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Dreaming from the twelfth fret.

We now return to our irregular saga of Kurt’s Freshman Year Cross-Country Running Log, to examine an entry that has nothing to do with cross-country.


It is Aug. 31, 1987. The school year hasn’t started yet, but I am already letting my mind wander on a subject that occupied plenty of time during my hours in class.

If I had a dime for every guitar or bass I sketched on my folders, textbook covers and homework assignments between seventh and twelfth grades, I wouldn’t have had to go to college.

I’ve always been fascinated by guitars. (Electric; always electric. Acoustics have never held the same appeal. They’re not the same kind of sleek and shiny and curvy. Also, they distort poorly.)

I’ve never had much of a knack for drawing, and I never quite mastered the balance of the cutaway horns on a Fender Strat, or the relative width and thickness of the neck of a Gibson Les Paul.

That didn’t stop me from doodling them by the dozen — Strats, Les Pauls and the occasional hollow-bodied 335 — on any empty surface I could find while I complied with whatever educational demand was being placed upon me.

Guitars always seemed sexier than basses back then. But since I was a bass player then, I occasionally gave in to the invisible pressure and drew a bass guitar instead.

That’s what we’ve got in the log entry above. It appears to be a right-handed Fender Precision with a left-handed neck. An unlikely confection, but sure, why not?

Not sure why I didn’t finish stringing this one up. Usually I did.

School started the following week. Maybe I figured I’d have time enough then to get my drawings right.


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