May 18, 2018

Yesteryear
One year ago today: May 18, 2017, learning about rock stuff.
Five years ago today: May 18, 2013, 7 out of 9,000.
Nine years ago today: May 18, 2009, quoting Fred Astaire.
Random years ago today: May 17, 2015, that $30 bottle of beer.

           Things are back to norbal. Not a typo. Bright and early, I was in the Taurus doing the 75 miles to Harbor Heights. Not the 169 miles the GPS and distance-between apps tell you. They like to route you through Tampa or something, yet you can’t trust the ‘shortest route’ option to keep you off some farm road that hasn’t been plowed since Katrina. Here’s your first picture from the Ft. Myers military museum. It’s a plate that swivels shut under brass uniform buttons, so you can polish them without getting any on the surrounding uniform material. Yep, we made it to the museum as planned so long ago. This was a day.

           And a milestone for me. Three years and a day in completely recovered mode. I walked the entire distance through the big mall where the museum is located. It was a day for Alaine and I, nobody else felt like tagging along. The museum is free, but donate a buck because some fat cat matches the donations dollar for dollar and the place is staffed with real combat vets. How do you know they are the real thing, I mean, in Florida you do get a lot of the other kind, I hate to say.

           Easy, because you can look at the 1945 war photos and see the guy at the front desk in it. All the staff are not just military, but like I said, combat vets. The kind who were in the shooting part of the wars. It was nice that Korea and Viet Nam were played down a bit, there still seems to be the faction that over-glorify it. I don’t blame them, but those wars were what they were—undeclared.

           Alaine and I were there an hour, but we went out separate ways. Allow around that much time to see everything, it is not a large museum. But except for a few representations build by the same guys just mentioned, it is all the real thing. You can’t fool me. There was even a panzerschreck, way up high on the wall behind glass. It was Germany’s answer to the bazooka and appeared mostly on the Eastern Front, hence was devastating when turned on the Allied junk tanks. Unlike the bazooka, where the crews often had to keep loading and firing as fast as they could until the target was disabled, the German weapon packed one hell of a wallop. A direct hit took the turret right off an IS-2 and a hit anywhere on the crew compartment was fatal. It had to be, since the backwash kicked up such a cloud of dust it drew instant retaliatory fire.

           It was also heavier and needed a bigger boost rocket. While the bazooka burned out before it left the launch tube, the German version required a blast shield with a peephole, clearly shown in this photo. To make the museum more interesting, you’ll quickly notice how the majority of the exhibits are donated by locals. If I find it, I know I took a picture of a real 1911 Colt .45, I know it was real because of the wooden handle. You might have to wait, as my camera batteries died about the same time. The most impressive exhibit is a 50 caliber machine gun. Unless you’ve seen one, few people can imagine what a piece of machinery that is.

           We also toured past the Viet Nam memorial, but by mid-afternoon it was beyond hot. No pics as the memorial is well-photographed by all the media. While in the Mall, Alaine, who is a dog person, met this lady she recognized from a famous dog show. I quickly said hello and retreated to the corner with a crossword puzzle. It was the big weekend puzzle, wise move. I’m a computer buff, so I understand perfectly what two dog lovers have to talk about that takes up over an hour. I’ll scan the videos and get you an outtake if any show them chatting.
           It’s always an idea to return for those still after I take a trip, since they represent around a twentieth of the total photos you see here. And they are chosen from the best footage, often advanced one frame at a time to get you the best. Snookie is not Havanese(?) and this lady was awarded some top prize or accolades for being the best dog breeder or handler, I dunno, wait for the pics and you might recognize her. Lots of people did, but not me. Here is a picture of Alaine’s Havanese, but you cannot beat Snookie for annoying little rat-like doggie behavior. I should buy him a steak dinner.

Picture of the day.
Trained ivy.
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           Around noon-ish we stopped at the most celebrated waterfront café in the state, I’ll let you look that up on your own. But here is the fantastic view alongside my equally charming date for the day. Don’t panic, she’s like a sister to me. Just you look at that harbor and remember the rest of the country is barely getting over the worst winter of the century to date. Note the boat moored alongside? That’s boat parking and something remarkable happened. A massive yacht began to approach the wiers piloted only by a kid who looked maybe 16.

           He was coming in fast, but even without a mate to guide him, be danged if that young man didn’t more than expertly glide that ship into a perfect slot between two others. A couple passengers jumped off, and he was away again like he was on a speedboat. But before he got away, I jumped up yelling “Bravo!” and led the whole restaurant in a round of applause. It’s the kind of person I am when I see competence and precision. He just waved.

           [Author’s note: we figured out later no way was he that kind of seaman without a hitch—he was an employee of a yacht rental service.]
           [Author’s note: even stranger, when I got back home, Agt. R called to say his son, who I only met once the day he moved from home, had called from Fort Myers to report that a guy who looked just like me had led a crowd cheering his boatmanship. There you go.]

