxe, still new in the case, and wished to know what it might be worth. She was considering selling it. My partner and I provided the requested information, and endeavored to help her sell the guitar, if that was her wish. In the end, she never sold the guitar. The Strat had been purchased for a dear friend back in 1991, intended as a gift. But alas the relationship ended, and the gift was never given. The guitar sat in its case, under a bed, for literally three decades. Un-played and pristine. I would love to have owned the guitar myself, but long-distance shipping rates and all, plus the various unknown factors such as fret sprout, made it impossible. I became friends with the seller over a period of months, and we have exchanged emails and family updates over a great period of time. I feel very close to the lady now, and count her as a good (albeit long-distance) friend. She recently emailed and asked if I would consider purchasing the guitar from her. It didn't feel right selling to a stranger off of eBay or Craigslist, but since I'm a trusted friend, (and would be disinclined to ever resell the guitar), would I consider buying it? Sure enough, my tax-returns turned out well this year, and I have the disposable income. Long story short, I mailed the check, my friend shipped via FedEx, and so here she is. My brand-new condition, with all the original case-candy, 30 year old Fender Stratocaster. I am in love. I really can't believe that an elderly instrument could remain in such perfect condition over all this time. No fret sprout, everything feels and sounds fantastic, and she's gorgeous. The Fender Lace Sensor pickups are really nice, and I've always been a fan of the roller-nut. A keeper, and now my life-long guitar. I feel like, with this guitar's history, I'm not so much the owner now, but the second caretaker. And the next caretaker will get it after I'm passed-away and gone. 🙂

I'm thinking Dachshunds. Damned wiener dogs survived WWII, they can survive my Arizona nuclear incident. 😗

I want to die at age 82. Like this; After rescuing a litter of puppies from a burning building, and then riding my vintage Honda CR250 Elsinore motocross bike for an hour or two, I want to go home that day and enjoy a hot shower, some fresh clothes, and nice whiskey drink. I'll pick up my pine Telecaster, and enjoy playing some blues. The neighbor lady comes over. She's 80, but fit. She's a vixen. "Sparky, I brought you some of that coffee you like." "Well, thank you, Gretchen. You have always been a kind and generous friend. I appreciate you." "I appreciate you too. But I'm not getting any younger. I need sex, and I need sex now." "Gretchen, dear! And you with your husband not cold in his grave yet six months. Are you sure?" She drops her tennis whites, and reveals a stunning body. "My husband was a plastic surgeon, you know. He knew his stuff." "Well. I do have this epi-pen of Viagra III Turbo®...." We embrace, and the camera shifts to soft-focus out the window, and ocean waves crash on a craggy sea-side cliff. White foam everywhere. Later on, Gretchen gets up and makes me a sandwich, and goes back to her own place. We agree to meet like this about ever other month, no commitments, no entanglements. I have another whiskey drink, drop the needle on an old Neil & Tim Finn record. Just then, I hear an angry mob appears on the street outside, and angry voices begin blaring over a megaphone. "Alright, Sparky!! This is it!! We have had enough of your shenanigans!!" Sh1t. The local Homeowner's Association, again. "This business of riding your motocross bike across the Association golf course, and screwing all the widow ladies! This has got to stop!!" I shout out the window, "You guys can go screw yourselves! I pay my dues! I know my rights!!" I take a long pull off the whiskey bottle, and mutter, "I know my rights." Carefully punching a code on the keypad near the garage door, I slip into my flight suit. "Always knew it was going to end this way." Steel doors open horizontally, then vertically, and the hermetically-sealed aperture opens with a slight pop. The sodium lamps burble and sputter, and the outer chamber goes from darkness into bright light, and there she is in the center of my garage floor; My 1984 model AH-1S Cobra helicopter. Freshly gassed up, and loaded for bear. I climb up the side, crack open the back canopy door, climb-in, and strap myself in. I punch a few buttons in the remote control panel, and the hydraulic servos and pistons slowly open the garage roof like an enormous, sinister clam-shell. Glancing at the checklist, I flip a few switches, turn on the battery power, strap on my helmet, plug in my ICS cord, and pull the starter trigger. I monitor the engine EGT as the Kaman rotor blades begin to turn slowly at first and then faster and faster. I release the trigger at 40% gas turbine speed, and then close the canopy. I throttle-up to full speed. The engine howls nearly as loudly as the angry mob outside as I raise the collective lever and lurch upwards, out above the garage roof, and into the slate-grey sky. The neighbors are furious. They launch Bud Lite bottles and White Claw cans at my skids as I lumber up above their weapons range. My rotor wash causes three or four golf carts to upend and tumble over. One lady goes ***-over-teakettle into the neighbors yard. Once up into clean air, I climb into an over-watch orbit at 2,000 feet, and flip the Master Arm switch on. A small square light flickers yellow and then green, as the AGM-114Y Sub-Kiloton Nuclear HELLFIRE Missile sputters to life. As I swing out over the coastline, I enjoy the scenery and the sublime beauty of the Arizona coast-line one more time. (California had tumbled into the sea ten years earlier.) I take one last sip of whiskey from my flask, tighten my chin strap, and lower the nose sharply into a dive onto the final target and my last destination. I settle my gun-sight onto the street below, and repeat myself, "Always knew it was going to end this way." I pull the trigger and the missile leaves me in its fiery wake. A split second later, I feel a mild buffet, and then everything is blinding white. Myself, and everything and everybody within fifteen miles vaporizes. As my molecules disappear into the ether, I can hear tribal voices, and ukuleles softly playing. 😔

