The Bass and I: New Beginnings

Since I have owned the Mexican, I have wanted to put some money into it and improve its playability and looks. The only changes I made, between the initial purchase and most recently, were to replace the knobs. It had these cheap, plastic Telecaster knobs. I purchased some chrome, traditional-looking knobs. Of course, countless string changes in search of the perfect string don't count. Let's jump into the pictures.

 

 

This is the Mexican, virtually as it was when I purchased it in 2003. I took this picture right before I started the redo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is how the guitar appeared on the eBay auction (actual image supplied by seller). In the case, you will see the original one-ply pickguard. The owner had upgraded to a three-ply white pearl pickguard, almost as ugly as the original.

 

 

This is the headstock as it originally was. The original logo/text had been silk-screened (methinks) and also included the "Squier" label, making this one an odd bird, having both "Squier" and "Fender" on the headstock.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is the cheapo bridge on the original. It is the classic Fender design, but seems thinner and cheaper than what's on the American guitars. Definitely needed replacement.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The pickups on the Mexican also were in need of upgrade. These were of the cheapest variety. I had to repair one of the wires along the way that had broken off.

The Bass and I: Part IV

Starting not too long after my purchase of the Mexican P-Bass and a small practice amplifier, Dale and I began playing together a bit over at my house. We practiced certain songs, usually learning traditional and upbeat versions of some hymns. Dale believed, and I understood, that this would probably be our only options for playing live at first.

We did this, off and on, for several years. At one time, we had an ongoing gig playing at a nursing home on Sunday mornings for a worship service. Not exactly the big time, and pretty embarrassing to recall, but anything helps.

Over these years, Dale purchased back virtually every piece of his old equipment. He had sold it to cousins, friends and others who gladly sold it back to him. We had (and still have) aspirations to grow into something bigger. We agreed at the beginning of our musical association that we would support each others musical ventures. In other words, I would play bass for his projects, he would play guitar for mine.

Dale purchased new equipment, too. He purchased a Rickenbacker 4003 bass guitar, a Fender American Standard Precision Bass, and two different Mesa Boogie bass amplifiers. In a magnanamous gesture, he wanted me to have access to a better instrument. The magnanimity of this gesture is realized when you recall that Dale is a guitar player, not a bass player. He also wanted his brother, another bass player, to have access to an instrument. So, Dale's brother and I shared the gear. Eventually, he took the Rickenbacker and I took the Fender. Dale took my Mexican P-Bass, keeping it in his gear cache for the last few years.

Dale recently decided to divest himself of some of his equipment. He felt that he would never use most of it, so the money could be better used elsewhere. He sold drum kits, stomp boxes, speaker cabinets, amplifiers and one of his guitars. He sold the Mesa Boogie Buster 200 amplifier that had been at my house for the better part of 3 years. He said he was going to sell one of the basses, asking which one I wanted him to keep. 'Keep the Ricky', I said. I then told him that I had wanted to put some money into my Mexican P-Bass for some time because I had no intention of selling it (sentimental reasons, you see). I then explained to him that I had come into a windfall of sorts and would be spending some of it on remodeling my P-Bass.

Within a week or two, Dale brought my old guitar back and took the American P-Bass away. The guitar I had played for the better part of the last 3 years was gone, probably for good. I didn't care, though, as my old, trusted and dear friend, the Mexican, was back home. 'Amigo', I told the Mexican. 'Great things are in store for you. Just you wait and see.'

Well, this brings you almost to the present in my bass guitar saga. I shared the previous four posts with you to prepare for the next one, which is the story of my Mexican P-Bass remodeling project, complete with photos. Enjoy.

The Rarity of a Good Friend

I've never really had a best friend, at least not in the way I perceive the term. I've had lots of good friends, a few really good friends, but no one that I would term as a "best friend." "Best friend" is a mutual term, usually agreeably defined by both parties. What I mean is that you wouldn't want to consider someone your "best friend" if they didn't feel the same way about you. Some folks may not agree with this definition, but it makes perfect sense to me. Now in the strictest sense, I consider my wife my best friend, even to my own stringent definition, but for the sake of this discussion, I'm just considering non-spousal best friends.

