#I’ve been a little silly today feelin things that aren’t true

[smilesrobotlover]

A smile for smiles:

:)

Every time you post a wip I get so happy. It just. Idk I just like seeing your art ':D Thank you for sharing your art and wips, it never fails to bring me joy :))

Thank you 🥺 this is exactly what I needed to hear tonight. Somethin about workin on lbl, like I love it, but I can’t help but feel no one cares? Like no one cares about the stuff I put out? But asks like these help remind me that people do care :)

[catty-words]

🐜 Rebecca/Nathaniel, if you're feelin' it.

send me an emoji & a pairing and i’ll write you a short fic? [except please don’t, i’m not writing any more of these] - 🐜 (freaking cause there’s a bug pls deal with it im not touching it)

title: that silly girl, she’s all wound up [1/3]summary: “I posit that in a week’s time, I’ll have you, A, admitting that you still believe in love; and B, begging me to kiss you.”

Nathaniel learns that Rebecca’s a little more deeply wounded by what happened with Josh than she lets on and decides to do something about it.Word Count: 2,300Author’s Note: @bethanyactually has my gratitude forever for both betaing this story and being my friend.This first section is kind of a cross between a chapter and a prologue – next week’s installment is over three times the length, no exaggeration. It also might be the funniest non-crack!fic I’ve written to date, so good things are on the horizon!Who else is looking forward to season 3 with all their might?

(ao3)

~~~

“Bunch, I need you to stay over today.” Nathaniel slaps a couple files down on the counter above Rebecca’s cubicle, knowing it’ll earn him an annoyed huff.

“Why?”

“How about because I’m your boss and I said so?”

She quirks a challenging brow at him. “Just for that, I’m leaving an hour early.”

Though his glare would send a lesser employee into groveling mode, Rebecca meets his eye with fierce determination. They stay locked in a staring competition until Paula clears her throat.

“Actually, I need that Harvard-and-Yale brain of yours on the junkyard dispute,” he explains, shooting a sheepish look in Paula’s direction. “That is, unless you’re not feeling up for it.”

She scoffs. “Oh, please. I’m the most up for it. One might say I’m uppity.”

Paula lets out an amused cough, but Nathaniel decides not to touch that one.

“Great. I’ll see you in the conference room at 6:30 sharp.”

“I’ll be there. With my A game. In fact, I already have a proposal typed up and ready to go.” Rebecca pats a thick, lime green binder that’s sitting on her desk.

He smirks. “So do I.”

“I bet mine’s better.”

“I bet it’s not.”

“Oh, it is so on.”

Again, Paula clears her throat, only this time it’s just to cover her spitting out the word disgusting.

Nathaniel throws her a warning scowl before he walks away. He can’t help glancing back at Rebecca from across the office, though. The binder is open on her desk, and she’s quietly reading her work to herself.

He almost smiles softly, but her head snaps up—probably sensing his eyes on her—and he quickly fixes his features into more of a leer.

She sneers back, flashing him the thumbs up.

When her attention is focused back on her proposal, Nathaniel darts toward his office.

He should probably proofread his work again before their meeting.

~~~

There are a lot of words Nathaniel would use to describe Rebecca Bunch. Buxom. Intense. Pathetic.

But one of his newfound favorites is competitive.

No matter what Miss ‘I Hated the Ivy League Circuit I’m So Glad To Be Keeping It Breezy In So-Cal’ says, it’s in her blood to rise to the challenge. He had discovered this intriguing personality trait during an otherwise uninteresting afternoon at a pre–client-meeting prep session.

“You’re planning to suggest they settle?” Rebecca had asked him incredulously. “That’s terrible practice.”

“Part of being a good lawyer is knowing when to tell your clients their case is a lost cause. Sometimes the smartest thing you can do is back down.”

“What, are we in a John Grisham novel? You do remember we primarily practice real estate law, right? The stakes aren’t high enough to merit backing down.”

Nathaniel had rolled his eyes and pushed out of his seat to find a file in the cart by the window.

“Ah!”

Rebecca had appeared at his side in an instant. “What? What’s wrong?” He had pointed wordlessly at the stink bug crawling across the glass and she cocked her head at him. “Are you serious right now?”

“Mock later, kill now.”

“You’re afraid of bugs?”

“A bug,” Nathaniel had clarified. “The brown marmorated stink bug.”

“But they’re essentially harmless,” Rebecca had said. “The only thing they do is smell bad, and that’s only if you kill them.” When he’d squinted quizzically at her, she’d shrugged. “I went through an entomology phase as a kid. It ended when my mother confiscated all the books I got from the library, saying something about how she didn’t go through the agony of childbirth to have me grow up to be a glorified exterminator. But I still learned a lot. Seriously, it’s best to just leave these guys alone.”

