Wherein She Sets Forth the Final Countdown

With just thirteen ephemeral days and one guitar quiz left between me and the big 3-0, I propose a list.

• Number of times in the past when I've really stuck by a New Year's resolution: 0
• Number of New Year's resolutions I stuck to in 2005: 1 (hurrah!)
• Number of times I've changed my strings this year: 2, embarrassingly enough
• Number of times I've carried my guitar on the subway: 6 or so
• Number of days I haven't practiced: fewer than you'd think
• Number of public concerts I've played this year: 3--two BBQs and a Shambhala feast
• Number of chords I know quickly and by heart: I'm going to say 15, but this is a guesstimate
• Number of lessons I've had with Bob Parins: 20, give or take a few, since July
• Number of guitar quizzes I have coming up: 1 (next week)

For more information on the test coming up, or to spy on Bob's other students' work, feel free to visit the Grand Guitar Blog.

In Which She Admits She Got No Rhythm

Things I have: a new fuzzy argyle sweater; an addiction to Total(R) 2% greek yogurt; a venue picked out for my 30th birthday party; a desire to rock out on the guitar.

Things I don't have: time to straighten my apartment or call my friends; a car; a dog; enough dental insurance; a functioning umbrella.

Oh, and rhythm. People, I have no rhythm.

This was evidenced at my guitar lesson on Monday, and revisited every evening since. Bob and I decided it was time for me to learn a new song. He asked me what I'd been listening to lately, and I told him about my passionate love affair with the song Doin' Fine by Ellis. So we listened to it on his computer, and together (or so he made me believe) we figured out what key it was in. (D#, though she plays it with a capo on the 6th fret, enabling her to use chord shapes for G, D, Em and C, rather than the wackadoo D# shapes Bob was making me try first. I must have looked like I was in great pain, because as I struggled to make my fingers do these annoying barre chord things they don't want to do, he commented, "Boy, you don't like this at all.")

I was thrilled to have the progression for the song: four very simple chords I know well. So far, so good. We scooched back to the beginning of the song and both set about playing along.

One of us sounded great. One of us sounded retarded. I bet you can match the participants in column "A" with the performances in column "B."

So why did Bob sound so much better than me? To quote one of my favorite actor/singer/dancers of all time, he's got rhythm, he's got music. (Who could ask for anything more?)

Moreover, he knows lots of different strumming patterns, and can apply the right one to the right situation. I know only one strumming pattern. It goes, "Strum along with the words." But when the words are even slightly syncopated, strumming the lyrics means losing all sense of time.

I know, you're bored. Me too. Bored of not knowing how to play the g-d guitar. But hopeful that the more songs Bob teaches me, the more rhythm I will acquire.

A girl can dream.

In Which She Relates Diatonic Triads to Book Publishing

Lo, it is Thursday, and I have not so much as thought about my diatonic triads since my lesson on Monday. I have a whole page of triad fill-ins which Bob very carefully wrote out for me, and which remain empty and neglected in my Clairefontaine Musique notebook. I could have come home tonight and worked on them. I could have, but instead I decided to remind myself why I am learning to play the guitar--by playing and singing some songs that I love to play and sing.

It's kind of like being a book editor. I got into publishing because I loved books with a passion bordering on the maniacal. But now that I'm an editor, I spend all my time reading and rejecting crappy books (and proposals for crappy books-to-be). I very rarely having the time to pick up a good book for the sheer pleasure of getting lost between its covers.

Similarly, now that I'm learning things like music theory and fingerpicking, my guitar practice has become much more civilized than it used to be, more like a study period than a jam session. One of the results of this change is that I've learned a hell of a lot. The other result is that I've lost some of the exhilaration that used to keep me coming back to my good old Oscar Schmidt--back when I knew very little, but made use of what few skills I had in my repertoire to play my little heart out every night.

Wherein She Discusses Diatonic Triads

You know what's more fun than a barrel of monkeys? Well, it ain't learning your diatonic triads, let me tell you that. But apparently they come in handy, and thus it is my fate to learn their mysterious ways.

