"When words fail, music speaks"

Just the other day (last Monday I believe) I ventured down to Guitar Center on Van Ness Ave. in San Francisco with a couple of ol' high school chums. Despite Guitar Center being the Wal-Mart of guitar stores, I still find it guilty-ly (I just created my own adverb. Take that Shakespeare) entertaining to meander to a given Guitar Center and not only window-shop at high-quality and pricey guitars that I cannot even own in my dreams, but to even grab at them with my pudgy paws and play the living life out of them hours at a time, getting my smudgy fingerprints and drool all over them in the meantime. Seriously, even Donald Trump would gaff at the prices of some of the guitars they sell in shops.

Thinking this was going to be another such given day in Guitar Center, I hide over in the bass guitar section in order to avoid the nosy and useless guitar salesmen(women) trying to sell me a way overpriced instrument. It's ironically funny how clueless and oblivious these people are to the instruments they're trying to sell. $3000 for a guitar I haven't even heard of? Just get a MIM Fender, upgrade with DiMarzios, throw on some D'addarios and you're set.

After funking around with the basses, I decide to head into the acoustic guitar room. I've always loved the atmosphere in these rooms. A nice sliding door that cancels most inside noise out, leaving me and some pretty nice guitars to create some beautiful music. Not to mention the slightly romantic dim lighting and wooden floor just add to the majesty. I'm quite a happy camper in these rooms.

I immediately grab the most expensive guitar on the rack (must have been at least $3500) and start jamming as usual. I'm totally enthralled in the moment until some random dude walks into the same room. A little thing about music store manners: if you see a person in the acoustic room already, being in there as well will just create awkwardness.

When he walks in, I immediately stop (out of embarrassment) and slightly groan to myself. While fumbling over a Breedlove guitar, I start strumming some Pearl Jam chords to myself. His ears all of a sudden perk, and he responds to me in a French accent, "Pearl Jam? I love them!"

"Yeah, good ears!" I say to him, slightly sheepishly. He grabs the Breedlove, and jams along, following my progression. He then starts to sing, in such a deep yet beautiful and soothing voice. Imagine Elvis with some grit in his voice. Yeah, he was that good.

We jammed for a good ten minutes, just us, and I discovered that he was a French tourist in town for a couple of weeks. This initially awkward encounter ended up being one of my most magical musical experiences. It really made me think of the reason why I loved music; because music has no judgments, and is able to universally communicate and speak to everybody and anybody, whether you're a Frenchman who's married and in his late 20's or a teenage Asian-American from the Bay Area. It was the first time I didn't mind anybody else in that acoustic room.

"When words fail, music speaks." - Hans Christian Andersen