BACK IN THE SADDLE

Did you miss me? I fucking doubt it. I also: "Don't fucking care." You got yours, I got mine, alles equalische.

Pete Townshend and Valium go together, I have decided. This morning is a Valium and Pete Townshend kind of affair. My back muscles were tight. I slept wrong or something. It happens. Valium is great as a muscle relaxer and anti-anxiety drug. Much better than any of the alternatives. It is, however, somewhat "habit-forming" if one takes it all the time. The same goes for more innocuous substances...Alcohol, sugar, Baby Back Ribs, you-name-it. I'll take a Valium and Vodka Highball with a coffee back and some Pete Townshend on the box, any day. A Million Housewives can't be "that wrong." Or, am I missing something here?

I got pissed off at the local cable TV company that keeps targeting me for a "re-sell" because I used to have their shitty service and then, when their Head End Technician tried to sell me "a rat's asshole for a wedding ring" (Thank you, Richard Brautigan) one day, switched over to DishTV. He, Mister Head End Up His Ass, claimed that the REALLY OBNOXIOUS 03:00 EBS warnings that happened at three times the volume of whatever was on TV at that wee hour were the fault of The Networks. I know better. I offered to fix his "problem" for $5,000.00. (It's a very simple matter of installing a system wide noise "gate" by the way and would have cost them about $100.00 to fix) Did they "give a shit?' Nah. Suddenlink Communications, Inc. is one of those vulturous companies that buys "distressed markets" and runs them into the ground while all the smart people in the community are going to satellite dish setups. After you switch, they relentlessly hound you with some "fruit basket and a blowjob every morning" deal that lasts about 6 months. Then, it's back to the business of porking the Bejesus out of their customers and "fuck what THEY want." So. What did I "do?"

The Better Business Bureau is a wonderful tool, as are the FCC and the folks at ADA, etc. I am 61 years old, disabled (major back, left shoulder injury) and entitled to a mild case of "porch rage" when these buffoons show up trying to re-sell me. I haul out the index finger in the face and level my eyes over my bifocals very well, thank you. I'm a Professional at berating idiots when they get in my grill.

Besides, I have installed cable TV for the entire town of Logan, West Virginia and don't "buy" any of the horseshit stories Techies tell me. I was a Ground Crew and Sales Guy. I was also a Lighting Designer for Rock and Roll Stage Production and have had to deal with some of the most heinous villains on the Planet in that business. Bad Company's Road Manager, for instance. What a dick. He threatened to "climb my ladder and teach me some manners" one afternoon. I just waggled my 16" Crescent Wrench at him and said: "Come on up, Leather Pants." (He stomped off to find the Promoter to whine to and was told: "Leave my Lighting Guys alone. They're Professionals." I blew him a couple of kisses during the show. I alerted the Stagehands that there might be a ruckus after the show and they all said: "Don't sweat it, Man. We have your back and we don't like the SOB either. We'll take turns shoving him into a disgusting trash can, head first. Or, we could knock him out and stick a lit road flare up his ass." The Evil Stagehands, ya' gotta' Love 'em. "Never mess with the guy wearing Chuck Taylor low-cuts with a big wrench in his pocket." Stagecraft 101.

Almost as bad as Led Zeppelin's Road Manager in the late 1960's, who got his ass thrown down a flight of stairs by Bill Graham one evening. You don't fuck with The Wolfie, Limey Boy. Bill's real first name was Wolfgang, for those "not in the know." He was a Paratrooper with the 86th Airborne at one point in his life. Korea. Not allot of people know that one either. Wolfie was quite the guy. Anybody that actually "knew him" called him Wolfie. I did.

Anyway...Second formal complaint to the BBB regarding Suddenstink. They better pay attention this time. Next comes that smokin' hot Jewish Lawyer from San Francisco with great legs and a low cut blouse. She's on Permanent Retainer, as the result of a late night bar bet that she lost. I would LOVE to unleash her upon the cable company. All they have to do is fuck up ONE MORE TIME. I figure the harassment charge alone is worth about $50k. Dolly will dream up some other good shit to toss on that fire. Somebody's going to lose their job, as well. Fuck 'em. I hear Taco Bell is hiring.

Generally speaking, I am a Pretty Nice Guy. Right up until you lie to me, I catch you and then you lie some more while the LIE is costing me money, which is a precious commodity in my current financial state of relative Poverty. My Peace and Quiet is also at a Premium Price. I make the money thing "work" but, I am a penny pincher. Peace and Quiet gets no similar action and is nearly Priceless. I am also an Expert Titty Whistle Player. "Name Ten American Car Manufacturers and I'll take the Vice Grips off of your nipple." Or, just apologize for the stupid lie you just told me or the invasion of my Peaceful Kingdom. Your choice.

Done and done. The ball is "in their court", as "they" say. Whomever "They" are. The complaint will be sitting on somebody's desk tomorrow. THIS time, I want a written apology from Suddenstink and a letter from the BBB telling me that the issue has been formally and finally "resolved." Will I get those documents? Maybe. The point really is: "Do I have your full attention, now?"

Pete:

Peace, Love and Little Chocolate Legal Hand Grenades,
-Doc



       

Really "Fun" Intestinal Bug

Ever had a "Bug" that made your neighbors think you'd died? Yesterday I finally felt like a Human again.

Just short note here. I still feel kind of weak. More later, after I am fully hydrated and get some real food into myself. The only place I went was between bed and the loo for a full week. Drank about a Battleship full of water and lived on vitamins and lemon water.

To quote Sam Clemons: "The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

-Doc

LIPS AND FLOWERS

Both are good. Both "speak." Both say what language cannot. Kisses. Scent. Both to be valued above words. My favorite neighbor likes both.

Music is a close second. Art an arguable third. Unless it's "Bad Art." Is there such a thing? My Wife liked to exclaim: "Fuck Art, let's DANCE!"

She was an Artist. A Metalsmith and Working Jeweler. And, a pretty good Dancer. Except when she did "that cotton picking dance thing." I have no idea what the origins of that dance are. It sort of looks like she was picking up loose change from the floor. My dance moves have their origins in Grateful Dead concerts and some annual mushroom festivals. One of which was the result of a wet floor slip and a sink being removed from a wall resulting in an "upside down waterfall." Oh, well. It was a great dance move. Mostly: A "wet sort of wiggle." Use your imagination. I was dressed as Zippy The Pinhead. It was Halloween.

I don't usually participate in Halloween Festivities. Kids are lucky if I remember to buy candy. I sure as Hell don't go to bars and have to watch other people's costumes do what they do. I'd rather have a tooth pulled.

The fog is still here. Which is odd. I would think that it has cooled off inland by now. Usually, we get fog out here, on the Coast, when its' 90 degrees out there. Maybe it still is.

As stated yesterday: "Day off from walking." Laundry and Housekeeping, instead. The Marketing is done.

Maybe Lips and Flowers, too. Right now, coffee and a cigar are on the menu...

-Doc

  

BOOTS VERSUS CONCRETE

Concrete wins, every time. Makes your hips and knees hurt, balls of your feet, etc.. Walking is good for you but...

Yesterday was "interesting." Met a Navy Vet that needed to find the Vet's Center and wasn't real happy about being "lost." New Kid In Town. From Bedford, Mass.. I would be lost in Bedford, I suppose. I was lost in some town in New Jersey once. I found the beach. You can't get "lost" while facing the Ocean. There are only two ways to go.

Another good place to "get lost" is Alaska. Hopefully, you're smart enough or have enough tools to find your way back "out." Listening for water or cars usually works pretty good. All water flows to the sea and all cars lead to a road or Village. Alaska is pretty big though. It might take you a couple of days/weeks to find either of the afore mentioned egresses.

I got lost in a City Park here in town, for about 15 minutes. Just missed that "left turn to Albuquerque" as Bugs Bunny might say. All ya' have to do is "turn around" and follow your boot prints.

I'm taking the day off from walking today. I think I'll do the laundry and vacuum the house, instead. Sounds exciting, huh?

At least I won't get lost.

Kisses,
-Doc

(And: "Yes, it's Ginger Baker's Daughter." I own this album.)

  

A TOWN, A HARBOR, A LIFE

"Towns" tend to have a life of their own. This one is no different. They come with their own "commercials" and advertisements. Bummer. I don't care for "commercials." Fast forward to the program.

We all have "dreams." They're not that much different than "commercials," I have noticed.

"Buy this, Believe That." "Suck this, Blow That."

Does "News" last longer than 15 minutes? (Thank you, Andy)

Fuck.

I think I would rather cook something. Then, eat it.

I woke from a dream. There was a commercial on T.V.. I was in lieu of a brick.

I think I like it more when there's a guitar melody playing... "Mo and Herb's Vacation," for instance.

-All That and big bag of reeking, fetid, Cat Shit,
-Doc

A Consequence of "Walking"

Achy-Breaky Hips. No weight on, just boots vs. concrete.

Years back, I thought nothing of tossing 90 lbs. on my back and "disappearing" for weeks. These days, it ain't happening. 10-15 miles of out-and-about on City Streets with a day pack and a loaf of bread kicks my ass. Oh well. I knew it would happen, someday. Other "somedays," 15 miles ain't Doodly Squat. In fact, I usually arrive home refreshed, ready for a sandwich and "other writing." The kind I get paid for. Good boots, fresh bread or not.

