One Answer to Cynicism

Dear Rose,

Word has gotten around about your desire to do some guitar playing.
Well, you will need a guitar, hence my little brown friend.

I found him for sale in a parking lot at a Grateful Dead show in Atlanta
around 1987. I had flown into Atlanta for the shows (there were two) and I
was desperate for a guitar so as to join in on the parking lot jamming that
was a trademark event at all Dead show parking lots.

I bought him from a New York Deadhead who needed money for gas to
get home. His history before then is a mystery, but being found in a Dead
show parking lot helps to give the guitar great MoJo.

He hasn't been doing much lately, so I cleaned him up and strung him
with very light strings. Still, your finger tips will get a little sore until you
build up some callouses.

He's not a particularly "great" guitar, but he's friendly and eager to be
used. I would move up to medium lights as soon as your fingers can take it
as he won't sound his best with the light set I put on him.

I'm sure he'll be a good guitar to learn on. He is modest and earnest.
(something we could never say about an electric guitar)

He will need to come back home one day, but only after you've tired of
him or have upgraded to a better axe. When you are done with him, just
leave him leaning up somewhere in the front of the shop and I'll see him
and bring him home.

You might want a tuning fork, the little music shop near your shop will
have one and they can show you how to tune with one.

Have fun and don't worry about bumps and scratches.

Enjoy!

Anonymous

P.S.His name is Harvey, like the big white rabbit. (I think he was a Pooka
before becoming a guitar or he may still be a Pooka pretending to be a
guitar. If you're not sure what a Pooka is, rent the old Jimmy Stewart movie,
"Harvey")

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The above letter was taped to a guitar in the office of the restaurant that I worked at for 5 years.
I'm fairly positive I know who the person is behind the awesomeness. One day I was working and moody, and a musician asked me what was wrong. I wanted a guitar, but I told him I'd never be able to afford one. That was about five months before this generous deed. I knew his wife as well. Both very unpretentious, beautiful souls in an environment of snobbery and pretense (Annapolis is the Yacht capital of the country, if not the world.)

After this gift, I never saw either the musician or his wife again. He wanted nothing from me at all. Just to help make me a happier person. The following day I posted a handwritten thank you note on the cafe door with a rose. It stormed that day, and I found my gushing thanks you letter near a storm drain, soaked and illegible.

The timing of this anonymous guitar was divine. There are some things that are too personal (or controversial) even for this blog. But it gave me such hope, when I was in the ninth circle of hell. This man will never know how much that meant to me, and that is the only sad aspect to this story.

Since I Very Rarely Pee My Pants-

Best of Craigslist:

You Farted During "Boyhood" - mw4m
There we were, just enjoying a nice quiet Saturday night at the movies. A slow mover, Linklater's "Boyhood." Some popcorn. A few sodas. Nothing really happens in the film, we found. For about 90 minutes or so we stare listlessly at the screen. It's a thinking man's film, I say. Beautifully shot. It's about life, and death and relationships and things of that nature. Just then, at a brief, carefully-timed cinematic pause in dialogue, an enormous fart from somewhere in the back pierces an otherwise silent movie theatre. It had the impact of a baseball bat hitting a leather couch, or George Foreman working the heavy bag. Whack. Loud, deep and masculine.The seat cushion heroically absorbed most of the blow, but not enough that each and every person in the movie theatre instantly burst into nervous laughter. The laughter continued for what felt like a good 5 minutes, until tears streamed down our faces. Even well after the blast, we quietly chuckled to ourselves with a 'remember the time that guy farted in the movie theatre' gleam in our eyes. And just like that, with a soft chuckle and a deep breath, we were back into the film. Things happened, people drove around Texas, relationships came and went, there was crying, there was hope. It was as if we had all forgotten about the fart that had brought us together that night. As the sun began to set on screen, the teenage boy, no longer a boy, transitions into an adult, before our very eyes, and looks, intently, lustfully into a young girls eyes, as if to lean in for a kiss, and braaaaaaap. Another fart from the back row, like two giant hands clapping together, and the screen goes dark, roll credits. We decided, after laughing our way out of the theatre, and all the way home, that this was the best movie that we had ever seen. I imagine the lone fartist sauntering off into the sunset. His work here done.
If only I could say thank you, kind sir. You are truly a master of your craft.
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