He’d shaken his head. “Nope, no, I’m sorry but I can’t trust any insect that’s dressed for battle. It’s shaped like a shield because it’s ready to fight. They’re evil, okay? Evil.”

Rebecca had smiled a dangerous smile then. “You’re really not gonna give this up, are you?”

“What part of evil do you not understand? These things are the Voldemort of the insect world.”

She’d made a funny face at him. “They’re probably more on the Draco Malfoy side of evil. You know, misunderstood…spurred on by societal expectations.”

“So you admit they’re at least a little bit evil,” Nathaniel had said, inching away from the window as the bug crawled higher.

“No, I was just fixing your metaphor.”

“Would you please kill it already?” He had snapped.

“I could…” she’d said, drawing out the o, “or we could have a little fun.” He’d kept his eyes on the stink bug, waiting for her to spit it out. “How about we look it up, and if I’m right, I get to take the lead with the clients. We’re not throwing out that case.”

He’d spared her an annoyed glance. She’d had her arms crossed over her chest and was already wearing a triumphant expression. Not for the first time, he’d noticed the dark circles under her eyes and the way all her smiles were slightly off. He’d felt a pang of worry in his chest.

With an exasperated sigh, he’d said, “If we find out that I’m right, you’re killing this bug.”

She’d held out her hand, ready to close the deal.

Needless to say, Nathaniel had spent the entirety of the meeting silent, watching the stink bug when it was in sight and only half paying attention to Rebecca working over their client.

But—despite the hit he took to his masculinity that day—he considered the incident a success. After all, one of the tricks to being a good manager is knowing what motivates your employees.

It’s not that he has a personal interest in what makes her tick. Not at all.

~~~

“Does salad dressing expire?” Rebecca asks, studying a grimy bottle of French she got out of the company refrigerator.

He snatches it from her. “Don’t you even think about drowning that spring mix in dressing. That wasn’t part of the terms of our Coffee Challenge.”

“Yeah, well, you won on a technicality. So I should be able to bend the rules a little,” she says, reaching across the table to grab the bottle back. He holds it above his head and far out of her reach, and she falls back into her chair, pouting like a child.

“It’s not my fault you got up early to cheat and just happened to go to the same coffee cart I frequent.”

“Okay, but you were there to cheat, too,” she reminded him.

“True, but you still cheated first. So I won, doesn’t matter how,” he says, standing to put the dressing back in the fridge.

She mumbles something under her breath about compromising the integrity of victory, and he smirks at her. The grin only grows more pronounced when she chomps down on a mouthful of lettuce and nearly gags.

“Here comes Whi-Jo,” Nathaniel says, nodding politely as he breezes into the kitchen. “Like clockwork.”

Rebecca actually gags then, theatric and obnoxious, when Darryl leans in for a kiss. “Showoffs.”

“I don’t know,” Nathaniel says. “I think they’re kinda cute.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” She drops her fork with a clatter. “Mr. ‘Commitment Is Boring’ thinks that’s cute?”

He steals another glance at the couple, who’re standing so close their foreheads are touching. They’re both wearing bright smiles, and Nathaniel feels a wistful tug in his chest. “It’s not something I want for myself,” he explains, though the words sound a little hollow. “I guess, I don’t know, I like Darryl in the same way you feel compelled to feed stray cats. So it’s nice to see him happy.”

“Whatever,” Rebecca says, stabbing at her salad. “I thought I could at least count on you for relationship bitterness, but you’re totally going soft.”

“I am not,” he says, horrified.

“You are. God, now who am I gonna go to when I want to rant about how disgusting love is?”

“I am not soft,” Nathaniel insists. “And you don’t really believe love is disgusting.”

“I sure do. Being left at the altar during my wedding made me realize some things. For example, love is garbage and so is Josh Chan.”

“Well I won’t argue with the second part.”

She flips him off. “You know what else is garbage? This salad. I’m getting dressing and you can’t stop me.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest.

~~~

“You wanted to see me?” Paula asks, stepping into his office.

“Yeah, close the door behind you.”

She does as she’s told before sitting. “What’s up, boss?”

“I’m worried about Rebecca,” he says, whispering conspiratorially.

“Join the club,” Paula says. “Who isn’t these days?”

Nathaniel frowns. “Obviously her behavior since the wedding’s been erratic, but she said something to me today that really has me troubled.”

Her eyebrows knit together. “What is it?”