It's "indoor termite" time again. They crawl across my TV and monitor and get into my electronics, in general. Some meet their desperate fate-by-hand, others are too quick. At least the Western Drought has beckoned less Hornets.

I don't like Hornets. In fact, I actually "hate" them. They stung me more than 100 times, up in the Sierra's, when I was about 17 years old. Waist length hair, bell bottoms, you get the idea. The "score" isn't equal, yet. I plan to slaughter as many as possible before I die. Outright swatting, flaming brake cleaner, hair spray, motor oil, M-80's, you name it: "They die." Having stomach convulsions, lungs trying to shut down, being temporarily blind, vomiting, etc., wasn't a party. I'm not "done." They, are. I have learned to "roll them with my palm, into the ground and then, stunned, KILL them." Bwaa-Hah-Hah-Hah.

The hair on my neck still stands up when I hear them near me. Fuckers.

I found a really nice Sierra Designs two person tent the other day at a thrift store, for $10.00. Sans rainfly, which isn't a big deal. God made 8'x10' tarps for a reason. Rain porch/cook area/make-it-yourself-rainfly. Mother of Invention, all that. A tarp is also much less expensive than a replacement rainfly. "What do you want for a cool, 10 buck 1980's SD tent, anyway?" The zippers work and the netting is intact.They, SD tents, last forever. The Aluminium poles are in "new" condition. The fly was probably knackered, anyway.

Monday. More shopping. Cold weather on its' way. Lamp oil, more candles, canned goods, haul out the Midweight sleeping bag, trim all wicks and get some more batteries. "Ugly" is just around the corner.

It could happen any day. Or, any hour. I "put the gloves on" while walking to the store the other night. Then again, there was that one Winter when "frostbite" happened, many years ago, in some uncharted area of Wyoming or, Alaska. The ends of my fingers still hurt when it's cold outside, sometimes. Usually, pockets work. I own many pairs of gloves. My digits are safe. I make sure of them.

Warm cookies and hot chocolate for ALL,
(Talk to me in February...),
-Doc

   

THE BROWN ACID IS A BUMMER, PLEASE...

Do NOT take The Brown Acid. There are people at the Medical Tent, should you find yourself a recipient of said substance... Yes, Wavy Gravy will be there. I still prefer to call him: "Hugh."

I never knew anyone that had taken The Brown Acid. I DO know some people that bought The Esteban Guitar though... Mostly people that, in their 30's and 40's, finally "came around" to: Some bullshit resolution/realization that guitar was the only instrument worthy of a credit card after the television advertisement and subsequent purchase. A bad idea and a knee-jerk flashback, of sorts. "Learn to play the guitar AND grow the head of a dog in three weeks or less, or your monkey back!" They tried to play one for a couple of weeks, found the instruction manual/CD too confusing and/or simply put the chunk-o-wood and guitar picks in the closet. Which, is a great place for one of those instruments. Sorry, "Estaban," Les Paul and Mel Bay beat you to that by decades. Still: "There's one in every crowd," to quote P.T. Barnum and Eric Clapton. At least Clapton had the good sense to put a dog on the album cover...

Andres Segovia once said: "The guitar is perhaps the only instrument that I will never Master." Let that soak in for a moment... Six strings (or 7, or twelve), five (or ten) digits, 24 frets. You're going to "Master" that? Good luck. At least a piano only has 88 options and a limited amount of "inflections." A visual aid:

A representation of my favorite guitar. Mine's a 1959, this one is a year or so newer. Mine does not have the "Magnatone" swirly at the top of the fret board. Otherwise, it's a fairly accurate representation. Dark Emerald Pearloid. My strings "pass through" the body, as well. I swapped out the machine heads for faux Grovers (I kept the "Empire" pegs) but, otherwise, it's a "stock" unit. I favor this instrument over my "other ones," a Korean made Epiphone Custom Shop reproduction of a 1957 Les Paul Junior, "TV Yellow." The next candidate is a 1949 Magnatone/Dickenson Lap Steel. As I age and my fingers become less cooperative, the '59 Magnatone is much easier to play and shall never see the inside of a closet. At one point, the LPJ was relegated to the care of my Local Guitar Guy though, to fix the "backwards" ground on the p.u.. Koreans read right to left.

Yes, Honey... Sometimes I DO: "Love my guitar more than the dog." Unless it's a cold night and the dog is "out and about." I jest. Your Rosanne Arquette nose/lips and Marylin Monroe hips are preferable... You will never suffer the fate of the closet or replacement parts. Of course, the Magnatone doesn't sass me or tell me to take out the garbage. I will never buy my guitars dinner or bring them flowers. I promise. I will also never wake up with my arm, dead asleep, under their head and not care to wake them.

Women, Guitars. Hmmmm... "How do I Love Thee? Shall I count the ways?" Not if I want dinner, a kiss, pleasant conversation, pointed argument, a good cuddling or a song. Notice that I placed you first, more than once, Dear. Please. The "song" part might just be You, too. I never need an apology for screwing up a chorus, making a bad sandwich or being out of coffee with a guitar. It all works out, in the end. Guitars don't give me The Look That Turns My Soul To Warm Marmalade from across a crowded room, Kiss Me Goodnight, Keep Me Warm with a simple wink or bring me The Perfect Cup Of Coffee. Then again, you never screech feedback, handle a Wah-wah pedal or Roland Workstation with finesse... Even Steven. The guitars don't have "names" and look silly in makeup or a nice Polka Dot dress and silk stockings. You, make my Chuck Taylor's stick to the floor when you laugh. The guitars do not offer any "thanks" for a four hour marathon of stroking. I have never complained that you needed re-stringing or a trip to the Luthier. You win. By hands, head, heart and soul.

The '57 Repro (O.K., this one is a Gibson...):

 My Epiphone actually plays better than the original. It also cost about $10,000.00 less.    

Up at my usual Captain Insane-O Hour: 05:00, with a cup or cups of coffee and cigarettes, news articles, bad TV programming, no birds (yet) and "General Peace and Quiet." I woke from a beautiful dream with the lyrics to "Splendid Isolation" in my head. My dreams Love me more than I Love myself. My dreams Love Somebody Else more than they Love me. Or, are too engaged in songwriting/weird Architecture/fish with Kangaroo heads, etc., to notice that I washed my face and hands before crawling into their Realm. Something like that... I switched to my Winter Sleeping Arrangement last night and kept the window over my head open a notch. After The Neighborhood became quiet. It's been the Queen Biscuit Drama Hour around here, lately. Neighbors. Asch. Who "needs" 'em? I'd make a pretty good Hermit. Of Mink Hollow, of course.

"Lock the gates, Goofy, take my hand":

Y'er Buddy and First Mate if and when ya' get too fucked up to drive the vessel or change the music...
-Doc  









 

LOOK, MOM! I MADE RABBITS!

When I was a Kid, I got constipated at some point. One time in particular that has been committed to Family Folklore and fond memory between myself and my Mom, I exclaimed after taking one of those "Bunny Poop" shits and called my Mom into the loo to examine my handiwork: "Look, Mom! I made Rabbits!" I must have been four years old or so, hadn't been hipped to the fact that rabbit babies only came from Rabbit Women and that it wasn't via anal delivery. My Mom still thinks it's "cute." I still think it's weird. I don't seem to have any sort of Adult Anal Fixation or anything so, it's cool. Walt Disney can keep his title belt.

I am Galaxies closer to my Mom than I ever was to either of my two Stepfathers. They were both Career United States Navy Musicians and were "gone" most of the time. Either off simply "working" or off on some Asian or Mediterranean Cruise, sitting in the Gulf of Tonkin on a Carrier, doing AFR Shows via radio, or whatever. My first Stepfather was the REAL Musician of the two, a Reed Player that was "good enough" to have been asked ("rewarded" is more like it.) to join the Navy National Band and be invited to spend a couple of years at the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. He was also "good enough" to play dance music at the Biltmore Hotel in Colorado Springs (A pretty schmaltzy joint) later in life. He really liked Dixieland Jazz/Big Band Music and probably dreamed in musical notes.

I dream music all the time and I'm not even very good with my chosen instruments: Electric 6 string guitar and Lap Steel. I do "interesting things" with them but am Nobody's Pro. My Mom still wonders "why" I never turned Pro. I KNOW why I didn't. There was always Some Kid out there that could play better and faster. I'm not all that "competitive" when it comes to Art. That part has always seemed like some kind of Dick Measuring Contest where the prize is a bad hamburger or something. I just like making musical notes and compressed air do my Evil Bidding.

I currently own two instruments that actually play and one: "Ostensible Project Instrument."

