Posts: 28

1. Let's Talk Guitars, Part V

   18.Mar.08, 11:32 EDT
   
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   On vacation once in Colorado I saw this t-shirt inscribed, "If God had meant for Texan to Ski, he would've given them a mountain."  That's the nice version of a slogan I've often seen in the mountains, the other one being, "If God had meant for Texans to ski, he would've made bullshit white."  I used to think those inscriptions were cute, funny even . . . but I lived in Oklahoma then.  Now I'm a Texan, and the jabs are less funny these days.  Besides, if Texans abandon the ski slopes of Colorado and New Mexico, they'll all go tits up. 
   
   I think of that old saying as I drive south out of Alpine.  I'm winding my way up a mountain road, and not just a piddling little hill either.  Yeah, you granola chomping yankee mountain hippies, us Texans do have mountains -and big 'uns too.  I'm headed down the road to visit with Michael Stevens, a guitar builder who's got a shop out in these desert mountains.  Not only is he a great builder of electric guitars and mandolins, he's a pretty fair cowboy.  Like me, he's getting old, but unlike me, he's not showing it much.  I drive down a dirt road to his house, find him walking with two men who've come to discuss the guitar business.  My timing is lousy, but he says I should hang around, that we'll talk later.
   
   I kill off a couple of hours driving south toward the border, snapping off shots with my old cameras.  A herd of javelinas trot across the road, but I'm not fast enough to get pictures.  I find a small herd of antelope and get pictures of them.  I'm too early to find the desert blooming.  That'll be another month, maybe less, and I live a five hour drive away.  Maybe next year I'll get shots of blooming cactus.  Back at Michael's shop, we talk while he works.  The conversation is always about guitars . . . or cowboy music, another of Mike's loves.  And he's not bad, either.  I've always liked his style, his old time cowboy song renditions.
   
   Michael has been around, when it comes to guitars.  He had a business in Austin many years ago, then went out to California and worked for Fender for some time.  He's repaired, built, played, and enjoyed guitars for a long time . . . and he's one of the best at building them.  Just type in his name under any search engine and his fancy webpages will come up.  He's easy to find . . . on the internet - harder to find if you're looking for an up close and personal thing.  He's a friendly, personably guy who happens to like remote places. 
   
   And so . . . I'm back in Brady, Texas this morning, still thinking about Michael and his shop down in the mountains.  I can still smell the wood, and that always starts something turning inside me.  My own shop is just across town, idle all winter and needing a good cleaning.  I've got projects there waiting to be finished.  One is a guitar Michael gave me a few years back, an old acoustic never finished.   I finished it, built a neck for it, and it looks decent.  Maybe I'll go over to the shop later on and work.  I'm needing that these days . . . the work, the experience of creating something from wood.
   
   And I'm also reminded that I need to spend more time around my old friends.  Like lots of old cowboys, I'm getting lonesome these days, and sometimes work cures lonesome.  And I need to start making music again.  I see folks like Michael, and the question gets asked, "Are you working on anything?"  I sure hate to say, "No, haven't done much lately."
   
   There's that guitar, the one all builders dream about, still inside me that would be the best thing I ever built . . . if I could just get it out!  I can see it when I close my eyes, but I can't touch it, or play it . . .
   
   . . . yet.
   
   D. Paz, 3/18/08

2. The Lost Novels

   11.Feb.08, 05:30 EST
   
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   It's not like me to lose things.  I joke about that cup of coffee I can never find, or the car keys or glasses that hide from me . . . but the truth is that I just don't lose things.  Maybe I should rephrase that and say that it's not my nature to be absent minded, scatter-brained, forgetful.  I'm usually prompt for meetings, seldom forget where I'm supposed to be, and I'm almost always aware of the time.  I've never had to keep notes, write down things as reminders.
   
   But . . . I've lost two novels.
   
   I started writing seriously at the age of 43.  I'd written journal articles, newspaper and magazine articles, stuff like that over the years, but I'd never written fiction.  Growing up around literature and with parents who loved language, loved to read and write, was good for me.  I didn't take to it like a duck to water, that's for sure.  It was forced on me, expected of me to be a reader.  And I wrote things at an early age, some poems and some stories even back before I got to fifth grade.  My mother saved some of that suff, and I've still got it. 
   
   But . . . I've lost two novels.
   
