The Other Cure

In life there are few chances to grab for the brass ring so when opportunity knocks you gotta make it count. I've had a solid, genuine, fortune earning observation over the weekend, but haven't a clue how to turn it into gold. Maybe with your help...

In an effort to drum up business, our local PBS station broadcast Eric Clapton's 2010 Crossroads Guitar Festival film. About half way through I had this incredible insight.

Rock and Roll guitarists don't go bald, don't have thinning hair, they exhibit no signs of MPB. I credit, as Dr. Phil would diagnose, metal toxicity. A life time of rubbing your fingers on steel guitar strings obviously keeps hair fresh and young.

To wit: Clapton, Jeff Beck, Ronnie Wood, all the other Stones, Albert Lee, Steve Winwood, Dylan, The Monkees, McCartney, Bruce, each and every one fully folicled. Sheryl Crow too. Picture your favorite band. Not a guitarist comb over in sight. Balding rockers are the exception. Defies probability.

Certainly there is no shame in baldingness. I'm a survivor myself, but judging from the late night television commercials, there is a pot of gold awaiting whomever cures baldness. Entire treasuries more if we relieve the sufferings of women with thinning locks.

I can visualize the infomercial now, "But Wait..." Just can't picture the product.

Toad

Happy Birthday

There was a time, forgotten by many now, when self esteem was earned by your own ACCOMPLISHMENTS. It wasn't a god given right to have self esteem. Not everyone received trophies, didn't get adda boys, didn't win the girl, unless your succeeded at something. Preferably something worthwhile.

So imagine, it's the mid '60's. London. A young man emerges from the primordial goo, wanting to be a great musician. He knows he can play guitar pretty well, but that damned Jeff Beck plays far better, and for now is better known. There's a black kid in San Fransisco nipping at his heels too.

Self Esteem is pretty well shot, especially as he looks around and knows people are staying up late at night, printing money in the basement, for his friends The Beatles, and Rolling Stones. He's not hurting for cash, but...

To top it off, his best friend's wife is beginning to look pretty hot to him. Never a particularly good place for your head to be.

Then some SOB spray paints the graffiti in the photo. Devastated him. He crawled, then ran headlong to follow his demons. It took decades to hit low enough that he finally wanted to live, and live he did. Thanks to the love a good woman and the Fender Guitar Corporation. Eventually he earned his self esteem, rose to the top of his profession, and were all the happier for it.

Happy Birthday Mr. Clapton

Toad