What (for) the Hell not? How many Goats and boats are: "out there" anyway?
Fool follows folly...
Listening to "Mars Hotel" right now. Phil sings! (Unbroken Chain). I like the truncated progression.
Life around The Ranch is less than bucolic. Arguments, Cops, Guard Dogs, Electric Fences... All that shit. Fuck 'em. I own nice headphones and bought beer. But, I could only hear The Preacher and the baying of his Hounds....
I am not a reactionary or "confrontative" sort of Guy. I tend to let All Things Pass and assume the role of "Observer." I disdain "Drama" and discord. Some people seem to mistake that as a "weakness.' I consider it to be a Strength.
William S. Burroughs once said: "Never interfere in a Boy and Girl fight." He was right.
Recently, there has been a lot of Silly Drama around my place. I just Get The Hell Out Of The Way and put the headphones on.
I've never understood people that kick the Hornet's Nest just to see: "who gets stung." I've already experienced what that feels like and don't want a second helping.
Sometimes, the people that deliver your packages are lacking in Social Graces. They were either: Raised by Voles, had to hack it out on their own and figure life (and all manners) out, a' solo. Neither of those two (or more) methodologies seem to have worked out well for them. The other day, I ran in with one of those Savages. Webster defines a Savage in an unkind and inhumane manner. The French are less kind, as are many other Cultures. Americans seem to accept the behavior with a grain of salt and acceptance. I do not and usually become surly or sarcastic. I suspect "being raised by Voles" to be either uncomfortable, unpleasant or both. The smell alone must be awful, I would guess.
The other day, I had a guy that had a "Scent of Vole Familial" about himself. Months back, I was passing a couple of guys that were pouring a cement Driveway. The "Lead Man" asked asked if: "I was the guy that had been sen to help he and his Co-Worker?" He said: The Boss said he was going to send some guy: "In a Stupid Looking Hat." (I was wearing my Jerry Garcia Ballcap. (I doubt he knew what the cap was) The Signature Orange Hand Print on a Blue Cap.) Rather than "react," I simply replied: "...Wrong Stupid Looking Hat, I guess.." He didn't seem to know what to say.
Stupid/Mean/Obnoxious/Offensive People don't seem to have much in the way of thoughtful or well considered replies and/or statements. I'm fairly sure that their initial response is: "confusion." (Or, it's' a good guess,' anyway.)
As he was delivering my package, (Un-Professionally), A Birthday Gift from my Brother, his question to me was:"I bet you've waiting around for this all day, huh?" A sarcastic tone in his voice was noted. I recognized his voice and tone as: The Rabid Vole-Guy From The Cement Pour.
Lucky for me, it was a very nice Parcel and I was pleased to have received it. Much better than being treated like: "A Guy In A Stupid Looking Hat." What was in the Parcel?
Better to make Short Work of Mister Rabid Vole and open the package, huh?
I got that: "I've done time in Prison/Daddy Locked Me In The Woodshed" vibe from the guy.
I got to go to "Gladiator School' when I was a Kid. Much better to get it out of the way, early. I've "gotten over it." Glad it didn't turn me into a Sociopath.
Being Considerate of, Kind to Others is: "Its' Own Reward." Being Aggressively Rude to people would be the obverse. I simply "dismiss" the latter and move on.
Every time Jerry's Birthday comes around, I am reminded of my own Mortality. I shook hands with the guy, made a bit of Chit Chat with him, fed his Crew, Lit his stages and have been Ape-ing his style for decades, on occasion.
ALL ICONS WILL FALL. It's a truth that becomes us all, regardless of whether you believe in "this or that." Trust me, you will DIE. NO WAY OUT. Pleasant regards to McMurphy and Nurse Ratchet. Don't blame me. Ken wrote that shit. Yea, I shook his hand, too...and made nice with short, blasphemy and negligible conversation.
I will not attempt to find words worthy of The Old Man. He speaks well for himself:
One of these days, I'm going to find myself staring at my Pal, Michael Hanley's, (U.S.M.C. Pvt. 1st Class, Viet Nam) Veteran's Cemetery Headstone. Again. I had to/got to Be The Guy With The Short Straw, 5+ years ago and get him Properly Buried. Had to Duke It Out with The Coroner's Office and a Funeral Home as well. Shit like that Fucks With A Guy for a couple months. More, apparently. I had some help from some cool Real Human Beings (And Michael's 105 pound Canadian Labrador Retriever until I found her a New Family with some acreage with a "Ceement Pond," along the way.
I will: "Endeavor To Persevere" to not cry. I will fail. I'm "A Crier." Thanks, Gramps. Gramps was "A Crier," too. Genetics being thicker than Cola Cola and twice as sweet, all that. I will also "Try not to forget to bring a rock in my pocket to leave atop his Headstone." Probably one of the ones that I picked up on a Klamath River "Fishing Trip." In "quotes" because, there were NO FISH IN THAT RIVER, save the one pathetic Trout Fry I landed and turned into "food" for other fish. It's pretty hard to get a Salmon Hook out of a Trout Fry, without completely mutilating the Little Guy or Gal. Bummer. I put my River Rig back in the truck and went looking for Bear Scat. It was more interesting than: "Fishing w/o fish." One of the reasons they call it: "Fishing" instead of: "Catching" by the way.
I knew better than to try and fish that river with its' Pearloid (That "Mother Of Toilet Seat" stuff they cover Drum Sets with) Carpet Of Algae all over the top of the riffles, like Snot Frosting on a Dog Shit Cake. I had to keep reminding: "I'm not from Northern California, Mike," that his dog, Gracie, should NOT be in that water. There were signs posted, even. All I needed was a quick glance at the Green Shit in the water. GREEN SHIT does not belong in Any River. Unless it's Saint Patrick's Day in Chicago. I'm not even sure that's such a good idea, either. I bet that not even those Asian Carp that Jack In The Box out of Rivers in The Midwest like it. Chalk it all up to some Kafka-esque Dumb-Shittery and move on...
I DID take a big swig out of a beer with a Yellow Jacket in the can. It had drowned, already, Thank God. That was the big excitement for the whole trip, besides watching Mister Know It All getting his "Heavy Duty 4X4 Ford" stuck in river bar gravel up to the axles, for which, I got to go to The Country Store in Somes Bar, hitchhiking in the middle of Redneck Central, to call a Tow Truck. Next time, have a Come-Along in the truck, Hanley. Or, know that: "Let The Air Out Of The Tires" trick. Either would have worked. He wanted a Tow Truck, so, he got one. $200.00 and two hours, waiting at The Somes Bar General Store, for me. I sat outside The Store and drank good, ice cold beer, (I rarely drink beer "ice cold." Another of my Grandfather's Habits popping up.) while waiting for him to be jerked out of the mess he'd got himself in. Found a Dental Bridge some Drunk had left on a Picnic Table at The Store and took it into the clerk, in a napkin, so they might find their way back to the person that forgot 'em. Lotta' Drunks around The Country Store that day, for some reason. They may "always be there," I don't know. Haven't been back there, since.
Final Score: Yellow Jackets, Truck Axles, Trout Fry, Beers At Store, Dentures: 1 apiece. Fish: 0. Unless you want to count the Fry as an: "Actual Fish." I don't. If it doesn't put up a fight and look good in a Creek-side Frying Pan, It's: "Something Else." A Worm-With-Fins kinda' thing.
Yellow Jackets. I HATE YELLOW JACKETS! Cannibalistic/Carnivorous Little Bastards. I was about 16 years old when my Childhood Friend, Larry, his Dad and I went hiking up to Sawtooth Ridge/Peak, above Visalia, California. Larry and I packed up a hill with a sandwich or four, more to smoke a joint away from Baptist Dad than eat the sandwiches, when I noticed that there were: "things crawling up my legs and beginning to sting me." Then, THE WORLD EXPLODED INTO PSYCHEDELIC, PSYCHOTIC, YELLOW JACKETS! They were: "EVERYWHERE" it seemed. Trying to sting my face, up under my very long hair, in my shirt, trying to get at my NUTS, in my nose, ears and asshole...You get the picture. 100+ stings. Apparently, I had, unwittingly, stepped on a Ground Hive where Those Little Fuckers like to live in the Sierra's. Cannibals Be Damned. I've never met anyone that had anything "good" to say about Cannibals. Wasn't around for the Love Fest @ Donner Summit so...
