Difficult child revisited

Regards yesterday's troublesome guitar, the simple answer was to change the neck. In retrospect I was using a neck that fitted and looked ok but was damaged or warped enough to screw up everything, when you're beat you are just plain beat sometimes. The new, lighter neck immediately resolved all the problems and niggles I had and the guitar is now much more playable and there's still some room for further, finer adjustment. Fine adjustment is not my strong point, patience and care being required and sometimes my stamina in those areas wears thin but I guess I'm learning and each instrument I've now put together has given me valuable experiences that I must remember not to forget. 

A difficult child.

The "Lone Wolf" single Seymour Duncan Humbucker Strat is proving to be a hard guitar to complete. The neck simply isn't right and I'm getting more and more frustrated over trying every possible thing to adjust it all correctly. At the moment it's playable but only within a certain limited tolerance. I've done all the fiddling and balancing  I can to the bridge, tremolo settings and truss rod but I just can't get the correct result between all the possible options. A new or different neck looks to be the best solution at the moment; more time wasted but more lessons learned. This is one difficult child to deal with and the only answer may well be to start again with another neck.

Ben Vrackie

The Ben from a safe distance. 

Lunch stop loch.

It's a steep and rocky 700m climb and 6 mile hike  to the top but it's not a Munro it's a Corbet. Ben Vrackie east of Pitlochry was today's outdoor challenge and it fairly puggled me out. The weather was great almost all the way to the top but on arrival the top suddenly became a near icy, blasted place; amazing how the weather changes so suddenly. Anyway back home safe now, a shower and some rehydration makes all the difference...headed for the couch.

French Onion Soup

It seems I've reached that peculiar stage of life where I'm prone to strong cravings for French Onion Soup. This has been going on for a few days growing slowly stronger. At first I ignored it as if was an invasive religious type of experience or possibly some weird and unpleasant sexual deviation arriving from nowhere. It however has persisted and thankfully at the moment seems related to neither of the possible causes mentioned. It may be I'm just feeling a little sympathy for the French, something to do with own rejection of any Brexit thinking and French comfort behaviours coming to the surface. Perhaps I'm just in need of a big dose of onions and a good dousing in their magical healing and restorative properties, facts the Romans knew all about. The other odd thing is rather than buy a tub of it or get some in one of those foodie influenced designer cartons I've decided to make it myself, from scratch and even consulted a recipe book. This is something I never do; recipe books gather large amounts of dust in this house despite being freely available to read and even consult. So I've got the ingredients, all I need to do is take my time and get on with it. I just hope it fills this nagging, empty void in my....someplace.

Living a small part of the dream

Whilst exploring the exhibits at NASA Cape Canaveral I touched a piece of Moon rock a few weeks ago little realising that if you want to touch Mars (and there's no need to queue) all you do is visit the shopping mall in Orlando airport. Easy done, so that's saved me x Billion $  and added three years to my life. How did they get that rock back from Mars or is there some dark mystery here? The volunteer form has been ritually torn up. 

I bought these tools a couple of years ago whilst in a speculative kind of irrational or possibly stupid mood. They served no purpose then and they still don't but they might soon but just to clarify things I hope that I never need to use them either in anger or good humour. It's a bit like that.

Back to the bench

A welcome return to some guitar fiddling and making final corrections. I did some adjustments and added an ashtray to #Smaug2. The ashtray does actually help a bit, it's been years since I played any Telecaster with one, they simply didn't look cool so were generally discarded by players. They still aren't cool but it's a useful hand rest and kinda makes the guitar look a bit different.

Masked and protectively taped for some final sanding along with wood dye and teak oil touch up. 

This (Dragon) Tele needed the neck height changed so it was unceremoniously removed and built up again using about 1/8" of veneer. Basically a thin wood and glue sandwich to push up the neck (due to neck-pocket damage) so that the bridge could be let down and so that the pickup clearance increased (what you get when you use recycled and battered guitar bodies). This took a lot of strain from the bridge adjustment and has made the action better. Sometimes it's good to build a guitar and then just leave it a while to consider what extra help it may need as it settles, none of them ever turn out right first time, it's always down to the last little pieces of tinkering.

