My ukuleles

What is the difference between a hoard and a horde and another homophone in that group? Where my ukuleles are concerned, it turns out there is very little.

Yes, we now have ukuleles here at Deuce of Clubs HQ-in-the-saddle. I once played guitar, but guitars aren't all that compatible with the crampy camper van life. Crawling over Stratocasters and giant vintage Magnatone amps is a lot less fun than you'd think, and backpack guitars sound for crap. And I really don't care much for the acoustic guitar, anyway, unless you happen to be one of the old blues or ragtime masters from the early 20th century. (I happen not to be.)

And that is how I happened to take up the ukulele. I began with a humble Hilo and had a blast with it, but blast it, what they say about ukuleles is true: you can't eat just one. Once you take that first taste, ukulele addiction commonly results.

I am sure I will continue to acquire ukuleles, but I had better begin selling them, too.

(I am sure everyone who is strung out on ukuleles says that.)

BUT I AM SERIOUS.

(I am sure they say that, too.)

EXCEPT THAT I AM SERIOUS.

(Mrmm-hmm. You're not "dealing," you're just "making your way.")

SERIOUSLY.

No, seriously. And just to prove it, I am entertaining cash offers on two of my favorite vaudevillians, Sancho Panzer and Grand Cru. Or trade offers. Because . . . you know . . . addict.

Really, I can quit anytime I want to. But as long as my addiction and this website last, whenever I score an additional four-stringed implement of annoyance, I will share my degrading habit with you, my probably-should-be-working public.

Ukulele,
Doc