   College wasn't my best lick at education, that's for sure.  I struggled the first few years, then caught a groove and started making good grades.  I majored in Literature for awhile but ended up with a degree in history.  But political science interested me most, and I got a M.A. in that.  I did doctoral work at two different universities on two different occasions, earing some 150 hours beyond a masters degree.  I didn't finish either doctoral program, but it wasn't the dissertation that stopped me.  Writing was my strong point.  The research papers pulled me through, got me A's in almost every graduate class I took.  And, I still have almost every paper writen for those seminars in grad school.
   
   But . . . I've lost two novels.
   
   The first novel I lost really didn't have a name, just a working title.  I had some 600 pages of manuscript, some five years invested in research and writing.  Here at the Campo Madrone shop is an old Gateway computer, a very old one from back in the early 1990s - no windows, just the old doss system.  I have the old floppy disks, and somewhere on them is that novel.  The local computer gurus say they can probably get me disk copies of that novel . . . but it's iffy.
   
   Last summer, while trying to make a back-up disk off my Toshiba laptop, I lost another novel.  The damn machine suddenly went nuts and started duplicating copies of my documents on the hard drive, literally hundreds of each document.  You can imagine what that did to the computer, and I never got a copy of anything.  I don't handle situations like that well.  In fact, had my wife not been present, that computer might now be nothing more than a pile of chips and fragments.  But she took it away from me and then deleated the duplicated files.  She didn't have a list of what to save, just deleated all the copies with numbers indicating they were duplicates.
   
   I don't blame her.  It's my fault because I should've done it.  I should've taken it to the shop right then, had the experts work on it.  But I didn't, and she ended up deleating a novel I'd been working on for a year.  The guys at the computer place couldn't retrieve it, and I had no copies.  A stupid thing on my part all the way around.  You'd think a writer would be more careful, but I wasn't.
   
   That second lost novel haunts me.  It was good work, and I knew it was some of the best stuff I'd ever written.  I tried to write down as much as I could in the way of notes to remember it, and I keep trying to find time to start it again in hopes I can remember it.  I tried several times, but it's just too frustrating.  Even if you remember the plot, the story, the composition itself is gone . . . and you can't get back things like that.  But that story still wakes me up in the middle of the night, like it has on this night.
   
   What was his name, the character who started the story?  Was that in Ojinaga?  And what was the name of the cafe where he met the priest?  The girl, what was her name?  And the street, was it Calypso or . . . Canary?
   
   And it's three o'clock in the morning, dammit!
   
   I'm too old for this shit!
   
   PMC, 2/10/08
   
   

3. Border Images

   29.Jan.08, 09:05 EST
   
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   Taking pictures of the river in the Rio Grande Valley isn't easy, and for a  number of reasons.  First off, the river is hard to approach anywhere except where roads lead directly to it.  Oh, it's easy enough to take pictures where the international bridges cross it . . . but then you only have a picture of a bridge.  I didn't come home from there with a single picture of the river itself.  It hides from you, and that's fitting.  Almost everything there hides from you at first.
   
   My three day stay there was mostly in Edinburg, a very nice little city just north of McAllen.  Hidalgo County is heavily populated.  I'm not even sure they know how many people are there because I see no way a trustworthy census could be taken.  They all look alike, these borderlanders from the valley.  The river separating Texas from Mexico is more fluid than anyone suspects, unless he's a borderlander.  The population is easily 95 percent hispanic, or latino.  And the entire area is metropolitan, almost.  It seems that you never leave the city since all the towns run together there - McAllen, Pharr, Edinburg, and Mission.  And it's as modern as any metropolitan area you'd find anywhere in the U.S. - and nicer than most of them, in fact.  Their schools, for instance, would make anyone jealous.  You won't find facilities like they have for schools in most places.
   
   I spend my first day there driving around on highways as smooth as glass, and plentiful enough to link communites and make them easy to get to.  I see some signs of poverty, like in all cities, but not many . . . not nearly what you'd see in Corpus Christi, Houston, San Antonio, or even Austin.  Folks in that area are a little stand-offish . . . until you approach them.  Then they are as congenial as you'd find anywhere.  It's easy to start a conversation.
   
   "Where does all the wealth come from?" I ask several people.  One guy smiles and says, "You know, that's a good question."  Another guy says, "Where does it come from anywhere?  Lots of professional people have moved here, and their jobs pay well."  Still another person tells me, "It's the internation trade that brings it."  And finally, one guy says, "Drugs, man.  Some of these million dollar homes belong to drug lords."
   
   The area has a hum to it . . . an almost irritating background sound that's not all that noticeable at first.  Then, I realize it's the sound of motion, of people moving about.  This is a high energy area, lots of motion, and most of that motion is caused by people working.  Yeah, working because it takes a lot of work to keep a place like that maintained.  The construction business, for instance, is booming.  New houses and businesses going up everywhere.  Property is relatively inexpensive still, and you find some great deals on housing.  If you can afford $250,000 for a house, you can live in real luxury in that area.
   
