If I want to write more often, I need to find a solution when nothing to write about comes to mind ...... my mind can become a crippled blank and no amount of doob, alcohol, or other stimulants will bring me out of my funk.
It it pisses me off that when neither pen, paper, nor computer are nearby, I can think of a hundreds topics as I move through my day. Then I sit down determined to write, I stare at the blank screen, which I guess is akin to contemplating one's navel, sitting pool side in a lounge chair. A mushy void develops between the ears and numbness clogs the synapses.
The other time I think of topics is in the middle of writing the topic I came to write at the moment. I used to shine them on. I would often remember them, but only after I had left the computer and was doing something else.
Now when I sit down to write, if another topic or twist on the topic comes to mind, I write a few hints on another page to re-inspire me when nothing seems all I have. I just started the new page a week ago and there are already 20 -30 prompts saved to it. I may never expand on all of them, but it's nice to know they are there when I find myself stranded in the black hole I call, the "No Write Zone".
Later .............................
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I chose Soundgarden's " Black Hole Sun", not because its lyrics are relevant, but because they are not. When I am stuck reving my engines and going nowhere, nothing I think of seems relevant. I often feel I have fallen into an empty black hole.
I ran across the meme below on Facebook the other day. My opinion is it's Bullshit. From what I can tell, the Internet has not raised the collective intelligence or awareness of the population. Instead of asking Aunt Linda, now they ask Aunty Internet where a much higher quantity of misinformation exists than in old Aunt Linda's brain.. After a career of selling and fixing bicycles, It is obvious to me now many youngsters don't want information. They want to be entertained. Facts and Truth are no longer relevant in many lives of the young.
Anyone who allowed themselves to constantly be misinformed into adulthood, is most likely going to be that same person today. The same reason for self inflicted Dumassery back in the day still rings true today. ....... Lazy intellects enabled by older lazy intellects.
If I asked my parents a question they felt I could have found the answer for myself, they would say something like, "What are all these dictionaries, atlases, almanacs and encyclopedias for? Look it up."
The meme is a poorly thought out assumption; an unfair generalization from a one dimensional digital mind passing judgement on the analog minds that came before. If anything, Aunty Internet has caused a measurable drop in Humanity's overall IQ. Aunty Internet has made us dumber.
I would like to see the generations of children and adults raised with Aunty Internet function without her. I guarantee I could do without her if I had to. I still know how to open a book, tell time on a windup analog clock , and which end of a shovel to put in my hands without watching a video.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ...........................................
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Today's tune has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do the subject of the post. I completely forgot, lost touch, lost track of this great Steely Dan tune. It is off their "Pretzel Logic" album. Here is "East St. Louis Toodle oo".
My good friend K is not a fan of the Doors. He had some mealy mouthed excuse I don't remember. That's okay. I don't particularly care for some of the bands he likes. It's the way of the world.
We were heading to the Kingdom Trails in Vermont; must have been over a decade ago at least. We were going to ride trails til we gave out or the trails did. "Roadhouse Blues" came on the radio. I reached over and cranked it up to WOW. Before K could turn the volume down, I had a big fat doob pulled out and was firing it up. He looked at me. Not sure what he was thinking, but I said:
"It's a long ago rule cast in stone, that if "Roadhouse Blues" comes on, a joint is found if one is around to be found and the highest volume available is cranked."
He went back to watching out where we were going. He was driving after all. I took a huge hit and tried to pass it to him.
K looked back at me and waved the joint off. He didn't try to turn the music down; he went back to watching the highway. I shrugged and took another monster hit and rocked out.
I guess it was after my 3rd or 4th hit, K turned. The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile. He reached for the joint with his index finger signaling it was his turn with the doob. I handed it over. We both were rocking now. We rocked hard until the song ended. K handed me what was left of the joint. It was nothing but a roach. I had forgotten "Roadhouse Blues" was 4 minutes long.
Smoking Pot and Mountain Biking are inextricably entwined. The origins of the current sport of Mountain Biking can be traced to California in the 1970s. A group known as the Lakespur Canyon Gang began regular rides on Mt. Tamalpais (Mt Tam) in the Lakespur and Baltimore Canyon in Marin County, north of San Francisco. A bunch of stoners looking for some fun while they baked themselves into oblivion is how I heard it from some folks who actually were at least on the fringes of that original crew.
I met Tom Ritchey, owner of Ritchey Bikes at a bike expo in Philly in 1989 I think it was, I asked him about the pot smoking. He didn't know me so he just smiled and admitted there were some guys who smoked pot. I met another one of the originals, Charlie Cunningham and shared beers at the same expo. He agreed, Pot was an integral part of the fun for sure.
Charlie went on to be a partner with Steve Potts and Mark Slate in creating WTB (Wilderness Trail Bikes) in 1980. They started out making components and eventually began to produce frames. I still have a brand new WTB "Phoenix" frame with a very rare one off special Charlie Cunningham designed rear brake on it. I do not know what it is worth, but I am guessing some significant dollars for sure. They had a very limited run of frames with the correct bosses for those brakes.
