Stringed Wingman
I would like to take this time to introduce to you one of my closest friends. Readers, I would like you all to meet my acoustic guitar, his name is Marty. You can see him in just about every picture that has me playing a guitar. I know that it may come across as being “corny” that I named my musical instrument, but if you were to spend the same amount of time as I have with Marty, you would get it. Whenever I have an idea or I need one, I reach for Marty.
When I was a junior in college, my Brother Ryan came and picked me up from my tiny on-campus apartment. He arrived with a big smile and said quickly, even before hello, “c’mon, lets go get you a guitar.” I was not quite sure what triggered this impulse within my Brother, but based on the intensity of his grin, I knew his joy could be traced back to somewhere around the Turning Stone Casino. I didn’t ask, I just threw a shirt on and, lightly, jogged out the door and into his Jeep. He lived in Manlius, NY at the time, so he brought me to a small guitar shop by his condo called Beatstreet Music. Just before we pulled open the shop door, Ryan turned to me and announced five words that made me let out a high-pitched noise I had never made before, nor did I ever think was capable. I giggled, devilishly, and tapped my fingertips together like a scheming evil scientist. The noise I made may best be described as a leprechaun on acid and blowing a dog whistle. He said confidently, “GET ANY GUITAR YOU WANT!” Wow, what a powerful statement. After two full minutes of happy laughter, I regained my composure and walked into the store to get my guitar. I recall adding one quick fist pump before entering.
There he was, I saw him right away, a used Martin 00016. I had always dreamed of one day owning a Martin guitar, so I picked it from the shelf and played a few bars from one of my earliest songs, “In My Mind”. It sounded great in my ears and it felt comfortable in my hands. So, Ryan paid the man and I strummed my way out of the store. As soon as we got back in the car, I gave my Brother a big hug over the center console and thanked him a thousand times. Ryan didn’t say a single word on the car ride back to my apartment. When we finally stopped in front of my place he turned to me and said, with a serious look on his face, “I bet you are going to write a whole bunch of songs with that thing.” My Brother is the man. My family has always stressed the importance of generosity, and Ryan simply demonstrated it. A gift is never forgotten.
Since then, Marty has been with me through 48 states and 4 countries. He was the first thing I packed for this trip, and he rests in the tent by my side each night. I know that it may not be the appropriate conditions for the guitar in terms of its construction, or its destruction, but I want him to experience everything that I do. I will never get him refinished or repair any of his cracks…I consider the cracks his scars. If I met a man without scars, I wouldn’t believe a word he says.
I named him after a radio personality. There was a DJ on a local radio show when I was a kid that was paid to travel to all of the biggest summer parties, basically Van Wilder before Van Wilder….a true big party emperor. Well anyway, when he was on-air, his call name was “Marty the One Man Party”.
Thank you once again Ryan.