Not a doughnut

A sliced apple topped with peanut butter and chocolate is not a doughnut.

Monday's Post

Life skill hacks: Lovely and useful mash up based on good advice from NASA at Cape Canaveral and a Harry Potter / Professor Snape fridge magnet.

The best recovery method from possible jet-lag appears to be a) stay up all day after your return b) be distracted (go out, lark about etc.) c) eat a hearty meal and drink a bottle of red wine then d) go to bed around your normal time and then wake up as if quickly recovering from a car crash the next day. Result so far, no headache, chronic tiredness or irritable old bastard syndrome. What I didn't consider was the headache potential created by the strain of trying to recall how the TV remote works, what kitchen cupboards contain what items and how to drive a manual car.

Marker Post

Just back, jet lagged and tired but being well looked after. Head too fuzzy to type much so this is really no more than a marker post. I was on here today but conscious only briefly. More amusing and far reaching takes on the Charles Atlas "insult" here.

Last Post

A hastily prepared mock collage completely fails to sum up the last couple of months in the US. Or maybe be it does a little but just not very well. I'm too strung out to tell with only a few hours to departure and that thought of home and getting back with loved ones is now calling pretty loudly. It does show a map, car keys and park tickets and then some random items purchased or encountered. In other words it all meant something before I put most of this stuff in the bin, apart from the car keys. I seem to have missed the beer and pancake contingent out.

Two dollar repair job

In Walmart it's easy to lose yourself and then get truly lost. This huge and questionable emporium holds a baffling array of strange, useless and wonderful products. Things you thought didn't exist or that you'd never need and even on a casual walk around you become sucked into a bizarre world of tools, electronics, glues, fasteners, leisure goods, medicines and weapons. So when in there the other day stocking up on peanut butter based snacks and adhesive, what should I come across but a toilet cistern component for a mere $1.99. Having just busted a flush at the house and pondering calling it in for repair I thought for a moment and then splashed out (?) on the bubble packed Chinese built part. I rushed home (also with a fistful of Dremel routing and sanding bits ( $15 bargain!)) through the nightly thunderstorm and proceeded to fix the distressed loo. The total process took thirty seconds and the flush was again working perfectly. The feeling of hunting/gathering/fixing intoxicating pleasure was a supreme moment of ecstasy, like some white light of plumbing perfection had descended upon me and the whole house. A joyous feeling that I presume only DIY type alpha males can know and understand which I sustained as if in some drug induced state by repeated though pointless flushing - just to prove the quality of the repair. Now I can go back home in peace and hopefully fix something else.

A place in the country

Back to the mythical village of Celebration (think a quiet Hill Valley from Back to the Future) for an amble around the lake and lunch in a typical American diner. A loaded Philly Cheesesteak Sandwich served up at the counter by a busy and friendly Hispanic staff more than does the job. Normally you'd eat this by hand but a sandwich on the scale of things here needs to be carefully and surgically consumed with a fork and knife. Once eaten you know that it's all you really need to eat that day. I feel like a snake who has eaten a pig and then eaten another smaller pig for good measure. 

Even though it's hot outside a further wander around the clean white pavements is necessary to aid the struggles of the feeble human digestion process. Life for the residents (or patients?) seems like a strange lazy procession of choreographed dog walking, slow cycling, rhythmic exercise regimes and sitting in the sunshine staring into phones and other irritating devices whilst maintaining the look of having a sense of purpose. These androids in their silent electric buggies and sun visors don't fool me for a minute. This is the land of the hypnotised robot, shopping desperately and looking for meaning and value but blinded by the continuous sunshine and the prospect of a visit by Hillary Clinton, their brave new Messiah. I could happen any time soon, and of course one fine day she will rule and then Walt Disney will rise from his grave or cryogenic containment device and take them all, cast members and fully paid up millionaires, to a better, more promised and even cleaner land.

