Everyone's Got A Drug

My hands hurt.
I have wounds from splinters, loose nails and randomness.
My palms are sore from tearing apart old doors, frames and shelves.
Shelves.

The new crib I have had the joy of refurbishing and remodeling has been an absolute blessing. I don't doubt that God brought me exactly where I need to be. Still....
Shelves.

The guy who owned this pad (God Rest His Soul) loved shelves. He had them hanging everywhere. I should have taken pictures of all the shelves, but damn.... I am too busy taking em down.

He had a shelf. Added another, then another, and another and so on.
At some point he figured out that it costs money to buy the Home Depot shelves. So he started building his own shelves. The first one wasn't great, but it worked. He could set stuff on it. WOW! Then he built another. By the fifth shelf he had mastered the art. He began building shelves anywhere and everwhere he could. He started building makeshift sheds in order to build more and more shelves. SHELVES!!!!!

Everyone's got a drug.......

Mine? MUSIC.
I need it. At all times. If there is none near, damn it I will sing. When I get into my vehicle I have to make sure that the music is adjusted just right and that the music fits the tone of the trip before I leave. I will be late to events when I have a child because by the time i get her settled and then adjust the music..... yikes.

But I don't care. i love music. It gets me through the day. It motivates me, heals me, makes me laugh, makes me sing, relaxes me, stimulates me, helps me get the job done, helps me unwind, makes sex more enjoyable, gets my feet moving, etc.......

So like always, Friday night came and I needed to unwind from the work week. Great week, shitty Friday. The Bug-Nug and I stopped by La Fiesta to grab a bite. Sitting there waiting for my food I hear the faint echoes of a guitar intro that sounds so familiar...... I leave the table in search for where it is coming from. Walking around the restaurant like an idiot. Sure enough, the restaurant is playing the radio, and by some incredible genius, that radio is blasting out "Calling On You" by Stryper. I immediately know that I have to call my brother and tell him. Dude loves Stryper and got me to fall in love. They are my only Hair Metal vice.

After dinner, we went in search of "The Nasty Casty" as my pal Ray calls it. It's a bar on the edge of town called "Castandetta's", but at the time i thought it was "Castanuela's", and to the readers of this blog..... if I texted you "CASTANUELA'S!" My apologies.

Just a scrub bar in an old hotel that reminded me of The Cervantes in Denver except with more character. It was open mic night. We sat there listening to a guy playing guitar and keeping rhythm for himself with his feet on drums. It was entertaining enough, enough to keep us there for a while anyways.

But then the next group got set up. Just 3 old dudes that like to jam out and one young guy who looked like he just got outta work. They started up and I immediately knew I was going to be sitting here for a while. Old guy sitting on the drum stool surrounded by way too many drums for what he needed to play, Older guy singing real rough like he was Johnny Lee Hooker playing the guitar with a slider (oh baby), and Oldest guy standing on the side of the stage, looking so drunk that he was about to tip over, playing a harmonica like nobody's business. Then there was Young Guns, as I like to call him, standing in the back, setting rhythm on the bass. Looking relieved. Like, 'I had a long week.... but fuck it, I am here now. That is all that matters.'

Let me explain Young Guns. He looked about 24/25. Probably works at a mechanics shop here in town. Not real good looking in the face, but there's something about him that makes you wanna meet him. Probably the nicest guy you'll ever meet. No dad. This kid doesn't have a father. But his Mom's brother was his father figure. Not much of one, but enough that he use to let Young Guns hang out with him in his garage while he souped up his 84 Camaro. Uncle would teach him the mechanics of an engine and what makes a car fly. They would listen to Jimi Hendrix and Santana. Young Guns would watch Uncle smoke, what he thought were cigarettes, with his buddies and just talk about how Hendrix was a legend and how it was a shame he was dead. Uncles best friend Sam could play guitar. Sam played really good. Young Guns fell in love. Uncle took note. At 13, Young Guns got a gift from his Uncle. El Guitarra! Nothing special, just a generic fender with a small amp. But Young Guns thought it was the world. At some point Uncle fades away. Not jail. Maybe just met the wrong woman and ends up being in a controlled situation. Sam.... Sam is a pot head by now, even experiments with a little coke here and there. But it's cool, Young Guns is stable enough by now. Mom is a good mom. Raises him to be a good young man. So Young Guns grows up listening to Hendrix, Santana, Hooker, various hair metal groups, Metallica, etc.

Young Guns becomes a genius on the guitar without knowing it. And because he lives in such a small town in the middle of nowhere. He never realizes it. Ends up working week in, week out, at the local Auto Repair shop. His only release is the strength of the neck of his guitar in his left palm. And somehow, througha friend of a friend, he gets invited to play bass guitar for a band of foggies who like to jam out and play blues. He jumps at it. And so every week. On Friday night. He plays with the house band at The Nasty Casty. And he longs for that one moment....

We sat there and watched Young Guns. Hands still full of oil. Work shirt stained. Hair frazzled, trying to be contained by his hat. He set down the bass guitar and humbly switched intruments with Older Guy. He fiddled with the guitar a little. Adjusting the volume. Loosening his sore hands up to the instrument. And they started the 2nd half of the set.

I cannot explain to you what happened. But the next 30 minutes was like a dream. We watched Young Guns make love to the guitar. The rhythm section did there job and set 3 Chord tones for the evening so that Young Guns could make the guitar melt. His eyes closed, we watched him tell a story through that guitar. Solo after solo, he made that guitar scream his story. Father where are you, Uncle I miss you..... Momma, I love you.

At some point I closed my eyes and tryed to not be overwhelmed by how good he was. I thought about my week. I thought about my day. It didn't matter anymore. It was over. I remembered that tomorrow has its own set of worries. I could feel his soul (only if this is your drug can you understand) and I swear to God, if I hadn't submitted to my pride, I would have cried. It was there....

And I think now of The Beatles singing, "... while my guitar gently weeps."

Yeah that's real.

Everyone's Got A Drug.