For those of you who aren't spending your evenings with your noses stuck in The Complete Idiot's Guide to Music Theory, a diatonic triad is basically a three-note chord. Like when you hear me complaining that the F major chord is not my friend, because you have to barre it and my fingers just don't want to cooperate, what I'm actually talking about is the diatonic triad of F, A, and C. But the name it's given is "F major" because it's a major chord with F as its root.

So I've barely begun explaining this very important musical concept, and already you're bored. You're totally scrolling down to the previous post, wondering if there's anything that's at all interesting on this silly blog. Don't deny it. You don't think diatonic triads are sexy.

Sigh. I'm afraid I have to agree with you. During my lesson tonight I thought I was going to fall over with boredom (and fatigue, last evening's slumber having been fitful thanks to nightmares about an author whose book I edited yesterday). So much so that when I left I called GTO and cancelled our dinner plans for polish food in Greenpoint, suddenly preferring home and pajamas.

Diatonic triads, I shake my fist at thee! Were it not for you, I'd be eating pierogies and kasha varnishkes right now!

In Which Bob Makes a Joke

I just have to share this. Bob and I were working on my Circle of Fourths, which is basically a torture tool he uses to keep his students in line. Er, and to teach his students their key signatures. But anyway. So when you're learning music theory there are tons of things you have to memorize. For example, you have to remember that most guitars are tuned to EADGBE. The way you remember such a thing is to make up a sentence--in the case of the guitar strings, it's Every Adult Dog Growls, Barks, Eats.

So Bob is teaching me the sentence for remembering the order of the sharps when you're writing sharp key signatures. And the order is FCGDAE. So the sentence is "Frank Cuts Grass During An Evening." "But," Bob said, "you can always come up with your own sentence. Let's come up with a better sentence." So we sit silently, our little brains working. I'm feeling all sorts of pressure to come up with a better, funnier, more relevant sentence. And naturally, I am drawing a complete blank. It's clear I have to say something, but I can't think what. So I squeak out, "Frank Cuts Grass, Dave Ate Eggs?" And without missing a beat, Bob nods earnestly and says, "That really rings true for me. I can almost taste the eggs."

OMG, I was dying of laughter. Bob makes Mondays fun!

Wherein She Milks a Biblical Metaphor for All It's Worth

Time is marching on, my friends, and I am but 2-1/2 months away from the moment of truth--i.e., my thirtieth birthday--which was the point by which I had promised myself I would know how to play the guitar. So the question arises: have I reached my goal? Am I anywhere close?

The answer is so much more complicated than that. It starts with the concept of "learning how to play the guitar," which seemed so simple to me before I picked the ole axe up again. Back then--by which I mean, last New Year's, when I made it my resolution to learn how to play before I entered my (oh dear god say it ain't so) fourth decade of this lifetime--I thought learning how to play meant, well, just that. The transition from a state of not knowing how to play to a state of being able to pick up the guitar and entertain my friends around a campfire.

The intervening ten months have proven, to my dismay, that in the kingdom of guitar there are many houses. (To paraphrase Jesus. Kind of.) First, there is the house of knowing a bunch of basic chords and being able to open a songbook and play the chords labeled there. This is the house I'd entered by, say, May--at which time I could pick up the guitar and commence a singalong. I thought back then that I'd made it: I knew how to play the guitar.

But then I had to go get all uppity. Feeling like I was a bit of a genius, but admitting I might have a few more things to learn, I had to go rustle myself up a teacher. Now, thanks to Bob, I have entered another house. More like a McMansion. Call it the house of the rising Desire To Play The Guitar Well. This is a house that is very large. So large it sometimes feels endless, like I'll never get to really know it. Like I could run right in through the front door and keep running for what seems like miles, and still not make it out of the foyer.

But never fear, dear readers. It's not as bad as all that. There is actually a lot of good stuff to be learned in the foyer. Like how to play "Blackbird" by Paul McCartney. And how to differentiate the rhythm Gillian Welch is strumming from the solo Dave Rawlings is playing on the melancholy and lovely tune that is "Revelator." And there's lots of music theory, which is actually less torturous and more potentially helpful than I would have thought.

