"The Final Countdown"

On one particularly steamy Sunday this past summer,, like most Sunday mornings, I was hanging out at the skatepark with my friend Tony and kicking it in the heat when one of the older dudes (yes, older than me) struck up a conversation with us due to Tony’s non-sarcastic and titillatingly rad AC/DC Heat Seeker Tour T-shirt.

Him: -in a Southern drawl thicker than the sexual innuendo at a Prince concert- “Man, that’s a great shirt!”

Tony: “Absolutely!”

Him: “Man, I got a friend who thinks Angus Young is the greatest guitar player in the world. Man, he’s great and all, but I’d put him up against the guitar player from White Lion any day!”

Me: “You mean Vito Bratta?”

Him: “Yeah, man, that’s his name.”

Tony: -looking at me, justifiably, like the biggest dope on the planet- “HOW do you know his name?!”

I have no excuse. I was never a big White Lion fan, but I know lots of dumb stuff. I suppose the retention of useless facts is the mark of an editor—well, that and the attraction to tedious, exacting work and a tendency to be self-righteous about the proper usage of the serial comma. With this imaginary guitar duel in mind, and given that I no longer self-impose myself to write only about childcare-related topics (especially since wife and child are out of town for a week), I will now bore you with my list of the five greatest guitar players of all time. It’s long; it’s boring; it’s self-serving; it rules!


5. Peter Moses — Into Another
Trained primarily as a classical player, Moses changed direction completely when he joined Into Another—a post-hardcore art rock band of sorts that was absurdly out of place and time in New York's mid-90s punk scene. His deft playing style oozed soul while his sound was abrasive. To this day, I have no idea how his frail-looking hands were able to coax such an enormous sound out of his instrument. Also, he’s now either a hermit or dead. Nobody seems to know where this guy is. First one to find him and start a band wins!


4. Omar Rodriguez-Lopez — The Mars Volta & Solo
With more soul than a Latin kid from El Paso should legally be allowed to posses, Rodriguez-Lopez is the modern day equivalent of Jimi Hendrix, John Zorn and Carlos Santana, all rolled into one, with a dose of Larry Harlow’s salsa music for good measure. I can’t even comprehend half of the stuff this guy comes up with, let alone play it myself. I saw him play live last year and my jaw is still sore from being on the floor for the entire hour's set.

3. Chris Haskett — Rollins Band
I remember reading a story about Chris Haskett in Guitar World probably 16 years ago where he expressed genuine surprise that the interviewer wasn’t actually trying to write a story about Henry Rollins, the band’s larger-than-life frontman. Such has long been the case for this ridiculously underappreciated guitar player who brings jazz fusion, rock and noise together in an earth-shaking combination of bombastic riffs that were about a decade ahead of Tom Morello and ten times better anyway. When Rollins dumped Haskett and the rest of the Rollins Band in favor of a new backing group a few years ago, the albums were barely listenable; it was hardly a coincidence.


2. Dr. Know — Bad Brains
Probably the first real guitar hero I ever worshipped—and got to meet when a former band of mine was opening for Bad Brains—Dr. Know’s approach first introduced me to the concepts of less is more and more is more. Combining the traditional power chord structure of punk and hardcore with more jazz-influenced improvisational flourishes, Dr. Know turned me on to an entirely new style of playing where chords were completely optional. Their last album may have been mediocre at best, but his playing was a blazing as ever.



1. Stevie Ray Vaughan
SRV is the top of the food chain, be-all end-all of guitar players in my mind. His style, though cribbed heavily from Albert King, primarily, has been jacked more often than the petty cash fund at work that you know you’re not supposed to touch. But all the imitators in the world—I'm looking squarely at you, John Mayer—can't touch the original.

Bow down.



Honorable Mentions—slight disrespect intended: Tommy Accüsed, Brian Knudson, Al DiMeola, Robert Fripp, Dimebag Darrell (I’m not kidding), Vic DiCara, “Mahavishnu” “John McLaughlin


You’re welcome. Now go listen to something new.

"The Daily Grind"

Ah, the jaw—she no longer throbs, and the hydrocodone is in the trash (sorry to all the dopes who asked if I’d sell it to ‘em). Though I’ve got some loose stitches dangling in the back of my mouth, I’m almost back to normal.

Like the somewhat recent brush with appendicitis, I hadn’t realized how much that tooth had been bothering me until it was gone. It’s kind of like a lame girlfriend. One minute you’re putting up with being assaulted with a pepper grinder, the next minute your breaking up with her and saying, “Holy criminy, why didn’t I do that earlier?!”

