One year ago today: August 14, 2019, the hosueboat concept.
Five years ago today: August 14, 2015, a squabbling match.
Nine years ago today: August 14, 2011, grinning glad-handers.
Random years ago today: August 14, 2008, rent is a form of debt.
It’s official. This morning’s MRI reveals my whole “bass shoulder” is a candidate for replacement. It’s potential for my music career to be wiped out in a wink. This view shows the apparatus set up to do my twice daily exercises, making me the one patient in how many that actually does the homework. Cost-wise this has to be the cheapest medical gear available these wired-in days. A pulley, some string, two macramé beads, a broom handle and some red slingshot tubing. Everything hangs up on the one post, which I cannot enter or leave without passing. I even have a mini-version to take on long trips. Alas, this effort has not produced any improvement in years.
My budget for organic food means I don’t often shop in many food outlets like CVS, where I popped in this morning. Walking down the snacks aisle my trained eye picked out the cheapest item. A small bag of potato chips for $3.19. Over double the last time I looked. So, a soda, bag of chips and an ice-cream drumstick, standard school lunch in my day when the parents weren’t watching, will now set you back $11.40. I’m not complaining, hey none of the junk is on my diet and I have the money, but such price increases grab my attention for two reasons.
1) most people on fixed incomes can’t pay that much.
2) I’ve always had money because I can play bass.
If everything goes awry, only one of those sentences will apply, making it a double-whammy for me. In new-speak, that’s double-plus-un-good. This is more than speculation. This morning I got the first direct steroid injection. It makes the joint feel mildly more “mushy”. I was home by 3:00PM and darn rights I picked up the bass. I played my top ten set, with a lot of the new Shania Twain material that has to be played to spec. In that hour, I missed at least 80 notes. The brain says go, the arm stays put. Not the greatest harbinger. I’ve chosen not to inform my people in Nashville until I’m there next week in person.
There is a technical expression in Tennessee for bass players who miss spots. Up there, they don’t care if your arm is amputated. You play every note or else. I reported it in this blog probably 15 years ago, does anyone remember the word? The technical term for a Nashville bass player who drops notes is “unemployed”.
Tuna fish hook.
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There is a plan around here to handle bad news. First, make a batch of home-made peanut butter cookies, make some “donut shop” coffee, then take the afternoon off and go putter around. Works for me. Tonight I may go to the club, or over to Winter Haven. There is a reason I don’t always report when I stand in with a band. It cannot allowed to become an everyday blog event. But tonight I need to see if my missing spot follow me up on stage. These guys will be glad to see me. If I did not say, I got the information for the wrong Bill last week.
It’s the Karaoke guy who broke three bones, not the guitar player. Hmmm, that means a potential opening. I have all the gear and experience running the show. In a worst case scenario, I’d get further as a one-armed DJ-ing than bass playing. Hey, I’m just weighing my options.
I’m still sifting through the Google blog settings to find some way to access my earlier posts. I can’t believe they could possibly be stupid enough to completely disable it. Usually some tecno-nerd will rename a feature to something totally non-descriptive. So far nothing. This all adds up to a Friday spent doing anything but my chores. I left a note on Agt. R’s door in case he has one of those Craftsman speed starters, checked in on a friend who is house-sitting, and went to the old club to ponder my future. Social distancing seems most popular with the personality types who will do anything they are told.