A 1958/59 Magnatone Lap Steel Guitar (in Deep Emerald Green Pearloid) and an Epiphone Custom Shop 1957 Les Paul Junior (in TV Yellow finish and with a P-100 p.u.). The Magnatone was made in Los Angeles and the Epiphone in Korea. You don't want a Chinese Epiphone, by the way. The Chinese can fuck up an electric guitar like nobody's business. Even the Koreans have problems reading assembly schematics left to right. I had to have the ground on the pick up rewired after buying my LPJ. It "buzzed" in 60Hz Splendor every-time I lifted my hands out of contact with any metal on the guitar. My third instrument is a 1940's Magnatone/Dickenson Lap Steel that is a butt ugly slab of Redwood and a single "set in epoxy, twin magnet" pick up. I had to swap out the original turning machines for faux Grovers so it would actually stay in tune but, it has serious BALLS for days. I also have the heavily stickered Original Case for it. It was my Student Instrument. Purchased in a thrift store for $10.00. They didn't even know "what it was." "Some kind of weird guitar," they said. I knew exactly what it was and carrying it home, I was already writing a song in my head. It has needed a complete rewiring and electronics cleaning now for about five years. It might happen. Or, it will become: "Wall Art."

Like many Artists, I "work backwards" from a solution to the process of "Making Art." I think most Artists do. The act of creation is the tricky part, making IT look/sound/feel like the dream of the completed project.
It's a Mad Scientist Trick and, I assure you, is all done with "smoke and mirrors." Artists, of any kind, are the World's Best Charlatans and Pick Pockets. "Making Rabbits Out Of Shit From A Four Year Old's Ass (Preferably your own)." Start young and stick with it, Junior. Don't forget to wipe your ass when you're done. Make sure your Benefactor sees your handiwork, too.

As usual, I have no idea who won last night's Baseball Game because, I fell asleep during the contest. I dreamt the Hamburger First Prize for the San Francisco Giants. "Snot Rocket" Bumgarner was pitching. Having just checked the Giants' Stats Page, I see that we lost to Sandy Eggo, 4-5. That sucks. We can't afford to lose any games and not have an "E" (for "eliminated') next to the Team Name at this point. Last night's loss may have been the needle that broke the haystack. S.F. did play well though and that's The Main Thing. That and WINNING! Three World's Series Wins in 10 years? Not too shabby.  

I'm up at my usual, insanely quiet hour, drinking coffee from one of my Favorite Coffee Cups, smoking German cigarettes and watching some show on the National Geographic Channel about China's development. I've seen it two or three times before but, I don't care. It's better than Infomercials. I'll also, as per usual, go back to sleep after taking my morning meds and having coffee. Coffee doesn't "keep me awake" like it does most people. (Besides, being Retired, I don't "care" about time anymore. If you believe Einstein, like I do: "It's all relative.") I've simply drunk too much of the stuff in my 61 years. It does cause me to "Make Rabbits" though. Yes, you can expect allot of "Too Much Information" on this here blog thang. Something else I: "don't care about." It's MY Movie.

Everybody ought to have a Favorite Coffee Cup. I have a whole collection of them. Today's choice is a Boy Scouts Of America, "Redwoods Empire Council" cup. It's jet black, fits my hand and keeps coffee hot for awhile. I could drink good coffee out of an old boot and wouldn't care... So long as it was served in a nice atmosphere. It's kind of "muggy" feeling this early morning. The barometer says: "Cloudy."

I got the first of three Hepatitis A/B immunizations yesterday and I have a slight low grade fever (1-1.5 degrees higher than normal) and feel just a 10th of a bubble off of center. All I'm betting out of the deal is weird dreams. My regular body temperature is a full degree lower than most people's. Codeine and Amlodipine for breakfast, again. I also "hyper-extended" my left elbow yesterday, which is uncomfortable.  

Love and Near Misses,
-Doc

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N8iYiwAVUOc

    

 

      

  

IT AIN'T THE END OF THE WORLD...

...But, you can see it from here. Sometimes, living where I do, at the most Westerly Point on the Pacific Coast, feels like: "Living At The End Of The World." Everything has to be trucked in, options for entertainment are limited and the people that live around here are, to say the least: "A Half Bubble Off Dead Center." My kind of place, my kind of people. Every so often, a booger slips into the porridge but, mostly, it's an interesting place to hang one's hat or "whatever."

Most of the "Boogers" are human. People that either aren't ready for the kind of life that living here necessitates. Or, just City Folk that decide to import their own brand of Drama and Avarice. I have a couple of shitty "neighbors" that are like that. They'll never "belong" here and that pisses them off. So, they walk around being mean and bring their own personal dark cloud wherever they go.

I "used to be" a City Person but, that was a very long time ago. I haven't lived in a town of more than about 25,000 people for 30+ years.You have to prepare for Winter, not run out of stuff and call for help, learn to plan for the unexpected, etc.. One of the first things I advise Noobs to do as Winter approaches is to: "Have candles, a Hurricane Lamp, flashlights and batteries, books or magazines you haven't read, a World Band Radio, A Walkman and lots of tapes (or iPod Thingy) a "Stupid Phone" (which run on the nominal current in the phone lines when the power is out) and some food that doesn't need cooking stored away. A white gas, LP or Regular Unleaded Gasoline cook stove/camp stove comes in real handy (I have two) and a bunch of sleeping bags and/or blankets. Good rain gear is mandatory. I've seen the power go down for seven days on this coast in the past. Years back, Safeway had a BIG "Town Barbeque" to make sure that all of their meat wouldn't go to waste with their refrigeration "down." That was in Fort Bragg, Ca.. It was fun. The whole town, literally: "Came out, had fun and socialized" during what would have otherwise have been a miserable circumstance.

I've said it before: "You have to import your own fun." It's true. Small towns make that a given. A hobby, a passion, a Significant Other, a job, a pet, some kind of service work (if you're "retired") or just a positive attitude about big, empty spaces. I did my Small Town Bootcamp in Alaska. Homer, Alaska, to be exact. Winter in Homer was going to be: "Me, a dog, a Woman that came by whenever she felt like it and a small cabin outside of town." (And "was" for awhile) Then, two "Friends" from Utah showed up and ruined the whole thing. Fuckers. We all ended up in Hawai'i at the same time. Even worse. I moved out of the house we lived in there and went "Holo-holo." "Walkabout," in Hawai'ian. A really good tent costs about 1 month's rent and lasts about a year in The Tropics. I enjoied my time alone there and actually got out and made Friends with the Locals, saw some incredible things and stayed the fuck out of the Towns for about a year. Then, I had to: "get a job and live somewhere."

Hawai'i sucks now. I wouldn't go back there for any reason. I'm a White Guy. Tom Robbins once quipped: "Hawai'i, where White Boys go to die." He was right, in most cases. I had a different experience.

Anyway, "It Ain't The End Of The World..."

I learned to really appreciate John Hiatt while living in Hawai'i, as I had a Roommate that also really liked the guy. The Roommate was another Crazy Artist Type from San Francisco with a taste for the bizarre and absurd. "Marty, seek Mental Health Treatment, Immediately!" He was: "Certifiable." (In a mostly "good" way.)

Winter is: "on the way." It was 44 degrees on my front porch yesterday morning, six hours North of San Francisco. It's not even October.

Aloha Nui Loa,
-Doc  

    

LAST DAY OF SUMMER

Finally. I was getting really tired of women in tank tops and shorts. Not. They could all be wearing Grunden's Deck Gear and I'd still be In Love with the Gals with piercing eyes and a sly smile.

I am one of those Kooks that will wear shorts with good hiking boots and a thermal top (with a rain jacket tucked into my day pack) until my body hurts from the cold. Around here, Fall and Spring are the two nicest parts of the year. Winter ain't bad, either. It's Summer that sucks. Why? Temperature and pressure inversions between the coast and points inland. When it's 100 degrees 50 miles East of us, we get the Marine Layer of fog sucked on top of us. Where I live, about 5 miles from the Ocean, it's in the buffer zone between the inversion and warmer weather. Exactly on the cusp. It can go either way and usually does.

Recently, my Friend (Of another Friend, mostly) Mark and I have been talking about "which parts of San Francisco were/are tolerable in icky/cold/fogged-out weather. I vote for my native neighborhood of the Outer Sunset and he goes for The Haight, North Beach and The Mission. Of course, neither of us live in San Francisco anymore. Who the fuck can afford to? A closet with a mattress in it is, like, $1,000 a  month. I exaggerate. It IS almost that bad though. I can't even imagine what my Grandparents' modest house on 46th Avenue might cost these days. It was built and first sold for somewhere in the $16-18k range back in the early 1940's. It was a great place to be a kid (The beach was six blocks away and the S.F. Zoo, Fleishhacker Pool, the World's Largest Outdoor, Saltwater, Heated Pool were at the end of the block at Sloat Blvd.) and I don't "look back" with regret of much. 90% of those memories are good ones and I wouldn't toss a monkey wrench in there for anything.

The house on 46th:

The one in the center, of course. Last time I saw it, it was sporting a fresh coat of paint. It used to be a drab Salmon kind of color when I was a kid. There used to be a tiny strip of grass in front but, that's gone. The last time I spent any time in S.F., I stayed at: "The First Motel West Of The Rockies" The Ocean Park Motel. Built in 1938, the same year the Golden Gate Bridge opened, it still retains allot of its' Post Moderne a'la Semi-Nautical charm. The Daughter of the original owners and her Husband own and run it. Yay! "Something that hasn't changed."

