August 31, 2010

           The Kava Bar, the place that replaced Club M, or half of it. The segment of the bar along the west wall reopened last November, but this is the first time I’ve been in. It is done up like a large tree, where you sip Kava in the shade. Or, more accurately, in the dark. Kava is a tropical root, listed as “non-alcohol, non-narcotic”. Despite claims to be relaxing and “ceremonial”, it is not recommended for heart patients.
           I asked if they had entertainment and got back a description of some sitar player due to perform for the Dalai Lama. I may give the place a try, but I’m the sort who seeks a cold drink on its own merits, not because I intend to change religions or get all dad-burned mystical. From what I’ve seen, I wish them well if only as an alternative place to go downtown without drinking or paying $30 for a sandwich.
           The guitarist from five years back, now dubbed Pat-B (well, if Dave-O is fine, why not) has been in contact. I’d correctly surmised he has moved forward with his music and I am certain about his abilities to put on a good show. He even looked more confident when talking music. Like all (yes, all) local musicians, he is leery of forming combinations but unlike most, he is open-minded enough to give it a try. I don’t think he’s seen hundred dollar bills in the tip jar in the past two years. I have.
           I comprehend every musician in this town knows the only person to trust is themselves, giving strong momentum to soloists. I am the first to admit the fragility of combos, but at the same time I am convinced the right two people could take this town by storm. The market is choked with monotonous single acts using the same backing tracks. I place the chances of a single act working steady until New Year’s at around 15%. But the right duo will grab 90% of the market at the height of tourist season. Easily.
           Today’s laugh has to be the photo I saw to the annual convention of Romance novel writers. All dumpy over 40 housewives, I suppose the ones who might only find romance at the bookrack. Not one babe in the lot. I could easily see them as the crowd to put down men’s second childhood while they go through own their second teens.
           Nearby was an item on the Ooma phone. This requires an Internet connection but is apparently a one-time purchase, and once set up, works from any access point. I’ll look at it, but as par usual, I will never get a home phone until that can be done anonymously. Statistically, seventy million people in America agree the phone company has abused private information, sold it to telemarketers, and allowed too many warrantless searches ever to be trusted again. That is based on the drop in the number of land lines from its maximum of 140 million in 2000 to around half that today.
           I bumped into Jack, the database guy, at the library. I have a beta copy of his new system that lists all federal assistance agencies by location. The first impression is that Jack is a computer person, strictly. His system requires a fairly knowledgeable user, but if they were, they likely would not be needing his system. Still, it is a winner.
           Last, Jag was over with his guitar, and I report complete success. He patiently learned the theory I piled on him and by the end of the second hour had played six tunes he’d never heard before. This is the identical technique I taught to the 505 last year when we performed at Jimbo’s, the ten minute grad party that turned into a two hour mini-concert. I take full credit for that event, but Jag is different. He already knew all the basics and was able to move directly to the performance level.
           I can report that he did better than all the guitarists I’ve tried in the past year put together. Not one of them got past the one or two minimal tunes. Even better, Jag quickly figured out he is far better off in this duo than striking out on his own. He’ll likely be a quiet stage personality. He also concluded what he was learning had as much to do with performance technique than music itself, a revelation others try so hard to avoid. If he is able to keep up this pace, we will be doing pro gigs within the month.
           By late afternoon, I have Pat-B’s song list, I sent along mine in return. We could probably do a light show right now. Like many guitarists, he tends toward the slow and meaningful (I’m told) ballad material, but collaborating would be fun. I don’t recall ever hearing him sing, meaning I’m making the assumption he can, as I only know the words to his single Jimmy Buffet tune, “A Pirate Looks at Forty”. I’ll suggest we learn around 30 minutes of material together and see how it telegraphs.
           I’ve just been handed this. Telegraphs means to do a half set for tips only, and split up the cash. One targets open mics and jam sessions, with the ulterior motive of over-impressing the audience, hit and run. This is where you discover my bass style is highly conformed to the psychological part of each tune where the tip/no tip decision is made in each listener’s mind. My share, doing this, was once $170 (Hawaii, 1985.)

August 30, 2010

           “Moscow Station”, a disjointed tale about the equally disjointed American operations of the embassy. These have never been anything but fronts for espionage and represent a disgusting projection of our national honesty level, abusing diplomacy to conduct blatant snoop operations. The bastard rats who run these places wonder why the world so hates us.
           More investigative journalism than a story, the author has difficulty presenting facts in systematic order, switching between chronological, territorial and sometimes just switching, although I’m sure it is all there if one could sort it out. The accuracy is his portrayal of bungling America-think in the face of cunning, depraved enemies and lying thieves determined to wreck our country. Like you find down at the welfare office, which sorely needs an uncovering.
           I’m half-way through and do not recommend the read, it is a rehash of publicly known fiascos, such as the KGB bugging of the US Seal in the Moscow CIA headquarters. That was what, back in 1972? I’ll finish it so it will not become the third(?) book in my life I quit on, one of which was by Danielle Steele.
           Ignore this if you are not interested in my medical condition. Today is the long-awaited test to determine if my heart has responded to an austere regimen since February. I won’t have the results for a few weeks. While the best that can be hoped for is no further deterioration, the best that cannot be hoped for is, as my cardiologist has stated possible, regeneration. That guy deals only in facts and he has seen improvement in the hearts of patients who obey the rules. I obey, plus I ride my bicycle at least two miles per day, every day.
           Of all times to be without my camera. I’m wired with a portable heart monitor. It is a leather pouch with five leads to my chest. It records cardiac variations over a 24 hour period to determine the efficacy of my recent procedure. I now have life-time medical insurance. Just like a Canuck, except I don’t have to pay for it through confiscatory taxation—and I don’t die waiting for appointments. Tell me again about this “Worker’s Paradise” called Canada. Tell me about who is better at planning my life, me or some fat-ass bureaucrat freezing in Ottawa?
           From my perspective, I feel improved for I’ve adapted to the agonizing effects of blood thinners and cholesterol pills, add lower stress levels now that I’ve learned to actively (consciously) control many tense situations. What I miss most is good old beef. I was a Checkers’ man, now limited to one small burger a week, and even then, it is at Burger King where they publish the ingredients. My “reward” for each burger is to walk a mile, something perceptibly becoming easier again though I’ve been fooled before.
           In the list of co-related symptoms, here’s one for you. If I do not play music for more than 72 hours, my blood pressure climbs. Worse, there is no substitute and piano does not help, it has to be bass. Closely related is driving, where my pressure soars, but riding a bicycle [or scooter?] is soothing. Does this mean, for the rest of my life, I will evolve into a two-wheeler carrying an instrument case? That would be okay by me.
           My very excellent record-keeping apparatus shows that in total housing, I have lived for a fraction of the cost of what others have required over a lifetime. My total rent paid is trivial and I lived better than most (usually far better), and once lived the equivalent of eleven years out west in a mansion without ever paying a cent.
           Yuppies read and weep, I used a good fraction of the extra cash for travel and education, and I take pleasure in reminding you that is something you can never catch up on. Worse for you, my education was for enjoyment, not to land a job. By renting, I have been able to relocate, switch careers, and leave uncorrectable nonsense behind whenever it pleased me. And in the end, I may pay cash for that dream house you had to slave for your entire meaningless lives. I dislike Yuppies, not workers in general.
           And you should see the duplex I found on the beach in north Ft. Lauderdale. At the moment I emphasize that I am not buying, merely looking. Might as well look, as everything else has come to a preplanned standstill with no immediate chance of ending. Everything is in lock-down. Nothing is moving, everything is dormant or in estivation. Those familiar with my behavior will observe when I start spending long days reading my spy and mystery novels that times they are a-changin’.

