Love and Anti-Love

Love Songs

Not one from our generation
got it quite right,
not even the very good ones:
More Than This, She Sells Sanctuary,
not even Moon Dance.
Now truth be told,
Paul Brady came real close
with Not The Only One.
When I emailed you the lyric,
you came home and asked
if I was trying to seduce you;
I’d call that a pretty good song.



Love Removal Machine

So many ways and all of them bad;
ignorance, vanity, anger, embarrassment,
confusion, ego, insecurity, instability, inability,
stubbornness, pride, fatigue, booze, dope, religion, tradition;
Any of ‘em can suck the magic out of love
faster than you can imagine;
blink and you’ve missed it,
like a one horse town at highway speed.
Some say that the little things don’t matter all that much;
“It ain’t like a guy on a fast horse would notice,”
My Montana raised Mom likes to say,
but love is a long, slow ride,
and the devil’s in the details.

Describe a Hobby

Lutherie

Wayne Henderson says,
“jus’ get you some nice woods
an’ put ‘em all together,
get you a knife an’ cut away everything
that don’t look like a Gee-tar.”
Players pick back and side wood but the top is mine.
Sniffing Spruce and Cedar, tapping and feeling
which one wants to become this guitar.
Backs and tops joined and braced,
sides bent on a hot pipe, linings glued
and a body appears.
Neck carved from Mahogany or Maple,
frets cut through Rosewood or Ebony.
Piece by piece, as it has been done
for hundreds of years, living wood
becomes an instrument.
In a different way and place
the trees are called to sing again.

So we decided to ___________

So we decided to move to Texas

Just the three of us
as Bruce noted,
you, me and all that stuff
we’re so scared of;
from acreage with a view to forever
to an apartment on Eagle Mountain Lake.
From the north fork of the Coeur d’Alene
to Azle.
From a leisurely day across
to the state where El Paso is
closer to California than Dallas.
Remember the first storm?
You asked how we would know
if a tornado was about to take the roof off
‘cause we couldn’t see anything but
swirling cloud and lightning flash.
Now eight years later
try as we might to not get sucked in,
this place has found a home in our hearts.

An Object

Spray Nozzle

When I was a kid,
I bought my own.
A pistol gripped,
lemon yellow pot metal
weapon for a ten year old boy.
knurled brass wheel
dialed in pinpoint control.
Transmogrified in the sandbox
a laser cannon melting the dam
above the quiet town
scattering plastic army men
like chaff in the wind.
Now I am older, wiser
more serious about tools.
I prefer the solid brass, inline version
because I find that they generate
a finer, dam melting stream.

Friday

A little different than what I submitted - Jury's still out on both...

Friday

Thank God it’s
you-fill-in-the-blank day
but truth be told...
There are folks who really do work
Mon to Fri, nine to five
I’ve just yet to be one.
See, Thurs is my Sat
and for the life of me
I can’t see Weds as Fri.
Now today is Fri, but it’s my Mon…
Sat ain’t no Sabbath,
Mon and Tues are hardly
worth mentioning.
I don’t have a Sun ‘cause that day
I must rise earlier than any other
and homey ain’t a morning dude.
Now night time, ahhh night time;
that aughta be a day all its own.

Ley Lines

Though summer,
there is fog,
cold salt air,
and granite boulders.

trees sculpted by wind and sea,
moss draped,
twisted like walking sticks.

Picking low bush blueberries
leads us to the edge of the woods
and then inside.

A cold feeling envelopes us.
We look up into a clearing
guarded by ravens;
huge, black, cold as the wind
they speak an ancient
menacing tongue.

We have intruded upon
things not meant for us.

Terrible purpose thrums
in the rocks.

We turn and run
and never return.

Routine

Carving Necks

Honduran Mahogany
is my favorite
because it carves wonderfully.
The fresh blank
clamped, waiting
the neck inside
yet to be revealed.
Draw knife, spokeshave,
chisel and gouge aligned
like a surgeon’s tools.
Long strokes at first
lovely curls cascade
fresh wood polished
by the blade’s stroke.
Each tool in its time
peeling ever smaller shavings.
In the end only a graceful curve remains
surrounded by its fallen skin
ready to mate with its body
and make lovely music.

