After getting some nice maple from my buddy Rob the week before Christmas, visions of cigar boxes began to dance in my head. Reality intruded, however, when I realized that I had no place to actually build my CBG. All of the surface space in the Wig Shop (my basement lair) was cluttered with the typical rockstar detrius: guitars, pedals, recording gear, and cocaine. After hastily cobbling together a workbench out of an old palette, wine crates, and a few cinder blocks, I commenced to sawin' and sandin'.
When I regained consciousness, I was coated in sawdust. I discovered that I needed a shave, and that my family had started calling local hospitals and taverns, attempting to locate my body. But upon looking down at my sad little workbench, I saw that a CBG-shaped mass was beginning to take shape among the wood shavings and empty PBR silos. Joy.
After taking sustenance and reuniting with my wife and children, I began to ponder the next steps. I would soon have to drill my pristine headstock, and figure out what type of bridge to use. What pickup should I deploy? And will I really have the nerve to fret this musical stogie?
Stay tuned, my friends.
