Cowboy Mike called for a critique of his show last evening. I told him I honestly thought it sounded like he’d got some old backing tracks, met a guitarist on the Internet and practiced for a couple of hours. But that he should keep at it. Some people can take a steady diet of the Blues. I can’t. He says he considers the gig just practice. Practice for what? You wouldn’t know it working bareback in the heat, but it is winter time. And I priced out some alternatives to Denver. I wish my birthday was a month earlier so I could travel in the fall, but that is a long story. The Amtrak is $384 each way. I’m considering it (outbound) as it goes through Virginia and I’d have a half-day at Union Station in Chicago. I’ve never been in that part of the world. The bus is around half that but comparable in travel time. I have not checked out flying. Airport security has, according to most sources, taken all the fun out of that mode of transport. The security staff has something like 125% annual turnover. I want a leisurely trip for a couple of weeks minimum.
One thing I’d like on the trip is my small bicycle, the 21-speed. The front wheel is removable and it will fit in a (large) suitcase. I’ll be making careful measurements soon. I can really whip across small towns or large railroad stations. It looks a little funny until you see me tearing up the road on it in high gear, where each pedal stroke whooshes me 15 feet ahead. Then I stop, pick the bike up with one hand, and carry it in with me. If it is a go, the trip will be well-documented here (in this blog). My choice depends on if Wallace is driving. I think he should dump the car at a handsome profit and fly back.
Jose, the neighbor from last year, was over. His anti-virus subscription expired and no way to read the English directions. We fixed things up and he may have a door and some supplies to begin that spare room in the back and he wants to help. That area is prime for a quiet person. The last thing you want is one of those roommates who “could talk a rabbit into dying”. Jose and I would make extremely efficient co-workers.
I skipped Jimbo’s tonight as there were not enough new faces in the crowd for me to set up and play. I’ve already heard the backsplash on Mike’s show. I’ve said before that the skills for recording and performing are rarely present in the same individual. It can get problematical deciding which song Mike is playing.
The casino next door is a case study of how not to operate. The parking lot has become a nightmare. You see, in some office somewhere, some idiot has a computer model on traffic patterns. In reality, the lot is always so empty that first come, first serve is the true viable plan. But the dull, gaping management can’t admit they’ve been taken. Instead, the lot is roped off, divided, checkered and painted into a bewildering pattern of valet, handicap, regular and early bird parking compounds.
They have portable stop signs all over the place, plus crews that drive out to shift those signs around during the day according to the faulty algorithm. Yet every other time you walk or bike through there, some weirdo lost in the far corner will cut you off through bad timing or nearly hit you. With that typical Florida “where did you come from” look on his face. Our entire economy is now operated by the lowest bidder.
I assure you, I am not deceived by appearances at that parking lot. Trust me, I know about assumptions. For instance, it stands to reason that if I could write then sooner or later somebody would have seen me. Yet I come from an entire family who can swear they have never seen me write. (Go figure. It’s another of those things you plain can’t do when they are in the room. It has a lot to do with noise and odor.)