   I spoke with a neighbor to my host, my former son-in-law, and he says that property taxes there are getting oppressive.  I told him it's that way all over Texas, that the local governments down here are the worst enemy the taxpayer has in this state.  We have no state income tax, a good deal, but the cities and counties rape you when it comes to property tax.  This particular guy was selling his quarter of a million dollar home to get out from under the heavy taxation on it.  He says that's come about in just the past few years.
   
   But cities with exploding populations have lots of workers to pay.  All those beautiful schools don't come free, and that's where a big percent of the property tax money goes.  It's hard to bitch about having nice schools; easy to bitch about oppressive taxation.  Law enforcement is also expensive, and if anyone needs good law enforcement, it's the borderlanders . . . even in the valley.  The message is simple - don't burden yourself with an expensive house.  Find something smaller, still nice, but in a district where property taxes are less.  Let the rich pay the taxes.
   
   Like the river, some things are hard to find at first.  Once found, they are even harder to focus on.  It seems that few people really understand the border problems, and I'm starting to get a sense of why.  The river itself hides in a flood plain of thick brush that's practically impossible to get through - for the average person.  I've seldom seen such thick, uninviting brush country . . . but illegal immigrants make their way through it on a daily basis.  You see border patrol vehicles everywhere . . .and still they come.  To them, the thicket is cover, just as it is for the wildlife along the river.
   
   Yes, the river hides from you, and I'll be awhile getting images of it.  It may take me longer to get good images of the area itself, of the people who live there.  It's easy to see, just hard to get in good focus.  I went up river on Sunday, spent a day looking at country that's not citified, not as modern.  And I got a view of the border that's indeed still primative . . .and we'll show that in blogs to come later.
   
   D. Paz, 1/29/08

4. The Border

   25.Jan.08, 08:25 EST
   
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   Come sun up, I'm gonna saddle up and head for the border.   Yeah, I'm gonna get on old brownie, pack along some gear, and head down towards that ole river, the Rio Grande.  When I get there, I'm gonna drink some good whiskey and dance with the purty ladies. 
   
   I've always wanted to start a blog with those lines, but it won't happen quite like that.  Actually, I'm going to pack up brownie, the Buick Park Avenue, with a bunch of cameras and head for the border to do some serious photography.  Former son-in-law Tracey Hamilton, who lives in Edinburg, says it's raining there.  But Grandson Colton has a power lifting meet on Saturday, and I still owe him a birthday present.  He turned 15 earlier this month. 
   
   I need some decent photography for a book I finished a few months back, and it needs graphics before going to the publisher.  But I also plan on doing some blogs about the border, since that area is such a hot topic of discussion right now in political circles.  Maybe I'll post some neat pics over the next few weeks so folks who don't live here can get an idea about what causes so much discussion with these politicians.  And none of them seem to know a damn thing about the border, or what to do about the immigration problem.  It is a problem, and a big one - perhaps even bigger than anyone suspects at this time.
   
   But I know the border, know people down there, and I understand the culture in place there.  Frontierizos, as they are called, are not like the rest of us Texans.  They don't want to be like us, and most Texans sure as hell don't want to be like them.  Even most Texans don't understand the border.  George Bush, the prez, is from here in Texas, and he doesn't understand.  I can't fault him much for not knowing what to do about the border because he doesn't know what to do about anything.  At least he's consistent.
   
   In lieu of what I come up with over the next few weeks in the way of pictures and presentations of the border, I can assure you of one thing - you'll be surprised, and you might be pleasantly surprised.  The area is not the hell hole most people picture in their minds, that's for sure.  It's got some problem areas, some really ugly places and people, but there's much more to the borderlands than that.  The part I'm going to this weekend isn't bad at all.  In fact, some of it is exceptionally nice.  
   
   You'll see.
   
   D. Paz, 1/25/08

5. Klebo Doolin

   03.Jan.08, 12:40 EST
   
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   Klebo Doolin came to town riding a black Harley with the words Hawg From Hell written on its gas tank . . . and packing a .44 magnum colt pistol.  He rode down the main street of Mission, Texas a couple of times, then went to the Red Rooster Lounge and waited.  When Sid Garcia came in just before dark, Klebo shot him between the eyes and killed him dead as a wedge.  Then he sat back down at the bar and ordered another beer.  He barely had time to finish it before the cops showed up and hauled him to jail, and that's where the unusual tale of Klebo Doolin and what had just happened at the Red Rooster started to unfold.
   
