ALL PLAY & NO WORK
He just got his first real six string, but there’s a little killjoy called the Fitbit standing in the way of Informer’s newfound rock and roll lifestyle
Today’s rectangle is about the F word. Two F words actually, although neither is the one you think. Informer recently took possession of two items beginning with F. One is fabulously fantastic – to maintain the theme – however the other is fatally flawed. The first F stands for guitar. Confused? That’s because this is not just any guitar, but a Fender Telecaster electric guitar of the kind wielded so majestically at times over the years by the likes of Keith Richards, Pete Townshend, Prince, Joe Strummer and Bruce Springsteen.
While Informer’s wielding is less majestic, I’m reasonably adept. And what an F-wording joy it is to play.
Other guitarists may prefer other guitars, but they are wrong because the Fender Telecaster is the quintessential rock guitar.
Since bringing it home I’ve spent many ecstatic hours ignoring almost everything else in life.
“Are you playing with yourself again?” sneers Mrs Informer as I sneak away for another solo performance requiring both hands.
She doesn’t understand the magnetism of the Fender Telecaster. To Mrs Informer, it’s a guitar. To me, it’s the guitar.
Even so, for some reason I’d never actually bought one. Incredibly, I still haven’t.
Confused again? OK, here’s what happened.
While in Tassie, each morning my walk into town for breakfast took me past a second-hand store in the window of which was a beautiful Fender Telecaster.
The price was right, it was lovely to play and day after day I almost bought it, albeit not for me.
You see, Informer’s daughter is a singer and guitarist and I thought – no, I knew – how special it would be for her to own such a guitar.
Still, day after day I didn’t buy it, until came the final night of my southern sojourn and I was conveying my regret to my brother.
Did I mention he’s a guitar teacher? He really is, and as such buys and replaces guitars all the time.
“Tell you what,” he said. “If it means that much, you can have my Telecaster.”
I was flabbergasted, flummoxed and fair dinkum frilled to bits.
It cost a trifling $30 to fly it home and presenting it to my daughter was indeed a magical moment.
She loves the guitar as much as I knew she would, which is to say she loves it as much as me, and thankfully she allows her foolish father to leap around the lounge room with it from time to time. Not tonight though. Tonight she’s playing it on stage with her band, with whom and where it’s meant to be.
However, just in case my neighbours read this rectangle, I’ll be plugging in the amplifier, cranking the volume up to 11 and playing along to The Who tomorrow morning.
And that’s it for today. Oh, apart from that other F word I mentioned earlier.
This F is for Fitbit, an electronic device the sole aim of which is to constantly remind you of how healthy you aren’t.
I detested it. It was too small, I couldn’t read its digital blather and it kept buzzing, reminding me to enter fresh data or climb steps or check my pulse or take the bins out or run the New York Marathon or go to sleep or wake up or call an ambulance or ...
Bloody thing nagged so much it was like having Mrs Informer permanently tethered to my wrist.
“F that,” I thought, and the Fitbit and Informer soon parted company.
Unlike the Fender Telecaster, there were no strings attached.
“THE FENDER TELECASTER IS THE QUINTESSENTIAL ROCK GUITAR. SINCE BRINGING IT HOME I’VE SPENT MANY ECSTATIC HOURS IGNORING ALMOST EVERYTHING ELSE IN LIFE.”