Mot & Mat Play Guitars Very Nicely

And sing , too.
If you are into New Hampshire and acoustic guitars and Bluesy electric snapping and popping; check these guys out!!!!!!

http://file313.blogspot.com/2009/12/blog-post.html

LILLY

I guess it's time to introduce the Boss of the family 

Lilly is now about ten.  No one knows how old she is, or where she is from. But about ten years ago, Kate, then eight, needed someone to talk to. After school, and at night. Someone to confide in. And since Maureen was getting pretty tired of walking me after dinner, a dog seemed natural.


We have a great facility near us, in Methuen, Ma. named Nevin's Farm.  They not only shelter cat's and dog's; but big old worn out farm horses and dairy cows all milked out who's owners  couldn't stand to hamburger them up. Pigs and chickens who managed to lie, cheat or steal their way off the disassembly line.  All living out at the farm. 


We drove up there one bone chilling night and popped inside and down the narrow hall to the "puppies".  Which of course, consisted of a dozen Bull Terriers, Dobermans and various attack assault dog-machines.


..... and Lilly. Fifteen pounds of terrified little mixed breed terrier, herself.  We went back up to the Big Desk, and since we were repeat customers and had been checked out previously, we busted her out of there. And we're all still running.


Lilly had been running loose in some of the worst neighborhoods  in the area when she caught the eye of an Animal Control Officer. She stalked "Bella", as she called her and brought her to her own home, kicking, snarling and biting.  Said she had "Trust" issues. She kept her there and worked with her and by the time we got her, two weeks later. (The dog, not the Nice Animal Control Woman), she was in much calmer waters.


Lilly wouldn't come near us for three days, just sit on the couch and eye us warily. But she never bit or nipped us and slowly allowed us to spoil her over the next week. Now, as you can imagine, she's put on weight and lays about as much as any terrier until we walk. Then, she puts it in overdrive and terrorizes the mousie, voles and chipmonk tribes out back!  It's just amazing how the little Hellions get to you!

'79 Ibanez LEE RITENOUR

One of my favorites.

Acoustic Tile Arrived and Deployed

On your left as you enter the room. The guitars i'll be using most.

Back wall with the new AuraLex Ported Acoustic Tile. It's supposed to be a Diffuser and an absorber etc. Sounds pretty good even though it's not finished yet.  All the tile will be done tomorrow. (Wednsday).  Then it'll be time to put up photo's and posters.

These are the six amp setups I will be using. I'll list them, but will wait to give an overview of each one.

On the top, left is a 1962 Epiphone Devon Tremelo.

In the Middle, top is a Marshall Valvestate 20.

On the top right is my Reverend KingSnake (No it's not for sale.)

Bottom left is a Sleeper Amp: a much modified Vox Reverb Twin.

A Mad in the USA Crate 16 sits on a Cab extention

containing a Weber Blue Pup 12" Speaker.

Far right is a Koch Studiotone 20 Head

sitting on top of a Reverend "Cowboy" Cabinet

containing a Jenson Neo 12" Speaker.

This wall is on your right, as you enter the room. You can seethe Synth.
The bookcase is there to control paperwork and sheet music, as well
as magazines and books of general interest. There is just a little bit of tile up there, but a short session with a PRS McCarty and the Fender Bassman run throughthe Marshall Cab with 2x12 Celestion Speakers sounded just great  I ran it very crunchy on the Bridge Pup and the Ice-Picky Death Treble and the top end zingyness was gone. Very close to being completely done now!

Finished Studio

 Just a couple of photos of the painted walls and a shelf or two.
My Synth, which I love Already! I am going to bring back Disco!
Donna Summer is back home in Somerville; I'll look her up.
I'm loading my stuff in tomorrow. Saturday - maybe I'll get help.
My acoustic foamy tile thingies are due to arrive tomorrow or Monday.
Great job Sweetwater! I'll need to "tune" the room to make it sound
great for recording live. I'll be recording live to tape and digital.
Where do you get extra digitals? I got lots of tape left over from the '60's.


The window on the far wall is blocked in, and locked up.

No  security risk there! ( I hope )

A few guitars already in there.
The digital recorder is there. I'll get the monitors up and away to get them in the best "hearing" position. Right now, the room is not usable, as the sound needs to be tamed. Diffusers and absorbers will be put up soon.

