Finally, a decent snow storm blew through Acton yesterday and last night. It was everything they promised us. There is at least 18 inches of the white magic out there; a nice blanket I get to watch thaw over the next so many days. I can't wait. I'm so excited.
I'm guessing Maggie was not so excited. She only made it a couple of feet outside when she decided the snow sucked and she was going to do her business next to the chimney. Usually she is a perimeter pooper, preferring some privacy a few feet out of sight. Desperate times, desperate measures.
I could tell from the expression on her face, she blamed me for this. I explained to her it was Trump's fault. Everything wrong today is Trump's fault. Maggie was having none of it.
Speaking of Trump; an interesting meme crossed my path yesterday on Facebook. Like so many anythings posted on Facebook, I could not and did not fact check this meme before I decided to share here on the BoZone.
The meme claims to show the results of an IQ test our president took when he was a student at the New York Military Academy. The resulting score seems to support the opinion of many Americans that he was born stupid and he only made it worse by growing into adulthood. Of course this calls into question his claim that he is a stable genius and the bestest and smartest human on the planet.
Now that I have fed a fantasy, I decided I would not respect myself later this morning if I did not check out the honesty of this well meaning crucible of misinformation.
Sadly, Poli-Fact not only called the meme bogus, they wasted many words driving that point home. Okay, Okay, get over yourselves Polifact; it's a fake fact. But I am sharing it anyway. Why am I sharing it? Well, that may seem to be a good question, but it is not. It is a stupid one. As long as I include this written disclaimer, I'll fucking share anything I want; at least on my blog anyway.
So there it is; a wonderful few moments sharing what I often do on snowy mornings here at Acton Up. The excitement never stops here in the state that champions "Life in the Slow Lane".
Don't Eat the Yellow Snow Where the Huskies Go .............................
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I was trying to come up with a catchy sign off other than my usual "Keep it 'tween the ditches". I looked out the window and all I saw was snow and immediately Frank Zappa came to mind, Why, you might ask? Well, he is an awesome musician and when he was alive, I am sure he was one of the smartest men on the planet. He also did not suffer fools or their foolishness politely. He spoke up whenever he saw idiots plying their trade. And he never seemed to take himself too seriously.
Without further introduction here is Frank Zappa and his band with a medley, "Don't Eat the Yellow Snow" and "Nan Nook Rubs It".
Because the New England Patriots won the AFC Championship yesterday and they are now headed to the Stuper Bowl in two weeks, Here is a "Two Fer" with Kool and the Gang performing "Celebration". ......Go Pats !
Anyone who has read anything I have written knows I just love the sound of my own voice. At the drop of a hat, I can write 1000 words and end up with nothing of any worth.
But I sit silent now, speechess, muted, and stunned into silence as I try to make sense of a great friend's passing.We had so many good times, I cannot find any that stand out over the others. The petty squabbles we had over the 30 plus years we were friends, I counted on one hand. No, make that less than on one hand; maybe as low as one or two.
Anyway, Keith is gone now. Though I was aware of his health issues, I denied the possibility of his passing as a moment that would occur sooner than later. I guess if we keep moving like nothing has changed, it keeps the worry level down. But in the end, the price of burying that worry can turn really ugly.
I will miss Keith. I will miss his tendency to smile first, look angry way later. It was bikes that first connected us. I will miss even more now, the bike rides we shared over the span of our 30 plus year friendship.
So, I finish with one short tale of a ride we shared at some quarry in Vermont or was it northern New Hampshire?
We were riding on single track that flowed among and around large exposed sections of ledge and quarry cuts. Often, there was not much room between the trail and some kind of drop off, usually not too high. I was 100 feet behind Keith as he entered a hairpin turn that flowed around a huge section of exposed ledge. As we passed each other, Keith on one side, me on the other; he smiles, raises his hand, waves at me, and immediately disappears, gone like he was never there.
I hurried around the turn. He wasn't on the trail anymore. Because of the pucker on each side of the singletrack, all I saw was crushed pucker brush where "the car went off the cliff". I remember a sick feeling as I pulled up at the departure point. Instead of looking down and seeing Keith laying in a heap many feet down, sprawled, broken and sad, he was sitting up and looking at me from maybe10 feet down a short slope.