Clean and Dirty

Were today's poetry prompts!

Opening Day

Technicolor Green grass
wet, fresh dirt
Crayola brown
zig zag, light dark
mower pattern.
white light flashes
off bases and plate
players along the baselines
pinstriped trousers
sharply defined,
hats in hands
hands over chests.
washed blue sky
cold in the shadows
cold Shiner in a cup
warm sun
with relish and mustard
on a wrinkly ballpark dog
retiree with a score book
his pencil poised for the season.



Wildfire

Roll out of a space blanket
disoriented;
it’s night, but
there’s firelight all around?
Like a phoenix
it has risen,
jumped the lines again.
Pants once green
shirt once yellow
stiff as sore muscles
worn too many days,
black and grey as ghosts
hands ashen, palms sweated clean
like a vaudeville act.
No smell but smoke,
no vision but flames
laughing, feeding.
Eyes dull with fatigue,
we grab Pulaskis and shovels
and firing up the saws
rise again to send this
bastard back to hell.

Pop

Todays was 'something missing', so here goes...

Pop

Joni was dead right;
don’t it always seem to go
that you don’t know what
you got ‘till it’s gone…
At the risk of waxing philosophic or
getting all Ciceronian on ya,
truth is,
I miss the hell outta him.
and the funny thing
or maybe not
depending on perspective
is that his reticence to believe
in the hereafter kind of
bleeds into my fears over time;
I pray he’s OK even though I know
he is.
Pop or not, a person in your life
who always believes in you no matter what
is a gift beyond measure.

This was my first swing, I didn't like it as much...

Something missing

The thing is;
Is it missing or is it not?
Ephemeron is hard to measure.
Try as I might I cannot help but play
what if, and believe myself capable;
there are many things that could have been.
Don’t cry over spilled milk, yes,
but what about milk
still in the glass
but never drunk?
At night it is so much easier to
agonize over things that,
by daylight,
seem nothing more than preludes to a dream.
Finally, I must confess that I am blessed,
and to not be happy with that
would be a terrible mistake.
Even so,
what if?

It's National Poetry Month, so...

Why not try it? Looks like fun, so I'm in! If you're interested, go here and you'll see the daily subject prompt from Rob't Lee Brewer, and you can attach your entry via the comments on the bottom of each days entry by Robert. Here's yesterdays for me:

Rude Bridge

The rude bridge that arched the flood,
in Emerson’s parlance,
was a last stand for embattled farmers;
but in my day it was where we sold turtles
and pop to the tourists.

Sliding between creasoted timbers
during spring flood
sun warm
ice cold brown water
pummeling the supports.

Waterlogged grass and branches
left as a gift to the forgotten.

Ice Cream Music

In a cruel twist of fate
all ice cream trucks
seem to play the same ditty;
and for the life of me
I cannot recall
the real words.
Instead, a line from childhood,
“Do your balls hang low?”
Is the only thing
my twisted mind can summon.
Perhaps this is what hell is like.

On any Sunday

I think there were movies
titled this, about football and
car racing and maybe even surfing
but none of those speak to me.
Sundays are for couches and
fat newspapers. Sundays are for
a cocktail with my love in the early
afternoon, preferably champagne.
Sundays are for talk about books
and life and by these little gestures,
we recharge for the week ahead.

The Problem with Cats

The problem with cats
let me count the ways.
Just don’t ask them this question,
for rhetorically or otherwise
in no other mind is a cat so perfect
as in its own.
Humans are suckers for their shtick;
yes, we’re door or can openers with legs,
yet when they come a rubbing on our legs
we purr with thanks,
roll on our bellies
and switch our tails,
daring them to pay more attention.

Learning To Crawl

Good discussion thread started by a member over at The Lutherie Community this week – Here’s the link to it

The topic is from a relatively new builder asking about setting neck angle, and/or establishing a standard angle by which he should always build; I won’t paraphrase the responses here, you can go and read it if’n you’re interested: I think the discussion speaks to the big picture answer quite well, and does what any good question should do, and that’s raise yet more questions.