           Small world, or what? People, some anyway, in Florida are rich enough to use a yacht as a water taxi to brunch. I had the side salad, explaining to the gorgeous waitress that I was watching my figure. She knows what I meant. This is America, portions were huge—and expensive. Alaine, like all my lady friends, are totally worth it, even if it was dutch treat. The mall is built out over the water and as far as tourist traps go, Fort Myers is a treat. Just across the way in Fort Myers Beach is the Lanai Kai, the hotel where I had to chain JZ to a picnic table because he was going to run off to New York with that Italian broad to open a restaurant. “Stop”, I said, “stay back. It’s a trap.” Thank god that chain wasn’t made in China. That’s the same trip he ate those 37 oysters, a food I cannot hardly look at. It’s revolting.
           Today, Alaine had the chicken roast. Argh, me and my diet, but she’s understanding. She doesn’t care for onions and gave me the ones from her side. I’m allowed one meal a day, but I don’t usually anyway, but this evening, she wants to attend the church social. That’s the place I bought all the good books. The church director is a fairly amazing piano player and he livens up the place with Dixieland.

ADDENDUM
           Let’s not forget the significance of the mansion on the river. Alaine & hubby & pets represent the first of the family ever to move out of Miami. She was so unsure about it, same with JZ. If all you’ve ever known is Miami, trust me, try living some place else for a while. Some place where you don’t have to lock your glove compartment inside your locked car inside your locked garage inside the locked gate to your property. Trump was not exaggerating. Now, she’s opened up to the place a little, which is enough, and wants to volunteer at the doggie home. Since I need a day to recover from this double adventure, drop back tomorrow or Sunday and I’ll take you on a tour of that facility. As we walked in, she caught the eye of the deputy director who gave us the VIP tour. So watch for photos most people never get to see.

           Alaine is your shy extrovert, you know, outgoing but not precocious. Walk your dog and she’s your instant pal. She prefers social involvement to make the transition [to being out of Miami] easier; she is totally a people person, at the risk of wording that too strongly. I don’t mean anything extreme, but after all she was undeniably the personality of that restaurant they had. As a stage darling, I know the importance of this. She’ll soon take to the place, it is more built-up than my town. Over here, just an hour inland, where I live, there are no hotels, no taxis, no movie theaters, and no single women worth a ten dollar date. But neither were there [any] in Broward when I moved away. At least here, you can occasionally see nice things from a distance.
           Which reminds me, I finally got in touch with that musician from out west, but my memory failed me. I could have sworn he was a guitar player, but he was a drummer. I don’t often confuse those instruments. Then again, forty years is a long time. His name’s Tom, which I’ve often wanted to start calling myself, and he also started playing music at the age of ten. If I didn’t say, he’s a guy I slightly remember from California in the late 80s because of his distinctive last name. (We’ve never met.) We talked for a half hour on my drive back to town and he also has a background in piano.

           A drummer! But listen, do not rule anything out. I can play my entire show with just a drummer. If he can play piano, he can strum a guitar. Does all this sound familiar? We are teaming up next Monday for a couple of hours. He understands what I mean but has never seen it. That’s correct, since I invented 100% of all the originality in my show. Remember when I met my wife, she didn’t think she could sing without a guitar player until I showed her how to accompany the bass. There’s no reason another singer couldn’t do the same; often it only takes me one song to show them how it is done. If they are talented, it just “clicks”. You memorize the starting note and lock it in your brain cells. Unlike my last band member, this guy has some.
           For the remaining hour’s drive, I mulled over what Tom just said. He has the experience and knows damn well the azzhole side of guitar players. But he wants to start a full band. Here? The music pool of the entire county isn’t big enough (or good enough) to throw a trio together. Whoever is out there and not already playing isn’t anywhere near up to snuff. You’ve be smarter to get a grinder and a monkey. I stand to lose nothing letting him try, because he’ll have to run through the same pack of “gee-tar” players told of here in all but name. They answer every ad and I’d prefer he get a little disappointed so he’ll better appreciate the how-and-why over my evolution into a soloist against my own will.

           What do I hope? Well, he’s aware of how fantastically a core group attracts wannabes. Even with Lady Nik flubbing every song every time, there were guitar players hovering around daydreaming what an excellent pair of underlings we would make. For you non-musicians out there, the generic term for that activity is “cherry-picking”. Since all guitar players play the same tunes, they think they can flit in to a working group and play hired gun for the gig. Take the money and run, without any of the headaches of rehearsal, finding gigs, dealing with club owners, etc. You know the drill.
           I grabbed an extra coffee and jotted down four potential categories. Music that I could play the guitar if he sings. Music I could play the bass if I sing and he adds harmonies. Music that would go well if we did a bass and drum combo. And last, my ready list which is the 60 songs I already do that all have kindergarten or first grade guitar requirements, in case it turns out he can learn a few chords. That strongly represents precisely just such core group as to which I refer. Myself, I have no use for a trio, but I can see right now how anything we do will bring a stampede of offers. Offers that I can resist—but can he? Check back after Monday.

Last Laugh

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