"Where's my Bike? ....... Find my bike."
I knew in that moment, he was okay. And I started in on him, busting his chops about his chump way of riding.
He was a better friend than I deserved I am sure.
R.I.P good friend, R.I.P.
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The one area Keith and I had endless discussions regarding music while we killed time traveling to and from a ride location near or far away. Your band sucks, mine doesn't.......
Keith was adamant The Doors sucked. He said their music was boring and that Jim Morrison got too much credit. He was just a malcontent the chicks were all in love with. I disagreed vehemently. The Doors were and still are on my top 5 Classic Rock list. Mostly though, we agreed on our favorites, even if they may be on different levels on our individual lists. Three artists / bands we definitely agreed on was David Bowie, Neil Young and Queen. In keeping with our mutual passion for all thing Bicycle, please enjoy by turning up to WOW, "Bicycle Race", by Queen.
When I was young, I guess around 11 or 12, I began to fight the status quo I found around me. Classic rebellion of youth I guess. Anything my parents were into and that I had also been into, became a target to remove with prejudice as Old People Bullshit. I wasn't a kid anymore. Of that I was sure.
Outwardly, I appeared to be that cool kid who was hip to all the other hip kid shit my hip buds were into. We thought we were so cool, I did not appreciate the fact until much later, we weren't cool, we were just fooling ourselves like every generation before us had; we were the hippest and coolest generation in our minds only.
While I was busy trying to fit in by talking back, breaking hard and fast rules and packing that surly punk attitude, I had cut out of my life so many wonderful things my parents had made part of our lives.
Parent music, one of the pleasures I used to enjoy so much, I dropped in the dust behind me as I hurried to grow up. And now, I am only just really appreciating the musical foundation my parents gave me by exposing me to the music of thier lives. Dad was into Classical, some Jazz. He thought the human voice just got in the way of good music. You can imagine what he thought of opera or musicals, one of my mom's favorites. I think she maybe forced the musical/ dance experience on me just to piss off my dad. They had that kind of relationship; one baits, the other would bite. They did it so much, I figured it was just part of their normal at home leisure time.
Now that I am on my retirement cruise, I have actively attempted to dredge up as much of my past as I can. I wanted to examine what turning point moments or mindsets brought me here; the seminal moments, the eureka moments, the deep despair moments. No, in the scheme of what's important maybe, looking back has little use in the here and now. I'm fuckin retired. Recalling my past surely beats sitting on the couch, sucking down Live Stream on Netflix.
I used to rock out to my mom's swing music and tunes from the musicals I watched on the Early Show on rainy afternoons. I also experienced classical music at home and in person. When my mom was not home, my father would blast Classical or Swing Jazz throughout the house. I think he did it more because he built many components found in every common room. The amps, the speakers he built were powerful and huge. He literally liked to feel the house shake. At age 9, I loved it. At age 73, I still love the house rattle but I do it quietly now. I use headphones and jack it up to WOW.
Actively looking for the music of my past now for well over a decade has taken me to places I remember, but more importantly places I have never been. It is only now I can say without a doubt in my mind, every genre of music has something for everyone. Japanese Metal, Swiss yodeling, and Mongolians beating on drums next to their camp on the Gobi Desert; there is something there that can entertain any one of us; if we take the time to look for it. I will admit I had to dig deeper into some genres than others to find tunes I could connect with. But they are there.
Which finally brings me to the point of this post; Mixing genres, Mashups, and covers. Not only has the collection of musical genres increased because they have finally been discovered, now the creative folks are mixing them together and creating sub genres that are a hoot to listen to.
Without any more words that don't matter, please enjoy this Swing cover of the Spice Girls tune, "Wannabe", as performed by Postmodern Jukebox.
The beaters were off to his left. Their drums did not worry him; they warned him.
Fires they touched off scared him though. Fire was so unpredictable.
His tail flicked.
He had figured it out. Today, they would pay for her death and the litter she carried.
Today, some of them would become prey.
