One year ago today: May 7, 2020, on Gates-funded vaccines.
(A full year before the media got it.)
Five years ago today: May 7, 2016, one busy day, obviously.
Nine years ago today: May 7, 2012, except me.
Random years ago today: May 7, 2006, a similar Taurus tire problem.
The financing is in place for the next venture, all that’s left is to flip the switch. Think over the weekend sometime. Watch for generic news only at this point. Why? Because for the first time [here] on-line, this is a product, not a service. It’s a step into a realm I would normally avoid but should have looked at closely anyway. The way these entities advertise truly sucks. A current favorite has to do with making money “while you sleep”. What is the big deal with that? Put a dollar in the bank, you’ll earn interest round the clock. Why am I getting the elbow? Hang on.
What about the latest crypto-gambling? No credit card needed, just tell them your bank account number. Those who bite have been sleep-learning and sleep-earning, so no need to disturb their slumbers. By now you’ve noticed the picture of this motorcycle air bag safety vest. It represents a new low in what millennials have only now begun to realize they’ve brought down around their ears. Being an AOL only works until everybody else does the same. This vest is bought for $400 plus a monthly subscription. What? That’s correct, if you miss a payment, the vest stops working.
One just has to love it when some libtard leftoid self-righteous journalist gets her ass handed right back at her. The problem with liberal Western journalism degrees is they only train how to interview stupid people. That’s why I love this clip showing the President of Azerbaijan not playing the game. He knows a BBC skank assault when he sees one.
American fiesta.
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A brick wall. That’s what I feel like trying to play guitar and sing. All these years, I get this far and then can’t meet my own minimum standards. It’s part of why I wonder there are not countless other guitarists who get here, but will not team up with a good bassist. The real matter that sticks me is that I don’t get any better with time and practice. My guitar playing has a cap. And that has to be good enough. I have seen two regulars on the circuit who, overall, play worse than I do, but they can pick and both use a loop pedal. I may yet resort to that.
Trent says he knows two opposites in the music field. Those with the best equipment but can’t play, and those who play the crap out of $200 instruments like mine. I should tell him the cost of having the jack installed “professionally” would double my investment in a wink. Now, after five years, to find that package of spare jacks I know I have somewhere.
Friday or not, I took a load of laundry downtown and on the way back saw the old club was jam-packed. I stopped in to find some kind of benefit and surprise band, shown here. The club isn’t hiring so the story is this was some big city tour band and they were good. Too good. They had my formula of acoustic and bass down to a tee, but with obscure rock rather than country rock as I would have done. I’ll elaborate, since I was more than impressed but yet disappointed. This view is the lady guitarist/vocalist in the far right background and the bass player with pony tail. What were they doing wrong?
Nothing, they did nothing wrong, and that is what was wrong. They were not entertaining the crowd. They were touring to raise money for some children’s academy. The music was overkill for the room. Again, I’ll most let you decide from my report how things went, but peppered with my opinions. For the first half-hour, it sounded like they played the same song over and over. I didn’t realize I was right next to a table of their cheerleaders. I tried to keep it low-key but they spotted when I took out the camcorder.
That instantly changed the music to recognizable songs, and these were studio trained musicians. Fantastic. There’s a drummer you can’t see who I recognize from somewhere. It’s the bass player that was out of place. He was a converted guitar player. Examine the photo. You can tell by his pose, the angle his wrist position, and how he is playing near the middle of the neck. He could play perfect arpeggios and glissandos, which he did at every opportunity. It was an amazing match to what the guitarist was strumming, and she could also carry off some truly impressive lead patterns.
The show was interesting as a parallel study to what I’ve been trying and failing to get underway. The bassist was trying his darndest to be Mr. Kewl but steal the show at it. People who’ve heard me play kept getting my attention nodding at the stage. The bassist plainly thought he was finally the star but could not have known his moves were already a regular part of my act. Again he was good, but that includes doing things that I specifically avoid. Furthermore, his playing suffered because it was generally not as danceable as what I strive for. He was playing mostly lead patterns but he was good enough to get away with it.
He could play excellent scales and modes, but took it too far by finger playing. There are two downsides to that. Some fingers are weaker than others and he was playing 16th and 32nd notes. Both contribute to a effect of fingers drumming on a table which gets quickly boring. And it means where a single note should be plucked and carried, he was playing the note like a Gatling gun. I have video, but on the Sony. This camcorder has the quirk of picking up too much bass in a quiet room, but drowning the bass in a noisy setting.
Overall, I was more than impressed. The music was tastefully arranged much along the lines I have in mind. The balance was there, with the guitarist playing a strum that brought out the instinct each piece of music, with the bass playing a rhythm like accompaniment with the odd fill that complemented the sound. The drummer added some harmonies, so the overall effect was that of at least five “voicings”. What I could do with such a guitarist and drummer.
ADDENDUM
I’m the first to admit keeping a journal makes one more aware of how time works. And today, the first “older woman” I ever dated turns 67. I better the hell start slowing down myself. I don’t even know if she’s still around. The reason I mark May 7 on my calendar is complex, but her birthday is easy to remember. If I’d met her five years later in time, she would have been the one.
At the club tonight, I’d brought along my notebook and found a far corner. And some lady found me. Walks right over and asks me what that is. A scribbler, I said. What’s inside it, she asks. Pages, I said. She was on the prowl, but way out of her league. Was I doing math? Was I using “pi”? Finally I looked up to see this age-appropriate grandmother type, who proceeded to tell me she had not been out for two years because of COVID. That’s just what I need, a broad who is pushy with me but will do anything some stranger on TV says she’s supposed to. I kind of said two years was a long time and assured her she has not missed anything. She was there with what looked like her middle-aged married son and they finally left.
Keep this in perspective folks. I’m no prize physically and don’t pretend to be. But I am very often the only man in the room who is not drunk, not shouting at some sports game, and not drooling spittle out of one side. In the clubhouse, in five years now, I am definitely the ONLY man in there who isn’t afraid to read and write in public. By now, the locals know the difference between writing in a booklet and staring at a smart phone. They’ve seen how many times women approach me, they’ve seen me dance, and heard me sing. The joke is that they all know I’m saving myself for Taylor. One day . . .