I've never had a friend to whom I could feel comfortable confiding everything. I never had a friend that I thought would feel comfortable doing the same with me. I've had friends for whom I would do anything, but there was still always something lacking. I'm left to wonder what's so wrong with me that I don't cultivate friends in this way?

I have friends now that I find myself uncomfortable around at times. We are alike in many ways, but usually very dissimilar in at least one way that seems insurmountable. One friend in particular I'm thinking of is a theology student. He'll be talking to me and to someone else and will break off into an academic discussion on some theological topic which is totally foreign to me. I understand the importance of theology, but I don't have the faculties for being a theologian, namely the willingness to read incessantly. As I sit and listen, I feel stupid. There is nothing to lend to the discussion, so I sit in silence. I think to myself, 'This is an important topic, so I should probably know more about it than I do.' I wonder why it is that I don't want to know more about whatever this topic may be. I'm left with the excuse that a person can't know everything about every topic.

I know a little bit about a lot of different things, but I wouldn't consider myself an expert on anything. "Jack of all trades, master of none" describes me perfectly. I like being that way. It means I'm usually not helpless but can fend for myself in most situations. Those few when I cannot, when I find myself feeling stupid, are probably more a product of my own pride and self-centeredness than of my ignorance.

I seem to have gotten off the topic of friendship...

Reflections at the .45 Century Mark

At this time (9:35am), 45 years ago, I was born.

It's good to look back over 45 years of living an have no significant regrets. Sure, I could have done this or that better, but what's living without mistakes? My regrets are perhaps not few, but are small in the grand scheme.

Things I Would Do Differently:

1. Probably nothing. - Without the benefit of foreknowledge, a skill I have always been lacking, I would probably make the same decisions over again, or make worse ones.

I often wonder what my life would be like had I done things differently. We all do that, don't we?

The Butterfly Effect was a good movie, in my opinion, because it looked at the time travel thing from a different perspective. For every mistake that he corrected, the results cascaded down through time, changing everything else. Other problems, usually worse than the initial one, cropped up. He would go back again and try to correct that one and the same thing would happen again. Eventually, he goes back in time to kill himself (actually to allow himself to die in an accident). This, he figures, will fix everything.

The best perspective comes from another movie, 13 Going on 30--not exactly a movie men like to admit to enjoying, but entertaining none the less. The heroine asks her mother something like this: "If you had a chance toredo your life, what would you do differently?" Her mother responds, "Nothing. If you don't make mistakes, then you couldn't learn how to make things right."

The imperfection we make in our lives creates contrast with the perfection we long for but can't reach. Contrast, in life as well as in photography, makes things look richer. Ever wonder what the histogram of your life would look like?

Thinking Professionally

(Subtitle: "So You Think You Have the Chops to Sell Your Skills Professionally? Ha!")

I took some family photos recently with my D200. Set up the tripod, compose the shot, check the settings and "Wham!" I wanted to gauge my quality so I sent the shots to a professional-grade lab, not Sam's Photo Lab as I have been wont to do in the past. I feel like it turned out OK, but there wasn't anything magical about the images, so I was a tad disappointed.

While at the lab, I picked up a newsletter for a local professional photographers guild. There were a couple of columns in it I wanted to read. One, written by the president of the guild, was brutal. In it he recalled a phone call from a prospective photographer who asked his opinion of his work. He let him have it, with both barrels, criticizing his images in the most thorough and brutal (sorry to repeat, but the word is appropos) fashion.

Wanting to embark on a semi-pro career as a photographer, wanting to make myself available for work that should come along, I am thoroughly self-conscious that it will not be up to par, even for a bargain photographer. I'm hoping that this fear of failure pushes me to improve to the point that it is up to par.