I still haven't evened the score. I figure the Body Count to be around 50 or so, presently. Every Single Time one of them gets near me, I: "Know That Tune." The hair on the back of my neck stands up and I am "On Point" for a Location and Kill. I've learned to "roll them out of my cupped hand" and onto the ground, in one seamless motion. It knocks them out and then, THE BOOT GRIND. "51. It's a good start/middle/end to the hike." My Mountain Climbing Days are over. My Yellow Jacket Days are still inching along to their Ultimate Goal. 110 and "done." 10 more, just because sitting in a creek, picking Yellow Jackets off your dick, BLOWS DEAD BEARS. The Kindly Forest Service Ranger is handing you a Primatine Inhaler and using a Work Gloved hand to assist you in removal of said Nasties, after having cut your Bell Bottomed, 1970's Corduroy's off with a Buck Knife. This "fun procedure" also comes with an overnight plus two day ration of Calamine Lotion and some Benedryl, in case you're wondering. The best part was: "Being high while getting stung that many times." It may have "helped" or made it worse, I don't remember. I don't WANT TO remember. The next day, I was "Fine," except that I looked like a cross between a Warthog and a Rotting Pinata and my Butt Itched under my Pack's Waistband. We summited Sawtooth Peak, elevation 12k+', the next morning. Those bugs weren't fucking up MY hike. The next day, I looked vaguely Human again.
Today is a Tom Waits kind of day. I've been listening to him since I woke up and still have hours of material to swim through. "Swordfish Trombone" is on right now. Good shit, Maynard.
Anecdote Time: My "Wife" (quotes because, although "I felt married," she didn't.) married a guy named Maynard Krebs (whether or not his middle initial was "G.", I don't know) after my nuts grew back. Fucking Bob Denver's Character's Honorary Namesake from The Dobie Gillis Show. I almost laughed out my False Teeth when she informed me of her Ex's name. Poor Guy. His Nuts May Or May Not Have: "Grown Back." Never met the guy. Another "Drive-By Marriage" Gone South With Geese. At the very least, his Parents must have had a sense of humor. I just got a Regular Type Name. Gypped again...
Tom Waits. Perfect Muse for a yarn like this. Thanks, Pal.
The other day, I needed to go to my local Social Security Administration (sic) Office to file some paperwork, ask some questions and just enjoy their lovely, uncomfortable plastic chairs. There is usually One Nut in the room, when one goes there. "The Other Day" was no exception. I usually just suck it up and ride out the storm. This Little Meth-Head got my attention when he started making comments like: "I HATE the U.S. Military and all of their "Service Brats. All those Punk Ass Bitches that were born with a Silver Spoon up their asses and got all the stuff that WE never did, etc., etc.."
I have a fairly unnerving "thousand yard stare" in my bag of tricks. It comes from knowing guys that have That Stare, FOR REAL. Mine's an act. Mostly. I only haul it out in lieu of cleaning someone's clock. This Kid's clock needed a good cleaning. An Asphalt Sandwich. An Ass-whipping. To be taught some common "manners." At one point the Kid asked me: "Why are you staring at me?" I replied: "Because I am a Military Brat and you're REALLY beginning to annoy me." I made sure the two Guards, with sidearms strapped, heard me. They told him to stop annoying the others in the Office. He continued on with the most "entitled" line of drivel I've heard in a long time. "Well, I'm Disabled and I have to TALK LOUD because I can't hear! It's MY DISABILITY!" For the purpose of listening to the shrill ring of your own voice, I would assume. I had "Had enough" and moved from the section of the room that was his Stage as did a couple of other people. We KNEW there was going to be trouble.
Eventually, The Kid was thrown out of the Office, after calling one of the guards an Asshole. The line in the sand had been breached and he was shown the door. I was still angry, for awhile. At least my hands weren't shaking. As I exited the Office and walked toward the bus stop, there was The Kid. I decided that I really didn't want to "Eat His Liver With Some Fava Beans And A Nice Chianti" after all and and went into The Mall to get a Hamburger and cool off, stopping to speak a bit of German with my Pal, Christof, who owns a Head Shop sort of place in that Mall. When I came out, after wandering around and letting 5mg's of Valium hit me, I went over to the bus stop again. The Kid was gone. No Liver Eating. Groovy. Stopped again down the road and did a bit of light shopping before walking home. Talked Baseball (Old Pacific Coast League Stuff) with a Nice Gal on the bus.
Sociopaths, especially those hopped up on "Mexican Bathtub Espresso" really bug me. I avoid them, like The Plague. I have very little in the way of patience for people that DEMAND that their delusional reality be heard. Mono-Syllabic-ally and with venomous spittle in the corners of their ugly little mouths. It brings out the Amateur Dentist in me.
Yes, I was a Military Brat. No, I was NOT born with a silver spoon up my ass. (Maybe Brass, though) We never "wanted" for anything, as Children but, our lives were not "easy" or "delightful." We moved allot. I had very few Friends that I'd known for more than a couple of years, growing up. I learned to "not get too close" to people because I knew we'd be "leaving again." I am a Social Chameleon. I can be anybody you want me to, out of necessity. I learned to "shift gears and smile when I didn't want to" from an early age. I've lost allot of that schtick in my Older Years and DO have Friends that I've known for 40 years now. Life is good. Enjoy it. Hold onto what you "have." ("Ownership of The Intangible" is a myth, by the way.) It will "go away" or "be re-billeted to Subic Bay, Philippines" or something, too.
"You might as well be diggin' it while it's happening because, It Just Might Be A One Shot Deal."
-Frank Zappa
I am a "Recreational Player." I don't like "Performing" and I don't take requests. I play because I enjoy it. That said, what I require Amps and Guitars to "do" is simple; Reproduce sound, authentically. I recently bought a Kustom 2x12", 100w, DFX Series amp for $100.00. (A Steal) It is a nice "Workingman's Amp." It does what I want it to and is Louder Than Hell. It was made in about 2003. It is WAY TOO LOUD for my 500 sq. ft. apartment. It has some "fairly crappy" on board effects that I couldn't care less about, since I own a Roland Workstation and condition sound with that unit. I only use one other sound modifier, a Boss PS-3 Stomp Box. The best box Boss ever made, as far as I care. Boss ended up splitting "what that box does" into about 5 other boxes. They make more money. The PS-3 was just "too good." Allot of guys would eat a mile of shit to get me to sell that box to them. It ain't gonna' happen, at any price.
Kustom 100 Quad DFX:
Roland VS-840
Boss PS-3 Stomp Box:
1996 Korean Made Epiphone Custom Shop '57 Les Paul Jr. Re-Issue:
1959 Magnatone Varsity Lap Steel:
My Magnatone is Dark Green (Emerald) M.O.T.S. "Pearloid."
I have another Magnatone Dickinson Lap Steel but, it's a "project. It's a late 1940's guitar. Balls for days. I need to have it routed out and new electronic connections installed at some point. I also own a Crate "practice amp," 15w, 1x8" speaker, no frills, a Fender Bassman Cabinet, also a project and some other junk in various stages of repair... "Creatively Wasting Time."
The one thing I dislike about the 4th of July is all the Booger Eatin' Morons that think it's perfectly "fine" for them to blow shit up until 01:00. I should probably find a nice beach to hang out on, where no fireworks are allowed. I like the visual part of fireworks but not the "who can make the biggest boom?"stuff. My Neighborhood falls into the latter category. people that make really large black powder "bombs" to set off should probably lose a finger or three and see how they like that shit.
July Fourth, for me, is not about: "blowing up the neighborhood." If it were, it would look something like this:
Vendors of all kinds: Guarantee Satisfaction. Usually there is some kind of small print at the page bottom that opts one in for Dissatisfaction. "Roll Over, Play Dead. Wash Your hands Three Times Per day..." It's a Devo thing.
This will be a short post I am "waiting" for Satisfaction. I am currently NOT receiving that.