This prompt lead me to the Indian Tiger hunt movies and Tarzan jungle movies of my youth. The movies championed men who hunted for sport and took unfounded pride in their trophy kills. When I was a kid, I rooted for the tiger, the lion, Hell, pretty much any beast they found in their scopes.
I remembered a song I thought would be a good fit with this post. It is a classic folk tune from Africa. No, it is not a Tiger song, it is a Lion song; still a big cat song carrying similar concerns.
The first version I heard long before The Beachboys made it hit in the mid 1960s, was on the first LP I ever bought with my own money. "The Kingston Trio from the Hungy I". As it turns out, this particular song is one of the most covered tunes on the planet; especially for A Capella groups. Pleases enjoy this version of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight", performed by one young woman who records it in 4 and 5 different takes, Very clever and well done ...... Enjoy.
This is an entry into a Flash Fiction Challenge I participated in in 2011. I pulled it from my other Blog, the llittle used "Lost in the BoZone - Too". I always liked this story. The image of the Hat was the inspiration.
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Five years in a row Rudy had been voted the best Red Cap on the line from Grand Central Station in New York City right through to the LaSalle Street Station in Chicago. His behavior, like his uniform was always spotless. His smile was dependably quick and pleasant. His ability to solve baggage problems became mythical tales told in station break rooms from coast to coast. He remembered all the regulars by name and treated the many travelers just passing through like old friends.
Many times early in his career, the company had offered Rudy the opportunity to leave the baggage to others and step into a management role. Rudy refused. More than one train executive had tried to steal him for their own station. Rudy would not budge. This station was his home and for the brief moments travelers came thorough his house, they were his family.
Rudy plied his trade for 52 years. He never called in sick nor was he ever late. He worked whatever shift needed working without complaint or excuse. He was the perfect employee. That is as much as anyone ever knew about him. His time away from his job was a mystery. He never talked about family, home, or what trouble his kids might have gotten into. Everyone assumed he was married with children. Rudy refused to confirm or deny any conjecture he was faced with.
It was four or five years after Rudy had retired and the old LaSalle Street Station was empty and waiting to be torn down that a son of one of the railroad executives decided that he would become a writer. His first work would be a history of the railroad he remembered as a youngster. He would look up old employees, try to find famous travelers, and seek information from company archives so that he could write the grandest train tale of all time.
The young man’s father, now retired and living far away in warmer climates, told him he should stop this writing nonsense and pursue a life with more predictable rewards. But if he was going to insist on this writing stupidity, he needed to find Rudy. Rudy would have more stories than one book could hold. Suddenly, the old man became silent.
“Dad, what’s up? You okay? Dad?”
“Uh, nothing son. I was just remembering Rudy. He saved my job you know. If not for him and finding that briefcase when I was a wet behind the ears young executive, I wouldn’t be here in Florida relaxing comfortably now and you would have had to attend a state college. Yep, Rudy was special. Find Rudy. He’s the only person you need to talk to if you want a great story.”
It took some time and some digging through old employee records, but the young man finally had a last known address for Rudy. When he visited the address on the south side, it was nothing but an abandoned shell waiting for demolition. Just another tenement among many blocks of tenements slated for urban renewal. The only sign of life was a trashed bodega a block down.
The old black woman behind the counter remembered Rudy. She filled in a few blanks, but as to where Rudy was now, she had no clue. She did mention that just before he had simply disappeared, he had begun to act oddly. The young man asked her how.
“He stopped smiling”, was all she said.
The young man would not give up. He checked the obituaries. No luck. He looked up ex-coworkers. They had nothing for him. It was not until he found a sympathetic bureaucrat with the Social Security Administration who, against the rules, gave him two important pieces of information. One that Rudy was still alive because he as still receiving a monthly check. Second, was the address that check was going to. The young man headed there the next day.
Pulling up to the St. Francis Home off Wabash, the young man was struck by how similar in appearance it was to the tenement that had been Rudy’s last known address. It was not unexpected, but he had hoped Rudy had found better. He walked in and the stench of old age almost knocked him down. He collected himself and addressed the elderly woman behind the front desk.
“Excuse me. Is there a Rudy Renfro living here?”
