MORNING
A quick sift through the real estate ads shows the super-low mentalities of the Florida market. The ads are generally a joke, containing the bare legal minimum of truth. It was funnier than the Sunday comics over coffee at the Panera (the reading of the Sunday ads). Did you know Florida pioneered those ads that show a picture of the real estate agent rather than the property? There’s brains for you. The fake-out ads are appearing again, in force. These are the ads that don’t mention the land isn’t included, or there is a $600 per month membership fee, or sometimes, even that the place is a condo. Try practicing your guitar at 3:00AM in a condo, you'll find out how much of the property you actually own.
Speaking of guitar, my music pal from the west coast and I have been carrying on an e-mail discussion of the role of guitar in a band. My stance is “I thought moving to Florida would open a gold mine of unemployed rhythm guitarists only to find even the lousiest, most cantankerous, Craigslist-posting, "Mustang Sally", wannabe pole-smokers who think they are Eric Clapton.”
In return, I’ve adopted many of the more nasty things that guitar players do to use against them. Like playing one way at rehearsal and another on stage. Like playing fills every time there is an opening. And doing my own solo behind the guitarists, the “play ahead” technique that makes it sound like he is following me. One day, I have to publish these letters, they are scathing descriptions of guitar playing since the ‘80s.
The photo. I don’t do wine, but this bottle of Cabernet has been on my shelf for months. Product of Italy, 2012, I thought, why not? It is the typical dry wine so adored by Sweet Judy Blue Eyes, the original love of my life. She's the one that left me, with her family fortune, for an oil company executive. Here, let me fill up your glass. Her parents insisted. She was divorced within 24 months, then married a rich Englishman of her own religion. A success story by any standard the British Empire ever came ups with.
NOON
Who remembers? I was down on myself for spending the cash to find the scooter problem was a lowly fuse. But guess what? The identical problem occurred at noon, as I was about to head for Panera with my crossword puzzle. Since I learned it was not a mechanical problem, I was quickly able to isolate a relay in the starter circuit. By progressively bypassing the junctions with a robot jumper, I was able to start the scooter. Mind you, those 1.5 Amp shorts got the jumper mighty hot to the touch. Ouchee-wah-wah! (This bypass circuit worked so well, I never did replace the broken switch.)
Normally, on Sundays, I dress up a bit. Shirt, tie, slacks, belt, shiny shoes. But it is the tie that sets things up. An older white guy wearing a classy tie can do no wrong, in case you have not noticed. Alright, so Ken and Wallace have not noticed, but let’s get on with it. Let me tell you the difference a tie makes.
People trust a white guy in a tie. Women leave purses, grandparents leave pets and kids, security guards plunk down parcels of money, sometimes bales of it, right beside me. That, folks, is a tale from the trailer court. You could say I look like I just got off a wedding. Anyway, that’s how I was attired when the starter fritzed, I have to remove the seat to start the scooter. Not one bystander batted an eyelash at a white guy in a tie hotwiring a scooter. I could have been lifting a Harley and nobody even gave a second glance.
[Author's note: off the record, I tend toward basic colors, very light blue or green shirts, and a healthy striped tie. Earthy tones, browns, beige is my lightest shade. No pinks, no reds, no oranges. The guy in the nearby photo has the right idea, except he's not as distinguished looking as myself, I must say. He sort of looks like his dad dressed him up for prom night. Plus, that poor guy has to pose to look cool. I wonder about guys that have to do that, you know.]
Malcontented with the scooter, I waltzed into the Wiley Pub, moody and a half. I had undone my tie while starting the scooter earlier. Grumpy and growly, I bellied up to the bar, not noticing the joint was full of French women. Who remembers my older posts about “Frenchy’s”, the Franco-Canadian bar up the road that went under a while back?
Good. Because, Wiley’s gets the spillover from there and you should have seen what happened to me. Women up the ying-yang. It must have looked like I just got out of church, walked over and had a few, loosening my tie as I oiled up. Don’t go wild here, follow what I’m saying. I met a lot of women with French accents. They had primped, shaved, sprayed, and who know what else women do when they are on the prowl. There I found myself, the only tie-wagging male on the premises. Got that? Wagging? Little innuendo there, but I've had a few.
I was lucky to get the hell out of there with my yarbles. I’m okay, I counted them both when I got home, yup, still safe and sound. The thing is, Wiley's is the nearest dive to downtown now that Jimbos is gone, so I can't get into any entanglements there. I may want to hang out at the place down the line. I just haven't had bar bunnies jump on the new guy in a while and I was the new guy. If that ain’t country, you can kiss my asphalt.
NIGHT
I stayed home and studied. If I’d had the money, I would probably have stayed in university my whole life as a student. It’s an insular world and you find the first two years really weeds out the dummies or shunts them into faculties like PhysEd or Liberal Arts. This evening, all you get is a bit of the trivia that caught my attention, as I take a break from reading every fifteen minutes.
It says here the Coast Guard rescued a stranded man from an uninhabited island in the Bahamas. Send him the bill. And I hate newscasters who use cliches. Thus, I propose a new law that from this point onward, any commentator who says that phrase that armies always prepare to fight the last war is to be chemically neutered. What? They already are? Well, if that ain’t the darndest thing.
The Westboro Baptist Church has now picketed 54,163 events. Today they are preaching “with great zeal and fervour” outside a Catholic Church in New Mexico. Not only that, Westboro has a counter on their home page informing you of how many people have been sent to Hell since you logged on. If you’ve ever seen a Florida welfare office, you realize some people have been leaving that web page up all night. If that nasty joke is hard to follow, I'll explain. The Bible says poor people go to heaven, and the opposite of poor is not rich, it is "welfare leech". I'd say my stand on that is pretty clear, although I lack fervour. Fervour? The American public wants fervour with its zest and relish.
Question. If there really is nothing stopping you from getting ahead in this world, why didn’t people like me do it long time ago? I'll have some tea while you mull that one over.
This one, I can't figure out. But yes, Santa really does like rich kids more.
