One year ago today: December 18, 2015, Shkreli, the martyr.
Five years ago today: December 18, 2011, the cloak of invisibility.
Nine years ago today: December 18, 2007, those disgusting side effects.
Random years ago today: December 18, 2010, generic post missing pictures.
MORNING
Don’t give up on today, toward the later parts, things picked up. Would you just look at this picture? How exciting can a Sunday get, this is the original Honda Rebel manual? It was in the side pocket along with the original tool kit. I took the morning off to do some reading about a small company in California. Reading? You bet, some people out there think all I do is write all day, but then, I think all they do is watch television, tit for tat. I was interested in recent developments in fusion power. Put on the old thinking cap for a moment and let’s go over this.
The California company is using boron, a different element. When it “explodes”, it does not produce neutrons and such, but X-rays. Problem, X-rays can’t really be used to generate electricity. Solution, line the inside of the chamber with photovoltaic cells. Brilliant, I think, because I also think somewhere along the line it will be this sort of one-two solution that finally gets fusion energy going. There, you are now the local expert on fusion chain-reactors.
I promised my analysis of the rehearsal. Well, the ground is shaky, as the new guy does not play guitar very well. I’ve worked with this before, so let’s give it a try. People who don’t play often don’t realize the extra elements that must be learned to do so, rather they tend to focus on enjoying the sound. To perform the music, you must learn how the tune is structured and memorize that. As a vocalist, he has never done that before. As I said, he is enthusiastic.
And he is a country music fan. It is important to already “know, love, and play” this music before I’ll consider teaming up with any band. Although I had discussed with him before that I could play the bass to all these tunes, he did not grasp the full extent of what I meant. He listened to many of the tunes on the list I gave him, but did not know what to listen for. He got discouraged when heard the “guitar parts”. You see, he did not know that’s what I meant when I saidI could play the parts. They always think I mean I can play the bass, and so what? Bass is easy, right? Do forgive the guy, most people have NEVER heard this type of bass before.
Mark that up as a huge positive for the first practice. When he realized all he has to do is chord through the riffs, he was astounded. By coincidence, some of my list were his favorites but he never saw himself as playing the material. He was bowled over when he realized he was actually playing “Tennessee Flat Top Box” and “Long-Haired Country Boy”. Not just playing it, but delivering the wow. He knows he didn’t leap-frog from nothing to pro guitar, but sees how this is the next best thing.
I assigned homework and gave him a deadline. I also gave the lecture on time commitments and their place during band startup phases, and the mini-lecture on conflict resolution. For example, he’s already said we are only doing songs that I sing, and I said that’s because you have not yet given me your song list. That’s explaining these petty spats are part of orchestra formation and to not let them break up the band. If Garfunkel could put up with Simon, this new guy can put up with me.
Odds: 1,000,000:1 (Identical triplets.)
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NOON
I’ve got a choice. Do something constructive today or go for a motorcycle trip up to Auburndale, grab coffee, then come back too late to do anything else? Decisions, decisions? What? Well, you didn’t have to say it that way. Okay, I’ll compromise. How about I do all the laundry for my Xmas trip, and then go for a ride at noon? See, I’m easy. But not for jerks like the lady at Dunkin Donuts this morning. I finally sat down and waited for her to order her damn coffee, that’s how long she took.
I dunno, can you see it under my helmet? I think that is a riding helmet, as in horses, but it’s perfect for the scooter. It has a leather finish that looks better than plastic and, oddly, it stays a little cooler in the Florida sunshine.
It is a trim off a roll of carpet, but it is brand new. I just needed enough to make anti-scratch pads on my sawhorses, but then I noticed it is cut much the same width as baseboard. You can only see the backing side where I’m pointing, but the other side is greyish-beige indoor-outdoor carpet. That will make a dandy base trim when I get the floor put in the white shed.
