...Singing along. Well. Good luck with that schtick. I still have Kantner's 49ers cap. Told ya' the story already. Sittin' by a hotel pool in Ka'anapali. Poor fucker. I bet he's still "wondering where it went." If you run into him, tell him "Hanley's Buddy has it. " He can stop by anytime and get the damned thing.
Hanley. Prairie Prince's Drum Guy. My Best Pal. I had to bury him. A couple of years ago. Sniff.
Life sucks and then it's Hanley's Birthday. Today. Sumbitch got a Worldwide Party every day he was born. Cheers, BIG EARS! The Mug did have a good set of ears on him, hence, his tenure with these guys and a bunch of other Bay Area Bands. Trooper. "Guy." Noise! Lights! Action! Move it, I'm workin' here...
Amateur Hour: That phenomena which occurs when a bunch of drunk folks all occupy the same general space and begin to turn into idiots. Too much alcohol, not enough grey matter. All Special Occasions and Holidays qualify. As previously stated, I stay home. Watching re-runs of Mister Ed (or, anything) is oh-so-much-more satisfying. Preferably, with a good bottle of booze, a pack of Sherman's cigarettellos and something good to eat. I can get into trouble all by myself, thank you.
New Year's Eve is also kind of a somber affair for me. It was my Buddy, Michael's, birthday. I had to get him buried, with full Military Honors (he was a Vietnam Era Marine) after fighting City Hall, etc., for months. Doc, 1. City Hall, 0. It also caused a minor shit-storm within the Coroner's Office here. The woman that "handled" my Buddy's' case file no longer works there. Whether or not that's because of her ineptitude in general or because of her (and the whole office) "sweeping Family-less Vet's under the carpet," I don't know. I DO KNOW that there are more guys, "alone in the world" due to varying circumstances, that were buried in local cemeteries, group grave style, no grave markers, that need to be exhumed and re-buried with proper respect. I'll leave that job to The Pro's (They're ALL Volunteers). I've already mentioned them in a prior post. M.I.A.P.. The Missing In America Project. They'll get the job done. It's "what they do," all day, every day. Cover off to all of you Ladies and Gentlemen. Thank you!
Toast w/jam and tea, the good Russian Imperial stuff, at 05:30. Actually, I woke up about 03:00 and couldn't seem to get back to sleep. So, I got up. It's cold outside, 33.4 degrees. Wet-Cold, too. That shit that creeps into all your old injuries and takes up residence in them for the morning. The heat gets turned on and the fuzzies come out of the Winter Drawer. My personal favorite is flannel "house pants," a t-shirt and sweatshirt with Acorn slippers. A wool hat of any kind doesn't hurt either. The old adage: "Head, hands and feet" bears true. Keep that trio warm and you're "set." It works, no matter where you are. That and staying dry.
The Depressing News for awhile. CNN: Planes going down and horror stories from around the globe. Soap commercials in-between. New York Rep. Steve Scalise giving a speech to White Supremacists. The Third Highest Poobah in the Repukelican Party. See ya', Buddy. Michael Grimm down the tubes too. Tax evasion. "Later, Dude." At least Fox Noise is currently off air with Dish TV, my satellite provider. I wrote to Dish and said: "Fine. Tell them to go to cable or DirecTV. Fuck 'em. Anyone with a higher number than a ball-sack temperature I.Q. doesn't watch that trash anyway." Rupert Murdoch and Roger Ailes have done more to damage the objectivity of television news than any two men in history. That includes the usual roundup of Rodeo Clown "Pundits" they employ and their Bubble Headed Bleached Blondes that smoothe the Wembley neck ties and make coffee.
MSNBC is telling the story of: "Let's Go Crazy: The Story Of Making Purple Rain," hawking a book of the same title. Snore. Who cares? Joe Scarborough has a secret, androgynous, boner under the news desk...
I'll read Reuters, Euro News, The Christian Science Monitor and AP Wire if I want REAL news.
"I'm the Best You Can Get, have you Guessed Me Yet? I'm The Slime Oozin' Out Of Your T.V. Set."-F.Z.
Not much on the slate for today. Some house cleaning and a load of laundry. We're partying now, Baby. I may or may not make some quasi-Lasagne later on. The hamburger and Ricotta, Mozzarella and Parmesan and Asiago stuff that tastes a bit like frozen Stouffer's "Prison Loaf" when it's done. It's "all about the sauce and spices," in my book. I never make anything the "same way" twice. Except salad dressings and soups. I'm "sort of famous" for dressings (I make a KILLER Burgundy/Dijon/Vinaigrette,) sauces, soups, and, SALSA!
My "Doc's Private Reserve Salsa" flew off the shelves at the natural foods store I worked for in Salt Lake City, back in the late 80's. I made three temperatures: "Medium, Hot and NUCLEAR." The NUCLEAR would be in the cold case for about three hours and then, we'd run out. It came in a 1 qt. plastic tub with the standard: "Caution, Radioactive Material" warning labels I printed up on the tub lid and side/front. Hippies loved the shit. Heavy on Cilantro and Chipotle powder, Anaheim and Habanero Peppers, both red and green tomatoes, splash of red wine and a liquified Scotch Bonnet (more like: five) per gallon. Let it rest and open up in the walk-in cooler overnight. I made five gallons of each heat per week. The NUCLEAR was too hot for me to eat. I'm allergic to taking a shit that can catch my butt hairs on fire or burn/discolor the porcelain in a commode. It goes back to a Jalapeno eating contest I was foolish enough to enter in the early 80's. Took the flesh right out of my guts and off of my sphincter for days. Later, I discovered Thai Bird Chilies, which I could handle, if they'd been "flamed" to burn off some of the capsaicin. Raw, they're brutal. We used to con Newbies to Hawai'i into munching on one, as a rite of initiation.
So much for Salsa Making, 101. Stand back and watch The Master work, Grasshopper.
Just watched the tail end of a documentary on The Funk Brothers. Get y'er ass over to YouTube and listen!
Today, I will begin by giving another Blogger Type Person a "plug." The guy writes a thingamajig titled: "Thoughts On The Dead." http://thoughtsonthedead.wordpress.com/ I like it. You will enjoy it if you dig satirical, off-the-cuff, witty commentary on One Band In Rock and Roll. I make humorous comment posts on his site. He's intelligent, funny and apparently has had some kind of intimate connection with the Grateful Dead in the past.
Me too, sort of. The "connection" part. I'll let somebody else pat me on the back about the rest of it.
My Dead Connection was more of the New Riders Of The Purple Sage variety. It goes all the way back to 1970 or so, when Garcia was playing guitar/pedal steel and Phil Lesh was playing bass with the band. Those two, David Nelson, John Dawson and Spence Dryden rounded out the lineup. It was never intended to be any kind of commercial success, as far as I can tell. Just something to do: "in the Off-Season." It was almost as cool as working for The Dead, in my book. I would later do that too, in a much different discipline than my usual L.D. role. We combined our Hippie Light Show talents with Legitimate Stage Lighting Craft for one of those NRPS shows, mostly providing a simple, changing, Spaghetti Western Scene, rear projection backdrop, to the actual truss-over-stage, follow spots, side fills, footlights, Craft. It was good, clean, fun.
