Another untitled rhythm track that I came up with about three months ago. My wife ordered me a wonderful USB cable that will plug directly into the Zoom 9002 and also features drum tracking and mixing software as well, so this should do away with a lot of the fingernail-chewing and playing with audio settings that usually makes something plugged directly into the IN input on the laptop's sound card come out really awful. Theoretically, this will make it a whole hell of a lot easier, and since most Saturdays she'll be at work for tax season, this will give me plenty of opportunities to put my money where my mouth is.

I haven't played recently, but I'm looking forward to doing so again, most likely right after I get done with the edits to Salvation and before I attend the 2010 San Francisco Writers' Conference. Until then, as you were.

Some people have been after me for a while now to post some original music, so here's one. Hopefully after the new year I will be able to use my new equipment to have a fully mixed MP3 with drums and bass, but for now, here's the bare-bones rhythm riffs. My wife did the taping and the composition is original and copyrighted so please, play if you like, but don't steal.

This one's for you, Elizabeth.

I may not have been tremendously creative with the laptop lately, but I have seen a definite upswell in the amount of time I have spent thinking about music.  I'm not going to claim an extraordinary amount of knowledge about scales, modes and lines, but I have a decent basic understanding of the underlying nuts and bolts of music theory... enough so that I am able to sometimes deduce what the next chord or note should be not necessarily by trial and error, but by what relation certain facets of music have to one another.

For example, the piece I was writing on tonight uses a great deal of minor chording and dissonance in the chord relations.  While major steps (a full note difference, or the difference betwee the second and fourth frets on a guitar) are genrally used in sunnier-sounding music, half-steps and tritones (the largest dissonance possible, the distance between a Bb chord and an E, or an F and a B) are the order of the day in most metal, speed metal and thrash compositions.  Yes, there is actually a method to the madness of bands like Slayer.  You learn something new every day.  By using this basic theoretical mechanism, I was able to fill in the last two bars of a nice riff I was working on, and felt pretty damn good in doing so.

In a way, writing functions on the same sort of level.  There are generally accepted conventions and movements within stories that follow the same sorts of rules that are laid down in the music world.  It takes a lot longer to learn them based on how varied the basic palette being used is (250,000 words or so in the English language versus an octave consisting of twelve notes), but while the composition itself may sound much different, in the end for both disciplines, the song remains the same.

So the current dry spell I am experiencing?  My guess is that it will either be time or "writing theory" that will solve this.  Just a bit of chin-scratching on this side of midnight.

All right, so here is another photo of myself and the new RG550.  I plan on painting the body bright green (while leaving the silver and black headstock alone), and then putting green covers on the pickups, green knobs and a green toggle switch cover to boot.  The bridge pickup (the one next to the whammy bar) will be removed and replaced with a special high-output model I kept from my previous yellow model and also topped with green.  It's going to be... well, as my wife said, it will definitely scream Jesse.

Truth be told, I'm still amazed on how clean and unmarked the fretboard is.  Usually the fretboards from these guitars (which it should be pointed out are 22 years old) are scarred like the surface of Chechnya, but not this one.    I am very much looking forward to bringing it into my local Guitar Center and soaking up the jealous-as-hell stares from the employees there.

Of course I'm petty.  Good idea to get it out now before it comes out in an interview, right?  ;)



EDIT:  I went and did the research for what it would take in order to turn the skunk-stripe white guitar toxic waste green instead, and was thoroughly bummed.  I figured it could just be sanded down and then spray-painted, whee, fifty dollars later I'm good to go, right?  No.  N-O, that's a colossal example of wishful thinking taking place right there.  It would have to be professionally stripped (which I could get as a bargain for $150... gag) and then spang down another three hundred bucks to get it painted.  So for about a hundred dollars more than I paid for the guitar in the first place, I can give it a facelift.

I have decided I am really, really, really going to learn to love my skunk-stripe white guitar as it is.

As some of you may know, I'm a slavish disciple to Ibanez guitars, particularly the RG550 model from the late 1980's.  It was designed by legendary shredder Steve Vai to serve as an affordable model to his personal signature model, the Jem, and while the eletronics might not have been the same, there was nothing skimped in design and construction.  Since I have small hands (and we all know what that means... right, I wear small gloves), I find it difficult to use such guitars as Gibson's Les Paul and the fabled Fender Stratocaster.  Very strange that somebody with the longest fingers I have ever seen in my life would serve the needs so well of somebody who was digit-challenged, eh?