Yesterday, I included a story from an Idaho News Source about The Chinese Guy That Left The Boardwalk To Get Some Hot Water at Yellowstone National Park. He was issued a ticket by a Park Ranger for $1,000.00 in commission of said act. Not that Yellowstone National Park nor The United States will ever see one penny of that fine money...
I made a "comment" at the TV Station's Facebook Page and continued on to tell one of my own National Park Fuck Up's Stories. The Rotund, Out Of Shape, Gent From Texas and His Coke Can Over The Rim @ Grand Canyon NRA (National Recreational Area) yarn. It's a true story. I also once "spooked" a "Shave Tail" in a Mule Train, nearly sending an entire group of riders and their Wrangler over the edge but, that's a different story... I did exactly what I was supposed to do: Move to the low side of the trail and stand still. The Shave Tail got a severe whacking, which was warranted. Wranglers have little patience for animals behaving badly.
I have worked "just outside of" a few National Parks. That's where: "All the money is" by the way. If you happen to be either a Waiter or Bartender. I was a Waiter. Near Yellowstone, I worked at Flagg Ranch, a "Guest Ranch" owned by some Dimestore Cowboys from Arizona. Awful people. Don't ever work there. One season, I worked Breakfast Shift in the small, old Restaurant, before The Big Fire. I'm NOT a Breakfast Waiter and both "quit and got fired" in the same instant. I went back, as a sort of necessity, a few years later. Management had changed and there were no records of me ever having worked there previously. I got fired that time, too. I ran The Employee Dining Facility and got stuck in Jackson Hole and was late getting back to The Ranch. Not really my fault but, I didn't care either. It got me away from the Asshole I went there with and back to Salt Lake City, where I walked right back into my Old Job as a Pro Fundraiser for Conservation and Social/Political Action Groups. Flagg Ranch/The Asshole Gypped me out of a good bit of my last paycheck, due to the fact that my Uniform Shirts never made it back to the Company and neither had my bedding. I think that The Asshole simply "appropriated" them all. I never saw the guy again, so, it was worth it.
In Grand Canyon National Recreational Area, I worked for the "old" Tusayan Steakhouse and Social Club. Jim, the owner, was a delightful drunk, whom I had the highest regard for. He was The Salt Of The Earth and would almost literally: "Give you the shirt from his back." His Wife (whom was in the process of taking him to The Cleaners in a divorce) was a different story. I HATED THAT WOMAN. Next to the word "Bitch" in Webster's, (to be cliche') there is a photo of her. The "new" Tusayan Steakhouse is a garbage dump of a restaurant and I would NEVER send my Worst Enemy to eat there. I have not been back to G.C.N.R.A. since my tenure in 1985, nor do I have any plans to go back again. It's a Whole New Place, in general. I would be depressed to see Tusayan, a little "town" about 6 or 7 miles south of the South Entrance to The Park. I HAVE, however, "heard the horror stories" from reliable sources and have zero interest in returning. To either Tusayan or G.C.N.R.A.. I've hiked over 1,000 miles in The Canyon in my spare time and seen everything that I ever wanted to in the area. Burnt the T-Shirt.
Anyway... People seem to think of National Parks as their Personal No Penalty Fuck Up Zone. They are the same people that go to Hawai'i and begin speaking to everybody in BAD Pidgin English and flashing "Shaka" signs everywhere they go. They usually end up either being "taxed" ("robbed") by The Locals or being shunned by all except their own ilk. NOBODY wants to hang out with some drunk Asshole from L.A. (or "wherever") in Hawai'i. I didn't. Actually, I was VERY lucky to have fallen in with some really nice Locals and people I worked with through Maui Public Schools. I worked for a Project that was funded by Rockwell International and The National Science Foundation. The Project involved having students design and/or follow Basic Scientific Formulae, instead of reading a book and taking tests. My job involved rewriting all of the Teachers' and Students' Classroom Manuals and making sense of "what had been sent to us by people on The Mainland" that knew absolutely nothing about Hawai'i or Hawai'ians. I was basically "chained to both a desk and a really nice Canon 5 Color Copier," to make Editing and mass quantities of Instructional Materials for schools around the Island of Maui. I got to do a Photoshoot that depicted: "People In Our Neighborhood" as a plus. The Butcher, Baker, Fireman, Cop and Surfboard Shaper. You get the idea.
National Parks. They are, in a few words: "Sanctuaries of Nature and a slice of What This Place Was Like Before White People Fucked It All Up and built Burger King's and Starbuck's EVERYWHERE." I am pretty "White." Mostly Bavarian. I am also part Souix Indian and Ashkenazim." I'd look pretty good, dressed up like a Hollywood Indian. If it's a Mel Brooks Movie. Mel Brooks purposely cast Jewish Guys as Indians because of their noses. It, of course, was hilarious. I always see the character "Fish" (Abe Vigoda) when I look at Hollywood Indians. I don't look like Abe Vigoda, or Mel Brooks. I'm one of those guys that people say: "Really? Funny, you don't 'look' Jewish," about. I don't look Native American, either. Central Casting wold make me a wood chopper on the Von Trask Property. As a child, I "absolutely refused" to go see: "The Sound Of Music." I hated Julie Andrews for years after that. I had also recently discovered that my Stepfather wasn't my REAL Father and didn't want to go on "Visitation Days" with the other kids. But, that's definitely: "another story."
When you visit Our National Parks, please try to be on your best behavior. For the sake of others and your own sake, if not simply out of respect for "where you currently are." National Parks are NOT "Party Places" or "Penalty Free Fuck Up Zones." You are be offered a privilege. Treat your stay as such. Don't throw trash around, try to be a bit quiet (you might actually learn something) and attempt to act Civilized and Respectful. I know "what that means to me" but, you can make up your own version. In your heart of hearts, you KNOW what it means. Listen to that "Little Voice" and turn off your internal dialog for awhile. You will thank me for this, later.
Go For A Walk. Try Not To Puke,
-Doc
Do NOT Do THIS:
I Love Les Claypool and Primus but, I wouldn't want to have someone camping next to me in a National Park, playing their music for days on end. Homicide would intervene, I am sure.
My "NEW" Computer still does not work. The Tech spent four hours with it yesterday. The machine is F.U.B.A.R.. It seems there is some Flash Code Imprint Information that is "missing" from the Motherboard. That means that the serial numbers that activate the UVID (Universal Virtual Identification Number) cannot be entered. Which, in turn, means that the OS cannot be installed. I am losing my patience. I, still, own a $250.00 Paper Weight. FUCK.
The BIG QUESTION is: "How much money does the Manufacturer want to spend sending Tech's to my house before they cave in and send me a working machine?" $1,000.00 on Tech's for a $250.00 machine? What kind of business plan is THAT? How do these Fuckers stay in Business?
Up at my usual insane hour of 04:00, writing, reading, drinking Earl Grey, listening to music, doing that which Human beings are "best at": Wasting Time and Farting Around. Again, I borrow from Kurt Vonnegut. I believe the quote to be: "We are here to Fart Around. It's what we are best at." Kurt also said: "Babies, I will tell you One Thing: You've GOT TO BE KIND." I've never met a Kurt Vonnegut quote that I didn't like.
Today, I am pondering "what" to do with the $8.00 I have in my pocket. I'm thinking: "Peanut butter, bread, Top Ramen and maybe some sugar." I DO have food around here but, it's All The Little Things that make the difference.
Today's "project" is to fix the LED light strip to the underside of my kitchen cabinets. So I can actually "see what I'm doing with my dishwashing." The adhesive on the light strip doesn't "stick" so, I'm thinking: "Staple it to the underside of the cupboard." At least the staples could be pulled later to repaint, etc. and I have my lights. I DO NOT want to drive a brad through the light strip. It could screw up the wiring or something. It's fragile stuff. Structural Integrity is key. "Lighting" is one of those things I know a fair amount about. If I can stage light an A List Rock Band, I can do this tiny project. Ya' know? It's not Rocket Surgery.
Suzie, The Rocket Vacuum Cleaner (God Bless Her Dust Bag), might not agree but...