   It turned out that Klebo Doolin was from Arkansas, but he spent most of his time riding up and down the border from Presidio to Brownsville on the American side and from Ojinaga to Matamoros on the Mexican side.  Sometimes he went back to Arkansas to hang out for a while, but he always came back.  He owned a little piece of property up near Zapata close to Falcon Reservoir, but he just slept there.  It was little more than a shack with a shed for his Harley, and he liked hanging out with some of the local bikers.
   
   Klebo started hanging out at the border when his ex-wife married Sid Garcia back in 1990.  Until then, he had hardly been out of Arkansas, except for a few bike trips over to Oklahoma and up into Missouri.  He had a kid, just a baby girl then, and when his wife married Sid and took the kid down to the border, Klebo followed them to Mission.  Finding a job along the border was easy for a slick mechanic like Klebo, but he was too restless to stay in a shop all day long for five days a week.  He opened a little cycle repair shop there in Zapata, but you could only find him there about three days a week . . . if you were lucky. 
   
   Some folks blamed Klebo's restlessness on the war in Nam, since that's where he got shot up and left with just one arm and one leg.  He wore the replacement parts the government fitted him with, and he drew a disability check from Uncle Sam.  Despite his disabilities, he rode a cycle well, and often.  The only thing he loved more than cycles was his daughter, named Ruth after his mother.  Little Ruth was a bright child, and she thought Klebo hung the moon.  He thought she was the most perfect thing he'd ever seen, and that's why he killed Sid Garcia.  Sid made the mistake of fooling with Klebo's only contact with innocence, and he died for doing it.
   
   Sheriff Joaquin Lucero arrested Klebo for murder, then started his investigation.  Klebo's cycle pals started grumbling right off.  No gringo was going to get a fair shake in a county that was 99 percent Latino (should we call them Mexican-Americans?), especially when he killed a city councilman and respected citizen.  Sid wasn't a nobody in his home town of Mission, but most people didn't know the Sid Garcia that Ruth knew.  To her he was a child molester, a sexual predator. 
   
   Klebo  never was much of a talker, not even when his own well-being depended upon his words.  But he told Sheriff Lucero that he saw signs of sexual child abuse in his daughter, that he had finally asked her what was going on and had been told that Sid had been doing bad things with and to her.  Klebo said no more about it - not to anyone.  He took care of the problem his own way when he shot Sid dead.
   
   At first Sheriff Lucero did not believe the story, but after bringing in some experts in sexual child abuse he became conviced that something vile had happened in the Gomez household.  And before long others came forward to offer some proof that Sid might well have been a sexual predator.  But still, it did not look good for Klebo because public sentiment was very much against him.  Most people were unwilling to believe that Sid had been a bad man.  If the case had gone to trial at that time, Klebo would no doubt have lost and gone to prison for life.
   
   But Klebo Doolin never went to trial, or to prison.  You can't try someone you can't find . . . even if someone is really looking for him.  Klebo disappeared from the Mission jail one night.  Word had it that he escaped, overpowered a keeper and ran off into the night.  A few days later a body of a gringo was found floating in Falcon Reservoir, with Klebo Doolin's wallet in its pocket.  Case closed.  Justice had been done.
   
   But a one armed biker with a false leg still rides the border on a blue Harley bike, and with despreocupado written on the gas tank.  Free and easy, that's what this rider is.  He rides mostly in Mexico, but no one knows where he lives . . . except perhaps Ruth Doolin.  She's grown now and attending college in Edinburg, but she goes to Mexico a lot.  Sheriff Lucero is retired now and plays a lot of golf.  And he likes riding his old Harley too, and he visits down in Mexico on occasions.  It's just a rumor, but I hear he found a cycle mechanic down there he really likes.
   
   D. Paz, 1/3/08
   
   

6. What Am I Doing Here?

   23.Dec.07, 08:50 EST
   
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   So here's the set-up for this particular line of thought, the one I'm about to lay on you.  You've been feeling a little out of sorts, not just quite right, and so you make an appointment to see a doctor.  And you go to his office and sit in the waiting room, and all around you are people who're obviously much worse off than you are . . . coughing, sneezing, maybe even groaning and moaning a little.  That's when the question pops into your head - Hey!  What am I doing here? 
   
   And it's not the question that really bugs you, either.  It's the obvious answer, which is - Hey!  I don't belong here.  That may be the way you feel, but you need to fight off these feelings because they're going to haunt you most of your life.  Get used to it.
   