I've had my 1987 Desert Yellow RG550 for years, and found an axe on Ebay that, as it turned out, is more than a kissing cousin.  It is, in fact, another RG550 from that same year of manufacture, which made my jaw drop when I confirmed this suspicion via the serial number, in addition to the fact that it is in almost perfect condition.  Total price of purchase for both guitars: $650.00.  I'm ditching the skunk stripe paintjob and going neon green with matching hardware, but until that day comes, here's a photo of me with both my well-crafted axes:

Thank you, Ebay.  Thank you very much.

(taken from eviler0ne.)


If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, even if we don't speak often, please post a comment with a memory of you and me. It can be anything you want — good or bad. When you're finished, post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people remember about you.

(You should answer even if you only have online memories of me.)

In other news, I've been progressing nicely on my guitar skills.  I still haven't written anything in about two weeks, but that's perfectly okay.  My mother was horrified, telling me that "if you don't use it, you're going to lose it."  Somehow, I think my grasp on the mechanics of the situation is a little better than hers.  Shocking.  Hope you're all doing well this weekend.

...that I very nearly was in a band?

I guess if we're being completely honest I should mention that I was in a three-man outfit in high school named Ominivore (don't ask) with myself on guitar, Keith on drums and Anthony on... guitar.  Except I turned the tone knob all the way down on my guitar so it came out very low-sounding and rumbly, so I was technically the "six-string bassist."  Once again, don't ask.  What?  Oh, fine; Anthony was a better guitar player than I was and we had no bassist.  We played a Halloween party at Keith's, got horrifically drunk and the less said about the short and inglorious career of Omnivore, the better.

No, the one I'm talking about for the purposes of this entry was in Chico, during what would have been my third year of college.  I was a very big fan of a local group called The Tuboriffic Space Pimps and after I had seen them a few times live, I knew this was my favorite group in town.  Loud, aggressive riffing with maximum crunch on the guitar, slap-pop bass work that got your feet moving, funk-inspired thrash drumming and rapid-fire speed rapping vocals delivered by a guy wearing aviator goggles.  They rocked.  I made it a point to go to every show of theirs I could, and frequently put them over in the magazine I wrote for, which most likely amounted to little more than a very minor hill of beans, but good press is good press, right?

I heard through the grapevine that the band was in the process of auditioning new guitarists; I don't know what the story was with their old one, but I remember the split was a fairly amicable one.  Most likely a graduation, and with one less pimp, the rest of the merry crew was determined to carry on.  This was how the drummer and bass player ended up at my student apartment one night, sitting down across from me with some oh-very-serious expressions and saying, "Well, what do you got?"

"Original stuff?" I asked, hoping my voice wouldn't crack.

"Sure.  Show us the kind of stuff you like to play."

As it so happened I did have a few original songs, a medley of riffs I hadn't put together into finished tunes yet and nothing even remotely resembling a guitar hero-type lead lick.  A rhythm hog I was then, and I strongly suspect to a large extent I will always be.  Turning the distortion on my Peavey Bandit 112 (a great amplifier) to maximum and grabbing my trusty Ibanez RG 550 (told you we've been through a lot together), I began sliding, power-chording and palm muting my way across the lower end of the guitar--

"Okay, I've heard enough," the drummer said, looking to his companion after about two minutes while, startled by the speed of the decision, I hit a bad chord and winced, morally sure I had given the pooch a screwing for the entire year.  "What do you think?"

The bassist thought about this for all of two seconds.  "Yeah.  He's in."

"Definitely in," the drummer asserted.

"I'm in?" I asked, stunned.

My favorite local band wanted me?  What, did all the other axe-slingers developed Lou Gherig's Disease or something?  Sure, I was pretty decent in chords and riffs, but if you needed a guitar solo... yeah, don't even think about looking at me.  As it turned out, the Tuboriffic Space Pimps didn't give two hoots in hell if I was Angus Young, Kirk Hammett or Yngwie J. Malmsteen in terms of lead guitar ability.  They wanted somebody who was going to throw down snap-your-fingers, snap-your-neck type crunch on top of their psycho rhythm section.  They wanted James Hetfield, not Stevie Ray Vaughn.  My tritone-inspired doom riffing was exactly what they wanted.

