All morning I have been trying to pin down just what emotional response I should be dealing with. Oddly I have not felt any anger, just disappointment.... Disappointment that The USA was not happy to be extremely stupid when they first elected the Orange Asshole; they had to double down and put him back into office.
We had plenty of warning. We had more than enough righteous reasons to kick his sorry ass out of our politics. Not enough of us were paying attention, or is it there were too many of us who loved being Willfully Fuckin Stupid so much, they elected him a second time.
What comes now?
At this point I do not care anymore. Whatever happens, we will have deserved it. I am not holding out much hope the results over the next so many years will be very positive.
Don't bother keepin it 'tween the ditches. you Fascist Lovin American Idiots.
You just drove our country into that ditch.
_______________________________
I tried my best to not use Green Day's, "American Idiot", as I have used it before, maybe more than a few times. But then there really is no song that covers the last 30 years of our country's slide into rampant stupidity better than it does.
Play it Loud. Play it Angry. It probably won't help. But it gave me a moment of contentment. Oh, and I included the lyrics. They are so appropriate for how I feel.
Idealism gets a bad rap. I don't understand why. It seems humans love to focus on what is wrong now, what went wrong in the past, and what will surely go wrong in the future. And the whole while they forget or resist to infuse a little hope into their outlooks just to balance things out. Without some brightness, we continue to live in the dark.
Idealism is a natural extension of Hope. It is the next step from dreaming to making that dream a reality. If we ever hope to rectify old wrongs and prevent future sorrows, Idealism is an integral part of the process. Yet, Idealism is often frowned upon, deemed impractical in the Real World. But without the idealistic notion that there has to be something better around the next corner, Humans would be in a much harsher world of hurt.
Today, we vote. Today, the stark differences between the two political sides is unmistakable and has been since one man forced his way into our body politic almost ten years ago.. He has offered us nothing but doom and gloom scenarios, telling us our country is a garbage pit, that some of our citizens are our enemies, and generally pitting us against each other over issues that should not even matter: Race, Religion, Education, Gender Issues and Sexual Orientation issues should not even be part of our conversations, yet the Orange man has managed to make those issues all many of us think about.
None of those topics should matter in the scheme of running a country. Running a country should be about fixing shit, not tearing it down. That's what today's and future elections should be about.
Those are the bare bones of my political views. Everything I want for Me, for my Family, for my Country, for my World is about fighting off the dark to let in the light. Idealism I feel, is the only way to begin that process. Without Hope, we become nothing but a population waiting to die.
So, I will head down to the Acton Town Hall today and vote. It is the least I can do to help reconnect us to Hope and then put some positive Idealism into action. Hopefully Y'all will foilow suit.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ..............................................
______________________
I figured an old favorite would fit my post today. Here is Bob Marley & the Wailers with their iconic anthem, "Get Up, Stand Up".
And Yes, sometimes Idealism means getting into a fight.
It is the day before our next Presidential Election. The two candidates have been using up all the oxygen in whatever room, hall, or arena they were able to cram loving supporters into. It is rumored by both sides, that the other side is not only hiring buses to haul the faithful to venues, the campaigns are paying those supporters to show up. One rich asshole, who tries to blame Autism for his lack of connection to real people, but is just another ex - pampered silver-spooned baby like his spoiled brat candidate buddy, the Orange Haired Village Idiot; is actually dangling real money in front of the Red Capped Dumb Ass Brigade to entice any undecided brain dead citizens into their fold.
Am I fed up, disgusted, shocked, disappointed?
Hell, there are not enough adjectives to describe how fucking unhappy I am about American Politics at the moment. Am I nervous, anxious, on edge, and suffering from TDS? You are damn right I am. No apologies. The Orange Shit-gibbon has infused the nation's soul with nothing but animosity, deceptions, and warnings we should believe that this time he'll fuck us good, not just diddle us a little like he did when he really did not have a clue.
I like how the drooling minions on the Right love their little jokes. They came up with TDS (Trump Derangement Syndrome ) to go with all the other juvenile sayings, comparisons, etc they had collected because that's all they had. No coherent reasons for their cultish boot licking adoration of the biggest village idiot the World has ever known.
But I have to give the red capped bootlickers their due. Many of us have TDS. There is no better description of the anxiety, hate, and disappointment of so many citizens regarding the serious lack of intelligence and WFS a large charge of our population suffers from. Frankly, I cannot understand why all citizens of voting age don't have TDS.
Most of MAGA Theresa's followers are just stupid. They have no interest in critical thinking. Many have been programed through the dishonest preaching of the Christian Gospel. Programmed to cede their minds to someone behind a pulpit. They don't get a pass, but they do make up a sizable portion, if not a majority of Adolf Twitler's rank n file.
The Wingers who do know better suffer from a condition I have named WFS. That is, they are being "Willfully Fuckin Stupid", or as it used in politer circles, "Premeditated Ignorance", an offshoot of "Willful Ignorance". Bottom line; anyone who supports Trump, supports a proven traitor. That should be enough to cancel his sorry ass tomorrow and toss his sorry worthless self on the trash heap.
We will find out tomorrow.
Does Willful Ignorance win? Or does a more stable and calmer administration continue the wonderful economic recovery and fight to restore rights created by the Biden Administration. Or do we allow one deranged and incoherent douchebag to take control again and do his best to take take us down one of the many roads to Hell like he has promised.
_________________________________
I thought of the song and the image I wanted before I wrote a word of this post. The image supported the song I felt covers wonderfully, some of the times we are dealing with today. It was written by Paul Simon over 60 years ago and recorded on Simon & Garfunkel's first album as an acoustic track and then again remixed on their second album , "The Sounds of Silence". It is an all time iconic song that many, many artists have covered over the last 60 years. No one has created a better cover than "Disturbed".
Enjoy........... I recommend a volume level of... as LOUD as you can stand it! .............. Or not. It works just fine at lower volume also.
I told myself a short while ago to cease and desist any inclinations or urges to post anything about politics until after the election next Tuesday. As usual, I again caved to my dark side and posted a mildly acerbic post about "Flag Wavers'" 3 or 4 days ago. I started out with an iron will to not write about Wingers, MAGA idiots, or the Orange Shit Gibbon. Couldn't quite do it.
For that failure to perform I should probably apologize...... Hmm...
But who should I apologize to? You folks, who might read my words on occasion? Apologize to myself, because I let myself down and once again caved to the ugly and hate that resides in the darker corners of my mind?