Suzie was NOT an Electrolux, she was a Sears Roebuck but, this is the general idea. I affixed some "Home Made Rockets" to her exterior frame and lit them off. She flew pretty good, for awhile. As previously stated: "We were Young, Bored and Had A Few Beers In Us" when we launched her into the desert. Early 1970's.
R.I.P., Rocket Suzie. It was a Good Death. In The Name Of Science and Fun.
I'd like to Rocket Launch this Computer (The broken one, not this older backup machine I'm currently typing on) right about now but, I think I will let the Manufacturer do that deed.
Peace, Love and Amatuer Vacuum Cleaner Rocketry,
-Doc
..All watched over by Loving Grace, of course, I borrow from The Master.
I am not a big fan of machines that don't work. When I instruct my computer to: "Take a flying fuck off of the Golden Gate Bridge," I expect it to: "snap to ATTENTION," salute me while saying: "Yes SIR!" and ask how quickly said task should be executed. Then I patiently await the "splash" or, hopefully, "THUD," as it lands on the deck of some Japanese Tramp Freighter. Injuring The Fur Trapper... You get the idea.
I have even less patience for automated phone call systems and "follow-up calls" from syrup-y accented Corporate drones that can't pronounce either my name or the pronunciation of the town I live in. I recently explained to my Dear Mother that I: "Used to talk on the telephone for 5 hours per night, 5 nights per week." I was a Professional Fundraiser for Conservation and Social/Political Action Organizations. The whole Alphabet Soup, thereof. DO NOT ARGUE WITH ME ON THE PHONE. Especially if you're "wrong." I am the personified BANE of any and ALL Telemarketers. Same goes for "Technical Support Personnel" in places like Mumbai and Delhi, Managua or Manilla. They ALL have names like: "Johnny" or "Suzie." I had a Pet Vacuum Cleaner named Suzie, once. Poor Gal, she's in some state of deconstruction/destruction between Anza Borrego and Arizona now. We made a "missile" out of her one weekend. Fuck it. We were bored and had imbibed a few. You get the idea...
I hope that the Lenovo Technician coming to visit me, AGAIN, today likes Frank Zappa. I intend to be playing Frank the entire time he's here. The ReAlLy WeIrD sHiT. Actually, he's pretty nice and has to drive 170 miles just to get to my Bachelor Pad From Hell to fix my machine so, I'll probably be taking "requests."
I have a couple of REALLY AWFUL neighbors. I will, at some, undisclosed, anonymous, in Devilishly spiteful fashion, exact some form of heinous revenge upon them. I have considered a few of my "favorites" recently. I list them now, as pure entertainment and fanciful Tom Foolery. A nod is as good as a wink, to a Blind Horse.
1. Obtain a 10 gallon bucket of rancid fish offal. Guts, lips, foreskins, anuses, all the stinky parts. Let the bucket sit in a nice warm, preferably sunny, place until God Him/Her/It Self wouldn't go anywhere near that smell. Upon full maturation, pour said mixture into the grate at the rear of their car's hood, behind the actual hood and windshield wipers. In the middle of the night, of course. The smell NEVER goes away. I know. I was a Commercial Fisherman.
2. Place House Members on NUMEROUS Communist/Hate Group/KKK/Anti-Government Militia/Flag Burning/ Devil Worshipping, etc., mailing lists. Sit back and wait for the FBI to show up.
3. Frozen paint balls, lots of compressed air in the tank, to the ass. Use your imagination. Note: They REALLY HURT!
4. Pour a "skunk stripe" of Acetone down the dead center of their new car. It will NEVER fully go away. 4(b). Tar and Feather whole New Car. 4(c) Superglue dildoes to entire exterior of New Car.
5. A full gallon of liquid bleach or drain cleaner into a full load of their laundry. Or, a dead skunk...
6. Pay a couple of Out-Of-Town Mean Teenage Girls to beat them both into bloody pulps and roll said new car off a cliff. (This one is clearly a Last Resort kind of move)
7. Nail dead animals to their front door. Or, place animals of hood of New Car, repeatedly. Road Kill, of course.
8. Blow Dart them with a tranquilizer, administer a POWERFUL HALLUCINOGEN, throw them both into a small closet with a whole bunch of REALLY PISSED OFF HORNETS in there and wait for the Psych Unit to come get them.
9. Play Nazi Speed Metal for ten seconds at a time, REALLY LOUD numerous times during the night, from a car parked in their driveway and then simply drive away. Or just get a scrapped car, install a really shitty LOUD stereo and leave the car, locked, next to their house. In the middle of the night.
10. Put "I HATE COPS" bumper stickers on their New Car. Also in the Dead Of Night. (Kids will do this one, for free, or for a candy bar.)
Now, I know what you're thinking here: "Man, this is some pretty Chicken Shit Stuff." My answer is: "Yes. It is. These are a couple of: REALLY CHICKEN SHIT PEOPLE." They deserve much worse. Most of which would send the Average Joe to Prison for quite awhile. I'm not that guy but, I am vindictive and petty, mean when provoked and rotten when rotten is deserved. I can think of ALLOT of worse things to do to these people. Trust me. I have a very active imagination.
My Uncle, "H.G. Shook, Colonel, USAAC/USAF, (ret.)" was a P-47 Pilot, a Base Commander, my Mom's Older Bother and My Uncle. He still is all of those things.
Hal was one of the first wave of Fighter Pilots, from his Squadron in Winkton, U.K., flying from England into Normandy. He is also a "Tough Old Bird," a wonderful Uncle, Son, Big Brother and Human Being. He will not only show you proper respect, if deserved, but will be a Perfect Gentleman should you choose to return that respect. It would be advisable. He earned every bit you can muster. Be generous. Your courtesy will be returned.
I honor all those fine Military Personnel that served on this terrible day. You have earned every bit of the respect I can muster. You have earned it, in triplicate.
Thank you. Only tears will express my gratitude to a greater extent.
..That you don't like something, someplace, someone, etc., along comes Jones...
https://youtu.be/eFyr49TwuiI
I said that: "I don't like Zoos anymore." I lied. Actually, I like watching the Kids that go to Zoos with Mom and Dad. I grew up right up the Avenue from the San Francisco Zoo. How could I "not like Zoo's?" Frankie The Pig wasn't bad either. He needed a shave and a haircut though. Ugliest pig I ever saw in my life. Gnarly set of fangs. I wouldn't want to meet him behind a dumpster.
It was a good 10-12 mile walk. Every so often, I get a wild hair up my ass to go walk ten+ miles. Just to find out how much it hurts when I'm done. I feel "O.K." so far. I'll sleep like a stoned to death, banana leaf wrapped, scorched, Ulua Pig tonight though.
Kids and Zoos naturally "go together." Animals are curious, for the most part. Kids certainly are. I certainly was. All except for that one Chimpanzee that was fond of hucking crap at Tourists. As mentioned, we knew better than to stand in that front row. It was fun to watch the Noobs catch a load.
No such danger here though. All fairly tame animals. "Pet-able goats" and the like. No Lions or Polar Bears. Darn it. I actually enjoy animals that would just as soon eat me kick me to death, etc., as look at me, when going to Zoos. "Danger" is part of the show. Kind of like a Led Zeppelin Show in the early 70's. Ot "Leo" the lion turning Blue Haired Ladies' Hair White during his rush to the haunch at feeding time. (It was a fine spectacle.)
My Birthday is August 6th, which makes me a Leo, by the way.
Anyway. Tired. I'll sleep well tonight. Having not seen Lions or whatever.
I tend to become "upset" when Companies assume that they can "wear me out" and/or ignore my complaints regarding products sold to me that don't work.
About 4 months ago, I purchased a computer from Lenovo. Last month, it died. They sent me a technician what replace the Hard Drive and gave me an OS "rescue thumb drive." It didn't work and I still have a 250.00+ "Paper Weight." Most of my communications with the Company, have been greeted with "double talk and inaction." NOT the way it's "supposed to be." "The Customer is ALWAYS RIGHT," etc.. I would also be writing to Bill gates regarding the purchase. I know people that have worked for Microsoft. programmers, R&D Guys, etc..
