One year ago today: July 17, 2016, the Limestone Country Club.
Five years ago today: July 17, 2012, a form of blindness.
Nine years ago today: July 17, 2008, “doo-dah-dee”
Random years ago today: July 17, 2007, an early Donald Trump observation . . .
It’s back to the grindstone, so unless you want to hear all about my living room floor, you’ll have to settle for miscellanea for a while. There’s lots I’m still learning, for instance, the rule book says my bedrooms should have a lighter gauge of wire than the bedrooms. That seems so outdated to me for a number of reasons. That rule sounds like it was written by some doctor out of touch with the times. These days, a bedroom is likely to double as an office or work area. Which one of us hasn’t cursed the lack of outlets when setting up a computer? And tripped over power bars?
Here’s you unusual item for today. This is a vault, like the kind you keep your money in. Except this one is specifically designed to hold up to 48 of your wristwatches. It’s from the duPont Registry and designed to protect your Rolex collection. For when just one Rolex will not do. It’s available in several models, all of which look lightweight enough for the thieves to just hike up and carry off the whole shebang. Topple it into the old Chevy and make dust. Do you know anyone who owns 48 wristwatches? Why do you know them?
Once again I was at the magazine rack near the section that said Men’s Interests. Alas, I could not find a single edition of anything that would interest a man with an IQ above the speed limit in most states. But if you are into lifting heavy objects, driving too fast, surviving on packaged food, and the traditional Combo A of beer, guns, and ammo, then this is the display shelf for you. I’ll get out of your way. Way out of your way.
Today’s background movie is called “A Day Without A Mexican”, which I think is supposed to be funny. That Martin Sheen kind of funny where the prerequisite is to identify with losers. The concept is that all of us would suffer if the Mexicans all disappeared. This is pure conjecture, it’s like saying we’d suffer if the government cut off welfare. Yes, there would be a massive readjustment, but it would be, in my opinion, for the better for the majority. Which is what politics is supposed to be all about.
The trillions saved on wasted services that were designed for American citizens would make even Ann Coulter smile. The crappy jobs would be forced to pay enough that an America would do them. Instead we flood the supply side with unskilled labor in a continuing spiral of self-destruction. It’s evident the movie is liberal propaganda, so I’m setting it aside for when I have time for such nonsense.
Trivia time. Who likes those classic haircuts they give to poodles? You know, with the shoulder mane and the bob on the tail. Did you know that has a practical ancestry? Poodles were originally hunting dogs and had shaggy coats. They were shaved that way to streamline the dog while pursuing game through the brambles, but leaving just enough fur to keep the vital parts of the dog warm in European winters. How about that?
John Deere.
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A few days back I presented this picture as a mystery object. I don’t recall if I answered the quiz, so I’ll go over it. You recall that booklet I read on linoleum printing? I was surprised the technique is still popular and correctly predicted a lot of the prints were now carved by computer controlled drilling bits, you know, the Dremel thing. I also found an entire section of art supplies and this was one of the stock items. It is linoleum glued to particle board and sawn into blocks of standard sizes. The one I’m holding cost about $1.67. The set of three carving knives cost $57.00.
[Author’s note: it is called Caravaggio.]
I was talking to Agt. R about music and mentioned the jam session last evening. He says I have to quit wording things so gently, that especially with music, I should tell it like it is. To me, that sounds like a license to brag, but it has a flip side. That is, I already denigrate people who call themselves guitar players who really just waste my time. I’ll tell you what really happened and you decide. When I got up on stage with only the bass, the fiddle player was tuning up, but I heard he was tuning on key to what I was already playing. That’s why I decided to let him join in. He was the one individual that I invited. Now, let’s get to the guitar players.
Our fiddle and bass rendition aced the old Hank senior tune, “Jambalaya”, a for-certain crowd pleaser with my custom bass line. Of course I’m paying attention to the crowd, and the people operating the bar were doing the same. Every other eye in that place was fixated on the stage. What could go wrong? Easy, that crowd also contained a few of the aforesaid guitar players. They could not conceive of what was happening. A band actually winning the room over without a guitar player? That was sacrilege!
Now, the band had left several guitars live on stage, ready to go. (Plugged in with just the volume knobs turned off.) As far as I was concerned they could stay that way. But the first of two uninvited guitarists couldn’t deal with what was happening, so he grabs the acoustic half-way through “Cocaine Blues” and starts hitting random chords trying to find the key. After the song, I asked him if we were taking turns, because his playing along with me was not working. That’s the polite way to tell a guitar player he just hopelessly buggered up a two-chord song. He went slinking away.
Next, I played “Tennessee Flat Top Box” as a bass solo and yet another guitar player grabs an electric and tries to follow my left hand. How many times have I written that doesn’t work? Well, he never got the memo. This guy blasts out a few chords, then asks me during the song what the chords are. I said, “It’s in D.” He stands there like a stunned ape, like that isn’t enough information. I told him if he wants lessons to see me after the show. Fortunately, somebody from the crowd loudly whispered a strategic lyric from a famous rodeo song.
That, dear readers, is closer to what really happened, but I feel I already describe my dislike of your average and above-average guitar players in strong enough terms. I don’t think singling them out one at a time more than I already do could add anything to the blog. I learned here that no matter where I bass solo, if it is a jam, it has to be a controlled situation or I risk more of the same. Those guitar players were not asked to get on stage. They were all playing the Mr. Kewl waiting game. Let everybody else flop, then stun us each and every one with their hot licks, and who could possibly wash out worse than a bass player and a fiddler? They only elbowed their way on stage after they clued in what was going on.
