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 there are a lot of situations in which an acoustic guitar is not all that welcome, anyway.

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. That first taste of ukulele usually ends in addiction.

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 up a little ground.")

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