The elderly woman was busy with her pencil on a form of some kind. Without looking up she pointed to his right, “In the Day Room most likely.”
“How will I know him? I have never met the man.”
The elderly woman looked up from her paperwork. Her hair, which must have started the day a neat orderly arrangement ending in a tidy tightly wound bun had come apart and she had to shift some escaped strands from in front of her eyes. She looked perturbed. “You a relative?”
“Uh, no ma’am I’m not.”
“Well young man, we have rules here.” She looked as if her hard professional armor was being raised and then, “Oh go ahead, it’s not like anyone visits him anyway.” She continued to point to his right. “Just look for the old black man wearing a red cap.”
“Thank You.” The young man walked down the hall towards the Day Room.
Entering the Day Room, the young man was immediately faced with a tall elderly black man wearing a well worn red cap like he remembered as a child traveling the lines with his father. The black man smiled.
“Sir, may I take that bag for you.”
The young man looked down at his brief case. “Uh, no that’s alright, I’ve got it.”
The old black man’s eyes lost their sparkle and his shoulders slumped. The young man changed his mind, “ Oh sure, please take the bag. I am here to see you I think. Are you Rudy?”
The old man smiled. It was a broad smile revealing the yellowed and cracked teeth that come with age. He straightened as best he could and grabbed his hat brim between his fore finger and thumb. He lifted the brim a tad. “Yes sir. I am Rudy. The best Red Cap on the line. Where are you headed, West or back East?”
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I worked hard to find the exact song I wanted. My father had recorded it from an FM station back in the early 1960s. He transferred it to his "Swing" Reel. I could sometimes talk him into playing the tape. When "Choo Choo Ch' Boogie" came on, I would dance. More to see my dad smile than anything else. He was going through some tough times at the time.
Loved that song. Here is the original version from 1946 performed by Louis Jordan & His Tympany Five.
I wrote the title of this post on October 9th, 2025. I will often start with just a title and maybe or maybe not a vague idea of what I might want to write about. Start with one word and hopefully it will begin the flow.
Seems what I wanted to say on October 9th of last year was so vague, by the time I decided to to put pen to paper as it were, well, the notion was no longer vague, it was gone. Only the title remained of a draft that never got off the ground.
This morning I thought I needed some maintenance time to clean out numerous posts I started but never finished. I was determined to be brutal and remove them without emotion. After all, they are only words I never respected enough to finish the thoughts they started. Cut em out, delete them, toss them to the wind.
I came to this empty post with the title as the only clue of what I might have had on my mind that October day of last year........ "Puttering"? Just what had I had in mind, I wondered.
I didn't wonder long. As my goal was to be brutal with my deletions of unfinished posts; the rule being finish the post or shit can it. I poured another cup of coffee, contemplated my navel a moment or two longer. I decided to do what I thought the title wanted me to do.
I assumed I meant a post about puttering in the real world; maybe wax poetic about finding little chores to finish around the house or yard. Or finally take action on some Mad Max idea I came up with while baked. Then I thought:
"You know what, I can putter with words too."
When I finished that revelation and let it sink in, I realized that my blog is really just a puttering receptacle. The over 2 million words I have written in the past 21 years are nothing but the result of the puttering I wrote to soothe my mind and help maintain my healthy ego. Just imagine the horror of not purging those 2 million words. I am sure my brain would have exploded 10 years ago. "Mind Puttering" may have just saved my life.
Here we have another result of my word puttering; a finished post that says nothing meaningful, wastes some time and uses up a chunk of bytes that may help clutter the Internet ether for forever and a day. In other words, I have written the usual nonsense and am now happy as if I had a brain. After all, it's about the words in the end, not the point they try to make; Right?
Since I was such a slacker on this post, I will do my best to find some song that is just the opposite. A tune that is meaningful in some way. A song that stirs some emotions and tugs at either the Heart or the Funny Bone. Maybe a song that will surprise not only the 20 or so souls who read my drivel, but surprise me also.
Or, since I seem to be sporting a lazy streak this morning, maybe I'll pick a song by some random means that is silly and makes no sense. Hmm .............. Let's get it on.
