The people over at the computer supply place may have just lost Fred as a long-term customer. That new guy who took over from Elvis seems to screw up every order that he touches. I have no sympathy for him because he’s repeatedly told me I said things I did not say. For example, this morning I knew I had better check that I got a DVD player and sure enough, he had listed a DVD burner, at about twice the price. I called him back and he said I had ordered the burner. I hung up on him. His problems go deeper than I care to get exposed to.
Here is a photo of another typical Florida situation. This is the alley to the back of Fred’s store. The parking lot is at the end up ahead. The alley is the trouble. As I’ve said, you think Florida cities, being newer than most, would have studied the mistakes of others and adopted only the most efficient cases of other towns, benefiting from all their mistakes. Instead, Florida seems to have sought out the worst. While this alley is better than nothing, you can see that it is not wide enough for any car that passes through it to open a door. I park with just the nose of my car into the alley to unload supplies.I spent close to two and a half hours to pick up a computer case. Everything else they had was the wrong color, back-ordered or not in stock. I was two hours late getting over to Ruth’s but here is some news. They re-purchased Quickbooks and installed it. This software must have some weird security system that hides the files when the application is not present. The new girl, Nelly, was able to locate the files, so I showed her the trick of how to open them without changing anything.
Um, I don’t usually mention it because this journal is a family show, but this Nelly is something else. In a nutshell, her and I have what back in the last century was called “chemistry”. She is married and six months pregnant, but I would jump her bones in an instant. Nothing has happened except all the tell-tale signs are already there. She knows she has found an older man that can keep it light, maybe experimental.
Nothing is likely to happen but all the signals are being processed. She casually bumps her boobs into my arm as we work the computer, she exposes her breast-line to see if I’ll glance down (I have not) and she blushingly mistakes little phrases I say in a sexual context. For instance, when she asked for my phone number so she could get hold of me, I replied that was wishful thinking. What I meant was that I could not necessarily be the one to help her (I don’t do Quickbooks), but she latched onto the “get hold” part.
She is slightly plump, with very round curves. It says a lot about our society that this girl, so instantly attracted to me, cannot bring herself to outright say anything. She could walk right up and hand me a shopping list of what she’d like me to do to her, but there is some artificial barrier in her mind. I don’t know if it is her fears or what, but in this day and age it is certainly not morality. Unless you have a better theory, I say it is some kind of social pressure that should not be there any more. It will either fly or fail soon with that little babe. (Later, it nothing came of it.)
It began raining immediately after work [on Friday]; I almost thought I was in Seattle again. I stayed home to modify a handcart for my band equipment. By this, I mean I take an ordinary handcart and add shelves, electrical outlets and a dozen anchors so that I can set up my entire bass amp and accessories. I can wheel the entire object in the door, find one electrical plug and I’m ready to go. The anchors are to wind up all the necessary cords, all color-coded and permanently attached at the near end. I’ve learned this trade. The downside is that it takes two people to hoist the whole assembly up into or out of the station wagon. This is a minor chore compared to setting up for every gig.
Why is this suddenly a big deal? Easy, the handcart. This is the cart originally purchased to move toothpicks. I own 600 pounds of toothpicks, but that is another story. Well, for once they built something right. Maybe too right, as in my vast arsenal of tools, I have nothing that will drill a pilot hole through the steel tubing on that sucker. I can’t use a lesser cart that would pose a risk to my expensive music gear and I love the true pneumatic tires on this model. I’ll think of something but that is one tough handcart.
Later, I went right at those Beatles tunes and have devised a bass line to “Things We Said Today” that is far more danceable than the original. Now I did not say I had improved on my heroes, rather that I have adapted their music to more contemporary standards. Their version had a weak bass line and was a tad heavy on the ride cymbal for today’s taste. My bass lines are also getting more and more Carole Kaye as time goes by, particularly as I learn where 7ths and 9ths will sound okay. This is something I used to avoid.
That was the G on the blower. Sometimes I wonder. How do I find the last two musicians in the country who don’t have MP3 players? Did I mention that last evening the practice with Mr. Brian almost didn’t fly until we found the DVD player on his downstairs TV would play music discs? Yep, two people left who can’t burn CDs and I play bass with them both. Anyway, the G called to find out how to convert wavs to mp3s and I walked him through it. He uses mySpace and I don’t. Smart people don't use social media.
Of course, he thinks therefore that he is progressive and I’m not. Maybe I should tell him I got bored of mySpace a year ago, it is geared toward airheads and bored teenagers. I was a bored teenager until the moment I ran away from home at seventeen. The G wanted to upload his music but his allocation was already full, so I told him how to delete some weaker items. mySpace is one of those things you have to spend a couple hours a day on just to keep ahead of what’s kewl. Not worth it for me.
Guess what? The G asked if he could stand in with Mr. Brian and I. Hell, no, I told him I was not even going to tell him where we were playing. He has a disruptive effect and makes side deals behind my back, so he gets zero information until Mr. Brian and I are too far into the duo scene to back out easily. Then maybe. Mind you, the request gave me a chance to rub it in about how he ignored my good advice and now he is about to see that advice taken by a different musician, as if I didn’t know that bugs him a little.
He also knows that my experience in managing bands is far beyond what he is even capable of learning. He would not use any of my suggestions to make the band more participative and he should have known I would eventually find somebody who would. It is not all roses because Mr. Brian is not committed yet. He has expressed second thoughts about playing in a band and I did yank him, kicking and screaming, out of musical retirement. Brian can’t but notice that we ran through ten of the songs already, almost half of what we need to get out there. Once he tastes the steady money, he’ll come around. (I was wrong. He could not learn new songs, same as the G.)
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