Ain't Nuttin' But a G String, Baby

So, I just finished up my usual Friday night bout of working, lest you think I am a La-hoo-zer who has nothing better to do on a Friday eve than blog about having nothing better to do on a Friday eve.

(If you are one of those folks, my apologies. We should hang out sometime and get you out of the house.)

In any case, Friday nights are kind of like Thursday nights for me, so I wrap up work knowing that I have to get up Saturday morning and do some more work, which means I take it kind of easy and tackle projects.

This week, it's re-stringing my guitar. On Tuesday, I was banging out some hot tunes (who's up for a little Manfred Mann cover action, anyone? ... Anyone? No? Okay then). I stopped to tune the G string cause it was a little bit flat, yo, and POW!!! It snapped, flew back and whapped me on my tummy, leaving a right nice welt.

I will not tell you why I was not wearing a shirt and playing '60s cover tunes. It's none of your business. Suffice to say I have a host of cooking-related scars on my torso and one mark near my belly button that may or may not have come from tearing down ceramic tile in the buff.

Point is, my pretties, I had to go to the very scary music store and buy guitar strings. It is very scary because I never know what I'm talking about, and I DON'T LIKE to look dumb. And the dude behind the counter was throwing out all sorts of pressure-cooker questions like "What kind of strings do you want?" and "Hello? Can you hear me?"

Nearly seven years into playing, and I still don't know what kind of strings to get. "Erm, I don't play very well, so do you have the kind of strings that make me sound better than I am?" I squeaked.

No. They did not. So, I kind of pointed and said, "That's a pretty package. I'll take that one."

I paid the man for a set of 11-gauge steel strings and slunked out of the store like the imposter that I am. I'm a guitar hack, kids, but I should know this basic stuff, if for no other reason than I used to live above a guitar store.

When I was 21-ish, I started taking lessons from this dude named Phil, and he mentioned he had an apartment above the store that was vacant. I was living with Double A at the time, who was switching pilot bases, so it worked out well. It was a sweet, very homey place and all day I'd get to hear the kids try to work through Three Blind Mice, so I got to feeling pretty good about myself for mastering Tom Dooley.

Phil smoked a lot of pot, too, so every morning, I'd wake up to the sound of him opening the store and the smell of some dank ganja.

At some point, though, the city found out that Phil had a residential boarder in a commercial property, and I had to go, or Phil would have to put in an elevator or something ridiculous to get up to code. It's still probably my most favorite apartment.

Incidentally, I stopped taking lessons from Phil after I left, even though I just moved right down the road. It felt weird.

After I left, though, I realized that Phil took care of all of my guitar needs--re-stringing, tuning, picks, selecting the right strap, choosing a pick up for me. I didn't have to do anything, but like a spoiled kid, it came back to bite me in the ass, and now I have to mentally prepare for days when I shop for strings.

Ya'll pray for me when my tuner gives out and I have to get a new one. I'll probably need to be sedated.

In the Comments section, tell me about one of your irrational fears. I will serenade the winner with a cover that is very easy to play.

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UDATE

Just read over at the Broke Kid's blog, that Denny Doherty of the Mamas and the Papas died. That's sad, no? So many good songs. Keep his family in your prayers, if you do that sort of thing.