So back to the question of whether I've yet learned how to play the guitar. I'm going to say no. But I'm going to say no with a caveat. So deep have I discovered my respect for music to be, that I now no longer think there is such a state as "having learned to play the guitar." It's more like, well, a really large house. And some people stand out on the front porch dilly-dallying, making up excuses for not making the effort to walk inside. And others take a deep breath and cross that threshold. They do it by picking up the guitar every day and, well, trying. And that's me. I've maybe not "learned how to play," but I definitely play. Yes I do, in fact, play guitar.

In Which She Finds Out Just How Far Bragging Gets You

So naturally, after getting all high 'n mighty about my practice schedule, I have now gone two days without so much as a strum. The excuses are thin at best, falling into the category of "social obligations." Tuesday I had the BON VOYAGE, YOU final date with G.; last night I was drowning my so-so sorrows in crap white wine at the neighborhood bar with V & K. (And E., and a belligerent H., but that's another story.) In neither instance was I practicing arpeggios, nor was I sight-reading Love Me Tender.

I have now discovered the secret to becoming a guitar genius: eighty-six the social life.

Tonight, tonight, I'm back on track tonight!

In Which She Brags (Just a Little Bit)

Okay, so I'm not much of a blogger. Entire months pass by during which I neglect to post a single comment. I barely even know what "blog" means, and sometimes I inadvertently spell it "glob." But there's one thing I AM good at, and darned if it isn't practicing my guitar.

This is not to say that I play well, for as yet I do not. This is not to say that I will ever write a really good song, or play on stage, or find myself in the position of being remunerated for my guitar services. No, none of this is likely to occur.

All I'm saying is that I practice. I really do. I practice every single day. And this dedication has reaped me such rewards as the ability to play the entirety of Time In A Bottle by Jim Croce after a mere three lessons with Bob Parins. And to cause said instructor to say, tonight, during my fourth lesson, in his cute Wisconsin accent, "Gee, whad'jadoo, take the week off work and do nothing but practice guitar?"

Wherein She Introduces You to Bob Parins

Summer is fully upon us, and the GoGoGuitarGirl has not, as you might have thought, melted into a puddle of goo on the hot Brooklyn sidewalk. No, in fact, she is still alive and kicking, not to mention toiling away at her guitar, learning a host of new exciting ways to drive her neighbors to drink.

In fact, July brought with it the fruition of a dream I've had since, oh, January: real-live guitar lessons with a real-live guitar teacher. Said teacher is Bob Parins, of the Wisconsin Parinses. As far as I can tell after three lessons, Bob is remarkable in many ways. First, his apartment--conveniently located across the street from the Key Foods on Grand and Lorimer--is actually a former storefront. By "former" I mean "immediately prior to his moving in." Or so it seems, as the front wall of the apartment is a full window with one of those metal grates pulled down over it. I worry for Bob Parins. I fear someone will take a good heavy hairpin to the grate's lock and next thing you know we'll find his glockenspiel for sale on the corner of 34th and 8th.

But Bob is also remarkable because he is 27 and he makes a living teaching guitar; he finds ways to say "Now, what the heck is that?" and "Well, darned if you aren't right!" in casual conversation; he is actually getting me to enjoy music theory, something I managed to avoid learning during the three long years I spent in the 1# concert choir in the state of Indiana. (Shout out to the Counterpoints!)

Ah, Craigslist. You have done me wrong in the past (need I remind of my eeky former roommate Roland?), but this time you came through.

Visit Bob Parins at http://www.bobparins.com.

In Which She Writes Her First Song

That's right, my two friends who read this, I took a giant leap today and wrote my first song. I hesitate to call it a classic-in-the-making, but it's a giant leap for me. I can now officially bill myself as a "singer/songwriter." I also have something to do with my guitar when I get sick of playing the songs I already know--I can write new ones!

Okay, so it's a bit rhyme-y rhyme-y, and the lyrics aren't, like, groundbreaking or anything. (If, for example, it were a book, and it were on submission to me, I would reject it out of hand.) But I'm cutting myself some slack on this one. It's my first song ever, written in one afternoon, and for that it ain't half bad. It's a full-on song, after all, with a chorus and a bridge and an opener and a closer. It's already playable, too, as evidenced by the fact that I played it tonight for WJ who came over for dinner to help me reduce the obscene beer content in my fridge.

The song is called Wait, and it's coming soon to a Brooklyn garden party near you.