August 29, 2010

          Be prepared, or have a boy scout do that for you. Here is a washboard tie, claimed to sound like the real thing. Does it come with lessons?
           My Sherman street guitarist was not answering his phone Friday and Saturday. Ah, he was out playing. That’s one of the disqualifications I watch for because you always get away with it once. You can play anywhere you want, but you can’t be keeping it a secret. The commitment to my band is too great to allow for that.
           Then, who do I run into but a guitarist from five years ago, Pat. He recognized me on the way home from bingo last evening. I barely remember the guy, but from his talking he has come a long way, although it is a rock and blues way. He now sings and is far more confident, and repeatedly said I was totally right about music, referring to some convo we must have had way back. I can’t recall that. He also reports that the Hippie is back in town and playing the cafes on Harrison (Street) again. Are we to assume the Hippie’s WPB band worked out as well as his others?
           Afterward, I stopped at G’s Place, the pub on Tyler. A heavy rock band was putting on a mini-concert. They had more equipment than I’ve owned in my lifetime. A three piece group with a lady bassist. Best tunes were rock renditions of old classics overlong on the lead breaks. One strong point is they had their voicings down to perfection, that is, there was no loss of overall sound when the guitarist switched from chording to playing lead breaks. Impressive.
           It was a day of constant humid drizzle, meaning no coffee break at the bookstore, but plenty of time to finish up my budget to year end. Much as I would like to spend my birthday at the Diplomat (just to say I’ve been there), it looks like I may be stuck in Texas for a few weeks. Too many loose ends need tying up, and worse, I may have to drive there because rental transportation at the far end can be too expensive or non-existent. It is a three day trip both ways.
           The usual Mercator projections make it far too easy to underestimate the size of Florida by making the northern states appear relatively bigger than they are. Look at Florida on a globe to see the real size. It is 1,300 miles from here to Pensacola. My timing is also bad. There are four weeks of good weather in Texas each year, two in the spring, two in the fall. The problem is nobody knows when they will be. I could leave it till 2011, but this year my birthday has special significance.
           The rest of today’s lengthy blog concerns music, you can skip it unless you are curious about what goes on behind the scenes. Jag, the rhythm kid, is scheduled for Tuesday and all remaining 18 Mondays this year are slated for memorizing those parts of music that require it. I’m embarking beyond anything I musically set out to do and am not getting much encouragement along the way.
           In my trademark work-with-what-I’ve-got style, I went ahead and began programming the unsuitable Zoom MRT-3 drum box. Since I rarely play slow or mood music, I’ve grouped the patterns according to ease of resetting the beats per minute. This has to be done (on stage) between each song, the mental fart of a completely useless design engineer. Zoom has nerve calling it a drum box.
           But, it makes the difference I’m seeking at a quarter of the price of my original Dr. Rhythm from 20 years back. I’ve embraced drum boxes from day one which is also why I am so critical of them. Nobody makes the jukebox drummer I want, the machine where I punch in a request, not Bank D, Pattern 37, Tempo 128. All current drum boxes are pieces of junk, and yes, I’ve tried to do something about it but it is a case where I’d need help and nothing is forthcoming.
           I have ten songs nearing my standards for stage performance. Doing three things at once is as mentally exhausting as I had calculated. Only driving daily practice is causing headway. Each major thought pattern has to be assimilated, that is, vocals, bass and drums. These must then be brought together and coordinated, which causes the lesser thought patterns to instantly suffer. That means events like recalling the lyrics (I took my banana out of her dirty red pontoon), synchronizing the drum box (a very important part of my act done to unworldly precision), and looking natural while planning ahead to have one’s weight on the correct foot when it is pedal time. Just you try to picture all this happening at once and I’ll bet you ten bucks you forgot to keep smilin’.
           At this juncture, I’m compelled to point something out. I directly contradict the old guitarists claim of “doing two jobs” by singing and strumming. In comparison to what I do, guitar is a breeze. Often, if I need to get a new part, I’ll pick up the guitar and strum simply because it is nearly instinctive. I’ve always thought guitarists were just complaining; now I know it from first hand experience. But now, a singing bassist who does not play more than one consecutive root note per measure, that is definitely two jobs. Try it.
           My second batch of ten tunes begins this week, bringing me within striking distance of a live show without backing tracks. Nobody would say a guitarist using an electric drummer is faking it, so careful not to say I am either. At least I program my own drums and don’t use any of the prerecorded patterns. Midi tracks, I don’t use them at all. Too rigid for my act.
           Each step brings changes and discoveries; for what I do there is no manual. Solo acts were never my favorite for small shows, whereas a duo was perfect and larger groups were overkill. I’ve always felt two musicians doing a tight act were far more impressive to an audience, particularly when it is clear the show would suffer if both parts were not present. The crowd may not be able to define it as such, but they sure know it if anyone tries to fool them.
           In a side effect, I’m finding progress is distancing me from anything except duo work, although I’d do a solo should somebody invent a workable rhythm machine. So much of the music now has to be internalized that it is becoming impossible to disgress to only playing bass. My every stage nuance is polished for audience appeal, not accuracy. When I finally get something right, like a cha-cha-cha ending that wasn’t there, I catch myself imitating people I knew from the last century. I owe more to Jesse Demko, Larry Gustafson and Gordie Walker than to the present with its Dookie youTube repli-clones.

August 28, 2010

           Y’day, I fired my broker. A review of the past few years shows that his performance as an expert was no better than mine as an amateur, and I lately was consistently beating his performance by nearly double. I keep this small reserve for my own eventual funeral, and as long as it kept up with inflation, I’m happy. I invest in tax-free munis, which does not require an MBA taking 5% commissions. The guy succeeded my original broker when she became disasterously ill in 2002.
           It was also a revelation on some long-term decisions I made back in the 80s when launching my cubicle career with the corporate masters of our society. I calculated that in the long run, you make $5 per month for every thousand you have successfully invested. Any better return is risky, so the operative word is “successfully”. I stuck with bond funds that paid monthly dividends for my own sure thing, although this meant I would have to have $100,000 invested to make a lousy $500 per month. But time has proven that is the only source that has never let me down.
           Hold on, music has always been there and is by far my most cost-effective investment. I estimate, for performing musicians the rate of return is 130% annually. Please note I consider performing an active investment, while recording artistry is passive. While not strictly true, if the truth were known most studio types wind up with a net loss in life, none of it never recovered by that single hit song.
           I fully grasp the fascination with cutting an album, but that isn’t music; that is gambling. It is the classic legal pyramid scheme, with every musician convinced he only has to believe to achieve. His wonderful personality counts for everything. It’s an X billion dollar a year industry and home recording gear or studio time is the price of the startup kit. Put the right team together, motivate them, and yours is the power and the glory. Make a list of all your friends and family, invite them to a music party, and get out there and sell, sell, sell.
           Ooooh, did I step on some toes about guitar music last day? Good, because most guitarists I’ve met need to learn that guitar is not the most important instrument. I did a two year house gig without a guitarist, and as soon as I have the time I intend to put a lot of that material on youTube or possibly this blog. I was making the point that I would coach Jag on the relationships between the instruments so he could play the guitar correctly.
           For example, “A Long Time Leavin’”, by Toby Keith. If I’d taken guitar lessons, I would have learned it was a guitar song, that the guitar was necessary, and without the guitar the audience would not know what tune I was playing. Yet, when I heard the tune, I counted four instruments, namely drums, vocals, bass and guitar. Guitar was only 25% of the music, and my video proves it the least important part. Watch my performance and convince me those people singing along were only guessing.
           What’s this, the British have mapped the wheat genome. While I don’t trust genetic alterations yet, the prospect of growing perfect wheat in the desert sounds like a winner. But imperfect food probably causes cancer. I suppose the first step is to isolate the good from the bad. It’s not the technology I distrust, but the technicians. It’s like growing marijuana for a lab study, only one tiny cutting has to disappear and a zillion people go brain dead.
           This month was financially my worst ever since bingo started. On top of that, Theresa is refusing to pay rent. She seems to think I’ll forget she promised me she’d pay. She says only if she had a job. Yeah, right, as if somebody getting a free ride will ever find a job. I was wondering why she was recently making snarky comments like me having money stashed away somewhere. Lady, it’s beginning to sound like I’m the richest man you’ll ever meet—and you totally messed up. As if I would ever fall in love with a liar. She needs to seriously grow up and face adult responsibilities. No, raising young does not count, even monkeys and pigs can do that. I’m talking real responsibility, like paying your share.

