My doorbell rings this morning. I rush out of bed and stumble down the stairs in an unconscious stupor. I open the door while rubbing sand from my eyes, squinting in the glorious morning sun as the fresh arctic breeze rushes me back to waking life. I see a man in a baseball cap with a large box. He hands me an electronic screen and requests my signature. I grip the pen and sign my John Hancock sloppily, not really sure whats in this box. Then, as if being struck by a lightning bolt, a sudden blast of realization overwhelms me...is this....could it be...new guitar day????
My heart beat accelerates to the speed of Far Beyond the Sun. The ribcage may explode from its pounding rhythm. A light sweat begins to develop upon my brow. I run to the kitchen and grab a butter knife...a flurry of packaging tape flies upwards, onwards into the domesticized horizon behind me. I pause to enjoy this moment, to relish its sickly sweet pleasure.
From the gaping chasm of cardboard blackness I pull forth a long rectangular case. My fingers grip its brown leather with trembling fury. Click. Click. Both locks undone. Open. Slight disappointment. Its much darker than expected. Chin up, lad. That's just cosmetic, mom always told me that looks don't matter, never judge a book by its cover and all that. I head back upstairs, plug into my amp and start playing. Slowly, a dark, creeping sadness replaces the intense joy. This neck...I cannot stand the finish. I look longingly at my axis supersport. Its birdseyes look back at me, unblinking and sympathetic. I see my own melancholy reflection in the black lacquer of the BFR neck....and I drown in the heavy, sinking conclusion that this just won't do. Having saved every penny from 8 months of dismal labor in a local restaurant, I think back, remembering how many tables I wiped, how many smug customers I politely took orders from, how I scrubbed the cutlery,trapped in a fog of hot vinegar steam rising from that wretched gunmetal stainless steel bowl. My heart is broken in a thousand pieces. I slide the case back into the box and stick "Return to Sender" on its front.
My heart beat accelerates to the speed of Far Beyond the Sun. The ribcage may explode from its pounding rhythm. A light sweat begins to develop upon my brow. I run to the kitchen and grab a butter knife...a flurry of packaging tape flies upwards, onwards into the domesticized horizon behind me. I pause to enjoy this moment, to relish its sickly sweet pleasure.
From the gaping chasm of cardboard blackness I pull forth a long rectangular case. My fingers grip its brown leather with trembling fury. Click. Click. Both locks undone. Open. Slight disappointment. Its much darker than expected. Chin up, lad. That's just cosmetic, mom always told me that looks don't matter, never judge a book by its cover and all that. I head back upstairs, plug into my amp and start playing. Slowly, a dark, creeping sadness replaces the intense joy. This neck...I cannot stand the finish. I look longingly at my axis supersport. Its birdseyes look back at me, unblinking and sympathetic. I see my own melancholy reflection in the black lacquer of the BFR neck....and I drown in the heavy, sinking conclusion that this just won't do. Having saved every penny from 8 months of dismal labor in a local restaurant, I think back, remembering how many tables I wiped, how many smug customers I politely took orders from, how I scrubbed the cutlery,trapped in a fog of hot vinegar steam rising from that wretched gunmetal stainless steel bowl. My heart is broken in a thousand pieces. I slide the case back into the box and stick "Return to Sender" on its front.