Geek day

 I've probably gone a bit too far with these slightly unconventional aircraft photos. You see an afternoon at the Florida Warbird museum and workshop can easily bring out the sleeping, inner geek. Two of my favourite planes were included in the display just to make things even better; those being a Chance Vaught F4U Corsair (arguably the greatest prop driven fighter ever) and a MiG17, (design icon and menace from the Korean and Cold War skies).  As it turned out to be a working workshop I had a good blether with the oh so cool mechanics all busy cutting and hammering things into place.  Who'd have thought that Rolls Royce Griffin engines and the contra-rotating props from the old RAF Shackletons were the mainstay of the power plants for the US aircraft racing fraternity? There was also loads of information and artefacts from Pearl Harbour, large and small weapons of all kinds and scrapped and unrestored aircraft and buggered up parts all across the hanger. They do proper flights also, up in old Harvards if you have the stomach but at $400 a pop I gave it a miss. Some other time maybe.

Getting under the skin a bit.

Must be either torque measures or tests for metal fatigue, forgot to ask.

A Shack' prop with the blades cut back, adds 60 mph to the top speed they tell me. Nuts.

No creature comforts in a MiG 17, you can't even see out, rough as a badger's bum.

Cockpit of the Corsair, a bit broken down at present but still able to fly. Superb.

Felix still figures here and there.

Big Head.

No longer here

I typed this title yesterday when I'm sure it meant something, possibly that I'm not longer in the place where these photos were taken (a Coca-Cola building). That is of course pretty obvious, the fine idea I had at the time has now escaped me and it's simply down now to sharing a couple of (in my view) interesting photographs taken yesterday. Must buy a notebook or use the recording device on my phone or take some memory pills.

P.S. for today

On the blue trail

There's a real feeling of peace and stillness out at Louisa Lake Park. The air is hot and heavy but the woods are full of odd animal and bird noise and it truly seems a wild place (for a townie anyway). So after exploring the lake shore for a while I decided to try one of the trails, I started on the red trail. The red trail then turned into the blue and red trail which then turned into the blue trail. I was on the blue trail, checking out mushrooms, avoiding snakes and observing the diggings of wild pigs. I was also on the lookout for bobcats. I was also lost. Fortunately I have no natural sense of direction, I just retraced my steps, followed the guidance of the giant mushroom and eventually found myself, still on the blue trail but in a recognisable car park.

The actual, helpful mushroom.

Sunshine Skyway

There was precious little sunshine to accompany my crossing of the "Sunshine Skyway", a huge bridge and road system that spans Tampa Bay. Miserable driving rain and heavy traffic made the journey a chore however the road designers thoughtfully added a "fishing pier" and rest area on both sides of the bay so I took frequent breaks to park up and just stand and watch the clouds pass and witness the occasional fish actually get caught under these broody and disturbed skies.

The difference between a madman and me

Dali Museum, St Petersburg: I spent the wettest day of the holiday so far with these good people. There are many such quirky and strange (private?) images on display here. Dali and Gala dressing up, cavorting on beaches and eating fish all across the Spanish coastline in the 1950s being a common theme. Anyway. This strange and stylish building in the run down and creepy town of St Pete's hosts some of the great man's best known works thanks to the $s of a rich American collector who's name escapes me. It took me a few hours to get round the gallery, the detail visible close up in some of the works (which range from huge to tiny) was truly wonderful and demands time, I could've been there for days. The prints and reproductions in books simply don't capture the colour, depth and hidden treasure of brush strokes and technique of the real thing. Neither does my feeble camera so I hardly bothered. 

Like any gallery there were crowds of dumb tourists picking their way randomly across the rooms, stumbling and fumbling and staring as if they'd never seen any piece of artwork, ransacking the gift shop, asking stupid questions, lining up for over priced coffee and bumping into each other whilst shouting out in strange accents...all sounds a bit like me really.

You are not

You are not what you eat

Or the size of your feet

You are not a clothes line or an image

You are not a mixed bag of opinions

You are not a sack of onions

Or something somebody else describes

You are not your wealth or health

Neither cool or foolish

Blonde slim fat or ginger

Or a dead ringer

Not your gender nor a defender 

Of some fragile peace

What you are lies beneath

All these things external and crooked

You are a tiny dot a spot

Inside your very self

This is who you are

And no one else.

A Universal thing

Beer here is $8 for a plastic cupful; rivalling most venue and rock festival charging schemes in the UK. The views are decent enough however as is the changeable weather. It was unfortunate that my park entry ticket expired yesterday thereby barring me from entry today. Sometimes you just have to suck things up.