July 5, 2009

Can a guitar be like a book? The other way ’round maybe?

I was in Montreal yesterday, at the Salon de Guitare de Montreal, which, if you don’t read French, means the Montreal Guitar Show.

While walking up one aisle, then down another, ogling one intricate design after next, I got to thinking of the talent, imagination and artistry that goes into guitar-making. It’s sort of like writing a book, I guess (although, given I’ve never built a guitar, I really don’t know for sure. And, anyway, thinking back on my blatant ineptitude in high school woodworking class, you wouldn’t want to see me even attempt the task).

But after arriving home late last night and after collapsing into bed, I immediately approached that not-quite-awake-but-not-yet-asleep state, the one that had me slowly replaying images of those magnificent instruments. That’s when I knew for sure, just before drifting away. Yep, guitars are like books. Here, let me show you a few examples.

Daddy Mojo Guitar

Daddy Mojo Guitar

I don’t know about you, but this interesting work of art (and my best friend, Nino’s hands-down favourite) reminds me of an outlaw. And when I think of outlaws, I think of Elmore Leonard. I didn’t get to try this instrument, but I bet it plays just like one of his books reads—edgy, maybe a bit off-balanced, and always intoxicating.

Benoit Maillette

Benoit Maillette

A Benoit Maillette electic guitar–can you picture Gene Roddenberry writing about space travel, modeling USS Enterprise prototypes,  and somehow coming up with something like this? Well I can.

Fabrizio Alberico

Fabrizio Alberico

What this photo only hints at is the level of craftsmanship and the attention to detail that Fabrizio Alberico lavishes on his work. Every feature is carefully thought through, every component artistically crafted and lovingly assembled. If you’ve read David Adams Richards’ The Friends of Meager Fortune, you’ll know what I mean.

John Monteleone

John Monteleone

A  John Monteleone guitar is like an Ayn Rand novel, especially Atlas Shrugged. Big, bold and mysterious.

Peter Malinoski

Peter Malinoski

Hunter S Thompson. For sure.

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I’m out of town for about a week, away from computers, wi-fi, cell phones and the other accoutrements of modern living. I’ll report back soon. Thanks for reading my blog.

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July 3, 2009

What, another one already?

Imagine this. A young lad—let’s call him Joshua—travels through time (I know, I know, it’s been done to death, but hear me out, this one’s different).

While some kids are strong baseball players and others perhaps musically inclined. Joshua possesses no such talents. His innate skill is time-projection, and he does it on a whim, sans the prerequisite time capsules or flux capacitors.  From his concerned parents, his flummoxed teachers, and his curious doctors, the consensus is that Joshua simply zones out. While he’s physically present—at a classroom desk, at the dinner table—it’s obvious that his mind is elsewhere, up in the clouds, pie in the sky.

All of which is no big deal really. Hell, there are dozens of other kids in Joshua’s school twice as bad. The unfortunate thing is, it gets worse. The unfortunate thing is Joshua is argumentative, scoffing at concepts and factoids that, by rights, he should not be challenging. In history class he avows, with unshakable fervor, that Columbus never found America. That discovery, so Joshua asserts, was the handiwork of a lowly shipmate named Bonifacio. In geography, Joshua forcibly contends that Atlantis was no myth; that island, and those gods, really did exist. On and on it goes, one outrageous claim after another; Newton was feeling mischievous when he drafted his laws, it was all a lark, really. Shakespeare, while admittedly a gifted actor and strong orator, was illiterate. Couldn’t write his own name, that Sir William.

Imagine the consternation. Imagine the ridicule. And all of it made worse by Joshua’s inability to explain any of his outbursts (it’s not until much later that he realizes his remarkable gift), he just knows he’s right and that everyone else—historians, especially—plain wrong.

Finally, it’s the ridicule that sets things in motion, instilling both anger and the blind need for revenge….

What do you think? An interesting story? There’s a bunch more too, a lot of other ideas I’m thinking about and haven’t yet told you. Now some of you might wonder why I am even thinking about another novel, with my current one still unreleased. Shouldn’t I be working on that one instead? The truth, you see, is I don’t even want to think about the first novel right now. In fact, I’m trying very hard to put it out of my mind. At least until I hear from the two editors of the publishing house—the one considering it for publication. Because to do otherwise is, simply put, going to drive me crazy. Even crazier than Johsua.

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