I know I showed up unprepared so I had to ask the bass lady if I could use her gear. I heard these guys snicker when I told her I didn’t need a guitarist when she offered to go find me one. The second guitarist didn’t even try to find the key, he just cut in with lead riffs that sounded like he was tuning up. None of these guys were the one of the eleven who answered my ad for a rhythmist. It’s just as well, since I stuck around and listened to them and I have not heard such bad guitar strumming since my teens. These guys were not teens any more that I am. The positive from all this is that I now know I am not the worst guitar player in Polk County. No sirree.
“Twitter . . . 140 character limit . . .
Must be a great tool for fortune cookie writers . . . .”
~ Bucchianeri
Space or not, I’ve set up a practice area in the corner of the otherwise vacant living room. There is only one outlet in that entire area, and it is switched. Accidentally think you are turning out the light and lose your data. Agt. R is not yet sold on the concept of analyzing each gig, perhaps because analyze is a severe word. I think over what went different than planned. Like y’day, how did I manage to show up at a place where there was likely to be a jam, but without my own bass? Why wasn’t I ready with three songs? Why did I forget lyrics in some of the third verses? What could I have done differently? So it’s not deep scrutiny, but rather my standard self-correcting habits applied to music.
I’ve made up my mind to put an 8-song set together [on guitar, not bass] and return next weekend to the jam. A mix of new and old, to see what works. This area, like Broward, desperately needs a small country duo. All they’ve got is a steady diet of tedious crooners and if there are any larger country groups nearby, they don’t advertise much. For me, never anything larger than a duo again unless the money is there. And you know I’ve already run the spreadsheets on that. The average club in this area, with 32 chairs, cannot afford a larger band in the long run.
Some feedback is already forthcoming from that same gig. I admit I come up with extra moves to underscore I’m not your run of the mill bass player. For starters, I never play with a limp wrist. On around a third of my songs, I intentionally draw attention to my bass playing with diverting motions I know are unusually difficult for guitar-convert bassists to copy. Examples would be the way I wag my elbow when playing thirds, my seemingly senseless playing of finger positions behind the nut when picking open strings, and how when I root and fifth, I will duplicate the up-down motion of the guitar player’s strum. Because most guitarists hate this and I know it. Hey, they started it with their “bass is easy” junk.
I’ve got more, but that is your free sample. I often practice unique moves to individual songs to emphasize the “ga-hunk” aspect to suggest I’m an unschooled hillbilly. I’m an expert at pretending I haven’t a clue what to do next. Don’t worry, when I get their attention, I’ll play consecutive notes at the opposite ends of the fretboard to show them who’s boss. And I love pretending I’ve played myself into a corner, especially when kids are watching. Now you know too much.
And I over-baked my peach pie while telling you all this.
ADDENDUM
The movie I watched was an old Goldie Hawn effort, “The Banger Sisters”. Two former groupies go separate ways and meet up twenty years later. One is a barmaid, the other a lawyer’s wife. It’s the same old theme, that the poor lady is ‘rich in other ways’. Her home-spun common sense makes everybody happy by uncovering their pasts, the opposite of reality. The message seems to be the old there’s nothing wrong with rich people that a healthy dose of working-class elbow-height philosophy can’t cure. The best part of the movie, other than the body on the younger daughter, was the scene where the unsuccessful 50-year-old writer has a gun with one bullet. That’s what you’re supposed to think, but actually he’s going to shoot his father, ha!
Which savant said you often see smart men dating dumb women, but you’ll never see a smart woman dating a dumb man? He makes it sound like the world is full of smart women and all you have to do is work on your IQ. Ha, if that were the case, I’d have to buy a flamethrower. The reality is that women measure a man’s smartness by how well he uses his brains to make money. While this is not strictly true in every case, that is how you bet your money.
What kept part of my interest was the portrayal of how these women behaved as groupies. They kind of missed the central concept. My first two bands never got close to having groupies for the simplest possible reason. They would not listen to what I told them to do. When I ran back into them in my early twenties, they didn’t even have girlfriends, whereas they used to sneak up in the back yard to watch my babes sunbathe in the nude. Myself, I never really did that many groupies. I had much the same approach as today where I used music to meet a younger and higher quality skirt than I ever could on my own.
On that count, I rate my musical career as a success. I never got rich and famous, but nor did I wind up with an aging groupie and some dusty memories. I kind of rate these septuagenarian rock and rollers who do groupies on the same par as men who hire prostitutes, ever searching for that ultimate professional because they missed out on the other extreme. These guys are all the same, the ones who never had any real variety when they were young without paying for it. They never knew an innocent girl who tried everything new and different with them because she actually wanted to. On the other hand, those are my favorites.
But if you think I’ll supply any details, guess again. My comparatively extended rate of scoring back in school was a result of keeping my trap shut, nurturing a careful reputation that I was the guy who would never tell. And I never did. My own brothers later hated me when they found out I’d already worked through their turf as well. I’m cutting a few corners even revealing this much. One day I may say who, but I doubt I’ll ever say what. Let these contemporary authors think their steamiest passages even come close to the real thing. It’s fun how hard they try.
Last Laugh
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