January 30, 2016

Yesteryear
One year ago today: January 30, 2015, go flamenco yourself . . .
Five years ago today: January 30, 2011, I find a new place.
Nine years ago today: January 30, 2007, Dr. Skrbc.
Random years ago today: January 30, 2009, it’s an Isetta.

MORNING, NOON, NIGHT

Wiki picture of the day.
Switzerland
           “I have as much authority as the Pope. I just don’t have as many people who believe it.” – George Carlin.

           Nothing happened in South Florida today. It has been either too wet or too cold every day for two months now. No bikini-clad babes on the beach, but then, you don’t see as many of those as there used to be anyway. I stayed home, fixed tools, played guitar. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that’s about the most the majority of people could ever hope for. Alas, the bakery is no more, the new owners removed the indoor tables, including my spot.

           Who remembers the electric brad nailer I bought that would not bury the nail-heads? This morning I decided to operate. Most of these tools have some sort of adjustment, but guess what? When I took off the “clip”, I saw that only one of the four “slots” had ever been used. And it was for the longest brads. So I removed the shorter ones he’d left in the case and put them back into the correct slot. Now it works like charm. And remember, it was brand new. Ha, got me a good one.
           When I said it costs $600 per month to do nothing in South Florida, I meant it. I now have the first hard figure for 2016. This month, I spent $664 on necessities. That would be food, rent, phone, gas. In other words, to do nothing. This is the amount I’m taking dead aim on because I know that situation can only get worse in the future. As with anyone, renter or mortgagee, the largest cost per month is accommodation.

           This, folks, is our legacy from the British Empire. An open, empty land, with millions of acres of timber, and it still costs a fortune for a place to live because somebody else who got there first “owns” the land until you pay them a lifetime of work to buy it. Here’s a barbed clip about Donald Trump back in 2004, see paragraph 3. By the way, the bakery is taken over by a crew of Venezuelans who seem to have no clue what they are doing. The connection is “the trump”
           The "trump", for those who haven’t been here all along, is the nickname for my breakfast at the bakery. Coffee, a crusty role, with lettuce and Hungarian sauce. You see, it started as a comment that for $2.19, I could do something the Donald could not. Have a relaxing morning without a care in the world.

ADDENDUM
           Now that I’ve knuckled down and learned Cash’s “Walk the Line”, I could kick myself for not doing that years ago. Not that I’ll ever play it, but it is one of those songs that “comes alive” when it has a proper bass line. In this case proper means the bass is playing the lead riff, and that’s my specialty. It was this effect that spurred me on to begin playing these passages. This is not to be confused with playing “lead breaks” on the bass. We all know how sucky that sounds.

           I can’t say when I first noticed this, this, what would you call it? It’s an impression or perception that makes the guitar sound better. This is not the same as hearing a bassist simply accompany a guitar player which you’ve all heard how many times. I call this my “rhythm bass” style because I am playing notes that get left out by the guitar and notes or melodies often played as fills by other instruments. And most of the time, that other instrument is the piano, which is why it sounds so novel.
           Most likely I would have perceived this when practicing with guitar players who had not learned their parts between rehearsals or left out hooks. If so, my claim that I’ve played bass the same way all my life is only 90% accurate. I still play the same basics, but I’ve learned to add those parts to the extent that I’m carrying more and more of the song by myself. These days, in some cases, I carry the entire song as a solo.


Last Laugh
Don’t lose your key . . .

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