One year ago today: November 29, 2014, the last Bingo show.
Five years ago today: November 29, 2010, “somewhat autobiographical”.
Nine years ago today: November 29, 2006, on wig prices.
Random years ago today: November 29, 2002, holiday Florida-style.
MORNING
Shoes? Who wants to see a picture of shoes? Don’t blame me, but shoes were the big event of the day around here. Sonny, it’s a nothing Sunday in November, not everybody’s favorite month. It doesn’t even get light until 7:00AM. Anyway, it is what the shoes symbolize—and that is the absurdity that the economy around here is doing anything like recovering. The only business that should be folding is City Hall. And if anybody can’t see it by now, they want all that residential property on Hollywood Beach. But first the shoes.
Shoes, not a priority around here, but the shoe place up on Federal is pulling the pin. I got these $35 deck shoes for $5 and these $101 leather dress shoes for $20. I confess never having been in that store until he went out of business. Too bad, that is another classic shop that gave this town any character, and now that is gone.
I see I struck a sour chord (pun intended) on the music comments of last day. Listen, I’m not revealing any secrets. I’ve known since I was a teen that the music business is populated by some pretty seeding characters. This relates to how this sort of people have the 10,000 hours of time to become good at something. The problem is, they often did not become good at learning how to make any money at it.
That’s why I dare say I am one of the few “legitimate” musicians in town. With few exceptions, every other musician I know is on welfare, on the lam, or on the run from child support. The exceptions are one guy who is in and out of jail, another who turns 50 this year and lives at home with his parents, and the other is a treaty Indian who collects his monthly check but has not lived on the reservation since 1985 or thereabouts. Music is not the place to meet the best society has to offer.
And last evening was a turning point for me. That is it for looking. I toured all the places with all the musicians I would chum with, which means the beach area. I don’t care for bars, but lounges are okay. I’ve always done better in lounges, but I believe I told how the cruise ships killed that industry in Florida. I had to make a determination of whether I would ever get a guitar player to see the light. That light is forming a duo that makes more money and plays more often that any solo act. But it is now clear that the solo scene is a permanently self-limiting situation for ho-hum guitarists who play everything the same way and have played the same song list since they started.
I’ll give it two more shots, with two guitar players I know who are okay with stand-ins during their shows. But face it, they only let others play because they are pretty much weary of their own material. I have to get up there and wow their audience to get anywhere. I hate to do it, but talking doesn’t get through to them. I need the audience to tell them to get that bass player back on stage again. Very few guitar egos can tolerate that situation.
There is a third guitarist, but I totally bowl the guy over on stage and I don’t want that either. He’s right bottom-of-the-barrel, but so was the Hippie. No day job, suspicious of everything, you are more likely to see him at the bar as on the stage. Yet, it may be time to dispense with the Mr. Nice Guy bass approach and cash in on my ability to steal an audience. A lot of that stems from the way guitar players are so predictable, you know.
And this is not speculation for me, I’ve done this forever with guitar players I didn’t give a hoot about, like Zack the Sack, and the Hippie, who doesn’t ever realize you have completely dominated his last five shows. The last big band never caught on I was the stage darling at every gig we did, yeah, all five of them. And one was a free dog show.
The bottom line here is I’m beginning to suspect that an act with new material (even if the tunes are ancient) will have more audience appeal than the steady diet the crowds have been getting. Last night I watched the lady guitar player comp every song. And Johnny D is back, turns out he was up in the Ocala area, but that is no better than around here, music-wise. His song list has not changed since we met in 2005. The only song on my list from 2005 is “Jambalaya”.
NOON
That’s my new clock. Recognize the frame? My first scroll saw project, it used to be a 2”x6”. This is the piece of wood I rejuvenated with lady’s overnight face crème, a la Oil of Old-Age. What you see is a couple of sticks jammed on the top to apply pressure while the glue at the bottom cures for 24 hours.
By the time I got home, I see the lackey was poking around while I was away. He should know better. The rules around here are strange. If your place is vacant, they trim and mow the area around your unit. But if you are here, they won’t help a bit. I raked up the trash in the vacant plot next to mine, after that last windstorm. I was out of garbage bags so I left the pile in the corner. A week later, it is still there. They won’t pick up even their own trash unless you bag it for them.
Now, my Trump feed fell on this video, which I would normally ignore, but this broad was too disgusting to not watch. The tip-off in her first sentence is when she says “we, in Canada”. She does not represent anyone or anything but her own despicable agenda. Whenever people like her state that not all Muslims are terrorists, I ask them to explain the difference, so the average person can tell them apart.
Plainly, if they are different, a Liberal should be able to explain how to everyone’s satisfaction. Or they are just the next bullshit artist. But watch how this slimy bitch squirms when told you can’t have it both ways. Watch how she tries to talk over anybody with a different point of view. Talk about Canadian. Their “new” leader is the son of the old leader who sold the country down the river. That whole country is headed for a major, major “readjustment”. I think “political correctness” can be traced back to a Trudeau-era Canadian invention.
NIGHT
Not so fast on the real estate side of things. Slow down. Stretch the memory back, oh, 48 hours, to that place I griped that the agent didn’t give the address or price. I found it by satellite and the price, ($25,000) was easy after that. Um, I think they might be dithering on price. It is nine miles from town, but so was the place we just missed in Deland (by 8-1/2 minutes). I never did dismantle the finance package, which involved a huge down payment. That is still sitting where I left it, because it was a budgeted item.
Meanwhile, I’ve got something for you to ponder. Let’s pretend you have a paint brush that needs cleaning. You have five gallons of water and two buckets. One bucket is one gallon, the other bucket is five gallons. My friend from out West says the paint brush will get equally clean whether you dunk it in five gallons of water in the big bucket or one gallon five times in the small bucket. I say the brush gets much cleaner in the one gallon bucket five times. He says that is just an illusion.
My email community, small but tightly-knit, says I should go ahead with the guitar player that I can crush on stage. The vote says it is up to him to improve his lot, not mine. Go ahead and clobber him. And that vote is unanimous. These are very clear statistics. I should team up with a guitar player who knows I am better than he is. I know a few like that. I know even more, but they would never admit it.
On that vein, here is an article to make you think. For years, the Dept. of Justice has classified Hispanic crimes as “white” to distort the reality of black crime statistics. They have finally established a category of crime that sets Hispanic criminals into their own group. Note how the website seeks to minimize the difference this makes. That 86% of crime remains non-white and Hispanics are more likely to attack a white person than they attack any other race. Five times more likely.
Build that wall a little higher, Don. I'll gladly pay my share.
ADDENDUM
Something that always attracts attention when I find it is people with enough influence to sanitize their background on the Internet. A friend sent me a link to watch a Canuck Libtard name Chrystia Freeland get set in her place during an interview. She is a self-loathing anti-American pseudo-academic who lashes out at anybody who presents facts that don’t suit her perfect little world. So I tried to check into her background.
Other than being born in northern Alberta in 1968, her entire past between then and 1994 has been completely whitewashed. And all photos of her prior to 2013 except posed political ads have been purged. One thing I know about Libtards is they get that way because of extremely guilty consciences. She’s covering up something evil. What could it be?
I have a guitar player friend who lived in Peace River in the late 1970s. Willie M. I think I’ll ask him what she’s up to. There is no such thing as a fanatic Liberal who isn’t trying to atone for their past—and 99% of the time it has to do with sex. You know small towns, and Willie will be able to tell us who she was screwing. I got ten bucks says the answer to her disgusting attitude is buried as deeply as possible in a snowbank up there. Let’s have a look-see.
Last Laugh
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