One year ago today: May 25, 2017, my newest quote.
Five years ago today: May 25, 2013, can't duck it . . .
Nine years ago today: May 25, 2009, $12.05 in real money.
Random years ago today: May 25, 2011, a favorite recipe.
Okay, naughty boys, I'm leaving this photo here. Because even I gotta admit this was an otherwise ho-hum day. At least she's having a good time.
Today’s photos are shots from the museum tour. They’re present to give this page some color. Otherwise it was what I hope will become a typical retirement day, except for the part where I eventually go out that evening to play to an auditorium of screaming groupies. They are a shaving kit, the old kind where you had to insert the double blade, and screw the handle in place. It looks like there is a Zippo lighter in there as well. At the time, smoking was pushed as a relaxing passtime. Shave, light up, war couldn’t be easier. And the other picture is the optical range-finding binoculars from the Soviet navy. Sadly, they were inoperable.
It reminded me of the days I worked in the headquarters. Myself and 300 women. You guys should try to imagine the moaning that goes on day after day. These women have such incredible demands they wind up with nobody, but they never learn. Maybe that’s who needs the re-education. I used to goad the mouthier ones. “So, Sharon, when is the last time you asked a guy out?” Oh, I see, you are not that kind of liberated. “So, Joan, when did you last invite a guy to your place for a home-cooked meal?” Oh, I see, he’d get the wrong idea.
The radio waves are alive with this tale of a movie producer who is accused of using money and power to have his way with women. Nonsense, I say, who’s ever going to believe such a crazy thing? Why, if such a thing was even possible, this world would be full of desperate men clawing their way to get rich and women far too smart to go near a man who already had anything of the kind. Obviously, these women must be lying. They are doing a Stormy Daniels, methinks. Settle for some hush money, then hit the media anyway.
My position on Trump with that? Fine. Even if he did it, so what? Variety is the spice of life and don’t tell me his wife hasn’t at least eyed the hired help. As I said, he is not a career politician, so whatever he did before that maybe wasn’t hunky-dory doesn’t count. If only because he wouldn’t have taken as many precautions. I’m still watching the Nicholson movie but these type of plots are like talking to a religious type or an insurance agent. You know where every conversation is going to end.
Art, I guess.
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Next, I’m downstairs reading and pop goes the breaker. My attic lights just fried. I traced the entire route and checked every connection. No luck. The were still out by dark, so give it a break. Ah, Friday night off. I’ve decided to make a back-up plan for the guitarist situation. It’s too good to be true, essentially. My spider sense says he’s recruiting for the church. What a desperate religion that would have to be to resort to such skullduggery—if that is the case. There’s a chance, but I can’t invest too much time to be let down over such dealings. These people have to rope you into what they think is past the point of no return before they make their move. Again, the clue is, since he’s clearly been playing for years, why he didn’t know any Hank Sr., raising the question, what was he playing instead? See, you and I think alike sometimes.
It was not a spectacular day, but I did hear back from my attorney. I’ve explained I wish to settle, despite the occasional shoulder pain. I don’t feel surgery is worth the risk over pain that is increasingly intermittent. I miss my motorcycle travel and would like to at least be able to take weekend drives, the most spontaneous of my trips. Others I like to plan, not that I follow them, but that I learn so much about my route that I enjoy the actual research. I’ve got another book on a solo sailboat ride across the Pacific. This one has less of the rich boy looking down aspect and he does talk prices, though this is back in the 70s.
ADDENDUM
The electrical problem was found. The attic lighting was tapped off an existing receptacle. That box was wired as and end-run instead of the mid-run it was now converted to. Once more, when I make mistakes, that is the kind I tend to make. Move one wire. And I say it is a fault in the design anyway, though I have no solution.
But the seed-eating tweetie-type birdies will always be my favorite. I will eventually bury that spray mister when that insane city inspector is away picking on some other white guy. Tomorrow, we follow up on some of the other guitar players who want to audition, but usually the ones who take a day or two to respond have issues. One guy said he plays bass, so I should let him do that while I play the rhythm. Either he’s nuts, bottom-fishing, or has thought this thing through. You know, maybe he’s figured out if I want a certain type of rhythm player, maybe I should do that part myself. Let’s just not rule anything out.
I’m stopping at four auditions initially. Guitar players are some of the most whacked-out loony bins you ever saw and the explanation is simple. They have been sold on the concept that guitar is supreme and that kind of attitude attacks their social adjustment skills. I think many of them took up guitar because they thought it would be a substitute for their lack of appeal where it matters. You may find it funny that I consider the trait such a close parallel to feminism. How so? Because it works only as long as one is surrounded by weaker specimens. But when they meet someone, like a bass player, who sets them in their place by merely showing up, well, they cannot be expected to like it.
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