Of course, then a problem reared its head.  "I'm in," I said after they left, having left me with a tape containing about a dozen songs they wanted me to learn... or at least, approximate.  In three weeks.

My problem was that we weren't using the rotation of Venus as our calendar to mark how many hours were in a day... a Venutian day being 243 of our own Earth days long, if you're interested.  With only 24 hours in a day, my time was already spoken for by the following categories:

1)  School

2)  Work

3)  Writing

4)  Pathetic attempts at dating

Since I was at Chico to go to college, the idea of calling up my parents (m y primary source of financial assistance) and saying I was dropping out of school to join a funk-metal thrash band was the worst idea since Custer decided he didn't need any help running off those pesky Indians.  At this point I still really liked working at the magazine I worked for (more on that death-spiral some other time) and the idea of giving up my weekly column and such made me fall back into a defensive crouch.  Theoretically if I joined the band, my lame and self-destructive attempts with the opposite sex would suddenly be much improved (ha!) and I wouldn't need to devote any time to it at all, which was about what I was doing now.

That left writing.  If I stopped working on stuff like Diablos, Suspiria and Violet World, I could make this happen.  I'd still be in school, I'd be getting laid non-stop (ha, again!) and... and...

That pretty much sealed the deal.  The Space Pimps, as they were subsequently renamed, took the news gracefully and got another guy to be their axe-slinger, who was much better than I was.  Ironically, once we had hung out a few times and put down a jam or two, he really wanted me to be in a band with him.  He would be Kirk Hammett to my James Hetfield, and all would be conquered in the metal world.

As John Lennon once said, "Life is what happens to you while you are making other plans."

You don't know how good it feels.

As I mentioned earlier, I sent the Zoom 9002 back to the dealer on Saturday because of issues with the headphone jack.  Some units come off an assembly line just fine, and some have a life of problems.  For example, there is a certain bus we have in the fleet that seemingly is always having something go wrong with it... and it's not like it's a clunky old thing, either.  Voodoo curses, somebody fell asleep at the quality control switch or whatever else, I don't know.  I've requested an exchange, so we'll see how things go with the new unit when it arrives.  Should be about Thursday and yeah, it can't come soon enough.

I've been pretty polite about this, but at the core of it all, the whole thing has really sucked the root.  My wife feels horrible about this, like she got me the worst Christmas present in the history of the world.  I mean, I can sort of see where she's coming from; how would you feel if you got your signifigant other a gift they;d wanted for a decade and a half and they'd only been able to fully use it twice if over four months?  It's not her fault... it's just frustrating, so that's all the bitching I'm going to do about that.  For now.

Lately I have also been reading some stories on the Ibanez.com forums about people finding excellent deals at the local pawnshop for quality guitars, as most people know a Fender Stratocaster or Gibson Les Paul is worth serious dough, but their understanding of musical economics breaks down after that.  Axes just like mine have been found for less than a hundred and fifty bucks.  Gasp.  So next week Lady Jade and I are going to take an expedition, which she is actually looking forward to.  Yes, far from rolling her eyes when I mentioned this, her first response was, "I know several pawn shops that are really quality places that we can take a look at.  That sounds like fun."

Again, the wonder of Good Husband Points produces a touchdown drive.

Now that tax season is over, we have been going back to the gym again.  Since I am still dealing with the torn tissue in my knee, it means that I have to take it a little easy, which as you may imagine is much easier said than done.  I hate being out of shape and I loathe having no endurance, so my first trip back to the gym had a sadly predictable result; namely, I pushed myself way too hard and inspired a well-meaning but still extremely biting tongue-lashing from my wife.  The thing is, I really don't want to have to have surgery (because getting cut on is such a highly unamusing process), so I need to take things easier in the gym and not be a macho idiot about things.

This whole process has given me plenty of time to get re-acquainted with the Ibanez, and amazingly, to also continue work on Living After Midnight.  Progress bar, you say?  Yeah.  I've got one.

25831 / 65000 words. 40% done!

So I've got that going for me, too.  Back to work tomorrow, a good weekend was had, and how was yours?

