One year ago today: August 8, 2023, another failed avocado.
Five years ago today: August 8, 2019, nobody will protest.
Nine years ago today: August 8, 2015, the estuary.
Random years ago today: August 8, 2018, damn plastic hangers.
What’s this then, a rate cut by the Fed. They only do that just before some major collapse. Who is it this time. Another bank? The stock market? Insurance companies? It’s not enough time to bolster the economy before the election, so what’s it gonna be? Up early reading the news over a lingering coffee. So much for all the new0age promises of huge efficiency savings passed on to the public. It’s all bull, Uber is now as corrupt as the old taxi companies, same goes for Airbnb. And for the first time in history, you can say, “She’s a whore,” and 90% of people will know who you are talking about.
I’m struggling with the reality that I must get that spine operation. I’m functional but thank the warm weather for part of that. I took off the late morning and sat down in the library for a few hours, pondering. This van breakdown reveals my margins are too narrow. Registering the Hyundai is $250 plus other fees. We shunt the KIA repair aside since I simply cannot afford it after buying the second vehicle. Or more accurately I can’t afford it right now, because it will take the remainder of the year to get back to where I was last July 10th.
A few more realities. Things are taking me longer by almost a third. Anything involving walking. I’ll have to sell the oldest van for half what it is worth. No extras as we live within bare budget lines for at least this month, and a tight rein the next two. I’ve got lots to do and I’ll keep busy. The best of planning nowadays is at the mercy of the Internet and the supreme bull donkey that has turned into. Now it’s become too expensive to repair. Example, I’ve described how it takes a minimum of 30 days to get money transferred and that cannot be improved.
This isn’t a great photo, but it shows the highest shelving in the silo, this just before I put up the ceiling panel. It was gronk work which should have been done when the structure was new and vacant. Now, what a bitch and no hillbilly to lend a hand. (We still can’t find him in the prison database.) You can see the rafters and some electric cabling, all slated to be covered up and made rat-resistant.
There’s a new batch of dating sites claiming they are better for reasons like the options to list “intimacy preferences”, but I was more intrigued by the patterns of the complaints. Ha-ha, it’s the same as it ever was before the Internet. Most guys are just plain goof when it comes to meeting women in real life. To me, that spells loser, that Nature is telling them something. What kept me reading was that these were not just the last couple generations who don’t know any better, but men way past the casual dating age bleating out the same things they did before the 1990s. That tells us the problem is not the Internet, guys.
Amazing how these men go fifty years making the same mistakes and refuse to change. My story is different. I changed rapidly until I round something that worked, then honed my methods. I grew up same as you, around all the guys who didn’t know how to score and talked about it endlessly. You know the tale of how I chose music. Just don’t think that was it. My best friends in middle school were both taller, richer, better looking, and more talented that I was. But it did them little good, they both wound up marrying the first gal who was nice to them, with predictable results.
Did I ever tell how I lost these two friends? I was able to date a variety of women, but that was not an issue. They had immense troubles getting one each, same as the rest of the locals. What became the issue was that I would not talk about my scores (as it was known in those days.) One of the first rules I made was to get a reputation for keeping my mouth shut, that with me it was a secret. And that worked better than I ever expected, except I lost my best friends. I could not stand around with them talking nonsense about getting laid. I thought they must be joking.
Cabo San Lucas (Mexico).
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We held a rehearsal and did some planning. Bands, even duos, are complicated efforts. It will be a year later this month and the changes have been more than we could have predicted. We’ve played a total of maybe 20 gigs (this blog is not the place to get those details), and it was time to take stock of our assets. Polk contains hundreds of guitar players who would gladly undercut you—if they could get the gigs. That’s where we differ, it’s called pro management. Let’s talk about that for a moment, but first here is a sheet of the hardboard destined for the ceiling. It is 4x8 but cut so the seam makes it easy to get at the light fixtures. There’s my chalk line.
Today, we lightly ran over six new tunes. Just the tricky parts, which says plenty, that we will play these tomorrow. The Prez has proven not only a loyal bandmate, but has brought a new dimension to the duo with his Bluegrass influence. He’s been around long enough to know my guidance is not perfect and has pro-actively stepped up both his part and with new positive input. The best portrayal of that is the number of bluegrass tunes we now play that he knows I’ve never heard—and can’t memorize. They mostly sound alike to me.
The concept of a solid duo that can play gigs without the need of other musicians was a move not popular at first but now is without question. Let other people fail, no-show, or get cranky, we don’t need ‘em. The drummer, Jack, for example, has disappeared. So what, we play tomorrow and know that we can play. This was a real stumbling block for other bands I’ve been with, they could not put on a show with even one member missing.
This was pet food from the silo which I will keep up to a year beyond the best before, since the cans are not exposed to any elements. I just hate to see animals that have been tamed and then left to forage for themselves without their original instincts. I wish I knew of some way I could help, but that was emergency pet food in case it had been to difficult to stay in Tennessee. I was not ready for today when I felt I had got to the shelter just in time.
Another day of mild exertion and I’m still exhausted. Careful, I’m not the type that eases into old age. I turned from blonde to white-grey in a month. For me it’s like quantum aging. Forget my issues, have a laugh. The food workers in California are demanding another raise, taking minimum wage from $16 (last April) to $20. Listen to them, screaming that they voted for a wage increase, not a price increase. Kamela has resorted to the ancient tactic of making wild statements, knowing by the time the truth emerges, her psycho followers will believe it. She’s now claiming people like Trump and Vance are afraid to debate her.
Her chosen running mate just declared that socialism is only your neighbors trying to be friendly, or something like that. The space station astronauts are stuck there until next year, a telling commentary on how far Boeing has sunk. The space station is nothing but a publicity stunt, sucking up resources needed for a Mars mission. UFOs, thanks to drones and quadcopters blurring the view, are now called UAP for unidentified anomalous phenomenon, but I dunno.
ADDENDUM
Idiosyncrises. We all have ‘em, so let’s record mine from the kitchen. First, I cannot peep potatoes without thinking of my first girlfriend, the redhead, (wow). Nor can I cook breaktast without reminiscing about scout camp, where I really was not the cook that much. And I can’t wash dishes without wondering how everybody scattered after high school except the class dumbos and nobodies who stayed put to this day.
I have them in the wood shed, as well. When I run short on clamps, I always blame it on this lady singer I knew who has nothing to do with it. Or work my favorite chop saw without wondering what I could have done with this when I was growing up. I suppose it’s all within the realm of normal memory spans, but in the case of the gal, for example, we are talking over 50 years. Then I say, so what, I still listen to the radio ten times more than some people read.
At what point is it an obsession? I suppose when it interferes with the rest of your life. I know one guy who cannot put on a pair of trousers without bitching. His name is John McDonald and he can’t stand the way, after age of 30, he has to suck in to the point of fainting to fasten the button, but if he doesn’t use a belt after that, the pants fall down if he walks 50 feet. Hmmm, when I think about it just now, he does have a point.
