Second last. That’s where I came in at the new trivia game last evening. What can I say, of the 36 questions, at least 20 were television or sports, two topics on which I pride my ignorance. Or it could be that I just don’t consider it all that important to know the year of the first hole-in-one at the Master’s. (1934) The host is quite the gal, but I’m afraid it is a brand of trivia I could never win at. Her 14 year old son may need bass lessons.Then along comes Eddie, the guitar guy from last summer. He’s convinced I don’t play original music. In a sense, that’s right, I don’t play it on stage on a Friday night. Nor do I try to slip one in bottom of the third set either. Eddie, the crowd is on to that juvenile tactic. Guitar players are always convinced that old trick fools anybody. Now maybe Eddie does play a lot of original music, but he sure doesn’t play it in front of live audiences that I’ve ever seen or heard. Know what I’m saying?
Eddie also has a trick memory. To his recollection, I was the one that auditioned for his band last year. He remembers that I want to drop my live performances and go waste a few years in a recording studio his friend set up in a garage two blocks over on Harding. Eddie is certain he is the one who I copied for all my material. Eddie definitely recalls that he is also the person who taught me how to sing! No, he has never met my family, so this is pure coincidence. I think.
I needed to print a document at the library, silly me, I asked at the information desk. Some shriveled old hag looks at me like I must be a fossil. Well, she says, you go stand in that line over there. A twenty minute line, to pay 15 cents? So I asked her if the print queue cleared itself overnight. Her look said, of course, don’t you old coots know anything at all? (It didn't clear and I waited nearly an hour.) God sure must like tub-‘o-lard librarians. Sorry to bother you, ma’am. Maybe I could help you change your sign from “Information” to “Insults”.
Speaking of cranks, Theresa came out with one the other day that I don’t love my cat as much as she loves hers. WTF? Have these people nothing better to do all day than sit around cooking up such brainstorms and stewing in their own juice. I fear the woman is truly driving herself insane. She is certainly the most idly-motivated person I’ve met in ten years.
This is the same person that complains I have all these “little things” I can do for money, like somebody handed them to me, like it is a bad thing, like I do it [just] to spite her. She’s behind in her rent, and what does she do? Count coffee filters. Friggin’ coffee filters, my friends. The fact is, her cats attacked my Pudding-Tat and now Tat hangs out with the neighbors. I like my cat just fine and I miss her.
Dave-O says if I really want a nice scooter, buy it in the Keys. He worked there for a Navy contractor dredging a channel and building a pier, all classified. Wallace and I drove past those pylons. The US has the only military in the world with enough brains to hire civilians to operate a pile driver 65 feet off the main highway through a tourist trap and call it a secret base. The password is, I believe, “Huckleberry Hound”.
He says if we want, he’ll drive us out to the Keys for a day and look. But I prefer a used scooter from a local store, and anyway it will cost us $65 to go to the Keys. That’s just in gas and food. Wallace and I packed a lunch last time, maybe I could save a few bucks that way. I like the Keys, in moderation. It is still off season, the best time to visit any place surrounded by water.
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