Wherein She Plays Her First Concert

As SL pointed out to me last night, I have yet to announce to my Go Go Guitar Girl audience the enormous fact that I have now officially played my first concert. This revelation is late, as in the time that I've been keeping this secret I went on to play Concert #2. But that does not diminish the enormity of meaning behind Concert #1, which took place in my very own backyard at my Memorial Day BBQ.

I sang Nashville, Closer to Fine, Romeo & Juliet and Land of Caanan by the Indigo Girls, as well as old favorites like Brown Eyed Girl, Leavin' on a Jetplane and several (but not all six) verses of American Pie.

I was shaking with fear and happiness. It was one of the highlights of my life, I think.

So last night was Concert #2, on the occasion of the gathering of my friends to visit the annual St. Paola di Francesca carnival in the elementary school parking lot a block from my house. I sang two songs I'd recently learned, Carolina In My Mind by James Taylor and A Campfire Song by 10,000 Maniacs. Later, by request, I reprised Leavin' On A Jetplane and tried my hand at Jack & Diane. AP was there too, and he tore the house down with Dead or Alive by Bon Jovi. The others sang along between bites of deep-fried oreo.

In Which Her Baby Sees the Light of Day

I thought my loyal readership would like a look at this so-called guitar I keep talking about. Alas, as is the fate of any electronic gadget that has the misfortune of finding its way into my possession, I lost my digital camera. So I'm going all sorts of not-digital on you here, and posting my very own rendering of my very own Oscar Schmidt guitar. Which I'm now going to go practice.

Wherein She Goes Back to Telling You About Her Practice

Tonight I practiced for an hour and a half. Or, at the very least, I held my guitar for that long. Some of the time wasn't spent actually playing, but instead looking for tabs on the internet. Honestly, I don't know what beginner guitar players did before the internet. If they wanted to play their favorite songs, did they actually go shell out cash for songbooks? Nowadays that seems like a big waste of money. As Gillian Welch puts it, these days

Everything is free,
That's what they say.
Everything I ever done,
They're gonna take it away.*

After investigating several songs I was interested in learning, I settled on A Campfire Song by 10,000 Maniacs. BTW, I base my choice of songs on the following criteria: 1) comprised mostly of chords I already know how to play; 2) fun to sing. If the arrangement is meant for a male voice, I'll just capo it up a few frets so it better fits my second-soprano range.

But I digress. The one snag in A Campfire Song is the bridge, wherein I have to sing not only Natalie Merchant's part, but also Michael Stipe's cameo appearance. Hard to be in two places at once.

*Note: I have long believed this to be a song about internet piracy. If anyone knows differently, however, by all means feel free to correct me.

In Which She Directs Your Attention to a New Feature

Being that I am far from a computer whiz, and know relatively little about this html bag, I'm very proud to have found a way to add a "Links" sidebar (at right). The links posted will focus primarily on guitar topics, but will also include links to pages I find inspiring. Case in point, the Everyday Matters blog by artist/writer/neophyte guitarist Danny Gregory. It is because of Danny that I have started to draw again, which I believe in some way helps my guitar playing as well. If you look at his blog, go to his archives and read January/February/March 2004. These are my favorite entries.

Oh, and yes, there's a link to the Shambhala website, since without meditation I could never have summoned the patience to become the Go Go Guitar Girl.

Wherein She Fills You In On the Neighbor Situation

Is it possible that it's been two months since I last wrote? I apologize to all of my readers (pop. approx. 2) for sleeping on the blog job. I'm back, and officially recommitting.

First, to follow up on the previous post, I officially have new neighbors. We're going on two months, and they Donovan (Donnie), Erica and Brett (3-1/2) seem great. First, they are totally groovy with the backyard share situation. Second, they are now duly initiated into the illustrious club of the captive Go Go Guitar Girl audience, and have yet to complain once. This is all good. The fact that the most convenient place for me to practice is in my front room, dangerously close to my apartment doorway, has rendered obsolete any previous inclination toward embarrassment on my part or concern for the comfort of my co-habitators. My neighbors are going to hear me playing and singing away, whether I like it or not. Or, perhaps more pointedly, whether they like it or not.