There is a part of me that wants to literally, burn this machine into the dirt and mail it back to them. I'd be "out" $250.00 but, would also derive an immense amount of satisfaction from said destructive action. I would then go purchase another machine, from a different Company, after penning a VERY nasty letter to this business. Suggestions of the performance of auto-fellatio and consummation of dog excrement inclusive. I'm a NICE GUY and all that crap but, NOT when I'm treated like "I DON'T MATTER." I DO matter. EVERYBODY matters. You have my money? I want "what I paid for."
My favorite part of this procedure has been when some Technician in India gave me a WATTS # for Dell Computer. I suppose he thought that was humorous. I, did not.
Long story short, "I will NEVER buy another computer that was manufactured in China." Dear China: "Fuck you and the duck you rode in upon." Dear Lenovo: "Hang it in your ass." You have no idea what a Jerk I can be. "Grab your ankles and hold onto the edge of the desk, this is going to hurt."
I like Jerry. In slept in his basement with Jim (Radish Head) Bone once. Jim was on his way to a Try-Out. I was on my way to a ship in Ballard, bound for Alaska.
Woke up VERY early, paid all the bills, bought a couple of gifts for the Birthday Boys in my life, Brothers Both, and put water on for coffee while watching some AHC, which used to be The Military Channel. I had originally planned to leave The Ranch late this morning but, on second thought, I think I will leave early. Go Downtown and have some coffee at one of my favorite haunts and watch the day warm up from that vantage point. Fool around a take few photograph's and then go to the Post Office to get a money order and pay my rent. It's not "cold" outside but, I'll probably opt for the "convertible" pants today. The kind with legs that zip off and become shorts. Part of my Pacific North Coastal "layering" System. Over the last 20 years or so, I've got the clothing thing wired.
As we nudge our way toward the anniversary of D-Day, my thoughts are on the actions of my Uncle, Col. Hal Shook, USAF (ret.). Hal was a P-47 Pilot, (then) a 23 year old Major in the Army Air Corps, which was the foundation for the United States Air Force. Hal went on to fly under that new branch of the military as well, in Korea and then later in Vietnam. In Korea, he flew F-86's and in Vietnam, he was training Fighter Pilots in Dogfighting and Mission Tactics. After Vietnam, he went on to Offutt Air Force Base, Omaha, Nebraska and then to The Pentagon. He finished his Career as a "Bird" Colonel and is now 96 years old. Last year and a couple years previous, he "jumped out of Perfectly Good Airplanes" for the only two times he's done that. He made the jumps with a Golden Knight, Mike Elliot. Thanks, Mike!
The Soundtrack is REALLY LOUD here. Be careful...
"Shookie" (as the members of his WW2 Flight Crew called him) made his second jump last year, both to honor his Son, who literally, "had a massive heart attack and died while packing the 'chutes for a joint Birthday Jump" for both himself and his Dad, Hal. Uncle Hal jumped with the same Golden Eagle on that jump as well. He makes a nice "Butt Landing" on the second jump.
You may say to yourself: "What a Nut." Just don't say that around any of us in his Family, of which I am a proud member. I remember going to Air Shows at Andrews A.F.B. near Washington, D.C., with Hal and the rest of my Family while my Stepfather was at The United States Naval Academy, in Annapolis, Maryland, as part of the Navy National Band. We lived in The D.C. Triangle and Uncle Hal lived in Falls Church, Virginia. I remember playing with other Kids in his basement. I knocked another Kid's tooth out while playing Blind Man's Bluff, pushing him into a concrete Sonotube down there. Totally an accident and I recall feeling really bad about it. I was about 6 or 7 years old. one of a couple of vague memories of our time around D.C..
"What a Nut" goes way back for Uncle Hal. He flew; "Anything with an engine and wings" throughout his career. From Fighters to Bombers and everything in-between. He once "Point Rolled" a B-17 with a General in the back. When the General looked out of the fuselage, he "noticed" that the airplane was "upside down." His can of Coke was stationary on the tray in front of him but, he was VERY angry. Nobody had ever "rolled" a B-17 back then. Hal knew it could be done so, he did it. Note: A "point roll" is one that circles "around a fixed point on the horizon" as opposed to a "barrel roll" which circles "on a fixed point on the horizon." It is a repositioning maneuver. BIG difference. In a point roll, nothing inside of the aircraft "moves." In a barrel roll, everything not lashed down/held tight is floating around and is more of an evasive and/or "celebratory" maneuver.
The maneuver almost got Hal Court Martialed. But, his Boss, another General, knew that it "just wasn't done" to C.M. a highly decorated Pilot. He "fessed up" and took responsibility for the flight, which probably helped as well. He flew four sorties, out of his base at Winkton, U.K., on D-Day as "top cover" for his Squadron in a Republic P-47D, one of the best Fighter/Bombers ever designed and flown by the U.S.A.A.C.. He favored that plane over others, such as the P-51D, which seems to have Grabbed All The Glory among WW2 Pilots and since. My personal favorite aircraft that Hal flew was the P-38. It's a beautiful airplane. A: Night Operations Fighter/Bomber. Fast, maneuverable and packed a good punch. "The Fork-Tailed Devil" it was Nicknamed.
P-47D "Bubble Top", P-51D "Bubble Top" and P-38:
On D-Day and days afterward, Hal blew up a couple of trains and tanks, disrupted some Infantry and generally made a mess out of the Nazi's behnd the lines with his P-47, "Rae," named for his Wife, my Aunt. He also flew during The Battle Of The Bulge battles in Belgium, Holland and Germany, in addition to France. A couple years ago, the French Government awarded him the Croix de Guerre/Legion Of Honor Medal with two Palm Leaves. It's about the same thing as the Congressional Medal Of Honor, in France. Hal has numerous Friends in France and used to regularly make the journey to Normandy to pay his respects and visit with those that he'd net during WW2. Only being shot down once, he was indebted to a French farmer for saving his life after being bayoneted through both lungs and having his teeth kicked in. The Krauts left him for dead. It didn't pan out that way. He's still a Tough Old Bird at 96 years old.
A Farmer hid him in a barn, got his lungs patched up, re-inflated them and fed him soup until Patton's Armored came rolling up the road. He'd received his injuries after deciding to take out a Nazi M.G.-47 Machine Gun Nest, so the approaching Infantry behind Patton's Tanks wouldn't get shot up. He probably "felt O.K." about getting wounded. No doubt the Army sent him back Stateside for awhile to recuperate. I forget what exactly happened. He's written about it in one of his three published books. I own a copy of the Author's Draft for his book, "Fighter Pilot Jazz."
Then Major Hal G. Shook, U.S.A.A.C. in '44:
Hal at his Croix de Guerre/Legion Of Honor ceremony:
Between Memorial Day and the Anniversary of D-Day (My Buddy, Airman Stephen Brown, U.S.N. is one of the Birthday Brothers, June 6th. One of the "giftees" this morning. The other is my brother, Grant, who turns 60 on the 27th.. Grant served as a Platoon Sergeant in Berlin and Stuttgart, Germany, in the 70's. I tend to think allot about all those in My Family and All Service Families. We lost a Kid in Afghanistan. A U.S.A.F. JTAC. JTAC's, The Forward Recon Observers that "paint" targets for precision bombing and Drone hits. He, Senior Airman Bradley Smith, was out trying to rescue some guys that had been "cut off" from their unit when they were hit by an I.E.D. in their Humvee. Major bummer. He left a Wife and daughter. His Wife, my Kid Sister's Daughter was his Wife, whom had also served in the Air Force as a Cryptologist and Linguistics Specialist. Chloe, his Daughter, hadn't been born yet. There are allot of Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen and Women in my Family. I'm The Exception. I have "Served My Country" in other ways and am thankful for those who "Gave Some" and others that "Gave ALL."
Keep 'em flying, Pal!
With Deepest Appreciation for The All, in all of us,
-Doc
I'm not a big fan of Zoos, Aquariums (Seaworld type) or any other "Animal Prisons." If I want to see animals, I put on my hiking boots and go find some. They don't need to be exotic or from out of the country or anything, just "Animals." Birds are cool, especially Raptors of ANY kind. I've rescued a couple of Salamanders from drainage ditches (so they wouldn't end up in the bay) and I like seeing Coyotes, Mountain Lions (from a distance), Bears, Wolverines, Possums, Skunks, Foxes, Raccoons, etc. (also from a distance) and just about everything else that walks, lopes, cantors or slithers.
