Oh the love of a new guitar. I bought a re-issue of a '62 Fender Jaguar yesterday and she's gorgeous. Probably the sexiest guitar I've ever played. It sounds unbelievably cool too. The only thing I would change is I'd throw a couple humbuckers on there to beef up the distortion. I've got to mess with my Marshall (Marsha - I removed the "L's") to get a better distorted sound. The gain doesn't seem to be making any difference. It sounded damn fine through Brent's Fender amp, though. I'd really like a Vox amp. Not only do they sound good but they're so pretty. And Vox made the first electric guitars sold in the states, incidentally at what became Guitar Center--it was Hammond Organ before that (when I first heard about this I was writing a little freshman year at B.U. lame classwork feature article on the new Guitar Center in Boston, as they were finally going to have stores on the East Coast, and stupidly wrote "Ham and Organ" instead of "Hammond Organ." It was not one of my finer moments). We had a bunch of funny Guitar Center moments that year, but they involve a guy named Michael, that we called J�rg, with a funny accent so it's sort of impossible to explain without sound. Anyway, I could probably make some changes to the guitar but I like the classic 60's styling. It would be a sin to alter it. Maybe if I can get my Tube King pedal back from Wil it would make some more noise. We did get it feeding back pretty nicely, though. Don't get me wrong--I love the guitar just the way she is. When we got back from Jerz last night from Christmas we started noodling with some deliciously indie riffs before heading out to Charlie's for a few drinks and to see all the peeps. It was fun.

Christmas was good. Brent and I stayed at my sister Nancy�s house in Ho-Ho-Kus, New Jersey. Yeah, Ho-Ho-Ho-Kus, or you put the �Ho� in Ho-Ho-Kus. When we got there she had out the �Monday� dishtowel. It was Monday. And she had been in Albany since Thursday. This is one of the things I love about her�and my knees quake at it too�that somehow, after globetrotting to take care of her newly lung-transplanted mother-in-law in Boston and Albany over the last couple months, moving like 2 weeks ago and getting the house in order, working her butt off, taking care of two cats (one 20 years old!) and two busybody pugs she still manages to put out the �Monday� dishtowel for us. I would call her mother of the year but she doesn�t have any kids yet. Well, none of her own, anyway. She has friends, some more psycho than others. Anyway, I bought her a nice olive bowl, classic 50�s styling, and a great set of lanky yellow cappuccino cups and saucers from the 70�s, but I really ought to find her those days of the week underwear. There is some movie, I can't remember what it is, where two characters are talking about the fact (?) that there is no Sunday in the days of the week underwear �because of God.� Does that mean we�re supposed to go commando on Sundays? Because of God? Hrm.