One year ago today: December 31, 2014, the new Tascam recorder.
Two years ago today: December 31, 2013, okay, one Elvis tune.
Three years ago today: December 31, 2012, an evening with Estelle.
Four years ago today: December 31, 2011, cancel King Mango.
Five years ago today: December 31, 2010, where’s my Arduino!
Six years ago today: December 31, 2009, on respect for law . . .
Seven years ago today: December 31, 2008, excerpts from 1780 A.D.
(and “not of the dress”.)
Eight years ago today: December 31, 2007, on Ellie-Mae Clampett.
Nine years ago today: December 31, 2006, one song, one lousy song.
Twelve years ago today: December 31, 2003, last chance, BB King.
MORNING
I’m having a late breakfast of grits and cornbread, but that’s the point. I should be having biscuits and gravy at Glady’s up in Okeechobee. At launch minus 15 this morning, the long-planned New Year’s Eve party and trip to the interior was canceled. JZ will not leave town unless he has his own money, which is probably a good idea most of the time. The sad part is I did not have a backup plan, the camper still needs the rear hatch installed before I can travel.
Don’t confuse this style with books that are written specifically with children as the target audience. I’m referring to regular books authored by adults about usually their own childhood experiences but who have developed misplaced idyllic notions about how children look at things or how children think. I got news for such authors. Children swear, they are expert blackmailers, they know more than you do about sex, they steal and lie, and they know when you tell them something isn’t good for them, you are lying because you’re too cheap to spend the money. And they certainly know you just don’t want them to ever have any fun.
And last, there is nothing romantic, charming, or uplifting about poverty. It teaches nothing, it does not inspire its victims to greatness in any meaningful numbers, there are no life lessons to found in it. People who glorify poverty are truly disgusting oafs or Libtards who studied poverty at Yale. Poverty can be a great motivator, at least if the size of our prison population is any indication.
Of course, the book has the predictable happy ending. It’s a bit too homespun for me but I can confirm what it says at the end, that the only two occupations where everybody has to pay their full dues are music and farming. Absolutely true. But you won’t find me behind the plow.
NOON
The upset schedule (referring to the canceled trip) will never be enough to catch me with nothing to do. I got me some extra coffee time and plenty of thinking about my “steam engine” contraption. It was a full day, I visited the bakery, where I got caught unable to remember the name of the baker’s little girl born just a year ago. But my explanation was well-received. I thought her name was “Yo-yo” because every body that sees her says that. Apparently it means something like “how are you” or “pretty baby”. So to me, she is Yo-yo or “Hoit-voit”. I have no idea what that means.
As usual, each seemingly complicated step, like the value parts shown here, gets quickly accumulated into the pool of “ten year’s experience in six weeks”. Makes me wonder where this one will lead—and they always lead somewhere even when they don’t work, guys. I’m compiling a short video of the process, hoping I can hack this blog’s restrictions on video posts.
Dee-Dee was in (the bakery), talkative but has evolved into not my type. So I helped her replace the license plate on her car, see what a swell guy I can be? Then, over to Barnet’s, the hardware store of millionaires. I’m okay, I have a few hundred unspent dollar thanks to JZ, but don’t you dare tell him I said so. I had a grand afternoon playing the old mad-scientist inventor, mostly seen only in comic books. I had around 35 comic books when I was a kid and read them each once a week. My prized collection because nobody else in my family read anything.
Boy, after comic books, could I read after that, top in my class in every category except PhysEd. Remember, back then they only called it PhysEd. Today they have rules against bullies. So much for the crowd who say comics are bad for kids. People whose thinking is that messed up should go write fiddle books. Besides, the world needs somebody to give mad scientists a fair shake in the press. Pick me. And note the extreme clarity of the new camera pictures, by comparison. Nikon camera, Kodak lens.
EVENING
Trent called to meet up at the old club, which we wound up over-staying. Sometimes you just need a honky-tonk where the primary entertainment is old bar-flies, neighborhood yahoos, and other people’s rotten taste in jukebox music. We still have a master plan to hit the coffeehouses. You only need three, well four, tunes for a joint like that. In case you get an encore. Plus, he’s met that lady who does the natural harmonies. Say, he showed me her picture and she is, what’s the word, “elegant”?
There is a note on this day four years ago that I met a guitar player who was a professional. Is that Trent? He’s the pro, but I mean was it really four years ago? I know it’s been a long time, that’s for sure.
As for New Year’s, meh. We called it an early night, though where I live the fireworks will notify me when the hour arrives. I thought about testing the new videocam’s “fireworks” setting, but other than chasing women, I’ve never really gone all out for New Year’s. The few times I invested in a pre-paid party (usually a fancy club or lounge), I found it boring and I over-indulged. Plus, you really did have to bring your own entertainment.
And November was the longest month. It just went on forever by my standards. I wonder if this is one of the stages of learning retirement. I can tell you, nothing except doing it will ever prepare anyone for retirement. Well, except the idle rich, who are essentially born retired. That 1% whose concerns are nothing like yours or mine, who live their lives in one long inept party and fancy clothes "all of which was theirs without thought nor effort".
As for a review of 2015, that won’t take long. I found it to be the longest year of my life. I’ve said it before, but those who say life flies swiftly by are doing something wrong. I see it only in the pace at which other people’s children grow up, which essentially is twelve years, from the time they quit being babies to the time they inform you it isn’t their fault they were born. Twelve short years, twice as long ago as I learned to sing.
ADDENDUM
Personally, I think Trent should take that fancy job up north. I know little of Washington, DC, but I know a lot of the lifestyle there since the wars has been “partying the world away”. I see it very much like playing in a band, where the idea is surround oneself with others who are witty, socially adept, and well-dressed. It’s all clothes, glitter, and social success. When Trump says the country is run by stupid people, he simply must be referring to that crowd, who spend their time handing each other awards and government job titles. They are the ruination of America and Trent would slice through them.
That’s the presidential sleeping car. Steel-plated, with a bomb-proof floor, and submarine escape hatches. What a laughing stock I consider it when an elected leader has to ride in a mobile jail. The matching baggage car carries his motor cars for parades, so I find it appropriate that car was originally used by the circus to transport the monkeys. The picture is inside the restored rail car, I’ve been in this room as shown.
Last Laugh
( . . . and don’t slam the door . . .)
Return Home
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