Fish are another matter. I'll kill, gut and eat just about anything that are in the Phylum Chordata, particularly Oncorhynchus nerka. Sockeye Salmon to you. Kings and Coho are also on the wanted Dead poster. The Cook in me likes them sauteed, baked or pan fried. All with garlic and lemon, black pepper, perhaps Rosemary and of course, butter. Unsalted. None of the Fancy Frenchy Vomit on my fish, Pal. People that do things like put Hollandaise Sauce on fish should be shot and fed to rabid dogs. No sympathy for pretentious Chefs, here. The only things Hollandaise is good for is fertile eggs and Asparagus.
What I cannot abide is the Anthropomorphization of Wild Animals, locking them up in cages, giving them Human Names and occasionally popping one in the head with a rifle because there was a 10% chance that it might just harm a Dumb Kid that fell into its' enclosure/cell block. I must, rather morbidly, admit that I enjoied the Hell out of the story out of San Francisco where the Teenagers got chewed on (one killed) for taunting a Bengal Tiger. It's not "nice" to throw things at animals with 3" fangs that can climb a 20' tall cement wall. The news from their neighborhood was that they were Privileged, Obnoxious, Little Assholes, anyway. The only animals I enjoy taunting are dogs that already KNOW that they're going to get The Treat anyway. I guess that's not really "taunting." More like a game of: "Button, button, who's got the Button?"
After I checked out Scientific American's "reprint policy" I determined that it might be better to simply provide a link to today's tragic murder of a "wild animal" (which it wasn't, since it had been bred in captivity and was pre-destined to spend its' whole life behind bars.) and the Public Outcry of that action. To wit:
I used to Love going to the San Francisco Zoo, which was right down the block from where I was a Nipper, to walk around gawking at the great animals there. "Leo" (his Slave Name) the Lion was probably my all time favorite. Every day, at a prescribed time, they'd "feed" the Lions. The Keepers would open a sliding door at the rear of the indoor enclosure and Leo and his Buddies would charge in, ROARING and scare the crap out of the Old Ladies From Iowa. I got so used to it, I laughed at them. Then, there was the Chimpanzee that would fling its' excrement at onlookers, for no particular reason. My Uncle, Brother and I knew better than to stand too close to THAT cage, after turning our "Elephant Key" at the box. Elephant Key? Google it yourself. If you don't know what it is, you're NOT from San Francisco.
The LAST time I went to the S.F. Zoo, formerly named Fleischhacker Zoo, after its' Founder, I was truly depressed. It was about 10 years ago. I'll NEVER go there again. The Elephants, Rhino's, Camels, etc., other large animals, were GONE. There was a very depressed Snow Leopard across the way in a TINY CAGE. A couple of Ocelot's that seemed vaguely suicidal and Cougars, Hyena's, etc., that I'm sure would have also given a .357 a Blow Job, provided half a chance.
I learned to swim at Fleishhacker Pool. It was The Largest Outdoor, Heated, Saltwater, Pool, In The World, when it was built to provide a Training Pool for American Athletes, in preparation for the 1936 Olympics. Johnny Weismuller (Tarzan) trained there for those Olympics. You know, the one in Berlin. When Hitler got to find out that White men Can't Run Fast, Jump High or Long and are basically Second String Players (Apologies to Larry Bird and Bill Walton) on Basketball Courts. Basketbal wasn't part of the '36 Olympics. (I don't really care one way or the other about Basketball.) Jessie Owens sure the Hell was, though. Nice going, Adolf. You're the Turd in The Aryan (sic) Punchbowl. So much for your Superhuman Theory, Johnny One Ball. Ever since those Olympics, White People, everywhere, have been resentful and/or jealous of African American Athletes. Tough shit, Crackers.
Personally, I don't give a shit. My Family is Ashkenazim, Catholic, Non-Denominational, possibly a tad Lutheran. I'm pretty darned White. I get sunburned just looking out of the window. I'm totally kidding about other White People being "resentful." "Jealous" is spot on though. I was just happy to see the Nazi's get their noses rubbed in cat shit. Not that I was around in 1936. My Mom wasn't even born yet, f'er cryin' out loud.
I watched "Inglorious Basterds" again, last night. A Quentin Tarantino WW2 Spaghetti Western? Go figure.
Hans Landa: "Oooh! That's a Bingo! Is that how you say it? That's a Bingo?"
p.s.- Giants over Atlanta 4-0. 1 game apiece in a four game series. This is kind of "what happens" when a team with an average twice that of "the other team's" go head to head.
Today being Actual Memorial Day, I am sitting around The Ranch, recording some music (Mike Keneally), listening to some Very Old Tape Of Myself, making two pots of coffee (a 25 oz. French Press) and watching the trees. Pygmy Redwoods and Mixed Firs, NOT Dancing like Spastic Jack-In-The-Boxes as they have been over the last few days. A couple of interesting "wind events" have happened over the last week or so. Nice and "mostly calm," 70-ish today. Glad to not be out on the water. There are Tuna out there, about 200 miles "out there." Maybe a bit closer, if the wind is pushing them.
There's got to be a Giants Game on today... Of course there is. It just started. Giants @ Rockies. Break out the 1949 Seals Cap for this game, Baby.
Watched the game. The Giants crushed the Rockies, again. 8-3 today. Yesterday, it was 10-5, Giants. We're playing good baseball. Johnny Cueto just about "got into it" with some Whiner from the Rockies in the 3rd inning. It was VERY un-Sportsman-like. I applaud Cueto for not charging the guy or talking a head shot at him. The Whiner hit into a double play after The Temper Tantrum. All Giants Fans dislike the Colorado Rockies. Almost as much as we dislike the Dodgers. Anyway, now on to Atlanta. I don't like the Atlanta Braves. "America's team" with that stupid Tomahawk Chop thing they do with the Fake Indian Chant... Fuck off and die. Booger Eatin' Crackers.
Some people like to have Parties on Memorial Day and burn up some Weenies, drink too much, get D.U.I.'s, etc.. This is a somber event for me. Flag on the Apartment Door, a visual "Do Not Disturb Sign" for anyone with half a wit about themselves. We have lost Kids in my Family. Many members of my Family and Extended Family have fought in Wars. I am a Navy Lifer Brat. Today is not about Burning Weenies and Drinking Beer. I will make myself a Lunch with a Double Anchovy Cheese Burger, in Relative Paradise. No, there aren't any little fish on the Cheese Burger. I wouldn't "put it past myself" though. Stranger things have happened. Anchovy Daiquiris, for instance. (Not my idea) No, it was NOT Memorial Day either. It was: Sometime around Christmas, years back, at The World Famous Up & Up Tavern, in Bellingham, Wa.. Some Bright Bulb removed Ian's Mural (An homage to Michelangelo's "God Touching Adam's Hand" painting, with God pouring Ian a beer instead.) from the front of the building. I guess it's alright. Ian passed away a few years back in Valdez (or was it Cordova?), Alaska. He looked like: "Hamish from Braveheart." Ian Relay was indeed, A Scotsman. Kilt wearing, Caber-Tossing BIG GUY. You wanted to be his Friend. Whether or not you actually were, was something he wouldn't have hesitated to inform you of. I called him Friend and as far as I was/am aware, the feeling was mutual and beneficial.
If you know "what this is" you are In The Club. Hint for the non-initiate: "48."
I can use that line as a stock explanation/Tag Line for: "How I Woke Up Today." I have a VERY vivid dream life and it's all in Quad Stereo and HD color. It may as well be Holographic. Sometimes pornographic and definitely Grafik Graphic. As stated, "VIVID." My brain has some strange shit to work out during my sonambient moments. Sonambient? Didn't you mean: "Somnambulant?" No, I did not. Allow me to clear that up for you... http://harrybertoia.org/sonambient.html
Usually, I remember the tail end of whatever has been driving my Unconscious' School Bus, Neal Cassady or Babs at the helm and some strange music going on as a soundtrack. The scenery past the windows ranges from the Bucolic to the downright Post Apocalyptic/Apoplectic. Could be Psychedelic Smiling Cows in a 2-D Cardboard Cutout field or a Post Nuclear Disaster In Smell-O-Vision, take y'er pick. My brain certainly does. It doesn't need to be asleep to be firing on all cylinders in Fantastic Voyage Mode.