August 27, 2010

           If he decides to stick with the program, young Jag the guitarist, is about to get all the coaching I never had. I say, if only one person had shown me the easy way, what an untold difference that would have made. His current band has no leader and that means it is going nowhere, just like my former bands once I left. I may not have been the best leader, but the others were even worse. They all wound up rotting away in studios, a seriously useless gamble for most musicians I’ve ever heard.
           What Jag needs is the inside on how to play in a band. At that age, there is a fixation on playing cover tunes to a perfection. One of the first lessons I give is to let the student listen to a piece of music while I talk about it. Hear that drum part? There’s a stop. That’s a bass run. Did you hear the guitar change? This has proven to be a total eye-opener, particularly to guitarists who never deduced their thinking was channelized. Then, the student picks a piece and I listen to their analysis. Like the Hippie, there is so much they don’t hear, they tend to play in a cocoon, focusing only on their part.
           The object of music lessons is to sell more music lessons. Is there a single hit out there dedicated to a music teacher? I also copied the 505 concert for Jag, the five guitar jam of November last year. I mean, if guitar lessons worked, why do I never hear of anybody else’s successful students, or see their videos of their graduation classes? Jest askin’.
           In the news again is the evil specter of deflation. I inquire again, what is so bad about falling prices? There is some nonsense about retailers not replacing their stock if it might devalue, but it is high time these people started risking their own money by paying in cash. Who knows, their own prices may fall. It is false to assume survival of the capitalist system is dependent on unlimited credit.
           America still has ten million shopkeepers who need a wake-up call. Those who can only survive by increasing prices need to be allowed to fail. I lived overseas in a world of used cars, ten dollar concert tickets and home made sandwiches, and it is not that bad. Furthermore, for all the babble, deflation has never been tried as a policy, so I don’t believe the naysayers.
           My next place is definitely going to have a private laundry. Those people Wallace made friends with, whom I successfully managed to ignore for a year, are over here asking for emergency car rides all the time. Since I can’t, they’ve taken to waiting until I go past with a load of laundry. There are three washers, but only one dryer. They save up a load and just before my wash cycle is up, they load the dryer for an hour. This turns my laundry day into a minimum two and a half hours.
           Do they do it on purpose? No, they are not that smart. Like my family, they have that sixth peasant sense of when they can get in your way. It does not help to have a schedule, that just hands them another advantage. Also, they leave their things in the dryer a long time over, hoping you’ll make the mistake of asking them to finish up, confirming they’ve got your goat. They’ll move, but now you owe them a favor. It is 11:30 in the morning and they have not emptied it yet.
           However, I know how to bug these types. Always have something to do that they can’t. Even the patience to read a book is enough to incense them. I’ve been practicing bass and drum machine combinations since breakfast. I know first hand how much it eats at useless people when they can’t force themselves upon a situation. I gave my brother fits by “fooling people” pretending I could play music. Although he totally missed the boat, he did learn a single bass run in his early twenties. And by god, he still plays that run today, albeit every other year. I can still hear it, a root note dum-dum-dum, dum-dum-de-dum. Hey, I just said it without falling asleep. Wonders!

August 26, 2010

           I don’t usually reveal my sources, but this AM I discovered Pete the Rock has found a lady friend up in Tamarac. This is not confirmed, rather the report that a Pete “who always dresses in black” has left the vicinity for that particular reason. That would be him, as far as the circumstantial goes. And that word “circumstantial” was no easy item to get around the MicroSoft spell checker, I’m just saying.
           It is a good thing Pete didn’t buy the home next door, as it has, like this place, dropped in price to half. A lot of the Frenchies are in for an unpleasant surprise when they return this fall. One of the units on the east end has been rented to a group of Mexican laborers; about eight of them are sharing the place. They can’t all fit inside at once, so they sit on the porch listening to loud Latino music.
           This does not bother me, as I predicted the Frenchies would not be here forever, plus I can at least talk to the newcomers. But there are some others on the north street who seem to constantly have a police car parked outside. There are no guarantees of good neighbors in Florida and one is constantly reminded of that. But Mexicans moving in will be viewed as an extreme jolt to the neighborhood.
           I was on a callout to the real estate lawyer’s office today. They have five networked computers sharing a wireless printer, I believe I mentioned this is the most elaborate home network I regularly support. They are sooner or later going to have to hire their own technician or learn the basics. Their setup has all the bad features of your average multi-user environment. Four teenagers in the house. The homework computer is a cheap old Dell with one Ram chip, the best computer is a $2,000 Toshiba laptop chock full of computer games. There are times I find the only problem was the speakers have been muted. None of their massive collections of music or photo files are backed up.
           Of course, we got to talking real estate law again. Florida has no law that prevents the electric company from being ruthless. You no pay, they cut you off, winter, summer or hurricane, they don’t care. It is a pity there are people who would turn that situation to their own advantage. Interestingly, if it is a landlord tenant situation, the electric company cannot cut off the power without offering to connect it in the tenant’s name. But the tenant has to have a huge deposit (the power company knows what is going on) and excellent credit.
           Such lawyers are neat to talk to. They know about issues that are just too much for regular people to research. He told me how to deal with some common difficulties and win. A good example would be where there is no written lease. Now I know exactly what to do. He also knows a few patent attorneys who may take another look at my puzzle invention. He also knows in advance which properties are being foreclosed, and there are something like 27,000 unsold single houses in Broward County. For some reason, the billionaires are not buying out the millionaires. My guess is they know something.
           Let’s recap. Twenty years ago I predicted the start of the economic implosion. February 2011. That still stands, you have not seen nothing yet. The system has spent two generations propping itself up with overvaluations, bailouts and statistics. It is time to pay the piper, and he doesn’t accept Visa, promises or paper. There’s that Jaws theme in the background again, with those low notes rumbling the house of cards. Whereas I don’t wish ill on any individual, I have a right to a smug smile once they start gutting the middle class.

August 25, 2010

           I spoke too soon about the weather, which gets top billing again. It is hot. With little accomplishment to show for the day, at least I did go up and check on Pete the Rock. Nowhere to be found, although I stayed until mid-morning finishing “Hornet Flight”. The epilogue explained how the author learned to fly the biplane and visited historical museums all over Denmark, so it wasn’t just my imagination. Toward the end, some of the episodes were a little hard to swallow, but let’s suppose just this once Winston Churchill did invite spies to his bomb shelter.
           The mobile home on the far corner is for sale, a beautifully kept place eighty feet long. It has a workshop and double carport, two bathrooms and is only $8,200. The “a vendre” sign says it is a Frenchie finally pulling the pin. Everything is in new condition, which includes washer/dryer, garburator, and completely finished Florida room. My guess it is at least ten years newer than here. It lacks the square footage of this place only by maybe ten percent, although it is long and narrow. Alas, my digital camera is on the fritz and I’m not buying anything new at this time, not even postage stamps.
           I also have a line on a place in Ft. Lauderdale that is just $64,000. It is on a small acreage, zoned single family and is just four blocks from the main beach. That’s walking distance via a footpath, to drive there is almost a half mile. The previous owners neglected the exterior, but inside is a decent, get this, four bedrooms. It is a regular Florida mountaintop at 19 feet above sea level.
           The taxes are $710 per year and it has a termite certificate. There is a part ocean view from the front lawn. With a decent hedge to block the view from the street, it would be secluded enough for my needs. Prices are still plummeting, so I’ll wait the market out or seek a small pre-approved mortgage. What do you know, I’m one of the few people left who qualify for one. How do you suppose that came about?
           Now, I prefer to stay right here. Just not under the present circumstances. That has to change. Others have gone out of their way to break their promises and make things as difficult as possible, not realizing they are just sealing off any hope of reconciliation. It would cost them nothing to just do what they said they would. Mere promises and words don’t seem to mean much incentive to that sort of people. For some reason, when they get broke, they refuse to blame themselves and instant start trying to shaft the next guy. Thank the stars I was blessed with enough brains to never think like that.
           The afternoon rains are back. I watched an hour long documentary on Ireland. Ah, the late 20th century will be remembered as a media wasteland, a self-imposed Dark Age of political correctness. The production managed to tour every county in the island without ever once showing a young, slim, attractive woman. There were two half-second clips of women in their late twenties, carefully portrayed as attached to a nearby male of the same age.