I have also worked for Bob Weir a few times, both with Bobby And The Midnites and Kingfish. Small theatre venues here and there. Weir was "kind of an asshole" one time and "An OK, Regular Guy" the other couple of times. He got good quality lighting those times so, whatever he was pissed off about the one time had nothing to do with "Us." We, The Lighting Crew, were familiar with the venues and knew them, from nightmares and pipe dreams, like the backs of our hands. One joint held about 1,200 people and the other, about 900. We did allot of those size gigs. Our speciality was "B" halls. Less than 2,000 seats. Kept us from having to: "Go Union" or have: "Guys That Were Union" around.
It seems like a past life now. The last shows I worked, hopefully "forever," were as a follow spot operator at a Leo Kottke show and a Mac Rebennack (Dr. John, The Night Tripper, for you Old Folks) shindig. (Of course, I saved my laminates.) The guy I was working for thought I was going to be content with just seeing free shows and having my brain picked for Stage Craft Ideas, which, was somewhat plausible. I was, in actuality, doing it as more of a "favor" to him. Getting paid would have been nice, too. He didn't recognize that though and due to an off-handed comment I made to someone else that got back to him about him being a: "Better Theatre Lighter than a Rock and Roll Guy," we never worked together again. I didn't really Give A Shit. I was just filling a spot on The Crew that I can, literally: "Do In My Sleep."
I've seen more shows than 90% of the population and just wasn't all that impressed with working solo acts at what used to be a High School Auditorium in Fort Bragg, Ca.. The Cotton Auditorium is a REALLY nice hall though. Sort of somewhere between an old Fox Theatre and an Art Deco-ish mish-mash of a High School Administrator's Audiologic Wet Dream. Good sound. Comfy seating. Full 40'x80' stage, permanent overhead and out-front trusses and side fill mounts. A "Do It Once, Right, Renovation." kind of place. If it were better booked/managed/promoted and Fort Bragg had more of a draw for cool shows, it would be spectacular.
There are many halls in many cities and towns like The Cotton. There are two of them near where I live now. They don't see enough use. For REALLY COOL acts, anyway. (The modern version of The Beach Boys have played one of them) They both have the same problem: As with Fort Bragg, this is the Lost Coast. No parking and Acts coming through have one night and they're in-between San Francisco and points North. Eugene, or Portland and Seattle, Vancouver, B.C., or "wherever." The BIG SHOWS usually fall to HSU, Humboldt State University, which has a REALLY NICE performance hall on campus. Usually, it's some kind of Hip-Hop/Trance/Dub crap that The Kids all want to go see/hear.
Long and short: I prefer to go see/hear artists that I really like in small, intimate venues like night clubs and restaurants with stages. I went to see David Lindley, by himself, at such a place in Arcata a few years ago. I spent most of the show being heckled by some college/Local punk because I was photographing the show. The Kid was REALLY upset that I was: "Doing it without the Artist's permission." I've been heckled before. The Kid was an idiot. I just ignored him and shot film while he embarrassed his friends.
As Mister Dave was packing up his stuff, I walked up to the stage, plopped down next to him, we shook hands and shot the shit while I waited for my taxi. I made sure The Kid saw me do it. "Artist's Permission THAT, Bitch." I also was wearing a 1970's Lindley Studios (Pleemhead) Crew Guy's T-Shirt. Dave got a kick out of it. He said: "Wow. That shirt's really old." I grinned and shot back: "WE'RE really old, Dave." He chuckled. He's a Pretty Nice Guy. I've worked with him allot over the years and Way Back When, with a bunch of bands and by himself or with Wally Ingram. (Wally's also a Really Nice Guy)
Much nicer morning Out There today. 44 degrees instead of 35. I may take myself out for a walk, later. Grab a beer at the Indie-Mart and maybe rattle my German Car Mechanic Friend's cage. Mostly, it will be all about: "Getting out of the house and into some fresh air while moving my legs." Lately, I haven't been out much. It has been either too cold, wet or crammed full of people that are all in a hurry to get somewhere without killing a pedestrian, barely.
Today, my neighbor, The Scrodfish, will be having another round of Mister-Scrodfishes'-Not-Really-Reggae-Jam-Fest. I get super-duper tired of listening to the same old fucking kick drum and bass backbeat. I eventually become very annoyed and put on bagpipe music really loud or something. I'm not the kind of guy that calls the The Cops or The Landlord to complain. I AM The Kind Of Guy with the loudest stereo rig in the building though. And, a music collection that ranges from the sublime to the annoyingly ridiculous and everything inbetween.
BTW: Last Regular Season game for the 49ers today. S.F. vs. Az., in San Francisco. 17-13, Ariz. @ halftime. Might be Head Coach Jim Harbaugh's last game with the team, as goes the rumor. Coming into the 4th Quarter @ 20-17, S.F.. S.F. Wins!
"The Holidays." Every year, I get so tired of the whiplash of Halloween through Christmas/New Year's Sale-O-Rama that I could, quite literally, PUKE! "It's Halloween! It's Thanksgiving! It's Christmas! New Year's! They all sort of blur into one another, don't they? The second Halloween is past, Bingo! It's Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving through New Year's, ditto.
By the time New Year's rolls around, I'm fairly beat up. And, my wallet's empty.
I'm also very tired of people wishing me Happy/Merry Whatever. Like they really Give A Shit. It seems to be more of a taunt than a "well wishing" allot of the time. People say "Merry Christmas" and wait for your appropriate response or they get pissed off if you don't respond, lock-step in kind. Like They Give A Shit.
DishTV, my satellite provider, is having a snit with Fox News right now. Fine with me. At least I didn't have to surf past Bill NotReally's gaggle of Bubble-Headed-Bleached-Blondes drone on about The War On Christmas. Like I Give A Shit. You'd have to tie me into a Lazy Boy and hit me with 20mg's of Valium to make me watch Faux Newz. Or, ANY TV Newz, for that matter. The ONLY exceptions being PBS News Hour and my local "news" channel. I'll READ my news, thank you. From the head-end feeds, on the computer.
It's 05:30. Coffee and "Mythbusters." More later. Maybe.
It's "cold out there" this morning. 35 degrees, almost. Not exactly Alaskan Ocean In January (Done that, got the hat) "cold" but, I woke up in the middle of the night and put a sweatshirt on. I favor clothing over running the heater every-time. I'm not even going to bother going outside/letting the heat out of here to see if there's frost on the lawn. I know there is.
My Buddy, "Sleeve Job" is freezing his 'nads off on the Skagit/Whatcom Counties' Line. One of those "Get Up In The Middle Of The Night And Throw Another Log In The Stove" nights. Here, it's just Close To The Bay "cold." Piece of cake.
No, I'm NOT "there." But, I have been. Five years. Lots of jobs, lots of stories, lots of names to drop, rank to pull, Staph pock marks on the legs (everybody gets 'em), etc., etc..