As usual, I build problems up out of nothing and then begin the long anguish that always ends up in a ranting tirade, which is my go-to remedy to relieve the pressure that has built up inside me. Today I won't do that. While I have an infinite number of real world concerns to go over the edge about, I ain't doing it. No, I have resigned myself to just talking about losing my mind instead of actually losing it. That seems like the safer bet, considering I have a duty to perform this coming Tuesday. And it is a duty my friends. Voting is the least we can do for our country. To not vote makes one a free loading, useless piece of.... well, calm down Mike... Take a breath ferchrisakes ............. Whew!
When the election is over, it will be a whole new world on the other side. We'll either be living in Mordor or the Shire.
Remember Voting Blue all the way through is the least you can do if you have any hope of stopping the hate and discontent MAGA train that is barreling down the tracks at us.
Keep it 'teen the ditches ........................................
*** Just a note regarding the collage at the top. I created it because I truly believe if we vote Trump in, our country is in for a world of hurt.
________________________
Free Your Mind
And the rest will follow
Be color blind
Don't be so shallow
This is the refrain from a great tune by En Vogue back in 1992. I had forgotten it. I can't think of a song that covers one of the chronic and incessant stupidities that has had our nation by the short hairs for at the least 160 years, if not the last 400 years when owning another human was par for the course..
That makes this tune relevant. And that makes me sad.
"Leave it to Beaver", episode 16 of Season 5, brought up a painful at the time memory.
(NOTE - I was going to explain why I even know about Episode 16 of season 5 of "Leave it to Beaver". Once I considered it, I feel no explanation is needed. I watched it sipping coffee day before yesterday and this post is the result.)
In the episode, Beaver is tasked with wearing a bunny costume for some kind of play, pageant, whatever. He was mortified that his peers would see him wearing it as they had much better costumes to wear like lions, zebras, leopards. Before he even put it on , his buds were calling him "Cotton Tail" and making jokes about hopping here, hopping there. .............
Maybe I need to back up and set the stage, create the premise, state my reason for a post titled "Mickey Mouse". I haven't mentioned it, but this post will also dovetail nicely into our current ghosts and goblins season.
My family settled at 5302 Augusta Street the summer before I attended 2nd grade at Wood Acres Elementary School in Bethesda, Maryland. There were kids everywhere in the neighborhood. I settled on forming a bond with the two biggest troublemakers on the block, Jimmy and Chuckie. Chuckie lived across the street from me; Jimmy lived a few houses down on my side of the street. We got into all sorts of stupid kid crap that still lives in my mind as one of the best kid years of my life. We were inseparable that summer.
When school started, my life changed. Jimmy and Chuckie were going into 3rd grade. I was going into 2nd grade. There was an immediate unspoken break up between us that first month of school. They were bad ass 3rd graders. I was still a little kid because well, only little kids go to 2nd grade.
As usual, I blew it off as I had become well versed in being shunned having moved 7 or 8 times already in my short to that point life. But it still hurt every time I saw them. And we saw each other every day. Geographical proximity insisted on it.
It was maybe the first week of October or so before the two of them agreed to let me walk to and from school with them. They made it clear though, once we entered the school, I would be ignored until we walked home in the afternoon. I was happy. I was sure I was back in the crew then.
I did not know that Wood Acres Elementary took Halloween seriously enough to sponsor a goblin and spook parade for all the kids at the school. We were all asked to wear our Halloween costumes to school on the Friday before Halloween which I think was early in the next week. I was very excited. That meant I would have a chance to wear my new Mickey Mouse costume one extra time besides on Halloween. Yeah, it was going to be a lot of fun and I was sure I would have the best costume there. I loved that costume.
I had no clue about how cruel my 3rd grader buddies could be. I found out as soon as we gathered as we always did in front of my house to begin the heel scuffing drudgery of walking the mile or so to school. And no, the only hill was barely uphill and it only lasted maybe 100 yards.
I will always remember running down the steps in my spiffy Mickey Mouse outfit to meet Jimmy and Chuckie. As soon as they noticed me, they started laughing. Not just snickering or tittering, they were out loud laughing hard enough, my ears felt like they were on fire by the time I reached street level.
The laughing stopped. I cannot remember who spoke first, but the first words I heard were, "Look, it's Minnie Mouse. So Minnie, where is Mickey?"
I was crushed. My future manhood had been called into question. I replied by asking something about why weren't they wearing costumes.
"Only babies wear Halloween costumes", one of them said.
The embarrassment of that moment lives with me still. My face became very warm, I could feel tears beginning to well and what really pissed me off was if I cried, then I was being a baby. So, to hide my anguish, I knocked Jimmy on his ass and went after Chuckie who tossed me in the bushes near the curb. I tore my brand new Mickey Mouse costume. When I saw it, the tears could not be stopped. I began balling.
Crying in front of the tough guys of 3rd grade only amplified the reciprocal taunts, teases and torments. All the way to school they were on me. "Look at Minnie, she sure cries easily." "Do you want a Kleenex little girl"; shit like that all the way to school. And all the way to school I was crying. But at least I managed to remove the Mickey Mousse costume, toss it to the curb and then stomp on the mask.
The results, or should I call it the epilog of this tale set the memories of the moment in stone. My so called friends continued their teasing for what I considered to be an inappropriate amount of time. My mom was really pissed I ruined the store bought costume I had brow beaten her into buying for me. She made me fetch it out of our bushes so she could try to repair it. The mask was totaled. And oddly, my dad suddenly became Beaver's Dad as he helped me navigate the stress of that learning moment. It was a growing up moment that helped me learn to find perspective about how arbitrary and unfair Life could be. An early life lesson that helped to thicken my skin for the future.
And it was an early, if not my first realization that most disappointments are not the end of the World. Jimmy, Chuckie and I were hard core buddies again well before Thanksgiving. But then sometime after Christmas, my family suddenly relocated to a brand new house 4 or 5 miles away to Ogden Court. But that's a whole different story.
Later .......................................
________________________________
The "Mickey Mouse Club Song" is the only logical choice for my musical treat today. I was not a card carrying member , but I would have been had I known it might be possible. Without any more fanfare, here it is. If you are old enough, I hope it makes you smile. If you are young enough, I still hope it makes you smile.