A suggestion this guild president makes is that pro photog wannabes align themselves with a group of professionals who can offer quality guidance and meaningful critiques of their work. Sounds like a good idea, but I don't know if I'm up for such a beating. We'll see.

Rush at Smirnoff

Rush is a group I've loved since 1977 when I purchased my first Rush album, A Farewell to Kings. I saw them  first in concert back on January 19, 1988 during the Hold Your Fire tour. Loved it. I saw them again on the Presto tour on March 1, 1990. Loved it then, too. (Thanks to www.cygnus-x1.net for the archived tour dates database, otherwise I wouldn't have remembered).

Promoting the release of Snakes and Arrows, their latest studio album, they are touring this year. Steve (a co-worker) and I went to see them in Dallas at Smirnoff Music Center on August 11. I figured it might be the last time I'd get to see them, so I went for it. Smirnoff is a horrible venue in the summer. The temperature under the pavillion is not much better than on the lawn: hot.

Rush took the stage a little before their scheduled curtain of 8pm with no opening act. Over the years, they've taken advantage of video more and more. Their shows have opened with a video short in recent years, this year being no exception. Our seats gave us an impeded view of the stage, the side of stage right blocking almost 1.5 of the three video screens on the stage. It looked funny, but I don't really know because I missed almost half of it.

First song was "Limelight" from Moving Pictures. As the show progressed, they played a few from the archives: B-sides from albums gone by, most appreciated by the most dedicated of Rush fans. Through the course of the evening, they played 9 of the 13 tracks from Snakes and Arrows, IMHO, not one of their better albums. I, of course, paid close attention to the guitars Geddy Lee (bassist) was playing. He played his Fender Jazz Bass (the black and white one) most of the night with three exceptions. On "Freewill", he played the newer red Jazz bass. My understanding is that they/he drop-tunes for songs such as this one to make the vocals easier to manage.  On "Malignant Narcissism", he brought out the newest addition: a Fender Jaco Pastorius Tribute Fretless Jazz Bass. However, the apex of the evening was when he brought the Rickenbacker 4001 out of the mothballs for "A Passage to Bangkok", one of the encore numbers. Now to you non-bass playing members, all of this means absolutely nothing. However, I enjoy noticing these things.

Another thing of interest was the crowd's demographic. I would hazard that the crowd was mostly 40-something white males. Of course, there were a few younger folks, a few older, and a number of females, but the majority was fellows like myself. It's comforting to know that Rush is mostly supported by guys like me.

The band is getting older. Geddy Lee is 54; Alex Lifeson (guitarist) will be 54 on August 27; Neal Peart (drummer) will be 55 on September 12. This doesn't bother me. I rather enjoy the prospect of 50-somethings showing the young ones how the proverbial cow ate the cabbage. As far as musicianship goes, they are at the top of their game. Some small exceptions exist, of course. Geddy can't hit the high notes like he used to do. That's OK. The screeching was just a tad annoying.

It was a great show and I was glad to be there, even given the imperfect venue. Rock on, dudes!

The Biker Wave

Being an student of the human condition, I like to take note of behaviors I see. With the plethora of bikers I've seen on the road (and I don't mean the idiots on bicycles that you have to drive around), I've noticed and studied the "Biker Wave". This is what I've noticed about the "Biker Wave."

1. 
   
   It's a universal signal between bikers, but not between a biker and any other driver, i.e. between a biker and a car or truck driver.


2. 
   
   The Harley riders seem to keep the tradition alive and are more mindful of form and style. The biker in the left of the picture, a painting called "Highway Handshake" by Dawne Holmes, exhibits this wave, with the exception that he has turned his head to the left. Most I've noticed keep their eyes on the road ahead. Most Harley riders, be they doctors, lawyers, or any other wealth-generating professionals who can afford such extravagance, use this form. Of course, Harley riders abound around here, so my information may be skewed.