Oh, God, you are such a prankster.  This morning I sent my Zoom 9002 back to the dealer because the stereo headphone jack went back to straight mono (after one, count it, one use) and with about a fifty percent loss of signal strength so it can be replaced.  Not repaired; replaced.  Being a former baseball player and superstititious by nature, it's my belief that the unit is cursed.

Sigh.  Until sometime toward the end of next week, looks like it's me and the Marshall.  Viva la volume.

Nobody ever said perfection came cheap.

The title says it all.  Just got the call, it'll be done between 4-5:30 PM.  So we're off to eat lunch, hit the gym like Skylab and then pick up my beautiful vomit-yellow axe.

Now, can I get an Al Pacino-like HOO-RAH from my peeps?

I'm really trying not to think too much about the fact that my guitar could be ready on Wednesday.  Thanks to UPS screwing up on the delivery, what could have been taken care by Sunday (the most recent one) may instead not be done until Sunday (the next one).  The good news is that that's the absolute latest it would be done by, unless a meteorite hits the city of Sacramento or something.  Of even better news is that when I turned in all the equipment needed for the upgrade, then came back down to the store to deliver a nine-volt battery as well, the following exchange took place:

HE:  Oh wow, you drove all the way back down here to give me that?

ME:  Of course.  I don't want to leave anything to chance and this was the only thing left on the list.  I'm sorry I didn't have it down here before.

HE:  Wow.  Usually I just install one in the guitar and then I forget I did it, so it's something I end up paying for.

ME:  I wouldn't have allowed that.  I would have insisted on paying you for the battery, because fair is fair.  I think it's better to actually bring one down rather than leaving that sort of thing open to chance.

HE:  (after a two-second pause)  I'm going to try really hard to have this done for you on Wednesday.

ME:  If that could happen, it would be awesome.

I really try not to go around breathing fire and brimstone all the time.  I'm actually a pretty patient person, and I believe in the end that enough patience and determination gets rewarded.  Then again, I sort of have to believe this considering my wish to be a published author, or I would have quit a long time ago.  It's my hope that my patience and positive attitude (on the surface, at least) about this whole project will finally bear the fruit I am looking for in a timely manner.

And speaking of patience... by this time twenty-four hours from now, Lady Jade will be paroled from the depths of Tax Hell.  In fact, she may actually get off at five tomorrow, which would be phenomenal.  How will we celebrate?  Why, by sleeping in a bit on Wednesday, (hopefully) picking up my guitar and then going to the Sunrise California Family Fitness gym to start the crash course of physical effort to get ourselves back into hiking shape before vacation next month, followed by dinner at Tex Wasabi's.

On Thursday if we can move, we will go back to the gym.  If not, it'll be movie day.  Hopefully some guitar playing will happen as well.

I hope.

The company I ordered the BBE Sonic Stomp from has realized what's going on and apologized profusely.  They are sending my new pedal that will arrive tomorrow, the old one will be picked up by the UPS guy and returned to them, and I don't have to lift a finger.  Kudos to them; they will get good Amazon feedback.

My Zoom 9002 arrived today, repaired and ready to go.

So why am I typing and not power-chording?  I took my trusty Ibanez down to Guitar Center today and arranged for the EMG's to be installed, at a low cost of a hundred and twenty bucks.  It'll be ready to roll on Sunday.

So in the meantime, this means... I will have a Marshall amplifier, Zoom 9002 and BBE Sonic Stomp, a dream setup, but no guitar to play them with.

Aggrieved though I may be, you have to admit it--that's pretty fucking funny.

At the moment I'm doing some light housework (cleaning up our room) and waiting for the UPS Guy to arrive.  Like all people, I am always pleased to see the familiar brown uniform of the UPS Guy because it means that something good is about to be welcomed to our home.  In this case, it's something great.

Back in 1992, when I began seriously playing guitar, the guy who was doing the majority of my musical education had a horrid-yellow Ibanez guitar (which has been in my possession ever since) and a wonderful device called the Sonic Maximizer.  It fleshed out the guitar's natural sound, making the clean tone ripple like Ben and Jerry's Americone Dream ice cream and the crunch give a punch to the gut like James Hetfield on a drunken rampage.  I was intensely jealous of this device, but could not afford one of my own.