I stayed there with a Gal from Iowa a few years back for nine days. It was somewhere between Babysitting and Tour Guiding. Ioway just wasn't ready for San Francisco. On her own, she would have ended up robbed, naked and floating in the Bay. I showed her the front steps of the Hotel she and her Daughter wanted to stay in right in the middle of Chinatown. I pointed out a large brownish stain on the sidewalk and asked: "You know what that is?" She didn't. I said: "It's blood. Blood that they've tried to bleach off of the sidewalk. Someone probably died right there." Iowa thanked me for taking her to the Ocean Park instead. I just smiled and said: "Let's go get some lunch" and proceeded to introduce her to a nice Plate Lunch Joint on California Street.

We only had one strange encounter during our stay. Down by Mission Dolores. A wrecked little Speed Freak walked up to me, grabbed ahold of the sleeves of my flight jacket and started sobbing: "You've got to help me, Man..." I explained to him that not only did I not "have to help him but, that if didn't take his hands off of me, I would hurt him." I thought that was pretty restrained. Had I felt threatened by him, he would have been instantly on the ground and "I'm Nobody's Badass." Just y'er Regular Issue City Kid. The Kid wandered off, sobbing some more, looking for his next Maybe A Tourist Mark. We were on our way to the Big Goodwill Store in The Mission. I bought a nice cassette deck and a Jerry Garcia necktie.

She wanted to see The Castro and I told her: "You can go there by yourself, if you want." I just don't have any interest in the place. I remember it being too much different as a younger man. Allot of places like that for me in The City. MY City. The one that has taken over by Crack Smoking Kooks From Gawd Knows Where. The reasons: "why I don't live there anymore."  

The Ocean Park:

A very cool place to stay. I almost feel like a traitor to my neighborhood letting this dusty gem see the light of Cyberspace. $100.00 a night, double occupancy "in season." A bit less off peak. If you grew up on the block, well...that's a secret.

Anyway, I fell asleep really early and woke up at the crack of Midnight, which is fine because: I, being a Retired Old Fart, have nothing pressing to do tomorrow and just don't give a shit. I did have a rocking case of heartburn from the Mexican meal I made myself last evening. Baking soda in water, a good belch or three and viola', El Estomago Fixo. Now, I'm "up" drinking good Russian tea, took some "prescribed medication" (nothing "good") and just felt like writing something. I'll go back to sleep in a couple of hours. Or not. I like it: "when my building is asleep and there are no distractions." Desiderata, all that... (Go placidly amongst the noise and haste...)

Maybe the "Mark" I was talking about, maybe not:

Actually, The One Thing I do have to do tomorrow ("Today"), weather permitting, is: Take some photo's of an old Grateful Dead poster (SDS Union Hall, University of Utah, 04.12.1969)  I own and some shots of a "reprint" next to it for comparison to send to an Art Dealer on the East Coast. Just to get a rough estimate of what that Joker might be willing to pay for one of the reprints. I would then, turn him onto my source and make further commission on future sales. The "Art Business." Ugh. What a cluster fuck.

Said Poster: (Mine are signed by the Artist, Richard Winn Taylor II, a swell Guy. We're both Old Lighting Guys. He went on to become a CGI Artist and to work for EA Games, worked on both Tron movies, etc., etc..) More of Richard's "stuff" at the addy to follow: (Be impressed. I am.)  http://richardtaylordesign.com/

A.O.R.4.156 (2) Second Printing, run of 1,000 prints from original plates. 1st printing was 300 units.

Over and out,
-Doc

YOU LOVE YOUR GUITAR MORE THAN ME

My first "serious" Girlfriend, Nancy, once mumbled that accusation at me. Probably because we'd just had sex and then I went and picked up my guitar. Or, maybe it was the other way around... It doesn't matter. Her way of saying: "Goodbye" was to visit, out of the Great Blue Beyond and give me a horrible case of The Clap. My nuts swolled up so badly that the Doctors had to hit me up with a couple million units of Penicillin and then place my Squirrel Num-Nums in what's called a "suspensory." Kind of like a support hosiery looking thang for one's Jubblies. A Tommy Copper "Balls Only" Jockstrap? So I didn't end up looking like this:

I know... "Ow, Ow, Ow! Motherfucker!" Use your imagination. What's the rest of your "life" going to look like if you're carrying your Winter Food Stash around in a wheel barrow? YOU WILL NOT BE GETTING LAID! Of that, I am sure. Unless some VERY weird Fetishist comes along with a very large bottle of lotion.

I digress. REALLY digress.

Nancy, Gawd bless her rotten little soul and its' Young Ann Margret looking skin cover, was hanging around with me way before there was Buckethead.

Now, that Fucker is seriously IN LOVE with his guitar/his music/making records/Etc.. Talk about a "Prolific Artist." The guy releases about one album per month. The only other guy I can think of that works as much as Buckethead is Bill Laswell. Even he's a distant "Second Place." Bill at least "comes up for air" once in awhile. Maybe goes out and has a pizza or a beer or something. Buckethead, on the other hand has both his signature KFC Container and guitar(s) surgically affixed to his body. He: "walks, talks, eats, dreams and shits music." Music, in fact, may also be surgically attached to him, in some weird configuration...

Now, don't get me wrong here... I LOVE listening to this guy's music. I simply worry for his mental health. If there ever was any to be had to begin with. Frank Zappa would have liked Buckethead. Both for his eccentricity and some of the music he doles out like candy from his pocket. I just added his most recent three or four releases to my Spotify Songlists. They're kind of like all the other stuff he does, with different notes. Some people might find that "boring" but I, being the "collector of guitar tones and inflections" that I truly am, LOVE the shit out of it.

So. That's 03.15 here at the Anchovy Ranch. Coffee, cigarettes and Brand New Buckethead. And memories of a morbid fear of having to carry my nuts around in a dump truck for the rest of my days. And Nancy. I could have stayed in bed and ordered room service for the rest of my life with her. So long as there was a Les Paul and a Marshall double stack, a nice effects rack and a good quality recording device of any kind in the next room. Maybe a Tech Guy that showed up once a month to clean cables and fix shit that had melted into the carpet. Just stay the fuck out of the Bedroom, Dude.

Props to TheFanBoy6 for his YouTubeage. When you watch the above shite, you may then proceed to FanBoy's "Channel" and save me the agony of having this set of songs deleted because he throws a fit about me "stealing his setlist" after he's purloined it from Buckethead. Did he PAY Buckethead? I doubt it. Does FanBoy6 make money from the YouTube list? Probably. Go figure. Cyberspace is a confusing connundrum of fetid catshit for an Old Fart At Play, like myself.

Who Loves Ya', Baby?
-Doc      

THE WORST SHOW I EVER HAD TO WORK

Back in what now seems to be some weird alternate Universe, I was a "Lighting Designer." 1969-1975, full-time and then "here and there" after that, with some "Roadie" and "Set Crew" work thrown in at various times. Every so often, we would be called upon to do some kind of "Benevolent Act" and work for free, to ostensibly fulfill our obligation to some yet-to-be-defined Higher Purpose and uphold our Hip-ness and sworn oath to peanut butter and granola, fringed Neil Young Leather Vests, Jesus Sandals and Long Hair. All that shit that we "kind of" believed in before we actually "grew up" and realized that it was all about The Benjamins. Or, as I tend to like to refer to it: The Enlightenment Of Greed and Avarice." (Not really, Silly)

This is some photo-documentation of one of those events. A Free Concert in a park behind Los Angeles' Dodger Stadium, "Elysian Park." It had been the scene of a few "Love Ins" and whatnot over the 60's and had a certain mystique about it, I suppose. It was also: "Right over the hill from the Los Angeles Police Academy." Swell place to have a Free Concert with all of its' chemically induced merriment and loud music, festively painted VW Microbusses full of half naked Savages From The Counter Culture,  etc., right? Um, Not So Much...

LAPD decided to send in some "Undercover Hippies" (Employing what I have to assume were Hollywood's WORST costume designers, EVER to design wardrobes and fake facial and head hair) to try and buy drugs or just keep a handle on exactly what sort(s) of debauchery and brewing MAYHEM! or SUBVERSIVE BEHAVIORS! might just be going on inside the park.

Anyway, a "Cop" got into a "Hassle" with a prospective "Dealer" and was hit with a "bottle or can or flower or something," drew his service weapon (probably NOT the best part of his new "Uniform") and fired into the crowd (One person of the Hippie Persuasion was actually grazed in the neck) and THIS is what happened:

 https://www.flickr.com/photos/29275503@N08/sets/72157652047126365/

I was caught up in the STAMPEDE FOR THE EXIT to the park and had to run, along with my friend, Brett, all the way to Grand Central Amtrak Station on the other side of Dodger Stadium, to call my Mom and ask her to call in two train tickets so we could get back to San Diego. She had to drive all the way to the Sandy Eggo Amtrak Station, buy the tickets and have them "wired" to us in Smell-A. To this very day, I, unlike Randy Newman, HATE L.A.. 

