Amplify Everything

A few months ago, I bought a bunch of balsa wood to make little furniture for my daughter's dollhouse, I was fully into it for a few days there, but that dollhouse only has room for so much stuff.  I bought way too much wood for the task at hand, and until about a week ago, my intention was to build a few birdhouses.  Out of sheer boredom a few days ago, I started messing around with my surplus of balsa, and decided that it wouldn't be hard to put together a simple stringed instrument.  Soon after building a little box with one string, I did a little research and found out that it's pretty easy to make a contact microphone and turn my little acoustic box into an electric.  A trip to Radio Shack and about twelve dollars later, I was rocking.  I was also obsessed.  I love to tinker around in my basement, making things with my hands, but most things that I would like to do are a little too much for me.  I have basic soldering and woodworking skills, so these electric balsa instruments are right up my alley.  It's also nice that each one only took a couple hours to make.

I started planning my next build immediately, and the next day I went back to Radio Shack to spend the last of the month's grocery money on microphone parts.  Before I dove into #2, I upgraded my first build with two more strings and a few little improvements.

For the next one, I wanted it to be quite a bit longer, and to have frets.  Again, in the spirit of raw simplicity, I decided to keep it as a plain rectangle.  This one worked out really well, and I'm actually blown away by how nice it sounds.

At this point I'm not only obsessing over my next build, but I am completely enthralled by the possibilities these simple contact microphones have opened up, so I started experimenting with those as well.  The difference between a regular microphone and a contact mic, is that a regular mic amplifies vibrations in the air, while a contact mic amplifies vibrations on or in solid objects, or even liquid.  Everything in sight is starting to look like an instrument that needs to be mic'd and jammed upon. These are all functioning microphones, each one costing no more than ten dollars to make.

Stepping up the creativity and craftsmanship factor, here we have the skateboard deck electric slide guitar.  I just put this together in about an hour the other day, and it sounds great.  All of these home made stringed instruments are difficult to get into any semblance of a tuning, but once you're there, they are really fun to mess around with.

My latest and greatest contraption, which I call "Clank", for obvious reasons.  It's a total caveman noise machine.  You can play it with a bow, a pick, your fingers, or just smack it around.  This thing coupled with an effects pedal and a loop pedal through an amplifier will keep me occupied for days on end.

Earth Ain't a Bad Place to be

"Tell me, Connie, tell me what it is you see."

Connie Egge stared back at Dr. Terry Teeples blankly, she stared through him, returning from the depths of a deep trance that the good doctor had pulled her out of only moments ago.

"Sticks and stones and broken bones is all my eyes do see", she mumbled, "All things considered, and truth be untold, Earth ain't a bad place to be."

Nother Friggin Day in Paradise

Jerry Kirchfeld awoke to the smell of a long gone party.  Vomit had dried on his left arm.  It was red.  Vodka cranberries, he remembered.  The alarm clock on the mantle flashed 12:00 over and over.  He was at his brother Zeb's place.  Jerry checked his watch.  Twelve-oh-two.  Goddamn.  The mantle clock was right for once.  He had missed work, or, technically, was still late for work, but he would look even more foolish going in five hours late than he would not showing up at all.  Friggin' Dougie's pissed, Jerry mused.  Fuck 'em.  Life goes on.  Jerry stumbled over to the bathroom.  Friggin' Zebbie ain't gonna be too happy about that puke on his carpet, neither, he thought.  Friggin shitty day.  Killer hangover to boot.  In the bathroom, he had himself a quick birdbath, washed his teeth with his finger, and popped a few aspirins.  A rhyme his daddy used to tell him kept going through his head, on a loop; "Here's to the future, here's to the past, here's hopin' yer ass had a hearty blast."  A hearty blast, indeed, thought Jerry, as he remembered Cheryl Feeney flashing her boobs around for everyone and their brother.  Hot damn, now that was a party.  Cheryl wasn't much of a looker, but she had some nice melons.  Jerry found some 409 and an old sponge under the bathroom sink, and trudged back out to the lazy boy to clean up his mess.  On his knees, scrubbing up puke, Jerry felt defeated.  What a friggin life, he thought.  Is this it?  Is this what I was put on this earth to do?  Get pissed up every other night, get to see Cheryl Feeney's titties, and puke on my brothers floor?  Here's to the future, here's to the past, here's hoping yer ass had a hearty blast.  Friggin hearty blast indeed, thought Jerry.  Friggin hearty blast indeedy.