29 July, 2012

It's our 2,500th post, let's celebrate.

Now, really, I didn't have a damned thing for this post. I was going to compare and contrast Portishead's "Wandering Star" with Poliça's "Wandering Star" but that idea sucked. Then I was going to do a big ol' tribute to John Barry's theme for You Only Live Twice by embedding all the different versions of it that I could find, including the one by the Pain Teens that I just found.
In fact, fuck it, I'll at least embed that one because I finally got off my keister this month and heard the Pain Teens for the first time (shut up, M.) and because the theme to You Only Live Twice is the titties.
But the reason I'm posting today has nothing to do with the ever swelling portion of my brain that holds pop culture ephemera and droll little fun facts about obscure, pre-twentieth century sex toys. No, it has more to do with my first guitar ever.
About goddamned time.
You see, for years, I didn't know what this thing was. When I first got it, when I was fourteen, I thought it was a Fender Extra Heavy because A) that's what was on the pick and B) I was an idiot even when I was fourteen. This whole thing with me being functionally retarded is not a new development. And I've told the story before about how Anthony and Reuben laughed at me because Reuben's sister Suzie had the same guitar and it had Cort on the headstock. And I mentioned how, back when I was fourteen, computers were basically how you imagined them to be rendered on The Flinstones and the internet was a military-only-kinda-thang that nobody, even in the military, had ever heard of so Googling something was not an option.
OK, that whole last part made me feel old in the way that the Old Man's stories about how Grandma used to bake potatoes and put them in his coat pockets in the winter because they couldn't afford mittens or whatever other weird bullshit my Old Man had to grow up with during the reconstruction period. "Back in my day, we couldn't just Google something." That makes me sound fucking old. Don't get me wrong, I love that now I can go online and order a pizza and not have to deal with the stoner on the other end of the phone line and that if I do want to get on the phone, I have the option of having sushi delivered to my fucking house but really: "Back in my day we couldn't Google anything." No wonder my balls are so wrinkly; I am old.
Anyway, back to the point: I had no idea what this thing was. So I called it a Cort Hagström copy because I thought it looked like an old school Hagström III a little. This was pretty much up until ten minutes ago. For seventeen years, I had no idea what exactly this thing was.
That picture to your right? Yeah, that picture is from the last time I asked for help in identifying it, which was about four maybe five years now. That background is my old kitchen from the carriage house over on second. I posted the picture because my supervisor downtown was a whiz at researching things, more so than I was, and I figured I could employ her skills.
I never heard back from her.
And so serendipity intervened. You see, I'm covering for Georgie this weekend while she had a booth at Red Hot Art over in Stevens Square. I've been stuck for ideas for a twenty fifth hundredth post and I'm putting in a ten day work week. So I figure I'd take advantage of her Netflix and watch some movies and then I ran out of movies that I gave a shit about and watched Portlandia. In season one, episode four, "Mayor is Missing", Fred and Carrie find Mayor playing in a reggae band. And I find a guy playing my guitar. With a decal on the headstock that reads CMI.
A clue. About my guitar. The guitar I don't know anything about.
And here was the "duh" part of it: All I do is Google "CMI guitar", go to images, and I see a picture of my guitar, calling it the CMI E200. So I Google "CMI E-200" and Google asks me if I mean "CMI E200" and I say "Okie dokie" and boom. Pictures. Of my guitar. My first guitar. The same one I learned all my first songs on. The same one I've had for seventeen years. That I never knew anything about. And now I know what the hell it is, because I finally found one with the right goddamned name on the headstock.
So three birds with one stone: I found out what my guitar was, I got material for my twenty fifth hundredth post, and I got to mention how wrinkly my balls are. Hooray!
 
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