Anyway, I’m finally starting to settle into my “new” job, though I’ve been there for nearly two months now. Although I’ve accrued a decent amount of writing and editing experience prior to this gig, this new endeavor offers a lot of unique challenges for me. For starters, it’s much more corporate than anywhere I’ve worked before. Also, it’s not run by anti-establishment, counter-culture anarchists—which is a new thing for me. Plus, given that I've spent the last two years freelancing, transitioning back into a 9 to 5 thing is new in and of itself.

No more lazy days at the playground, or watching Cars with Connor for the zillionth time. I now have to report for duty at a certain time each day and depart at a preset time, as well. But, given that my round-trip commute is about five miles per day, going and coming doesn’t take long.

For my Atlanta people, consider this: I filled up my gas tank well over a month ago and have only put 150 miles on my car since. I have about half a tank left and it'll probably be close to Halloween before I have to refill. Suckers.

Also, I have to be much more of a record keeper now, which isn’t my strength, due to the overwhelming amount of details required to keep track of. Before this, if I couldn’t keep up with a deadline or appointment in my head… well, I have no example because that’s never happened. Outlook’s calendar function is now my best friend.

So far my co-workers are very cool, my bosses are laid back, and I can get home in less time than it probably takes you to go to the bathroom. What's not to like?

"My Stupid Mouth"

Well, the source of the mysterious toothache has been solved—and readily removed.

After suffering through the throbbing ache that emanated from the region of my jaw nearest the joint on the right side of my skull for more than a week, curiously, the ache disappeared within a day or two. Knowing that this isn't normal, I finally made an appointment to see a local dentist. Everything I read convinced me that I had a tooth abscess, which can only be treated two ways—root canal or extraction. Given that we're awaiting my "real" insurance to kick in at work, I was worried that I would have to make the choice between saving my tooth and spending a small fortune (root canal) or saving some bucks (extraction).

Once I saw the x-rays, that immediately became a moot argument. "It's a very clear abscess, and it's very clearly an unsalvagable tooth," the dentist told me.

Somehow, despite having never had a cavity in my life, I had a rotten tooth stuck in my jaw. The x-ray was disturbing; the tooth was but a shell around a cavernous, hollowed-out core.

Within minutes, after signing the release forms, I had, in quick succession, three scary-large needles jammed in my jaw, numbing my face for the impending extraction process.

"How wong fould dish take?" I asked. "About 30 minutes, tops," the dental assistant replied, somehow understanding my mush-mouthed query.

An hour-and-a-half later it was all over. I'll spare the gory details, but there were multiple drills, pliers, bone files and an extra shot of anesthesia halfway through the ordeal involved. Apparently, I allowed the dentist to partake in what he seemed to think was the most difficult tooth extraction in history.

Once "we" were done, I was soaked in sweat and shivering, and I was as exhausted and tense as if I'd been hanging by my fingertips on the edge of a 100-story building for an hour-and-a-half. Once I paid the receptionist for the privilege of having someone demolish my mouth, I made the drive home, unable to feel anything above my neck, filled my prescription for hydrocodone at the drug store and collapsed on the couch at home with a mouthful of gauze, a head swimmingly full of nartcotics and a jaw with a gaping hole where a seemingly healthy tooth once made its home.

Thank God for modern medicine—and I can say that without a hint of sarcasm because, even just 20 years ago, this could have been soooooo much worse.

"The Flaming Lips"

Be careful what you wish for...

For the past week, I've been enduring a disgustingly painful toothache. After a lifetime of no cavities, I'm afraid my luck has finally run out. Growing up, I visited the dentist regularly, every six months, but in the past six or seven years (the exact amount of time since I left the last job I held that offered decent insurance), dental exams and cleanings have occurred far less frequently.

Also, moving to a new town, I have no "primary" dentist nearby that I can call and have this mess straightened out. I tried to tough it out until my probationary period at my new job is complete and I can get back on a decent health/dental plan, but today I acknowledged that might not be a possibility—I'm petrified that this mouth rot is causing the scientific condition known as "stank bref," and being the new guy at work, nobody wants to be labeled as "the dude with a smelly mouth."

I've been downing Tylenol like Pez (even keeping two pills by the bed for the inevitable wake up jolt of pain around 3 a.m.), but I've been craving something else to mask the pain.

Tonight, I got my wish.

While clipping the bush in front of our townhome (which, despite the "complimentary" lawn service, we are required to maintain for some odd reason) I was stung on the lip by an outraged wasp, who apparently preferred the overgrown mess of a hedge to the neatly trimmed shrub I was attempting to sculpt.

I now feel like I have a marble lodged in my upper lip, and it's throbbing as if there were a miniscule dance club inside. I can't open my mouth very far without the fear of my lip splitting, and I have a nice headache to accompany my protruding lip.

But, hey, at least my tooth isn't bothering me anymore.