IF THIS IS OCTOBER - IT MUST BE JACK KEROUAC

I read this poem, among others, at a few bars tonight. A final Beat wrap-up of the few remaining hipsters still in Lowell.  A lot of Jack's fans don't understand the depth of Jack's feelings for Catholicism. There are reasons why some hipsters were beat. It had to do with a lot of things, but they truly wept for their brothers and sisters. They had come off WWII, and knew what man was capable of doing and of tolerating. They wept because, they too, were human beings. I can see Saint Michael sharpening  his sword, aware of the deed he must perform.  This year, see Jack as that Catholic School Boy; not the man consumed by his demons.

WHY ANGELS CRY

... for Jack Kerouac

No one cries

as long

or as hard-

As a wounded Angel.

No one bleeds

  as deep

or so red-

As a wounded Angel.

so:

St. Michael

Waits.

Listening to his brothers

Sing.

STUDIO UPDATE !

Almost there! The garage has been divided into two rooms, a small shed to store the John Deere and snow shovels etc.  And a 12x14 Music Room!  All the wood work has been done as well as the painting. Tomorrow, I but the olde fashioned cork board acoustic tiles.  Wednesday, is Carpet Remnent Day.  A Beigy, light grey, something neutral . I can literally throw a throw rug under the Mastering Area. Then we can begin moving all my stuff out there; thereby reclaiming our Formal Living Room. Of course, once we do this, we will have no use for the living room!  Last year we added a Family Room with Jotul wood stove and a biggish flatish TV.  Of course, 1/3 of our family is now living on her own, plotting a future that could include: Fashion Designer, Marine Biologist, Politician, First Female Ranger or Pro Wrestler.

One Day at a Time.

LOCAL VARIATIONS - small town timeless poems - little poems

In 1958, my small town started a Little League. Four teams; one each from the very different parts of town. The farm boys from Kenwood, the farm boys from Collinsville, the Public Servants from Dracut Center,  and the tough Irish kids from the Navy Yard. Feuds were started in that long ago summer that last 'till today. (I'm truly sorry Tom Molton)


The adult volunteers worked long nights after work, whipping fields into shape so their sons could experience the combat of hardball without the pleasures of cow pies and random rocks placed Murphy like, in just the right karmic position.


Little did we know, we were to be a small part of a larger saga. A story that continues today on the same, vastly improved ball fields. But in 1958, the men ran out of money and in Hovey Square Park, local ground rules had to be established. There was no fence in left field.

Local Variations

Louisville Slugger War Club

held

Ground Rule Birch Tree

double-

no fence-

all you can get

to the left

-in the puddles

      tadpoles relentless.

Beaver brook

falls dam

tops worn Kids Ked

smooth-

How many horn-pout

pulled-

breathless.

Soft sighing of

the wind blow

south from the mountains

flow over

pushing

to

the Merrimack River

towns built

on sites

indian war whoops

chasing Mohawk away

        behind Bob Garipy’s

        Auto Parts Store 

JUST NEEDS PAINT AND SOUND MAGIC

Front door. All I ned to do is walk out the sliding door onto the deck; down a few steps, and stumble to this door.

Right hand wall when you enter.  The entrance to the attic where all the cardboard boxes will be staying.

The new window.  I'm getting a combo storm/screen window to go on the outside. I'll make up a baffle to cover the inside when i'm recording.

Eight feet of heat. That'll be plenty when the amp tubes get cooking!




















Lastly, out the door and back up to the deck and civilization. Television and computers.

Coming Along

Three guys working six hours and we're half done. About. In picture one; you can see the two areas inside the garage. To the left of the studs is the storage area for the bird seeds and the mowers. I'll put some pegboard on the side walls so I can hang tools. Stick a few shelves up to get the tool boxes off the floor. If you look to the right of the studs, out the new door, you'll see the deck. Just down a few steps and I can stumble into the studio.

Second photo is standing on the deck, looking down into the garage and the floor before insulation. We put in double insulation because concrete slabs in New England are murderously frigid.

Third photo shows Carl putting wires and outlets and other blue stuff. The Floor has been covered over with particle board.

The fourth photo shows some cotton candy.

OUT DAMN SERPENT!

What you are looking at is the South End of a North Bound Eastern Hognose Snake. An adult Hognose. About 24" to 30". This guy eats mice and toads. Now, a little explanation is necessary, here. Maureen and I like birds. So we feed them during the winter and we have stored bucketsfull of sunflower seeds and niger in the garage.We have done this for 35 + years at this location. The mice and chipmunks know this. And apparently  the Eastern Hognose Snakes do, also.  We've had to rescue mice who have fallen in the sunflower bucket and have been unable to escape their delicious predicament due to their massive holy Buddah Belly impediments. Our solution was a piece of wooden strapping, one end in the bucket to allow them to escape. ( we thought ).