3. 
   
   Other bikers, such as the Old-Man biker on the Gold Wing, or the youth with a death wish on his crotch rocket, will usually wave, too. Youths on crotch rockets may not wave, but that is because of their typical self-centered focus and not a disregard for the biker code. They have to focus on the more important aspects of biking, such as stoppies and wheelies.

I found this posted on a forum and thought it was well said, especially since it was from the pen of an experienced biker.

This wave, or virtual handshake comes in all sizes, shapes and flavors. And as I've been riding the last 1,600 miles I've kept a mental inventory of the different types of waves.

For some, the rider simply lifts his left hand off the handlebar and with full 90 degree extension and palm facing toward you. As you pass, the rider rests the hand back to his handlebars. Others can be more creative. There's the low wave usually practiced by cruisers where the riders hand drops from the handle bars and extends at a 45 degree angle. A nice variation of the cruiser wave is the subtle piece signed made by the gloved hand of that rider.

Keep in mind these subtle handlebar releases and hand motions happen at all speeds and all driving conditions. Yesterday a rider on a zooming sport bike rounding a nice banked decreasing radius turn swathed in bright red leathers and fully decorated racing style helmet lifted his hand, bent his arm at the elbow and gave me a wave that would have made the Queen of England jealous.

I personally like the "I'm going to acknowledge I'm in the club but remain cool wave" I notice often. That is, the rider simple raises his hand off his handle bar about six to ten inches and then slowly and surely drops it back. Two-up riders must have their own code of handshake or wave acknowledgement Sometimes the rider does the work. While others it's simply the passenger. But pay dirt happens when you get the double whammy -- both riders extend there hands and give it to you.

Keep in mind there's no training or induction into this club. You'll simply develop your own style of wave as you gain more experience riding. The Motorcycle Safety Foundation doesn't tell you how. And I'm sure the Harley Owners Group (HOG) doesn't offer a pictorial of styles in its magazine. One thing is for sure, the mutual admiration, respect and feeling of belonging is part of the motorcycle riders pride. Perhaps no other group, whether its motor vehicle owners, sports fans, collectors or hobbyist share and experience this feeling in such a random and offhand manner.

Allan Karl - www.worldrider.com 

(borrowed from http://www.bmwgs.com/forums/showthread.php?t=88518 , which is a BMW Aventure Riders Forum)

Feeling neglected?

From the top of the first page

To the end of the last day

From the start in your own way

You just want

somebody listening to what you say

It doesn't matter who you are

 

One of my professors once said that everyone, male or female, has a common primary need. That is to feel that you are the most important person in the world to at least one other person.  In this day of self-absorbed living, it's no wonder that the divorce rate hovers around 50%. Everyone's looking out for number one.

Assignment for this month:

1. 
   
   Listen more than you speak. When you are listening, look someone in the eye.


2. 
   
   Do something unexpectedly kind for someone you love, and then for someone you don't necessarily love.


3. 
   
   Speak kindly to a stranger. Say "hi" to someone when you make eye contact.


4. 
   
   Always speak politely to waiters, waitresses and cashiers.


5. 
   
   Always say "thank you" and "you're welcome."


6. 
   
   Be quick to think well of someone and slow to think ill.


7. 
   
   Give out a sincere compliment.


8. 
   
   Call a friend you haven't seen in a while and tell them how much you miss seeing them.


9. 
   
   Make it a challenge to see how quickly you can forget an insult.


10. 
    
    Buy someone lunch or dinner.


11. 
    
    Hold a child in your lap and talk to them.


12. 
    
    Speak to every old person as if they were your grandmother.


13. 
    
    Love more than you hate, but always remember how to hate truly evil things.


14. 
    
    Excercise self-control by telling yourself "no" when you want something really bad.


15. 
    
    Help someone in need.