One week until the election to end all elections. That is what a friend is calling it anyway. I certainly hope that he is wrong. One candidate promised should he win, there will be no need for more elections. That would be the end of our country as we know it.
Emotions on both sides are running at a fever pitch. The media is hardly blameless for the intensity and anxious feelings of the American electorate. Along with the manipulators of both sides, they have successfully created an election not of substance, but one of Hate and Discontent. Their constant barrage of polls and interpretations of those polls, combined with a focus on the stupid made up issues are making sure to keep everyone on edge.
What is different about this election is, is this one is totally about Hate, Discontent and Fear Mongering on one side and on the other side, instead of the usual boredom of policy talk, they have had to respond to the Purveyors of Hate with their own brand of Hate, Discontent and Fear mongering. It's a Helluva lousy way to win an election, but this is how it is. Welcome to Politics in the USA, 2024.
Which brings me to the Junk Car Flag at the top.
I have been passing by this sculpture for months now as I traveled the 20 plus miles to and from the grocery store we like in Rochester, New Hampshire. It is a work created by the folks at the junkyard it sits in front of. I have no idea which side they are into, as they claim it is nothing but a way for them to creatively show their love of our country. And since they run a junkyard, they used what was on hand.
Far and away, it is my favorite artistic rendition of Old Glory. It has replaced my previous hand painted version I found on a house in Springvale, Maine years ago. I know there are an infinite number of takes on our flag; some, if not many with more artistic panache. But simple and direct does it for me.
All this flag masturbation is fine and dandy. It bothers me though that the simple act of flying a flag, self made or not, has become a symbol to many in this country of how patriotic one is. If you fly the flag, wear a flag pin on your lapel or wear stars and stripes undies, that tells folks:
"Hey I'm more of a patriot than you."
Images have supplanted actions. If we consider ourselves patriots because we dress that way, talk that way, it follows that we must be that way. ..... Right?
The more important question I think is do we act in a patriotic manner? Do we really care for all of us, not just some of us? Do we waste time on silly issues that do not move us forward? Or is wearing and waving the flag all it takes to make America Great again?
I don't know about you, but we were a greater country before the Red Hat brigade of Flag Wavers polluted our national soul. Their appearance stirred up a virulent and nasty current of discontent that has apparently been simmering for years. But the Hate and Discontent won't change anything. All it does is make it easier for the assholes pulling our strings to manipulate us to their wills.
The important thing is to vote. And if you have a brain in your head, you won't vote for the liars and fools in Red Hats, you'll vote for sanity and put them down hard.
Vote Blue All the Way Through!
Keep it 'tween the ditches ...........................................
________________________________
In case anyone might be interested, here is one of the Presidential Candidates telling his Red Capped Evangelical Christian Minions there will be no need for another election if he is elected. Now I know he is prone to exaggerated hyperbole and lies, but based on his first term, on this issue we should take him at his word; at least believe he will do his best to keep that promise.
Now it is time to pick a song that might at least have some kind of connection to our voting system.
Hmm, Googling "Blues songs about voting" .......... Damn, another Google magical moment in 4 milliseconds or less.
Here is Walter Trout with his song, "Be Careful How You Vote". Wise words, especially given the Man in the Red Cap's tendency to never, ever, ever tell the truth.
While I was looking into a musical choice and Walter Trout popped up, I realized I had never heard of him. Sampling his music, I couldn't understand why. The man is a helluva a Blues guitarist.
While I listened to his music I checked up on his politics. Not much there. He's totally into the Blues and trying to survive.
Like many musicians, Walter has had a a substance abuse filled life. In 2013, he developed cirrhosis which led to a liver transplant. During his recovery, he suffered brain damage and lost the use of his arms, legs and ability to speak. It took the better part of a year for him to fight his way back.
I saw him sleeping on top of some laundry on the coffee table last night. He was in an odd position. I thought nothing of it. Felix loved to sleep on the laundry, clean or dirty. Besides, pets sometimes fall asleep in random positions.
BA called me for dinner.
We finished dinner and when I came back out to the living room. He was in the same position. Okay, so what, I thought. I turned on a "Saint" rerun with Roger Moore and settled in. Fell asleep and when I woke up around 10:30PM, Felix was still as I found him several hours ago. I became concerned and actually checked him out. Rigor mortis had set in, yet his belly still had a hint of warmth. He was gone just like that....... Just like and in the same exact spot Fernando died some years ago. Both seemed to go to sleep and not wake up.
At the moment I can't really make any sense of two cats dying in the same place 4 or 5 years apart. I have neither the experience nor the inclination to try to understand. All I know is another member of my family is gone.
Now comes the period of mourning I tend to fill with guilt, anger and dread. He was my wing man around the house. He was sometimes a pain in my ass. He was my 'Lil Buddy and goddammit, today I already miss him terribly.
Later ..............................................
________________________________
I am not only sad, I am also fucking angry. Loss to me is like that. I am guessing it is not outside normal parameters of the grieving process. ............... Anyway, because I am still harboring a boatload of anger about Felix, I decided to play an angry cat song. Nobody plays angry quite like Primus. Here is "Tommy the Cat".
It's not a tune for some folks, maybe even most folks; but I like it.
I got a slow start this morning. Maggie finally got me to wake up after more than a few snout-shoves into my open mouth. Usually, it only takes one snout into the mouth for me to instantly wake up. But I ate Pot Brownies yesterday and well, it was definitely a case of one brownie over the line. Memories of yesterday was lost in a THC infused fog and any plans I have for today are now suspect. It's a Helluva thing to be that stoned for almost 24 hours. But hey, I'm retired, and at least I didn't mix alcohol into my day.
Moving on now .............................
My wife and I have been doing all we can to not let the current political stupidity overwhelm us. It is a hard chore indeed as both of us are political junkies.
I came by my interest from all those kid years listening to my family raise Hell over the current status of Ike, Kennedy, Johnson and Tricky Dick. Being Republicans, it might have been a lock that I ended up a card carrying member of the GOP also. But then, my parents also permitted me and encouraged me to be my own person. After flirting with the Right, I am sure it was a disappointment when I joined the enemies on the other side of the aisle.
My wife becoming a political junkie has always puzzled me. Her family life was not a hot bed of political commentary. Her family was normal in that respect I think. Yet, here she is now, just as fired up as I am. Maybe I am the bad influence, maybe I am not. Of course I know I am not the bad influence. She is her own person and has been as long as I have known her. She may not allow herself to foam at the mouth as I sometimes do, but she is every bit as invested in the well being of our country as I am.
