One year ago today: October 22, 2021, tarpaper.
Five years ago today: October 22, 2017, the Orlando Maker Faire.
Nine years ago today: October 22, 2013, the rig.
Random years ago today: October 22, 2009, yep, they’re bullet holes.
Who remembers the time the Reb & I planned a trip to Hot Springs? Neither of us remembers why we didn’t go. On top of that, of all the times I’ve crossed Arkansas, I don’t recall a thing about the place except the motorcycle dealership in West Memphis. By mistake almost, I stopped at a sign that said Johnny Cash was born there, I still can’t place that as being Arkansas. This morning I’ve decided to chop up the bamboo by hand and get ready to leave. My planning isn’t so bad I don’t know when I’m leaving, it’s just leaving Tennessee maybe isn’t my favorite activity. Stick around for news, I think I was kicked out of a bar tonight. It was a bar I told on years ago, but still tonight I was asked to leave for wanting to sing a song.
I even tried the angle that there is a barrel cactus. Right, I mean other plants are like barreled or whatever. I hoofed out there in the morning and used the hatchet to trim down dozens of stalks, often twenty feet high since just 2020. This involves wading into the thickets so I took down only the outside ring and only to maybe knee height. Jump in if you want to help. See that empty barrel in front of the bamboo? Check back tomorrow.
Folks, I also had to haul away all the other trimmings from the last two days. I get my parking spot done just before I’m planning to leave. Let’s not hear a lot of guff over that, I’m just pooped from hours of chopping and skinning bamboo. Curse the person who brought it here. In the process, I trimmed some 18 or 20 poles that may help secure the rest of the fence. This is the section of fence made from old pallets only to keep the dogs in. Go back far enough in this blog, you’ll find pictures of it.
This work took the steam out of me, I quit around noon. I figured I’d been out there two and a half hours, the Reb says no, it was one and a half. That’s pretty good for me, putting in two and a half hour’s work all in one and a half.
Agincourt diorama.
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See this picture? That is peanut butter on one of the stove knobs. Guilty, since I’m the only person around here who eats peanut butter. I don’t think it’s so funny some people have to laugh about it for five minutes, but to each their own. I investigated the smudge and it is exactly where I would get peanut button on my left hand if I was not careful. I can’t get away with anything around here and I’m not the sort to waste peanut butter. The weight of evidence is greatly against me.
Later, I got kicked out of night club, or at least I think that’s what it was. Who remembers the marina place I walked out of years ago after waiting too long for service. They advertised a jam session, so I walked in and again no service. There was instead a lineup to the single half-speed bartender, so I asked this guy to keep my place in line and I sat down. This was around 7:30PM and yes, there was a sign on the table saying it was reserved for 9:00PM. After a 35 minute wait, I got a brew and propped it on the empty table to sign in for the jam. There were four names ahead of mine.
Some quick background here. The club is not really a jam, it is heavy duty old blues and the clientele is heavy duty and old as well. I recognized a few as musicians around town and a few of them propped their instruments behind me to wait their turns. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. Then this scrawny looking old dude leans over and looks at my name, and wants to know what I will play, then he tells me, “The band doesn’t know that song.”
I’m like, it is must twelve-bar blues in G, but this little prick is not giving up. I get it, he’s the little runt they let pretend to be the manager. I said that’s okay, I can sing the song a cappella, but he’s having none of that. So I took back the pen and scratched my name off the list. Well, he was having none of that insolence. I guess you play what he wants or else, so he says I have to leave. Fine, I said, but I have to get my gear from the table. I walk back, pick up my things and head for the door and I figure somebody bumped into me. No, it’s the little shit trying to shove me.
I turned around and told him to quit, whence he backed off but this attracted the attention of this huge stupid fat bastard white guy. Don’t tangle with stupid people who are out looking for trouble, so I walked out and the idiot follows me, but he can’t move very fast. He was too fat to negotiate the three stairs to the platform. I got twenty paces away, turned and took his picture. He ducked back in the door. Anyway, I’m pretty sure that constitutes being bounced. It’s not like I give two shits about a joint that doesn’t serve Budweiser. Hmmm, the place has been there for ages and is not even mentioned in Yelp. Can’t give a bad review if you can’t name it, a clever ruse on their part.
Recently I mentioned the news that much of the latest generation cannot read cursive. It seems this is a real topic when it comes to comparing skill sets. People talk like it is some kind of condition where I view it as part of a larger and more general shortcoming. If you can’t read it, you can’t write it and I would not pity anyone who suffers because of it. I’m not suggesting the schools teach anything useful but reading and writing are pretty basic.
I saw this coming years ago when I began to encounter younger people who could not tell time. They could not read a wall clock with minute and hour hands. The standard excuse was that they had not been taught this in school. Funny, my generation was not taught to read digital clocks but we can. So what’s scary is that this latest bunch lake the brain-power to figure it out for themselves.