So... "Mele Kalikimaka e Makahiki Ho!"
Yea, we all: "Wish We Were THERE." Anyplace warm where you don't care if the lights stay on or not.
I fear "Other Humans." They're unpredictable, insensitive and, most of 'em, less intelligent than y'ers truly. I have an I.Q. that hovers around 140-150. Like that really matters. The test is skewed toward White, Suburban, Middle Class, Men. I am three of those things. Once in awhile, I meet someone worth talking to. Mostly, people are boring. They need: "Books with pictures, not words."
All Kicking Hornets' Nests aside... How Fucking Dumb Are We, as a subspecies? Pretty damned dumb.
The Dominant Creature? Go Screw Yourself. "Really." We're smart enough to kill ourselves and each-other and that's about the extent of our "intelligence." About 1,000,000% more money is spent exploring ways to kill people as is spent on ways to save people. Or, kill/poison this Cosmically Small Blue Ball we call "home."
"We could have saved the Planet but, we were just too damned lazy." -Kurt Vonnegut
Climb to the top of something that makes you shit your pants. Channel Yvonne Chouinard or Reinhold Messner. Think you know how to climb? Ask either of them. If their Pure Spirit doesn't scare the living crap out of you, I don't have any faith in The Human Race. I'll retract that. I had very little to start with so, the point is fairly moot.
Get into that harness. Get on belay. Turd. Haul line to/from/with your Buddy/Buddies. Turd. Hoist same. Turd. Find your place in The Big Line. Squirt. Death or destiny. Burp, turd, squirt. Your Buddy just "fell?" HUGE BIG TURD. Is he/she dead? Do you get to pack them out? Do you radio Mountain Rescue? Your dime, your call.
Been there? Done that? Got the hat? Show me/tell me about it.
"You Lost: "WHAT?"
Guess you're gonna die here, Pal.
"Yo!, Waitress..." Does not apply here. You, ice fields and clouds, Buddy. You're: "On your own."
Feeling poorly, hung-over, dumb or just got a virus? Try the Two Hats Cure!
It works like this:
Get yourself a bottle of "Whatever Ailed Ya', Go to the Beach, Put Y'er Hat On One Of Your Feet. Drink The Booze Until You See "TWO HATS." Bingo! You're CURED!
Aldo Raines: "Nah. Ya' J'est say: Bingo!"
Don't forget:
-Doc
p.s.: Gabby was "Something Else." I have fond memories of listening to his recordings (and, Sol Ho'opi'i.) while sitting on the outdoor Lanai'i @ the Lahaina Inn on Maui, waiting on the "Mail Boat." Gabby, of course, was long gone by the time I was doing that. God rest his Soul and Body. His kids, all of them, carried on The Tradition.
O.K., so.... You're "On Belay" @ about 14-18k. Somebody slips. Who ya' gonna' call?
A similar question was posed to me, earlier today.
Answer: "Yourself."
I once witnessed a guy getting his hand cut off. True story. Ugly, bloody, messy, tragic, etc., etc.. Got it caught in a saw on a boat. A.F.U.B.A.R.. Damned good thing there were a couple of good Field Medics on board. And The Coasties on the way, via Jet Chinook. He got a new nickname. Lucky he ain't dead.
This afternoon, some "Greenie" on a City Bus asked me about "Fishing In Alaska" and I had a cohort next to me. Together, we scared the crap out of him. That Boy will NEVER stick his wiener in a river, ever again.
Funny how horror strikes fear into the hearts of the faint of will. Me? I consider the risk and weigh the consequences. "Come, Horror. Strike Sail and Drift To Wind." I'm a Fucking Deck Hand. Crane Op.. A FUCKING SAILOR!
G.P.: "Don't stick your hand near a gang knife!"
Note: I once cost a cannery allot of time and money by putting a high pressure gun into a gang knife. Not my hand, though. Lesson learned. I DID, however: REALLY PISS OFF THE ENGINEERS.
Point here: "If you're OLD, and, if you've learned to tie a couple of knots and keep your damned hands in your pockets," (And, your fly zipped), you probably have increased your chances of survival by a factor of 10X. And, by proxy, learned a few neat-o tricks along the way.
Suggestions:
1. Learn a cat-gut "chain stitch." It may, indeed: "save your life." (Or, some other Guys')
2. "If you don't know how to operate the machine, don't touch it."
3. "Everybody except YOU is trying to get some rest. NEVER assume that OTHER PERSONNEL are asleep. EVER.
4. If you don't: "Know What The Fuck Is Really Going On," ask someone that may know: (WTFIRGO.)
5. Listen to Steve Winwood. Or, Root Boy Slim. (It's good blues, trust me)
6. Learn to use a sextant, a manual compass, maps/charts and know the stars, Jim-Bob.
7. "Die. You Fucking Beach Maggot." (Courtesy Of ALL REAL SAILORS.)
8. Live today. "Tomorrow may be The Worst Day Of Yourn."
Which is different than: SUNDAY! SUNDAY! IRWINDALE! FUNNY CARS! BIG JOHN MAZMANIAN! BEEEEE THEEERE! If you're not a fan of drag racing, or Flo and Eddie, I'll try to understand.
Today, I get to test out my ostensibly "all-better-now" lungs, brave the elements to go to the bank, do some business there, go to the store to do a bit of light duty shopping and return to El Ranchito del Pescados Muertos Anchovy. (I defer to simply call it: "The Ranch," usually.) Nothing special. Just: "Something(s) to do." I'm out of razors, milk and butter, bread and coffee.
Catching the last hour or so of "Elizabeth, The Golden Age" with Cate Blanchett as Queen Elizabeth. A great role for her. Fairly historically accurate, so far as I know. This time of year, there are both some really good movies on TV and the usual cavalcade of "Fluffie, The Two-Headed Cat's Christmas" and "Homey's Big Dicked (or Titted) Christmas" crap on. I avoid the latter genres like The Plague.
So, we now move on to: "A Mighty Wind" with a whole slew of great comedic character actors (ALLOT of the SNL/Second City Crowd) hilariously/satirically sending up the Folkie Scene of the early 60's. A fake Bio-Pic of the whole "Scene" that lead me to the title of today's post. I knew I was going to watch this movie when I woke up today. Drink coffee, smoke cigarettes and maybe even snap my fingers instead of clapping a few times. "If I Had A Hat Like Bob Denver, I'd Wear It I The Morning... All Over This Land..." Seriously, you should watch this movie, if you're old enough to know who Pete Seeger was.
Having worked in The Music Business for a spell, Too Damned Long For That Matter, I can appreciate the irony and bullshit hokum of this whole story. The Real Music Business is: Cutthroat, Dirty, Smelly, Ugly and Profane. Then there's all the drugs and girls that will do just about ANYTHING to meet the Star(s) du Jour. You get the picture. You did your level best to keep the laces on your Chuck Taylor's tight and your: "With your pants so tight, it's gonna' be alright..." act together and not get caught up in the horse shit that was spinning around you at about 500 mph. Thank Gawd I was: "just a Lighting Designer." All the way from the awful "Light Show" stuff to "Legitimate Lighting." Whatever the fuck THAT means.