That Little Old Hippie/Punk/Capitalist Pig,

-Doc

A song from The Times. My Buddy, Michael Hanley, HATED this song. Michael had been a Drums, Keyboards and Monitors Techie for various permutations of Jefferson Airplane, Starship, etc., and had to endure more performances of this little ditty than should be inflicted upon any Prisoner Of War or the like. Poor guy... If he heard the first two notes of Jack Casady's bassline intro, anywhere, he'd either tackle the jukebox or scream at the person playing the song to: "Turn That Fucking Garbage OFF!" Any song that one has to endure, night after countless nights will eventually turn a Techie into a Homicidal Psychopath. Trust me. I speak from experience.

Grace was, however, drop-dead gorgeous back in those days, huh? Not that many people know that she'd been a High End Fashion Model before joining up with "The Jefferson's", as Michael often referred to them, collectively. I used to like to imagine Sherman Hemsley (from the TV show) in drag, as Grace Slick, which totally did not work...

And "Yes," I realize this is a hack cut and paste job. Deal with it.      

   

THIS WEEK'S MILLION DOLLAR BRAIN FART

"Hey, I know! Kids! Let's put on a SHOW!" - Mickey Rooney

Nah, fuck that. Let's make scaled-down-wall-hanging-sized canoe paddles out of driftwood. I'll be rich and famous in a heartbeat. Or not. As I was explaining to my Brother: "It's not so much a 'commercial venture' as it is just Something To Do." My Landlord's always telling me to: "Stay out of trouble." This just might be the Winter Project that the cat drug in...

The way I have it figured, #1: Drift wood is free, I already have the Dremel Tool and a scad of attachment wheels, burling tools and what have ya' so, "why not?" #2: Nuthin' but free time on my hands anyway so, "why not?" #3: Fall and then Winter aren't going to "stop" because I'm bored so, "why not?" Lots of other "why not's" hanging around.

Just a quick note here. I case you thought I might have stopped banging away at this dead horse or something.

"Why NOT?" is kind of a basic philosophy in this neck o' the woods during Winter. If ya' don't have a dog or a steady Girlfriend, you're going to need something to keep from going nuts. "Fun" has to be imported.

-Doc

Note: After some basic market research, I discovered that the small paddles are being produced by Froggy Native Women in some Gawd Forsaken Sweatshop, somewhere, for about $10.00, with a canoe! So, there pops that bubble... I'd end up making about $0.50 an hour if I made them and let somebody else sell them. Of course, I'll still make one of my own, from nice wood, to hang on my wall. No Anchovy Ranch is complete without a good assortment of Nautically Themed Knick-Knacks.  

James Brown Is Dead

Yesterday, I took myself "out for a walk." Nuthin' special, just a jaunt around the neighborhood and a good excuse to both get some exercise and ditch the drama parade of my immediate surroundings. Along the way, I stopped into a couple of thrift stores, bought a 1940's-'50's Girl Scout adjustable Sterling ring, a Dave Mason LP "It's Like You Never Left," and 9 CD's, mostly stuff I'd never heard before. The exception being Ry Cooder's "Paris, Texas" movie soundtrack. Great music there.

A local Independent Record/Tape/CD Store relocated and downsized, leaving the owner with a TON of stuff that wouldn't fit into the new place. It ended up at the thrift store, which, no doubt, offered the owner a healthy tax write-off. Or, maybe he's just a nice guy. Which, he is. The thrift store is selling all his "B-Stock" for 2-for-a-buck. Neat-O for me.

The ring looks like this and cost me all of $2.00. I have to put it to a mandrel and hammer it round again.




So, I'm "up" in the middle of the night, listening to the CD's and drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and "watching" but not "listening" to TV. Discovery Science Channel stuff. One of the nice things about not having "a job to go to" is that I can get up and/or go to sleep any damned time I feel like it. I can also: Have ice cream for breakfast if I want to. Run around the house naked all day if I choose to, swear without having to put a quarter into a jar or whatever, drink coffee and smoke cigarettes at 03:00, listen to the weirdest music imaginable without anyone telling me that it sucks, engage in bizarre Science Projects over at The Work Bench (Which, "yes" is in my Living Room) and in this case, choose to not participate in the Drama Circus during Daylight Hours that my Apartment Complex (Only 9 Units) has recently turned into.

Right now, the movie is: "The Witches That Wouldn't Leave." Very Bizarre Dysfunctional Family kind of thang. Think The Ramones singing: "We're A Happy Family." Just really negative energy Assclowns. Idiots from The Bay Area's Butt Hole, Benicia. A Suburb of Oakland, as far as I'm concerned. I've simply: "Turned their channel off." This paragraph is all the space they get to rent in my head.

The CD Listening Party:

1. James Brown Is Dead. 9 song EP, different mixes of JBID.

2. 4 song EP from "Steel Toed Slippers," a Pop sort of Jammy, "We Went To Music School and Would Really Like To Be Famous" sort of band that lives in L.A. now. They're from Arcata, Ca. The home of Aggressive Panhandlers, Air That Smells Like Patchouli and Good Weed, Everywhere. Girls probably like this band allot and follow them around.

3. "Gunbunnies," a band from Memphis, Tn. that was "Produced by Jim Dickenson." I wonder if it's the same Jim Dickenson that I knew on Maui, who Produced bands like The Byrds and Buffalo Springfield back in the 60's. Probably not. Just some guy that has the same name. Or, maybe it is him. This band is a highly commercial product and the album (CD) is worth copying into iTunes, which I just did. Kind of a more polished "Cracker" kind of thing without the Edgy-ness. Good "Housework Music."

4. "Good Riddance." The CD is titled: "Bound By Ties Of Blood And Affection" and looks like it might be a bit political. Donkey and money laying around on the front of the jewel case and Elephant on the back with an Bald eagle clutching a dove in its' talons flying away and more money laying about. Punk Rock. I think they're from Santa Cruz, Ca.. They SOUND like they're from Santa Cruz. Surf Punks. They're pretty good. A few Limey (maybe Aussie) vocal inflections. Well Engineered and "present." Allot of the songs are introduced by clips from movies. You have to be a Weird Movie Junkie to "get" all of the references.

 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Good_Riddance_(band)

5. Candlebox's "Lucy." I just like this Seattle "Grunge" band. No other reason needed for buying this CD for $0.50, as they all were.

6. The Bottle Rockets "The Brooklyn Side." "These Proud Sons Of Festus, Mo., Came To Brooklyn, N.Y. To Record Their Second Album." (From the jewel case notes) Country Rock from Missouri. 'Nuff said. Definately not for the Politically Correct. They're kind of Sarcastic Assholes. I still like 'em though.      

 7. Jumbalassy, a "Kind-Of-Ska-Reggae-Calypso" band from Bellingham, Wa.. I used to live in Bellingham. I've seen these guys live. (I'm not a big Reggae Fan and will probably give the hard copy to my neighbor) "It's an O.K. Record" (CD). I know a guy in Salt Lake City that fell in love with the band's name. Then again, he makes his cat wear a tinfoil hat sometimes. I shit you not:

8. The aforementioned Ry Cooder CD, "Music From The Movie, Paris, Texas." Good soundtrack. Ryland Cooder.

I love thrift stores. I could live in one. Forever. On a cot, even.

Time to make some fresh coffee. Yes, I will drink "whatever is in the pot from yesterday" in the middle of the night. If I decide that I'm staying "up," I'll make a new batch.

Uber und Raus,
-Doc  

LET THE BAD TIMES ROLL!

I am "getting older." Maybe.

Today, I received a communication from my "Doctor," who is actually a Nurse, which is "better," in my book. I would far prefer to be seen by a Nurse than a Doctor, any day. I digress.

The "notice" was in regards to recent testing of my guts. Lower Abdominal Ultrasound Test, to be exact. Let's just issue a "blanket statement" here: "My previous lifestyle(s) are catching up with me." My Nurse wants to do some more tests. A CT Scan, to be exact. All that carousing and fast life shit is making itself obvious. I have some "gravel" in my gall bladder. Fairly "normal" for somebody my age, I suppose. She wants to see "how many" pieces of grist are in that mill. We already knew that my Liver is somewhat "fatty" and that my Pancreas may be involved as well. Too many booze parties as a younger man. Not Bukowski-esque type benders or anything but, a fairly steady diet of beers and shots over the years. The occasional week long spree while hanging out with the other Fish Morticians and the like. Hell, EVERYBODY in my generation drank too much and slept too little. And... smoked and had unprotected sex (until the 80's) and fucked around with drugs until the novelty wore off. Couple that with working around the Music Business and there ya' go. Health problems in later age.

So...CT Scan next, to determine "what's really going on" in there.

No music today. You have your own anyway.

I see a big Chef's Salad on today's menu horizon.

-Doc

    

EU WARNING!

Lions, Man!

That's all they be here. Take it or leave it. You can take your EU Warnings and stick them wherever they fit. Plain and simple. F.O.A.D..

"Don't you ever miss your house in the country and your Hot Little Mamma's Love?"

"It,' "She," "It" "He," "They," may be pining for your presence. You may "own" a dog or something. 

"Ownership." Hmm.

Meanwhile: Back at the Warehouse Of Weird...