This topic is one that I know could raise quite a spirited debate between devotees of right brained versus left brained Lutherie; is there a formula or set principle which governs prescribed neck angles for a given acoustic build, or is it organically based on that specific build, or somewhere in between?

I’m not gonna answer that follow up question either, by the way, you get to decide; and that friends and neighbors, is the fact that lies at the very heart of what makes building stringed instruments so cool.

There’s also a thread there about Dennis Leahy’s Angelina build. If you look that over, you will see that it would be easy for staunch right brainers to say, “He did everything wrong,” while the Left Side Gang might not be so quick to agree. That said, here’s the fact; very good players I know, some of whom play for a living and are very demanding about what their instruments sound and play like, went nuts for this guitar. Everyone who played it, even folks who watched it get built and did not frankly care for Dennis’ methodology turned 180 degrees after playing her and said, “She sings, she’s beautiful!” One of those folks summed it up perfectly when he said, “I’m not sure I agree with his construction methods, or even if I understand then that well, but who cares; it obviously worked for him, it’s a great guitar!”

That’s what it’s all about to me. One of the things I think we need to take to heart is this, especially when we’re participating in any of the great online communities we share; tolerance for differences is not only important, it’s critical. The writer Robert Heinlein once said, “A society that gets rid of all its troublemakers goes downhill;” and that’s well said.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking scientific or right brain building or builders! If we did not pay attention to the fundamentals of how stringed instrument works, we’d build stuff that does not work and that is surely not our aim. What I am offering up is appreciation and acceptance of diversity in building methodology and concept. I’ve taught a lot of things in my life; skiing, tennis, rock climbing, fire fighting, police work, and sales among them. I can’t tell you how many times some absolutely green rookie said something that made me stop and say “What’d you just say?” The rookies usually think ‘Oh crap, now I’m in trouble,’ ‘cause they assume the teacher always knows and they shouldn’t have shot their mouth off. Fact is, I bet I’ve learned as much from those instances as I ever taught.

I was taught to SCUBA dive in 1974 from an ex Navy Seal who had only been out of the service for 6 months. He was a great guy, but his class reflected his training and experience; if you’ve ever seen video of what they do to SEAL trainees in a pool, our experience was not unlike that. In the middle of one of those classes, I hit the water with a few other students, only I did the classic tuck and roll entry I’d watched Jacques Cousteau’s guys do so many times on TV. When I surfaced, John was looking our way with a very serious expression; he said “Who did that entry?” I swallowed and said “I did”. He gave me a pretty deep look and said, “Very nicely done,” and then went back to what he’d been doing.

However we build, whatever we build, may we never forget to learn.

Pickin' with Tommy Emmanuel

Twice a year, every year, I haul my band an hour north to play the Blue Bonnet Cancer Retreat, a very cool 3 day free camp for those fighting or who have fought cancer. They feed ‘em and wine ‘em and dine ‘em and they’re among a group of folks in the same boat. It’s put on by my friend Randy, who’s a Methodist Minister; it is just a wonderful thing, and they love us to pieces every time we play there.

So Randy calls me, confirms the date, and then says “Well, this is awkward, but we have a headliner playing Saturday night who is staying overnight, and he wanted to play one song during communion, and if I know him, he’s gonna want to sit in on all your stuff too; is that OK”

I told him that was fine, no problem, and if they guy wanted back up from us on his cut, fine and if not fine, whatever he wanted to do, and of course he can sit in with us, no problem.”

Randy sounds relieved and says, “Well cool, I’m really glad you’re OK with that. Now, you can’t tell anyone, because if you do, 1000 people are gonna show up here and try to crash this event, but the player I’m talking about is Tommy Emmanuel…”

(Sound of the fur going up on the back of Eben’s neck, combined with jaw hitting the floor)
“Are you shitting me?” I spluttered?

No; Randy has been a fan for along time. Randy had simply emailed Tommy's Manager about the retreat, and the manager told Tommy, and the first thing out of his mouth was, “Can I come and hang out for the weekend and meet these people and play some”

HOLY SHIT!!!! I’m gonna play with Tommy Emmanuel!!!!!

And so we did: yes, friends and neighbors, Tommy sat in with the band for our set, and we with him on a couple of tunes. I have now had the pleasure of turning around and saying, "Take one, Tommy"

I'm still on cloud nine, big time...