The last time I had the garage cleaned out, I had a leftover ratty Coleman sleeping bag that had accumulated much too much campfire kiddy grunge. So I folded it neatly and placed it in the far back corner as a Base of Operations for all the little Chip and Dales and Minnies and Mickeys. What we did not know was that  the Hognose ( Herbert ) had snuggled in the folds of the Coleman waiting for the little rodents to stumble homeward in Marital Mice Mania, stuffed and sated, eager to increase their tribe. Ouch - What a trip. The Ultimate Disney Mickey Rat Trap. And I set it in motion.

1/2 DONE OR MORE!

This is saturday evening. I have done most of this clearing away, since Maureen had to work today. You know,  the Healing Gig.  Those Damn Sick People!!!

You will notice, four Gibson Amps in the middle left. Three are solid state and one is tube. I've had them for like, three years. As soon as the music room is done, i'll get to them. Refurbish them, clean them. I have actually finished one, a G50. It is surprisingly quiet at idle and sweet and clean at low volumes.

Sunday Night!   See the darkness creeping in on little Cass' feet. Little Cass lives down the ......... oh not really. It's fog like little milks eyes. No -but the fabled Music Room is empty except for the window on the floor that will replace the window all ready in the wall. Because the window on the floor to be soon in the wall opens and closes. Whereas, the window in the wall, now, merely sits nailed in place affording only a view but no cool breezes. Simple, right?

The "floating floor" flew out the open door on little big money dollars wings. We are going to hang 2 x 10's on the tops of the cement blocks and level that all up and put plywood down. The fact is, if I don't, i'll never be able to keep this room warm.  In that 10" space we will put in insulation. Over the plywood, we will put a carpet pad. ( or two ).

But tomorrow is Electric Day! Power! More Power!! Carl will be over to spend money. I'm going underground from the cellar to the front side of the garage. I've explained to Carl what I need. He commented that that was more than just the one light bulb, eh?  So if the East Coast goes down briefly tomorrow; that'd be me. Sorry.

NO, REALLY. THIS TIME I MEAN IT

Last year at this time, I had my single car garage (14' x 20' ) cleared out and cleaned up. Mouse turd free, oil splatters sucked up with WeSuckOilDry , and ready to go. This modest little structure was to be my disability/retirement present to myself.  A neat little private music room. I wasn't going to call it a recording studio, as I had, over the years, actually recorded in real studios. Let me assure you, this is a garage. It will be have a floating floor, soft, absorbent walls. Bass traps and comfortable stools. There will be heat. There will be surveillance cameras and hefty, armbendingly ruinous  locking mechanisms. There will be gun safes, guitar safes and safe safes. There will be about three tape recorders and one digital recorder. (Tascam).

There will be a door cut into the side wall, right where the window is now. I took this photo from my new deck. The reason the music room didn't get built last year. Last year we put a new room onto the house and installed a new gas furnace and a wood burning stove in the addition. We were able to tell OPEC where to go last year.

What we see here is mostly clutter. Old cardboard boxes saved back for when the goods fail and need to be repackaged and sent home to a warehouse  in New Jersey to die. A quivering quaking pile of electric guts. This will be mostly tossed, as I don't expect to outlive my monitors. A functional window will replace the nailed in static air leak that is imitating a window at present. Pink Panther will be liberally applied between the studs and above the ceiling. The walls will be plywood, as i'm not about to spend gold for lead. A good quiet flat room will be fine.

This will sit nice on the hill, under maple trees and easy to get to. A new door will be going in and will be locked down tight. I should be able to play fairly loud. Loud enough for my needs.

I hope to also write and produce radio plays (20 mins). Record them here with vocal actors from UMass-Lowell and play them on student radio. Construction starts one week from today.

INITIAL MINI-SHAKEDOWN OF BASHO

A short trip for Basho. ( 88 ) miles. I've had it inspected, the brakes checked out and made sure the gas lines were ok and high pressure. Passed the inspections with flying colors. 

