An Ugly Guitar

I just acquired another guitar. My collection is small, mind you, but nice and more importantly, meaningful. So when the opportunity to trade some banjo playing for this beat-up red-sparkle Fender Stratocaster (Japan) came along, I took it.
But this guitar is ugly.
It's scraped up.
The finish on the fretboard is peeling off, and the dirt is sticking.
The bridge pickup is a different type than the other two.
The bridge was discontinued by Fender in the late 80's.
There's a gash in the bottom of the body.
There's tape on the inside that says "This guitar belongs to Danny. If I catch you with it I'll kick your @&%."
The volume knob and tone knob are in the wrong places.
It has no case.
It has no whammy bar.
And so on, and so on. But here's the thing: the more I look at these things, the more they are what endear me to the beast. I think I'd like other people to love me in spite of my tone knob being in the wrong spot. When I pick up this guitar and plug it in, I play a little differently than I play with my other electrics. This one doesn't care if I try something new and botch it miserably; it seems to say "hey, no worries, I'm the guitar that's not about shiny paint or smooth frets, I'm the guitar that's about playing guitar." And I like that.
I guess I'm saying that having a really ugly strat has humbled me a little, and taught me for the fifth gwazillionth time that it's what's inside that counts, and how I use what I have.

Even so, if you know a good fret guy, let me know.

Country Wonder. Err.... Thunder.

Last week we went to Florence Arizona for COUNTRY THUNDER!!!!!!, which was a lot of fun. I've spent my life going to bluegrass festivals, so I expected a country festival to be similar.
Nope.
Kinda different. In a perfectly good way, don't get me wrong. I think what caught me the most off guard was the instant elevation to stardom performing on the mega-thunder stage would bring me. I made a lot of cool friends.
One such friend was Trisha (no need to change names, I'm not real sure she'll remember this if she reads it). Trisha and her friends will forever embody Country Thunder for me. They were totally ready. They had the wicker-crinkle-cowboy hats. They had the whole-body-tanning-booth tan. They had a couple of bucks to buy beer. They had bikini tops. They were totally amped to see shows.
They didn't have tickets.
But by combining a few of the afore mentioned prepared elements, they were able to get past the gate-guard and see our show. And man, did they rock hard. They danced and screamed and cheered. And when the show was over, they were psyched to meet us and talk. It was cool. This Trisha, however, seemed to think I would be her boyfriend right from the get-go. That was great. Quite flattering, and for a lot of musicians, it might have been a match made in heaven. But I have a slightly different style of socializing, and there were a few other details that may have prevented us from ever really becoming anything too serious. For one, she lived in Arizona, I in Utah. She has a deep love for country music, I'm kind of a jazz guy in my spare time. She seemed kinda extroverted, I'm a little shy. She was kinda drunk, I am kinda married.
But Trisha, if you're reading this, can we still be friends? I'm assuming you didn't make it to our second set because of the whole not-having-a-ticket thing, and I'm sorry about that. But for what it's worth, you and your friends will forever be Country Thunder to me, and no country festival will ever be the same without you there.