Give Me That Old Time Religion

[This non-post is a pathetic and obvious attempt to get the boat afloat and have the old posts buried again. At the moment, I can’t for the life of me come up with any new things. Nothing! My mind isn’t even blank: there is no mind. My mind has been drafted, packed up its troubles and went goose steppin' on a long march. But just to get some words out, I reworked something from my bored alter ego on a social media site which name should not be mentioned.] 

I went looking for a guitar today, again. It’s bedlam! I am a Stratocaster Man, but am trapped in a Telecaster Man’s body (or vice versa). If this sounds too perverse, perhaps I should just say that I have this Telecaster fetish. That's right, I’m a Telecaster fiend. I think they are chilly and sultry, hunky-dory, down in the dirt, completely righteous… and I want one. So last week, I went to one store, but couldn’t make a choice. There were plenty of good ones, but none jumped out at me. Only now, after today’s second hunt, I know what the problem is: I don’t like new things (any)… all these guitars were pristine, silky and shiny, and both scratch and soul free. Whereas ‘my’ guitar, my war buddy, my Excalibur, should be broken in and a comfortable old friend who can take a knock or two, someone with whom you don’t care so much about your own appearance, or if you hurt his feelings, a bit like that smelly old drunk on the barstool next to you. Someone with a past and a deep, lived-through soul.

However, unknowing of this all, I went to the other music shop in town today to see what they had. It was an eerie place, silent, with a deathly atmosphere. The guitar store guy came forth. I expected him to say: ‘You rang?’ but he didn’t. After I explained him my quest, he showed me some guitars. The guy made me even more nervous than I already was; he was so slick and smiling. He didn’t look like a rocker to me at all. He looked like a Christian youth camp leader, I thought. I felt so uncomfortable that, after playing a few instruments, I got the hell out.

Then I got wondering… when I say 'Christian Youth Camp Leader', would that conjure up the same kind of imagery world-wide as it would here in Holland? After an extensive Internet search I think it’s safe to say, no it doesn’t. Your typical American C.Y.C.L. looks like Metallica frontman James Hetfield, whereas the iconic Dutch C.Y.C.L. looks like Weird Al Yankovic. The moustachioed Weird Al! Steel spectacles.

However, and excuse me while I make my third power slide through the corner here (and don’t say I didn’t warn you this was going to be crap)… during the search, I came across this beautiful 1969 picture of a group at an American C.Y.C. Or, at least I assumed it was American, judging by the language and feel of the website I found it on. Ross Callaghan, the author of it looks somewhat like Hunter S. Thompson, which proves my point about Christian cool abroad. However, the camp is not America, but Ngaruawahia New Zealand.

Shall I, finally, get to something that could be considered a point? I have taken you far enough I think. My point is this: that bunch of people... those are my people! This is the look I want for my band. This magnificent bunch of sorry misfits & freaks. I’ll be the awkwardly stiff, inbred, wide-eared barefooted weirdo in the middle. And I just know I’ll be best friends with Waldo with his trademark woollen hat! Wow. And look the man on the right. He has a Charlie Brown sweater, you can't beat that! I want one too!