Oh, The Humanity...
My favorite dreams are usually of People/Places/Things that I can no longer access via conventional means. Time being what it is and all that. Then again... Would one want to visit one's Past and /or Future anyway? There's certainly allot of shit I'm more than happy to forget and shudder to imagine happening. One of my alltime favorite movies stars Robin Williams, Cuba Gooding Jr. and Annabella Sciorra. "What Dreams May Come." I don't think I'd want to go rescue my Wife from Hell.
I choose to remember The Good Times and forget the rest, which is somewhat Schizophrenic. Many people don't understand that word. They think it means: Multiple Personalities or something else that it does not. It merely denotes: A Disengagement From Reality. Odds are that a sizeable portion of the World's Population suffers from that condition, by degrees. I like Adam Savage's line: "I reject your Reality and substitute my own." Bingo! Diagnosis. (He'd be in some Trouble if he truly did act out that tag line.)
...Right here in River City...
Now, "Fantasies" are quite another thing. I dig Fantasies, The Most. To paraphrase Gidget. "Oh, Daddy... Surfing is simply The Most! When you're riding that wave and..." as Gidget attempts to "explain" the rush of wave riding to her Square Father, while using her bed as a surrogate "Wave." I've dreamt that Godget quit fooling around, take off that flowered Bikini and allow me to have my way with her, a hundred times. Maybe that's weird. I don't care. Most of the Boys I grew up with dreamed about "having their way with" the young Ms. Fields. Not the Cookie Lady, but, Sally. Debbie Fields is a whole 'nuther story. I met her a few times while I lived in Park City, Utah and she was fairly scary. I knew a Gal that worked in her then Corporate Headquarters. I have no idea where Debbie's C.HQ. is these days. I do like her Chocolate Chip with Macadamia Nut Cookies though. She may have sold the Corporation to ConAgra by now. Who knows?
Anyway... If you thought I was going to bust out the story of Last Night's Strange Dream, you boofed. They "belong" to me and that's where they're staying. For about a Million Bucks, I'll write the Screenplay and you can watch the Psychiatrists lead me away in a Straight Jacket when the movie's over.
If dreams interest you, you think Hell might be A Colossal Funhouse, just enjoy Robin Williams or whatever, watch the movie. It's a filmmaker's Wet Dream. Pun intentional.
-Doc
Carrie Snodgress, Alice Cooper (The Band Onstage), What's-His-Name (whom I can't stand to watch):
I lit a field near my Parents' House on fire once, while in about 6th Grade. Purely by accident. Of course, had I not been playing with matches, making a tidy little Boy Scout-ish type "Campfire" in the middle of an old horse pasture in August in Southern California, it wouldn't have happened. Then, there was the time I lit Gramma's Garage on fire in San Francisco. It caught some paint on fire and started coming up the stairs after me, scaring the crap out of Tinker The Dog, (whom I hated, anyway) Myself and my Mom and ended up taking out the Parquet Floor in the Kitchen/Dining Room of my Grandparents' Beautiful 1930's Outer Sunset District Home.
Gramps ("H.E." to Family) was able to talk the Fire Marshal, whom he knew, into declaring it a "spontaneous combustion" kind of thing and then take Grandma to stay in The Ocean Park Motel for about a month while the Carpenters fixed all the damage I'd done. The Ocean Park was/is the First "Motel" West Of The Rocky Mountains. Still there @ 46th Avenue and Wawona Street down by The San Francisco Zoo. A "Streamline Moderne" kind of place, architecturally speaking. I've stayed there, since, with a Woman that was a Pain In The Ass from Iowa. A Local Secret. (The Motel, not Iowa Girls.) The Daughter of the Original Owners and her Husband now run the place. It's been there since 1937. Same year the Golden Gate Bridge opened. The year before my Mom was born.
J. Edgar Hoover HATED Motels and considered them The Root Of All 1950's Social Ills. He also liked to wear Tu-Tu's, Pancake Makeup and Spy On EVERYBODY. Nixon too, minus the Tu-Tu's. Nixon preferred Hotels, like The Watergate, in D.C.. I've been there, too.
Back To The Fire: I was about 5 years old. We: Mom, Myself and my Little brother, had to go live with Aunt Mimi in Santa Clara for a month or so and I think my Grandpa grumbled into his S.F. Chronicle while having a beer in the Living Room when he was home for months to come, if I was in the room. Lucky for me, he Loved me and if nothing else, admired my quasi-Scientific curiosity. Gramps was a Scientist. Literally. He'd been an Army Medic in WW1, was a Board Certified Pharmacist, Chemist and a Parfumier. He worked for a pretty good sized Chemical Company and eventually worked for Dow Chemical, selling cleaning and preservative materials to Canneries from San Francisco to Portland and back. A good gig, for The Great Depression onward. One Family Story about "H.E." is that he had a hand in inventing the "lick and seal" mailing envelope. His Partner ripped him off for the Patent. No "proof" of that, just a rumor I remember and admire. Then again, parts of my Childhood are purely fictional. I either dreamed or simply invented the details. Boredom or self-inflicted shame being ostensible root causes there... I would NOT have made Grandpa proud. Now, my Uncles are a totally different story. Berkeley Professors that ran off with a cute student to become Light House Docents, Gun Collectors, Race Car Builders, etc.. I was somewhat The Kamikaze Pilot Kid of my Family.
The House is still there, too. 2622 46th Avenue, San Francisco, Ca.. A nice easy rhyme for a Kid to remember, if he got lost at Macy's, The Zoo or on a Streetcar, which I probably did and had to have Francis The Irish Cop bring me home. Cops in San Francisco were mostly Irish, back then. They were Your Best Friends, if you were a Lost Kid or a Pretty Young Girl with some Creep following you. Now? Who the fuck knows? ALL the Detectives were named "Dirty" Something Callahan, in the 50's-'60's. I've seen photo's of the butts of Cop's Guns with Grateful Dead decals on them. I imagine there are still some of those guys around. Probably the only two places in S.F. that didn't have Irish Cops were North Beach and Chinatown. North Beach had Italian Cops. Chinatown took care of itself. Whole streets could blow up and the Irish or Italian Cops wouldn't even bother driving in to see what it looked like. Not a "racist thing," just a simple fact that Chinatown took care of Chinatown. Still does. Ditto for Japantown, or SOMA as "they" like to call the area nowadays. The part of town my Mom WAS NOT allowed to cross into as a Kid. It didn't stop her from getting pregnant with me when she was 15 years old. My Biological Father was just back from the Korean War and had a shiny, new, BMW Motorcycle. In all likelihood, I was conceived very near that motorcycle in someplace bucolic like La Honda, Russian River, Guerneville, or the like. My Dad went to Hollywood High School. Class of '48 or so. Mom and Dad met in a gas station parking lot. Classic 1950's San Francisco Romance. Dad was a 6'2" Good Looking Guy and Mom was WAY TOO PRETTY to be only 15 years old. She was drinking and dancing it up in the Cool Jazz Clubs of San Francisco by the time she was 17. My two Stepfathers were both Musicians. Go figure. No wonder I'm a Weirdo.
Then we moved to Sandy Eggo. My Life Was OVER. I have NEVER Self-Identified as a Southern Californian. California "ends" at about Monterrey/Big Sur, for me. From there on, it's Northern Mexico. California also extends about halfway up the Oregon Coast for me, as well. I'm Geographically, Cartographically, Challenged. It hasn't made much difference either way in my life. I refuse to recognize "Borders" and such in My World. Mostly. I did say: "Northern Mexico," after all. That's more of a Cultural Thing.