Thank Gawd also for Las Vegas Casinos, Tall Gals With Cotton Candy Hair, South Florida and Alaskan Fishing, Cannery and Fish Buying Station Work or, I'd be "just another burned out has-been, drug-addled, Lighting Guy" these days. Thank Gawd for mountains and long trails, Ski Resorts, Fast Talking Women With Red Hair and Faster Cars as well. Thank Gawd for Hollywood and Gaffer's Tape, Quaaludes, Cocaine, various sedatives and Bourbon and Grauman's Chinese Theatre/Restaurant. (Yea, I took me some drugs back in them days. Hey, it was the 60's and 70's. Strictly a Bourbon, coffee and cigarettes Man these days.) Thank Gawd for good books, warm fires and four season tents. Thank Gawd for Wanderlust. And Kurt Vonnegut, Schopenhauer (I'm kidding. Schopenhauer was an idiot.), Frank Zappa and Tom Robbins. Alright, I'm done "Thanking Gawd."
ANYWAY... I "get to" go out today. It may take a rain suit, which I have a couple of. GoreTex, GoatTex, FloatTex, CoatTex, MoatTex, SchmoeTex... Everything a guy needs to stay dry and comfy, in all the right places. You get the idea.
I will leave you with this classic on "Working In The Music Business." No music library is complete without it.:
I actually like THIS version a Million Times Better.:
The Byrds look REALLY EXCITED, huh? I'm sure this was about as much fun as a Drano Enema for them. I've met Gene Parsons. One of his daughters is married to a guy that I used to make pasta and salads for near Mendocino. Gene's a pretty intense but "nice" kinda' guy. He invented The String Bender, a wonderful little guitar de-tuner thingamajig. You can look it up if you want to.
Nuthin' but Love, Babies. For all the Wannabe Frenchie-Pasta (as if) Guys In Pajamas In The World...
My neighbor just got carted off to The Evil Hospital. Again.
Note: We all come in naked, progress to diapers and graduate to Big Boy/Girl Pants/Dresses. Reverse the process for aging. Have as much fun as you possibly can somewhere in the middle.
It's a "Pretty, Good, World." It's a song title. Mine. No, you can't "steal" it. Copyright violation. Do not pass "Go" or have designs on owning so much as Baltic Avenue. No Get Out Of Jail Free cards either. Find your own way to Park Avenue.
I sneezed this morning and did exactly that. One of the last couple ribs in my left lower back. I knew: "What I'd done" immediately. I have fractured, broken, bruised and separated various ribs over the years. While working, playing and/or just being stupid.
Once, I was rammed into the gunnels of a fishing boat, at speed. Four broken ribs. Another time, I fell down a half-sawn log staircase at a guy's cabin in Alaska. While drunk, in the dark, at a big party in the partially finished cabin with no guard rail on the stairs. "X" number of broken ribs. Bicycle wreck in Salt Lake City, 30+ broken bones with "X" number of ribs involved. (I'm purposely "underplaying" that one, for the moment) Flag football, (VERY AGGRESSIVE FLAG FOOTBALL) Pittsburgh, Pa., a couple of severely bruised ribs. Coughing while having Pneumonia at a Salmon cannery in Petersburg, Ak., many separated ribs. They "sent me home," which was a trade-off kind of affair: I got paid, a "free" Alaska Ferry System ride to Seattle and spent the three day trip with my head in the lap of a pretty nurse in The Solarium Deck of the M/V Columbia. Then, I got to go home and "get well."
I was/am/may always be The Injury Kid in my Family. My Mom has long said that: "If they ever hit the main stitch on you, Kid, you'll simply 'unravel' into a pile of nylon/catgut and scar tissue" A short list of childhood injuries:
1. VERY badly broken nose. I was a Fat Kid and we were playing "beat the door and run." My highly charged, terminal velocity of inertia body was hauling ass across a lawn. I forgot about the boat trailer. As I tried to jump over the angle iron frame, I caught my foot in some electrical wiring going to the tail lights. I woke up with a BIG pool of blood below my face and felt for pieces of it. My entire nose was under my left eye. I tried to "adjust it" back to shape and pissed myself. Then, I ran home and reported to Admiral Mom. My Stepfather, less the Trouper, passed out cold. Then we made a beeline for Balboa Naval Hospital. They sewed my nose back on. As I grow older, the nose is "migrating" toward my left ear.
2. Hung myself off of the top of a 20' tall chain link fence while going to retrieve a baseball. You know the "spikes" on top of those fences? One of them tore a really cool War Wound from my upper inner arm and then got stuck in my elbow bone(s). I pulled myself up, (nothing but pure adrenaline) with my left hand and dropped to the ground. A good first-hand lesson in bicep muscular anatomy. Another trip to Balboa Naval.
3. Jumping on parents' bed and nearly severing left earlobe completely. I can still feel where the scar is.
4. Got hit by a '37 deSoto while chasing a ball. Just bumps, bruises and a brief period of unconsciousness. A '37 deSoto is a like an overgrown Water Buffalo with a Straight 8 engine. DO NOT CHARGE ONE!
5. Completely shattered heart after asking the Pretty Girl That Lived On The Corner if she'd: "Go Steady With Me" at about age 10 or so and she ran away, laughing hysterically.
6. Numerous, lesser issues involving stitches and minor surgeries. "Removal of fish hook from thumb after wrestling with my younger brother for control of a Hula Popper lure" comes to mind...
My most significant injury remains: Wrecking my really nice, expensive, Bridgestone MB-1 bicycle on a city street in SLC, Utah. 30+ broken bones from neck to left shoulder and many, many ribs. Torn cartilage centered around left shoulder, hitting my head so hard that I couldn't feel my left leg below mid-thigh for 6 months, complete fracture of scapula, shattered collar bone and fractures of right wrist and neck vertebrae.
I hit an unmarked "road patch" on a city street. The front tire slid out and I attempted to "self-correct" out of the slide by counter-steering. As I hit "real pavement" again, the front rim folded in half. I woke up on the sidewalk. Of course, the first thing I wanted to know was: "How is my bike?"
Being in shock from the injuries, I flagged down some kids in a pickup truck, asked them to (a) "Take me to a liquor store" and (b) "Take me and my busted ass bike, home." I honestly didn't realize how badly I'd been hurt for the next two days. I laid in bed, taking 800mg Ibuprofen and drinking whiskey. The third day, my Roommate said: "Get up. We're taking you to a doctor."
The East Indian Doctor, a slight, delightfully pretty, youngish woman, came out waving my x-ray film saying: "Oh, my goodness, Mister Doc, I am not to be believing that you are valking around and cracking vith the jokes." It was off to LDS Hospital and a "Specialist" team of folks that "crack-set" my shoulder blade and tried to straighten out my collar bone. They gave me a 'script for 90 10mg Codeine tabs and sent me home in a sling.
