This is my new hat. The only thing wrong with my old hat is that I didn’t stress to everyone that it was a prop. The holes in the hat were on purpose, as was the price tag hanging on the back. I’ve made a fortune with that old hat, not to mention my image. But Arnel took up a collection and bought me this new hat. It sure enough is fancy. Note the mood of the picture, imposed in a car window with an Ampeg behind the reflection. Man, this handsome dude knows how to pose.
I was up early with a mood to bake. Muffins, cookies and such. The fact is, I have not made that much of a variety since Wallace left. No pancakes, French toast, or for that matter even any spuds. It just doesn’t seem worth it when there is nobody around to appreciate the effort. I’m back to my old habit of making enough of one thing to last a week and then reheating leftovers. My health records at Mt. Sinai cost $1 per page. The problem is there are 300 pages. Part of the fun is they don’t know which page contains the summary (called an abstract). Another joke is the form required to get these records was written by some ESL person. Most questions can be interpreted the wrong way. It’s a good thing this year is ending instead of beginning.
[Author's note 2015-12-31: to those of you, like Wallace, Ken, Theresa, & Patsie, who think my dislike of government interference in the life of private citizens is something I cooked up over beers in the 80s, you better read the following twice. It is the dorks who lead nothing lives except for the bad they've done that want records kept on other people--because they think such a mass of records will buy them time. Anyone who has been to a town hall meeting where they demand you identify yourself before being allowed to speak better read this three times. Four times if you still think mandatory ID is a good thing.
Too bad I lost a memo I was going to show you for comic relief. It is a brochure from the Post Office advising the staff not to give directions unless they were “absolute certain they could get there themselves”. Issuing the memo tells us what? That they have a real problem with that? Instead I have an excerpt from the Federalist Papers of 1780, in which the framers of the Constitution recognize “the need to shield one’s identity from both random busybodies and Supreme Court subpoenas”. Or as I put it, they can’t sue, arrest or gossip about somebody whose name they don’t know.
The said Papers go on to say “There is absolutely no guarantee a man will express his honest opinion if he must relinquish his private identity in the process. All repressive regimes rely on [personal identification records] to prevent free expression.”
To those who say I’ll never learn, I point out that I already knew the Hippie said gig but that it would turn out to be an open mic. Big difference. You don't get paid for open mics. I already know when he said 7:30 it would be 10:00 before we started and he would play half the first set as a solo. I wanted to get out for New Year’s. That was accomplished. It was a “vegan” café on 167th in North Miami. They were still putting up the sign when I arrived.
The owners belong to several vegetarian societies so they had quite a crowd by mid-evening. They mostly talked about conferences and meetings. That is this quasi-religious aspect that keeps me away from the diet. One should be able to dine on carrots, cucumber and cauliflower without getting the impression you’ve joined a cult.
It was a good time and there were a number of slim sexy women, all with dates. You know me, I won’t hit on such babes, but I sure do at least like being around them. I did chat a moment with several of the prettiest ones. A lively black-haired gal (Suzie, with that rich Jewess heiress look) in the corner would have been my choice except she was with guy around my age who chaperoned her constantly. Like when she shook my hand for being the “best musician ever in [that café]”. I told her to tell that to the Hippie, who would say “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
What started as a duo wound up being a quintet. The harmonica player was a lucky man. I know a lot of harp players whose instruments got accidentally stepped on. Especially they got on stage and stood right in front of the bass player. Or something like that. I was impressed when the Hippie only played two songs we never rehearsed, a record for him. (“Evil Ways” and “Imagine”.)
The food was free for the band, although most vegetarian is rice-based and not a treat for me. Instead I had some excellent soup and veggie patties. The cook is Jamaican. Why don’t these cafes have coffee? Coffee is a plant, right? Instead, I drank a dark-colored berry juice called [something like] “sur”. It was very bitter but sweetened and it had been infused with ginger. The waitress said it would clean you out. (She forgot to add almost instantly and without much warning.)
Overall, I’d say the café got a first class show for the price of an open mic. Except for a short poetry session, they got two hours of pro music. May I add that the Hippie is greatly improved his dynamics, that is, toning it down when there are other people on stage. I’d say around 40 people came in, with at least 30 inside at a given time. That’s a large following in this town. Still, if I go back it will be because I’m bored or getting paid, with the following codicil.
A thin man who acted like a priest made a lengthy announcement which included something that engaged my radar. These societies are a magnet for women and he said he was are forming a singles club. Maybe unattached women don’t go to vegetarian cafes, but what about such a club? Put another way, I can’t see many men going there, at least not men who think I’m the best musician ever. And the priest guy is like 74. Check back with me on my membership.
High point of the evening, musically, would have been our version of “Come Together”. I just mentioned the Hippie’s dynamics, and we played that old Beatles hit to perfection. The only other thing I’d remark on was that most women were wearing (tight) black dresses, later known as LBDx. Is this some custom I’m unaware of?
Because my ex-wife never, ever, wore black dresses. She did have a deep dark purple one that undid with one snap. Not of the dress. Of my fingers.
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