Now I'm looking at my UPS tracking number and I see that my BBE Sonic Stomp pedal (which duplicates the effect of that wondrous device only in compact form) arrived in Sacramento at just past one in the morning and is now securely tucked in the UPS van, making its winding way to my hot little hands.  I was able to get the pedal for $73.00 rather than the $99.00 it would have cost in the store, and cleverly ordered from a place in California because I figured it would take less time for it to arrive.  I was right; I am, once again, considerably smarter than the average bear.

WHERE, OH WHERE, ARE YOU, UPS GUY?

Oh, another cool thing: I talked with a very knowledgeable woman down at Guitar Center today and found that my idea of putting the EMG-85 humbucker in the bridge position rather than the neck (and switching the EMG-81 to the neck) while not done by any guitar player I have ever seen, is in fact the way she has her guitar set up.  "I love it that way.  It rules," she said.  "The rhythm tone is really thick but has a lot of cut (via the 85) while the lead is a little more bluesy than normal but still pierces well (courtesy the 81)."

I did a mental dance of victory.  "So this idea I have of doing it that way for my own axe that I've never seen anyone else do..."

"Yeah, I'd say go for it.  Switch it around.  It's a great combo sound.  What kind of setup and guitar do you have?"

"Marshall lead 15 amplifier.  Nothing better than a Marshall.  Zoom 9002 processor, and a BBE Sonic Stomp.  The guitar is an Ibanez RG 550, a genuine 1987 model."

(long pause)  "An original 550?  Not a reissue?"

"Original.  Japanese-made and everything."

"Oh wow.  That kicks so much ass.  You're going to have a killer rig."

If a ESP-sponsored guitar maiden says it's going to rule, I'm inclined to believe her.

Having said, that UPS GUY, WHERE ARE YOU?

So while I wait, what was the last package you received in the mail that made you do a happy dance in your underwear?  Minds waiting on pins and needles want to know.

UPDATE:  The UPS Guy did indeed arrived, and I am furious.  Hoo boy, am I furious.  The box contains a BBE Crusher Distortion pedal, not the Sonic Stomp.  The enclosed sales slip clearly indicates that I ordered the correct item, so it wasn't as if I screwed up and ordered the wrong thing; somebody has fucked up righteously on their end.  I have sent them an extremely pissy-sounding message, and this had better be made right or by all that's holy, they're going to be added to the Slagged For Life list, which at last count included Best Buy and Lasher Elk Grove Dodge.

Dirty rat fuckers.  I am ready to eat bullets and shit nails.

"Since now the Zoom 9002 is about to be resurrected from the ashes like phoenix wearing a pair of brass knuckles, I may have only more piece of guitar equipment to buy in my quest for the perfect tone," I announced.

My wife looked up from her Christine Feehan book.  "What is it?"  She didn't immediately ask How much does it cost, or Why do you need another piece of equipment, or roll her eyes, or any number of things that people do when their signifigant other has gotten a bee in their bonnet about something that has to do with one of their hobbies and wishes to acquire something.  She wanted facts first.  Judgments are for later.

"It's a BBE Sonic Maximizer stomp box," I answered.  "I've always wanted one."

"Why did you never get one before?"

"It's always been a rack-mounted piece of equipment."  Seeing her mystified look, I hastened to explain further.  "See, a rack-mounted effect is something that is designed to be used with a much larger amplifier than what I have, like a Marshall full-stack that you would see used at a live show.  Since it's much larger, it's also designed for certain things such as equalizers and effect racks to be bolted into place under the main head, between it and the speaker cabinet."

"All right.  This isn't designed like that?"

"No.  It's a stomp box, which makes it similar in size and use to something like a wah-wah pedal like Jimi Henrix used.  Very small, but with a good punch."

My wife considered that.  "What does this Sonic Maximizer do?"

"It compresses your guitar signal before it goes to the speaker or headphones.  It takes a 'chunk' note like Metallica plays and turns it into the audial equivalent of a punch in the nose.  Diamond Darrell from Pantera used a lot of compression, which is why his guitar sounded so mean.  It's my aim to have my guitar able to beat up his guitar."  I paused, then added, "But since I've never heard the stomp box version in action, I'll have to play one of them first to see if it has the same effect as the rack-mounted version and therefore justifies the hundred bucks on the price tag."

"Okay."  She went back to her book.  "After you do, let me know if it's something you want to get.  You can pick one up before we go on vacation."