Ah, I heard someone in the far back remark that I said the new Rebel was to replace the scooter. If so, how come the picture shows me driving it to the laundromat? Because I meant replace it for longer but local trips. The scooter is in good operating condition and decent repair. Yes, it lets me down, goes flat on me sometimes, and is hard to start on cold mornings. But hey, the scooter could say the same things about me. That’s no reason to shelve a what, six-year relationship.
You can notice the black duct tape over the seat, the misaligned red body panel and if you look close, you can see the starter switch just left of my third knuckle. The jockey box turned the scooter into the ideal short shopping trip transportation. And, unlike the new rebel, the scooter will carry a substantial load. Laundry buckets, small amplifiers, major groceries, Harbor Freight grass blowers, chain saws, and such. Fact is, this scooter has paid for itself countless times over. But I can’t take it 18 miles to band rehearsal or take it over 40 mph and still respect its age.
Speed is also something I should remark on. The batbike, while a far more interesting ride, is rarely taken over 45 mph, and even then, just up to 55 for stretches where I might otherwise impede traffic. However, the Rebel, I’ve found, easily cruises along at 70 mph in overdrive. That’s the speed limit on most major Florida roads, if you can get me on one. I prefer the open country lanes with minimal traffic and no semi-trailers. The worst vehicles on the road for motorcyclists are those semi-trailers.
I’m not saying I will ride 70 mph, but it’s nice to know the 450 can handle it effortlessly lin overdrive. That’s the sixth gear built into cruising cycles which I don’t think was a feature of the 250 model. Let this new motorcycle grow on me and I’ll report less and less as time goes by. I’ve got 180 miles on it so far. Back from Largo, a Friday sprint to Ft. Meade, and to rehearsal in the west end. The machine is getting around better than some people.
AFTERNOON
Okay, the motorcycle won out. I got on the highway and found the Old Lake Wales Highway and wound up on an 80 mile jaunt. How I love zooming down those old country lanes, it’s the America I remember. In this case, I was south through Mulberry, Bartow and then onto the old route. I arrived at mid afternoon in Lake Wales, an area I would describe as “grubby”. Mitch & I went through there by sidecar a couple months ago and thought we saw the famous hotel being fixed up. But I found another even nicer and bigger a few blocks north. See pic.
I kept passing lake after lake, the small type you get in Florida, and again I was reminded of the Z-S Theory that these lakes were caused by a dark matter strike. There are no hills in Florida that are natural, yet each of these lakes had a pile of hills around the east-north-west perimeter. That is so unnatural, there is something behind it.
These are not sinkholes, unless they are very unique sinkholes. You see, all the photos I’ve seen of sinkholes, caused by collapsing underground caverns, do not throw up hills I may investigate this further upon finding these lakes on the new Rebel. The machine is quite agile with plenty of reserve power to get across a field to a vantage point that better shows the “hills” around these lakes.
I’ve exhausted my geology knowledge without coming up with an explanation, so now I call on anyone who is interested to help with the theory. If you succeed, you can share in the credit. But I’ll take any cash. A dark matter collision—as far as I know—creates an explosion. That is my offering as to why these lakes, all nearly perfectly round, have a boundary of hills.
By now, there were Georgia pines every few miles. The alert reader may already figure where I was. I stayed on a straight and narrow road for six miles, and whaddaya know. I was in Haines City. The sign said so, but it was not the part of town Mitch and I had seen. I kept heading in the direction I determined as north until finally, that intersection where I saw this hotel. I drove around town a bit, including a five mile ride on a road to the north west, but all that’s there is outskirts. And those horrid cookie cutter subdivisions that look like Richmond, BC. (Richmond is a bedroom community anyone whose lived in Washington State will have seen if they ever visit Vancouver, Canada.
The light was fading by 5:00 PM and you know me about riding in the dark or into the sunset. I said goodbye and easily found my way back down the same roads. I’ve always had a good memory that way, and I pulled into Bill’s place. That’s the guitar player that we got the whole bar of ladies out dancing last week. He’s got a massive Honda, one of those Goldwing beasts that you can’t pick up if it falls over. If that bike was a stevedore, my 450 would be a ballet dancer. He decides to check on his machine in the back yard.