Politics aside, or rather maybe it's just a coincidence that this post was at the beginning, was a response to Facebook cutting off political ads on October 29 through to and including November 5, I will use my page to post daily, at least one image to remind folks just what kind of stupidity and evil will result should the Orange Shit Gibbon be allowed to once again squat in the Oval Office and shit all over us as he did in the past.
Vote Blue all the way through.
Don't let the GOP get a stronger hold on our balls than they already do.
Later ................................
_______________________________
I was never a huge fan of Brewer & Shipley, a Pop hippy duo from the 1970's. But I did enjoy this song, "One Toke Over the Line"; only because well, it had that one lyric that was a bold public move back in those days when the powers that were, promised us and frightened many of us into believing that Marijuana was indeed the Devil's Weed and consuming it was sure to put us on the Train to Hell when it was time for us to leave this mortal coil.
Besides, one of the lyrics mentions "Sittin in a railroad station one toke over the line." That line always made me smile because once when I was sitting in a Bus Station in Baltimore, Maryland and I was approached by a hippy couple. They needed some coin to buy tickets to Los Angeles, 2800 miles away. All they had was a bunch of LSD, and no money.
Well, how could I resist? I had money, but no LSD. It became a logical and as it turned out, a comical trip north to Maine. I bought 10 hits, ate 1 and got on my bus. I laughed all the way to Boston where I ended up sleeping in a field and then the next day, finished the trip by hitchhiking the final 100 miles to my parents house in Acton, Maine..
Apparently, laughing to yourself is creepier or more disturbing than talking to yourself. I was the target of some very strange looks during the trip, or should I say trips. I didn't care, I was having a blast.
Anyway, here is "One Toke Over the Line" by Brewer & Shipley.
Every once in awhile I re-visit some of my earlier blog posts. Sometimes it's in search of inspiration, sometimes for shits and giggles. And every so often I find one I think needs repeating. This is one of those posts. It is a Flash Fiction piece of around 600 words that I wrote in August of 2009. I have slightly edited it.
I also took the time to chase down the artist who painted the original image I poached back in 2009. Her name is Veronika Nagy.
_______________________________
As far back as he could remember, he loved climbing trees. No matter where his father dragged them as he moved up the ranks from noncom to officer, as soon as the young tree climber could break away from the all too familiar routine of unpacking his junk in one more new home, he would explore the neighborhood for the best climbing tree he could find.
If he could not find a tree, he found a tower, a telephone pole, a high roof, anything that would lift him off the dreary Earth, even if only for a moment or two. Calm and resolve to deal with his new situation always came once he had climbed that first tree. It became his ritual as he prepared to face another new school, another new group of kids to break into, another location to learn.
Any high spot would do, but trees were his passion. No one tree ever treated him the same. All were unique in their rewards and the trials thrown at him by their distinctive growth, position, or height. He learned to love trees. Trees never hurt him intentionally or excluded him out of spite. Trees always accepted him as he was as long as he returned the favor. He knew he would climb trees forever.
~*~
The old tree climber attempted a dry smile as he remembered his humble beginnings a lifetime ago. His broken jaw, acquired somewhere between up there and down here where he laid as a twisted collection of body parts and climbing gear would not let the smile travel to his lips. The pain made him chuckle. He could hear his mother was somewhere out there in the ether:
"I told you so bonehead. One day a tree is going to kill you."
And grumbling in the background through liquored breath, his father grunted while digging at his crotch:
"What a Dumb Fuck."
The memories were interrupted. His body began to convulse as his broken chest tried to cough up the blood that had been pooling in his lungs. The seizures lessened and he once again lay quiet. He knew now, this was one fall he would not walk away from. He could not feel his feet. As far as he could tell, any pain was from the waist up.
"Well Shit. Guess I shouldn't have come out alone today."
The old tree climber had no regrets. He just acknowledged that he had finally been caught being stupid.
If he did not try to smile or move his upper body, there really was not much pain. Only a dull pressure that seemed to come from every direction. He felt his essence begin to slip away. The old tree climber was thankful he had landed face up looking at the spreading branches of the final tree he would ever climb. And as the light faded from his eyes and the sounds of the woods grew faint, the old tree climber realized that he had indeed climbed trees forever.
________________________________
Afterthought - One of the most fun posts I have written in awhile. I actually had a plan but it didn't pan out since what I just wrote is not what I intended to write. Not even close. What a hoot that was. Got as much a buzz from writing this as I do when I am riding on some new and unfamiliar single track that just flows. Where it goes and finally ends up, nobody knows. About the only thing that resembles my original idea is the title. And maybe the opening line.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .....................................
One of, if not the most lucrative trucking gigs I had was as a Teamster driving for Lever Brothers (now Uni-Lever). In the 1970s, they were basically just a soap company at that time. Breeze detergent, Rinso, Wisk, Dove, Caress, Sunlight dish soap, and a bunch of other soap products.
I was hired at the Baltimore plant as part of a new transportation scheme using a Teamster local shop that was supposed to be a cheaper alternative than being forced to continue to use Chemical Worker Union drivers. We were new and not very popular on the dock at the Baltimore plant. The Chemical Workers tolerated us, but only because we were at least Union and not independents.
Up to this point in my driving career, I had only mingled with union workers as an independent driver. I usually got along fine with them, but some loading docks were populated by aggressive union assholes who sometimes purposefully made my job hard; the Philly and New Jersey docks were the worse.
So now I was a Teamster. At first, all I knew was, I was going to make significant coin and drive solid, well maintained lease equipment. I was hired on and put on the road as a solo act when the contract with the Teamsters insisted on a team driving set up. Problem was, the dispatcher at the Baltimore plant was having trouble finding drivers with the kind of over the road experience I had from my time driving Rock n Roll bands.
I spent the first 3 months driving the same runs as the two driver teams did.. I kept two sets of logs and successfully kept up with the 3 other teams. It was tiring, but it was an hourly rate, not a mileage pay rate. In that 3 months driving solo, I grossed close to $50K. The overtime money was insane. My dispatcher was going to continue with me driving solo, but a snitch from the Chemical Workers bitched to someone over his head. One week at the end of a round trip run to Los Angeles, I was told I would finally have a co-driver to share the driving with.