I'm purposely leaving out various mountaineering injuries and shattered heels from playing grab-ass in fruit orchards, etc., for the the sake of brevity. There are probably other injuries that I've simply forgotten about. Trust me: "They all catch up with you, later in life."
My Mom is right. May I never: "Hit That Main Stitch."
I NEVER go out on Holidays. Ever. It's a zoo full of amateurs out there. People have tried to: "Drag me out, kicking and screaming to this or that social function" on a Holiday. They always lose. A couple of the Holidays I truly hate, in order of disdain:
1. The Fourth Of July. It's a mating call for every wannabe psycho-pyro-techie/booger-eatin' moron, to either blow their hand off, set a nightclub on fire or cause me to hide in the headphones for the entire evening. I abhor fireworks. Period. I would rather be reading a book in a tent, as far away from people as I can get.
2. New Years Evening. This one is self-explanatory. It's a carte blanche license for EVERYBODY to behave like a complete idiot. "Hey, I'm sorry I punched you in the dick. It was New Years Eve. I was hammered. I thought you were a viciously fanged, dog-bodied carp, with an enourmous penis coming out of your forehead."
3. Halloween. Same reason as above.
4. Thanksgiving dinner(s). The most bullshit Holiday. Ever. A total lie. Anyone with a better than ball-bag temperature I.Q. knows we (European Immigrants) did amazingly horrific things to Native Americans, even back in those days. Maybe "especially" in those days. What The Fuck is there to "celebrate" about that? My personal Family is "off the hook" for that whole shindig. My Mom's Family, her Mom's side, arrived in 1898. Her Dad's Family was in Canada in the early 1800's and there is a Fur Trapper's Sioux Bride in my distant genetic woodpile.
5. My Birthday. I will be the guy that turns into an idiot and no one else is laughing. I turned 60 this past year and there was NO WAY IN HELL I was going to let the world know about that. Or, I turn into the 800 lb. Asshole In The Room. Still no laughter. One of my more morbid fears is throwing up in a taxi, or on the Pretty Woman next to me at the bar. I don't like bars at night anyway. Real Men drink in the afternoon and get the Hell outta' Dodge City before the college kids show up.
6. I have no "feelings" about Christmas, either way. It simply doesn't "mean anything" to me. Except that I always wish I was in Hawai'i or Tahiti.
Today, (well, tonight) My Mom is having Early Christmas Dinner for 27 people. There are times when I am so glad that my Family lives so far away (500 miles or so) sometimes and that there are mudslides and road closures that prohibit me from attending. Besides, I'm the Oddball Uncle that almost none of them truly likes anyway. I send my greetings, which are probably never delivered. I get one Christmas card per year, from my Mom. I send her a nice card and a present around January 1st or so, nearer to her birthday than Christmas.
For some odd reason, I woke at 03:00 and decided that some crummy TV and high quality green tea sounded pretty good. It's The End Of The World on AHC. It used to be called "The Military Channel" but, apparently, that wasn't "Patriotic" enough.
Now, we get: "American Heroes Channel." Some of the stuff that the Discovery Family Of Channels (Or, A&E Family, whatever.) programs is truly bizarre in their notion of: "What sells soap." Which, is what television is really all about anyway. I do, however, enjoy historic film footage with a voice-over of some Wembley tie wearing stooge predicting that: THE END IS NEAR! AGAIN. I have a bumper sticker that has those words on it. It will find a home on the rear bumper of Roo-Roo's Geo Metro, soon enough. So it goes...
So. You guys and gals have your Bad Sweater Parties, get stuck with Tipsy Aunt Clarice trying to slip you That Tongue, fall drunk with Cousin Carol into the buffet table, sucker punch at least one of your Brothers, kiss Mama goodbye, puke in a taxi, etc., etc.. No thanks.
I'll be staying home.
For that Apres Celebratory Malaise, try this:
It's also Today's Morning Music. The whole shebang, full albums both, Volumes 1 and 2.
I find both of those concepts equally creepy. As in: "Hold onto your nuts, CREEPY!"
How dare you invade my bizarre, somewhat psychotic, very psychedelic, cathartic, nocturnal nuances? My psychological workout regime? FUCK! IS NOTHING SACRED? (I once yelled that, to a raucous response, I might add, during a screening of some awful Midnight Movie.)
Anyway, my dreams are sacred. From all manner of insanities to the banalities of my inner psyche to All-The -Stuff-I-Don't-Even-Remember. Shit, I don't even: "Know what they're about."
One of my Coon-Assed Buddies has had a dream about a Platypus with REALLY nice tits. So be it. I figured it was worth an honorable mention in the Weird Dreams Hall Of Fame.
Dreams are simply a good vehicle for your brain letting you know that "everybody's off their nut." Most well educated, decent, Humanistic Psychologists, Psychiatrists, Mental Health Workers of ANY KIND will give you The Hairy Eyeball upon your pronouncement of "mental health." Trust me on this one: There's no such amminal." We're: ALL STARK RAVING BONKERS!
>Enter Woody Woodpecker, doing the "boing-boing dance, while cackling hysterically."
Back to Santa: "A Convivial Voyeur?" (I had to put my slippers and bullet-proof sweater on for that one)
"Knows" when you're awake? That's a relative assessment. Consider the word: "Awake." Which sort of "awake?" The kind where you're scratching your head, wondering: "What the fuck is really going on?" Or: "Thinking you have a relative grasp upon your mental health?" Or: "Under the influence of 'whatever substances you may have ingested (yes, food, the stench of Civet Pee you may have inhaled, rotting fruit and or a Science Project in your refrigerator, included) and are currently experiencing effects of?"
"Awake?" Bisse Meine. The last time I was truly awake, I wasn't even born yet. Not in Human form.
Television is a disease. Santa watches re-runs of I Love Lucy, Gilligan's Island and Maverick. Constantly.
(Not that those shows are necessarily "bad" or anything. I really like: "Ginger, Mary Ann and, oddly enough, "Mrs. Howell/Lovey") The older I get, the better Old Chicks look.
Those among us that: "Are Santa Claus Watchers" know this shit. Yea, Buddy. "Eyes On." Two fingers to the eyes and: "Back at ya'." Klaus, indeed. In the scope, Baby. (And your Little Dog, too)
WE: "See YOU, when you're sleeping. All your naughty, despicable dreams about: "Who's getting coal (China, mostly) and who gets the cuddly Kitty that pees on your bed when you're not paying attention."
"Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas..." And, may the cat pee on YOUR bed. Or: May you dream of a dog with a Viciously Fanged, Carp's head, chasing a Lemur." (With nice breasts)
Hoist one to your own relative/subjective concept of: "Mental Health!" (Or, just knock the cat around for awhile. It ends the same way. Mostly into some form of weird vapor. It's chemistry.)
I don't "Pay To Go To Shows." I have a talent and/or "know enough names" to skate by upon.
