One year ago today: April 29, 2015, round trip $238.
Five years ago today: April 29, 2011, Staci, before she bombed.
Nine years ago today: April 29, 2007, Matt, another forgotten guitarist.
Random years ago today: April 29, 2006, old style “calendar” blog.
MORNING
See, I won’t mention silver. But tell you what, if they go on sale, buy some stocks in Mt. Rushmore. They say they’ll need to make room for Donald Trump. I still hear people saying he won’t win, that there is some huge pool of voters lurking in the shadows. They don’t speak, they don’t attend rallies, but on voting day they will all materialize at the booths and sweep in that old lady. They got their darkie as president, now they want their lady, goes the unspoken logic. But then along came Trump, and if he doesn’t get it, there will be consequences. But hopefully not until after I’ve had my morning coffee.
See the picture? I’ll explain this funny-looking lady with the even funnier-looking hat thing below. Note the setting, surrounded by books, is she reading her own poetry at an open mic? Nope, this one purports to be in Paris, France. Maybe that explains the turban, too? Them French never had a lick of sense. I think the last battle they won was Austerlitz.
While authoring books is probably the most “Liberal” of the fine arts, that only applies if you are not, repeat not, a single white male with a non-English-sounding surname. If you are one of those, you stand about as much chance of getting a writing award as you would a promotion at the phone company. Dude, it ain’t gonna happen. You’ll also find, as I have, that even the most interesting writers are near total duds in person. I’ll bet you ten bucks you will never see a person who writes well up on stage entertaining a room full of strangers. What? Well, you know what I meant, right?
What kind of false liberalism am I pointing at? Those contests. It looks like there are hundreds, but read the fine print. Many specify poetry only, which as far as I’m concerned is okay because people who write poetry these days plainly need all the help they can get. It is the restrictions on prose, they read like a list that would land a white male in federal prison. Women only, Africans only, must be under 40, must concern social justice, must concern women’s rights, gay rights, blue rights, red rights ad nauseum.
Other restrictions include where you live, and even what language you use on your word processor. I’ve pointed a lot of this out before, so this is to let you know there has been zero improvement in the attitude of the writing community. If I have time, I’ll sift through to find any that don’t restrict me. Some say you must be in a registered writing school, others say you must not be. I already know the only avenue open to me is “creative non-fiction”.
This is different than plain vanilla non-fiction. Creative means you can write opinion, but you can’t make stuff up. Think of memoirs, which don’t have to be absolutely factual, but must be based on real events. Mildly-put-Mitchener, you might say. You may be curious to learn creative non-fiction has become the darling of the publishing industry. Yet that means overall, as it is very difficult to write memoirs and personal experiences that cater to a single large readership. This blog is creative non-fiction. Read my lips: you. can’t. make. stuff. up.
Finish the morning with me telling you about the advertisements on these writer’s sites. While hack writing is a drudge job, the fantasy of the genteel author remains powerful. There are writing schools that only the born-rich could consider, including the above picture claiming the proper writer’s lifestyle is in Paris. If you are unfamiliar with “low residency” degrees, they are colleges that only require you to be there a couple of weeks every six months or so and attend some lectures and, as the picture says to me, poetry readings at night. It’s the cheapest, easiest Master’s Degree ever invented.
The concept is that you live in Paris, or Rome, or some area so steeped in history and culture that by just being there, one is going to eventual trip and fall into some of it. And you wondered why so many romance novels had the same balcony views and so many international spies lurked in the same shadows. Why have I never entered a writing contest? I dunno, I’ve never entered any music contests either. Many of the prizes are nothing I value (such as memberhips and fellowhips) but the cash. I would always take the cash.
Chess player.
NOON
May 28th. That’s the day the dollar is supposed to implode. I usually set a little aside. Not because I believe anyone can predict the actual date but because masses of stupid people who believe in stupid things can create a lot of buying opportunities. It’s like people believing house prices will go up that day, but nobody can afford the ones that are out there right now. Let’s see, who so far says May 28th. There’s Putin, and Ron Paul, and China. You can read about it in the Daily Star, which is not bad as far English newspapers go.
How about the “massive” Trump protest in California. About a hundred clueless types of which half seemed to be there to record the scene for their posts. Waving Mexican flags, sure, that will drum up support for your cause. Since most of the criticism against Trump has been debunked, it is hard to figure out what these protesters want besides publicity.
Next was a wasted four hours. I did a random balance check and there is a pile of money missing, call it $4,500. I found it, but it wasted an afternoon. It’s a good thing I scan everything, I have the deposit slip and the original item on file. What a pity when a bank glitch becomes the top story of a nice long summer afternoon. Some could say the big news is Prince is dead.
Despite the closeness in our ages, all I can say about that is, “Prince who?” As with Michael Jackson, I have heard of the guy, but I could not name you a single hit by either. The other day somebody played an a cappella Jackson number on the juke box and I thought it was some lady who didn’t know when to quit.
There was time to run some experiments here, Like trying to harden modeling clay in the microwave. If you put it in an ordinary oven, it melts. It is nothing but clay and oil. Well, the microwave doesn’t work either. I even tried baking in inside a wooden box, it just dries out the wood. Um, kids, be careful, wood will catch fire if nuked unattended.
NIGHT
Oh boy, trivia. Americans buy nearly 700 million pounds of peanut butter per year. And 3.5 million pounds of it gets thrown out, stuck in the bottom of the jar. Did you know in 2009, somebody invented a jar to address that. It had a lid on both ends. But it never happened. You see, peanut butter is made out of the rejected peanuts. It is so cheap that changing over to a different jar was simply too expensive.