At first, the thought of losing all that over time made me grumpy. Once I wrapped my head around the idea that another driver would make my life easier, I was okay with it. I was told to come in for the next run a few hours early in order to meet my new co-driver.
His name was Joe I think. It doesn't matter if it was or not. I will call him Joe. Joe was several years older than I was and full of himself as most of us younger drivers were. But his experience was almost exclusively dedicated to hauling containers from Baltimore docks to docks in Philly or New jersey.
After the introduction, I told him to throw his gear in the side pod of the truck. He told me it wouldn't fit. I wondered about that when he returned to the rig with 4 suitcases for the 7-8 day run.
"What the Hell did you pack for this trip, everything from your dresser?"
I held up my one bag that was half the size of just one of his suitcases.
"I could live out of this bag forever bud. You need to cut some shit out. We ain't got room for your whole wardrobe. I'll give you one suitcase and that's it."
He looked at me. I thought he might start something. He was not happy about me telling him what to do. I probably should have quizzed him harder, but we needed to leave soon if we wanted to be on the road early enough to miss the serious Monday commutes in and around the Baltimore/ DC area.
It took Joe another 20 minutes to sort through his stuff and settle on what he thought he would need. He finally had only one bag. He shoved it in the side pod and we booted.
This run was not the usual straight shot to the Los Angeles plant and back. We ran some dry chemical up to the Fort Lee, New Jersey plant. Dropped the trailer and hooked up to an empty trailer and headed south to Kannapolis, NC to pick up towels meant for Breeze detergent boxes. From there we headed west.
Joe's first trip west made the usual mundane run more interesting for sure. The excitement he showed when we crossed the Mississippi made me remember my first crossing as a child in the back seat of a 1956 Pontiac. There is nothing quite like seeing the Mississippi River for the first time. Add in the St. Louis Arch and man, it makes an impression. The Arch is an amazing sight you can see from miles away.
The rest of the trip West was uneventful with the exception of a stop at the Big Texan Steakhouse in Amarillo, Texas. I thought Joe would like to see what a real steak meal looked like. He was not only amazed, he took the challenge of eating 72 ounces of steak and fixins in one hour or less. If he ate it all, he would not have to pay for the steak.
I knew better, having already taken the challenge several years earlier. Joe tried hard, but in the end, he fell more than a few ounces short. I thought I was going to have to hold him up to get him out of there. He was a suffering bastard through the rest of Texas, through New Mexico and well into Arizona. I decided to let him lay in the sleeper and I finished the drive to the City of the Angels.
When we finally got to Los Angeles early afternoon, I dropped the trailer and found the motel. I was really beat. I told Joe to cool his heels, we would pick up our return load in the morning. Said I was going to shower and hit the hay. Wake me up in the morning.
Two, maybe three hours later, the phone in the room starts ringing off the hook. Being almost comatose, it took me several seconds or more to wake up enough to answer the damn thing. I was not friendly.
"Hello, what, what the Hell do you want?"
"Mike, Uh I..... Well you see..."
I was very awake now. Hearing Joe's voice on the phone told me he was not in the room and probably nowhere near it. I sat up and started looking for my glasses. Seems I always felt I could hear better if I had them on. This time was no different. I groped on the nightstand, under the pillow, finally locating them on the top of my head where I had pushed them back before I passed out.
"Where are you?"
I climbed out of the bed and reached for the window curtain.
" Uh, well, I 'm in Long Beach."
"Hold on."
I opened the curtain and noticed there was no longer a fairly new Leaseway GMC cabover bob tail sitting in front of our door.
"And you took the tractor, didn't you?"
A long moment of silence followed. So I repeated myself.
"You took the truck didn't you?"
"Yeah, I did, but, .... but I can explain."
I kept my cool. I had learned from my time hauling Rockm Roll that staying calm was more important than the satisfaction of blowing my top.
"Go ahead, explain to me why, what, and where..... And do it quickly."
More silence and then, "Well, you see I ain't never been to California, Hell, I ain't never been West of the Mississippi. And since we had a layover, and since you were asleep, I figured there'd be no harm if I borrowed the tractor and did some sight seeing."
The silence switched sides as I contemplated what this might mean to me, to our run, to the Universe in general. Finally, I asked the dreaded question I had been avoiding to this point.
"Are the cops involved in this "sight seeing" trip of yours?"
"Well, yeah, but it's all okay, I'll pay the ticket out of my first paycheck."
"The ticket?"
"Uh yeah, I kinda got stuck on a beach in Long Beach. Uh Huntington Beach actually. Seems the beach I drove on was not a drive on beach. ........ I would have been fine and not been caught, but I got stuck in the sand."
"You got our 15,000 pound tractor stuck on a fucking beach?"
I was wide awake now.
"Uh yeah. but the cop , hey did you know the cops out here are real friendly, he only gave me a ticket for blocking the access lane and not the driving on the beach ticket. Says it will....."
I had stopped listening to Joe. As lead driver, I knew any blowback was heading my way, not his. Then something told me I was only getting part of the story.
"What are you not telling me? Are you still stuck?"
"Well, that's why I called. See, I don't know who to call out here other than you, so ......."
I remember sitting there on that tired mattress at the Days Inn and realizing that my job was probably over, no matter what I did to salvage the situation.
"Are you at a pay phone?"
"Yeah"
"Give me the number. I'll call Leaseway and let them handle it and get right back to you."
I was finally awake and up to speed and now fully engaged in my crisis handling mindset.
"Well, that's a problem too. There's folks here who want to use the phone."
"Okay, call me back in 1/2 hour. I need a shower and some time to talk with the Leaseway folks."
Joe was more than happy to get off the phone. His last words before he hung up were regarding how he could pass the time watching the naked people at the beach. I remember sitting there staring at the phone. Finally, that something he was not telling me came into focus. He had said he was at Huntington Beach, maybe the most famous nude beach in the USA.
As it turned out, my call to Leaseway solved the logistical problems of the trip. They arranged to have the tractor towed, and when it was determined that Joe had burned up the differential with sand, they put us in a brand new, never been driven, GMC COE (Cabover) for our return trip to B-more. I was never told how expensive this fuck-up was, but from my previous experience having crashed a lease truck on ice in Pennsylvania, I knew it was an expensive mistake.
The return trip from Los Angeles was a quiet trip. Joe and I settled on occasionally grunting at each other. He was fired as soon as we landed at the Leaseway lot in Baltimore.