I have been waiting for an opportunity to use one of these songs with a post. The problem was, neither was a good fit in any of the usual posts I come up with. This post however, with no point to speak of, is perfect for one of them. Without any more fanfare, please enjoy (or not), "Detachable Penis", by King Missle. It was either this song or Denis Leary's, "I'm an Asshole". It was a toss up at first, so I flipped a virtual coin in the virtual world I live in sometimes. The Asshole song lost.
"The problem isn’t Conservatism. The problem is the CULT."
When fringe minorities in any group worm their way into leadership positions, what we see unfolding on the Right is not a surprise. It is inevitable. Fanatics will burn down their house to make a point.
I grew up in a Goldwater Republican household. My mom called us Black Republicans (not a reference to race). My parents were not foaming at mouth wackos. Who did they fear the most? Not the Left Wing losers; not the Hippy Peaceniks, not the Civil Rights activists.
They were afraid of a group even further Right than they were. The John Birch Society is an ultra-conservative Right Wing cult that made Joseph McCarthy look like a Boy Scout. I can remember my mom telling me more than once, "Keep an eye on that crew, they will ruin my Republican Party."
That was in the early 1960s. Flash forward to today and who do we see as one of the main driving forces in the current effort to turn America into a feudal state? The Koch brothers, whose father was a co-founder of the John Birch Society.
Cults are patient. Cults do not care how long it takes. Until they self destruct, they will always be around nipping at the heels of any mainstream movement, political, religious, Hell, any group has the potential to be poisoned by a cult.
The problem is not Conservatism. The movement is hobbled by its own tenets; its own goals, aspirations and insistence on blind loyalty. They set themselves up in their very beginnings to become what they have become. By its very nature, the Right is a wonderful breeding ground for destructive ideals to become part of the program.
The original idea of Conservatism appeals to me with its slower approach to change and pragmatic approach in theory to that change. That the Right stopped moving forward and is now trying recapture the worst aspects of the Past, make them an intolerable choice for me politically. Back when Reagan the Traitor ran for his first term was my last straw. Now, with their facist leaning membership setting policy and action, the Republican Party is more un-American than any American who might have a few socialist bones in theiir body.
The Left appears to be nothing but a group of loose dogs because that is just what the Left is, a bunch of loose dogs. Even with all the wokeness and PC bullshit they come up with as a group, they honestly care for everyone as a rule, not just the group they belong to. It is often easier to talk to a Libtard than anyone wearing a MAGA hat now days. That should tell us something.
I would rather support a mom with three kids living in shitty conditions than hand out Welfare to huge corporations that consume more than they deliver in the long run. I would rather support fact over embracing lies others have fed me. I would rather support a view that supportd free thinking. At this point, the Right is failing on all those points.
I am a card carrying registered Democrat who has no problem being called a Libtard or any other chucklehead name a Winger might come up with. Their twisted vision of what they want for my country makes them my enemy. It is as simple as that.
Later ................
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Again finding a tune that seemed right for today was a struggle. It didn't need to be a struggle. I certainly test rode enough songs that any one would have done just fine. I think I just wanted to listen to music and not finish the job at hand.
The wait was worth it. I came across an artist from my checkered past. He died relatively young from overindulgence of everything under the Sun. He was unique and in your face. Please enjoy Root Boy Slim & His Sex Change Band and this tune from the mid 1980s that has been graphically upgraded with graphics from 15 years ago. Enjoy "Rich, White, Republican".
I am already second guessing my decision to re-up my participation in the social media of America. I have only been back, what, a week or so? I had crawled into the shell I have always kept around when times were tough. It goes back to the days I needed to escape the alcohol infused dog fights my parents engaged in during the family's transition from a military life to the less structured life of the civilian world.
I know I won't escape; not entirely. I may have a chance, given enough time, to delude myself that the madness swirling around my small corner of Maine is nothing but a poorly contrived reality show. But that delusion is nothing but one delusion compounded into another. I'm not insane, though sometimes I like to delude myself I am. ...... Anyway, moving on now..........