I have been to a lot of funerals lately. I just sang Amazing Grace at a funeral Mass yesterday morning. We are all (many of us) of a certain age. We have been through it. Our buddies and old classmates and chums are passing away. I confess that I have lost 15 friends and family members in the past 3 years or so. And only one of them went out peacefully and on her own terms. I have found myself reflecting on the nature and the absurd caprice of how we die, and where and when we might release this mortal coil. Especially since I have spent a lot of time with my wife's 92 year old father, as we have both borne witness to the passing of three of his seven grown children lately. Old Jim is very much near the end himself, and he has spoken to me and his surviving offspring about exactly how he wants his remains disposed of, and so on. SO. On that note. If you could choose the wheres and the hows and the details of your own passing, how would you want to go? This is a hypothetical and completely absurd question, really. If you could design your own perfect death, what would it look like? I'm tired and sleep-deprived right now, so forgive me this nonsensical query. But answer in your own way, if you have the time or inclination. 😑

Not a gig exactly, but I did play and sing, so; My wife and I drove down on Monday morning to UCLA (the Ugliest Corner of Lower Alabama) to attend a memorial service. Her younger sister had passed away late last week, and was cremated over the weekend. Five hours of driving south-bound. Lots of emotional conversation on the way down, regarding the hard life and tragic demise of Beth's younger sister. The whole family converged upon Dothan, Alabama and we all had dinner together Monday evening. The patriarch of the family is 92 now, and he's having a hard time getting around. Hard especially now for old Jim, after having lost a grown daughter now, a grown son six months ago, and another daughter three years before that. You're not supposed to out-live your kids. At 2:30 in the morning, the old fellow's wife rang me up, and needed assistance. Jim had stumbled out of bed and frammed his arm against the door frame. Nothing broken, but his arm was swollen, purple, and very much in pain. I drove Jim up to the local ER at 3:00 am, and we spent a few hours there getting evaluated and treated for a nasty blood-swollen hematoma. His Rx of blood-thinners was part of the problem apparently, but nothing could be done about that, but to wrap it up, keep him comfortable, and get him ready for his daughter's memorial service hours later. The service went fine, at the Catholic Church. It was a proper Catholic Funeral Mass, with all the associated rituals, prayers, songs, and the communion. The music was structured very nicely by the church's musical director and one of their singers, but (at the request of the deceased's daughter), they let me step up to the lectern and mic near the end of the communion and sing a song. I got up with my copy of a Gibson J-160E, and played and sang Amazing Grace. It went very well. A lot of the attendees wept openly and I got a little choked up myself, but I soldiered on thru it nicely. I think people were weeping because it was a beautiful song, and they knew how much the dearly departed had struggled with addictions for many years, and now she was in the arms of The Savior. Either that, or they were crying because they wished that I would quit singing and go sit down. One or the other I reckon. Afterwards, Beth and I drove straight north to get our 3 doggies out of the kennel, and back home where we all belong. Five hard hours of driving north-bound, making best speed. I unloaded the wife and the dogs and the overnight bag and guitar case, and put everything away. Stayed busy until bed-time, getting things organized and ready for the next day. I was so tired that after a hot bath, I locked up the house, fell into bed at 09:00 pm, and slept hard until 4:30 this morning. I am wiped out now, and so is Beth, obviously. We don't want to do that again any time soon. Please, Lord. 😔

Yes, the three-screw truss rod cover was a dead giveaway, but what caught my eye first were the screwdriver slots in the studs that the Tune O Matic bridge sets onto. Unless somebody can hold up an example of an odd one, I've never seen a genuine Gibson with anything but smooth stud tops. Oh, and the shape of the fingerboard inlays. There's that. 😗

Q: What did Jeffrey Dahmer say to Lorena Bobbitt? A: Say, are you gonna eat that? 😬