[Author’s note: the entry today concerns people at my then new career as a satellite technician for the telephone company. It was a grand time. These notes are roughly a year after I started and was already beginning to experience disappointment in the job. I busted my chops to get in there only to find so many ordinary people had basically inherited their jobs. Most are mentioned by first name only and I’ve forgotten them, a good thing.
Note also that while this was the same company as in Seattle, this particular office was full of Canadians.]
Here is a west coast music poster. This is my background, this type of performance. I was obviously in Redding, California on Friday June 22, but can’t place the month or year. I tried matching up with calendars but there are too many Friday the 22nds to be sure which it was. I did not go to this show, as I was passing through to Los Angeles to catch a plane to Mexico City. Maybe later the date will emerge from other records of that era.
Still, see the difference. Here is a traveling band that booked at the local auditorium (the Shasta Inn). The money is made by charging admission for as small crowd of fans to view live music, in this case bluegrass. No big record contracts, no fireworks, no $300 front row seats. First come, first serve. I know this is a bygone time, but the Florida musicians of 2011 could learn a lot about supply and demand by learning about history.]
Damn full crew today, and a light workload. There is a side effect to this. We’ve borrowed a chap, Randy, from the rack. Randy is 100% typical, he couldn’t have an original thought short of suffering a heart attack. Poor, poor Randy. We. The easy times give Randy dime to point out and hard on anything he doesn’t consider typical. And yours truly finds myself in the line of fire rather often, you can imagine.
I’ll give you some background. Randy has been caught bragging his wife(?) makes so much in real estate. The predictable garbage—how little she works, how flexible her schedule is, etc. It is hilarious to watch him actually think he’s discovered and easy way out—and to contemplate quitting his job to take it up himself. The one consolation is at least she is not selling magazine subscriptions or I’m sure we’d hear that sequence all over again.
Well, Randy noticed my lack of interest in the local girls. He keeps saying “I guess they’re too old for you?” Bang on, Randy. Why does it bother him? My view of Randy is straightforward. Here is a boy with one job, one wife, one care, one house, one idea . . . . He brings it upon himself, tho, by trying a rather juvenile form of one-up-manship on me.
Examples.
He: Do you smoke?
Me: No.
He: can’t you hack it?
Or, he: do you gamble?
Me: No.
He: Afraid to lose, huh?
Do you drink, can’t “handle” it, eh? It has a short-term effect, but how do you feel coming away from that? I guess I just can’t “handle” borrowing money, or speeding in my car. Can’t shack up or party for 3 days with my paycheck. Can’t afford a TV or can’t cheat on my wife. Nope, Randy, can’t do none of that stuff. Rather 'diplomatic' of me to put it that way, you'd think.
Oh, Dave showed up wearing a “Bullwinkles” T-shirt. Wow, when you start dragging your wife into bottom-rung pick-up joints like that you are but scrounging for a good time. Ha! Ha! I didn’t laugh long, my car conked out. I think when I’m cruising, the water pump drags the fan belt over the generator instead of turning it, so the battery is dead. I hope. Still, tho, Dave was the comic relief, he shows up with some surprisingly rapidly developed pictures of the travels. Somewhat like postcards. I have to assume either there were no pretty girls out there, or he wasn’t allowed to photograph any. Stop, please, no more, ha ha ha . Stop. I remember when I stared here, very vulnerable, he’s say “cover yourself”. Well, now that he’s starting in life . . . .
Oh, I ran across that lady from the Dutchman’s in Langley at the Army & Navy again. Stopped to get some new fashions. Seriously, to get air & gas filters for the car. Coming back, I stopped at Kmart. There’s this big sign by McDonalds advertising this McRib. I see this luscious tight-ass little b*tch walk past and I sign out loud, “I wonder what that tastes like?” The McD’s manager hands me a card for a free McRib. See how important it is to read advertising? Oh, it was quite filling.
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