 

U2: Reflections on My Band of Choice

U2 came on the scene in the late 70's, however it was the 80s before anyone knew who they were. I knew of them, especially in the mid-80s when they became the spokesmen for the progressive Christian youth culture. When I was a student at S.F.A., my peers at the Baptist Student Union revered U2. Boy, October, and War were essential albums for the well-listened, well-rounded BSUer. At the time, I was disinterested, focusing instead on music of a less noble virtue.

Later in life, I discovered U2. The Joshua Tree was a breakthrough album for U2, in my opinion. It retained that U2 sound, but was better, or so was my opinion. Sure, it was arrogant, as U2 was wont to be. Even then, they were known for assuming a morally superior position.

The Joshua Tree was a breakthrough album for U2 in a real sense, too. It brought them into the light as true superstars. Over the years, they've experimented here and there, yet have only experienced real success when staying true to the formula. As the adage says, "You should dance with the one that brung you."

I find it interesting how people still claim it as a badge of honor to have been fans in the pre-Joshua Tree period, yea, even the pre-Unforgettable Fire period. Never mind that their loyalty has waned and that they probably don't own more than one or two U2 CDs now; they were there in the old days before U2 was big! Such is true for most folks. They like to think they "discovered" someone. In fact, I like to recall that I knew who Rush was before Moving Pictures.

I've read four U2 biographies and many other articles. I've gleaned a picture of the group which is fairly accurate, or at least as accurate as such a picture can be. Surprisingly, the pictures in each of these books/articles is consistent with the others. U2 has nothing to hide. They're not false.

According to most accounts, Bono, Larry and Edge are Christians of the real, "born-again" variety. Adam's spiritual state is somewhat more nebulous, though Bono alluded to this having changed in Conversations. These fellows have evidenced their conversion consistently through human rights issues and other bleeding heart activities. Most Christians don't have a lot of use for this type of behavior. We believe in the Truth, and though we call others to that standard, we don't think that necessarily requires that we show a lot of love. Also, we feel that showing a lot of love sacrifices our ability to be truthful. Those for whom love is of prime importance see truthfulness as getting in the way of showing compassion.

Grace and truth can be graphically demonstrated in a Cartesian coordinate system along X and Y axes. This creates four regions. Non-believers can  be found in Sectors A and C, for you can show compassion and love without the truth behind it. Christians can be found in Sectors B and D. I say this because being a believer presumes a certain portion of Truth, that being the absolute truth as revealed in Scripture. It is also safe to assume that there are practically no believers in Sector D, as belief will always evidence itself with a certain degree of love (I John 3:14 - "We know that we have passed out of death into life, because we love the brethren. He who does not love abides in death."). So, theoretically, we should all exist in Sector B. The question is this: where are you in this Sector?

The bleeding hearts exist along the Grace axis. The Bible-thumpers exist along the Truth axis. We look at each other across the distance with self-righteous scorn, wondering why they aren't like us, wondering how they can claim to be believers and still be way over there.

John 1:14 says, "And the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us, and we saw His glory, glory as of the only begotten from the Father, full of grace and truth." (emphasis mine)

"...Full of grace and truth." If we were, as Christ was, full of grace and truth, this divide wouldn't exist. We would all love God's word and we would all love our fellow man, be he sheep or goat. These are not mutually exclusive existences.

There is a line that divides us. It points to where we should be.

U2 has inspired me to think this way. It's not because I think they are the example of where we should be. Actually, I often see myself looking across the divide at them. As I grow older, and hopefully wiser, I begin to see that I'm not where I should be. I also see that they aren't where I should be.

Jesus Christ, our perfect example, showed compassion to those in need. He called Pharisees to account for their legalism. He also showered down a world of hurt on the money changers in the temple on two different occasions. We also see the future in Revelation 19 when he comes with a sword and the cuddly Jesus is now the Warrior Jesus who steps forward to dispense justice. This is the same Jesus. He hasn't changed.