Good Husband Points really do come in handy, friends and neighbors.

I mentioned earlier that I was having trouble with my Zoom 9002 signal processor for my guitar, in which it would constantly restart itself and bounce me out of whatever sound I was using into a God-awful factory present clean tone so sharp I could use it to scrape the paint off my bathroom walls.  In case you're wondering, yes, that's bad.

It bears stating here for the record that the 9002 is one of the best pieces of equipment ever created for guitar players; in my not-so-humble opinion, it's one of the ten best things I've ever run across in that six-string world and you can quote me on that.  Easily programmable and about the size of the palm of your hand, it's also amazingly compact and fully transportable to any place you want to play with your axe at.  Sporting enough plug-in bays and receptacles for various cords to be inserted, you can listen to music through it and play along through your headphones, plug directly into virtually any stereo and treat it like your Marshall of the moment, go directly into any type of recording device you wish to use and a host of other features (including tuner and metronome functions) that make it a trusted addition to any musician's arsenal.

Unfortunately, over time entropy increases in any closed system and the Zoom 9002 is no exception.  Since they hit their height of popularity about fifteen years ago, any you run into today has likely logged a major amount of hours and is therefore most likely ailing in one way or another due to time taking its toll.  Like mine was.  Shortly after I got it, the headphone jacks would only play mono, not stereo.  Then the resetting snafu occurred, which is a known issue to Zoom users and highly annoying.  It basically renders the device unplayable, which was an extreme bummer as I didn't get much use from it before these crippling symptoms showed up.

I finally contacted the company I bought it from, which is an independent third-party vendor since the Zoom Corporation no longer sells the product.  They told me to send all the stuff back and they would repair or replace it, free of charge.

Whoa.

People, I can't put over e-lectronics.net enough for this.  I dropped and email to the guy through his web site, and within fifteen minutes he had looked up our information from when we had originally bought the device and CALLED ME BACK.  Holy crap.  This never happens any more.  I shall buy from them whenever possible from now on.

What's a customer service story you have that made you feel great about doing business with that company?  Inquiring--and satisfied--minds want to know.

It's hard to beat the crunch tone of an Ibanez RG550 with brand-new 0.10 gauge D'Addario super bright strings on a Marshall amplifier and the gain on both channels turned to maximum.  Damn, damn hard.  Think James Hetfield of Metallica on steroids.

However, I'm going to try to top that sound.  Those EMG's I got ought to do the trick.

Yeah, it's a writing break.  Power chord headbanging is fun.

The word count (thus far) for Living After Midnight.

2791 / 65000 words. 4% done!

I had some fun at Starbucks today, then went and got new strings, picks and a new three-position toggle switch for the Ibanez. See, with active pickups, you cannot have a five-position toggle switch because splitting between the coils as done with a five-position switch will apparently cause your guitar to be wrecked, or possibly your amplifier, I forget which. Ergo, a new toggle switch that because it was on a green tag sale, was only ten bucks instead of twenty.

Nice. Back to work.

What to do on a night full of nothing?

I am flying solo this evening.  Tonight the wife is out at a fundraiser for a local AIDS organization where the attendees dress to the nines and then get to walk a red carpet, like the Oscars.  They will watch the award ceremony, engage in a silent auction to raise money for the organization, and everybody gets to have a good time.  She's a much better person than I am; when she mentioned this event, my first reaction was, "I don't have to go, do I?"  Thankfully, the answer was no.  I have little to no interest in the Oscars and even less in being in an environment for over four hours where I would be expected to behave like a perfect gentleman and not say anything inappropriate.

Since I didn't go, I think I'm going to practice scales and Metallica songs on the Ibanez while drinking wine.  I'm a little tired of doing the editing on The Phoenix Initiative at the moment, and since I'm so close to the end (halfway through Chapter Thirteen with only one more to go after that), I'm officially taking the night off from writing.  I need to get the rest of Living After Midnight diagrammed this week, but with only six chapters to go on that, I don't anticipate any problems.  Saturday, March 1st is the official start date and I expect to have all my ducks in a row well before then.  Go me.

How was everyone's weekend?  Anything of note?  Judging from the LJing, I'd say not.