August 24, 2010

           Halfway through “Hornet Flight”, the novel still has me admiring the style and accuracy. Well, except for some of the escapades that show the book is definitely from this era. Everybody knows premarital sex was not invented until 4:32 PM, February 9, 1964, somewhat southeast of Dexter, Missouri. The general acreage has been harrowed and planted in russet potatoes or a rare strain of biodiesel corn. In one of several striking parallels, local football scores have since remained unchanged, as was, from afar, predicted.
           I interviewed young Jaggar, the guitar player. He is sincere and beyond that Jonas “Mom told me what to say” Brothers stage. Have you seen the oldest Jonas? He’s been playing hide the salami with what’s-her-face Cyrus, saying “twarnt nuttin”. I hope he stays famous, because on the handsome charts he’s running late. If I’m a little jealous it is over the easy money and fame that rightfully belongs to someone like me, of course.
           He already plays in a group of his school chums. It is clear he has unlimited support from his family, a crushing difference from my own situation at that age. His current band has never actually played although he sounded hopeful about eventually performing some venues I have not heard of. Playing in my band is not at all the same thing and is an incredible learning experience as shown by my five-guitar show last November. I’ve decided to give the kid what I never had. The benefit of mature, experienced guidance. Where would I be today if I’d just once someone had shown me the way?
           Be ready for a move. The trailer in Tales From The Trailer Court is actually a manufactured home, not a trailer. I’ve been here long enough to know all the things wrong with the place and it requires routine maintenance like any other property. A loose hurricane hinge here, a roof leak there. Although I could find a far better deal, I’m going to make an offer on the place. I feel the only way it will ever get the required attention and repairs is if I own it outright. But no problem, if I don’t buy it, my plans are already made.
           I was over at my real estate lawyer’s place. He works out of home, as does his wife, and they have one of the most sophisticated home networks I’ve ever worked on. Worst piece of equipment was their HP wireless printer. Second is a computer that for some reason will not work with IE. Any other browser works fine. I was there for five hours, during which we discussed all kinds of real estate issues, including tax rates, liens, and eviction notices. It is always great to know a lawyer like that. You know, in case anyone tries to pull a fast one.
           Pete the Rock has disappeared. My new pharmacy is right across the road from the Panera, meaning if he was there, I’d be certain to see him at least once every two weeks. I’m there early, his normal routine, but no sign of him. The place has been taken over by noisy old men with expensive computers just to check their email. That means I don’t go there much and that I won’t start rumors by asking around. I’m due for a refill tomorrow, whence I’ll check in again.
           Sadly, another of my older fans has passed away. I’ve never mentioned Red, but he was a guy who recently got a large sum of government money and was spending it as fast as he could. He didn’t like my music except for the country tunes, but he’d listen to it. For some reason there is a two-week delay before people tell me such news and I just learned Red died. I wonder the reason he got all that money, but nobody can doubt he hated the government with a seething fury.

August 23, 2010

           Finally, an excellent book by an excellent author. Well researched and good momentum, although by chapter 5, there are already some 20 characters to keep track of. “Hornet Flight” is a spy romance set in Denmark during the last German occupation. All people and events are believable and based on accurate historical relationships. He even has technical weaponry down to a surprisingly factual level, not bad for a book written 63 years afterward.
           The plot is a Danish kid gets caught in a rainstorm and decides to sneak across a military base rather than walk around the fence. He sees a Freya installation. Freya is a Norse goddess who can see 100 miles in either day or night. Strange the Germans would tempt fate by calling it just that. Read the book to find out, I recommend it.
           I’ve narrowed down the guitarist applicants to one fellow who lives up on Sheridan. He seems keen on the idea of a duo, although I gave him the acid test of sending him an email specifying what I don’t want. I’ve learned. For instance, I don’t tolerate multi-banding. We play as a duo or not at all. That weeds out the dreamers and the unemployed.
           It is made clear that the band and its trappings belong to me, and that the guitarist is not forming a band, he is joining one already in existence. One aspect of my bands is the way the music is arranged for performance in a manner that makes it difficult to solo afterward. This is intentional and sometimes surprises the guitarist. The guitar part alone sounds weak, missing essential sounds and lead breaks are outright terrible. This is something you have to hear to believe, but as far as I’m concerned, if I didn’t reinvent this wheel, I came darn close to doing so.
           Putting y’day’s theory to the test, I produced five two-hour DVDs for $3.50. I gave this customer a special rate as he has so many tapes. I used the computer I hand-built for the purpose. The recording is real time, that is, it takes two hours to burn a two-hour tape. But most of that two hours is slack time and I can easily operate more computers. One expense not calculated is advertising. I see a monthly ad in any of the many old-folks publications in this town.
           How do you know you’re an expert? When people watching you think, “I can do that” without a clue of the skill level involved. Dave-O saw me go into DOS and remove the autorun.inf virus and now wants to “learn DOS”. Uh, Dave-O, I have not learned it myself in some twenty years. Get a book and start reading. He is also avid watching complicated operations, both on the computer and with music, and is misleading himself over what is involved.
           This is bothersome in the sense that he must thus not recognize the advanced abilities required, but it is also an indirect complement, for on that basis I was an expert before my 8th birthday. I’m reminded of the Saturday my 15 year old sister was bored and wanted me, in a couple hours, to teach her to play classical piano like I do. She could hear me practicing so many years, but she “didn’t intend to make all those mistakes”. Funny, but insulting. And pretty clueless.
           Speaking of clueless, stupidity is sometimes rampant enough to meet my criteria for inclusion in this blog, and Theresa makes the grade today. I have to monitor the DVD rendering process, which requires huge computer power, so much that I cannot even open a word processor in the background. Thus, I will sometimes pass the time with a lo-res game, such a solitaire. That woman is too dumb to notice the connection between the DVDs and the games, so she complains I spend all day “playing” on the computer. She is too uneducated to understand I am working for money to pay her air conditioning bill. She has turned out to be far more stupid than I suspected. She should be worried about being behind on her rent instead of sticking her nose into other people’s business.
           I met a guy in the library working a laptop and asked questions. Yes, the library wifi is free and reliable. I’ve been using the free computers, but as mentioned last day, not only did they infect my flash drive, the maximum time is an hour and today I waited over two hours for my turn. He says after four months of usage, he’s never been dropped or pre-empted, and the log-on procedure is uncomplicated. The cubicles have power outlets so my next acquisition is probably a notebook (computer).
           When that will be, I can’t say. I’ve been waiting for a call from my lawyer since May 23, but all I am able to learn is that things “are going strongly” in my favor. Just like I knew they would. But believe me, after the last six months, I am more broke than the Ten Commandments.

August 22, 2010

                    My flash drive got infected by the autorun.inf file from the library computers. This annoying virus spreads through flash drives by loading itself on your computer as a hidden file. Then it infects every flash drive you insert into a USB port. No, you can’t see it or delete it with Windows, it is hidden and read-only. Here is what the virus script looks like in DOS. For some reason, this virus is not detected by Symantec products, including Norton. That’s a big “boo” to that company, because this virus has been around for ages.
                    And so you know, it will also attack SD memory cards. Thus, I had to make file transfers today using old 3.5” floppies. I was burning DVDs from VHS tapes, this time with an eye to the process rather than the results. I hate to report a boring day and I’m usually okay for not having them all that often. So I was planning ahead, and here are the details.
                    Dave-O is thinking of starting a business. As the laughing dies down, here are some of the ideas he’s come up with. Renting waterjets to sailors in Miami. His theory is that they all want to go to Ft. Lauderdale (no reason given) and don’t want to take the freeway. Or scooter rental. Dave-O is a strange mixture of informed thinking and lack of experience. He understands the allure of a cash flow business and how the tax department monitors such operations. Yet, he still wants to open one.
                    That’s what got me looking at the tape transcribing business. How does that old saying go? It only takes equipment, software and brains. I have the equipment and the software. My normal price is $16 per tape, considerably less than others and that is part of my point. There are no others. The guy who used to burn disks on Young Circle was part of the many “character businesses” that bailed downtown when the rents skyrocketed over the past three years.
                    With the added incentive of friendly competition from Dave-O, I’m carefully computing my true costs and potential income. I say that if I did this tape business, I will make more money than Dave-O investing his $120,000 insurance money. Time and motion shows I can burn three tapes per hour at a leisurely pace, five tapes if I push it. My total outlay will be for the analog-to-digital converters, which are around $70 apiece and a bank of used VHS tape decks from the thrift stores.
                    Words of caution, folks. Yes, you can go down to Tiger dot com and buy all this stuff yourself. And you’ll be sorry. None of the software does what it claims without screwing around with it for endless months working out the bugs. I literally had to build my own computer to get Pinnacle Dazzle to work. When I finally got results it was with CPU speeds and RAM that were unheard of at the time the product was first sold. There are fifty things that can go wrong that require deep experience to work around. Anyone, even a rank amateur, can produce a short tape--provided nothing goes wrong. I allow for errors every step of the way.
                    For example, I had a series of DVD disks that would wait until the last moment and jam my computer with a “burn error” message. The last moment means a wasted two hours. It took days and fifteen wasted disks/thirty wasted hours to find the problem. Turns out that these Memorex disks could not be overburned (this is a technical term with a specialized meaning). The Pinnacle software would lock up if it was set to 120 minutes even if the total recording time was much less. So it was a problem at the Memorex factory solved by switching to TDK blanks.
                    My consumables amount to the blank disks and jewel cases. The disks I get in bulk for 26 cents each, the plastic cases are anything I can scrounge and I always seem to have a few hundred on hand. In a pinch, I use those stupid paper envelopes. As far as wear and tear on the machines, that is a judgment call as I do all the maintenance myself. However, let’s assume my cost of burning a 2-hour VHS tape to DVD is 75 cents.
                    I have a five tape minimum, which I’m doing right now. Sixteen times five is $80 at a cost of $3.75 at three tapes is a gross profit of $45.75 per hour or if five tapes it is $76.25 per hour. On paper. I can certainly tell you about which business would be easier to run. With a rental shop, you can’t exactly take a day off when you please and at any given time, look at the phenomenal amounts of money you have tied up at any moment, all of it at risk. My risk amounts to what? A bad hair day? Anyway, do the math and a full year of 40 hour weeks would produce a gross profit of $158,600. But if there was that much business, I’d have fifty computers in operation right now.
                    The other downside of a rental business is that the busy time is on season. The off season is this unbearably hot weather. Also, you can’t leave such a business alone for a week. You can’t just close up for a month whenever you feel like it.

