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.
Comments
My advice, if you choose to continue down this nightmarish road of pain and sorrow, is to acquire
a large pet of the genus canis lupus. That way, if, in your ever-increasing and deteriorating state
of madness, you should forget to eat, that is, if you should starve to death, then the large beast
in question can dispose of your mortal remains, thus freeing your family of worry.
Welcome to the Addiction.