OMG, it was in the shed and had a two year layer of dust on it. He says he just plain gave up riding it, which makes sense because those machines require a lot of, what’s the word, motivation? Try that, a lot of motivation to take for even the shortest ride. They are too low-slung for any but the softest, flattest roadbeds and you cannot park them anywhere but on solid footing. He may want to jam on New Years at the Kensington.
“Come out of the Wheatfield Nellie, You're Going Against the Grain.”
NIGHT
Having made it back in record time, the 450 punched right up to 70 mph. I’ll do that on familiar roads, so was at the intersection over here by dusk. That gave me time to make a side trip to the Kensington and meet the new barmaids. I’d give anything to be just 40 again, but I might be saying that because at that age, I still passed for 24. (I have proof.) The regular gal told me the club owner had declined to pay $300 for a solo guitarist on New Year’s Eve. There are no bars in the entire area that have entertainment every week. Even then, only on weekends.
Hey, I just thought about that, “jam” packed. Get it?
Stick around for potential news, since it many ways it [the Kensington] is reminiscent of Jimbos. Dead until I came along, the place started making money, and I was happy for years. My entertainment budget fell to zero for five or six years. Here is the restaurant I stopped at in Haines City. Maryland fried chicken, my eye. It is a former Chinese restaurant run by a Mexican family. Strange as it sounds, their Chinese food was quite good. I had combination R.
Naturally the Rebel found its way into the photograph. Look at that lean and sinuous soon-to-be finely tuned machine. Paco says he’s got a custom built racing carburetor that fits the identical mounts. He wants $275 for it, but says even not racing it will increase my power and gas mileage by considerable levels. I may opt for that, but the reader should understand I have only one budget for a vehicle. The batbike needs monthly maintenance and the red scooter has become brittle with age. One budget means that every dollar I spend on the Rebel is taken out of any amount otherwise destined for the other two motorcycles. You can’t have it all three ways.
And how about those feral cats? Howie tells me the females have all been fixed, which explains why the well-fed population has remained rather constant since I arrived. These are first generation feral, I think, because if I prop the kitchen door open, they have no qualms about waltzing right in. I found one brazen calico sleeping on my very own pillow. That’s the point I put vinegar in my water pistol. How do I know if the thing’s got fleas? How does the cat know I don’t got fleas?
The entire adventure today put just 80 miles on the odometer. The Rebel now has 260 miles gone since I bought it 72 hours ago. I’m all packed and ready to drive south Tuesday morning, the only question is how early I’ll get away. I’m only going to Paco’s, who will lend me the Honda 250 limo bike for the duration. Good, I won’t have to park the Rebel overnight at JZ’s, which I now consider to have iffy-shaky security. That means a week after I buy the Rebel, it will likely have a thousand miles road time—that’s pure adventure.
ADDENDUM
Having no tendency to sleep, I went out and wrote letters, but not what you think. Over the odd forty years of experience I’ve got at this, it works thus. You spend two hours writing a really good letter to somebody, who reads it in ten minutes, then never again. It gets cast on a pile as a trophy. Well, have I told you I’ve devised a style of letter where that doesn’t happen? It’s true, if you get a letter from me and don’t read it time after time, you will miss something important. The downside is I’m not about to tell you a thing about how I accomplished this.
What brought it up is tonight the letter [just written] is to a dude out of touch for 40 years. He said in 1976 I would wind up a lonely old man if I didn’t lower my standards. In a sense, he was right, but he said that thinking I’d never meet anyone. I did, I married her, we divorced, and so roundabout, Hershie called that one. That’s my old pal’s nickname, Hershie. He’s only the second of my entire old gang that ever got married. To some lady already had a kid, I think. He’s happy and that’s what counts.
I won’t be happy until I find the right gal to move in here and put up with my antics. It doesn’t matter if I’m too old to change because the right gal will be one who doesn’t want me to. And she had better like non-biker motorcycle types, at least until November 2017 when I’m budgeting for a small station wagon. Maybe go see the Smithsonian.
Last Laugh
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