   I remember lots of instances from the past where I felt just that way.  I went out for football in high school, weighed a hefty 140 lbs., had about two sprigs of hair on my chest, and had shaved maybe a half dozen times in my life.  My first time in the locker room with older kids left me asking that question - Hey!  What am I doing here?"  By the time I was a senior, that feeling had gone away.
   
   My first faculty meeting as a young 25 year old college professor left me feeling that way.  I felt that way standing in front of a preacher getting married for a second time, at the age of 48 and to a woman nearly a decade  younger than that.  It got me when I moved to Texas after retirement and ran into people who acted as if they still thought the earth was flat.  My first trip to the national finals as a young rodeo coach made me feel that way, as did my first day standing in front of a college class.  I've felt that way hundreds of times, and most of the time it passed as I felt more at home with the new surroundings and situations.
   
   I managed to make it through my professional career without being much of a joiner.  I've never belonged to a professional organization, or a union, or a civic oranization, or even a local men's club.  For some reason, I just never felt a part of anything like that.  And I did just fine without all that stuff . . . and then I started getting old.  And when you get old, you start getting lonely.  And that old familiar feeling comes back again, and you're going, "Hey!  What am I doing here?  I don't remember joining this.  Who signed me up for this?"
   
   And now I'm wondering, am I going to get used to this?  Is this just new ground I'm going to have to get used to walking?  Am I going to spend the rest of my life feeling like I'm a stranger here?  The only comforting thing about my conditon is that I know a lot of other people out there are feeling the same way.  I know that because they tell me . . . in so many words. 
   
   I don't need to be told that I'm growing old.  Nobody needs to come right out and say it, but everybody says it one way or another in the way they act.  In fact, hearing it said is a little comforting because it confirms how you feel, and I'm not talking about how we feel physically.  Like I said, old age sometimes makes you lonely, and in ways none of us are ever able to explain. 
   
   I called my old roommate from back in college the other day.  We've not seen each other in years, not since my mother's funeral back in 1992.  And we hadn't visited on the telephone in at least ten years.  So we chatted, talked about people we knew, and like all folks getting on in years, we talked about people who are not longer with us.  And the list of dead friends grows as we grow older.  "We need to visit more often," I said before hanging up.  "We need to get together before long."  He said, "Yeah, we do.  Time is short, you know."
   
   So . . . here it is just the day before Christmas Eve.  I say the words out loud because I need to hear them.  I am old.  Time is short.  But the kids are coming . . . and the grandkids . . . and I know one thing for absolute certain.  When they get here and we're all gathered for another Christmas together, I will not think, "Hey!  What am I doing here?" That will be the last thing on my mind.
   
   And that's just the way it should be.
   
   D. Paz, 12/23/07
   
   

7. So, What Are You Really Worth?

   20.Dec.07, 10:07 EST
   
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   I met a funeral procession not long ago and like all the other motorists pulled to the side of the road in respect for whoever had died and was being buried.  Sitting there watching the cars drive slowly past me headed to some graveyard outside of town, I couldn't help but wonder - was this person worth the respect he or she is being shown?  Just being dead isn't enough, I decided, to cost me five minutes out of my day to show respect for somebody I didn't know.  Were they a good person?  Did they do anything in life at all noteworthy, or were they just another societal sponge who soaked up as much as they could and gave back very little.  And let's face it folks, many of the people who'll die today have been little more than that - a sponge.  
   
   Already, I can hear you saying, "But that person was a human being.  You owe them that respect just for that reason alone.  They were a human being, man.  Doesn't that mean anything to you?"  Well . . . no!  The fact that they were a member of the human race doesn't impress me a damn bit because I can't find much that's all that reverent about being a human being.  "But they had a soul, man.  They had a spirit within them, and for that reason, you must honor them."  Well . . . no again.  I don't accept the premise that all human beings have souls, or that spirit within.  And if they do, the chances are that it's an evil spirit, a bad one.  And I'm supposed to honor that?
   
   I don't mind people being a sponge because even a sponge has some worthwhile attributes.  Even if the person did nothing in life aimed at the betterment of himself or his fellow man, at least he used up something along the way.  I mean, somebody's got to eat all that junk food that's being served up to the public in alarming proportions.  That crap is garbage, and if someone decides to be the garbage disposal that consumes that shit, then more power to them.  As a sponge for crappy food, you have provided a service to the world.  You will sponge up the garbage and thereby give the national economy a big boost in any number of ways.  You'll keep lots of ditzy teenagers emplyed in fast food restaurants, and in the long run you'll make people in the health care industry very happy.  Some surgeon will whack you open and do heart by-pass on you, or maybe you'll just keel over with a stroke and stay in an institution the rest of your life.   Being just a sponge isn't always bad.
   
