Yesterday I played a 1972 Les Paul Custom. It sounded really really nice. It played like perfection. There wasn’t a thing on it I couldn’t do. Actually let me phrase that better. If there was something I couldn’t do on that guitar, it’s because I couldn’t do it on any guitar. Sometimes the guitar is the limitation, most times the player is the limitation. This guitar was perfect. Pretty dinged up. Crackled paint in spots, but cosmetics and guitars for me need not be perfect.
It’s like a four thousand dollar guitar and I can’t stop thinking about it. I also can’t stop thinking about how I barely get a shot to plug in and play anyway. Most of my guitar playing these days is in the living room on the acoustic, after dinner but before the big wind-down, which is for about 20 minutes before Story Time. I really enjoy playing. And I don’t know if it’s living in this part of the state or what exactly the deal is, but I’ve played more acoustic these past two months than I have, probably, the past 10 years combined. Not sure how to wrap this post up, but I’ll just do that here.
Good night, planet earth.