This morning as I sipped some Yesterday Coffee, I half listened to the news folks droning on about the latest assholery foisted on us by Trump and his band of Brownshirts. My ears caught these words:
The Sound a Flashight Makes When it Hits the Head of an Illegal
This perked me up; made me curious what that sound was called. My aging ears or lack of attention had missed that part. The definition of something without a name is unacceptable. I immediately snatched up my coffee and shuffled my way to what I call my office. I punched up the computer and spent some minutes determining the name the statement was referring to.
Apparently the sound is called a "Tonk". No one is exactly sure who created it, but we do know where it became popular. Years ago it popped up in the colloquial group lingo of the US Border Patrol and more recently embraced by the ICE thugs. It is so popular among them and their brain dead supporters that a T shirt was offered for sale. The term is also obnoxious enough that it is banned from use by those same agents. I am sure they, being the true professionals they are, strictly follow that rule. I mean look at the high level of competence they use when rounding up those damn furriners who want to eat our pets and rape our children.
Hmm ...........
This is what we have allowed our country to turn into. When the Trump Goons finish gathering up hapless folks from away, who is next? Well, it would seem to me their next targets would be any US citizen that looks at them sidewise................ Um, oh yeah, they have already begun that part........ Nevermind.
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I might be getting paranoid, or maybe just more paranoid, but I think Google and YouTube are no longer guessing what is on my mind, they know before I even punch them up what I want. Nevermind Artificial Intelligence. What we have today is worse. It's Evil Intelligence and it is being packaged and sold as Artificial Intelligence. ........... Anyway the song that was staring me in the face when I opened YouTube was this song from John Prine, "This is How Every Empire Falls". Recorded in 2005, its message is still applicable today. I am including the lyrics because John had a wonderful way with them.
John Prine's music hit me in the gut over 50 years ago. It seems he is still doing it from his grave. I did not know this song until YouTube threw it in my face. And yeah, it made me tear up.
It seems odd
to me for a government to create a secret police force and use it primarily in
cities in Blue states while essentailly ignoring the Red States. The leadership of the Federally sanctioned secret army claim their only goal is toprotect all of usand our way of life. Again I would counterpoint, why the selective enforcement?
Their stated goal is to fish for, ambush and arrest illegal’s and
others who fit an obviously racist one size fits all profile model. Seems to me, Intimidation of the American population is the primary goal, not the pursuit and capture of undocumented aliens.
Whose lives and whose way of life are they protecting? All Americans? Or just White folks? And who are they really protecting us from? Furriners? People of color? No, it appears they are intent in protecting themselves from us, the us who support everyone's right to coexist without being singled out for bullshit reasons.
It goes further than just being odd. Just the formation of this clandestine armed force of thugs goes against the very system that was set for our benefit in our early beginnings. And what is the GOP, the party of "Small Government and States Rights" doing while this over the top government interference in our lives goes down? The "Small Government and States Rights" party is standing around either cheering the secret army on or they are saying nothing.
The Right
has abandoned America and is now openly supporting the owner and exploiter classes of America
and the World, while turning the rest of our citizens into enemy combatants.
It makes me sick and ashamed they consider themselves the only citizens of worth.
My fellow citizens?
No, the Right is not made up of fellow citizens, it is comprised of enemies and collaborating idiots who do their bidding. The Right is driving us towards a cliff of their making, hoping all of us will follow them over it.
I am well past being concerned what the rest of the World thinks about America's current woes. I don't have the time nor the energy to do anything but try to keep the USA from losing respect for itself. If we cannot recreate a political atmosphere that at least, pretends and sometimes works for everyone, well; we really will be living in a shit pile of a country. At the moment, we seem intent on becoming the largest Third World , banana republic on the planet.
As always, please try to keep it 'tween the ditches ...........................
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My tune for this post is a mashup of an old favorite from the 1960s. "For What It's Worth", written and recorded by Buffalo Springfield back in the days I was just finding my political self. The song did not need a "mashup" to be pertinent today. It is a timeless song about the value and pitfalls of protest. But I have to say, this version had me tapping my feet and wanting to shake a booty or two. Instead, I just butt danced in my chair. ...... Play it loud and give yourself some room to move.
