So maybe I did forget it was Cinco de Mayo, but I got reminded later in the day. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you about it. Meanwhile I spent nine hours in the shop without a break to get all four Internet computers up and working. They are networked, but that was not part of the delay, rather a dozen niggling little problems and the task of keeping all four running while making simultaneous but not identical changes. It keeps you hopping.
I also downloaded drivers, something I’ve gotten fairly good at, as well as keeping them organized and cataloged afterward. Which reminds me, do something about my own CD/DVD database. No more wasted time looking for disks. I plan to invest in some kind of music CD rack and use it for organizing all my disks, which now number in the hundreds. Didn’t I swear that would never happen?
An historical project of mine cropped up today. Some 16 years ago, after seeing a bookstore that offered some offbeat material, I came up with this plan to write a guide book. Being the opposite of most writers who seem to lack the basic ability to come up with subjects to write about, I had the idea and shelved it, which you’ll understand in a moment. The plan was to create and sell a travel book that told how to swear in every major language in the world. It had some pointers on common sense, like not to try it out in a dark alley, but like I care? My purpose is to sell books.
I had tons of the groundwork finished, but then two roadblocks. One was a pronunciation key. After a year of part-time fidgeting with it, I could not come up with something that worked that was not already copyrighted. Second, there were some language groups like Urdu where I could not find a native speaker to cooperate and tell me the swear words or big-time Jamaican losers who figured out it was a project and wanted fifty dollars to help out. Today, however, I have traveled much more and would no longer be so fussy about accuracy. How many Swahilis would misunderstand my key?
I still have some of the research material in which I identified something like 117 languages that had more than a million speakers. If things stay slow, it may be time to reactivate this project. First, I must clear it on the Internet to make sure there is nothing similar. I’d rather redo the research than try to find it in my stacks of material.
Cheryl emailed, she is quite aware of the fact that I want to play in more upscale places. However, she can’t get it out of her thinking that I am opportunistic, not predatory. It is as if she has never actually met anyone who is serious about sleeping around. She has only one way of looking at it, and can’t change even when she knows it is not the correct way. Little things slip out. I know she isn’t dumb so there is a mental block at work here.
For example, she is obsessed with pointing out that the women at lounges are still women. I agree, but I’d rather pick up a drunk stewardess than a drunk secretary, it is a matter of preference (now listen closely) because I very rarely pick up drunk women, got that? In my life, lounges are the single most successful venue for me meeting women by a good five to one margin. I have never, by strict definition, picked up a woman in a bar, but that is a qualified statement. Let me explain.
I have met women and chatted them up, then later bumped into them in a bar and went home for sex. In another variation, I have met women in a bar and later met them elsewhere during the next week, and then had sex with them. But to actually go to a bar, find a drunk bar bunny and take advantage of her is something I never had to get into. I just never had that much trouble getting laid to have to resort to sordid drunken sex. Careful, while I have never done such a thing, I am not saying I would not, and in fact I think I’d be quite good at it.
Cinco de Mayo. A big fiesta for the Latinos. Most of them know as little about what they are celebrating as possible, a lot like people from New York. The problem with the fiesta today is that it was right behind the curtain where the G and I set up for our gig. Every Mexican child gets a sharp, pointed implement on their fifteenth birthday. It is used to poke holes in a speaker cone. This converts those crisp factory-new models to that late-night rattle and frap that allows even your most distant neighbors to readily identify as authentic Mexico City.
That Mexican café next door, the ones charged with slashing Barry’s tarps (he caught them on tape) advertised they had mariachis. Except that there were no actual mariachis in sight, see, it was all played on a laptop. If you doubt it was not intentional, take a look at the pictures and note that they have the exact same model of PA system we use. We play guitar, vocals, bass and the drumbox through out system and have never managed to distort a Fender. The trick I think, is to run the incoming through a pre-amp that is also cranked, in this instance built into the laptop. My guess is a jackhammer painful 115-118 decibels.
Let me tell you, this broad was ugly. The picture does not convey this but I didn’t care get any closer. She was old and the only good thing is that she was not also fat. Up close you could tell she was pushing fifty. She could not sing worth a twit, it was more like an endless atonal chant at full volume. The costume was great but one would be nuts to wear that much heavy cloth down in Mexico. What got me was those horrid eyebrows plucked into that strange high arch, like a 1942 navy base hooker in the movies. It seems to me a woman would do anything to avoid looking like that, but no.
