One year ago today: July 19, 2015, poor man’s fly trap.
Five years ago today: July 19, 2011, they are less able.
Nine years ago today: July 19, 2007, why I fire guitarists.
Random years ago today: July 19, 2004, Mary Chapin Carpenter?
MORNING
Now I’m awake. Sixteen hours does a body wonders. You are not living life to the fullest if each day is not precious enough to write something down. What is this photo? It’s hand-washed T-shirts drying in the wind. This is why I want a laundry room asap. JZ considers hand laundry the same as “running hot water down the drain.” I have not heard that one since I was six years of age. Blog says I must tell you readership is up again, to the point where there are no zero-hours.
And just so you’ll know, the concept of changing the blog name is again in the works. Note that this blog does not respect anything published on Facebook to be original or copyrighted. I say this because some of the potential name-change candidates have snippets on that site.
I do not have a Facebook page and have advised all people with common sense to stay as far from that idiocy as possible. Since day one, by the way. One candidate name [for this blog] has a similar title to a blog in Finland, some kind of mail-order bride operation. However, I did not know that until after I had chosen the potential name-change. And anyway, this blog completely bowls over that Finnish outfit for content and readership by several thousand times over. Maybe I’ll hyphenate the title or something, but like, what are they gonna do?
My experience is that small cities often contain a small core pocket of extremely talented individuals, all descended there from city living. Hence, the idea of a new robot society has crossed my mind. We now know that the entire realm of robotics is serious business and one of the more expensive hobbies you can find. However, not so with the core of the robot movement, the microcontrollers. They are sold everywhere now, though I notice prices are rising. Theoretically, in a pure capitalist system, prices should fall as every more efficient competition arises. Alas, when borrowed money enters the equation, it is no longer pure capitalism. Just ask Jacob Rothschild.
And you can expect an upsurge in older blog entries here. Whenever I move, a box or two of long-lost pages always gets found.
Percival Lowell.
NOON
Who recalls the Keeway [motorcycle]? I testify anything made in China is only good for 6,000 miles and don’t you forget it. However, as it stands, a lot of people can’t forget exactly that because they never learned it. In my considerable experience—and I mean considerable down to the tenth of a mile per gallon, etc, that the Chinese, even when presented with a copyable good design, still require ten years to engineer the quality out of it. Please, don’t argue unless you can show me your detailed receipts.
While over there, I noticed another Chinese model, CFMoto or something. See photo. It makes headlines because it has a built-in stereo music system. You can see me pointing at one of the speakers notched into the side of the gasoline tank. There are a series of control buttons built into the steering hub which no doubt serves to distract the driver at the least opportune of times.
We’ve gone over this before, how you need three vehicles in America to be assured of having a ride most of the time. I have not committed to buying yet, but if I should, I could have the motorcycle now and not pay for it until October. Return tomorrow or thereabouts for a picture of this 250cc Harley wannabe. I hear the crowd telling me 250cc is not enough for the freeway and I agree. It gets buffeted around too much.
I emphasize this picture is not the motorcycle in question. Of course, I would like the bigger tricycle unit that defines comfort. But we won’t be seeing anything like that under ten times the price. I really have not much choice, unless I want to drive the expensive batbike repeatedly over the same route, eating up precious mile after mile on that even more precious machine.
Bradley J. Bushman: Psychology, 2013. Brad was on the team that determined drunk people think they are attractive. And bright, funny, and original. He has plainly never heard the old saw that beer was invented by ugly women.
NIGHT
Here’s a picture of my hand gesturing to JZ as we head out on the roadway. This may be a repeat [photo], but it indicates that there is by no means much agreement on how to go about the renovations. I knew this situation was likely and it is best dealt with directly. I don’t want any shortcuts in my own house. I’m still woozy from jet lag and about to turn in early. Not even any music, that’s how tired the last weekend left me. I’m still in Hollywood, but I get regular phone calls from the new premises already.
Music. In two days, I’ve only got a shaky hold on the lyrics to the first half-verse of “I’ve Been Everywhere”. I’ve rationalized that since people are not expecting the bass guy to sing, I can use the old electric brain to use vocals the way I use bass. That is, to add tiny but complementary morsels that enrich the “presentational” effect of a duo.
If this technique works, it opens another small but highly effective set of tunes that, except for the complicated lyrics, would have bass lines that are too elementary to hold the crowd. A good example is Cash’s “Get Rhythm”. I already hum, whistle, and fake my way through a number of instrumental breaks. So now let’s see if the bass guy can hit them with difficult lyrics.
ADDENDUM
What is it with banks and privacy? Back in May, I altered my will. This should be among the most private of affairs when a bank is involved. The last thing most people should ever do is give their relatives a reason for wanting them dead. I have no relatives, so no big deal. But good luck if you expect a little discretion from the banks. This applies to a trust or a will. Here’s what happened to me.
I immediately began receiving a large number of bank “notices” with my company name, corporate name, trust name, full name, position (trustee), and a description of the contents emblazoned across the envelope. The only thing missing was my social security number. I had managed to keep the existence of this will a secret for some decades, but no more. As you may not know, the government scans and records all addresses and return addresses. Good thing I have a mail drop, or the entire neighborhood right down to the goddamned mailman would know there’s money around here somewhere.
Just the kind of information you want to share with the Jews in the park office, the other people in the trailer court who are here by karma instead of choice, or snoopy roomies who already hold your mail up to the light. You want privacy? Fuck you. Banks don’t believe you deserve any.
Last Laugh
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