August 21, 2010

                    This is the Ft. Lauderdale water taxi. This is not the boat Wallace and I rode last year. You pay $15 and get an all day pass, the taxi stops at 14 locations, a lot of them waterfront pubs. But if Wallace gets here in time for my birthday in November, this is his present.
                    Another astounding bingo session without the profit. It was bingo anniversary, a full year during which the show has evolved into definitely one of a kind in America. Or if there is anything like it, they are keeping it a very close secret. It is time to get some of this on DVD. Favorite new item is the full “sammyzonk”. I can explain.
                    Years ago, right here, I reported somebody in the audience could make an unearthly sound, like an alarm klaxon. Turns out, it was Sammy, the bartender. I recorded him and was using it to “zonk” false bingos. It struck me last week this noise must have a frequency, so by using Audacity software, I lowered and raised the relative pitch until arriving at a credible imitation of the old “shave and a haircut” ditty.                     Instant hit, when some people heard it, I swear I brought a tear to their eye.
Alas, my equipment is wearing out. My digital camera is broken, along with my DVD player, VHS tape deck, microphone and wireless router. I’m not mean-mouthing the equipment because electronics like these get heavy usage around me. My budget does not allow for any repairs until late October, hey, in total contrast to my upbringing, at least I have a budget for these things.
                    Trivia. Seven hundred years after being dispossessed by British invasion, it was still common for impoverished Irish peasants to will the titles of their hereditary estates which they no longer own. Such, apparently, is the hatred for the English even today. I happened to be reading a tract about the rugged Atlantic coast of west Ireland and came across names of estates rather than the current political divisions.
                    That’s when I noticed a concurrency of the English and American public assistance laws, as the amount the Irish poor are given in aid is based on these estates being taxed at something called a “rate”. It is the rule, same as we have in America today, that only those people of zero net value can receive any welfare, even in times of need. On the surface, this law makes sense. Why should somebody, say with a house, get any help?
                    Because if you don’t help them until after they lose the house, you will have created a monster. It requires a working and productive members of society to have possessions like houses which represent an accumulation of value. By requiring this class of people to lose everything, you also destroy their will to do so. Now, instead of net contributors, you have a class of people who learned to live on welfare, work under that table, and blow the money as soon as it arrives.
Cecil W. Smith said it this way, “These are dangerous lessons for any government to compel its subjects to learn, and a dangerous habit of mind for any nation to acquire.”
                    At first glance, I was leery of these new laws that prevent foreclosures but now they make a little more sense. But don’t go overboard, I say, once the house is sold, the spendthrift owners should have to pay back the assistance. Help them, but send them the bill. They hired the money, didn’t they? We don’t want any Canadian-style send the butler for the welfare check scenarios here.

August 20, 2010

                    What is liposculpture? This ad says it is a non-invasive vibration that claims to remover 70% of fat, permanently. That inventor is going to make a fortune. The reason the ad caught my attention is the claim that the fat “does not come back”. Where does it go? To one’s head? It removes “over one gallon of fat”, and it looks like they charge around $3,800 if that gallon is around one’s abdomen. Anyway, this is a procedure I never heard of, so it gets mention today.
                    Lacking anything to do for a change, I stood under a big old tree and counted the number of lizards living in the branches. Actually, my 10:00 AM callout was late driving across town and I was waiting. The days are the equivalent of a sauna and the local reptiles love it. Myself, I headed directly for the library to see what responses arrived for my advertisement.
                    Seventeen responses arrived from as far away as Kendall and West Palm Beach, although I asked only for local people. The right guitar player is out there but not in the form I need. The difficulty is that most guitarists who are remotely good enough to keep up with me (not a figure of speech) already have their own musical direction. I’m even considering a kid named Jaguar, 15 years old, but he’s got no damage that needs undoing.
                    Worst response was from some stupid woman who didn’t like the way I responded. I sent everyone a quick note to politely confirm I had received their email and would be getting back to them later. Of the lot, only the woman writes back saying I was arrogant, abrupt and the wording of my response was not up to her standards. I decided to have a little fun with this pompous twerp.
                    She had asked if acoustic guitar was okay, and did she have to sing. I wrote staying the guitar was fine, but that I’d already heard all the singing I care to hear out of her. She goes ballistic, suddenly I’m another Craigslist a-hole and why does she waste her time reading there? I ask the same question, since my ad was for a rhythm guitarist, not somebody who needs babysitting. I told her if she demanded special attention from the word go, maybe psychiatry would serve her better.
                    Well, I didn’t say that exactly, but you know it’s what I was thinking. I also have to be careful not to hire anyone who sees music as a job. That type never go the extra mile and always deliver the minimum. Music as a living is feast or famine. Several of the responses contained hints they needed the money. The good news is that my ad must have effectively conveyed most of my intentions.
                    Then I ran into Jackie from Jimbos. He was impressed by the band we had seen two years ago up at Boston’s. July 25, 2008, to be exact. They had a washboard player and now Jackie wants one. Ah, see I told him three years ago he should learn an instrument. The player at Boston’s was very impressive and used professional gear, not a real washboard. I have no idea where Jackie intends to practice but it ain’t over here, that’s for sure.
                    Experience is slowly convincing me that Linksys routers and Dell computers don’t go together. I’ve been working on a bank of them and each Dell has to be specially configured. One would think it an easy matter of setting all the computers the same but I have no explanation why that does not work. Some will connect with random IP addresses, others need to be assigned. Stumps me.
                    By the way, there were 43 lizards. How was your day?

August 19, 2010

                    Here’s records. To me, this typifies the waste that America puts to perfectly good resources. These records, understandably, were originally kept when justice was served. What I detest the most are records kept where no crime was committed. That is, if you are innocent, we’ll keep a file on that, too. Never know when we’ll be needing them again. Geez, we’re sorry about the jail time and the embarrassing public trial and all that, but we’re just doing our jobs. And don’t slam the door on your way out.
                    I was uptown checking on scooter regulations. No surprises, but although scooters of less than 49 cc displacement do not require a special operator’s license or insurance, they still must be registered. That is what is in this bank of file cabinets. Scooter registrations. If you’ve got a scooter, they’ve got to know about it. It is neither free nor voluntary. And you wonder why I dislike the motor vehicle branch.
                    Dave-O drove me around to look at scooter stores. Several are repair shops that are the best bet. He knows a guy that has a small gas motor fitted to his bicycle, but these units are frightfully expensive. Lee’s has them for $700, it is insane that the engine cost more than the cycle. Trivia for today. Dave-O says the original Harley Indian motorcycle had the throttle on the left hand-grip. Why? Seems it was a military design and the driver needed his right hand to shoot with.
                    Later in the day I talked with a guy who got a small gas motor off the Internet for $125. He could not remember the brand name. That’s more like my price range. He says he can hit 35 mph which I consider that more than dangerous. He reports he’s got 1,557 miles on the odometer and used just ten gallons of unleaded gas. Everybody makes a big deal out of the afternoon rainstorms.
                    Rain does not bother me in warm climates. I rented scooters in Hawaii back in the 80s. If it rains, just keep on driving. You’ll be dry in a few minutes. Florida weather is similar to Thailand with little rain squalls in the afternoon. You just pull into a roadside hut and wait. The owner will always have a Coca-Cola and the storms rarely last more than twenty minutes.
                    Let me tell you a tale about Thailand. I have many, this is just one. I always rent a motorcycle, not a scooter. Same price over there. Anyone can become a Buddhist monk and most Thai males do so at some point in their lives. They wear characteristic orange robes, shave their heads, and forego all material possessions.
                    Well, darned if I didn’t meet two guys who had been hiking in the Himalayas. They had bought all manner of useless regulation gear and were now chucking it. They gave me a raincoat, one of the kind you can never get back in the package after using it one time. I had to make a trip into Phuket for radio batteries, so no problem, I put on the raincoat and went blasting through the storm into town.
                    The raincoat was a dull orange color that turned bright orange as it got wet. It also turned a lot of heads because it looked at first glance like a Buddhist on a motorcycle. I shocked the hell out of a few thousand people until I got close enough for them to see I wasn’t bald. Ah, beautiful Thailand, back when it was still Thailand.
                    A lot of people tell me I should write my memoirs. My answer is that they are already written. Hand-written at the time, so they are not even memoirs. I’ve explained that computers were not always the wonderful and hassle-free units we have today. That’s a joke, son. Funny you should come along at the right time, for I have slated to begin key-entering my journals in late October this year. This is a monumental undertaking. I have thousands of photos, all slides, to be converted to digital. But what slides they are, wait till you see some of the places I’ve been. I spent $186,000 traveling when I was younger. Oh, and most places I walked, so don’t get any idea I wasted my cash on tourist taxis and cruise ships.

