September 18, 2018

Yesteryear
One year ago today: September 18, 2017, stealth ship.
Five years ago today: September 18, 2013, cheesy & over-academic.
Nine years ago today: September 18, 2009, WIP
Random years ago today: September 18, 2004, remember permanent contacts?

           Ah, breakfast in the oven, and something wrong with this computer. It finally had to happen. I’m not the only one to notice that even if left alone on an isolated unit like this one, that over time, all MicroSoft products eventually exhibit some form of decayed performance. But if you live right, these things balance out. For instance, I left this batch in the oven a minute too long just before I threw out my old kitchen timer for not ringing. So the top 3/4 of the muffin peeled away from the crusty bottom and I got to eat just the good part. And listen to Boss Hogg radio. It’s a toss up whether or not they are wackier than the people who call in.

           Now don’t get me wrong, it is all entertainment. I was trying to decide on how to color the jenga blocks to use as hotdog tokens. This is a worthy use of my morning, seeing as how I feel around a hundred years old today. And it is a day of business in Winter Haven again, so check in later. That trip is always more adventurous than kicking around here. Where all I can do today is wait for the caulk to dry on my new canopy. It’s the brand that is silicon, but if you give it 24, it becomes paintable.

           We, or I should say I, are looking for a boat cover or something to stretch over the wagon. We’ve been using a ratty old tarp, but it is three times too large and requires two men to pull it over properly. While all this is going on, I had the Johnny Cash documentary on DVD, I love the soundtrack to that movie. Because I can tell you from memory very few shows back in the day had that kind of beautiful sound. Music was just becoming electrified and there was a tinny quality to everything except the original studio recordings. Johnny Cash remains my hero and I can or have played super bass lines to all of his really big hits.
           Cash is the most-played artist on my song list since 2003 (when he died), with four tunes, all of which are top earners for me. They are: Folsom Prison Blues, Jackson, Cocaine Blues, and Tennessee Flat Top Box. No other artist appears more than once, and my second highest tip-generator has become my highly bassified solo version of “Spiders & Snakes”. Real bass players are less concerned with who the artist is than say, a guitar player. Here are the artists on my list, in any order:

                      Sir Ringo Starr
                      Don Gibson (three tunes)
                      Patsy Cline
                      Linda Loveless
                      Richie Valens
                      Alan Jackson
                      Manfred Mann
                      That T Graham guy
                      Willie Nelson
                      Waylon Jennings
                      Travis Tritt
                      Hank, Sr.
                      Hank, Jr.
                      Monkees
                      Charlie Daniels
                      Don Wilson
                      Miranda Lambert
                      Chuck Berry
                      Johnny Rivers
                      Ferlin Husky
                      Jim Stafford
                      Trisha Yearwood
                      Nancy Sinatra
                      Conway Twitty
                      Freddy Fender
                      The Judds
                      Faith Hill
                      Dwight Yoakum
                      Merle Haggard

           On top of those, I have spotty appearances by Dottie West, John Denver, The Beatles, Wilbert Harrison, The Georgia Satellites, Johnny Horton, Gretchen Wilson, Eric Clapton, Mr. D. A. Coe, and around four more I seriously don’t know.
           Another idea kicking in my brain is that I am still looking for a guitarist, but from here on in, he should be prepared to completely learn the songs on his own and gets an audition after he’s learned ten or so. The other concept is why not just play bass. My show doesn’t really fool anyone, but what if I picked the few tunes most adaptable to bass, and sang those solo. Then played the rest without singing to demo my bass. Like many, I play much better and fancier sitting down doing one thing at a time.
           Yes, I know I’ve reached this juncture many a time in my life, but that was generally before I learned to sing. As soon as I try to learn guitar, I get so far and another flunky comes along, I quit to give him a chance, and then the let down that puts me back at square one. Thus, give me a while to see if there is some combination of items I can come up with. You know, the one musical aptitude I have is nearly perfect timing, and I still have the programmable drum boxes. There is a show buried in there somewhere and if the caliber of musician I’ve met since I got to Florida holds consistent, I’ll have to dig it out myself.

Picture of the day.
Steemit.
Remember to use BACK ARROW to return to blog.