      Started up first turn of the key (as it should ) and we drove through Lowell; passing by Kerouac's Birthplace, and saying a short prayer, we continued on to rte 495. We only stayed on the highway long enough to run it up to 70 mph and checked out the stability. Perfect smoothness on all counts. Got off at rte 2 , to buy apples, peaches, and sweet corn. (Just to say we had a purpose. Also to let Lilly, the Terrior  pee.)  She was nervous as all get out; much more than she usually is, driving to known destinations around town. We got off rte 2, and drove back roads for the next few hours through rural mid-state Mass. Saw two cows in someone's front yard, not ten feet from the road. Took a picture of an old, unihabited house on Fred Smith Street. (true fact)

  We also passed a horse breeding farm. A rich Dallas Type Rich Hoss Ranch.  Some lake front homes from opulent to shed like.

Took a picture of a typical small New England town square.

If all of our forthcoming trips go this smooth, the VW will be proven to  to be a great deal, financial and emotional.

THE HIPPIE VAN

Because these bloggie thingees are set up to post the last post first; if you have not read the post below this, yet you have no idea that my hands are not satisfied to plague me with numbness and nerve damage and leaking damaging information to the White House Fishy Smelling Web Site where Obama spends minutes a day chortling at my misfortune. If you have, indeed, wasted precious time reading the hairy little post, you'll know that my hands hate me.

     So........ Maureen and I are retiring early. Thanks to my shrewd real escape powers, and a few winning Lotto winnings, and her admittedly wicked high salary, we no longer care about money. (HA) Seriously, I have no clue how much time I have left on this colorful little ball of stuff. But I have about 4-5 fatal, chronic diseases dogging my every move. Our daughter, who is turning 19 early next year, has foolishly chosen to leave our hearth and home to pursue Higher Education in Some Other State. So, we got her baby sitting covered. 

Not too many things or responsibilities holding us back. Unfortunately, Maureen's Mom passed away a few months ago at the age of 84. As a result, Maureen feels a bit adrift, losing her mom,  Kate leaving the nest, and me;  looming over her demanding care. So we are going to wing it. I'm selling all my land up north and most of my real estate here and donating the proceeds to the Heather Locklear Home for Wayward Weasels.  I'll be selling most of my firearms, keeping only about six. (snicker). Most of my books will be going to a Special Collections Section in my local Library. (Hey! I was A Friend of the Library and raised thousands of bucks for the new building). Most of my guitars will be sold or stored because my Right Hand Sucks! It has betrayed me. My cousin Gerry, the ex Marine with the Navy Cross and whom still has a hole in his back, and shrapnel falling like tiny deadly metal music has agreed to house sit. It wouldn't surprise me to come home to find a Stephen King Movie being filmed in my new GraveYard out back. More on this as it gets closer, the move, not the movie. We have a year to plan this.

BAD HANDS

The reason you are looking at my hands, is because I wanted to point out the fact that I have something very wrong with one of them.  The left one. The one that is most important in playing guitar. As you can see, the left pinkie is off a little bit. It has decided it wants to go to the left.  Which is wonderful for it; the finger itself.  But I would wish that it would be able to close back up and rejoin it's fellows. But it won't. It stubbornly insists on being inflexible, stiff and  never calls it's mother. This means that I have lost, oh, say, 25% of  my tools, guitar wise. I can no longer use it to fret (Press down) . I can't do 7th, or 6th chords. I can not do major chords up the neck like: E,F,G,A etc. Barre chords.They come out E7,G7 etc. Same with minor barred chords. I need to re-learn all the positions over again. Sort of like a blind person learning to listen o Liberace all over again.  So, if you see a guitar you fancy, send an email or leave a comment. Who Knows?

LOG PICK UP LINE

you cut five

maybe six

cords

of wood

sweating in july

to keep the chill away

in february.

you cut so much

you start to see

oh say, Bob Hope

in a top hat smiling.

you forget the amazing

until it pops up

into your  hand

a laugh riot in March.

"Hey, haven't I seen you 

someplace before?".

A POEM ABOUT WWII,LOSS,ARROGANCE, AND ALZHEIMER'S

All the Bright Mornings

I. On Saturdays

this life no smoke 

lifted off the tarmac

heavy headed to Ploesti

dodging black flack downwind

the wind blows blue smoke

small engine repair

mornings so cold

you can your breath

catching fire watching

the bombs drop

silently framed in his 

eyes sweeping the row

of tools spread out

useless now half or

more fogotten in

the haze oil smoke-

blowing now he stands

as always at his post

waiting for the engines

to warm

before he can tell

if anything is wrong

on saturday morning

when St. Paul came

his tools too dangerous

now for him who once

flew with the Eagles

over Italy

II.

