(second block, fourth letter of the prisoners' quadratic tap code...)

...am here to tap through the walls.

Tue Jul, 13 2010

When Crybabies Attack

It was about a month ago that a friend of mine and I were the subjects of a two-county chase by the New York State Police. We were at another friend's house when Mike's cell phone rang, and the voice asked him, "What did you do now? The cops are looking for you all over the place." He'd heard Mike's name on the police radio scanner: we were traveling in his pickup truck.

Instantly, I got on my phone and called the Cortland County Sheriff's Department. They knew nothing at all about any of it. I called Tompkins County: they knew nothing about it, but the nice lady at Dispatch offered to ask the New York State Police for me, which she did. She was able to confirm that a State Trooper was, indeed, at that moment running up and down Daisy Hollow Road trying to find Mike, who lives about a mile from me. I let her know that I was the one that he was looking for, in the wake of an episode at a big-box retailer over on Triphammer Road. She was able to arrange a meeting between me and the trooper, which eventually took place at the Rt. 13 barracks in spite of his strictly ignorant and presumptive attitude. I walked right into that man's office and set him straight.

You see, what he didn't know was that he and the New York State Police had been cracked like a puppy dog's tail across two counties by a retail schlub in a snit who lied about me because I had pointed out how stupid he was. He dialed up that cop and said that I had invaded his office, "pounded on his desk" and actually laid hands on him. It was all laughable bullshit, except for one thing: that stupid cop bought it, until he had to confront me and realize exactly who was being accused. Once he had a face-full of me, he completely understood that it was all a lie, and that he should never, ever have said some of the things that he did to me on my cell phone when we first made contact. He was dead wrong, and he only got that way because he took seriously some punk-ass hairball of an assistant manager at that mall.

By the time I left that barracks with that cop graciously holding the door open for me, I had full authority to clap him on the shoulder like the kid he was, and tell him, "You be careful out there."

The fool at the mall completely reversed himself, and did exactly what I was arguing that he should do before he took a giant shit in his diaper and called the cops. He had not appreciated my tone, you see, when I pointed out the stark stupidity of his position. When he finally realized what he'd done, some glimmer of sanity appeared in his mind, and he was finally able to do his job.


I have seen the hysteria, ladies and gentlemen. All over this country, countless times, I have seen the complete lapse of reason among walking & talking vegetables who almost look like real humans except for that vacuum in their eyes which signals their raw touchy-feely nerves poking out in the wind. They fright like children in a kindergarten room at the least sign of dispute, and they do not have minds to lose anymore. All they have are sensations which never reach their cognitive centers except on the most basic levels of something like "hunger/microwave" or "boredom/channel-remote".

Whatever they are, they certainly are not Americans.


I am convinced that they killed Erik Scott, and they used the Las Vegas Metro Police Department to do it.

That's all for now.


Various guitars I see floating by, mostly Gibson and mostly eBay.

Early Norlin ES-335 -- 1970, in Walnut ("ES-335TDW"). This is a period-piece look and feel, and arguably the sound as well but that's to cut things very finely. A "classic" 335 would be the original of 1958 in the Sunburst or Natural finish, or the Cherry Red of 1959; the Walnut of 1970 (second year of that finish offering) is not really a "classic" 335. In the history of the Gibson aesthetic, this is analogous to, say, vertically-striped polyester bell-bottoms or Bahama Blue shag carpeting. None of this is to say that they're not cool guitars, and this is a nice one. Excellent photographs.

Chrome hardware, featuring the trapeze tailpiece (like my L-47 and I've always liked it) and ABR-1 bridge with period-typical nylon saddles. Bound rosewood fretboard, with small block markers, and then the crown inlay at the machine head. These would be the T-top Humbuckers. Vintage Nazis would moan that the upper bouts are pointy (the body templates were wearing-out in the factory) and the fourteen-degree machine head with the volute signals a sometimes not-fun era of the line, but these things really do rock or moan or whatever you want a 335-type semi-hollow to do. ...which, of course, is because it really is a 335.

In the months since I've let AxeBites languish all to bleedin' hell, Gibson's Robot Guitar technology has sifted out to other models than the original Les Paul application. I don't know how it's going: I still haven't even seen one of these self-tuners. I don't see piles of them burning on the sides of the highway, nor reverent hangings in display cases over bars, so who knows? This 2008 Robot SG is ready to rock in the Metallic Red. Nickel hardware; it's the stoptail wired for data to send to the tuners, with dual Humbuckers. It's a bound rosewood fretboard, but I really like the single-bound machine head with the crown inlay. That's a real cool old-school look, right there, to set off that crazy-ass color. {nod}