   Or maybe you were a druggie or a drunk, and you mooched off somebody most of your life so you could keep up your habit.  Sooner or later, you turn out to be worthwhile for somebody because the society around you has seen a way to profit from your gluttony.  Yep, they'll ship your ass off to rehab, maybe even a time or two, and then recycle you right back into the rat race.  And they'll make shitloads of money in the process.  Folks in the business of selling the stuff that made you sick might be the very ones who end up paying for your rehab . . . 'cause they need you . . . you dumbass. 
   
   Did you ever stop to think how much money human beings spend on ceremony?  Yeah, things like weddings and funerals and anniversaries and birthdays and all the other silly bullshit things we observe.  Take weddings for instance.  I can think of nothing in our society that's dumber than a wedding, and what makes it so dumb is the damn ceremony.  What a bunch of bullshit!  And for what?  I don't get it . . . even after being one of those dumbasses who has paid for a daughter's wedding.  And I've been guilty of spending too much on graduations, birthdays, anniversaries, and other  ceremonial things.  And why the ceremony?  Because we're human beings worthy of it.  We are honoring ourselves, get it?
   
   I've said it before, and I'll say it again - people usually get what they deserve.  We've got a lousy system of government in this country because we allowed it.  We even helped create it through our own shortcomings as human beings.  Start adding them up, the shortcomings, and you'll find a helluva lot more of them than you will attributes worthy of honor or ceremony.   But I stray from the original point here, so let's get back to the contention that most folks are sponges, one way or another.  I'm trying to make a point here that the sponges have provided a great service for the rest of us who have learned not to be the sponge . . . at least not in a direct way.  And I for sure am not trying to talk anyone who's a soaker object into reforming.  We need you.  You're the stuff all worthwhile people are made of, so keep it up. 
   
   I'm at peace with the fact that the world around me is full of people who aren't worth much as anything except as soakers, but I'm not going to be victimized by the ceremony bullshit anymore.  I'm not going to abandon it; I'm going to embrace it.  Yeah, I'm going to start taking part in more of these senseless ceremonies . . . and maybe I'll start seeking out the dumbest of all of them.  As a matter of fact, I think we should set aside a week of celebration just for the soakers, the sponges.  We could call it National Sponge Week, and we could devote it to going out there and being what we're best at . . . being sponges.  The government will thank us, as will big business and all the others who prosper at our expense. Maybe we could do it in June, or on Super Bowl week.
   
   Better yet, how about some ceremonies aimed at the celebration of humankind's willingness to stop war, or disease, or cruelty to animals, or the needless cutting of our forests.  Yeah, that would be a good start . . . a treehugger celebration.  Maybe I'll take part in a ceremonial walk for cancer research, or attend a concert to raise money for ecological awareness.  I might join some organizaton trying to raise awareness about the victimization of the poor, perhaps even social security fraud. And you see, that's where I find some justification for our existence here on earth - that ability we have to reach out to those who are hurting, less fortunate, or just needy in some way.  Want to know what you're worth?  It's easy to find an answer, just ask yourself what you have done for somebody else lately . . . something that's good for humanity in general. 
   
   And even if you stop off at a fast food restaurant on your way to doing some volunteer work at a local animal shelter, that's OK.  The rest of us still need you, one way or another.
   
   D. Paz, 12/20/07
   
   
   
   

8. Let's Talk Guitars, Part IV

   15.Dec.07, 09:41 EST
   
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   This blog is about buying guitars, just in case you're thinking of giving one as a Christmas present.  Like with anything else you purchase, you need to consider who will be using the gift.  In other words, what's the lucky recipient like?  Is it a kid?  A husband or brother or boyfriend?  A girl, maybe?  And here's the biggie - how much is this person interested in guitars and making music?
   
   Let's get the kid thing out of the way first.  Yeah, a guitar is a great gift for a youngster, and for a number of reasons.  Learning to play music is an art, and we should all get our kids involved in as much art as possible.  Still, you need to think about what the kid is like before you buy.  How old is this little rug rat?  If he's a six or seven year old, or even younger, you need to think more seriously about a toy guitar. And there's some really interesting ones out there to pick from.  I bought my grandson an electronic guitar at Radio Shack about ten years ago, and it's still in my shop.  He played with it some, and it was built of rugged plastic and survived.  It still works, and it does some fantastic things.   I paid about fifty bucks for it, I think.  Don't get the kid a cheapo guitar advertized as a player.  Just because it has strings on it doesn't mean it's playable.  Wait until the kid is a few years older, then buy  a guitar that's worth learning to play on.
   