August 18, 2010

           See this picture? Good, because I can’t. It is a moon rock, about the size of a sugar cube. It is also what convinced me I finally have to get a camera that takes better macros. This rock is on display at the Ft. Lauderdale Library, where despite a lot of expensive-looking renovations, they are cutting staff hours. The rock is dark and speckled, much like wet beach sand.
           The rock is part of an exhibition on astronauts and focuses on the defunct Shuttle program. My lawyer informs me after the Columbia disaster, NASA relocated the observation area back a couple of miles. He knows people who were at that launch and they all agreed something was wrong before liftoff. So NASA moved the fence. That’s nice.
           I had another not-mentioned-in the-manual Hewlett-Packard repair. Their higher end printers have ports where you can scan directly to a flash or memory card. The problem is, when this feature quits working, you are stuck. Not a word anywhere from HP on the solution. Theory: the printer has a small “computer” chip on board and it is kept charged with transistorized capacitors. When it locks up, these capacitors must be discharged, and you cannot do that simply by turning the machine off and back on again. Try this. While the printer is turned on, unplug the power cable for a minute, then plug in again. This acts as the equivalent of a reset button, yet another feature missing on HPs.
           Guitar player number 17 has appeared on the scene. He can play anything, but he is only 15, the son of a guitar teacher. Maybe I’ll be doing some Green Day after all. His parents want him to get a job, so my advice is make it music. At least there is a chance it will do him some good over the next fifty years. At fifteen, a kid should be enjoying life, not working and certainly not “building character” as the theory goes. Seriously, parents, there are no jobs a 15 year old can get that will do him or you any good in the long run. Just you watch, if he does well, they’ll want room and board. Either way, they cut off his allowance. I know a lot about this brand of parenthood.
           I got around to looking at scooters again. This item may have to wait until winter, when business picks up again. Too bad, I could surely use it right now. There are five scooter stores in the immediate area, and plenty more up near the airport. At least one of them has to be lean and hungry, don’t you suppose? I’ve also been asking around for advice on this vehicle and the general response is that it is the right thing to do.
           Next, I tried to get in touch with JP. He is not working at Quizno’s any more. As usual, he leaves his phone unplugged for days at a time. Without the scooter, I have no realistic way of getting there, either. We usually take a mini-holiday in the Keys around November and we need to get coordinated, not an easy task for guys like us who, left to our own devices, would spend all day chasing women. Says JP, women are irrational; says me, good, for if they were logical, guys like me would get all the good ones and you get the leftovers.
           What’s this? New studies on depressed people show that the latest anti-depressant pills have an unintended side effect. They cause the body to grow new cell tissue in the critical areas of cognition used for memory and logic. This new brain matter has a greater effect on the patient than drugs alone and is considered a major breakthrough in the treatment of chronic mental depression. They are politely saying the program “has the same effect as obliging these poor-me types to get off their whining asses and go read something intellectual”.
           Actually, that was me saying it. All the “depressed” people I met at the phone company had one thing in common: They were so self-absorbed it was pathetic. They were the epicenters of their own universe. Then, if I was as useless as that lot, maybe I’d hate myself, too. Up their meds, I say.

August 17, 2010

           Here is another picture that is not blurry, but the actual effect of heat waves coming off the patio. It was 104 inside the house by 9:00 AM. I took the cooler morning to do some bicycle maintenance. That included a new front tire, the blackwall seen leaning against the chair. Front tires, due to steering, wear three times faster than rear tires, grinding to a smooth tread at around 3,000 miles. I prefer the softer ride of 40 psi though the tires are rated to 65.
           Second last. That’s where I came in at the new trivia game last evening. What can I say, of the 36 questions, at least 20 were television or sports, two topics on which I pride my ignorance. Or it could be that I just don’t consider it all that important to know the year of the first hole-in-one at the Master’s. (1934) The host is quite the gal, but I’m afraid it is a brand of trivia I could never win at. Her 14 year old son may need bass lessons.
           Then along comes Eddie, the guitar guy from last summer. He’s convinced I don’t play original music. In a sense, that’s right, I don’t play it on stage on a Friday night. Nor do I try to slip one in bottom of the third set either. Eddie, the crowd is on to that juvenile tactic. Guitar players are always convinced that old trick fools anybody. Now maybe Eddie does play a lot of original music, but he sure doesn’t play it in front of live audiences that I’ve ever seen or heard. Know what I’m saying?
           Eddie also has a trick memory. To his recollection, I was the one that auditioned for his band last year. He remembers that I want to drop my live performances and go waste a few years in a recording studio his friend set up in a garage two blocks over on Harding. Eddie is certain he is the one who I copied for all my material. Eddie definitely recalls that he is also the person who taught me how to sing! No, he has never met my family, so this is pure coincidence. I think.
           I needed to print a document at the library, silly me, I asked at the information desk. Some shriveled old hag looks at me like I must be a fossil. Well, she says, you go stand in that line over there. A twenty minute line, to pay 15 cents? So I asked her if the print queue cleared itself overnight. Her look said, of course, don’t you old coots know anything at all? God sure must like tub-‘o-lard librarians. Sorry to bother you, ma’am. Maybe I could help you change your sign from “Information” to “Insults”.
           Speaking of cranks, Theresa came out with one the other day that I don’t love my cat as much as she loves hers. WTF? Have these people nothing better to do all day than sit around cooking up such brainstorms and stewing in their own juice. I fear the woman is truly driving herself insane. She is certainly the most idly-motivated person I’ve met in ten years.
           This is the same person that complains I have all these “little things” I can do for money, like somebody handed them to me, like it is a bad thing, like I do it to spite her. She’s behind in her rent, and what does she do? Count coffee filters. Friggin’ coffee filters, my friends. The fact is, her cats attacked my Pudding-Tat and now Tat hangs out with the neighbors. I like my cat just fine and I miss her.
           Dave-O says if I really want a nice scooter, buy it in the Keys. He worked there for a Navy contractor dredging a channel and building a pier, all classified. Wallace and I drove past those pylons. The US has the only military in the world with enough brains to hire civilians to operate a pile driver 65 feet off the main highway through a tourist trap and call it a secret base. The password is, I believe, “Huckleberry Hound”.
           He says if we want, he’ll drive us out to the Keys for a day and look. But I prefer a used scooter from a local store, and anyway it will cost us $65 to go to the Keys. That’s just in gas and food. Wallace and I packed a lunch last time, maybe I could save a few bucks that way. I like the Keys, in moderation. It is still off season, the best time to visit any place surrounded by water.

