One year ago today: December 12, 2015, music, broads, houses.
Five years ago today: December 12, 2011, Office 2007 sucks.
Nine years ago today: December 12, 2007, married guys taking risks.
Random years ago today: December 12, 1981, reads like DNS.
MORNING
When the batbike had the radiator fixed, the signal buzzer went missing. I’d installed it to quit forgetting the turn signals, easy to do on a noisy machine. I’m still working on getting the new one to work right. The whole day required work. Shown here is the gluing down of leather around the gas tank of the batbike. You’ll see the robot club never runs out of clamps for gluing stuff. Shown here are 17 clothes pins. Not shown is the amount of repair work done before all these clothes pins appeared.
What caught my eye is that the yard was cleaned up. I went over for a look and that’s when I had to call M and tell him there was a swimming pool in that back yard. It’s going to be absolutely beautiful soon, right across from the library, a private lake, and the biggest city park. We could have got it for a song and a dance if we’d been prepared.
He wants to get out here to scout the territory, I told him just let me know because I’m still working on the guest room. It has no drywall yet, but it possesses the twin qualities of peace and quiet. (Nobody is allowed down the hallway except guests.) Just think, real peace and quiet, two unobtainable factors of my youth. Think of the situation where the phone rings. Here are two possible responses, you choose which one is me and which one is my family:
1) He’s sleeping. You’ll have to call back.
2) He’s sleeping. I’ll go wake him up for you.
Amsterdam Island, pop. 25.
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NOON
Here’s a Model A from the airplane museum. According to the literature, yes, it is in running condition. Get your atlas, this is the outfit in Polk City, Florida. The museum is kind of an adjunct, in that their operation is restoring these artifacts to running condition. If I did not say, many of the airplanes in the showroom have been flown in famous movies. And for enough money, they will take you for a flight. I think they should push the fact these airplanes and cars can still run more than just the museum aspect.
There is a dent in the gas tank. Normally, that is a sign it has been rolled. (The turn signals bash into the side of the tank.) This dent looked odd and sure enough, what happened is his cat knocked a ladder over on the bike while it was in his garage. If he accepts my offer, this will be the biggest street bike I’ve ever owned and a replacement for the red scooter.
The scooter, a 150cc, has proven inadequate out in the country. It’s showing its age, like last week, the electrical acted up again. I’ve repaired so many things on that scooter that it surprises me it still runs. Each time something goes, I tell myself that’s it, but then I fix it and get another two months out of it. Now both sets of brakes are rubbing and the nearest budget repair shop is over in Auburndale.
It was a great day for work, since you don’t want to hear about that, here is a short story I read titled, “This is American Business.”
Dad: I want you to marry the girl of my choice.
Son: No.
Dad: The girl is Bill Gates’ daughter.
Son: Then okay.
(Dad goes to see Bill Gates.)
Dad: I want your daughter to marry my son.
Gates: No.
Dad: My son is the CEO of the World Bank.
Gates: Then okay.
(Dad goes to see president of the World Bank.)
Dad: I want you to appoint my son CEO of your bank.
President: No.
Dad: He is the son-in-law of Bill Gates.
President: Then okay.
After dark, I went over to visit Agt. R, who says he can give me a lift out to test drive the motorcycle on Thursday, the 15th. If the other guy doesn’t accept my offer by then, I’ll move on. Agt. R inherited a property over on Lime Street with two sheds full of old tools and farm gadgets. Enough to open a small museum if you ask me. I’m still freeing up his rusted old house jack, which is stubbornly resisting treatment with penetrating oil. Tomorrow, I’m taking the blowtorch to the casing. Shown here is more brake cleaner and the upside down jack.
“I Liked You Better Before I Knew You So Well.”
NIGHT
I decided to zip across the highway to the country pub. Here’s a picture of the Xmas lights along the way. Now is that pretty? That’s another reason I chose a smaller city. No, there were no decorations like that when I was growing up, so it is not a nostalgia. I just think it is pretty. Who do I run across but Bill, the guy I jammed with that doesn’t want to play in a band again.
But Bill knows I’m in the house and he believes I am the second-best bass player in the world. That’s next to some jazz bassist he knew in New York back in the day. Was that guy better? Bear in mind, most guitarists consider jazz to be a higher form of music, where I consider it cacophony.
Bill still can’t get over how I play bass to match the music, an important ingredient of arranging music for duo. So he goes out to the car and grabs his guitar. We brought down the house, I’m glad he saw that. Very few single guitar acts could begin to compete with my show. This was essentially the replacement for the first gig we would have done if he’d stuck with it. The guy might come around yet.
There’s another point here. This activity attracts another of my specialties—all the ladies in the place. Had them dancing and singing. I told you, I do a lot of chick music and that is the reason. It was the story of my life. Eight women and none of them my type. I’m going to relate the final part of this tale from the trailer court and the reader should be aware what happens next is also something I rehearse.
The other men in the place, some of them guitarists, see this is not a paid act. Just as Bill and I run low on our best material, they want to “borrow the guitar”. Ha, bad move, but sure, hand it to them. Why? Because every last one of those wannabes will start up with their Guitar Center set list. I set down the bass, explaining I don’t play any “slow music”.
These guitarists then proceed to kill the atmosphere. I’m quick to point this out to Bill—and more importantly the staff. Look, how everybody turns back to their beer. The ladies stop dancing, nobody is singing along. Bar sales drop to normal and the men move back to the pool tables. Of course, Bill has noticed this before, but he has never met anyone like myself who systematized it and worked out a solution. It has always been my intention to take work away from solo guitarism.
I’ve often compared musical competitiveness to my studies of military tactics. Whenever there is a military innovation on one side, it is usually the first and fastest thing the other side adopts. They often have to. So it is with music. Except this go-round I’ve taken pains to make sure what I do cannot be easily copycatted. Neither the way I play bass, with a super thin pick, or the way it integrates into the music translates easily to guitar. This is intentional, so when I quit playing it loses much more than just some low notes. I know this business.
ADDENDUM
While I’ve got you here, there is something else. I’m distinctly critical of the image of the guitar player as demi-god, but I also take exception to the contemporary way bass is taught. I know it must be taught, because you get the majority of players doing it exactly the same way. And that is finger bass. To me, that is some goof-crazy scheme cooked up by a guitar player. The bass, for the most part, is a single note instrument and there is no need to use four fingers and a thumb to pluck the notes.
I can play that way, but I don’t. It is a waste of effort that should go into better playing. Fingers can deaden the very sound I want from my bass. And I don’t think guys who draw up a bass string and snap it back against the fret-board are very smart. But one of the worst things any bassist can do, in my opinion, is play limp-wrist style.
Trust me, the guitar player who came up with that “style” hated bass players and he got his revenge. It looks so faggy you don’t know. Real bass players don’t need four fingers to play one note at a time; they also don’t need body paint.
Last Laugh
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