All gone now

the memories flooding

together the ditch

run off water gathered

Gone Now the Bright Son

of father’s day

confused,

bent fingers

he stands

middle of the driveway

the robins

Charlie Mike,

as always

the young ones

feeding

as always he could

work longer harder

his generation

Old Lions showing

the young cats

how its done

the Youngest Son

stands watching

shaking his head

wondering if he too

Someday would.

III.

The Children

now scattered

the Angels have come

so bright the Son

when it started.

FDP THREAD : How many of you are old enough to have grown up with Good Humor and other roaming food companies?

---

When I was about 3-4, we were living on Grand Street in Lowell. I can remember a bakery guy coming like every other day, but the desert guy from another bakery came every day! I imagine great cream puff fights, running pie fights down to the Lincoln school!

I can remember Tom, the insurance guy, coming into our kitchen looking like the immortal salesman plodding house to house, cadging dimes out of the housewives for cheap insurance policies redeemable who knows when.

It was a cold water flat, heated by coal, the entire building bleeding off small gallons to use for dishes. Baths were Saturday night heated on the stove water, reused until the dog got tossed in about midnight.

We had an ice-box. Not bad in the winter, when the cold Montreal air aided in keeping our eggs fresh. 
Both kinds.
In the summer, the ice man would come down the street glancing up at the front windows of the triple deckers, looking for the signs the wives, bored in the warmth of their sun dresses, had marked down 5, or 10, meaning pounds. He'd chip off an appropriate chunk and carry it up the long dark stairways, to the third floor. Then he'd repeat the exercise for the second floor.

We knew he spent a little more time with Mrs. Monty. The young women on the third floor back apartment. That's when we made our move; boosting someone brave like my brother John, up into the chill darkness of the truck bed. He'd scoop up the smaller chips rapidly melting into uselessness, and toss them down to the littlest of the street kids. Lowell Popsycles. (To go with the hot tar we would chew as gum. Until we learned the secret pleasures of larceny).

One day Mrs. Monty must have had a heat headache because the ice man came down the stairs early and caught John in the forehead with the heavy leather carry strap. At the first sound of John's wail, my father dashed out of our old apartment and quickly sussed the situation and he punched and elbowed and bit and kicked the ice man until he looked like the Cherry Ice they sold on the South Common on the 4 Th of July. 

We met in Saint John's Emergency room. John got his four stitches first. My father had his dislocated knuckle wrestled back to the same approximate place just as the Police walked in looking for the narrowback Irishman who had wailed the tar out of some poor immigrant iceman hauling relief across the city.
The Policeman looked from the iceman to my dad and dad pointed to his first born son and the Irish Police just nodded as we gathered our few things and left.
We could hear the squealing all the way across the bridge that separated the city from the town.

I remember being outside in my back yard for the first time with my daughter. First week of April and finally warm enough to bring the little St. Patricks Day Baby out. 
We had forgotten that the Blue Angels were to perform at Hanscom Air Base that weekend. Do you remember when two jets pass each other right in front of the grandstand and roar away? Only to come streaking back at the culmination of a manuever done by the other four. Well, the outbound terminus of one guys trip was 20 miles away from the airstrip, 100 feet shy of my house and about 200 feet high. 
He had slowed, you could hear the engine rumbling, just about spinning over when he made his turn. I swear to god, for an instant, it looked like he stopped in mid air. Then he pushed the Go stick and, man, it was like the WHO times ten!
Eighteen years later and my wife and I still talk about it. I have never felt anything as powerful as that in my life. And I used to own a V8 Ford!

THE STRATS

I pulled these guitars up out of the Fender pile because I recently inherited a house that has a near empty two car garage. By moving my "stuff" to this storage area, it will allow us all down here at this house to move about easier. After all, not many people have a Music Store stored in their garage, basement, bedroom and family room. 