August 16, 2010

           This is a fountain at the west end of Las Olas Blvd. in downtown Ft. Lauderdale, near the library. More oppressive heat and humidity. Come on down to Florida, die of heat stroke, or huddled about the A/C of your partial northeast ocean view from condo canyon. I’m using the morning hours to get everything done before “big ball of fire in sky” turns the streets into lava. Sometimes I miss winter (hello, Mitch of the frozen north) but it never gets to me since I can drive up and see it for a while any time I’d like. My idea of polar conditions is late fall in downstate Colorado.
           More oppressive heat and humidity. Come on down to Florida, die of heat stroke, or huddled about the A/C of your partial northeast ocean view from condo canyon. I’m using the morning hours to get everything done before “big ball of fire in sky” turns the streets into lava. Sometimes I miss winter (hello, Mitch of the frozen north) but it never gets to me since I can drive up and see it for a while any time I’d like. My idea of polar conditions is late fall in downstate Colorado.
[Photo delayed]
           It looks like the new Ed stalled himself out of a good job. He never kept in touch to my several emails to pick ten songs, my usual test of a guitarist’s sincerity. Guess he’s too busy working the loading bay at Guitar City to be concerned about a career in the performing arts. It never occurs to these people that not much ever occurs to them, I mean, what are the authentic odds of a non-singing, non-picking over-30 rhythm guitar player ever getting into a working band?
           Scooter it is, my plan is to visit several places and inform them I’ve got $300 for the shop that gives me the best deal. There is a theft problem with scooters in Florida, so they cannot be left parked for overlong, though I’ll wager the units that get lifted are not securely locked. That’s an error I never make and a trait among successful bicyclists. Scooters are seen a lot more these days as reality settles in but there are still few secure places to leave them unattended.
           What I don’t know is whether a sidecar makes a difference. Would it make the rig too distinctive to steal? Is the added weight a deterrent? My thinking is that I’ll quickly learn which parking lots have security cams and I’ll plan around never leaving the scooter around for long, the maximum stay for me might amount to a grocery shop. I cannot find any local regulations of whether a scooter has to pay for parking, or I can pull onto the sidewalk and chain it?
           I’m wrapping up “Naked”, the novel. The author is plainly a humorist, and the book was on the New York Times bestseller list. Yet he’s one of the few of the published I would not care to meet in person and certainly not to shake his hand. You just know when somebody has walked too many less beaten paths. Or the converse.
           Dave-O has come up with an interesting one. There is a guy on Hollywood (Blvd) that has an Internet radio station and is actually making money at it. Dave-O asked to broadcast my material and I had to tell him honestly that I do not have a single recorded minute of music ready for that. I do have excellent backing tracks that are original. These won’t help in a situation where anyone would naturally want to sound their best, but not the Hippie-form of including musicians and instruments that will never be there.
           Instead, I requested Dave-O put together a meeting with the owner to show us how the software works. Dave-O needs that kind of experience by the bucket. And I am damn curious after reading my little iPod booklet for the examples given were within my reach. Allow me to digress. Years ago, before I found out about artists whose families paid them to stay away from home, I could not understand why many creative types had weighty collections of unsold and earlier work. Or how they could afford to stockpile it.
           I was forced out of home at 17 and had no spare anything to accumulate. Yet, when I look at my recording tracks (all produced before I got serious about singing), I’ve got just such a reservoir of music. Like the other artists, it is not my best material and would require exception effort to put into form, so there it sits, reflecting my personality. For instance, the Hippie would always want me to play “Gimme Three Steps”, which is a dreary mismatch for my bass style. Why bother with that so-so hit, when I could learn four audience-oriented tunes for the same effort, plus there was no guaranty if I learned it, the Hippie would ever play it. I have a lot of such music, so maybe I can find something. It might be the Internet, but it is still called radio.

August 15, 2010

           Again, too hot. I spent the day reading a truly weird book called “Naked” by David Sedaris. Either that author is truly peculiar or he spent too many years in a cookie factory. If he’s writing about himself, as he appears to be, it is an interesting peek into the inner arrangement of an amusing though sinister part of the human thought process. Some of his comments are crystal clear but triggered by the wrong events. My favorite is, “If hard work was part of what forged your character, I want nothing to do with it”.
           It’s a story of a Greek kid growing up in Raleigh with the usual kid problems. Except, he seems to be able to get away with just about any manner of strange behavior, and therefore does. He turns his family into comical figures. My family were not comical figures. He is upsettingly aware of how seeming little acts can have consequences. I’m not finished the book yet.
           Theresa got a kick out of a television show this evening. It was the rock bands, or popular groups, that performed on Ed Sullivan. Or I should say, she got the kick out of the different way I viewed the same program. I told you, I’ve been a band manager since the age of 13, so I would have to can the trumpet player, or that guy in the Young Rascals that just stands there and plays tambourine.
           I’d trim Sly and the Family Stone down to three, maybe four members. And the Beach Boys would instantly be a trio. Bongos? Not on my stage. I was born too late to see any of these famous bands live and the last concert I went to was the Doobie Brothers, long after most of the real members had left. Big bands were out in my lifetime, a matter of economics. If I’d been in charge, it would be the Yardbird, the The Door and Diana Ross and the Supreme.
           Still, these bands lived the American dream and were far more influential than the countless masses that followed. It is scary how today’s groups lack any real power to change a thing, they are all into it for the money, cranking out replicate youTube videos. I’ve listened to 400 of these without finding a single tune I could whistle an hour later.. Yet I am constantly finding catchy tunes written decades ago that I’ve never heard before. These are ordinary rock and country music so it is not as if I’m purposely favoring music from another era.
           I won’t ask for a show of hands, but many people have heard me state that I’ll be totally occupied when I am older because of all the movies, TV and music I never saw when I was young. Maybe I’m already experiencing the payoff, since most everything I see on TV is new to me. My first TV was in 1998, somebody donated it to me.
           To answer the next question, I spent every waking day of my life since the age of 14 doing the one worthwhile activity for any man with the gift of gab: chasing women. True, my contemporaries did other things, like work hard and get promotions, but the fact is they missed the bus to the sexual revolution. Like my brothers, those men actually thought picking up women would become easier as they got older and moved to the city. Today, where I look back on fond memories, they all hang out in saloons hitting on off-duty hookers, middle-aged barmaids, and bragging up their favorite titty bars.
           That crowd of men are disgusting. Every one of their stories begins and ends the same. To this day, I still know some men that cannot believe I have never been to a stripper bar. Sorry, youse guys, I had the real thing before I was 21, so I don’t have to pay for it third-hand twenty years down the line.

August 14, 2010

           Today’s photo is the essence of empirical thinking, since this is about the only useful thing to do with a quilt in Florida. Hang it on the wall. This isn’t an electric bass, but neither is it an electric guitar, so it gets top billing. The entire display of some 60 quilts is in Ft. Lauderdale and includes unsuspected gems like a bus window quilt and a D-Day Normandy landing quilt.
           Another tropical scorcher, another day at the library, in my private research section. Mind you, it gets harder to find even research material as time goes along. Of the four shelves, one is dedicated to African-American studies. Again, none of the volumes have ever been touched. And I’m not likely to change that. The only larger section is the Jewish aisle, which gives the impression they alone suffered in WWII.
           I was again looking at scooters, and I believe that is going to be my major form of local transportation for the next 27 months. Lately one does notice more scooters and motorcycles on the road and Key West is two-wheel city. That could be because there is hardly anywhere to park downtown.
           The voting people are putting on their embarrassing shows on the lawn in front of the library. These people do not know how retarded they look. Politics is the one thing I prefer to see on TV because then you can turn them off. It appalls me how simple-minded some people are to get caught up in all that nonsense. Where is it written that Florida is required to have a governors and senators? Governor of what? Corruption? Send them all home, I say. Let’s go without them for ten years and see if it makes any difference. Hire a private accounting firm and some security guards for everything else and publish what they get paid every week in the local newspapers.
           Bingo was the high point, another thoroughly successful show. Revenues are way down for the summer. Even with the 50/50 round, the place is not paying enough to compete with music. Although it is my greatest source of income, that is because it is steady and fairly reliable and not because it pays well. I am considering hitting the management up for some small changes, like making the 50/50 a double game.
           Again, the big players dominated the winnings, taking half the games from two tables. Those six patrons often play 24 of the cards, which on a slow round is half the total and to be expected. One of them is on the board over at the Moose and I asked about the rumor I’d been voted out before I got in.
           He reports nothing of the kind. Instead, he informs me that the social committee books all events on an annual basis and that they are full right up until New Year’s 2011. That makes more sense and that’s why I didn’t take the first information at face value. Florida is full of people who, while generally uneducated, are extraordinarily well-versed on very the topics that refute accepted common knowledge. They don’t know any answers, but they are absolutely certain you are asking the wrong questions. Every piece of useful information that comes along is at odds with their wisdom and they contradict everything you believe in. It is terrifying to know they give such people driver’s licenses.
           We had to run the A/C all day. That’s because nobody dared go outside. Theresa and I talked about the lack of things to do in this town for adults. There are no places to go except maybe the expensive movies. I don’t mean like seniors centers where you can always join a checkers tournament. The fact is, the only place to go and meet other adults is the local pubs, probably the worst reason to go there. I cannot think of a single place in south Florida I would go out just for a coffee any more.
           I recall an article I read years ago that described the new businesses that would succeed in this century. One was the home-town style coffee shop, the small non-chain mom and pop operation that used to be a place you could go hang out. I blame Starbucks for destroying these places all over America. It turns out I am not the only one who dislikes Starbucks on this point, but their corporate purchasing power drove all the competition out of business, so there is no place else to go.
           At any rate, the projection said places with a “homey” style would fare the best, the picket fence and low prices. It is not a business for me due to the long hours that must be put in, but there are circumstances where I’d consider it. The local problem is the very high rents and cafes seem to start right up again whenever another closes up. The competition is still rough, but the right place would make money. Think of the Panera without the high prices and paper cups. (Panera now charges $1.90 for a coffee.)

