[Author's note: welcome to this decades most popular post so far. That's the decade 2001-2010. No reason is known why this post gets so many hits. After 2012, it reverted to a normal frequency.]
Lookie what I found. A 1941 BMW sidecar in as perfect condition as you’re going to find after 70 years. And not too far from here. The guy wants more than I’ll pay but you don’t see something like this every decade. He would have to consent to it being totally checked out by my people. This is not a Dnepr or Ural knock off from the Ukraine. This is the real deal.
[Author's note 2013-12-27: it turned out this motorcycle was a fake.]
So, how’s the guitar practice happening? My co-learner seems to have run out of steam after a week. She took lessons and has been sold the concept of playing heavy guitar licks to old standards. They didn’t tell her she’ll need a backup band or studio to perform that stuff. I carried on and wasted my fingertips, something all guitarists will tell you. It doesn’t make them good players, don’t ever confuse the two. (Bass playing does not shred your fingertips.)The challenge is to find an adequate way to report progress, so let me come up with a definition that fits me. I am not learning guitar in isolation, rather only as accompaniment to my singing. I am “custom learning” each strum by what the original music suggests to me as a complement to the vocals, a durable holdover from being a bassist. Therefore, progress is to be measured by the number of songs I would go out and play at an open mic right now. That number is 9, with another 13 not too far off. The goal is 32.
[Author's note 2013-12-27: in the end, I could never do more than 20 songs, but the guitar concept survived and is today what I call "integrated guitar". Four years later 2016-10-26 I can play 26 songs. But I can play the shit out of them!]
Being the untalented sort, sad but true, I have to find particular tunes that match my skill level. Each note and measure has to be memorized, since I can’t read guitar music or tabs. At the same time, I now recognize so many other players who never admit to this limitation because they do consider themselves talented. That is an interesting turn of events. I realized it before, just not the degree to which it applies. Um, let me rephrase that. I have talent on no instrument other than the electric bass.
[Author's note 2013-12-27: I am also implying that many guitarists don't have talent either, they are memorizing each note same as me. The difference is, I can and do learn new material where they insanely stick with the old.]
How do they do it? The Canadians began arriving the same day the weather turned. The prime spot next door is taken by an older motor home or a brand I’ve never seen before. Unsurpassed scooter weather found me gathering the final bingo items which I regretfully left behind when I had to move on such short notice in March. That situation will long be remembered. As predicted, a complete workable bingo setup including consumables runs around the $85 mark with incredible ROI.
The most expensive item is the outlay for the daubers which happily last a very long time. What’s concerning me is the mounting mileage on the scooter. It was not made or intended to keep up with a car. It must be considered for replacement while it is still shines and runs perfectly. I like it, but it has served its purpose and is now inadequate for my full needs and my improved endurance. I truly miss driving a car but not until I get the okay which could be never.
Here's a sneak preview of 2013. This is the bike I eventually bought, "The Batbike". This is also your reminder that this blog is for entertainment, not strict chronological or historical accuracy.
The dating club. I’ve finally got a working ad that specifies the age range that interests me, but I’m getting replies from women far too young. I can’t date a 22 year old again. The average age of the writers is 27, well below what I requested. Did I err in stating I was a musician? No, because my age is one of the first items listed in the profile. Even allowing that entertainers generally have delayed signs of aging, my days of romping are over. But nor does that mean I’m ready to play dead.
A troop of the regular deadbeats [on my dating site] made a terrible stink about my wanting a woman not less than 12 years my junior--the opposite of what I'd expect. That number was based on the average age of my dates in the previous 24 years. I’m not placing any blame, but it is important to me that I have something in common with the women I go out with. It’s not like I haven’t tried to date women over 40 but every one of them tried to change me into a househusband where I never tried to change them at all. Until I meet one that doesn’t, I’ll be looking in greener pastures.
[Author's note 2013-12-27: later it transpired that the objection was not the 12 years, but my specification that if the woman was below that age, she MUST be musical.]
I’ll run the ad for another month. It was never intended to be permanent, rather to check out what a random “professional” club has to offer. Brother, it isn’t much. As suspected, there is very little in the middle, that is, no independent career women such as we are told exist everywhere. Even the ones with mid-level social and management jobs have an ear to the ground for opportunity that in my day was only present in college women after the first year’s disappointment. So again, I return to music to find my next lady friend. Sigh.
I’m also finding a lack of extroverted, spirited women. Aggressive is not an adequate substitute, especially the one’s forceful in their demands and relationships, but seemingly unable to take charge of their lives and destinies. Where I could trust my past girlfriends with running the show in my absence, the recent batch give the impression they’d bail at the first bad patch. And if you dare start with mediocrity, it is only going to get worse.
In an uncharacteristic seasonal surge, gold has surged up over $120 per ounce in the past three weeks. If silver went up another ten bucks, there’d be a stampede.
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