1. 1996 Fender American Standard with a Malmsteen pickup set by Dimarzio. (all the notes come out in Swedish, ya?) I got it used and just loved the sound of it and used it until the neck needed re-fretting. Since Electron, from the FDP was always talking up his Robert Cray Model Strat, I took a chance and bought a near mint neck off of eBay. I took off the old neck and sold it and put on the Cray neck. I also changed the pic-guard screws to black, as well as the input jack plate. It looks nice, sounds nice, has a comfy neck. It's a keeper.
2. This is not really a Stratocaster as nothing on it is made by Fender. It was put together in spurts. Spurts is a local Gentleman's club down by .........Never mind..... The body is by someone who makes big, heavy strat like objects. The pickups are mini humbuckers from Lollar. The neck is a beauty, a solid rosewood neck with an ebony fretboard made by Warmoth accessories. (A great company) It is part of their Boogie Board editions of necks from the late '70's - early 80's. This is heavy, but balances well and sounds like a Strat on 'roids.
3. This is one of the best bang for the buck Fenders you can get. Many players modify their guitars because they want to get everything as close to perfect for them as they can. This guitar has done a lot of that for a lot of players: specially wound pickups, a thick neck, an innovative pickup wiring scheme, and a very thin layer of nitrocellulose lacqer. To me, this is a guitar I took out of the box, tuned it up and let it rip. It needed nothing to be a gig ready pro level instrument.
4. A guitar I have always coveted on looks alone. Daphne Blue. I just love the color; all those '50's pastels. I still need to get a Pink Strat. This Daphne is a '97 American Standard, completley stock except for the addition of a set of Lace Gold sensors, which I hated until I spent the time to properly dial it in. Now, I love the sounds I can get out of it. That's it, a quick run down of my strats. What have you got?

ME, These Days....

SPECIAL FORCES CHANGES MOTTO......

http://images.military.com/ImageLibrary/SFGROUPINS.GIF
At the order of President Obama, Special Forces spokesman said: Our mission apparently has changed and our motto has been updated to reflect that change. It is no longer  "Free the Oppressed"   It is now, "Here's Looking At You". "

HOW POEMS FAIL

Some years ago, Ford Motor company stopped shipping new cars destined for New England by railroad. There was a huge train yard across the Merrimac River, just over the Lowell city line in Billerica, Mass. (home of Future Hall of Famer, Tom Glavine. One night, unable to sleep, I heard the sound of a single switching locomotive,  moving box cars around and forming up trains of empty car carriers. I could hear the sharp bang every time the engineer would add a car to the tree. All the windows in my house were open on a warm spring night.

       My dad was a Boston & Maine employee who worked around the yards, doing maintenence. He spoke to me once of how he would occasionally get lonely and a bit melancholy being out there at night. He explained how he would miss his wife and two small sons, but  he knew he needed to be out there making money.

      I remembered that conversation some 30 years later and I tried to imagine the loneliness felt by the men who work away from their families, often alone and isolated.

Open Windows in the Spring

                                                                  May 15, '00

                                                                  3:37 am

                                                                   sleep - my eye

The 

lonesome cold

sound of

a switcher

banging empty

boxcars

in the dead

of night-

oh sight

in the distance

folded back

is

my father walking

home with midnite

empty

lunch bucket.

-cold swept

 iron tracks

 leading

 away

 one

way.

                                    my eye

                                    empty now. 

...............................................................................

The poem is not universal enough. 

No one else can see my dad.

Since my dad died young, my seeing

him disappearing  down the tracks, uncommunicative;

I've made him up; but haven't 

felt his pain or explained his loneliness.

I got no further than conjuring up a vision

of him that is sterile. No dirt, sweat  or grime.

No slack muscles.  No exhaustion. He's a ghost;

and the poem is not that interesting.

A BEAUTIFUL GUITAR

This is probably the most beautiful guitar I have ever owned. I still own it; I just can't play it. The neck is too thin for me. It makes my hands cramp up.  It's a Gibson ES-137. But this one was made in their Custom Shop. ( it has a piece of paper that says so! ). If you'll notice, on the top and the back, you cannot see where two pieces of maple were joined. That's because this baby has a one piece top. (and back) . The thinking goes beyond just beauty. It's supposed to sound better because the top vibrates better. Sounds reasonable to me.

THE KNIGHTKRAWLERS - 1964 OR '65.

http://www.katrinrocks.com/listen.shtml

Which is a link to Katrin and her web page where you can hear some of her lovely folk songs and folk-rock. Nature Spirit is a nice CD and i'm sure she'd love it if you bought a copy. But i'm really pumped because I found out that John Harrington plays in her live band. ( when she's not playing alone ). There was a small, mostly old news new news story in the Merrimack Journal about John and how he and "Little John and the Sherwoods" dominated the Garage Band scene here in Greater Lowell and Southern New Hampshire. They went on to New York and came "this" close to opening for the Beach Boys". The band broke up and John joined Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels for a time. He played for years for money for "Mac's Mob", a great, highly popular show band. And then I lost touch.