And yes, I did put an Aerie in his hands and yes, he played it: He tried a Madrone '32 L-0 and said and I quote, "Fantastic!" I said, "No smoke, Tommy, I can take it, how is it really?" He replied, "This is a beautiful guitar, Mate; you got the magic in this one..." And yeah, I got the cheese shot to prove it! As we said our good byes, he gave me a very intense look and said, "Keep doing what you're doing with the guitars; you're doing the right thing." Now I'd call that a direction worth heeding, wouldn't you?



What a wonderful, kind, and unbelievably talented man;
Tommy, it was truly a pleasure I'll never forget, thank you!

You Load Sixteen Tons...

And whataya get? Another day older and deeper in debt…

Well, I am indeed older today, 49 as of mid morning, anyway. I don’t recall ever loading 16 tons of anything, other than bullshit, and the last time I shopped at the company store was summer camp in ’71, so I think I’m doin’ alright…

Hmmm, life reflection: Well, I am a better person than I used to be. Still an ass, mind you, but a less hostile, less self-centered one than I was, so that’s progress. I won’t ever be rich or famous, won’t ever play professional sports or have a 30 year career in anything: I guess I coulda, but I didn’t and frankly, I’m fine with that.

Here’s what I would like to do down the line: I’d like to be a great husband, partner and friend to Monica. I’d like to be a good step dad to three fine young men. I’d like to play music semi-professionally for many years to come. I’d like to get a book and a song published. I’d like to make many fine guitars. I’d like to see the world. I’d like to do what I can to make this earth a better place. I’d like to be at peace with myself.

I’d like Cuban Crime of Passion to STOP running through my head.

That’s not asking too much, is it?

Happy Birthday to me, and thanks again, Ma and Pa!

Market Watch...

Ah the markets…

Investors are “nervous and scared,” the markets tumble, is there an end in sight?!?!?

Yeah, there is, it’s called common sense.

I saw a cartoon in the latest New Yorker that showed a couple talking at a party, and one of them says, “Well, limiting Wall Street bonuses might stifle creativity, but if they get any more creative I’m afraid we’ll go bankrupt.”

That about says it right.

Investors are nervous and scared? They fucking better be, if they’re not, they need to put some serious work in on their investing skills…

When it comes to the markets and Wall street, I quote, Rhett Butler; “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn…” Can’t you hear the markets crying; “But Rhett, where will I go, what will I do?!” I. Don’t. Give. A. Damn.

The immediate responses that come to mind stem from my former profession, take your pick, markets;

Have a nice day, somewhere else, or

AMF, YOYO, (Adios Mother Fuckers, You’re On Your Own)

You have had decades of decadence, years of excess, trillions of waste and greed, illegal, immoral and improper support from countless administrations and congresses, and what have you provides US during all that? Are most Americans better off for your presence and activities? Is our country better off? Is our government better off? Is our industrial base better off? Is the world better off? Is the earth better off?

Rhetorical, I know; the answer to all is a resounding ‘No’. So who or what is better off? The few, the privileged few, the wealthy, the fat cats, the Captains of Industry; just them.

Does what happens to you impact me? Yeah, it does, I grant that.

Because it does, do I want to help you out, bail you out, make it right, shore up the walls? No, not in the least.

From GM to AIG, General Electric to Nabisco, to all of you fuckers in between who have screwed the working people and the country and the earth to line your pockets, I say the following; Go fuck yourselves; die, you gravy sucking pigs. I don’t have a dime for y’all. Jump out of windows, sell pencils from a tin cup, fade away to whatever mysterious Caribbean country you’ve stuffed all your ill gotten booty into.

And when the scum are gone, let us begin anew. Let us again find out what we can do, all of us, one by one and then together. If the industries are gone, let’s be smart and build new ones. It’s a world market, and we’re world citizens and capable, smart, tough, resilient people. What does the world need and want that we can do and make? We’ve risen from the ashes before and ended up better, let’s just do it again.

Truly, it is the tough times that make us change; we never come through the other side the same as we were.

We come out better.

VOTE FOR MIRANDA!