EDIT:  Oh, I also managed to squeeze in a viewing of Bull Durham while noodling away on the guitar.  Prepare for some unsolicited love.  If you don't own that movie, don't walk but run to the nearest outlet tomorrow and get a copy.  While most actors look awful when doing the athletic portion of sports movies (like Charlie Sheen in Major League), Kevin Costner actually seems like he knows what he's doing, and his character of Crash Davis is by far the best foul-mouthed sage you'll ever meet on a baseball diamond.  Go forth, and be entertained.

EDIT #2:  Also, my wife was able to get for me (for ten bucks) on the silent auction table a beautiful and well-written hardcover book of the season of the 1980 Oakland Raiders that culminated in their Super Bowl victory over a tough Ron Jaworksi-led and Dick Vermeil-coached Philadelphia Eagles team.  This would have been great enough on its own, but upon closer inspection, I see the that book has been signed by Oakland Raiders Hall of Fame inductee Willie Brown, one the best cornerbacks the National Football League has ever seen.  Although your screen cannot accurate reflect my mood, be assured that I am rightfully in awe once again of just how awesome my wife truly is.

I haven't been doing any actual writing as of late, as you know.  I finished off The Final Nine on November 27th, 2007, and got Underworld into the finished column (after over two and a half years) on January 3rd, 2008.  Since then, no writing.  Oh sure, I've been doing the edits on The Phoenix Initiative and taking copious notes for Living After Midnight... which upon further review, shows that both of these works are currently on Chapter Thirteen.  Odd.

What has been occupying my attention these days is music.  I got an excellent piece of guitar equipment on Christmas, the Zoom 9002 signal processor, and have been ramping up to get the trusty RG550 back into a fighting shape the likes of which it has never seen with new turbocharged equipment and some TLC.  I'm also helping Mad Evil Chris do a little preliminary guitar shopping of his own, and it looks like my man is going to join the likes of Stevie Ray Vaughn, Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton by getting himself a Fender Stratocaster which if I'm not mistaken, will most likely look much like this:



That's a beautiful piece of equipment right there.  Remember, kids;  real guitar heroes play real guitars.

In doing this search for the combination of the right axe and the right amp to produce just the right tone, it started me thinking about how very similar writing and guitar playing truly are.  I think that's part of the reason I responded so enthusiastically to both disciplines.  In both fields, you have a basic piece of equipment; in the music world it's 22 or 24 frets and six strings, maybe a whammy bar, maybe not.  In the writing world it's 104 keys on a QWERTY keyboard.  You sit down with the same basic tools at your disposal as Satriani, Skolnick and Vai (or King, Barker and Herbert, on the flip side).  Once you figure out how to hold the damn thing correctly, whatever comes next is your own extrapolation.

Of course, there are some fundamentals that will get you a long way toward your goal.  Dialogue, characterization, plot, style, motivation, dynamics and intro/endings should sound very familiar if you're a Writing 101 post reader.  Or, if you prefer, chords, scales, modes, root notes, tremolo picking, pinch harmonics, legato, vibrato, sweep arpeggios, string-skipping, tapping and dive-bombs in the six-string world.

I love the freedom both disciplines give you in what is essentially a closed universe.  If you say to myself and Tom Petty, "Write a song in the key of A," we're going to come up with completely different takes on his Fender Telecaster and my Ibanez RG550.  The sounds will not be the same, the chord progressions will be completely different, we'll have wildly different harmony lines... but they will both be guitar songs written in the key of A.  Using that same 104-key setup that Nora Roberts uses, my own take on a dark night in Atlanta will be completely different than hers... and heck, even the contrasts between Roberts' work on that subject and a riff from her noir pen name J.D. Robb will be completely different, and that's being done by the same person.

Style is what you have when you've been doing it for long enough to know the difference between good structure and bad structure.  The flat notes you hit early in your six-string career will smooth out, and your dreadful plotting will come around to a more natural flow once you've cut your literary teeth.

I don't know what I'm more excited about; getting the EMG's installed in the Ibanez, or the March 1st countdown to starting Living After Midnight.

It's a good time to be alive.  Happy V-Day, one and all.

EDIT:  For those of you who actively hate Valentine's Day, or aren't interested in it in the slightest or are hoping that an ex of yours had a crappy holiday because the motherfucker deserves it, I offer this link to give you wonderful e-card ideas.

I also thought of the Enemy Of Fun when I saw this image, so I thieved it away.