I was dressed down hard for the fiasco I had no part in as dispatch determined that I should never had allowed my keys to leave my person. I sucked it up and kept my mouth shut.
Joe was not yet out of my life though. A month or so later when I got back from my weekly run, he was waiting for me at the Leaseway lot. He was shitfaced and angry. He began a tirade about how it was my fault he lost his job because I didn't have his back and the only Teamster gig he could get was as a yard rat moving trailers around. Because of me his family was suffering also, blah, blah, blah.
I had stopped listening. I was dead dog tired and all I wanted to do was sleep on a mattress that was not in constant motion. I told him to shut the fuck up, that what happened to him was his own fault and godammit, get out of my face.
Then he said, "What did you do with my gun?"
That stopped me cold. I turned around and stared at him. "What gun?"
"The gun I stashed under the mattress in the sleeper."
"You fuckin had a gun with you on that run to L-A."
"Well yeah, ya never know when you might need one."
I remember staring at him for the longest time. I was astounded. I didn't know where to start.
"You know hauling around a gun as a commercial carrier is a crime and a Teamster no-no. Besides, just how dangerous did you think the road was going to be? I have over 1 million gun free miles under my belt. The only situation I ever felt the need for defense, well, my tire thumper was more than adequate."
"Fuck you", Joe said, "I don't want to hear it. Do you have my gun or not? ... I stashed it under the mattress in the sleeper."
At this point I was heading to my car.
Over my shoulder, I said:
"I know nothing of your gun. It's probably still where you left it. But the tractor is locked up in the garage now. You'll have to wait until I come back for my next run tomorrow night. I'll find it and have it for you then."
I got in my car and left the lot.
Sunday evening when I showed up to grab my tractor to start my weekly run, Joe was there in his car waiting for me. He was out of his car and next to my car before I had even turned off the engine. As soon as I opened my door, his bullshit picked up right where it left off the day before.
"Did you find my gun?"
"No, haven't looked for it yet."
"Gimme a minute to check it out."
"Hey, I'll look for it."
Joe seemed in a hurry. I was not feeling very accommodating.
"You stay right here. You are not getting in my truck ever again."
I continued on to my rig, opened the door and climbed in. I found Joe's gun deep under the mattress. It was wrapped up tight in a paper bag. I hopped down from the truck, turned and gave Joe the bag.
Joe opened the bag, looked in, and then looked at me.
"What the fuck bud? What did you do to my gun?"
"What? ... I did nothing to your gun. You saw, I just found it."
"The rust guy, the rust. it's just a lump of rust."
"Calm down. It's the way I found it. Remember, you are the one who stuffed it under the mattress. The sleeper is a damp place, hiding the gun there was a bad idea. It's all on you asshole, not me. .... you're lucky I didn't throw it out. ............ Besides, the rust is superficial. Haven't you ever owned a firearm before? ..... It'll clean up just fine."
Then Joe opened his mouth one time too many. "Well, why didn't you clean it up then?"
I punched him in the mouth and walked away. If memory serves, that may have been the last time I hit a man.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .........................................
____________________________
Musical choices are probably many, but at the moment, I am drawing a blank. Something related to Trucking? Maybe Greatful Dead of Little feat? Nah. This story needs something different. Maybe some California music from back in the Day: Beach boys, Mamas and Papas, Sonny and Cher? .......... Hmm.
"Hotel California" by The Eagles fits I think. It certainly fits my mood and overall attitude about the Golden State. Here is a live version recorded at the Capitol Center in Largo, Maryland in 1977. I hauled more than a few tours to that venue.
Earlier this month, I spotted this turtle just before I drove over it; thankfully, not with the wheels. I stopped and backed up, being careful to not squish him/her this pass either.
I stopped the truck, got out and checked the little guy/gal for damage. I knew it was not a snapper. My question was, was it a Painted Turtle? Didn't matter as I knew it did not belong in the road.
I bent down to get a better look. The turtle buried its head inside its shell. Good idea I thought. Not the best idea to trust a human.
I turned it over for a second and realized I should probably not mess with it. Find a nice spot on the side of the road it had been facing and set it free. That is what I did. I spent the 3 miles driving back to the house feeling proud and full of myself. Once again I helped a needy creature out of a potentially tough situation. Yeah, I was breaking my arm patting myself on the back.
I wanted to know what kind of turtle the little feller/gal was. Google came to my rescue as expected in about 4 milliseconds. Turns out the little turtle was not a Painted Turtle. It was a Spotted Turtle and on the endangered critter list, a list that grows exponentially every year it seems.
Their decline is so bad, they are increasingly only found in small groups scattered up and down the East Coast and inland North New York and Vermont. Apparently Acton, Maine has at least one.
When I read this, I was even more pleased with myself. Somehow I was attaching more importance to this little creature than say, a Painted Turtle, which is not on the endangered list. That there are less of them than the others tends to give them a higher priority on the help them out lists. As I have never considered endangered in any of my animal aid moments, helping this little turtle is no more important to me than the time I saved an angry Snapping Turtle from possibly becoming roadkill. Over the years, I have been very evenhanded in doing what I can to help all critters out. Helping one on the endangered list just reinforced my policy of helping Nature where I can.
In June, 2008 I was coming home from moving my daughter up from North Carolina. I was on my road almost home when I spotted this Pissy Momma Snapping Turtle trying to successfully cross Sam Page Road to the bog so she could bury some eggs in the stinky bog goo. I had learned to respect Snappers when I was a kid in Maryland, where they get much larger than the one I interacted with that day in June, 2008.
I decided to not try to pick her up. I had a two wheeler in the truck from when we moved my daughter, so it became a simple operation.
Momma was not happy. She hissed and bit the steel two wheel dolly a few times. Turned out it worked great. I had her safely across the road in no time. She turned her neck and looked at me, hissed a final time and then and continued on her quest to find the perfect spot to lay some eggs.
Hmm. ...... This post has been constructed through a series of separate efforts, each one carrying a slightly different point I thought I wanted to make.
I hate not completing a post in a single effort. This post is the perfect example. I decided to finish it today without making a point other than pointing out my paltry efforts to help Nature sustain itself. And now I sit here making an attempt at a clean ending. Maybe I should just leave it here. Helping the Natural World is more than enough of a point. I should not worry about explaining myself. Maybe what I should be doing is trying to explain why I don't do more.
Keep it 'tween the Ditches ............................