You might have heard about the competition for the 'Best Job in the World', and if not, well, suffice to say it's aptly named: It involves being the caretaker of an island on the Great Barrier Reef, so, 'nuff said, huh?

Our wonderful daughter in law, Miranda has put together a video as an applicant for the job, so....

Please check it out and vote for our girl, - The short list will be generated in only 6 days, so get after that votin' thang!

(And yeah, she really is that nice and that cool!)

Guitarras Mexicana

I spent the last week in sunny Mexico, Puerto Vallarta in particular.

There I saw many really nice guitars; guitarrons, requintos, bajo sextos, tresillos, vihuelas, and huapangueras to name a few. I have limited but usable Spanish, and when I explained to virtually any player that I make guitars, they happily handed them to me and explained when and where they had bought them. The vast majority came from Paracho, which is no surprise; that town boasts several thousand builders, some 3rd and 4th generation builders.

What was surprisingly to me was the fact that quite a few guitarrons came from Ixtapa Zihuatanejo, specifically Guitarrons of surprising beauty and quality. If you’ve never been down there and need an excuse, Ixtapa hosts an annual guitar bash that is reported to be a pretty amazing party – Check out this link for more info.

Of course these axes were working instruments; it makes sense then that these instruments are well cared for but heavily used. There are not many fancy woods, and no end to end bling on these babies, just solid performing woods and designs. Since these are virtually all nylon string instruments, the majority I inspected were plain Cedar backs and sides, (And the big guitarrons and bajo sextos probably need to be for those guys to haul them around and play them night after night!). There were a couple of guitarrons made of a heavier hardwood, both from Ixtapa, and the owner of one said it was Granadillo, and maybe it was; either my eyes weren’t that good or I’d had too much Tequila by the point that conversation took place!

A couple of models which got me thinking: First, the requintos romanticos were very cool, kinda the Mexican version of a Django guitar and with a very nice voice indeed. I saw several soloists pulling great leads on those guys, and the large oval sound hole is striking indeed.

And the vihuelas, ahhhh the vihuelas; from the top they look more or less like a standard nylon string axe, but turn ‘em around and you find this beautiful, deep bowl back. The projection of those little guys was noticeably better than a lot of the other sizes and shapes I heard and saw played.

Not long ago, a customer brought me an 1848 German parlor of unknown make; I loved the shape and size, and it too had a deep bowl back like those vihuelas; the shear use that little thing had seen made me think that we might be missing something about that shape...

The curve of the back culminates, more or less, at the waist, meaning both front to back and side to side, the bowl is greatest at that point; this of course puts that point pretty much dead beneath the sound hole as well. Now this stuff might be common knowledge to y’all, but it sure wasn’t to me and it makes me think that I would do well to do some experimenting one of these days. There are plans for quite a few of these South American stringed instruments and expanding ones horizons is always a good thing, don’t you think?

DIRTY ROTTEN SCOUNDRELS!

Well, as Kenny Hill noted, “Just when you think you’ve seen it all…” kenny is a very well established, high end American guitar maker. He was contacted by a potential client who seemed knowledgeable and legitimate, and he ended up selling one of his guitars to the guy COD/Cash/Certified payment upon receipt, which as Kenny noted, isn’t that unusual in the guitar business. The guy had said the axe was for his kid, and called back a couple days later wanting another one; the last BRW model he had, in fact, and Kenny sold him that too.
See it coming? The guy’s Certified Cashier’s Checks were forgeries.
Not only that, he got two with the same scam off Howard Klepper, another fairly legendary American Luthier.

So this asshole has tens of thousands of dollars of stolen guitars.

The shithead gave his name as:
Jonathan Silk
1915 San Francisco Ave
Long Beach CA 90806.

Kenny found the real Jonathan Silk, a former UCLA Professor living in the Netherlands who had nothing to do with this.

If you’re a builder, collector, or player, be on the lookout.
Go here for Kenny’s info, and here for Howard’s.

I realize there are lots worse things that happen in the world, but stealing guitars from folks who have put so much heart and soul into a beautiful art for so long is like stealing purses from invalids; it’s wrong on a whole bunch of counts.

Dude, whoever you are, we’re looking for you, the word is out – We will find you, and then you’re gonna learn a thing or two…