August 19, 2016

Yesteryear
One year ago today: August 19, 2015, meanwhile, at the Nigerian orphanage . . .
Five years ago today: August 19, 2011, a bit rambling.
Nine years ago today: August 19, 2007, turbo cat food.
Random years ago today: August 19, 2012, on Miss World contestants.

MORNING
           As usual, some people take time to realize there really is no television at my place. Nothing to do? Bake a turkey, there’s the oven. Write a letter to your friend, I do it all the time. Or, how about go outside and wash the car? That’s better than morning TV any day. What really happened is I was listening to the radio at dawn. Have you ever noticed people will talk to you when you are listening to the radio as if you are doing nothing? Then they think you are ignoring them just because you are? Ha! Here’s the white car in front of the cabin.

           I’m having M run me up to the library, then he can go spend the day exploring. I showed him which house to buy already. He’s convinced this is paradise, but give it a few days to wear off. I showed him how to get to Wal*Mart, so that should keep the guy busy till noon.
           And while there, I actually found some Halloween candy that was non GMO and no HFCS (high fructose corn syrup). It was candy corn. You know that confection. When I was a kid, the poor side of town would put a few wedges of candy corn in a little bag of unsalted popcorn and that was your treat. Other cheapskates could put a couple of peanuts or one stick of gum.

           [Author’s note: candy corn is, you should know, a corn syrup product, but corn syrup is not high fructose. Originally known as “chicken feed” in 1880-something, by 1950, it was a then-rare fat-free candy. And only 25 cents a pound, hence it’s popularity at Halloween. Um, October 30 is “Candy Corn Day”, so don’t miss it, the “worst Halloween candy ever”.]

           News on the truck theft. As details pour in, I was right it was a professional job. Just you remember that in this day and age, that can infer a lot more than a simple crime ring in the neighborhood. JZ’s truck was neither new nor high on the list of stolen brands. Nor does it make sense for someone to go after such a visible location. But I’m on JZ’s side and he just bought a van for temporary use.
           He doesn’t like vans, however, so when he gets a new truck, he says he’ll give it to me. I have the parking space and I’ll be he’s thinking how hand it will be if I continue to renovate. If you look at the photo again, the sun room, around 198 square feet, is slated for that empty space behind the car.

           Renovating has limits here. I’m more likely to run out of money than ambitions. Here is your weird photo of the day. The explanation is as follows. I was in the back room when I noticed the rain had stopped. So I snapped a picture out the south window, which has a strip of flypaper to the left. The camera lens washed out in the bright and I did notice till later that Agt. M had taken one of the lawn chairs to read outside. He grabbed the blue tarp because the furniture was wet. To the right, you can see some building materials stacked against the house, as this is the most sheltered spot and no visible from the street. In the background are two of the four houses in my entire neighborhood.

           Return later for a few photos of the place I think Agt. M should buy. It’s abandoned, quite large, but has a fireplace and just you remember, I’ve got plenty of experience leveling floors. That appears to be all that is wrong with both places, and you watch once I get that laser. The floor will be so level you could bring three chubby broads over to play pool on it.

Wiki picture of the day.
The Aral Sea, 1989-2008.
NOON
           This morning was the first time the new place seemed like I lived here. I think I’ve actually stayed here maybe twelve times since I took possession in mid-June. I got a call from the south, it may be that the office is reconsidering one of the ladies they rejected last month. That is, they may have decided there are two sides to every eviction notice. The point is, I specifically told the office about that lady’s eviction and why, but she says they denied all knowledge when they called her back. Hmmm.

           The cupboards were bare, so I sprung for breakfast at the BK, Agt. M had the Eggnormous burrito. And took sick in a couple of hours, he locked himself in the handicap washroom till noon. I had pancakes and butter. I won’t touch the syrup because it doesn’t contain any syrup. No more restaurant food for that guy.
           Anyway, since the robot club is present, the full complement of tests were done. Sure enough, the city supplies free wifi, that’s tested and connected. This is the first blog post generated at the new digs.

           Aha, you say, didn’t I opt to no buy the laser, but isn’t that a laser strip on my door center of this picture. Beside my trademark Charlie Chaplan poster? Yes, it is a laser marker, and I can explain. I insisted we stop for real groceries and next we headed over to the church thrift. These are a better deal, on average, than Miami because it is practically impossible to anonymously donate junk. You know who you are. Outside of a $200 padded leather motorcycle helmet I got for $10, I also found a laser level new in the package for $2.
           Now we know the technology works. It is a neat unit by Black & Decker. It glows red when off level and green on level. Some people around here still think I can’t use this technology to find the high spot on my floors. You’d think they’d never built a pyramid before. I decided it was time for real food so I made corn and carrots with boiled spuds with ham. Only to find M does care for salty ham. Texas style. One plate for your meat, another plate for the veggies, if any.