However, there are exceptions. About a dozen or so:
1. Ryland Cooder, anywhere, anyway, anytime.
2. David Lindley. Same set o' rules.
3. Rory Gallagher, if he were still around.
4. Flaco Jimenez. At the drop of a hat and a $50.00 cab ride.
5. Jimmy Herring, with ANY BAND.
6. Tom Waits.
7. Bonnie Raitt. (Just "because")
8. Ernie Lancaster. (Listen to the guy, sometime.)
9. Anders Osbourne.
10. Steve Earle
11. Derek Trucks
12. Steve Vai.
Well, make it a Baker's Dozen:
#13: John Hartford.
(O.K. B.D + one:)
14. Tom Petty (Preferably, solo.)
Plus 2: Gary Moore. (Because the guy's just a shit-nuts Blues Guitar Player)
Mike Keneally too. (Check out the CD/LP "Dog" Fe'r instance. The sumofapick can play the fine hair off of a frog. From "Dog," a personal favorite is the song "Pride Is A Sin." Check it out on YouTube if'n ye' want.
There are more, of course. But, like I said: "I can charm the knickers off of a Nun at a show. I have various forms of Evil Trickery up my sleeve(s)." Only one in my pants. And, if the Stagehand's a Girl, it's "over."
The rain has kept me indoors awhile. I went for a walk earlier but, I think I need another.
After all: "Walk Til Ya' Puke" didn't happen by some typographical error. It's a way of life. I actually: "Love To Walk." The more miles, the merrier. Back in The Old Days, I thought "nothing" about strapping on 80 lbs. and "disappearing" for a few weeks. I can't carry 80 lbs. anymore. Injuries. Pain. My left shoulder/back/neck just won't cooperate.
Follow a post about my Meine Liebe, Mutte' post, with some hack piece about items in the news that I find: "troubling, hideous and disturbing." It will be enough to simply mention the Alphabet Soup of Agencies involved in the brew-ha-ha and let it lay, fleas and all. However, it will, briefly be mentioned that I would like to: "read the full report." Take a powder, Dianne.
And now...For the Weather: "It's HOT! DAMN HOT! Hot enough to do some Crotch-Pot Cooking." O.K., so I stole it from Adrian Cronauer. I'm, at least, a creative word thief. I think. I could be wrong an' shit. Like it matters. I was: "changing the subject." Nothing more or less.
My Buddy, let's call him: "J" (another word burglary and ostensible Government Coverup) sang the virtues/taste of/nutritional possibilities of/ something he decided to call: "Hotdog and Potato Soup." I found myself somewhere between nauseous and actual vomiting. I have been known, every-so-often, to eat a hot dog. My All Time Personal Favorite is the: "Off-The-Street-Sabrett-Dog" with the kitchen sink inclusive, in/on/anywhere near the bun. Read allaboutit, if youse guys dunno the difference between Flatbush and Flushing. It's a $5.00 Hot Dog, and well worth it. Pepto Bismol/Bromo Seltzer you're going to need. Or, my "cure":
"One dark beer, followed by warm water with a teaspoon of baking soda, stirred, not shaken."
Better Yet, (For the All-You-Could-Ever-Possibly-Eat-In-Your-Life-Diner):
Maybe it's a Hot Dog Drone Launcher...Or, a Gigantic Wiener Whistle of some kind. Possibilities abound. Imagination encouraged. Who the heck knows? I only know that I wouldn't be caught next to a Long Island dumpster wearing one. Dead or just taking a whiz.
Anyway...The hotdogs one may buy from a cart on most main drags in NYC, are great! So long as they're a Sabrett. Nathan's? Too salty for ANY DAWG. It's an NYC/Alaska hybrid joke.
Salty, yes. Nathan's, nicht.
-Doc "Hot Dawg" Anchovy (Now, I MAY actually vomit. Hot Dogs and Anchovies? P.U..)
I LOVE her. Set in stone. Unchangeable. Blow wind, rale seas! Cause all manner of beasts to beckon themselves! Loose forth all manner of monsters, nightmares and villainy! Come havoc, blow, wind! I'm a sailor. I am used to your fury.
I shall slay you all. No mercy shall be deserved, nor shown.
We argue. (She has a great Wilma Flintstone chuckle, as well) Which is quite normal, for All Adult Members of My Family. Well, perhaps not All. There are the more docile and/or less argumentative among us. I, am a different matter. I enjoy a verbal battle. So she does, as well. Two of a kind. All we need is the eights to match the aces and Queen kicker.
We always end our arguments, conversations, political differences, etc., with the words: "I Love You." I tend to favor the quote: "Who Loves Ya', Baby?" (Telly Savalas, Kojak.)
I am The Adventurer, Vagabond, Killer of Fish, Protector of Small Children Near Bears, Assailant of Obnoxious Cooks in Restaurants, Climber of Mountains That Shouldn't Be Climbed, Carrier Of Arms, Large And Small and a bunch of other crap that might go on for a paragraph or two. Some of which should not be mentioned here. I have fired a .50 cal. Quad. We'll let that one out of the cage. just f'er G.P.. Fuck it, It was about 100 years ago.
I shall not continue with questionably legal personal exploitations. I smuggled rubies once. End of story.
I LOVE this photograph. I have a tent exactly like it. It's a Walrus, 4-Season, XT-3. I don't know where this photo was taken but, have been many places like it. Start at Norton Sound, Alaska, and continue to Tierra del Fuego, the Peru side. Place your right hand above, index finger out, thumb down, your left hand below (Who cares how it's positioned?) Buy a sextant, learn to read a ship's compass, read GPS/Weather data and a good map with fathoms noted. Or, learn to: "mark twain." There's y'er map. Use it well. Mark twain, steer clear of danger and beware the sea monsters. Sail well. Find safe harbors. Red skies in evening. All that.
"Don't fergit ta' git y'er belly shaved."
After an argument with The Universe, (Or, one's Mom) One always feels like a Loser. Or, an "Equal."
I haven't "lost" yet but, I haven't "won," either. No fat gone, either way. "Part Of," I like to say. Fair play.
-Out Of The Doc And: "Into The Fore! Bring It On! I'm Steady-Eddie And Ready," Sonofabitch, I am!
First of all: I Love watching Stephen Colbert: "Do what he does." (Defy political gravity, rub O'Nearlly's nose into some of the most vile doggie diarrhea imaginable, poke fun at both Parties, present The News as satire, etc..)
I suppose that the thing that I see as most exciting about tonight's broadcast is that President Obama is on the show. He even covered Stephen's segment on: "The Word." He chose to title the segment as, "The Degree." A wonderfully tongue in cheek delivery. All-In-All, I see a future for him (Obama) as a counterpart/opponent to the disgusting, slobbering, "rightwing" hairballs of broadcast news that pass for "journalism" in these here United Snakes. For instance, I would: "Rob, pummel and brusquely insult Lou Dobbs, Rush Limbaugh, Bill O'Reilly and simply insult Glenn Beck's general intelligence into tearful submission.
Moving on to John Stewart: There is currently a bill before the U.S. Congress that would deny any and all benefits to members of the WW2 Era National Socialist Party Members. Republicans/Peg-Legged-Mad Scientists and Conservatives in general seem to be in opposition to this piece of legislation.
And: "peoplewonder 'why' I turn to the negatively satirical as one of my news sources."