All in all: "Blow me. I'm just a Techie." 

France: "Losers. Your Tech Knife has two implements: A Corkscrew and a White Flag."

U.K.: "Winston Churchill's 'breakfast' was a Tumbler of Whiskey and a Geopolitical toss off."

p.s.: Listen to Frankie and Ike kick some serious ass here...

Out,
-Doc

  

Happy Birthday!

Yep. I get "older." No stopping time. Even if there are no more Birthdays. Not that I plan to "stop having them" anytime soon. Time will tell and pressure upon air will sing the song. Physics. Damned "Physics."

Age affords one certain privileges. Grace, hopefully. Temperance of heart. "Experience." An inkling of "knowledge." All that good shit.

Then again, pain, loss of faith in The Human Race, recognition of failures and successes, recollections of people, places and things. Mostly welcome. If not, more easily forgotten than remembered.

Age. Yay! I think I liked being young and dumb, better.

-Doc

EU Cookies Warning Pt. 2

Below, highlighted: This is the notice that I've received. I have no idea what this "Agency" or "Country" is talking about. Any "cookies" on this blog that are received by readers in the EU are coming from Google, not me. As far as I am concerned, this is total Horse Shit. As evidenced by my Blogger Traffic Logs, I don't have any readers in the EU. Period. If you don't want Google placing cookies on your machine and are in the EU, stop reading this Blog. I don't care if you read it or not, basically. It is, as much as anything else, a tool I employ to "creatively waste time" and log memories that don't mean Doodly Squat to anyone but me and a couple of my Friends and Family. I don't have any control over "what" Google does with this thing in your Countries. If you choose to follow links to YouTube videos that I post, you do so also "at your own risk." I have no idea "what" YouTube does, in regard to placing "cookies." That's their domain and when you follow those links, you "leave" this Blog and are at the mercy of YouTube.

This is my "Official Warning" concerning "cookies." Read this Blog at your own risk. This Blog is non-commercial. I am not "selling" anything and there is no revenue or transactions of any kind occurring here.

Peace, Love and Little Chocolate Doughnuts,
-Doc

p.s.- I REALLY don't care if any French people read this or not. You smell funny and are rude. You "stiffed me" when I was a waiter in restaurants and I'm "stiffing you" now. Bon chance, Mon Ami. Thanks for the Statue Of Liberty. Brits- You're a notch above the French. The same "warnings" about cookies still apply. Your two Countries seem to be the ones "kvetching" about the cookies thing. "Cheers, Big Ears" -Walt Disney. (From "Dumbo.")

European Union laws require you to give European Union visitors information about cookies used on your blog. In many cases, these laws also require you to obtain consent. 

As a courtesy, we have added a notice on your blog to explain Google's use of certain Blogger and Google cookies, including use of Google Analytics and AdSense cookies. 

You are responsible for confirming this notice actually works for your blog, and that it displays. If you employ other cookies, for example by adding third party features, this notice may not work for you. Learn more about this notice and your responsibilities.

EU Cookies Warning

Today, I received a "notice" from some "agency" in the EU about the legality of Google using cookies with my blog. As far as I am aware, I am not using any cookies and whatever might be "there" is on Google, not me. Rather than suspecting foul play or any legal hassles, I have decided to simply kill this thing off.

Whomever you are, EU Cookie Monster, I want nothing to do with you. Nobody in the EU reads this blog anyway, as evidenced in the traffic stats for the blog. Shit, for that matter, nobody, not even my friends here in the U.S. read it. Fuck Off And Die. This notice will stay up for 24 hours and then the blog will simply vanish. Or, "not." I still haven't gone past the "threat of cancellation" stage. It's probably some horseshit attempt to harass me anyway. The notice "looked legit" but, that doesn't mean Doodly Squat in this Moderne-Au-Go-Go World.

Potentially: "So long, Suckers."

I was going to write about it being Jerry Garcia's birthday, if he were still living. I guess it's still his birthday, even if he's dead. Mine is coming up next week, if I'm still alive. Of course I'll still be alive. Dying would be too damned easy and cowardly...

-Doc

SUNDAY A.M., 04:00ish, QUIET & COFFEE

I wake up early, most days. Like, 04:00 early. The birds aren't even making any noise outside when I get up, wash my face and hands, clear the slate of naughty or weird dreams and their characters. Last night's dream life was no exception. 12 frames of Weird. All the usual suspects: A couple of dead Friends made cameo's, there was a naked Redhead that was completely out of Left Field (Why the Hell was she naked? Not that it was an unappreciated image.) There was some Futuristic Scene going on and people wandered in and out of the "Train Station" looking environment. I was trying like mad to get the Redhead to come lay down with me, as I was in a bed and nobody else was. She was naked, right? Only she and I were: "dressed for bed." She wandered in and out of the dream, held hands with me once and gave me a wonderful kiss.

Freud would have a fucking party in my dreams. Unless he was peering out of the drawn curtains waiting for the Space Police to show up. You've seen people that get paranoid on cocaine, right? It's quite annoying. My weirdest dreams happen when I wake up in the middle of the night and my back hurts. I take 5mg's of Codeine and go back to sleep. The dreams are just a by-product of the narcotic. As far as I am aware, everybody has pleasant, strange, dreams while under the influence of narcotics. I don't experience any particular "high" while fully conscious but, dreams are a whole 'nuther ball game.

Now it's 07:00. The Other Denizens of this here building will be stirring soon. Thank Gawd for good headphones and Pete Townshend, solo. I'm listening to "Scoop," which is a wonderful recording. I think that what I like the most about Pete's Solo Works is that he gets full Artistic License on the projects. The guitar and vocal work are "out front" and nearly flawless. There's some good piano work as well.

Stage 21 of Le Tour de France racing today. The "Flat Stage." Greipel and Cavendish favored to win the whole show. I used to like to go really fast on expensive bicycles, until I had a wreck that broke 30+ bones on my left side. I have a slight limp and my neck and back hurt ALL THE FUCKING TIME because of that wreck. Hit my head so hard, I couldn't feel my left leg for 6 months. Lots of fun broken bones and torn ligaments, muscles, etc.. I'm lucky I didn't puncture a lung. I did, however, completely fracture my left scapula. Something in the left ankle got tangled up in the frame as well. The older I get, the worse it is. It took "forever" for my left collar bone to knit. There's a nice "egg" of bone fusion in there and it's 3cm shorter than my right collar bone, which fucks with my neck. That wreck also ended my Backpacking Career. I can't carry much weight on my left side. My hand/arm/shoulder go numb, quickly. So, scratch two favorite activities. I'm going to rebuild my 70's Peugeot Touring/Road Bike and sell it to a good home. It's a Classic. Not the bike I wrecked though. That was a 1990's Bridgestone MB-3. Like this:

I was doing about 25-30mph when I hit a city "road patch" that was unmarked in Salt Lake City, Utah. Just trying to get home before dark. Peddling fast and didn't "see" the road patch, I "felt" it. My front wheel slid out, I tried to "self-correct" and when I hit real pavement again, the front rim folded in half. Ass over tea kettle onto a curb and the bike, which I couldn't let go of in time, came down on my left collar bone. Left Scapula hit the top corner of the curb, completely fracturing it and I hit my head REALLY hard on the sidewalk. I didn't get to "feel" my left leg for almost six months. I don't remember much else except "waking up" and wondering if my bike was O.K.. It wasn't. I flagged down a pickup full of Mormon Kids and asked them if they'd drive me home after stopping at a State Store (liquor store) for some "medicinal use alcohol." They were accomodating. I called my friend that had pain med's for her back pain and asked if she'd bring me some. She did. Just Prescription strength Naproxen. Probably not the best thing to be mixing with alcohol and a concussion but, what the Hell? I was already as fucked up as it gets and didn't really care "what" put me to sleep. Two days later I'm at some walk-in clinic and there's a diminutively sized East Indian Doctor waving my film at me and saying: "Oh, Mister Doc, I am not to be believing that you are up, walking around and cracking with the jokes. I'm sending you to L.D.S. Hospital, right now, to see a Specialist." Believe me, I was laughing and "cracking with the jokes" to keep from crying and shitting myself from pain. More X-Rays and a 'script for Hydrocodone, 30 of 'em, with refills (2). I actually "slept" without pissing myself from rolling over onto the injuries for the first time in three nights. I was taking a 5mg pill every 4-6 hours and chasing them with a couple shots of Bourbon. Also not particularly bright, looking back on it and knowing what I know now about pain meds and alcohol. Not that I was going "all in" on the combo but, it's still a Bad Idea.    
Surgery is a Crap-Shoot and have been told as much by a couple of really good Orthopedic Surgeons. One, an Admiral's Doctor/Flagship Surgeon that was, at the time, retired Navy. He gave up Private Practice and re-upped as a Commander for a sizeable re-enlistment/re-activation bonus and promotion from Lt. Commander. That's about as far as a guy's going to get in rank if he's a Surgeon. Unless you're Dr. C. Edward Koop or something. (Former Surgeon General, for you Noobs)

My Mom swears that I am held together by stitches and staples. "If they ever hit the main stitch, you'll simply unravel." She's fond of saying that. The humor is becoming lost upon my constant pain as I get older. I'll be 61 years old in a couple weeks. Allot of people lost money on my attainment of such an age. I "should have been dead" many times over. Various circumstances. I wore my nose under my left eye when I was about 11 years old, playing "beat the door and run." I forgot about the boat trailer in the neighbors' yard. Caught my right foot on electrical wiring and my nose came down solidly on the angle iron on the frame's other side. I woke up with a pool of nice, crimson, blood bigger than my head under me. I was a Porky Little Kid and had allot of inertia going for me when I hit that wiring.