Two images crossed my path in the last couple of days that have stuck with me long after I should have been done with them. Both were related to my days on the road as a super slab trailer jockey who was a legend in his own mind. As I remember those times now, that legend only grew to more unrealistic dimensions. After all, memories are wonderful at weeding out the uneeded, the unpleasant, and the puff n fluff of a time to remember. Kinda boils the moment down to what is/was the essence of the moment. Often times ego plays a big part in memory gathering, but sometimes, if we are being honest with ourselves, it doesn't.
The first image is one I snapped during my time hauling sound and light equipment for SHOWCO out of Dallas, Texas. It is an image I probably should have tossed, but didn't. I have kept it around, messed with it, tried to make something of something that was not there. It's very insistence on sticking around until now is probably a good reason to write about it. It somehow boiled down for me, just how fucking difficult it was to produce a huge Rock show. The sweat, the drudgery, the constant fatigue; this image said all that to me even though the original image was almost impossible to make out.
When I hauled RocknRoll in the 1970s, I had some seriously great times. I had some seriously bad times. Interwoven into those highlights, both good and bad, was the job; the day to day butt kicking struggle to keep my sanity and do my job effectively. And I had it easy compared to the Roadies.They were the real heroes of the job. Local stage hands were alright, but the roadies were the people who created the magic; made sure all the details were covered. The above snapshot is my tip of my hat to them.
This next Kodak moment crossed my Facebook page this AM. It is a pic of the same car stereo I carried with me as I hauled the music it played during those times with SHOWCO. I actually had two of them. The first one was ripped off from my truck as it sat parked outside a gig in Haight Ashbury. It was a three truck tour and the gig was in a high school gym if I remember right.
We drivers came out to back in our trucks for stage call in the morning, as we had hit town the night before. Parked on the curb next to the gym, all three rigs had the driverside windows rolled down to what looked like the exact same level. Each cab had been ransacked. I lost my CB radio, that radio/cassette player pictured, my cassette collection and a half ounce of Doob (It was under the box of tapes). I remember the scramble that day in replacing all three before Load Out that night. I spent many dollars on a cab ride to procure the exact same cassette player. I was in luck. the store also had a kick ass CB radio that was the best I ever had. I still have both today gathering dust in the darkest depths of gathered remnants from my past.
Funny what things bring out memories. Smells, sounds, images or something someone says in passing can dredge up all kinds of moments we lived through. At my age now, I treasure each and every one, good or bad.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ................................
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I don't have to check Google for a musicaal inspiration to add to this post. Only two songs will do.
There was one tour I missed that I always regretted. I took a vacation from SHOWCO and missed it. It was the Jackson Brown, "Running on Empty" Tour. I caught it when it hit Maryland. Much of the album was recorded on the tour. My favorite songs of course are "The Load Out" and "Stay". Enjoy the two fer.
This morning was the morning after a night of whiskey on the rocks with a few tokes thrown in just because. It has been awhile since I tipped a flask over a small glass of ice. I will say, the best way to conserve a bottle of high end sour mash is to not drink it very often. When I do, it only takes a couple ounces on ice to cheer me up and only 6 ounces and a joint to kick my ass.........
This morning I woke up hard. My ass had been thoroughly kicked. I wasn't really hung over. I was dazed and confused. The first thing on my mind was:
"Where is the coffee and do I have any left from yesterday?"
I had no "yesterday coffee". Damn. I will have to brew some. I turned on the TV while the coffee press did what coffee presses do.
While I waited, I decided the best way to turn off the after effects of too much alcohol was to spark up some doob to go with my morning brew. So I fired up some of my self made "Mutant Hash" and while the coffee released its magic into those freshly ground beans: in a few minutes I was baked and really Jonesing for that first cup.
"Morning Joe" of the newly formed, MS-NOW was all about the latest stupidity dreamed up by "Donald Von Head Up His Ass". A follow up of sorts , or maybe just a continuation of another stupidity of his regarding his Venezuela vendatta against President Maduro. I stopped paying attention a few days ago when I heard American troops invaded Maduro's country, killed 32 Cuban soldiers and kidnapped Maduro to face charges in the US justice system.
I was about to pay more attention again when I took my first sip of the coffee I had brewed only a few minutes previous. Any notion of whining and complaining about another stupid Trump moment I have no control over flew out the window once I swallowed that first sip.