I'm mostly Bavarian. Partially Ashkenazim. Almost fully German. It is my well-considered opinion that anyone that participated in the wholesale slaughter of a ostensible near eradication "race" (Culture) of people, based solely upon their membership of/with/to that race, should be hung up by their balls, tits, neck, throat, you-pick-the-body-part. Old Testament Rules. The fucking gloves just came off.
"Werner Von Braun can suck my dick." Space program or not. As if I'd let him. One of that dead bear blower's V-2's almost hit my Uncle as he was finishing up his hitch in the U.K. as a P-47d jockey and Base Commander.
"Teddy Fucking Williams Just Hit That Ball Over The Green Monster!" (The "Bear Jew." -from Inglorious Basterds.) I'd pick up that bat, any day of the week. Bend over, Werner...
God Bless America. Even the Really, Really, Weird Parts. Well, except the Fox Pundits previously mentioned. THEY can rim job Werner Von Braun (with all accompanying sphincteric vigor), any damned day of the year.
At least it ain't December 5th or 7th anymore. I done told ya' about the 5th. You already know about Dec. 7th, 1941, if'n you've had a Cat Scan that doesn't resemble two peanuts fighting their way out of a cantaloupe. Friendly hint: The peanuts lose if you've less than 120 of 'em.
Got the Sennheiser 'phones cranked up, listening to Derek Trucks, whom I love to listen to. He and his wife.
The Sennheiser's are knit-picky though. They reproduce more bass than God and are probably the incorrect resistance for my amp. Fuck it. They were a $200.00 pair for $30.00. I wan't passing them up. Over the ear, semi-noise-cancelling, too-thin cable. Good for the house, with a certain amount of care. Correctly mixed, they sound fine.
Lots of people say Derek sounds like The Allman Joys. Or Duane. Which is total horsecrap. Dickie's in there but, hey, he grew up in that family. How could one NOT sound like his peers? I find nits and pieces of lots of influences of this and that in his pieces.
I play my Dad's sax riffs on guitar. Both 6 string and slide. I play notes notes that are from Sousaphone. Sing from piano, etc..
Now, I'm listening to Derek with Buddy Miles. I hear his voice. My Buddy, Hanley, worked for him. I "know" his signature. Don't need the credits. Got the Fatback. (If it isn't Buddy, it sure as Hell sounds like him)
Hide the microphones. Buddy and Mic's don't mix. Everything from AKG's to Telefunken. (A "Buddy Miles Alert" would actually be issued upon his arrival to certain Los Angeles recording studios. Buddy, it seems, liked to powder his nose allot. Mic's were a good source of liquid revenue.)
It's either "raining or blowing" around here. Take y'er pick. I', either "staying in" or taking a walk with my new raingear.
A wonderful weather map: (and a song) With Derek, Jimmy, Warren and Co..
I don't "do" much on December 5th. It was Sophie Tucker/Janis Joplin's whiskey voice and Rickie Lee Jones', Doppelganger's birthday. A few of the things that obliged me to marry her. I smootch her photograph, have a drink or three in her honor and generally "take the day off." Yea, I'm a Romantic Fool. Serves me well/right. Whatever you may want to term that set of emotions. Worn upon my sleeve, as they should be.
It's 18:00. I think I'll re-hit the sack and write more later. I feel a tinge of "sleep felt really good" coming back upon myself. I pay attention to those nudges. Having been sick for the last four days, I probably need it anyway. They're (the nudges) usually more true than not. Besides, I'm one of those guys that finds it easy to "get up, move around a bit, have a cup of coffee and go back to bed." It's a Fisherman thing, I guess. Maybe I'm a semi-insomniac/back seat of a limo with a blanket, limo between L.A. and Santa Barbara Guy. Does it matter? Just don't play The Eagles or you'll have to throw me out someplace around Malibu. The Sheriff's gonna' kick my ass and I'll be hiring Ron Kube. Or, Richard Kunstler.
Damn it. I hate Google Translator. Not only does it change the typeface but, it likes to "decide what color my type should be." I had meant to include: "Hugs and kisses" in German along with a Tubes song: "Talk to You Later" in closing the last bit but Noooo, Google Translator doesn't LIKE that. Fuck 'em.
My Buddy, Hanley, used to be Prairie Prince's "Drum Guy." Both are Bitchin' Dudes. Prairie still beating skins, Hanley spiking somebody's kit in Heaven.
Herr Prince is a great drummer. Dig his chops here. A flam and a roll, crash, dodge, tempo switcheroo here and there but, mostly just stock "fat back" solid shit. What a rhythm guy is supposed to do. And, he's doing it very, very, well.
Ravens often yell at me for "stealing their lines." Like I have time to rub two shits together long enough to make smoke with anway. I "Caw" into the general direction of New England.
I hear rotten Scrod tastes good, with enough Ketchup on it. I refuse to refer to the condiment as: Catsup.) It reminds me of something my Kitty, "Schtumpy." once yakked up. I do hold a grudge against The Little Bent Tailed Fucker, though. He pee'd. Right in the middle of my bed. I had, however, recently cast upon him a heinous act. De-Nutting. A necessary Evil, I'm sorry to admit to. Besides, I am allergic to cats and HATE the smell of cat piss. He was lucky to get as much fairplay out of me as he did. He was a "rescue" from an irresponsible neighbor. I did not, however, buy him the short-stop's mitt that had been promised, for Christmas.
I'll be having the Lobster, the Pacific, Slipper, variety, thank you. Schtumpy? Care for some?
I made quick work of today's visit to the grocery story. Got a bag of those cinnamon/clove/nutmeg and Grandma's Underwear scented pine cones (whatever they spice them things with...) Got a pound of Braunschweiger, which I really like. Call me a Kraut. I'm eating a sandwich with Romaine Lettuce, dark, dill seeded, mustard and Potato Bread with der Braunschweiger-y Sausage at this very moment. Some pepperoncini in plate's middle. Y'a don't need any salad that way...We're all Bavarians, here.
Tom Waits just said: "I miss your broken China voice.." Smart guy. Who doesn't lay down a gal with a throat that echoes breaking dinnerware? I certainly have. She could sing like Rickie Lee Jones and Sophie Tucker and Janis Joplin's Southern Comfort drawl, simultaneously. A few of the things that made me marry her.
It's early, I know, but, I'm going to call it an evening soon. Nobody's babysitting, at any rate. I'll take my sandwich, Ginger Ale and Brandy to bed with my bronchitic self and find some TV horseshit to fall asleep in the direction of.
Today, would be my Father's 85th Birthday. I would like to make it to 85. Fat chance. Then again I my just, "Outlive everyone I know." Another Bon Chance full of over-cooked "roll the dice and bacon gristle."
Tomorrow, would be My Wife's birthday, if she were alive. It's still her Birthday. Sentimentalist that I am, It will be celebrated. God Loves a man that isn't ashamed to cry. Tugboat Skipper on a river style.