   If you're buying for a ten or twelve year old, then think about something that's decent . . . you know, maybe something in the range of $100.00.  You can find a nice enough guitar that's plenty good enough to learn chords and music on.  No, it's not likely to be a lifteime thing (it just cost a hundred bucks, remember?), and if the kid takes to the guitar, you'll be buying more of them.  Save buying the expensive one until after the kid shows more interest and when he/she can play a little.  In a year of two you can get them a better axe, but hold off on that a while.
   
   Now . . . if we're talking about someone who is older, perhaps a teenager or above . . . don't start with a cheapo.  It's a waste of money because messing with a piece of junk will kill anyone's interest in learning to play a stringed instrument.  If you're buying an electric guitar, I strongly recommend the lower priced Fender guitars.  Fender offers stratocasters and telecasters for only a few hundred bucks all the way up to the thousands.  I've seen some $400 Fenders that play very well . . . and are worth the money.  And they are fairly simple work on and modify.  There's a zillion Asian made electric guitars out there, so you've got lots of brands to pick from . . . but don't overlook the Fender.  If by chance you're in the market for an expensive electric, something like a nice Gibson, then get some help in buying.  Find a big guitar store and tell them what you have in mind.  Don't go out there and spend several grand on a guitar nobody will play.  In fact, it's not really a good idea to give an expensive guitar as a surprise gift.  Most guitar players who've moved into that class will let you know what they want . . . so feel out the recipient before buying.
   
   As for acoustic guitars, pretty much the same is true.  You can find lots of decent acoustics for well under five hundred bucks.  You'll have to decide between steel stringed or nylon stringed instruments.  If the recipient is a beginner, you might want to strongly consider the nylon stringed guitar.  But most guys want steel strings, and again, you've got lots of Asian guitars to pick from.  Get on the internet and do some shopping before you just walk into a store and start looking around.  Shop ebay and see what's available, and that way you'll get some ideas about prices.  If you're buying for a serious guitar player, don't try to surprise them.  Feel them out, and you'll get a handle on what they like.  Again, don't waste a lot of money on an instrument that will never get played.
   
   Guitars are beautiful instruments and make great presents  . . . but only if the recipient is musically inclined.  The world is full of unappreciated guitars that spend most of their lives in a closet . . . not a good thing for anybody.  My first guitar was a gift, as was my second.  Had it not been for people buying them for me, I might never have taken an interest in them.  I became a guitar builder because my wife gave me a kit one Christmas . . . and that started it all.
   
   So . . . a guitar is not a bad idea for a present.  Just use you head a little.
   
   D. Paz, 12//15/07

9. High Tech/Low Intellect

   14.Dec.07, 15:34 EST
   
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   When I hear the term high tech it makes me start wondering what the opposite of that really is.  So, would that be low tech?  How about no tech?  I know, we could call it vintage technology?  Nah, that won't work - might throw all the high tech people into apoplexy.  They'd never understand a term like vintage technology because to them the old ways are the wrong ways never to be revisited.  It's all about high tech, baby, and we live in the age of gadgets, many of them electronic.  I would say that we've become so technologically advanced that a whole new subculture has grown up in this country called technophiliacs, but that would just date me back to the dark ages.  The truth is that I'm now part of the subculture . . . one of those still resisting the technology revolution.  I guess that makes me a technophobe.
   
   I was all set to vote for Clinton for president, and then I saw a picture of her in Time (or somewhere) fiddlle/fating with her blackberry.  Long ago I took a dislike to technocrats, those people in politics and government with a mindset that technology could fix most of our social and governmental problems.  I don't think Clinton is like that, but just seeing her holding that blackberry gave me the feeling one gets pulling paper through your teeth.  One side of me says technocrats may be right, that we can fix most things with advanced technology, but another side, and perhaps the more spiritual side of me, says it's all bullshit.  The fix for our problems, whatever it is, should be more people driven that gadget controlled.
   
   My first encounter with a techie gadget came many years ago when banks installed those ready cash machines.  I thought it was great!  You just drove up, stuck your credit card in a slot, and punched in a pin number or something.  And I did that . . . and it ate my card.  Yeah, just sucked it right up - the only credit card I had.  So I punched the button to speak to someone, and got a canned recording telling me there was a problem with my card.  "The problem is," I said in a rather calm voice, "your machine ate my card."  I punched buttons, wiggled things, but got nothing.  Finally, I ended up outside my car, pounding on the machine and screaming, "You ate my card, you sonofabitch.  Gimme back my card!"  A nice lady from inside the bank came out and ask me to come inside, that they'd give me back the card.  I'd punched in the wrong number - three times.
   
