One year ago today: December 31, 2017, my inverted version.
Two years ago today: December 31, 2016, avoiding 'new country'.
Three years ago today: December 31, 2015, 35 comic books.
Four years ago today: December 31, 2014, anywhere in the universe.
Five years ago today: December 31, 2013, ambitious for me.
Six years ago today: December 31, 2012, bezoar stones.
Seven years ago today: December 31, 2011, a strange publication.
Eight years ago today: December 31, 2010, where's my Arduino?
Nine years ago today: December 31, 2009, genetically natural?
Ten years ago today: December 31, 2008, ID prevents free expression.
Eleven years ago today: December 31, 2007 without compunction.
Twelve years ago today: December 31, 2006, usually faked anyway.
Fifteen years ago today: December 31, 2003, outvoted the majority, she did.
Well, this blog is written a day late. Things, you know, have to happen before I can write them, and through the fog of an early-morning hangover (I fess up), here is what happened last evening. Oh-em-jee, did I say hangover? Yes, and my shoulder ache and my head keeps saying go back to bed. Like when I was 18, which, by the way, was the drinking age when I turned it. And tonight I drank, pretty much steadily from 8:30 PM until 2:00 AM. I drove, yes, but only 14 blocks and I was still okay by then. I am doing my best, or semi-best, to recount all that happened.
During the day I re-wired the entire red shed, which I had quickly done in “Xmas tree” fashion earlier. I just needed light in there. But due to repressive city bylaws, it must become another small work area. As wired, any bulb that went out caused the whole arrangement to stop. I’ve mentioned my neighbor and his hobby of collecting farm machinery. He now owns 18 tractors (according to his wife) but never get me wrong. You could hardly hope for nicer neighbors. He still mows my lawn. His wife almost bought this place but I was absolutely there to assure her she is glad she did not. The only thing more dismaying about the work still to be done is the hundreds, maybe thousands of man-hours already poured in here.
The birdfeeder is back beside the front bedroom window, and the cardinals have resumed their patrol of following me through any yardwork. They have some circadian rhythm that lets me know if I’m late filling the feeder. Like Memphis, by budgie, they get ticked off if I do anything else in the yard first. I may attempt to video this for you. People say it can’t be, but they also said Memphis did not know Mozart from Beethoven, and they were wrong.
I sent everyone on the mailing list greetings and such for a happy 2019. Needing Internet service, I drove the Taurus toward the donut place in northern Bartow. At roughly 8:30 I saw that acoustic player from Auburndale setting up his gear at the old club. This guy is rather unique in that he cannot pick, he can only strum. And he regularly gets it wrong, from a bassist’s standpoint I mean. So the car self-steered into the adjoining bank parking lot and I sauntered in. Keep reading, this gets good, gossip-wise.
It happened again. The files are somewhere on the office computer. So, just wait your turn. But don't miss it because New Year's Eve this time was totally concerned with gossip, women, and partying. Nothing happened that counts, but plenty else did. Return to hear about the actress I spurned, the gal that hypnotized the men as she danced with me, and what it took to get me to smile.
Here's a photo of a helicopter we'll hear a lot more about soon. Called the Defiant, it is the latest. It has not flown yet, but the pusher propeller apparently overcomes the speed barrier of older copters. That occurs when the outer leading edge of the propeller blade spinning forward reaches the sound barrier. The twin rotor design is common in Soviet and Russian models. It is said this configuration does not have to nose-down to pick up forward speed. I'll be watching this one.
Ragusa Ilba.
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The joint was [at first] empty, so I set up my mini-office (Mel was bartending and knows the drill) to commence my routine. Shortly thereafter, in walks this couple that are hardly from around here. They mount the bar stools some fifteen feet from me and get into this lovie-dubbie mode, nothing unusual. Against my rules, I stayed as the guitarist began to play exactly the style of music that was missing a professional bass accompaniment. The couple was obviously on a first date as the guy was artificially making conversation and on his best behavior. That’s always a bad move, guys.
