Remember the good times...

I lost another friend. Found out this morning. I can't act like I was his best friend, but I knew him and I knew him pretty well.

When I think of him, two words come to mind; charisma and talent.

He had a such a knack for life. Lived without fear. Which was funny considering he was a hemophiliac, we used to tell him to take it easy as he would crawl through a window surrounded by broken glass. He'd turn to us and give us that mischievous smile he had, almost saying, "What? Are you afraid?"

We were part of this youth group that ran a haunted house in a church. It wasn't necessarily a church youth group, it was a youth group that happened to be located in a church. After all the Halloween shenanigans passed, they'd have a sleep over and we'd watch movies all night. Each room had a different theme, with the biggest room running the Star Wars trilogy in surround sound. The advisors of the group, the "grown ups",  would lock the doors at like 9-10pm and we couldn't leave, or if we did leave, we couldn't get back in unless we had an inside source open the door for us. This was a coordinated effort considering that cell phones weren't the norm back then. Nowadays you could just text your partner in crime, "Hey, open the door for me...LULZ!!!" and you're home free.

Anyway...

Long after everyone would pass out to a galaxy far, far away... We'd sneak out to handle our business and be the rejects that our little town labeled us. It was a badge we all wore proudly, mostly because we mocked it. Even after others in our group passed out or moved on for other fun, him and I would still be trucking, passing the bottle (I took small sips because I'm a lightweight with booze, he would down a bottle of JD like water). It got to the point where we would crave food and raid the church fridge for breakfast. He was so eccentric in his speech, "Let's enjoy breakfast on the veranda". It's suburban New Jersey, at a church, there is no veranda, but that was him, making things better than what they were.

We turned the kitchen into a culinary disaster. Eggs, flour, milk, coffee grinds, juice, all over the place. I mean, we were making scrambled eggs with coffee, something simple, but if Gordon Ramsey witnessed this, he'd certainly fire both of us.

We watched the sun come up, eating terrible eggs, drinking terrible coffee. When the time came to retreat, we realized the fatal mistake: We locked ourselves out. My friend didn't hesitate. Knowing that everyone was asleep, he climbed onto the awning and began searching for unlocked windows. I watched nervously (and safely I might add) from the grass, thinking, "One wrong step and we're in a lot of trouble". All it would take is some nosey geriatric going on their morning walk, observing this spectacle of two teenagers outside a church, looking haggard, one of them scaling a building, trying to break-in, next thing you know the cops show up making all sorts of a ruckus and we both get detained. Thankfully, this didn't happen, and my friend found an unlocked window and opened the door.

The youth group also organized an annual ski trip. Which meant, "Go away for a weekend, sneak a lot of booze and whatnot, spend the entire weekend in your hotel room, never sleep, maybe ski/snowboard". The advisors were adement about finding paraphernalia. They searched luggage, toiletries, physical pat downs, but we still found a way to have a good time. I think out of the many years I was involved with the youth group, I hit the slopes once, the rest of the time we partied like we were in The Rolling Stones. Funny, considering he was THE Beatles fanatic.

We watched the demolition of a local avionics tower from his rooftop. We almost missed it because of pre-demolition rituals.

Then there was the music.

Growing up, music was an outlet. I wasn't a phenomenal musician as a kid and my tastes reflected that. My friend however, was a phenomenal musician. It's like the piano and him were made for each other. He could play anything and I mean ANYTHING on the piano. Watching his fingers on the keys was like witnessing God speak, it was amazing. They way he did it was effortless.

It's funny thinking about these times. I (we) did a lot of dumb shit as kids. I look at my nieces and nephew and try to imagine what they're going to be like when they reach that age. Will they make the same choices? How will I react when and if they make those choices? The only reason is because I know, at that age, you're invulnerable, you're immortal, nothing can kill you. But thinking about all the dumb shit as an adult, it's a miracle I made it out alive. But at the same time, it's nothing compared to what could've been. There are a million other childhoods that were worse.

My friend taught me to be fearless. Even with his condition. He never directly said it, but his actions spoke volumes. He never backed down from anything or anyone. I wish I was more like him in that retrospect.

All this makes me think of all the friends I've lost too soon. I wish I was a better friend to them, maybe they'd still be here. But at the same time, I know I can't save everyone. I hope my friends realize this too.

Rest easy Christian. Know that you are loved and dearly missed.

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”.