Today found me in Bal Harbor, digging out information from invoices. The task is intensified by the fact that the format does not reveal the information being sought. I set up the ordering and chain of command, not the accounting department. It turns out that much of the day-to-day record keeping was not done, so yes, it gets expensive and frustrating to go after it now.
There are storm centers all around the area, so it was a generally cool afternoon. I walked home from Aventure Mall, three miles in an hour. That is half the speed I used to walk all the time. Things are still too warm for much action, it didn’t go past 90 today, but that is still enough to bring most of my plans to a standstill.
I stopped at the book store. I needed a coffee bad. Alas, I got behind some useless jerk, one of those Generation Y losers. Five minutes later he hasn’t made up his mind. You know the type, Reggie Roughshave, with the cultivated five o’clock shadow he thinks is cool but really makes him look unemployed. This one was so obnoxious he didn’t know. He actually asked the clerk what was in the ham sandwich. To give you an idea what a loser he is, when the disbelieving clerk stared, he asked the same question again.
Generation Y is the crowd born 1975 to 1985. America has never seen such an era of collectively ignorant and uneducated citizens. I’m a boomer who grew up in a mercilessly barren world where government benefits were unheard of, yet everybody I know can read and write. Even my own family could, if they could only figure out why.
But this current crop of bozos can’t spell, can’t think, and if they have any enduring talents, please somebody point them out. Their education seems stalled around the legally retarded stage, they can’t seem to do anything right. When I picture an Internet scam operation, I see a room full of these deadbeats in my mind’s eye. I mean, shrink-wrapped sandwiches are made in an assembly line, you chump. Take your chances or get the hell out of people’s way.
The new drum box has arrived, I’ll be reading the manual soon. On the way home last evening I stopped at Buddy’s. That skinny kid that works behind the bar turns out to be the son of the owner of the Moose I was at earlier this week. He must have heard something because he came over and was most interested in what type of music show I put on. I asked him to wait a few weeks and ask again.
Guitar Dave took his Strat into the shop. They immediately got rid of that set of strings I told you about and charged him $50 to dress the thing. Aren’t Fenders made in China these days? Anyway, it is not like the guitars I remember, they actually have a cheaper look to them. Boo, Fender. We’ll see how it sounds. Dave is a fan of barre chords and I’ve cautioned him. You can’t use them on a four-hour gig or it’s your fingers that get shredded.
We have a new nickname slash stage name for Dave. It is hard to spell but easy to pronounce. Davo? Dave-Oh? Dave-O? We’ll see if it sticks. You can get away with personal band names in a duo (even unlikely sounds like Simon and Garfunkel), and I’m not going to easily dodge my moniker: the “Bingoman”. You’ll doubtless hear my emphasis on showmanship, so I can state the best development so far is that the oldest moves are all new to Dave-O, meaning he isn’t automatically against anything new just because he’s never done it before. Got that?
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