           Good thing the thrift closes early, we went on a spree. I got those infrared lights with motion detectors for $2, fancy towel rings, safety glasses, and a lot of computer gear that looks like it was donated because somebody didn’t know how to use it. We had this place wired for light and sound within the hour.
           A good meal revived Agt. M, so he’s off to the tennis courts. And it’s siesta time for me. Wake me up before dark and I may just wire up some live music equipment. I haven’t played bass in a couple of months. So I did since I have no intention of working outside in this record hot spell.

           If you hang around here long, you’ll find people are particularly well informed about the temperatures. Not because they become abruptly weather-conscious upon arriving but because I have indoor-outdoor thermometers mounted at eye-level beside the toilet. Once you’ve instituted this progra0, you will never go back. Warning, if the temperature hits 120 you know your brother-in-law has been eating chili.
           In fact, it was so hot today that my cooking thermometer registered in the lower range, reading 104°.

NIGHT
           This is a band I’d like to hear. Here’s a blurry shot of the laser device. It turns green when level, I’ll get you some better views of this in action. Many are not yet convinced I’ll be able to use it effectively, they of little faith. Tonight was unusual because I went out. Listen up, because there is a powerful message here. I am not singling out Agt. M, but I’m pointing at the example. Like most, and like me at one time, he does not read, write, play music, or anything of the kind. This is fine for the first half of one’s life.

           But not the second. I’m busy on a Friday night, baking cakes, writing the blog, learning a snappy version of Hogan’s Heroes on the bass, now set up in my new living room. But there is no TV or Internet yet (we have the service detected by cell phone, but no antenna). The guy has nothing to do. I’ve warned the world about that since I was ten and decided I had better insist on learning music. By that age, I’d seen plenty of examples of what happens to people who get old without a hobby.

           All they have in their lives is instant gratification. There is lots to do here, but every bit of it involves constructive endeavor or setting a precedent. Can’t write a letter to your friend or he’ll just expect another. Learning even on song on the guitar means a commitment to grasping at least some music theory. So there is only one thing to do. Go downtown pubbing and spend money. And everyone who knows me is knows I don’t go to pubs on Friday night. It’s a quick path to spending all your money and being disappointed. But here was a situation where it was that or nothing.
           So I went along, wisely taking my notebook and a pencil. When we get there, Agt. M picks up the free wifi and asks if I want to log on. No way, I’m in a bar. I’ve only seen comedy pictures on-line of parties where everyone is staring at a smart phone. The point I’m making here is not the cell phone behavior, but that it is totally wrong to assume this conduct is anything new or trending. These temptations to the idle mind have been around since they invented beer. I’m saying it is sad to see people who don’t even suspect there are alternatives.

           They’ve got their pool and darts and sports TV and now they have smart phones and in the future they’ll have something equally shallow for the majority—the ones who associate relaxation with doing nothing, not even thinking. So we were there until past 11:00PM, spending money at a phenomenal rate, and finally I caught a ride home. By the time I was that age, I knew that if you weren’t getting anywhere by 10:00 PM, quite wasting your resources. The band was also giving me the willies.
           I’ve heard them before at the same club. Every set is slow and draggy, the ancient teenage fantasy of the guitar player, now aging and balding. All slow “serious music” that puts everyone but the drunks to sleep, but the guitar player for the life of him cannot see it. He played the standard 22 moaner-droner-groaners and of course had a trained band of sycophants to follow. They played one fast song that got the crowd going, “Folsom Prison Blues”, but as soon as that happened, they slowed it down and butchered it into a blues song. Typical.

ADDENDUM
           Yes, I’m critical of this type of [guitar overkill] show because I’m a musician who has actually done things differently. So unlike 100% of the guitar players I’ve met since 2000, I can make a comparison. I’m not saying slow guitar ballads are wrong, I’m saying I’m sick and tired of them and the guitar players who worship such stuff. They are, in the end, self-indoctrinated and set in their ways. And that is definitely wrong in any situation.
           There’s no accounting for taste and there’s no possibility of a guitarist trying something different to see if it’s better. If you are thinking that’s harsh, it just shows you’ve never tried to get one to do it. The only thing that works is direct comparison and the best method is two gigs across from each other. Like sometimes happens on Hollywood Beach. That’s where you see the results. The lonely blue-rock guitarist across the street from my packed show with each of us playing music the other thinks is juvenile and inappropriate. My show is easy proof people will only listen to monotonous guitar when there is nothing else available.
           I did not say old rock, I said monotonous guitar. That would include reggae, ska, alternative, New Age, jazz, and the shithouse blues. It’s overplayed in this vicinity. Point of order—I can play all that crappy music, but they can’t reciprocate. Ah, I hear some jerk near the back wall saying that’s because “bass is easy”. But he can only say it, he can’t show us. Hand him a bass and he’ll play two guitar riffs and make some lame excuse to quit.


Last Laugh


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