There is nothing wrong with my PA. If your guitar sounds funny, set it. If the mic is too loud, you back off a bit. It’s called mic dynamics. But you don’t yell over the speakers for the other guy to fix your problem. Again, Jagger witnessed everything. There are two ways to get fired from my band without trying. One is tuning on stage. The other is riffing off.He also got a full measure of guitarists with that lame attitude the rest of the band is there to “follow”. You see, he can follow and they can't. They all took the same lessons from the same teacher who I suspect was a bucktoothed frizzy-haired roly-poly half-homo nerd who fed them that line that jazz substitution was ultimate guitar nirvana. Because they sure as hell have all been force-fed the identical hogwash.
I never took guitar lessons and thus never had it drilled into me that certain people were great. It is so odd these guitarists don’t fathom they have a collective delusion. I’ve heard these guitar heroes play and they don’t do a thing for me. I’d rather listen to Herb Alpert than another blues guitar break, with or without chord substitutions.
Jag and I played to an empty house, but we played the entire set. Later, a couple of guitarists tried to join in. The first one, after 40 minutes, had played just two songs with the same chords (“Sweet Home Alabama” and “Can’t You See”). Meanwhile he proceeded to lecture my guitarist (Jag) who was not born until thirty years later. Shortly, Eddie got up and failed to follow a two chord special.
It is not lost that [to me nor the audience] these professionals did not play anything that excited the crowd. One of them asked me the name of the lead player for Led Zep. I have no idea. I’ve gotten by without that precious information for a long time and my stage is not a quiz game. Where Jag and I played to the audience for our allotted time, the others barely managed a few minutes each. I will ensure Jag does not miss these salient points.
I was at the government office all day. Only to catch a massive upper chest cold with heavy coughing and explosive sneezes. Once again, I was the only white native English speaker in that room of 85 people. It isn’t significant, but I do think all Americans should have to witness such a spectacle before being allowed to vote. For crying out loud, this is Pembroke Pines, not Little Havana. There are no latino communities anywhere near here. Except possibly in the government office.
One thing that amuses me is the reaction of government people when they belatedly realize I’ve read the same rule book. Yes, I worked out of the country for exactly one week over the lifetime minimum for a foreign pension. Not a day longer, I even had to rent a room from Wallace back in ’99 to do that. Odd that he never wondered why a guy like me would hang around for six winter months with no job and leave on June 7th.
Further, my combined bank accounts were precisely $4.00 under the maximum to support my claim of February 9, 2009. I just came from the final interview. Once again, my excellent records carried the day. Now that, peeps, is planning ahead. These are much the same records I have of all the work I’ve done in the past three years. With original receipts conveniently filed and stored in Everett, WA. With backup copies in Ferndale.
When I got home, I sneezed so strongly while dismounting my bicycle that I stubbed my left big toe full speed on the gatepost. I’ll be limping for weekend, I really doonted it. I am due for a few years of quiet weekends so maybe this is my queue to get started. Well not so fast, I need some butane canisters, which means up to the hardware on Dixie and Hallandale. Even if their prices are higher, it won’t take a half day and I won’t waste $3 on a bus pass.
Did I say $3? Sure, now I get a special rate on just about everything. Even McDonald’s. My next coveted possession is that handicapped sticker. You know the one I mean; that in-yer-face tag right in front of the roller rink entrance that makes the rest of the world detour. The parking spot which, in fairness to all, should be next to the door but instead is right in front of it. Actually, it is not the sticker I want as much as the free parking on the beach.
[Author's note 2015-10-09: In the end, I never bothered with the sticker. Drive a motorcycle and you'll always have a parking spot.]
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