That said, the early reviews (okay, review) have been positive. Case in point, I ran into E., the mildly freaky photog who lives above me, in the hallway the other day. (I say "mildly" because he's always been perfectly nice and normal to talk to, I say freaky because he wears his wiry gray hair pulled back into a long thin ponytail, ringed up and down with a rainbow of fuzzy Goody hair bands--you know, this kind--so he looks something like an out-and-proud raccoon.)

Anyway, back to the review. Polite as always, when I saw him I noted, "Looks like we've got new neighbors!" He responded, "Yes we do, and we also have a neighbor with a beautiful singing voice." I was like, "We do?" It dawned a bit late that he was talking about me. He went on to say that sometimes he stops outside my door when I'm playing and listens. I was wondering, actually, since often I'll get to the end of a song and just then I'll hear someone scurry up the stairs. But mostly I was just relieved that he didn't hate me for the noise pollution. One never knows, after all, and I'm a bit paranoid since the hermits who live in the basement below me attack their ceiling with a broomstick pretty much every time I start to strum.

In Which Our Heroine Ruminates on Annoying the New Neighbors

Last night, as I was belting out all six verses of American Pie for the second night in a row, I started to wonder what my new neighbors would think when they realized they were moving next door to the Go Go Guitar Girl. My previous neighbors--the inimitable Pellegrino, Ursula and baby Carmine--moved out about a month ago. (May they R.I.P. in their new upstate home.) I expect their replacement tenants to make their entrance this very weekend.

I should back up. Pellegrino et. al. have been the pea under my mattress ever since I moved into this building, two long years ago. Their ability to sense my presence in the backyard--even if I was only stepping out briefly, to release an errant cockroach or shake out a tablecloth--was so uncanny, and their efforts to bully me into weeding the garden for them so relentless, that I had developed a deep and abiding fear of running into them in the hallways. When I realized I didn't have enough chairs for my Thanksgiving dinner, I even threw my brother in law to the wolves and made him go next door to ask if they had any to spare.

So when, on a recent Saturday morning, I saw a mattress walking down the stairs in front of my front window, I got hopeful. Could they be moving out? I was on the phone with SNM at the time, and she told me not to be stupid--they were probably just getting a new mattress. But later that day I came home to find Pellegrino moving a refrigerator out into the hallway.

"We move," he said with a big smile.

"Oh, that's too bad," I said, with an even bigger smile. "Do you know who's moving in?"

"Ah, yes. Two gaiss."

"Two guys?" I asked, imagining two stinky college boys throwing keggers on my back porch.

"You know. The gaiss."

The clouds broke, and my heart leapt: Gays! Hurrah!

"You no worry," Pellegrino continued, assuming I was as intolerant of alternative lifestyles as he . (This was, after all, the man who had orchestrated the ousting of the transgendered dancer from the second floor the previous fall.) "The gaiss, they clean. You know."

Oh, I knew. Did I ever.

My fantasy life kicked into overdrive. Me, sitting between my new gay best friends on their comfortable yet stylish couch, watching marathons of the L Word whilst stuffing my face with handcrafted appetizers and wine procured from their most recent jaunt to Napa.

Me, throwing lavish parties on my new canopied back porch overlooking the English-style rose garden they had landscaped with the help of a revolving cast of boy-toy handymen.

Me, playing my guitar for a crowd of their closest friends, one of whom would just happen to be an A&R guy at Nonesuch Records and who would absolutely insist I come in to record a demo.

Oh, the life I would lead living next door to the gaiss!

It all came crashing down when I dropped off my March rent at the cafe run by my landlord, MF. As I handed him the envelope I put on my saddest face, feigning devastation at the loss of the G. family from the building. MF shook his head sadly. When I asked--perhaps too eagerly--when the new tenants would be moving in, he said they hadn't found any yet.

"But--but--Pellegrino said--," I sputtered.

"Na, na," MF replied. "We find someone else. We find you someone nice."

I knew exactly what he meant.

No gaiss, no rose garden, no wine parties. No A&R courtship for the Go Go Guitar Girl. Just loud music all hours, sports on Sundays and keggers with kiddies in the backyard.