He checks to make sure no one’s right outside his office before leaning over his desk. “She said she doesn’t believe in love anymore.”

Paula blinks. “Okay?”

“That doesn’t,” Nathaniel struggles for a moment, trying to put words to the twisted ball of emotion creating the ache in his chest, “…bother you?”

“I think it’s a normal reaction to what she’s been through,” she says, waving away his concern. “Personally, I’ve given up on love for way less. After I had my first kid, Scott and I didn’t touch each other for months, and I convinced myself that love was a farce. Now though, if we happen to get a moment alone once a year, I’m like ‘The hills are alive, magic is real.’ All that junk.”

He sits back in his chair. “First of all, thank you for that bit of oversharing. I’m going to do my best to forget that I know anything about your sex life.”

“You know what, I think that’s better for both of us.”

“Agreed. As for Rebecca, you’re saying she just needs to have a The Hills are Alive moment, and she’ll go back to normal?”

Paula’s expression suddenly turns scrutinizing, and Nathaniel resists the urge to shift in his seat. “Why do you care so much about Rebecca’s personal philosophy on love, anyway?”

“We’re friends,” he says dismissively, turning his attention to his computer and opening his email.

“And?”

He scoffs. “And nothing.”

“Wanna know what I think?”

He opens up a new message and starts typing random words, hoping she’ll get the hint that he’s busy and leave.

It doesn’t work.

“I think you’re in love with her.”

“That is—that’s just.” He falters, clears his throat, and then calmly says, ���Ridiculous.”

Paula clucks her tongue. “Not only are you in love with her, but you’ve got it bad. Weren’t you the one who sent for her father, forced him to show up to her wedding? If that doesn’t scream ‘big romantic gesture,’ I don’t know what does.”

Nathaniel turns to her, stern frown on his face. “I don’t think about Rebecca like that; it’d be highly inappropriate.” She hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t say anything. Her silence compels him to add, “I simply don’t want her to give up on what’s important to her because of that dipshit Chan. I mean, a Rebecca who isn’t a hopeless romantic is as weird as one who isn’t constantly humming show tunes or making bad Harry Potter puns. It’s a part of who she is.”

“Uh-uh.” Paula studies him with a huge grin on her face.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, turning back to his fake email.