Compassion is not something that governments or NGOs are qualified to administer. Us B-Sector people should be doing it. The bleeding hearts need to realize that you help someone then you tell them why you helped them. Give credit where it is due. The Bible-thumpers should realize that without love, they are abiding in death.

Compassion without truth is hollow. Truth without compassion is incomplete.

Deep Thoughts

“This day I call heaven and earth as witnesses against you that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live...”

Respecting life took on a new meaning for me recently, and it took the simplest of forms.

A dog belonging to some friends of ours gave birth in our laundry room. I was in the middle of doing some repairs to a bathroom, but I dropped what I was doing to go and check in on the situation. Two daughters were doing a very good job attending the birth. I mentioned to the “midwife” that she should roll the Mommie over and see if she happened to be lying on a pup. Sure enough, she was.

The “midwife” daughter took the pup in her hands and said, “It looks like it’s dead.” “Really?” I asked, not wanting it to be true. It took a minute or two to discern that some of the movement we saw in this little guy was a sign of life. She took a towel and started rubbing on the little fellow and he seemed to be rejuvenated. He started weakly wimpering, mewing like a kitten. I encouraged her to try and see if he would attach to one of his mom’s teats. Mom was still as clueless as a teenage mom would be concerning her newfound responsibility. She didn’t seem too eager to have another pup attaching itself to her, and the pup still didn’t seem to have the strength or initiative to nourish himself. We then got a little bit of goat’s milk out of the fridge and warmed it up and tried to feed him with a syringe (sans needle, of course). His response was lackluster and milky bubbles would come out of his nose. After a while, we thought he had possibly had enough goat’s milk and fixed him a bed in a Playmate cooler with a heating pad and a towel. He seemed to settle in comfortably for what we assumed would be a recuperative period.

My “midwife” daughter came in later and told me that she thought Billy (his nickname derived from his first meal of goat’s milk) was dead. I went in and checked and sure enough, she was right.

In the meanwhile, while Billy had been fighting for his life, Mom had delivered three other siblings. They all seemed hale and hearty, as robust as newborn pups can be. Billy, on the other hand, had seemed a bit runty and frail, wrestling with the doggy Grim Reaper from the get-go.

Ice still covered the ground outside, so an immediate burial was out of the question. I performed my mortician’s duty and prepared the body, placing him inside a clean paper towel, which I placed inside a clean Ziploc bag, which I placed inside a clean kitchen garbage bag, which I folded over repeatedly and sealed with duct tape. I then placed the remains in a holding crypt (i.e., the upright freezer in the laundry room) where it would remain until the thaw permitted a respectful burial.

Well, I didn’t embark on this lengthy narrative to illustrate anything except this: the lengths we were willing to go to for the life of one little puppy.

I talk big. Leading up to this birth, I talked about “taking care” of the puppies, not in a caregiving sense, but in a euthanasia sense. Unwanted puppies, you know. Overpopulation in the pet realm and all that rot. However, when faced with the reality, taking care of these little pups, in the caregiving sense, not only did not seem to be that big a chore: it seemed, very clearly, the right thing to do.

I’m not a tree-hugger. The value of an animal’s life cannot even approach that of a human life, created in God’s image. I don’t even believe that killing animals is wrong. Given a choice between a few endangered owls or a mall, I say, "Goodbye, owl. Hello, Chick-Fil-A!" I have also intentionally killed animals many times in the past and will most likely do it more in the future. In my book, capital crimes for animals can be as simple as just being a pest or a danger to people or being good to eat. I also believe human life, while valuable in the extreme, can be required in defense of other human life or in punishment for heinous crimes. However, my beliefs concerning life, human and animal, have been distilled. The lives of God's non-human creations have been elevated. A little higher than before, but still not nearly so high as human life.

Life, no matter how seemingly insignificant, is a mark of God’s handiwork. We handle it carefully. Holding that little frail puppy in my hand, first living and later dead, this all became crystal clear.