Cracked Rearview

Why yes, that is the title of a "Hootie and the Blowfish" album.

So then, why in god's name, you ask, are you starting off from there?

Wow, good question, I say with an understanding bob of my head.

I'm also looking blankly at the joint between the wall and the ceiling as if I didn't really have a good answer.

First: I started transferring songs to my iPhone, and Hootie didn't make the cut.

I simply couldn't think of a single situation where they would come in handy.

Pat Benatar on the other hand, got the full down load treatment.

As did the Beatles.

And Bad Religion.

and most of a Neil Diamond Greatest Hits album.

Which didn't have "Coming to America"

For some reason.

But Hootie didn't make the cut. It was, after all, my wife's album.

I swear.

Second: Hold My Hand came on the radio today as I was driving home from work. Which lead me think about the Beatle's "I Wanna Hold your Hand"

Which was one of their first hit singles.

And since holding hands back in the early sixties was a dangerous sexual activity, akin to auto-erotic asphyxiation or 40yr old men with myspace pages, I guess I'm willing to give them a bigger benefit of the doubt than poor old Hootie.

Dad and I had a discussion recently talking about the shear "Moon-June" tripe in some early artistic endeavors. The Beatles, Billy Joel, I am sure lots of others, but what the discussion reminded me of was having Dad listen to one of my early songs in which I had rhymed "Shelf" with "Self"

I'll never forget the look of disappointment in his eyes.

I should have told him that the lyric "putting my heart on a shelf" was literal, and that my girlfriend was cutting me with razor blades to see if I could feel.

But those aren't things you're supposed to tell your father.

Especially if they're not true.

Third: My Ovation twelve string is hanging above my computer. There is a monster crack all the way down the body of the guitar.

this leads me to two thoughts,

A: I've just borrowed my dad's 12 string because his has a better sound, a better feel and it's easier to play live. I now however have two twelve strings at my disposal. And that's too many.

I can't sell the ovation.

It's against the Musician's Code to sell an instrument. Too much love, too much memory in every chord, too many stories to hand off to a stranger.

There is a "Buyers Remorse" clause in that particular rule but it involves never having built a lasting relationship with the instrument, and possibly several angry wives.

I could give the guitar away. This is powerfully positive artistic Karma. To give a much loved instrument to a younger generation will settle your account in Saint Peter's book.

But giving away a guitar requires the kind of research and interviewing that is mostly reserved for adopting children and picking out a beer.

So why not just keep it? The other one is on loan anyway, and what if you're invited to a twelve string jam session and your best friend doesn't have one and so he has to sit alone on a Saturday night cutting himself.

How would that make you feel?

No, I won't be finding an axillary home for my twangy beast. My wife is just gonna have to wait until the 16yr old leaves for his first day of college and his step father turns his room into a studio.

Which leads me to thought number B:

That crack, staring down on me, has a good story, and leads to a poignant ending.

Once upon a time . . .

Two lifelong friends, roommates by then, were stringing their guitars, dreaming of super stardom, smoking whatever was left in the bowl.

The shorter one had his beat up old twelve string on his lap. The taller one . . .

some thing else . . .

I can't remember.

Without a tuner available, the shorter one strung the guitar to what he thought was an approximation of E major.

He placed his left hand on the neck, fingers splayed out to his favorite open G, and strummed.

And then "Wham!"

The bridge holding the strings blew apart like the emotional stability of an animal rights activist at a welcome home party for Michael Vick.

Wood, plastic, and little metal bits flew everywhere.

The short one and the tall one sat stunned. But there was nothing they could do. Except possibly search the kitchen in vain for some munchies.

So they fed the fish, and turned on the TV.

The guitar was repaired a few weeks later by a local luthier which cost twice what the guitar originally cost, but it was more than worth it.

The short one has since learned that when stringing an Ovation its very important to align the strings balls horizontally so as not to crack the weak edge of the seat. He also learned that it's important to have a least one instrument in tune at any given time for reference, and that he probably wasn't meant for rock stardom at seventeen.

Since then, he has learned not to rhyme "self" with "shelf", how to change keys in a song for dynamic and emotional effect, and how the girl who cuts you, while fun, probably isn't a keeper.

That crack lets me see the error of my ways, reminds me fondly of old friends, and of the different lives I've lead.

Yup,

She's a keeper.