She, on the other hand, was elegant and composed, taking it all in. I was not wearing my glasses but did I not see her glancing at me time and again? It sure seemed so, but I had typing to do. It often throws people who’ve not seen it when I will sing along to the band or carry on a conversation while pecking away full speed. But this gal was too far out of my league to even notice that. Later, I was to find out that when I’m doing this, I do not smile. Wait, I’ll put down why that was notable in a moment.
Aha, I was right about the guitarist. He loses his place and comps when he hits a difficult patch. I scribbled my contact info and talked a minute with him. He said he places a lot on the personality of his bass players and had got rid of his last one over that issue. I wondered why he brought that up when I looked up and the entire room, now with some 30 people, was watching me. Me, just standing there momentarily chatting with the house musician. And, who is looking most intently? The blonde who did not belong here. But hey, who knows why these things happen.
Returning to my chair, I finished my typing and put the computer away. Was that blonde lady, who I’d never seen before, now openly looking at me? I swirled around to make sure there was no TV on the wall behind me. Nope. Then something happened that made me laugh momentarily. The bar maid and the blonde both stopped and spontaneously said that is the first time in the evening that they’d seen me smile. I was like, what? Had they really been watching me? And if so, why? Wait, there’s more.
In walks what’s-her-name from the place over on Hwy 17, all dressed up like a prom date. Tiara, necklace, you know the image. She’s with one of her regulars and they grab the table in front of the guitarist. In a bit, I’m off to the men’s room and she stops me. Dance with me, she says. I realize in the two years I’ve know her, we have never danced, so I said keep an eye when I sit down again because I want to do the right dance, not just any dance. Nothing to it, she knows. When I got back, the entertainer was running out of material, I’ve told you how often this happens.
Finally, a blues number comes on and I’m out on the floor with what’s-her-name. What a natural follow, she was putty in my hands and we sent a few tremors through the place, I’ll explain. In the dance called “slow foxtrot”, there is that moment when you step to the side but don’t change weight. This causes the female partner to unconciously put a slight, I dunno, what would you call it, a kind of shift of gravity in the lower back, well you know. Here was a gal without a dance lesson in her life doing it exactly right, if not more than exactly. Am I making this clear? Good.
I’m returning to my chair when the blonde lady motions me over. The guy is not her partner, just a date. Yeah, I picked up on that. She was an actress she said. Hmmm, not many of those around here. You see, the moment had been lost. I realized she had been looking at me for some time, but you know with me it has to be an immediate response. Obviously a poser, she had been waiting for me to make the move, which will not happen when she is there with a date. I positioned she face me so the guy could hear everything we said, which seemed to put her off. Hmmm, why’s that?
She told me she was an actress from Tampa. Okay. Ma’am, it is three hours too late to be shining up to me. She continued a bit, but up close I could see her pancake makeup and dark roots. And a lot of other things I could have overlooked in a passionate first encounter. I asked for her contact information and she said she didn’t have any. Really? An aging actress in town without even an agent? I politely backed away. Yes, the whole place saw that, including the guitar player. And this morning, I don’t even remember her name.
ADDENDUM
Give me ten minutes with that lady I was dancing with. She was a natural, floating in my arms. A few pointers on how to step and look right, and we will be the dynamite dance couple of the county. Seriously, if she adds just a few extras to what she already does, I’m just saying. She’s like Marty, my gal from Colorado, a natural magnet for men on the prowl, and yes, she loves it. Tread carefully, mind you. This new gal has had a bad reputation for a lot of years. No, she is not my type at all. Did I say dynamite?
Let me explain that. Yes, a professional dance pair would easily outshine us. But that is my point. To do that would not be fitting. It would look out of place in the local pub. I’ve done a lot of things that fit into this niche for that very reason. It’s like my bass playing or my approach to women. Anyone with a little effort could easily outdo me. Yet, in doing so, you would win the contest but lose the trophy. Do I do this on purpose? Absolutely.
And quit writing 2018 on your checks.
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