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Thursday, February 21, 2008

Brotherhood of the Travelling Guitar

We've not taken any pictures of the kids this week, and there isn't any real news except the drama of buying a house. Or not buying it. The drama will be decided within the week. Will keep readers posted on whether said drama is a comedy or tragedy.

But there has been one development, at least for Dad. It goes like this . . . (and it is only being related because Dad needs a healthy distraction from the lecture he is sitting in at the moment. So indulge him.)

In 2002, Dad buys a Larrivee L-03, limited edition claro walnut-backed guitar, trusting only in internet pictures and a description of its sound, from Buffalo Bros. Guitars in California. They send it to Dad in Massachusetts. Dad hangs it on the wall, proud of its tonal and visual aesthetic.

However, said guitar gets small hairline cracks in the winter, along the back. This is because humidity inside that house in the winter was roughly 10%. A lot of our furniture cracked too. Nonetheless, the first cracks were indicia of things to come.

Fast forward 5 years. Having moved to Georgia, where relative humidity seldom falls below 130%, the guitar heals itself, with nary a crack to be seen.

Then, confidant in the structural soundness of the guitar and in the general goodness of humanity, Dad loans guitar to friend to play at a party in September. Friend gets drunk. Guitar gets cracked but now on the front. Friend can't remember exactly how this happened. Friend returns guitar. Dad smiles, though on the inside his hopes for humanity are dashed.

In order to prevent the crack from worsening, Dad takes guitar to local guitar guru. Guru fixes front crack through regimen of humidification and gluing. Dad goes to pick up guitar. Crack is fixed, now barely noticeable on the front. But as he goes to put guitar in the case, he feels a bump. A terrible, obvious bump - on the back. Lo and behold, the humidification process has fixed the front at the expense of the back. A warp the size of a donut is in the center of back of the guitar. The pressure from the warp causes the back to come apart at the butterfly joint, right in the center. You could have put a dime in it. But said guitar is not a piggy bank.

Guitar guru flips out. He's never done this before. Dad believes him. Truly. Still, Guru pours forth with genuflections and penitence and promises to remedy the debacle.

The following day, Guru ships the guitar to Larrivee. Whether this is to their Vancouver or California shop is uncertain.

Larrivee's uber-guru looks at guitar. "We've never seen this before," he says. After a few days of humidification and attempts at restoration, uber-guru declares "it's terminal. But we can replace the back." A few days later, he calls and says "we might as well replace the cracked top since we are taking the guitar apart. We can get it to you in 5 or 6 weeks, by the end of December." Dad contemplates this combination of the old and the new, says OK, and commences practicing only his banjo, waiting for the return of the Robocop of the guitar world.

Guru calls uber-guru in late December to see if it is almost ready. Uber-guru admits that said guitar has been forgotten about. Promises to ship in February, and as a concession, throws in the new top, gratis.

Sunday, February 17, Dad gets call from Guru. The guitar is back in Athens. Dad picks it up.



Now it is heavier. The grain is vertical, whereas the old grain was horizontal. And it smells like Canadians. But it sounds pretty good.

What have we learned? I don't know. Maybe I should have bought a Martin.

Saturday, February 09, 2008

Not cool at all*

I like to think we are somewhat hip parents. No, neither we nor our kids own a pair of Pumas. And we resisted the urge to call either one of them Gillian or Apple or Townes. And none of us wear skinny jeans. But still, we try to let our kids live lives to the full and to experience some of the good things; for instance, Annabelle likes to rock the hipster t-shirts her Uncle P procures for her, and Barritt knows all the rhyming words to the mountain ballad Shady Grove:

Shady Grove, my little love, Shady Grove, my darlin'
Shady Grove, my little love, I'm goin' back to Harlan.

Peaches in the Summertime, Apples in the fall,
If I can't have my Shady Grove, then I won't have none at all.

The point of all this is, well, I'm not sure. But I am profoundly disturbed by a turn of events that happened today at about 1:27 p.m. There we were, sitting in the station wagon, just Dad, B, and A, waiting while Mom quickly ran into the store.

While waiting, we were rocking out to Magic, the very good, and most recent album from Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band.



And out of nowhere, and in the middle of the song Radio Nowhere, Barritt asks:

"Dad, is this The Wiggles?"


I was apoplectic. Initially, I felt I had let down the Boss. Then I was more horrified to realize that I had let Barritt down - a 2.84 year old should know these things, and thus I have not been an effective pedagogue. Sure, Pink Cadillac and Big Red Car have some thematic similarities. But so do Thomas the Tank Engine and Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, and Barritt has no trouble distinguishing these.

Readers, we have plenty of work to do.



* Note, fine readers, you are enjoying the 200th post of the B&A blog.

Monday, February 04, 2008

Legos may endanger our hopes for dad's graduation


Dad was not into Legos as a kid. Or duplos for that matter. But he is now. In a bad way. And Barritt just eggs him on. "Dad, make a tunnel for Thomas." Or, "Dad, make a station for Thomas." Or, simply, "Dad, make a tower."

What would you do? Given the choice between reading Landmark Cases in Criminal Procedure, or teaching yourself engineering by means of colorful plastic, I think the decision is obvious.