August 15th, 2008


Seven Strings

This particular guitar, I'm told, is different.

This one I have in my lap here. It seems innocuous enough to me, but I don't know how to play the guitar, so I really wouldn't know how it's different.

It's a lovely guitar, all electric and silver and black. It looks like some custom rock star guitar, hand-built and unlabeled. Really, just sitting with this guitar, I probably look like a rock star.

But not suspiciously so.

When I let a guitar player friend borrow it last week, he couldn't play it. It was all wrong. Completely off. Absolutely backwards, every string more wrong than the last.

So last night I lend it to a friend of a friend who knows guitars. She makes them, plays them, sells them. She's not good enough to be world famous, I don't think, but she's certainly good enough that she was the first person to come to mind when I needed a guitar person. Asked if she could figure out how to make it work.

She came in this morning with bloodshot eyes and twitching hands.

"This particular guitar," she said as she sat in my lap, "is different."

And then she closed her eyes, turned into a glowing silver sphere, and flew out into the moonlight.

So, you know, I figured, whatever happens next, I'd better blog about this.

I'm going to go outside and check that she's okay now.