Now of course, this provided many opportunities to test the drum machine, tune up and make dog howling noises to accompany her singing style. Generally, we kept quiet but let them know they weren’t going to have it all their own way and that we could outplay them any time we felt like it. As Homer Simpson put it, “Cinco de Ocho”.
Barry wanted to call the police but the general feeling was it was only once a year so let them get away with it. Besides, the last thing you want to do when you live next to a stupid person is let him even suspect he can do things that bother you. So we packed up and left. One the way out, who do we meet but our percussionist friend, the blonde that plays the triangle. Makes $80 an hour at it, too. The rest of the orchestra is volunteer. I took up quite the chat session with her upon finding out there are three or four single women in the orchestra.
Of course, she stated that there are single women all over the place, but a lot of unattached women will say ridiculous things like that. I call this effect by many names, where singles imagine the room is always full of available members of their own sex on the prowl, competing for the alphas and succeeding through sheer numbers. My statement is based on a head count; where they get their ideas is pure mystery. John (Elizabeth Fletcher) used to say this, yet even when she agreed to prove it, all the places we went were over 7/10ths men. They never have an explanation for this but still insist the room is full of women. Again, I challenge the world to show me a place where single, attractive available women congregate and outnumber the men, but there are some basic rules to prevent you from throwing in a bingo hall. Trust me, there is a good reason men don’t go to bingo to pick up women and it has nothing to do with gender.
Liz and I agreed in advance to write down our results, because like a lot of women when pressed for facts, Liz sometimes developed trouble counting. I don’t have my notes but I recall it was something like 230 men to 70 women. Certainly, most of the men were after the few tall skinny blonde women but that is not what we were measuring. Even looking at the facts, Liz still insisted the room was full of women and no men. Zero, none. You can’t compare this to bingo because this was a party and sex atmosphere. It is not like you could hold a convo in there. Hmm, maybe it has nothing to do with gender.
Liz disappeared after the first two years I lived in Miami and kind of lost touch. Now I can’t find her anywhere. Liz was a tall skinny brunette with a lively personality even by my exacting standards, able to assimilate vast quantities of TV-grade knowledge and snappy expressions. She was just not my type although we hung out for ten years or more. One weird minus is that Liz could make out you were boring by refusing to talk about anything except the few things she herself was interested in, kind of thing.
Interesting point. The blonde said during the concert, she had the stage tech zoom the security camera around to watch the G in the bleachers. Now, the G and I were not sitting in adjacent seats because we both like private armrests and nobody, not even the G, knew I would be there until less than an hour before start. Yet the blonde instantly picked me out of the audience and was able to accurately describe how I was holding and reading the program and for how long. Mind you, she also said I looked bored and I wasn’t. I asked her if she noticed the man near me who was eating potato chips, she never saw him at all, although I would not be surprised it she’d heard him. Anyhow, what do you make of that?
I’m still watching Band of Brothers. There is more fair play to the German side than John Wayne would ever tolerate. And still far more Tiger tanks on movie sets than Normandy. The Germans inevitably are dumb enough to charge in broad daylight from beside (instead of behind) their tanks and had a true gift for ignoring existing ground cover. This was compensated by the fact that when attacking, Germans are far better shots, often picking off Cromwells from 100 yards beyond the maximum range of an 88. Teutonic childs-play in 1944, really.
Don’t miss the obligatory cliché of the GI who takes his helmet off just for a second. Never forget when going to war with Germany or the Viet Cong that the exact same rain that holds up your entire operation merely provides immunity to them. Even though you cannot be beside somebody without them being beside you, if you go to the Academy long enough, you learn this rule does not apply in warfare. In the Army, the side becomes a “flank” and splits into two. “Fall back, they’re on our flank!”, or “Outflank the position!” See that? Once in the Army, Navy, Air Force or Marines, you or the enemy can now be on the other’s flank without him being on yours. This is highly evolved military science.
Careful, now, because this only works against other armies with a school-bred officer corps. (Can you name any that are currently losing a war?) Example, Stalin ‘purged’ the Soviet command in the 30s, so when the Wermacht hit them in ’41 those damn Ruskies had never been to college to learn about flanks. Spotting enemy left or right, Ivan, not realizing he had been defeated, often turned his PPsh sideways and continued to hold down the trigger until the magazine emptied. Upon which he hauled ass to the nearest ditch and rejoined his unit. Russia 1, Germany 0.
By comparison, the Germans must have loved the West Point grad, George Patton, who knew everything there was to know about flanks and then some, no doubt. Logistically outnumbered 40 to 1, they held Georgie up for a year using third rate Generals, boys and old men.