It was a perfect cup of coffee. It was the cup of coffee my taste buds always yearn for, but are so often left disappointed. I brew decent coffee, but the perfect brew only comes around once a decade or so. Well, maybe 10-12 times a year, but shit, who cares anyway? My point has been made. I brewed a perfect cup of coffee this morning. Anything I encounter for the rest of the day will pale in comparison.
I came to loving coffee the hard way. My parents ran through many pots a day of the stuff. They would never allow me to drink it as a child; they were convinced that little boys needed no such artificial stimulations to add more crazy to their mad hatter ways. Both drank it black, which made it an easy choice for me to not complain. I detested black coffee then and still detest black coffee now. If God had meant for coffee to be consumed black, God would not have invented cows.
It wasn't until I began driving trucks over the road that I developed a taste for coffee. When go fast pills were unavailable or I was out of them, I began drinking coffee with a copious amount of cream and sugar. Eventually I became hooked. It was desperate measures while a truck driver that led me to coffee. It was the first perfect cup that sealed the deal. I have been pursuing that same cup ever since.
Brewing decent coffee is not hard. Brewing perfect coffee is being lucky. But brewing perfect coffee to go with an early morning bake is heaven.
Keep it 'tween the ditches. ................................
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Once again the Google Gods and their offspring, YouTube somehow found the perfect tune to go along with that perdfect cup of coffee. Here is Little Stranger with their wake and bake song, "Coffee & a Joint". Enjoy.
I was hoping my return to the cluster fuck that comprises the Social Media world would be more notable than just allowing a drunken loser back in who had nothing new to say because he has decided that there is nothing good going on worthy of note.
I was hoping, but well, as you can see, I failed big time. And to make matters worse, instead of stopping at two Whiskies on the Rocks, I decided that a third one might just improve my perspective......... Does not seem to be working........... Maybe some doob, a big pull from some righteous bud from my own garden would twist the moment in a positive direction. ......... Give me a minute.
As that toke slowly settles in and that last sip of excellent sour mash warms my belly, I will now search for the appropriate image to post alongside this awesome post I have decided to write that very well may fall short of "great" and be doomed to the ash heap of drunk and disorderly ramblings from a man who has given up fighting the slow mind numbing crawl of destruction closing in on what was in his mind before, the greatest country in the World.
Every day, our current leader, "Donald Von Head Up His Ass", finds another nail to pound into the coffin we allowed to be constructed by idiots, nincompoops and really, really stupid amoral assholes who just do not care what a majority of us think. It's sad really. ......... It's sad that by doing nothing awhile ago, we created what is happening now.
I could cast blame on specific people. But I am tired of that. They know who they are and what a majority of Americans think of their evil clown comedies. ....... They just don't give a fuck. They have the reins now and are determined to fuck up this country as much as possible before they get kicked out on their sorry asses.
So, just to emphasize what we have done to ourselves, here is a wonderful example of the kind of leader we put in power.
In retrospect; as an afterword of sorts....... I had hoped to return to the Internet Jungle with a more positive outlook than the one I found myself in these past couple of months. I really hoped I could present a more postive Crum and hide the absolute disgust I have for where our culture, our society, our country is at the moment.
Hmm, seems my third whiskey on the rocks is now nothing on the rocks. I will have to remedy that.
Give me a minute ........................
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Damn. I hate the self imposed rules I inject into my own actions. I guess it was a few years ago I decided that including some music to accompany each post would gussey up the overall impression each post offered. The jury is still out on that one; yet I still insist on following the rule I set down so long ago.
Lucky Day. I punched in "Whiskey Drinkin Music" into the YouTube search engine. And like magic from some place on high, "Tennessee Whiskey", by Teddy Swims came up. Less than a minute into the test drive, I decided this song was perfect for my half in the bag state of mind. ...........
But Wait! The next song in line was another great tune by Teddy, "Lose Control". Suddenly I was faced with music that related to me in so many ways. One helped me cry in my beer. The other one reflected my total loss of control when considering what the future might be that is gaining steam and heading right for us.