________________________
*** I started this post the first week of October. Not sure why I have not finished it. Maybe it was that sinking feeling of doom I was dealing with as I watched Trump and his flunkies go into panic mode and threaten, lie, and predict all sorts of madness should they not be elected on November 5th. I'd like to think I am strong enough to not let their insipid, lying rhetoric I have been listening to now for over 9 years finally get to me. We are less than a couple of weeks away from hopefully throwing Trump on the trash heap of history and putting a serious glitch in the Extreme Right's plan to dominate our country.
____________________________
It was fun looking for an appropriate tune. I listened to music for a couple of hours and toked up almost a whole joint. Eventually though with the buzz, frustration set in. I almost walked away from this post for a fourth time. I had wasted too much time on it already. Then I remembered a favorite one truck tour I drove for while hauling bands all over the lower 48. It was an Art Garfunkel tour and sadly it was only 3 weeks or so long.
I had never considered Art as a solo act until I hauled him around for a few gigs. I mean really, Paul Simon was the face and driving force of Simon & Garfunkel, right? Well......... Art shined without Paul's help. His shows were excellent...... really excellent.
I was so gonna add Art's take on this Sam Cooke classic. But after I listened to it a couple of times, I realized the Louis Armstrong song by the same name was much more appropriate for this post. No one can do it better than Satch Mo's original take. I found a "Playing for Change" version and will include it along with Art Garfunkel's cover of the classic, Sam Cooke song of the same name.
It is indeed a Wonderful World we live on. Being reminded of it from time to time, well, ........ it's obvious from how we treat the planet, we need more reminding; a lot more reminding.
I went MIA for a few days on Facebook recently. When I decided to check back in, there were over 50 notifications for me to pay attention to. I have ignored Facebook before for brief periods, but never have I had as many notifications to sift through when I came back.
Rather than punch the "Marked as Read" button and move on, I took the time to read any comment from anyone I was not ignoring and also a few that indicated likes, loves, or hates. One of the comments I came across was from a friend of more than a few years. We are still friends on Facebook, but I wonder if that will last through the election.
Seems Doug ( I won't use his last name because well, I am not a total asshole)....... Yeah, I think Doug may be a closeted Trumper solely based on the only indicator I have; his semi-regular criticisms of my often acerbic political views on the total insanity that is the Right now days.
I shared a post by a fellow Mainer who calls himself the "Downeast Cowboy". The post was regarding the "Coles Transportation Museum" up country in Bangor. His posts are always interesting and positive about Maine and the people who live here. So Doug took the time to focus on this share rather than his usual choice of one of my political opinions. He wrote:
"Finally something other than your wacked political views"
I have come to appreciate the fact that the planet is leaving me behind. I'm old and getter even older every day. But come on now, how did a Center-Left view become so un-Mainstream to now be called "wacked" in such a short period of time. 20 years ago, I was was often being virtually hanged in absentia for not being a true blue card carrying Libtard.
I know hovering around what used to be the Center of American Politics is a thankless position. But now because of the stupidity on the Right, suddenly, according to Doug, I have "wacked" political views. Since I have no real clue other than his criticisms of my politics to go on, I can only make assumptions as to which side of the fence he hangs.
When someone does not have the balls to stand up and take a stand rather than just fling troll darts around, I have less respect for that person than before. And I certainly do not give a fuck what a troll, friend or not, thinks.
Hmm ............. Seems I do give something of a fuck what Doug thinks, just not enough of a fuck to allow his trolled criticisms to adjust my viewpoints.
So Doug, if you bother to read this after I send you the link, man up Dude and tell me what you think; not just that you think my politics are wacked. Where are your politics? You afraid to share them?
I joined a 1970's Facebook memory page awhile back. The first thing I did was remind myself this was not going to be a page I vented my angry political crap. I had other places for ranting, raving, showing my displeasure with the world politic at this time. Some pages should be reserved for apolitical and non-religious fun and nonsense. Leave the hate and discontent at home.
Sadly, politics seems to stalk me wherever I go in Facebook. Anywhere people engage each other, ugliness, hate, and discontent is always waiting just below the surface for any chance to ruin an otherwise pleasant and funny conversation. I fucking hate it.
So, the image to the right posted on the 70's memory page. Of the many comments I read, most were just straight up reactions to the memory, not interpretative memories that may have drastically mutated in the ensuing years that brought us to how we remember those good ole days today.
Now that I have pondered the meme awhile now, I realize the meme asked for it to get political with the words "cultural shift".
Nothing fires up a lot of us Boomers than words like "cultural shift". Most of us are sure it was better then than it is now. Seems we want to blame some group we are not part of for the perceived sad state of affairs our world is in now. It's the kids, the rich, the Democrats, the GOP, atheists, Bible Thumpers, the brown immigrants; it's always someone other than ourselves.
No one seems to want to acknowledge that what we have today is a group grope. It took all of us to create what we are living through now. In my opinion, no group is as bad as my Baby Boomer generation at condemning the world we helped to create. When a Millennial, a G throught Z generation punk blames us and wished we were dead and gone, well, we deserve it I guess. Many of us felt the same about our parents from "the Greatest Generation" who busted our balls during those wonderful1960's and 1970s.
The more things that change, the more they remain the same. My mom always contended there was nothing new under the Sun, just reiterations with subtle twists. And now that I have lived for over 70 years, I realize that she was right.
The story remains the same; it's the set that changes.
Later ..............................
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
A perfect song to match my mood at the moment is, "The Way It Is", by Bruce Hornsby. It is a beautiful song with a serious message. I try to resist, but every time I hear it, my eyes go moist.
Two Carl Sagan meme's found my Facebook page this morning. Both were marvelous quotes he came up with many years ago now. One was so prescient, it could have been written yesterday. The other, which sits to the left, is just an observation from a man whose life was spent observing. In so few words he encapsulates the Universe we live in and how special it is to be part of it.
I wish that I had paid more attention to Carl Sagan when he was alive and in his prime. I first became aware of Carl when I watched his PBS mini series, "Cosmos: A Personal Voyage" several years after it had first aired. He blew me away by his ability to make the big complicated ideas of Science make sense to a dumass like me. Sadly, as I was hard into my self interested journey of me and mine at the time, you know, family , job, blah, blah, blah ...... I paid only occasional attention to him after that.
