DON'T FORGET YOUR FAVORITE ROCK

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.

Peace, Love and Insect Repellent,
-Doc

Just f'er "Kicks":

"...almost laughed out my False Teeth..."
  

MILITARY "BRAT"

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

Hugs and Kisses,
-Doc

AMPS AND GUITARS

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." 

Doc 

VIET NAM IN YOUR OWN BACK YARD!

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:

 Happy July 4th, Neighbors!

-Doc