Wherein She Joins Chords and Rhythm

If you've read the previous post, you have an idea of the state I was in last night when I picked up my guitar. I wasn't expecting much, frankly. Usually when I'm frustrated I find it hard to concentrate on playing. But I was, it turns out, pleasantly surprised.

I started by working on my fingerpicking. I'm trying to get my right-hand fingers more dexterous, more able to respond individually. It's hard. You don't realize how infrequently your ring and middle fingers move without the other fingers. I think the only time I really move my middle and ring fingers independently of the others is when I type. The fact that I can type with some amount of speed and accuracy gives me hope that one day I'll be able to fingerpick like a champ. But for now, I simply practice picking one string at a time--thumb, pointer, middle, ring. Thumb, pointer, middle ring....

Then I decided to practice my strumming patterns. I only know two, really. But somehow, without really intending to, I managed to put one of them together with the song Where Will I Be by Emmylou. Suddenly the song actually sounded like a song, with rhythm and timing and everything. It was a very organic process, totally unexpected, and it gave me a real shot of hope that someday my guitar playing will stop sounding like chopped hamburger--that someday, it will actually sound like music!

In Which She Whines About Her Weekend

This was, by all accounts, a crapass weekend. First, the full moon (here she goes again) arrived at 4:38pm on Friday. At 4:45pm I was in the President's office trying to explain how, with one five-minute phone call, my author had so royally fucked up our publicity plans that we are now at serious risk of having hundreds of thousands of copies of the book and nobody to sell them to.

Subsequently, I was late getting to the Shambhala Center, where I was supposed to be meeting my staff for the Level I weekend I was coordinating. I arrived in a whirlwind of negative, unsteady energy, which was not to be stabilized for the rest of the weekend.

Blame the moon, blame Mercury and his damn need to go retrograde all the flippin' time. Or do what I did, and blame yourself. Let all that blame settle into your lower back so that, mid-way through Saturday night dinner with S. and A., you begin to feel the bottom half of your body go completely numb.

Wherein She Relates the Good News

The fact that I haven't written in over a month notwithstanding, the Go Go Guitar Girl is making definite progress on her goal of learning to play guitar by the time she is 30.

Yes, I'm still practicing regularly and have increased my repertoire to include such timeless classics as:

American Pie
Jack & Diane
Mary Jane's Last Dance (though this one sounds pretty crappy without accompaniment on the harmonica, and I'm just not badass enough to play that....yet)

Other evidence of improvement:

1) I took my guitar on vacation (to New Hampshire);
2) I have learned a little minute-long blues riff that sounds pretty darn good;
3) I'm working on several new and innovative strumming patterns;
4) I'm memorizing the notes on the 5th and 6th strings;
5) I'm doing all of this without ever taking a real live lesson.

It doesn't look like I'm going to be taking a lesson anytime soon, in fact. I gave up trying to set one up with Bryan a month back because my schedule was so hectic. And just this afternoon I ran into him at the Shambhala Center and found out that his studio hours are limited to weekday afternoons, which, alas, are far from convenient. So if I want to get instruction I think I'm going to have to forge new alliances.

But who needs paid lessons when you've got About.com? Honestly, I'm learning a ton from that little site and I haven't shelled out a dime for it. Behold the power of annoying banner advertising.

In Which She Comes Back, By Popular Demand

That is, if you can consider the two Stacys in my life to be "popular demand." Personally, I do, and since it's just me and the Stacys reading this, I suppose it's only our opinion which counts.

Wherein She Waits (and Has Lackluster Practice, and Blames the Moon)

Today I finally wrote an email to Bryan, my Shambhala friend who teaches guitar lessons. I saw his fiancee this weekend and she told me he just took a studio in Williamsburg--my neighborhood--and is open for business! (I'm so excited, because I didn't really need to be hauling my guitar on the G train to get to his place in Fort Greene.) So now I'm just waiting for him to respond. Soon after that: our first lesson!

I practiced tonight for about 40 minutes but it wasn't great. I came home early from my Buddhist studies class (skipped the discussion) because I was feeling lousy. I thought I wanted to practice, but when I got here my practice was lackluster.

At the risk of exposing my woo-woo nature, I think it has to do with the full moon. As my friend J. mentioned the other day, "We know the effects of the moon on the ocean . . . and humans are 80% water. You do the math."