My eyes were tested this morning and six hours later I still can’t hack the sunlight. And let me tell you I didn’t need no exam to notice the eye doctor was a stunning good-looker. I gave her the compliment which put her slightly on the defensive, but that’s because she could not know she’s not my type and may have thought I was making a pass. Nope, just a compliment from a guy with a forceful personality. Why is it I meet all the good ones after a heart attack wipes me out and makes me old? Destiny? That was Alaine on the phone. The new priest at St. Jude’s is apparently “a bigger version” of myself. People are doing double takes when he walks in. I’m invited to mass this Sunday. They still rave about my show last November, and I need to get some detailed medical facts from JP’s brother. I may attend.
Everyone wants me to meet the new priest, plus I’d like to get JP out to Naples, a much nicer place than the 30% artificial sand and 99% artificial people around here. We need to put new tires on his truck now, before Sunday, JP that’s what I’m sayin’.
Then next, that was Cowboy Mike on the phone. He says no to joining my band, he feels he isn’t up to the guitar part. Mike’s never been in a really professional band and he’s still at the backing track stage. Sadly, he is also hopelessly out of date and out of touch.
What’s this? Friday and I still have money in my pocket? Yep, as I’m just now beginning to reap the benefits of the past six years of budgets and meticulous planning. For the first time since 2003, I have a coffee budget. I mean restaurant coffee, not the hurricane supplies overflowing my pantry. The wise reader knows around here a budget quickly leads to a surplus which quickly leads to luxuries. I’m finally getting back on my financial feet. Yes, I notice the differences. Like a rich kid, I can now spend hours learning one musical riff and people think I’m “talented”.
I ran the eBike down to the beach to see the music. I jammed with Big Jim, which went well but it’s not for me. Jim strums along to Karaoke, which I would not mind except when it’s a song we know. He should, in that instance, turn the Karaoke off. There I was, looking for women at my age. Shortly, on the way south, this skinny kid is distorting some speakers at Jake’s on the beach which I pause to hear, and who comes running out wanting me to stand in?
The Hippie. I hesitated. You see, I don’t believe all what he says about having changed, and cleaned up, and behaving. He’s lied so often I need proof of every word. But, I played an hour and it was an incredible presentation. I know his song list note for note and know when to cover his weaker guitar parts. The club owner witnessed all, stating he “wants more of that”. He was particularly referring to how the strollers on the Broadwalk were complimenting the sound.
One of the Hippie’s stories I do accept is he’s been through a series of lousy bass players since I left. That sounds legit because that’s most of what this town has to offer and the Hippie’s idea of a good bassist is one who can “follow”. He further stated (shocking me) that he sincerely tried to play bass and decided he couldn’t do it after all. Next, he says he’s got paying gigs starting tomorrow if I’ll show up. I’ll need time to ponder that offer.
But one thing is certain. When I’m on bass, the effect on the audience is immediate and electric and I invite even the most doubting Thomas’ to show up and shut up. So don't dare criticize or bloviate unless you can prove what I say is wrong. Which, of course, you can only do by showing up at the right time and place. Good luck with that.