I have swamped canoes in the middle of Puget Sound, braved the Gulf of Alaska and Bering Sea in 40' swells, climbed 300' trees, fell off of a mountain or three, almost drowned a couple of times, been brushed by a Bull Shark, shattered both heels, almost cut off one of my ear lobes, had my "bell rung" more than most people, broken so many ribs I've lost track of the count, been sewed up more than your average Rag Doll, etc., etc.. You starting to get a picture of this Old Body, yet? It all: "hurt so good." "Pain is just the sensation of fear leaving your body." (Old USMC adage that works pretty well, when you're young)

My Stepfather passed out when he saw the nose injury. He was kind of a Pussy when it came to blood and such. My Mom calmly went and got ice and a clean t-shirt and told me to go sit in the car, ice on nose with my head back. 20 minutes later we were at Balboa Naval Hospital. A Corpsman rushed me into the Operating Theater when he saw the extent of my injury. I got to "watch them" sew my nose back on, which was pretty interesting from underneath the surgical drape. As I age, my nose is migrating toward my left ear. I have a weird sense of "interesting." Blood doesn't bother me. I have "sewn myself up" after cutting my right heel to the bone on some razor sharp glass at a farm. The hospital was 50 miles away and I would have made it "part of the way" had I drove there. I have "welded my shoe to the floor" with electricity. "Splitting power at a buss bar." Screw driver slipped and "Blammo!" I woke up about 15' away, hair smoking. Leather soled shoe "welded" to the concrete. Wore nothing but Chuck Taylor's after that and used a rubber mat while at power boxes.

I have had to be the Amateur Veterinary Surgeon a couple of times. One of my cats on The Farm had a claw grow into his "palm" and I had to remove it. (It smelled awful) "Nuke," the cat, was eternally grateful. The Hydrogen Peroxide freaked him out. He still crapped in my favorite pair of tennis shoes if I left them laying around. He got the: "Face in shit and hissing toss into the Mill Pond" more than a few times. He knew where he was going next, after the face plant in His Own. I still Loved Him. It became a "game" and he eventually got his own pair of tennis shoes to poop into. I could go on for a half hour with these stories. What the cat shitting in my shoes has to do with my own injuries, I don't know.

Sunday means "Actual Breakfast" around here. Cottage Fries and eggs w/cheese, Sourdough toast with Marion Berry jam. Good coffee. That usually happens about 10:00.

Pete:

Butthead was right. About: "everything."
-Doc









     

 

"NEW" COUNTRY MUSIC

I know a guy, let's call him: "Nick The Dick" and leave it at that. He once blurted out his opinion that: "All New Country Music sounds like Fleetwood Mac to me." I knew what he meant when he said it and I still know what he means. Nick is a Pedal Steel Guitarist. Supposedly. I've never actually heard him play. He's also a Chef that REALLY wants to be French. He dresses like he: (a) Just got out of bed and (b) Like a Circus Side Act. He really is Silly Buggers when it comes to dress codes. His "Cook's Checks" are like a bad set of Bill Blass pajamas after an LSD Sleepover. You can tell I have a "special place" in my heart for this fucker, right? He is married to a cool '60's Musician's Daughter though and does own a restaurant. No names will be mentioned. They already know who and what they are. Like most folks, they have their good and bad moments.

Anyway...He did nail it with the Fleetwood Mac comparison. Right now, I'm listening to Foster and Lloyd. That would be: Radney Foster and Bill Lloyd. Premier Nashville Studio Guys that started their own band. I, regardless of their formulaic approach to penning hit song clones, like listening to them every so often. They kind of remind me of an overly polished Everly Brothers. F&L split up as a Duo long time ago. Probably over some Big Haired Gal From Texas or some shit.

"Cotton Candy Hair," Willis Alan Ramsey would say. Willis Alan wrote The Captain and Tennille's big hit, "Muskrat Love." Ho-Hum on the C&T version. Willis' (Originally titled: "Muskrat Candlelight") is a million times better. Leon Russel plays keyboards on the original, for instance. Willis is a: "Songwriter's Singer/Songwriter." The Captain and Tennille should have NEVER gotten off of The Love Boat. Or, it could have sunk with them aboard. Nobody would have noticed. Willis Alan did one album and vanished from the music scene almost completely. Can't blame him. The Music Business Blows Dead Bears. I know this, first hand. If a $250k a year job was offered to me (with a bottle of expensive booze, fresh cut flowers and a blow job every morning) in the Music Business, I wouldn't take it. Even if I didn't have to actually "work." I hate it that much. It's like being trapped in a room full of people talking about which strain of Marijuana is the BEST. Dope lore bores the shit out of me. Dope slang bores the shit out of me. Dope bores the shit out of me. I'll take a stiff cocktail over a hit off of the finest pot in the world, any day. I totally lost interest in Marijuana back in the 80's or so. It just makes me stupid, my short term memory drips out of my ears and I'm lazy. Lots of people like it, I guess. It, The Industrial Version of Hemp, makes fine paper and clothing.

There is a major difference between Traditional Country and New Country. The Traditional form of the genre was performed on back porches or Semi Truck Trailers at County Fairs by guys with a missing tooth or two from bar fights and there were usually fast cars, Girls with too much makeup on and alcohol involved. New Country is performed on major sound stages and stadium venues, tickets cost $100.00 and everybody reeks of Axe Body Spray. There are exceptions, of course. Hank Williams III is probably missing a tooth. But, he doesn't play New Country, anyway. "Hellbilly" is more like it. I wouldn't categorize Johnny Cash as being either New or Traditional Country. He was his own genre.

I just received a great new T-Shirt from the Jim Marshall clothing line with Cash angrily giving the lens The Finger. Jim shot the photo's of Cash's Folsom Prison Shows. After the second night's show, Jim asked Johnny if he had any comments for The Warden. The Finger/Grimace/Stare Down photo was the answer. Jim was great at that shit! He NEVER "posed" his subjects. It was his signature. Johnny wasn't "acting" for the photo. It's a very Iconic Image from Marshall and Cash. I bought another shirt (Noted, last post) from the Jim Marshall T-Shirt Factory and got the Johnny Cash shirt as a schwag gift. An infamous quote: "Cars and guns have gotten me into trouble...Cameras haven't." (Which is total bullshit. Cameras have got Jim into trouble LOTS of times) On the shirt front, as noted in the post previous to this one, there is one of Marshall's Leica M-4's on it. So, this is trodden ground. Let's plow! I'd spend good money on an 11"x14" (or larger) print of the Cash photo.

Today, when the light gets to be "just right" I'm going to photograph some Dahlias in my front yard. There are some other flowers, some kind of Oriental Lily species, that need to have their portraits taken out there, too. It's overcast outside, which is light that I like. Some of the best photographs I've ever taken were in that soft, blue-ish light that only happens when it's shining through clouds/fog/mist. The shittier the weather, the more my "eye" likes it. Grey and Green, favorite colors. Grey isn't really a "color." It's a half-light. I need to start using the Nikon PAS camera I bought last month. It's pretty hot shit, for a Point And Shoot. 18 MP's and a focal length of 28-350mm equivalent. Various automatic "scenes, all that good crap that it appears Other People are so used to that they're bored. It's all new to me so, I'm not bored. Yet. I bought the thing so I didn't have to carry a film camera on two week trips away from home. Not that my Olympus OM-1n is all that HUGE or anything but, it gets heavy with film, lenses accessories, etc. and I'm always afraid that something bad is going to happen to it. It can't really be replaced. It had, literally, never been used when I bought it about 5 years ago. $75.00 with 3 lenses. It cost three times that in 1973, when first sold.

I only have two routes left to travel with any sort of regularity, North and South of this here town. Maybe Colorado at some point. I have a Buddy that lives outside of Boulder. Another World Class Rock and Roll/Cinematographic "Stills"/Portrait/Scenic Photographer. We've known eachother for about 45 years now. Other trips I'll take at the drop of a hat is to my Mom's place and Sleeve Job's Rubber Gun Ranch up in Salmon Heaven, Wa.. It's a Hollywood joke: "Rubber Gun." Do your own homework.

"Chili" and hot sausage for dinner. Good gloomy day fare. Spicy Cornbread baked in cast iron to ladle the "chili" on top of. I say "chili" because it has beans in it. Actual Chili does not have beans. Most Americans don't know that and if you served then real Chili, they'd want to know: "What happened to the rest of the 'chili'?" Yes, I am a Foodie, of sorts. My training is that of a Waiter, Bartender, Floor Manager and Saucier but, I've: "Done everything in a restaurant except own one." End result: I eat like a King and make a wicked Caucasian.