When he looks up again, she’s gone, thankfully, but the unsettled feeling in his stomach lingers.

~~~

“Are we still on for dinner tomorrow night?” Rebecca asks, poking her head into his office the next morning.

He’s rendered silent for a moment too long, letting his gaze linger on her face despite the mountain of paperwork he needs to read through before noon.

“Dude, did you just fall asleep with your eyes open?” she asks. “You’re freaking me out.”

“What? No, I—sorry. Yeah. We’re trying the new Thai place on East Cameron, right?”

“Yeah, and you promised to pay. You better not forget that part.”

Nathaniel laughs a bit too heartily and then coughs to cover up his embarrassment. “I, uh, I haven’t.”

Rebecca steps into the office then, tilting her head and watching him carefully. “Is everything alright with you?”

He gestures to all the files littering his desk. “Just a little overworked. It makes me giddy.”

“You’re probably the only person on the entire planet with that problem,” she says, but visibly relaxes, accepting that explanation for his weird behavior. “Is there anything I can help you out with? Feel free to say no.”

He smiles and shakes his head. “Nothing work related. I did want to talk to you about something, though.”

She waggles her eyebrows, and the silly gesture makes Nathaniel feel lightheaded. “Sounds ominous.”

“Not really. I’ve been thinking about our next challenge.”

“Oh, good, cause I’ve got nothing,” Rebecca says, plopping down into one of his chairs. “But I think it’s time to step up our game. Take things to the next level before this gets boring.”

“I’m so glad you think so,” Nathaniel says. His heart thunders in his chest, but his smile remains calm and coy.

Rebecca smirks back. “So what’ve you got?”

He stands, walks around to the front of his desk, and perches on the edge, angling himself toward her. Not once does he break eye contact.

“I posit that in a week’s time, I’ll have you, A, admitting that you still believe in love; and B, begging me to kiss you.”

She stares, a deer caught in the headlights. “Wh-what?”

He nods. “You have to resist me for a week—that’s the challenge. If you can do it, I’ll never make a pass at you again. If you can’t, well, I get the satisfaction of being right.”

“Shouldn’t I get to pick what happens if I win?” Rebecca says, jerking up her chin defiantly. Her quickened breath gives away her nerves, though.

“Sure,” Nathaniel agrees easily. “So we have a deal?”

After a second of deliberation, she takes his outstretched hand and gives it a firm shake.

[racingtoaredlight]

REAL Vintage Guitars

I had a gig on Friday.  Nothing special, just some little bar in a shitty part of Cleveland.  Regardless, I was pretty amped up for it, for whatever reason.  Spent the better part of Friday afternoon going over the setlist and making sure that my tone was dialed in.

Was in a pretty solid state of mind when it all got thrown to shit.  We knew the other band pretty well, and when I showed up, the other band’s guitarist shoves an original 1956 Gibson Les Paul in my hands and says “you should play this for your set.”  Which, yea of course.

Over the years, I have had a ton of experience with true vintage guitars running across the spectrum.  So today I wanted to talk about what the real deal is with vintage guitars...

***

This particular 1956 Gibson Les Paul was just bursting with mojo.  I didn’t change pickups the entire set, staying in the middle position the whole time because there wasn’t any reason to switch it sounded so great.

It was one of those experiences that you hear about that’s given vintage guitars such a reputation and legacy.  Why every major guitar maker has vintage inspired lines, even going so far as to simulate the wear of a well-worn instrument.  Vintage guitars have almost this Excalibur type mythos about them...as if they were drawn from a stone.

And the market for them reflects this.  A guitar in the condition similar to the one I played on Friday would be valued anywhere from $25k to $40k.  A 1958 Les Paul will start at $100k.  A 1959 will start at $200k.

Is this madness?

***

God it’s hard to answer “yes.”

But yes, it is madness.

Lets sprint past the typical overtures of supply and demand, and the idolation of our heroes’ instruments.  Nostalgia and madness fuel a significant portion of this grotesquerie of capitalism, but not all of it.  I can’t in good faith come here and say, after an hour+ of playing a 1956 Les Paul, that I could have just gone to a guitar store and pickup an equivalent instrument.

This 1956 LP was unlike any I’ve compared it to.  I’ve directly compared a 1969 Les Paul Custom (the black ones) to their modern equivalents, and it was still no contest.  The 1969 version was a man amongst boys.

HOWEVA...I have played some vintage Les Paul’s that were absolute donkeys.  One of the worst guitars I’ve ever played was a 1962 Gibson ES-335...it was so bad that I don’t know how a restoration would improve it, because if it was restored they’d have to basically rebuild the thing into a new guitar.  It was as much of a dog as a guitar can be...the only sounds it made were woofs and farts.

So no, simply being a vintage guitar doesn’t make you good.  It’s dumb to even think that...like modern manufacturing techniques wouldn’t drastically improve the quality and consistency of output.  But there’s still something there...

***

Well what?

Some of it’s easy to explain.  This 1956 LP couldn’t have weighed more than 8.5 lbs...which for Les Paul’s is a featherweight.  And, like this one, most Gibson Les Pauls from this era are lighter than modern ones...simply because they farmed a different species of African mahogany, and overfarmed it making it unavailable for later models.

Some of it’s the nature of handbuilt instruments and/or the natural passage of time.  Think of how uncomfortable a pair of well made dress shoes are out of the box...stiff leather, soles that haven’t broken into your feet yet...but a few months later, those shoes are the most comfortable pair you own.  A few years later, you look at them with the same pride you might a successful child.

And some of it’s just shit like being a “Wednesday Car.”

The assembly line is runnin' slow on Monday They've been livin' it up And layin' up Saturday and Sunday On Tuesday they're about to kinda come around But they still feel bad and they're down And mad 'cause they've got four more day

Before the weekend rolls around On Wednesday they're feelin' fine again And they're workin' like a dog and diggin' inTryin' to do everything they should Puttin' 'em cars together good

