One year ago today: March 15, 2014, the big “ID” charade.
Five years ago today: March 15, 2010, Florida’s infinite supply.
Ten years ago today: March 15, 2005, on the ethnicity of driving.
MORNING
Nothing. That’s my planned day. Here’s me parked under the no parking sign for the big parade. Don’t worry, they mean Sunday and this was taken Saturday afternoon. Not that you should trust them. But the mere hint of a tow is enough to scatter the locals and give me a spot in front of the movie house. Back to this morning, I took inventory of the tools. You know, including the welder, I own less than $500 worth of robot equipment. I’ve got six to seven times that in musical gear.
What’s more likely what you didn’t have enough of was $500 in tools, a place to work, electricity, and time to learn the trade. And the reason you don’t have those is because the system is set up to charge the blazes out of anyone showing any initiative. In fact, the person saying you were not “motivated” is likely the type that wants fifty bucks per day “storage” for towing your car. But help you get started? Forget it. This is 'Merica.
There are countless obstacles built into the system to stop you, and this goes far beyond the realm of so-called healthy competition. Individuals can easily deny responsibility for repression, but collectively they vote for a system that does. I grew up in such surroundings, where the town council only approved those new types of business where the tax liability was obvious. For me and my concept of a serving beer in my laundromat? No license granted. (Five years later, along came “Suds & Duds”.)
But I know why you are really here this early in the morning. You want the answer to last day’s mystery object. It is an insert that goes into a flare pistol. Normal flares are the size of a 12-gauge shotgun shell. This lowers the caliber to 14- or 16-guage so the ammunition becomes much cheaper. Ya learn something every day. Well, most of us do, Patsie.
Did you ever notice that “Patsie” and “Penguin” both start with the same letter? I wonder about that.
NOON
“So windy I saw one hen lay the same egg five times.” (Farm wisdom).
Nitinol. Sounds like a brand of sleeping pill, but it is actually nickel-titanium alloy, the metal that has a memory when heated. It’s expensive, here’s a link to a site that implies this quality is strong enough in the metal to work a lever. I never thought about that, since the only time I’d ever seen the demo was hand held. That’s the spoon that Uri “bends” with his brain wave--and the heat from his hand as he warms the metal.
Now hold on. Why did I just say that? Anyway, I will spend a coffee break later this week pondering if that is a solution to the mechanical hand problem. That’s where you need wires or something small enough to fit inside a human-size robot hand. Remember the single finger I built? That was twice the diameter and I had trouble threating the thing.
Note: I once read this article that claimed they had figured out how Geller bent the spoon. Their theory was that he had an invisible laser beam shine on the spoon and melt the metal. They did not explain how he was able to hold the handle of the spoon with his bare fingers. Yep, the Internet is full of "experts".
I decided against the beach jam this morning. The bunch I met last week are just too strange and set in their ways. I suspect they jam because that is about the limit of their ability to interact with other people. They have never grown out of that stage where they think doing their own thing is the coolest. Unlike that bunch, I tend to write down the score I play and come back to it later when I've thought it over. These guys continually jam, never playing the same thing twice, but playing the same material always.
I stayed home and made chicken sandwiches. And tea, lots of tea.
AFTERNOON
This is the Hot Diggity Dog restaurant from y’day. Does that look like a franchise to you? It says family-owned and that is why I dropped in there. My visitation of franchises is inversely proportional to the condition of my heart. That’s why me and my decaf tea stayed put and looked a little closer at the tank tread again. The thickness of the tread matters and I wonder if the tread should ride on the axle or on the bottom of the cogs. These are the vital questions in my life these days.
I dug out the old file of Millie drinking water, the lap-lap sound that is to be the drum track for my hit, “Anything But Tequila”. That was so long ago, I had it mixed up with my other hit single, “La Renta”.