And now for more peanut trivia. Hey, pay attention, as usual with this blog, it takes too long to find all this information in one place on your own, even before the trend of misleading web titles:
√ There are 540 peanuts in a 12 oz (the small) jar. That’s 2,200 calories.
√ “Goober” comes from the Congo, where the peanut is called “nguba”.
√ Peanut butter need only be 98% peanuts. The rest is goodies like insect fragments.
√ Arachibutyrophobia : fear of peanut butter stuck on the roof of your mouth.
√ Peanuts were originally cultivated to give cottonfield soil a rest.
The addendum below is about the show last evening, not music which I spent this evening going over. My show must keep ahead of the pack and I see that means abandoning some life-long favorites. And playing certain songs I’d rather not. This alone puts me leap years ahead. I’ve never met a guitar player who would play a song he outright hates, much less do a good job of it. So tonight, I examined which music that is suitable for medley arrangement.
These would include a number of songs that have catchy part or choruses, while the rest of the tune is ho-hum. Think “Sea of Heartbreak”, “If That Ain’t Country”, and “Okie From Muskogee”. Just enough to titillate the audience into joining in. I saw what I saw last night and am convinced I’m right.
But the house had no Budweiser, so for my complementary, I had a small glass of wine. When will I learn, I can barely look at that stuff without a hangover. Y’know, I lived through a college era when wine was portrayed as a secret pleasure of wise men, I was often told my connection between wine and hangovers was imagination. Yeah, well countless studies since have shown I wasn’t making up a thing. I’ve read that there are now wines on sale that have much of the bad chemicals filtered out. I’m still not going to try it soon.
ADDENDUM
Finally, we get to the gig analysis from last evening. That’s the ukulele open mic. This week I knew five chords and played them all. I’m more comfortable with the venue and recognize a few of the personalities. My ten minutes was by far the most crowd-friendly. Which is not the same thing as saying I was the best musician, I rarely am that on the bass, which in any case is not my first instrument. Ha, ha, I just got that, “in any case”. I do not play ukulele and neither does that pretty boy in the picture.
I’m referring to the audience appeal of my act and the final word on that is always the applause-o-meter. I have no cause to exaggerate, and I tell you where the guitar acts before me got polite smatters, mine was a loud and enthusiastic clapping, and I mean everyone, including the staff. I pay attention to the staff. A happy crowd is a tipping crowd.
So, am I bragging? What purpose would that serve? It is my standard show and I am encouraged to keep going. It was not all my own way, as I’m finding some of the sure-fire tunes out west can meet with blank stares. This is only my second guitar gig and my list still needs evolving. I’m already dividing my offerings into crowd-pleasers and easy listening. I have not repeated any tunes at the show yet.
Ahead of me were a series of guitar players, but I’m not reviewing their music except to say the term “original” is woefully abused by such people. I’m talking about the mechanics of the show, that’s what I analyze. If being a music critic snakes in, that is my failure to focus. The emcee of the show is also quick to spot my natural stage presence (upon which I place immense store) is dominating the room and people are already recognizing me.
Now this is not bragging, but the tell-tale signs of how you are doing. And everyone who aspires to be an entertainer had both learn to read them and note their absence, as the case may be. I will be fine-tuning which aspects of my work are most productive but I already know my show is a winner. And trust me, I’m one lousy guitar player. I cannot play a single riff. Biggest error? I forgot the lyrics to a verse and stopped strumming momentarily to collect my thoughts. The emcee just mentioned hops up and tries to cut me short, saying that silent moment of stop and start again was my third song. Three to a customer. That’s what I mean, he has become conscious of where I’m opening my own doors.
What do I need to change? Firstly, I have to get my own PA system. Even though the small column that the emcee (Stu) uses is adequate, it is set generically and like all musicians, he is touchy about others changing anything. I find his sound is too “bassy” for me, I like a better mid-range for guitar. He showed me something I never figured out on my own. My Ibanez guitar has the output jack through the center of the peg that holds the back shoulder strap.
Over time, this causes crackling and cutouts, even on my spanking new equipment. I need the dreaded music stand. These have a bad name because the guitarists who have been playing the same tunes for 30+ years don’t need them. They impede the view of their minions, I suppose. And I do a better job sitting down. I don’t like sitting in front of an audience. Also, without my own PA, it is tricky to use the house microphones when I have my own headset. I have to unwind their cables to use my rig and reverse that when done.
What else? While I have not yet tested my wireless Karaoke mics, that is very obviously going to be a winner when coupled with my presentation. Here’s where I point out that my stage show cannot be rehearsed. It is as live as my music and reactive to what just happened, and you can’t plan out and practice what happens, you know what I mean. I do work hard at this and I can be quite satirical when lamebrains try to copy me. A couple of them did and landed flat on their faces. Prepared humor has its place, but that place is not in the same room I’m working. Just ask my brothers.
I also had to gloss over any instrumental breaks, but I’ve already found guitar playing easy enough that I can banter without losing my spot. This [inability to play instrumentals] must be tended to; right now the only answer I have is constructing some medleys. And I’ve never done that before except two-song comedy clips. Time to haul out my old bingo lists to re-discover what worked there. I may be glad I chose most of those tunes for easy guitar parts. I intend to be there next week.
Last Laugh
Return Home
++++++++++++++++++++++++++