Willis Alan Ramsey:

O.K., I'm bored.. Are you bored? Sure you are. Let's flush this turd.

Out,
-Doc

             

Another "Vacation"

I tend to vacillate between killing off this thing and/or picking it up and putting it down at will. I suppose that I have decided upon the latter. Alternately, I gain and lose interest or actually have "something to say." It doesn't matter.

July has been a weird month. For me, anyway. I disdain The 4th Of July with all of its' random noise and confusion, merriment and tragedies. People blow shit up, somebody gets their eye poked out, drunks are happy and somebody's whole Family gets wiped out on the Highway. It seems to all take place within about 72 hours. I was going to go camping. I didn't. Instead, I went to the grocery and liquor stores, stocked up on provisions and just hid out at home. My neighborhood, which is usually rife with Homemade Explosions, wasn't so noisy this year. Around the 10th or so, I did some weird thing to my back and that kept me home. Which, from the standpoint of holiday social interactions that can be/usually are weird, is a "good thing." So long as there are things to cook, TV/Movies to watch and something to drink, I'm satisfied.

August is always better. For starters, my Birthday is in the first week of the month and people always send me cool shit. My Brother sent me an Uber Groovy "Travel Shaver." It recharges with a USB connection and only weighs about 2 ounces. Very cool. The only use it will ever see is during actual travelling, which should give it a happy, long life. My Mom will send me the usual $20-30 because she doesn't "get" how to shop  for me and it's "easy" for her. My Friend, Sleeve Jobs, will send me something like a knife or gag gift. He knows I like both. Akbar/Jeff will totally forget about me and maybe call later to apologize. His brains ran out of his ears, years ago. Numerous websites and businesses will send me Birthday "credits" and American Spirit will send me a card and some flower seeds or a coupon for their cigarettes. Travel Shaver wins, hands down. Well done, Brutte.

I bought myself a cool T-Shirt this past month. A Jim Marshall "Cars, Guns, Cameras" shirt. On the front is a graphic of one of his iconic Leica M-4 cameras that he removed the paint covering the brass on the body from. It was kind of a signature. Jim just thought it "looked cool." It does. Jim was THE Rock and Roll Photographer. Period. 50+ Rolling Stone Magazine covers, NUMEROUS Iconic shots of Musicians (Jimi Hendrix setting his guitar on fire @ Monterrey Pop) and people like Bill Graham, TONS of Auto Racing photo's, great portraits and many, many, Album Covers. The Allman Brothers Live At The Fillmore East is one of Jim's best, in my mind. I have an interesting anecdote about Jim, of course.

My Friend, Dearly Departed, Michael Hanley, caught wind of an upcoming Starship show near Lahaina, Maui, while he, his Brother "Peter-Peter" and I were all living together on that shitty little Island. Michael had been the Drums, Keyboards and Monitors Techie for Jefferson Airplane, Jefferson Starship, Starship and probably Hot Tuna a few times. He worked for numerous other Bay Area Bands as well. Anyway...Michael calls up the J.A. Offices in San Francisco and obtains three All Access Passes for We Three Guys. We arrive early, bullshit with various members of the band and start raiding the Heineken Coolers. At some point, Michael notices that Jim Marshall, the Jeffersons' Staff Photog-At-Large, is "getting into it" with a HUGE Samoan Security Guy and grabs me and says: "Let's go rescue Jim." We are both doing our very best Sean Connery "Perhaps I may be of some assistance" schtick and we get Jim Backstage and away from the Security Dude but, Jim has already officially been "ejected from the show." We're just getting his gear packed up and finding the keys to the rental Crew Van at that point. We load Jim and his gear up and get The Hell Out Of Dodge, pointed toward Lahaina, where Jim's staying. Meanwhile, he's so pissed off that he can't remember where his hotel is. Luckily, I possess an intimate knowledge of Lahaina's back alleys and nooks and crannies, which is where Jim's Lanai Style Hotel is. We find it after about 45 minutes of cruising around, get him into his room, have a couple of Bushmills shots with him, get back into the van and haul butt back to the show, laughing our asses off the whole way.

The high point of the day/evening was meeting Papa John Creech and his Lovely Wife, who's name I can't remember now. These were the last set of shows John would ever play and his Wife died soon after the tour. That and hearing Jack Cassidy speak. (He has a peculiar voice.) Starship was using the Lahaina gig to tighten up for and relax before a full blown Asian Tour.

I ended up with Paul Kantner's S.F. 49ers ballcap after he left it by a hotel swimming pool in Ka'anapali. We tried to locate him but he'd booked the room using a pseudonym. No help there. You can't have it back Paul. It got "lost."

Papa John:

JM Shirt:

See Ya', Buddy,
-Doc

            

50th Anniversary

The Grateful Dead turns 50. Does anyone "give a shit?" Probably all the Trustifarians attending the shows. No one else. Maybe some guy named "Dick" that's still  living in Grandma's Basement in The Haight.

Fuck Those Guys. "Dick" and His Basement, Trey "What's-His-Name" and whomever else shows up on that 20'x40' set of risers.

Me? I'd rather listen to Jimmy Herring, The David Nelson Band or Kark Karan. Little Feat as well. Ryland Cooder, John Hiatt or David Lindley. Right now, Jimmy Herring's on the platter. Sheeit, there are plethora better bands out there than the Grateful Dead. Not that I don't "like" them. I've certainly spent enough time listening to/working for the mugs.

Truth be told, I'd rather be watching an S.F. Giants Baseball Game than being at a Grateful Dead Show.

I "remember where I was when Jerry died" and all that Groovy Shit but, I find less fascination with those happenstances than I used to.

Tear it up, you Fuckers. Rake in the Last Cash-Out and go the fuck home.

Via con pedos...

Jimmy:

Peace, Love and Duck Butter,
-Doc  

Nice Little Vacation

I took a "nice little vacation" from this here thang. Although I enjoy writing, it's necessary to just "walk away" from that activity once in awhile. Plus: I hurt my back, got good and drunk (thus lowering my resistance to any kind of viruses and what have ye')  and then got some kind of intestinal bug, all within three weeks. Perfect score.

I am, from time to time, tempted to just kill this thing off, as I have the other two blogs that preceded it. Nobody really reads it and it ends up being a simple tool for exorcising demons and self-talk-therapy. Which, probably means I ought to be in a Rubber Room somewhere and/or on certain medications. They don't work worth a fuck though. I'm simply not: The Happiest Guy In The World. The World bugs me. The older I get, the more I prefer the company of animals to humans. I suppose that's not a unique perspective.

I was describing my current surroundings to a friend in Seattle the other day. The cast of characters around my building changes but the core remains the same. People move in and out and the "break-in period" starts afresh. There are nine apartments and one house on the property. You estimate the number of souls inhabiting them. It changes like the weather. Johnny gets a Girlfriend, she moves in, they fight and he or she or both move out, yadda-yadda. New Tenant Boot Camp starts all over again. As of the middle of May, we also got a New landlord. Actually the guy has always owned the place "on paper" and was selling it to the Woman I rented from going on eight years ago, come February 2016. Unless the World ends or I die, some better opportunity presents itself or the joint gets "flipped" again and we get some New Person to give our money to, I'll stay. The setup right now is through a Property Management Company. They're mostly "invisible" and are just there to keep the dollars and cents straight. The New landlord is An Old Guy and he kind of needs somebody to GTM (GTM: Get The Money) and keep the books.

All three paragraphs begin with the word "I." Bad journalism. But, this is more of a "diary" than a Journal and I AM speaking in the First Person so, I guess it's alright. Stop! You're both right! It's a snack food AND a floor polish! Tastes great! Less filling! Washes your car while you're driving it home to work! Doesn't have that stale aftertaste!

Big weekend coming up next week. I plan to be out of town, resting quietly in some campground, far away from the Noise and Haste. I truly disdain fireworks. Haven't liked them since I was a Kid. People drive into the adjoining states and pick up illegal fireworks and then have themselves a Big Ole' Party at the neighbors' expense. It usually lasts about a week. I've heard a few 'splosions already. The BIG GUNS are still being held in reserve for next Saturday night. Like I said, I plan to be in a State Campground, where there are no fireworks allowed. It will be mostly quiet. I favor the Hiker/Biker type of Campgrounds, the ones without screaming Kids and obnoxiously drunk "Adults." Those Campgrounds a markedly "cheaper" than your average West Coast State Park as well. A Campsite in Northern California runs about $40.00 a night now, with a motor vehicle. Somebody always gets their "eye poked out" or worse, anyway. I wouldn't let myself be anywhere near a highway on that weekend either. Amatuer Hour with 1.5 tons of metal travelling at high speed. Pinball with trucks and cars. No thank you, I'll take a Shuttle Bus.

This morning's listening, the "live" version:

The album version:

I'll take Anders camping with me over the 4th. The album stuff. I have it on tape and CD. I'll take the tape so I can carry my Sony Sports "Mega Bass" Walkman with me. It has a good radio in it and the battery life is good. I've owned one of those things since the late 80's and never found anything as rugged or better sounding.

Best Fishes,
-Doc