The Grill is one of those hard luck rooms that has been around since the sixties. The guitar player in the band, I recognized. He name is Iggy, and he has played in twice as many bands as he has years in the business. Come to think of it, the same is true for me. But only since I got to Florida. (My total is two.)Marion was checking in, and confirms my standing invitation to go stay in Colorado for a few months, maybe this summer. I was analyzing the music and presentation of the band at the Grill when she called. It is entirely an outdoor place with medium high prices. They close early, as in 6:00 P.M. which I like. The place seemed a little too popular for the venue. That is, quite a number of people paying attention to the band. (It turns out the audience was well stocked with wives, daughters and nieces.)
The stage is under a tarp. The band was excellent, although there was a little chord searching going on. They were so good that I can’t compete for that weekend slot. I’ve dug out my old contact list. It was a great day at the beach and according to MapQuest, the Grill was the only place left I had not poked into. Am I to conclude the pub crowd in this town are all over 40? Good. The new song list is 2/3 country.
There’s another thing Jim and I agree on. We don’t play for free (tips only) unless there are no rules. That is the reason I won’t play Legion 92. That place won’t pay, yet they won’t let you solicit tips or announce other places you are playing. Speaking of outfits with weird ideas, have you seen that Hyundai commercial? It states if you lose your job in the first year of buying their product, they will take it back without damage to your credit. Can they see you’re out of aces? If there is any danger of losing your job, slap yourself in the head for buying anything on credit, you moron.
Okay, the ending to our story behind the sealed up door. The millionaire’s parents signed fake notes saying they were each running away. Our Richie Rich crawled through the secret passage in time to witness them fight a duel with swords. Mother kills father, and discovering the boy, falls backwards on father’s sword. Boy seals room for fifty years. Author seals plot for same duration.
My favorite cliché these days is the gangster out of the ghetto who has a closet full of expensive suits. But for the color, they are identical, so it is comical watching him pick one out. Why bother? They all make him look like he took that sales job with the insurance company. (I consider rich is when you don’t have to wear a suit.) Even more amazing are the things these bad guys can do on the Internet, and all without the benefit of a formal education. It requires teams of FBI types and satellites to track them down. When is somebody going to inform the movie producers that the black man white woman thing has gotten really old. Maybe that is why I like pre-1950s murder mysteries. I’m reading one by Micky Spillane. So far, I’ve learned that he is not some baseball player.
My rule states I must tell you the most unusual thing of each day, although sometimes it is pretty tame and you don’t notice it. Well, I had to wear a band-aid on the middle top of my forehead when I went out. I open the dishwasher, then I open the cupboard and put up the cups. I lean down to get more cups and as I stand up, the cupboard door has swung half closed. Doont! My poor head. Stood in the mirror staring at myself for two minutes. Told forty people I cut myself shaving.