Then I got sidetracked for an hour playing Cheap Trick’s “I Want You To Want Me”. What a great bass line. There was a time in the distant past I had learned that lick to perfection. But I’ve never found a band where the guitar player would play it or the singer would sing it. Then, I go to find a drum track that fits and the Millenium trolls get me again. The way they design ordinary electrical plugs.
You see, my outlet is under the table. So the electrical plugs either fall out by themselves or wedge in so tight that if you finally give them a yank, they rip entire power bar out of the wall by the roots. My generation tried to change the world for the better. These little pricks are going to get what they deserve. And before you go away with the impression I’m just in a crabby mood today, I have something good to say about the guitar player who wasted my time.
We talked some music philosophy and why neither of us preferred modern hits. Finally, I found someone who hears it the same way I do. It sounds like a stringing together of licks heard many times elsewhere. Whew, so it isn’t just me. When I hear Green Day or Nirvana, that’s all it reminds me of. Licks from previous hits, zero percent originality. The "john-ray" has peaked. The magic is gone. Some will say music evolves that way, but then I’d ask them to explain why there is no connection between 1940s jazz and 1950s rock. There you go.
EVENING
Here’s an interesting tank tread. It’s made from door hinges with the corners lopped off. True, I’d rather be on stage making money on Sundays, but it’s not like that is to be had for the asking in this old town. The bolts are used to keep the track centered on a sprocket. This impressed me since I had noted that only every other tread needed a pin but thought I’d made an error.
Those others turned out to be after my money, my time or my soul. You promise them your heart and they want your soul. And another thing, it’s been some 15 years since I met a woman that had anything of her own to bring to the table. Sigh, my kingdom for a woman whose polish doesn’t wear off in 90 days or less. You could say, repetitiously, there is no explanation for my life-long fascination with fascinating women.
What makes a woman fascinating? That’s a stumper. I dunno. But I could write volumes on what doesn’tt. But if there is one defining aspect, it would be women with whom you have to completely start over with as if you were fifteen again. That you need to drag through the mud again before they are worth keeping.
I’m the opposite. The women who get along with me find out that all I want to share are the good times, and if they are good enough, I will put up with a certain quota of bad times. That means starting from now, not starting from scratch. And I have not met such a gal in this century.
So I’m home along studying tank treads but I have the complete freedom to do just that without somebody nagging me for company because she’s too boring to provide her own. So you decide. Can’t have it both ways. Which is false, because I did have it twice in this life, but couldn’t hold onto it. The first I was too young, the second I was too old.
And the women I’ve met since 2000? I’d rather spend time with the tank treads. The only difference between me and other men is I admit it.
ADDENDUM
I write off the auditions of this week as a waste of time. I was there to see what was being offered and found nothing but liars and wannabes. This has nothing to do with the duo work with Trent, but I am feeling the financial pinch after 16 weeks of no work. Sure, I’d fill in with another band, even if it was something I don’t want or like. Work is work.
Now, take the guy who said he played in a band “for 25 years”. It must have been the only band ever where the members never had to communicate between them the most simple musical terms and notions, not even once. That’s the guy that did not know the “other chords” when told the song was in G. And a half hour later when another G song came along, had to be told again.
Gee, I must be a tone-deaf shmuck, because I don’t have telepathy and often have to ask the singer what key he wants. I sometimes wonder if any psychologist has ever studied the foibles of the guitar player’s mind. Guitarists certainly, by and large, don’t think like ordinary people, who might shy away from a purely egotistical self-adoration if only for knowing that it is distasteful to the public.
Yet guitarist self-love is so intense, they believe they are above such criticism. They believe they can mount the rooftops and crow at dawn about the make and model of their guitar collection and still believe they are “cool”. Once they have perfected their song list, it becomes the duty of other musicians to “learn their parts” and the guitarist will judge the results. He will play no song that does not showcase his own talents.
And yeah, Patsie does kind of look like a penguin. You know, with that pointy beak and her flat feet. And those creepy eentsy eye sockets. Yeah.
Last Laugh
Plot twist: New York IQ test?
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