It was only after his death in 1996 that I came to truly appreciate what a great mind he had and maybe that he was the greatest prognosticator of the last several centuries. He was not just an observer of the Heavens, his chosen field, he was able to use the phenomenal analytical skills he developed early in his life to bring together the threads that connect everyone of us to every little thing in the Universe. Nothing happens that we are not connected to. Nothing.
His grand notion of all inclusive connectivity has not caught on with everyone, but there are enough of us who have turned on that light, that I see this realization eventually catching on even with the dunderheads who refuse to even entertain the notion that everything is connected.
Carl may be dead, but his impact I think is only beginning. RIP Carl. I miss you.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ....................................
<><><><><><><><><><>
I thought a fitting tune for today's post would be "Space Cowboy", by The Steve Miller Band. for me, Carl was the original Space Cowboy.
A seven year old image I posted on Facebook crossed my page a few days ago. No need to describe it. You can see it right there on the left. The accidental visage that appeared on this trunk gave him his name, "The Man in the Tree". It took 30 plus years for him to reveal himself to me, but he finally did.
A man of few words, our conversations were decidedly one sided; his response usually just a branch swaying or a hiss as he used the wind to convey his feelings. Regardless, he and I have had more than a few conversations over the years. His steady calm demeanor have more than a few times helped me to calm myself, regain some perspective as I shed anxiety over any current stupidity I might have been experiencing. A relief valve I guess. Yes, a relief valve.
I first met the future Man in the Tree when he was just a two inch sapling in the late 1960's. No one knew exactly what species he was as the previous owner of the house had planted him shortly before they decided to sell the house. Based on the flowers that would eventually grace our dooryard, we called it a Weeping Cherry.
The image to the right is one of the last decent flowerings the Old Man put out. Not sure, but I think it was maybe from the same year the above image was taken.
Being of a fruit variety, the tree has always had issues with some rot. It was only in the last decade the rot began to cause limbs to fall and bark to fall off, leaving deep cavities that seemed to go right to its core. And last year an invasive climbing vine found it and really did some damage.
I plan to attempt to clean it up with a dim hope of saving it. If nothing else, I am going to attempt to propagate some of the many suckers it produces every year.
I am bringing up the Man in the Tree because like him, I have had a tough few years recently. Though both of us are hanging in there, I seem or might be turning a corner for the better. If I am, I hope to bring the Man in the Tree with me. ...................... We'll see.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ....................................
<><><><><><><><><><><>
I immediately thought of a tune on one of Fleetwood Mac's under appreciated albums, titled "Bare Trees". It came out during the period when they were evolving out of a blues band and into a pop band. Though I loved their music when they played blues, I accepted their inevitable metamorphosis from ugly blues larva into their reimagined Pop Music butterfly. Anyway here is Fleetwood Mac's title track from their their sixth album released in 1972. Here is "Bare Trees".
“If I have to create stories so that the American media actually pays attention to the suffering of the American people, then that’s what I’m going to do.”
JD Vance ~ Sept 15, 2024
Nine plus years of Trump and his drooling minions polluting the political discourse has made what were once unforgiveable actions by politicians nothing but mainstream, everyday stupidity that America has now learned to ignore.
The question I ask now is how did and why did we allow this kind of sleazy bullshit poison our politics? I was outraged when I saw the Right fall in line with the lies, accusations and hate that Trump pandered as the new "Alternative Facts" starting in 2015. And now we do not even blink an eye when he comes up with and then doubles and triples down on a lie that is racist and blatantly false. Targeting immigrants who are here legally and are also black is never okay, yet Trump and his butt sucking sidekick, JD Vance have no problem spewing their vile lies about them on a daily basis.
JD Vance's justification for creating lies to somehow bolster his campaign to enlighten America to his twisted vision of where we are only reinforces the lack of substance his and Trumps claims have. If they admit to making up lies to support their previous lies, what are we to think about their over all attitude about Americans. They are playing us for chumps and sadly, a large number of us are drinking their swill, and even helping to push their hate and discontent. Many, if not most know their plans are based not on helping the country but helping the few assholes who own them. They just do not care.
It is so easy to place all the blame on Trump. But the gutless enablers of the Right are really to blame. They allowed this slimy asshole to take over their party; this monster they now cannot control. They have allowed Trump to ruin the GOP by turning the party into an anti-democratic group bent on establishing an Authoritarian State in place of the Representative Democracy we currently enjoy.
If Trump wins this November, as Jackie Sue so frequently says, "We're Fucked!
Meanwhile, do your best to keep it 'tween the ditches ..........................
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
I found a list of Anti - Trump Blues tunes. It was hard to pick a favorite. After checking them all, I decided on the Rick Estrin & the Night Cats tune, "Dump That Trump".
I am not the awesome physical specimen I was fifty plus years ago. I know that. Yet occasionally, my mind tries to trick me into believing I have a chance of recapturing that chiseled and ripped body I so briefly packed when I thought I would live forever.
Yeah, the reality of the me of today flies in the face of the me I sometimes still conjure up in my mind. I will never again play lacrosse at the college level, win another swimming championship, or play on a state champion softball team. And picking up a bike again is questionable now.
That I am even still here and upright after so many years of taking my body for granted is more a testament to luck and possibly some solid DNA than any conscious effort on my part to maintain the temple I was gifted at birth.
Hindsight being 20/20 and all, I realized in my thirties that the bad habits I picked up in my teenage years would probably demand some kind of retribution once I hit my old fart years. So, instead of listening to my early warning system, I forgot the alert, resumed my merry way, and continued to occasionally ingest all the tasty ugliness that tempted me, day in and day out.
Now here I am pissin and moanin about what once was and what will probably never be again. Yeah, I have begun to fight back, but at this point, the effort is token at best. It is a mind over matter game now and I was never very good at that. Hell, it took me over 50 years of smoking before I was able to find the will to successfully quit.
Funny, the opening sentence I came up with while walking with Maggie in the woods did not turn into where I thought that sentence would take this post. What I had originally envisioned for this post is not even close to the result I am reading now. A best laid plan became a go with the flow result of an unintended ending.
And so concludes another communication from the void I charitably call my mind.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .....................................................
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
Since I had no idea or thought concerning a musical choice for this post, I will continue to rely on my tried and true go with the flow style. ........... This could take awhile.
Damn. It only took a few tokes and a brief visit to YouTube to find the perfect song. Here is Eric Burdon and the Animals with their excellent tune, "When I was Young".
