A time in my life when I learned to do something well...

I’ve always been a strong rhythm guitar player.  My peers in our little music scene would say I’m a better bass player, but growing up, the six strings always drew me in with amazement, happiness, anxiety, and intimidation.  Why?  Why would something I find solace in bring on emotions from vast spectrums?  You would think a hobby, whether it be playing chess, wood-working, needle-point or even bridge, a person would be relaxed knowing that they had nothing to prove to anyone, it’s just them and the activity.  With music it’s different, because no matter where you’re from or the language you speak, music translates emotion.  A Chinese person can listen to a song written by a man from America and understand what’s going on, the tempo and melodies convey emotion.  So when you mess up in your playing, it translates in multiple languages.

After about 10 years of strong rhythm playing, it was time to step up my game and start playing some scorching leads.  Now, the important thing about being a lead player is “versatility” or the ability to play many different styles of music (any musician worth their salt is versatile in different styles regardless of position in a band or whatever, but for the sake of argument, we’re talking lead guitarists).  I figured, just like every other white male guitarist before me, I’ll steal some licks from a group I admired, Pink Floyd.  The central figure for this group is up for debate, but I feel that David Gilmour is Pink Floyd.  His fretwork is second to none, and this is evident on the seminal track, “Money”.  It’s pretty much safe to say that, “EVERY PERSON IN THE WORLD (7+BILLION) HAS HEARD THIS SONG!”.  It still gives me goosebumps. 

The guitar solo kicks in around the three minute mark, air guitarists around the world rejoice in harmony as they strum in front of a mirror for the next two minutes, living the dream. Being a rhythm player, I had no clue where to start.  So, while stationed in Georgia, on a Friday night, I was determined to learn this solo. I locked myself in my barracks room and listened to the song over and over again until I knew exactly where all the changes were. “Okay, right after the saxophone solo, Gilmour comes in on a hard B and proceeds to rip...”, I told myself.  So I would play the rhythm parts from beginning to end, then I’d do it again, then, I’d do it again.  After a while, I started having fun, tweaking things here and there, playing something I thought would sound cool. It wouldn’t be a Chuck Berry style string bend, or a BB King blues walk, but just a subtle change that honestly, if you weren’t looking for it, you wouldn’t hear it. But one thing I wouldn’t change was the solo that was captured on tape in the early 1970s. 

Guitar, check. It’s a Fender Stratocaster, not the exact same Strat as Gilmour, but I’m not the same player, so it doesn’t matter.  Amp, check. It’s a solid-state amplifier, Gilmour uses tube Hi-Watts with multiple effects processors, but at the time, I was a broke PFC, so yeah, you use what you have access too, not going to stop me.  The solo came, and it was glorious. I played the entire thing, note for note. David Gilmour could not keep up with me and the smile on my face only grew as the progression went from raw and in your face, to quiet and calm, only to explode back into a fury of high pitched squeals. Two solid minutes of blues influenced rock. When I finished, I only wanted to do it again and again.  So I did, five more times, and every time the song ended, I started it right back up again, turning my amp up a little louder each time.

I finished, I was a sweaty mess. My finger tips were bleeding from the constant bending on the high E string.  I left my barracks room to enjoy a victory cigarette and look out upon the other soldiers partying in the Quad on this Friday night.  My buddy Dan was outside my door when I opened it. “Dude, what the hell was that racket? I’ve never heard such horrible playing in my life!”, he said. Dan was in his late 30s, early 40s and had a deep love of all things hair-metal. Dan could also play any song on guitar.  Dan, was a phenomenal guitarist.  I grabbed the CD and showed him who I was playing.  He laughingly shrugged off an “Okay...” and walked away.  It didn’t matter to me, because I knew what I played, and it was beautiful.  I was Fifteen again, standing in front of my bedroom mirror, playing the songs that got me interested in the six strings in the first place.  I’m Thirty-One now, I still do this weekly, and it’s still beautiful.

So here’s a joke:
How many guitarists does it take to screw in a light-bulb?
20; One to screw in the light-bulb and the other nineteen to stand around and say, “I could do that”.

Purpose Statement

I had to write a paper on my purpose statement, since I haven't written in a while, I figured I'd post it here. It's nothing serious, just a simple page or so. The class is an adult seminar, like "How to go to School Again". Easy credits, and some good techniques here and there. Meditation is a useful thing. Brings you back to center. Anyway...yeah.


When this assignment was originally given, I wrote the wrong paper.  It’s not my fault, I had the wrong book.  The stars weren’t in my favor, life goes on.  Considering I wrote some drivel on a time when, in my own mind, I was some sort of “Rock God”, I’m going to give it a go right now and use the title as a source for content.

My purpose statement.  What do I hope to achieve during my time in college.  Well, this isn’t my first attempt.  I refer to this as “Round 2” since “Round 1” didn’t work out too well.  I was fresh out of the Army, a formidable force, nothing could stop me.  I had the “Veteran Card” to play, an outstanding girlfriend, a full time job.  At the time, the idea of college seemed like a meaningless piece of paper (although, you could talk to recent graduates and ask them how their life has since improved since graduation and I’m sure you’ll receive a varied, colorful response, you’ll find a lot of them sleeping in a park in the Village).  Then it all came crashing down.  First thing to go was the girlfriend, she was a barrier in my success.  Next thing to “86”, college, waste of time, who needs it.  Finally, the job, it’s dead-end, after all, I didn’t really try that hard to find something I was both passionate about and financially beneficial.

I was wrong.  Boy was I wrong.


See, it wasn’t the girlfriend, college, or the job.  It was me.  I wasn’t who I am.  I was who I was.  I was better than everyone else.  Part of me feels it was the “Soldiers Mentality”, or “There’s no job I can’t handle, I already have a million things on my plate, give me more.  I thrive off of stress”.  I didn’t know what it was like to be “Tom” again or what “Tom” wanted.  The Army thought for me, made all my decisions.  That’s not a bad thing, neither is pride.
My entire adult life, at that point, was Army.  But right now, at this moment, and for the rest of my life, it isn’t.  I’ll always have the stories and experience, and I’ll always remember what was the best moment in my life, but it isn’t a defining moment.  I haven’t experienced that yet.
Learning from my mistakes, my purpose now is simple:
Figure out what I’d like to major in, and get my degree.
The rest, who knows.  I just want to be happy.  Even if it’s sewing soccer balls in Pakistan.