I have a chest cold. The phrase: "About as much fun as a Drano enema,"comes to mind. Coughing up a Geoduck @ 01:30 is worth a D-Ticket (all the shitty, no height requirement rides) at Disneyland. No bruised ribs or hot towels covering my head over a steaming, Vick's Vapo-Rub filled sink or the like. Just coughing up the Oyster Auf Der Nacht. The term: "Blowing" (Not the "Dead Bear" kind) takes on new connotations. There's medication for this condition. I use it. A cough suppressant and mucous breaker-upper. Brandy doesn't hurt much, either. A: "Memory Block." It also acts as a mucous desiccant, fluid thinner. Yay! Brandy!
I'm a T.S.O.A.B. though. Tough Son Of A Bitch. Got the paperwork, pain med's, t-shirts, tattoos, and ball caps to prove it.
I have a theory: "God takes care of those of us that have seen fit to have had bad accidents." It may or may not be true. I may be simply be: "One of those mutants that tend to heal well." Either way: "Nothing a brand new haircut and a couple of shots of good Brandy's won't fix." I Love my barber. She's chock full of good conversation/jokes/etc.. Short walk home to the Brandy and a nap. All feel: "Finer than frog hair."
Watching: "The Mission." Jeremy Irons, Robert De Niro. A redeeming tale of a Jesuit Missionary and a Spanish slave trader/Conquistador that experiences a change of heart. Both are good roles for them. A Robert Joffe' film. Well worth the 2 hours. Had I not already mentioned it: I LOVE film. 10 hours of a trilogy? I'm "there." Especially with a fresh haircut, bacon and eggs...Maybe blueberry pancakes and poached cluck-cluck embryo or three. As a plus, it: "WILL KEEP YOU ALIVE!" Mo' betta' than de' alternative. Dying sucks. In quick-step.
Get sick? Eat twice the food you usually do, make soup with lots of shlicken broth (Jewish Penicillin) in it. Drink lots of fruit juice. Don't forget the soup! Ever. It shares well with your Friends, The Neighbors, whom may also be "sick." Brew it up to more than 180 degrees. Kills All The Bad Stuff upon hand-off.
I've worked for Fleetwood Mac, a few times. Both the original band and the awful "Lindsey Buckingham/Stevie Nicks" versions. My personal favorite lineup was the Peter Green/Danny Kirwain stuff." "Hi-Yo, Hi-Yo-Silver." The band was originally monikered: "The Fleetwood Mac Blues Band." In Honor of Mick Fleetwood and Christine McVie, or John, take y'er pick.
Now, it's 06:00. Hopefully, no more pulmonary seafood episodes. The last one was: "Just Bitchin." More about that theme, later. Jerry Josephs. Little Women, Jack Mormons. It all goes: "Downhill From There." Or, you can just youTube the heck out of his name.
My neighbor isn't feeling well. Of course, I bring her soup. Soup heals all. Gunshot wounds, paranoia, God-Falls-Off-Off-The-Easy-Chair-Cloud, the entire shiteree.
Garlic bread is a plus. I didn't include that. Wasn't sure how the: "guts were goin'." Never mess with a girl's entrails. Trust me, it ends badly. Primarily, I have no idea "how" they're constructed and connected. Secondly, if they're anything like mine, Shit can go sideways in a heartbeat.
My wife's entrails were tricky. All could, in a split second of an instant, go in every imaginable direction, with "no particular place to go" faster than any "greased lightning I ever heard/saw/felt." "Ow, ow and ow!" Do not be in-between her and said lightning.
I notice that my font has, inadvertently, switched. I'll fix that. For the moment, It's not bugging me all that much. One page of weird font? Who cares?
There's soup to eat and sleep to consider. I woke around 03:00. Full day. My left hip is bothering me and I would like a shot of brandy and a short beer chaser.
Got my Winter Haircut today. (Ah, my typeset is back. I'm out of FULL BOLD.) Damn these digital machines.
"Was It All A Strange Game?" Maybe. "You're A Little Insane? Probably.
More like: "Shooting Dicey Dice With Einstein." I'm better at Ping-Pong.
"So. You Want To Be A Rock And Roll Star?" Fuck off and start over. Rock and Roll Blows Dead Bears.
Louse infested, credit unworthy-dirt-bags-from-San-Rafael, Livin' in a Garage Band Universe, beer-to-beer kinda' trip. Skip the Hit Single. Fast Forward to Old Age and unpronounceable Diseases. Down and Dirty. Pizza and beer, a slovenly apartment. That's: "what ya' get." No gold watches here, folks.
Let me up. I've "Had Enough." It ain't: THAT BAD. It could be worse. ALLOT worse.
I just had a nice romp with my Ex-Brother-In-Law and his Wife. Wonderful people. God smiles upon them and their offspring. Wife-y's Birthday! Yay! Ex's birthday on the 5th. My Dad's b'day, the 4th. A veritable feast o' Birthday's.
Night-'nite.
Bought pizza. Had a couple beers. Going to sleep.
Bon Nuit. Guten Nacht. Piss off, Wanker! Schlaufenzie Gutt. Hit the rack, Mahogany dreams, etc...
My Mom's Pal, Lt.Gayle, did. I jut spoke with her.
Mom's "tough." "Old Iron Pants." A few other nicknames. My personal favorite is: "Mom, Looking Over Her Glasses, reminding me that: "Her Name Is 'Mom', not: Her Christian Name." I, too, have a: "Christian Name." Known to few, called as "middle", used by: "Family and Friends, Brothers and Others."
Otherwise, I prefer my Imaginary Doppelganger's Persona: "Doc." A few folks get away with both, depending upon my mood and circumstance.
Listening to Ronnie Montrose. Solo, acoustic.
Actually, I'm listening to "A Big Ass Mix," a compendium of tunes (from Spotify) that I seem to be attached-at-the-liver to. It fucks up my drinking career but, it's allot more fun listening to, rather than watching, the designated hitter get sloshed, on radio or, "One Of Those 'we decide what you listen to' music providers." Black eyes, dumpsters, cheap wine, The Dude with a bucket and a mop, .44's included. "Draw!" There're probably three days worth of music in there. Maybe four. My Personal Radio Station. All my favorite tunes.
It's a Bad Weather Day when people die. A Bad Day At Sea. Go Hide In A Cove. Stay home. Do laundry. Something. Go for a walk. I need to go shopping. I may or, may not. Pizza sounds good. All the bills are paid, I got it made in the shade, all I need is: "The Beautiful Girl." SOMEBODY'S GOT TO MESS UP THE BED...
People die. It's F.U.B.A.R.. Grieve, pass the antibiotics, grieve, get drunk, pass, be saddled with The Dog, Funeral Arrangements, pass. It: Gets Better: Gracie gets a New Family, with a Ceement Pond, an acre to sniffy-sniff upon, an' Everythin'. Dogs, 1, Humans, 1. Tie Match. Good business. La Moneta estan a' la Mesa.
It "Gets Better." And: "Worse."
"In like a Lamb, out like a Lion." Preferably.
Gracie:
Out. -Doc.
post script: Tom Waits just sang: "Hold On." A great song. Tom should get more "Props" than he does.
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