Your recent diatribe against guys with guitars grieved my spirit almost as much as a praise song with more than four chords or running out of hair wax. I mean, I don’t, because I stockpile the stuff but, you know, if I did ever run out, I’d be grieved, almost as much as I was reading your unkind words for guys with guitars.
Look, until you’ve walked a mile in our girl jeans you have no right to criticize my kind. Picture this: You’re me. You’re sixteen. Your face is a general plague of pink and red bumps and blotches. The rest of you is the color of dead fish – a milky gray that broadcasts “I. Do. Not. Tan. Well. And may not actually be alive” As for muscles, you’ve got none. As for social skills, you’re Stephen Hawking. As for libido, well, it’s on fire like Michael Jordan at a slamdunk contest. And no, you don’t know who Michael Jordan is really. You just know that dropping his name into conversations with other guys keeps the wedgies to a minimum – and mentioning Mr. Hawking has the opposite effect. Like all boys your age you desperately want girls, any girls, to notice you – but preferably the hot ones because, let’s face it, you’re as deep as a toe nail.
To quote Dennis Hopper in Speed, “What are you gonna do? What. Are. You. Gonna. Do?” Huh, blog boy?
I’ll tell you what I did. I picked up a guitar and became a god. Ok, not a god, not yet, but for three minutes here and there actual females with ovaries and breasts and stuff sat around me with their eyes closed while I knocked out Richard Marx and Chicago tunes – the ones with four chords – the popular ones. And then, in college, I became a god. It was then that I wrote a song for a girl. It was called “Come To Me” and she did. And we made out. And now we have three kids. Oh, and we got married between the making out and the kid making. I promise.
There’s something magical, supernatural even, about the power of the acoustic guitar – about music in general. How else do you explain Ric Ocasek, Billy Joel, Rod Stewart or David Bowie and their powers to attract the fairer sex. That’s something divine. Possibly. So don’t knock it, man. You might find yourself boxing God himself, for I believe HE might just be the one who poured this wooing power into my Yamaha. And into my hair, which also has wooing powers of a similar nature. And my smile. And my clear complexion. And my witty personality and general charm. Ok, so I’m really really hot and awesome these days and I don’t need the acoustic guitar but it has powers none-the-less—powers which rescued me once upon a time from the clutches of dateless proms and game-playing Friday nights and self-loathing and the hard task of actual character development.
Take away the acoustic guitar and I would have been, well, you, I guess – spending hours on-line hurling hate speech at the talented and special and gifted and blessed and just plain awesomer among us.