August 13, 2010

           Today's hero, Steve Slater. The JetBlue attendant who told off the bitch who got antsy when her bag wouldn't fit in the overhead. Lady, what in hell's name was he supposed to do about it? He should have told you where it would fit. If you don't like airline rules, walk. Or better yet, drive, it's more dangerous because there's more people like you on the road. I don't like rude flight attendants either, but stupid old women who think they can get away with anything are insufferable.
           Don’t stand so close, I say, the heat index is over 110 degrees today. And I had to ride my bicycle right through it, collecting all kinds of documentation for the upcoming week. The heat has gone into the painful zone, I repeat do not travel to Florida in the summer unless you know what you are doing. In which case, you’d stay away.
           Bryne has reappeared, up in Pembroke Pines. He got a last minute contract in the Keys and did not leave for the north. He is just not a computer person, his resume was in docx and some people could not open it. Trust MicroSoft to pull a stunt like that. What’s more, he’s got 53 copies out there and does not know which ones are docx. His former business on the left coast is for sale for $300,000 and he won’t see any of it.
           He owned, or I should say started, a famous pub in Carmel. His clientele was the after- after- after-hours crowd, the ones who always claim to be Blues music aficionados, but drink Heineken and Corollas with that lemon slice. Did you know lemons are the filthiest thing to eat in a pub? They don’t wash them and, well, you can imagine. Still, Bryne was the owner, having invested his life savings just before the economy, pardon the pun, tanked.
           My day was comparatively fine, my greatest discomfort was some music I had listened to that stuck in my brain all day. Remember that Patty Loveless and her “Blame It On Your Lyin’ Cheatin’ Heart”? Rattling my brain all day when I was supposed to be concentrating. For some good news, my throat is clearing up and I was able to sing along to some falsetto lyrics. Nobody was more surprised that myself when it came out on key with no detectable effort to move into the upper range.
           Which is not to say I’m ready to do falsetto on stage. I still have to mentally plan every note and performing live has distractions. That’s what I meant when I was 17 years old and said there is no such thing as stage fright, only lack of preparation. You don’t do what I do half way, not without getting the heebie-jeebies. Practice is king, and if you count the hours, you might not even start.
           This unbearable heat drove me in to Buddy’s Place (the pub on Dixie and Washington), the first time I’ve been there in the daytime. For the record, I usually have a soda, but a patron who recognized me sent over a cold and very welcome beer. The building A/C is sub-zero and it still took me a half hour to stop sweating. Buddy tells me that Laura is now doing her Karaoke seven nights a week. During the day she is a paralegal, so she’s working like I once did when I was able.
           That explains why she never comes to see my show any more. The point is, the music work is there, and I’m prepared to face the realities. My new show and prices are planned to compete directly with the Karaoke market. I don’t know of any bands that are playing every night, know what I mean. Live music is still better, but experience shows that few people travel any distance beyond a mile or two, no matter how good you are. It’s a police and parking thing. And it helps if those miles are toward the beach, not along it.
           Let me go over some repeat data here, just to be clear. I don’t really have a following, but I have plenty of local fans. The way I get hired is not to pack a club full of strangers. Instead, my strategy is to have patrons who are already there stay longer or buy more. Of course, I like work on the waterfront, where tourists provide variety. But generally, I cannot play the same spots continuously or repeatedly. Novelty is hard to sustain, even if I do a better job of it than most around here.
           Sometimes I get asked about concerts and charity. That is an area I only consider when money is good. So the answer is no. There is also a “look-at-me” aspect of such events that doesn’t entirely fit my style. You know I dislike entertainers who play “at” the audience. My show is meant for smaller rooms. If memory serves, nor has anybody offered me $10,000 for a concert. So don’t rule anything out.

August 12, 2010

           Here’s my idea for a novel parade float. Nothing else like it ever really existed in history. This is my scale drawing, though I had a little help from old Leo, but he had some cockamamie scheme to sell it to the King of Italy as a “tank”. Examine closely and you will see it is really a shell mounted on a four-wheel bicycle. And that shell can be made collapsible.
           America’s new hero, the flight attendant that jumped plane. No name yet, but let’s see how well he, if you would, fares. Of course, all the two-bit female TV reporters are saying he was wrong because he “was rude” to a passenger. It’s expected they never consider the provocation, just the flare up. That’s why they’re all aging serial divorcees with tattoos. Who else thinks it is fine to provoke others unto anger? Why, the passenger was just trying to help him work on his patience.
           It took half the day to get a few simple things done since the vicious heat returned. That is why that scooter is a priority. Routine matters are taking too long, and this weather is not easy on anybody’s health. I read a history of scooters, and there have been a steady stream of winners and losers, mostly designed in Europe. The most enduring model is certainly the Vespa. It says a lot the design hasn’t changed much since 1947, the earliest picture I found.
           The current Reader’s Digest covers an interesting crime investigation. Under Texas law, nobody can be charged with murder unless they have a body or a body part. Some 29 year old skank tortured her boyfriend, everybody knew it but—no body. That compound that makes blood appear showed the victim’s blood was all over the walls and floors. It had been carefully washed off.
           The novelty here is that they called in an expert who was able to determine that the amount of blood that caused the stains was deadly, that is, such an amount of blood loss was lethal. Therefore, the blood was a body part. The skank got only twenty years. And you wonder why men won’t date older women. One look told anyone what she was; an aging serial divorcee with tattoos.
           Back home for a movie, another of the old Viet Nam prison camp breakout theme. It had everything, the corrupt police, corrupt army, the rickety bridge over the jungle river with incredibly blind sentries, even a handy waterfall to jump off when the good guy gets trapped. Everybody is a double agent except the triple agents. The only realism I detected was how useless the American embassies truly are.
           I’m having doubts about new Ed, the rhythm guitarist. He is not staying in contact despite his twice-stated optimism. In case he turns out like the rest, I also need that scooter to move to Plan B. Open mics are cropping up all over town as clubs seek ways to get cheaper entertainment. With a scooter, I can take my show on the road, or as it were, the street. I’ve identified five open mics within an eight mile radius. The object is to show up from out of nowhere with material they never imagined, then announce I’m looking for an accomplice.
           How’s my singing coming along? Glad you asked. Getting over the flu, I’ve found something else I can do on key: falsetto. This happened by chance trying to hit a couple of Roy Orbison notes. Is this important? I hope so, because I can almost do it on command and if I work hard, I may attempt a yodel or two. Nobody yodels in Broward, not even the Bluegrass bands. My recent club study shows I am totally right about the market for a country duo. Plan B is premised on exposure to rhythm guitarists.
           This is where doing my own vocals gives me a decided edge. No longer can a guitarist pull a Hippie on me and claim he’s doing “two jobs”. No, you stand there and play guitar, because the chances of a non-singing guitarist ever getting into a band these days are below zero. Unless human nature has changed, where I’m getting no help starting up, I’ll have guitarists up the ying-yang once I’m on stage. But that stage will not have the convenience of being just over on Dixie.
           I don’t say I will sing falsetto tunes, heaven’s no. Listen to “A Long Time Leavin’” by Toby Keith(?), I think it is an old Roger Miller hit. That’s more what I have in mind, the type of tune nobody will try to copy. Guessing you’ll want to know the lyrics for the last two lines of the talking part. It goes, “And he's whoopin' the big legs on my Levi's, they go woop woop woop woop woop woop woop woop.”