Sunday, January 15, 2017

A Resin Pocket Bitch-slapped My Mind

With learning comes shock and pain.  Sure. Most people had to read short stories by Raymond Carver and then discuss, in class, fuck knows where, high school, college,  a county jail in Vermont, the humanizing wonderful nature of learning.  And growing.  In a positive and friendly social environment.  Which is eternally contingent on how sweet or  fucked people are.  Strike eight points from a scale of ten in this slum.  Discoveries here  are as often grizzly as edifying.  I was watching a fine youtube instructional video yesterday afternoon, and learned of a new thing to fret over.

Fret?  Did I say 'fret?'   Ho ho ho.  I am laughing as if speaking Arabic.  The video was about how to manufacture a beautiful and outstanding guitar, from scratch. The instructor even cut and formed the frets on the fingerboard.  He made every single wooden part, with the care and precision of God.  As he demonstrated the process of cutting out the front part of the thing,  he indicated that there was a resin pocket in the broad expanse of expensive pine.   It wasn't very large, much smaller than a cigarette burn, which, in some households, like this one, is used to guage diameter, e.g. the hole in someone's couch is no bigger than a cigarette burn, hence not critical.  But the maker of great guitars was farther up the food chain than that.  No resin pockets are allowed in the gentleman's guit shop.

Not only had I never heard of resin pockets, till right then, I had a few clear seconds remaining to be unperturbed by the goddam things.  The guit maker explained, patiently, no foul like language (not like some assholes I could name) as long as the resin pocket on his lumber was outside of the pattern he laid over it, everything was just lovely, no problemo.  The resin pocket was teensy, just a blemish, not unlike Marlene Dietrick's beauty mark, and he was able to cut out his piece clear of the offending pine blemish.  Fuck it all, dear heavens, I was holding on my lap a cheap ass imported guitar I got off ebay.  Cost shit. A paltry fifty eight bucks, post paid.  Sounds half decent.  I'm jamming on it. It's not completely a piece of garbage, but it has a resin pocket right the fuck under the sound hole.  The very asshole thing that the superb instructor hated with all his generous, humane and cautious heart was shitting like a giant house fly on my guitar.  The flesh is weak.  I'm Jello.  The resin pocket was worse than a celestial black hole.  It was sucking my goddam heart out.  And all it took for that disaster to occur was learn of the fucking thing's existence, which only bothers me now.

Waging off topic tool drool on a fast run to universalism,  the learning process can throw a wrench in people's lives.  People fly the fuck off the handle.  It can be hell to find out that something is wrong,when everything was fine before you got the message.  We learn of great resin pockets in human history, and we take umbrage for it now.   What if that pocket was some form of stupid ass shit head propaganda?  It may be of no consequence now.  For as tragic as are resin pockets, one can still play tunes on one's guit box.  There is no reason for discord.

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