Waking up with Oingo Boingo on Sennheiser Headphones and my usual diet of coffee, cigarettes and Newspapers/Movies With No Sound On. (A hold-over from my Stoner Period, I'm sure.) The movie, "Weird Science" is on T.V.. Michael Anthony Hall's Buddy's (Wyatt) Parents just pulled up in a taxi. The missile is disappearing and the beds are making themselves. Kelley LeBrock just showed up as the New Boys' Phys. Ed. Teacher. The Boys all pass out. Roll credits.
I am a Creature Of Habit. Unless I'm not, certain days... Today is one of the Quiet Days around The Anchovy Ranch. Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, my Noisy Neighbor goes to Dialysis. No "Bad Reggae" music coming through the kitchen wall or knocks on the door for mooched cigarettes every hour or two. A: That Shit isn't really "Reggae" and B: GYOFC. I wish. He's like a 59 year old guy with a Baby Head. Classic case of Neurotic Arrested Development and Co-Dependency. Not comfortable in his own skin, etc.. It's somewhat sad to watch.
I think I'll hoof it up to the Humane Society Thrift Store and see "what" costs $2.00 later, after the fog burns off. I always find: "something." EVERYTHING in Life should: "cost two dollars." Lamborghini Cars, Weddings, Divorces, Bail Money, the Whole Shooting Match.
The "Local Secret" part is that this is one of the BEST Travel Values left in San Francisco. The last time I stayed there, we paid $120.00 per night for 10 days. A nice, big, corner room that you got to wake up with the howls of Howler Monkeys from The Zoo in every morning. Part of my Childhood That's Actually Verifiable. I bought all the Dinners, Drinks and Taxi's. Iowa Girl paid for the Motel. I was tasked with being the Big City Boy Tour Guide, during the stay there. "No, you DO NOT walk around Downtown San Francisco with your Visa Card in your shirt pocket. YES, put your purse UNDER YOUR ARM... Do NOT give money to CrAzY PeOpLe..."
Love, good coffee, a fresh razor and a Pack Of Camel Straights,
-Doc
Every so often, I feel compelled to hand out "Shameless Plugs" as though they were candy from my Tweed Coat Pocket. This is one of those times.
Yesterday, I was introduced to a "Boutique Guitar Manufacturer" in Walla Walla, Washington. They produce some gorgeous "one off" designer or "boutique" guitars that are, in a word: "Gorgeous." My Friend, Jim McGuinn, carries their guitars at his store, Hot Poop Records and Stereos. Also in Walla Walla, "A City So Nice, They Had To Name It Twice." Jim's been in Walla Walla since 1973. The same year I graduated from High School. We were Friends back then and remain so. We talk on the phone often. Usually while he's ringing up people's orders at his store and there are allot of "Hold on a second, I have to ring this guy up" moments. It doesn't bother me.
After I had visited the Guitar Company's Web Page, I was IMPRESSED. I own a couple of old guitars and am a notorious: "Tone Freak." After reading through some of the schematic specs. and whatnot, I was convinced that these are instruments worth plugging. The "Standard" line on guitars hovers in the $2,000 to $3,000 range but there are exceptions, The Wallacaster, for instance, which is down into the $500-$700 range. A Fender Strat Clone, it is straight forward in design and has all high(er) end stock spec. parts. I would choose a maple neck and fretboard, just because "That's Who I Am" in that genre. I'm also: "Not That Kind Of Customer Who Spends $2k On A Guitar. Mostly, because I can't. I'm more the weird niche market Teisco del Rey and Sears/Harmony/Danelectro/Wards Airline Futura/Streamliner kind of Guy. Show me a crappy old guitar from the '60's and I'm in Heaven with David Lindley. A "Coodercaster" would fill the bill, too. I could just as easily fall in Lust with a used Parker, but, that adds a whole new dimension. You can look those up for yourself. I tend to favor stock guitars and let The Rack and/or Pedals do the Modeling.
I currently own an Epiphone Custom Shop Les Paul Junior with a P-100 Pickup, Ebony Fretboard, Bolt Neck, in "T.V. Yellow," a Limited Edition Model made in Korea in 1996. It is a "Finish Blemish" Guitar. The Mustard Yellow finish is "streaked" Nitro over Maple. I don't care "what" guitars look like, just how they "sound." My other (working) guitar is a 1959 Magnatone Lap Steel in Emerald Pearloid, that stuff they cover sparkly drum kits with. Also referred to as: "M.O.T.S." or, "Mother Of Toilet Seat." I happen to like playing Lap Steel. It's "easy on the Old Guy hands" and makes HUGE chords with minimal effort. Sustain for days, weeks even. It's a good "Foundation Instrument." I write from that guitar, often. Laying down Primary riffs and then fleshing them out with standard notation. I also own a "project" Lap Steel, a 1949 Magnatone-Dickenson that is much more "ballsy" and lacks ANY sort of cosmetic appeal. A slab of Redwood with an Epoxy Twin Magnet Pickup, Hand Rest/Cover and a set of Grover knock-off keys. Slopped on White Out defines the "Fret Positions." I bought it in a Thrift Store for $10.00 with an Original Case, which, is worth much more than the guitar.
I am fond of using David Gilmour's approach to sound processing, i.e., "Digital Delay and Sustain" for almost everything. That and a bit of Overdrive and Compression. It's a BIG sound. In addition to using a Boss PS-3 Multi-Effects Stomp Box, I use a Roland VS-840, the first model, which acts as an effects bay and not a Recording Workstation. (I like Metal cassette tape better) There are few Effects Patch Bays better than Roland's. The worst thing about those early Roland Units is that the User Manual is like a backwards written Christmas Playboy. NOTHING makes any sense, whatsoever. So, I just "winged it" with my experimentation. Found some combo's that "worked" and called it good. I got the Roland Unit as part of a trade for music gear on a '77 BMW car I owned. He got the Beemer, I got the Roland, a Danelectro DC-2 and a '66 International Truck. I came out ahead. The guy totalled the Beemer and I still have the Roland. Sold the truck and Danelectro.
I digress... My next move was to contact my Local Music Store and let them know about The Walla Walla Guitar Company. Anthony Mantova, the Lead Buyer at Mantova's Two Street Music fired off an email to my Buddy, Jim and we'll see what happens. Mantova's is a GREAT store and I ONLY take them my instruments to be Techie'd upon. Their Guitar Guy is The Real Deal. I know, within about 5 minutes, whether or not I trust someone to work on my MOTR Instruments. They're (My Guitars) cheap but, I LIKE them and want all the stuff in them to work correctly. Regardless of the fact that I am a shameless Hack Player and consummate NOODLER. A WANKER. There. I've said it.
Anyway... http://wallawallaguitars.com/ Check it out. You'll thank me, later.
Love and Alien Blowjobs,
-Doc
Ernie (Cut Directly to "Satellite Farm." This Fucker was one HOT Guitarist):
Some history/back-story:
With Root Boy Slim and The Sex Change Band:
p.s.- "Root Boy Slim Owes Me Money." For the Non-Initiate: "Root Boy Slim," a.k.a. Foster McKenzie III, was a Fraternity Brother of George W. Bush at Yale. Georgie had Foster "permanently kicked out of" that Frat. Foster was "too weird" said Little George, when he wasn't snorting coke off of a Cheerleaders ass or drinking his way into a piss soaked coma and pulling a C Average GPA at Yale. Foster, on the other hand, was busy becoming an Authentic American Icon. A rebellious waste wad sometimes, at others a poignant reminder of the dangers of The Excess Of The Privileged. They both beat going to Vietnam. Georgie went AWOL from the Texas Air National Guard, Foster took drugs and made weird music. Foster also took a stolen D.C. Streetsweeper on a drug-fueled romp, ending up crashing through the fence at The White House, which, in turn, landed him an "Evaluatory Stint" at a local Mental Health Facility. This is but one "version" of the story. There are others, such as: "Root simply consumed a VERY LARGE DOSE OF LSD and was apparently 'trying to find the Center Of The Universe' when arrested for climbing the White House Fence." At any rate, Young Foster was "medicated" for the rest of his life, which ended in June of 1993. The rest is History. If you happen to be unfamiliar with this music, get your ass some good headphones and a BIG AMP and blow your ears out. You'll thank me, later. Watch a couple of YouTube Videos of RBSATSCB, etc., while you're at it...