           More chasing around in Winter Haven, but that’s where the okay coffee shops are. The usual, office runs and lumber. I stopped at Wal*Mart to check on boat covers. Nothing was suitable, being that boats tend to be more long and narrow than hotdog carts. I did find one that would have been okay, but it was twice the price of the others. Forget that. Here is a photo of the back area where the cart will most likely be set up. It is invisible from the roadway, so I’ll have to put up a sign. The tables and such are already there. I will have to set up myself, since Agt. R has to work that morning. And the gal who was going to train has something called work release all day. And no, I have no idea what that is or all about.

           Yes, the local paper that is generally available, the Ledger, has doubled in price and at first I thought they had eliminated the second crossword puzzle. No, but they committed one of the most bonehead blunders in the universe. They moved one of the puzzles into the sports section. Now, just what in hell is your average jock going to do with a crossword puzzle? Ah, I hear somebody back there saying not all jocks are ape-brained. Yeah, well then show me some proof.

           I’m a couple chapters into the Koch brothers’ history, “Sons of Wichita”. It’s the usual claptrap about how rough they had it. Because daddy made them work for their keep. Daddy didn’t want to be raising no “country-club bums”. Again, I’m astounded at the number of authors who stoop to making this type of lame comparison. Are they trying to appeal to the “we’s just folks” sympathies of the reader? Well, stuff it. Is there even such a thing as suffering where there exists the assurance of a handsome payout? A reward titanically beyond any effort that could possibly be linked any amount of milking cows or mending fences.
           Every rich kid will tell you how hard he worked, and in that regard I don’t respect authors who parrot the theme. Ordering the servants around may seem like work, but don’t confuse it with the real thing. Did I just make up that word ‘titanically’? Anyway, it’s always amusing to read how working-class journalists, like the one who wrote that book, perceive how the rich got to be the way they are. Because the working-class is always dead wrong in their conclusions.

           I bought Charl dinner. You bet, I bottle of soda called “Tickle” that comes in a clear container. And one of those guacamole snack thingees. She drank the soda, but the fate of the Mexican paste is, at present, uncertain. I see the president is touring the Carolinas to view the hurricane damage. Why? He’s not into construction anymore, so time to set a precedent to stop wasting tax money touring these predictable disaster zones. People, it is going to tornado in Texas, earthquake in California, and the damn is going to burst in Tennessee. I don’t see how running political tour groups through the wreckage is going to improve a damn thing. What? It makes the victims feel better? Aw, that is so nice, why, here, have some more tax money. But isn’t that the church’s job?
           But I’ll tell you who is in for it. That little rat-dog next door. I remember the time I rented a big house back west. A month later, this family bought the place next door. They had three girls who screamed all the time. Happy? Scream. Sad? Scream. Scared? Scream. Got outside to play? Scream. That’s what the rat-dog reminds me off, but this time I have the remedy. As soon as I find time. Today I had to prime the canopy wood before it gets wet, and buy some wood for a shelf to get things up off my floor.

           What’s this, another gunman at some office? Well, I warned the world long ago what would happen when they started convincing nobodies that they had feelings too. Seems he was shot dead at the scene by police. This seems to have become the preferred method of dealing with these deadbeats.

ADDENDUM
           Usually I don’t mention dreams except when they involve women I used to date. Last sleep was a doozie, I was back and Eatmore’s place, a mansion that strangely resembled JPs family home. Anyway, the parents had finally declared a truce and I was living in the upper left bedroom. Eatmore came and went with her latest husband and I waited for those glimpses of her. Then for unknown reasons, me and a helper were straightening a fencepost near the front gate when the parents arrived in the proverbial four-door huff.

           Something had gone wrong and they were arguing and I picked up it was about me. I went to my room and they were now arguing down the hall. Then the old doc leaned into my doorway and asked if I had heard what was just said. I had not and said so, but moments later I was downstairs and heard that somebody said I was spreading a rumor that the wife was cheating. I cornered Eatmore who said it was her youngest brother. I proceded to boot-kick him half to death, Van Damme style. That was the ending.

           Normally I do not ever dream of more than one old girlfriend at a time, but there is a vague appearance by Sharon. Remember Sharon, 600 insults-per-hour Sharon? The last guy got it for free but the next guy, he’s gonna pay, that Sharon. Aw, that was mean, but folks, it is really strange how many unmarried women equate that change in thinking to “growing up”. Just listen to men, who on average, can’t understand how women’s expectations go up as their looks go down. But I don’t have enough space here to get into it. There’s work to be done.
           The picture? Oh, that’s just the bushes where Charl took me for my very first four-wheel excursion. Nothing happened, but it sure is isolated and quiet back there.

Last Laugh

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