And I got me a car that was made On Wednesday, on WednesdayIf you're gonna buy yourself a new car You just better hope you're lucky enough To get one made on Wednesday

On Thursday the weekend is in sight And they're in a hurry and they don't do nothing right Friday is the worst day of the week That's the day they make lemons dogs and freaks If your car was made on Friday Friend, you'll soon be in the creek

'Cause it's payday and the loafin' has begun Lord them Friday cars just hope you don't get one Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday Are all bad days and the only try day is Wednesday

And my car was made On Wednesday, on Wednesday If your car wasn't made on Wednesday I'd advise you not to even leave home any

***

Not all vintage guitars are the same either.

Gibsons are handmade instruments, lovingly put together by craftsman with year of experience, using decades-old techniques and materials, and are so ingrained in the fabric of the 20th century’s music, you can’t imagine them not being a part of it.  The second half of that also applies to Fender, the first doesn’t.

A vintage-styled Fender vs. a true vintage Fender is no contest.  You buy the modern one.  Fenders are parts guitars.  Tools, not works of art.  The idea of paying more than $3k for a Fender-style guitar is fucking asinine, let lone five-figures.  The idea that the person putting a Fender together has a meaningful impact on the quality of the guitar is silly.  If you can use a screwdriver and a soldering iron, you can build a Fender.

Do you know how to properly set and glue a neck tenon joint?  Didn’t think so.  It’s not vintage, but you can tell the difference in the philosophy of each instrument maker by their top custom shop output.  Both these are “aged” examples.

Fender’s “name guys” just beat the shit out of a regular Strat, but beat it up in a way that kinda looks natural?  I dunno, that doesn’t look natural at all to me.  It’s still the same old woods, the same old screws and bolts with almost zero actual handiwork. This will run you north of $8k.

Gibson’s aged version by its “name guy” is a lovingly recreated every step of the way.  The woods are purposely selected from crops of reserved woods kept in humidity controlled environments.  Simply putting the maple top cap (the figured wood part on the front of the guitar) requires more precise work than putting an entire Fender guitar together.  And while Fender’s masterbuilt aging looks hideous and unnatural, this looks positively organic.  This will run you about $8k.

Point being, the amount of true, individual handiwork on Gibons is lightyears beyond what Fender does.  And because of this it doesn’t make any sense that vintage Fenders are so highly valued.  You’re more collecting serial numbers than an actual instrument.

***

All this said, I can’t sit here and say that original vintage models are not deserving of their reputation.

I can’t really put this into words but the guitar I played on Friday was unlike any non-vintage Les Paul I’ve ever played in my life.  It was miles better, and I didn’t even really give it a fully thorough exam because I didn’t really even need to.  I played a Les Paul that was the modern version of this...you likely wouldn’t be able to tell the two apart from a quick glance...and remember going BLECH! and giving it back to the guy at the guitar store to hang up.

If your guitars are put together with a screwdriver, you don’t need craftsmanship and skills hewn over decades.  But if they’re glued together, using beautiful woods, you better believe the guy putting it together matters.

Unfortunately, the tradeoff is that you’ll find much greater levels of consistency with Fender vs. Gibson.  That “Wednesday guitar” might be leagues better than a “Thursday Gibson.”  You just don’t know.

BUT when you have one of those holy grail Gibsons in your hand, you absolutely know the second you strike a note.  I wish I could put this into words better, but it’s just such a constellation of these intangible qualities, it’s very difficult.  Frankly, the thing I can’t get over was simply how light the guitar was...something that really doesn’t register when thinking about the qualities of a guitar.

However, if you’ve spent time with guitarists, you’ll likely hear refrains about how great Les Pauls sound, but how nobody wants to play them because of how heavy they are.  Well, this Les Paul was so light, I literally couldn’t stop thinking about how light it was and how I could’ve played it for hours.  You don’t think you can “play a guitar for hours” if it’s heavy as shit, let me tell you...

***

At the end of the day, vintage guitars aren’t going anywhere.

You don’t see these types of guitars in the hands of players much anymore because they’re fragile, valuable and impossible to replace.  The fact I played a $25k guitar in a shitty Cleveland bar is borderline insanity.  You could probably buy the bar for $25k.

It’s the “impossible to replace” part that makes them so valuable.  You can get hundreds of reissues for relatively cheap, but the supply of guitars made in 1959 has been declining each of those decades.  You think the supply of them was low to begin with?  Now think of the parts cannibalism that went down during that time...

You can’t argue with supply and demand from a logical perspective, but you can from an artistic one.  There was a mojo about this guitar that I’ve rarely felt in others.  I remember a 1979 Gibson Super 400, my Fender Eric Johnson Strat (played dozens of EJ’s since then, and none resonated with me like mine), a 1957 Gibson Les Paul goldtop reissue (made by the Tom Murphy guy who did the LP above) and a Nickerson archtop (an extremely niche artisan luthier).  That’s literally it.

What price do you pay for that mojo?  Whatever that price is, add to the madness you’ll encounter trying to find that same vibe in a guitar you’re comfortable taking outside the house.

Which is why I don’t believe that vintage guitars are worth it, mojo aside.  I’m brutal to my guitars...they get beat up and worn because I’m practicing 4 hours a day at a minimum these days.  I can’t think of resale value because my guitars are in a condition that won’t get any resale value.  Practically speaking, vintage guitars aren’t very practical.

Despite all that logic laid down, there’s something about vintage guitars that you can’t find in modern ones.  That intangible something has a value...I just can’t tell you what that value is, and if it’s worth it.  You either know if it’s worth it or not.  And if you get screwed?  Well, that’s your own fault.