Over the years, their single "Long Hair" became a classic, must have example of Garage Rock. (it's worth looking up a mp3 or whatever they are called ). This endearing popularity led to a Sherwoods Re-union about a year and a half ago. Unlike most events, this one was a smashing success and I expected to hear more from John.  I heard he was teaching. I heard he was doing ok. And now I find that he is back out there, still playing! He will be performing at theLowell Folk Festival this July with Katrin. Try and be there... you'll have to fight a few thousand Little John Regulars from the Commodore Ballroom days.

Oh yeah...... I'm the skinny dude, second from the right.

GIBSON ES-5

This is a favorite of mine.

First built by Gibson in 1734, in their Boston factory.

Three P-90 Pick-ups.  Each has it's own individual Volume control to keep them from quarreling. There is one Master Tone control way up there on the lower treble bout. This arrangement allows the player a wide variety of tonal options. This guitar, besides having wonderful action and a fine, comfortable neck, can sound like the Jazziest Box in the neighborhood or the funkiest dirt machine in the Delta.

Thank you, Gibson.

WORRIED ABOUT LANGUAGE

As I wander around the internet seeking out nubile young women who seek meaningful relationships with old arthritic, lung-busted, limp, smelly old men; I cannot help but notice the appalling lack of standards applied to what we jokingly refer to as the English language.  It seems that whilst I was indulging in a post luncheon nap, down in the side Garden of the Manor, the youngsters picked up on the ancient ritual of enforced mis-information directed towards the elder, more staid and stable segment of society. Their parents.  It's as if they are attempting to hide from us, the facts of their lives. It's as if their generation is the first to have discovered the pleasures of sex. ( of course, the Baby Boomers invented sex. ). It's as if they watched "Animal House" and mistook it for a drug hazed National Geographic documentary gone horribly bad. Binge drinking is so Last Century.  And why is everyone either bald or tomahawked? The guys, I mean. They can't all be ex-Rangers, can they?  

The dog is wrinkling her nose at my pathetic lump of flesh and attempting to kick dirt over me. I'll have to dig out and pour out some Devil Dog Chow for the little mutt. 

LIGHTEN UP

Welcome old friends and old readers. Welcome perfect strangers. It's the beginning of summer and I'm in the back stretch of life. On the inside pole, gaining on the nags, perspiring mightily, my lungs close to bursting, spewing  the accumulated noxious solid phlegm shot of epic proportions. 

"Out! Damn Snot!"  William Shakespeare

Right -well I need to make changes in my life. I need to simplify. I need to get rid of things. Material possessions that are chocking me. Death by Knick Knack. Cause of Death: Colorful Vacation Thimbles. ( Ski Famous Death Valley Amusement Park )

I have already culled my book collection twice. I have brought donkey cart loads to the local 1/2 Price Used Book Store. ( I can buy $473.00 of used paperback novels. But Not If The Cover Has Been Removed.)

I have a complete Black and White Photographic Lab in my basement. Thirty-five years ago, I decided I wanted to be an Artist. I figured paint was messy. Film almost never tries to kill you. So I learned how to do it with Single Lens Reflex Cameras. And one day I stopped. The laundry room fuzz bunnies mutated and claim the Enlarger. I gathered it all up and placed it gently in a trash bag and put that on the work bench and there it waits.

I've been into guns for maybe 50 years. Any shooter knows you need to reload if you are serious about getting accurate. Just Google Reloading and check out the 600 pounds of gear that is absolutely necessary to begin this hobby/vocation. Find out why old wheel weights are worth their weight in, well, wheel weights. Guess where this stuff is stored.

Vinyl. A word that stirs something deep in all old hippy hearts. Records. Long Players. As in, boxes and boxes of Records. From the Beatles to the Grateful Dead and Glen Campbell. Stacks of them covering 20 feet by 20 feet of valuable basement floor space.

Dead lamps, horribly Carradine corded into uselessness. Christmas gift boxes and coal fired Christmas Tree Lights twisted into impossible contours. Bike parts and mildewed Mouse nest material, still clinging to the false promise of one more camping trip.

All this and more is complicating my life. I am the King of Rejectamenta.

No more, I swear as God is my witness, i'll never be storage deprived again!