One year ago today: August 19, 2019, American street names, boo!
Five years ago today: August 19, 22015, defund welfare, problem solved.
Nine years ago today: August 19, 22011, I miss my armchair.
Random years ago today: August 19, 2016, at the new digs.
The shortest post this year. Nothing happened today, but plenty happened late y’day. I got a flurry of comments on the Last Laugh pic of the guy in Starbucks just drinking coffee. They were from people reminding me that thirty years ago the reverse happened. In Lost Angeles in 1990, I was the only one in the coffee shop with a laptop computer and cell phone. I’ve had strangers walk up and tell me I had “better not be writing” anything about them. The lower orders of society are strange that way. They finally catch up to where I was in the last century, but somehow think I’m behind them because I won’t go near a smart phone or purchase anything on-line. If history repeats itself, it will be 2040 before they realize the sneaky people who have taken over the Internet are not their friends.
Other than my arm therapy, the day was one hour of arguing with Boost Mobile and four hours getting this place ship-shape for the trip. There’s no a theft problem in this area, but if there is any it tends to happen this time of year. Boost refuses to transfer my phone number to a new phone. They say it has an “invalid serial number”. Lies, this is the last of a series of phones I bought for the purpose. I’ve repeatedly reminded Boost to cease using the words “can’t” and “won’t” interchangeably when talking to me. They think they are such clever con artists, getting everybody to upgrade to Boost. Upgrade, my eye.
No pictures, no addendum, I’ve got to get out of Dodge for a while. My therapy deserves mention because, like before, progress on the arm tends to shift the discomfort around without curing it. This happened last time. I quickly reach a plateau and get no further. I worked until dark and got the tarpaper on the scooter shed, and generally sealed the place up. I could leave anytime now. Here’s an event. I have to get rid of my groundskeeper. I usually notify him when I’m away, but could not catch him at home for the past week.
So I asked my neighbor across the way if he didn’t mind, would he set my garbage cans back a few feet after the truck leaves. You can’t leave them out in this town. He says he’s been doing that for the past year. Isn’t that a fine discovery? And I’ve been paying the other guy $35 to do it. I dug that last ice-cold Ying-Ling (yes, Ken, I know it is Yueng-Ling) out of the box and sat down to think this one through.
Now last evening, I’ll let give you the data, you process it. I don’t always mention stand-ins, but last evening I stopped at a coffee house. They have no formal entertainment there, but on occasion, somebody will read poetry or play guitar. This guy I kind of know, Dan(?), bit of a featherhead but plays a ton of 50’s rock ‘n roll is in the corner with this chick singer. Would I join in? Sure, Dan, I don’t do much old rock, but for the heck of it I said I’m working on some Shania Twain. The gal perks right up. It was closing time so there was time for one song. And I aced it.
It ain’t braggin’ if you done it. She selected the very tune I described here how I learned the fiddle part on bass. Brought down the house, though it was a very small house. Staff came baling out of the kitchen to see what was going on. A side-effect of the way I play bass is it telegraphs to the guitar player he’d better not try to change anything. The gal was in her glory, I think she was after Dan but not quite pretty enough to connect, can I say that? No chance of forming a band, the gal lacks presence and Dan is a confirmed solo artist. Team up with someone like that and they will continue to gig behind your back. But let that demo be a lesson to anyone who thinks I just stand there and play bass.