   That was my first hint that I'm a techie retard.  I'm not a gadget person.  In fact, I despise most gadgets and long for devices that are simple to run.  I'm a prisoner in my own car.  I walk up to it and press a little button in my hand, and it lights up and starts adjusting the seats so I can get my fat ass inside it.  It's all digital on the inside, which is fine at night but the shits on a bright day.  Old farts can't read digits like young people with good eyes.  I hate digits, partly because they're part of the technological revolution.  Anyway, my car locks me in as soon as I put it in gear, and then it starts telling me all about its condition - lights come on here and there telling me what to do.  I feel like I've been cornered by somone wanting to tell me all about their medical condition. 
   
   And then if I take it to the shop, it has to be run through diagnostics.  What?  Diagnostics?  Yeah, they say - that's the machines they plug it up to, the computers that tell them what's wrong with it.  Then I get the bill - two hundred bucks for new brakes, two hundred for labor, and three hundred for diagnostics.  This diagnostics thing, the mechanic of the here and now, is more expensive than the old time human mechanic.  I start to envision the mechanic of the future, a machine that meets me at the door of the garage and checks my credit cards . . . then plugs me into a machine to calm me down while they jam an enormous repair bill up my ass. 
   
   I love my kids and grandkids, but I hate their techie toys . . . like those infernal cell phones that beep and chirp and make all kinds of sickie noises.  And I have to go riding in a car with them, the same one that holds me hostage most of the time, and listen to those gadgets they play with chirp and chime and ding and dong . . . and before long old grandpa has developed a bad case of the redass.  Finally, my grandson starts checking his website and text messaging his friends, and I finally say, "Look kid, if you don't put that infernal gadget up you'll be wearing it as a permanent part of your anatomy."  He's over six feet tall now, strong as a bull, so he just giggles and says, "Aw, Papa." 
   
   I'm a hater of high tech devices, but I've at least got a handle on it now.  I've figured out that high tech really means low intelligence.  They are devices for folks who're not smart enough to get along with a regular phone, a regular car, a real mechanic, a tape player, or anything that is vintage technology.  They have to have gadget that do it all for them . . . and they'll learn how to operate these things for the sake of convenience.  We don't want to be bothered with having to really do something; we want it to do those things for us.  And so we get gadgets.
   
   Vintage technology was the high tech of just a few years ago when it comes to electronics.  We're not talking about many generations here, but just a few year - certainly no more than twenty years.  And no device known to man is more symbolic of that than the camera.  Now we have the digital camera, the wonder of the new age photographers.  I own one and like it, but I also own about 300 vintage cameras, and in their day, they were the most technologically advanced thing going.  I don't want to stick a tag on all digital camera users, but all the advanced technologies in cameras are for camera dumbasses.  What we're talking about here is an entire new generation of photographers who know a lot about photography but little or nothing about cameras themselves.  They don't have to know cameras because the camera knows almost everything that's needed to make great photographs.
   
   I'm all in favor of technological development and new high tech gadgets, even though I don't like them.  Well, I'll admit to liking some of them, but I realize that most people like them more, and I don't want to deprive society of anything that will advance it.  But there's something sad about seeing times fade into history where people were more important than the gadget.  I'm going to miss the old time mechanics when the last of them is gone. I'll miss a lot of the things that were high tech when I was still required to master it before it would do its job.  I love my old cameras because you have to figure them out, learn how to use them, and how to make pictures that come up to your expectations as a photographer.  And there are some wonderful technologies in those forty year old cameras, things to learn about and master.  I think professional photographers are still knowledgeable about cameras, but I worry for the rest of us . . . that the new technologies are turning us into a bunch of dull-witted digiheads.  
   
   I know that cultural lag is an ever present thing in all societies - when technology slightly outruns the society's ability to catch up with it.  And society does catch up in most cases, but at what cost? I hate to sound overly pessimistic about this, but I'm afraid that this cultural lag works itself out when those of us who can't accept the new ways die off.  Advanced technology in the medical sciences have kept me alive beyond what the old ways would've allowed.  I owe my life to it . . . and I still can't accept it.
   
   Maybe when it gets right down to it, I'm just too smart to be a digihead . . . and too dumb to be convert to the new ways.
   
   D. Paz, 12/11/07

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