I bought my first mountain bike in 1986. I entered my first race in 1987. I became a full time bicycle mechanic at "The Spokesperson" that same year, and in 1988 I became a partner. But it was in the summer of 1971, the rule about the song was created. I was packed into a VW Bug with 4 other stoners (We called ourselves "Freaks" back then) We were on the Washington, DC beltway weaving in and out of traffic without a care in the world and the song came on. The rest is history.
Just another case of how the Hell did we not kill ourselves back then, I will never know.
Later Gators ........................................
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After all that writing, at least the tune has been well determined. Here is "Roadhouse Blues", by the Doors. Be sure to spark one up if one is available and crank the volume to WOW!
When this meme crossed my Facebook path, I immediately thought of the song, "Slippin Into Darkness", a song by the band, WAR. WAR was an under appreciated band from the late 1960s and 1970s who put out music that has stayed relevant these many years. They were political, very political. From the tales co-workers at SHOWCO told, they definitely carried big chips on their shoulders. Many main acts could be tough to work with, what with the huge egos that often accompany the rise to fame and fortune.
I did not mean to take a fork so early here. Back on topic now.
Carl Sagan was originally a super talented astronomer and planetary scientist. As his plain speak explanations of science gained popularity, it became obvious Carl was so much more than an astronomer and planetary scientist. His total immersion into studying the heavens opened his mind to question not just the stars , but the why's and what's of our relationship to the Universe in general. His speeches, essays, and books transcended the nuts and bolts of scientific notions. Carl was able to tell us how insignificant and small we were in comparison to the Universe we existed in without any hint of condescension. He told us how it was according to the best science at the time.
I did not know it, but Carl wrote the hard Sci/Fi novel, "Contact" in 1985. It was the basis for the excellent movie of the same name that premiered in 1997. I have seen the movie more than a few times now. Every time I catch something I missed in previous viewings. Excellent movie that brings up, not just possible scientific concerns, but also some of the spiritual, philosophical and yeah, even religious possibilities.
I guess it was about the same time the movie came out that I began to consider the nuances in Carl's essays and speeches. I did not read many, but I decided he was now a "Futurist", a concept I was first made aware of in Isaac Asimov's Sci/Fi "Foundation" novels and Frank Herbert's, "Dune" novels. In both, the idea of manipulating the present to achieve a historical reality in a far future were at the center of both.
Of course the top dog of prognostication of the Western World would be Nostradamus. He came the closest I guess to foreseeing where we have ended up. Of course his writings are so cryptic, a lot of the results depend on the interpretations. Not so much with Sagan's suggestions of the future. And at least in the short term since he passed, he has been quite often right on the mark.
I looked up the above quote to see if it was incomplete, abridged, messed with. Yes, it was. I understand why. The complete quote would not fit well into the 30 second minds we have been taken over by. The complete quote is so much more profound and pertinent to the here and now. I will include it now:
“I have a foreboding of an America in my children's or grandchildren's time -- when the United States is a service and information economy; when nearly all the manufacturing industries have slipped away to other countries; when awesome technological powers are in the hands of a very few, and no one representing the public interest can even grasp the issues; when the people have lost the ability to set their own agendas or knowledgeably question those in authority; when, clutching our crystals and nervously consulting our horoscopes, our critical faculties in decline, unable to distinguish between what feels good and what's true, we slide, almost without noticing, back into superstition and darkness...
The dumbing down of America is most evident in the slow decay of substantive content in the enormously influential media, the 30 second sound bites (now down to 10 seconds or less), lowest common denominator programming, credulous presentations on pseudoscience and superstition, but especially a kind of celebration of ignorance”
( Excerpt from Carl's book, "Demon-Haunted World" - published 1995)
"... but especially a kind of celebration of ignorance"
30 years later, that is 2025 in a nutshell.
Do your best Keepin it 'tween the Ditches .........................................
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This post's song was chosen before I even started writing it. The mangled quote at the top made me think of WAR's, "Slippin Into Darkness" from the 1970s. A reconfigured WAR is still around after 50 plus years. producing great music. Here is a version of "Slippin Into Darkness" they recorded in a bus I think in 2018.
One of my great great grandfathers was a ship's carver and ship chandler in San Francisco in the mid to late 1800's. He took wood carving commissions while working his main job of outfitting ships with supplies and such. I had been told that one of his figureheads was located in a museum in San Francisco. Years ago I tried to locate where. As it turned out, the figurehead ended up in New Jersey.
This particular great great grandfather was named Edward B. Lovejoy, who left Maine under suspicious circumstances in the early1840's. He made his way to San Francisco and became an original "49er" just prior to the Gold Rush. He set up a ship chandlery shop and as a sideline, carved wood on commission. I have a table carved by him. It's tad beat but still beautiful. He was a master craftsman.
A local shipping magnate, a Mr. Adams, commissioned my grandfather to carve the figurehead in the likeness of his daughter, Cassandra. It would ride loud and proud on the bow sprit of his newly built bark (barque), the Cassandra Adams. When Mr. Adams saw the finished product, he was aghast, mortified; really pissed off I imagine. His daughter's likeness was clothed in a dress that stopped above her knees.
The righteous indignation must have been awesome to behold. Proper ladies did not show their knees to anyone back then, especially on the bow sprit of a ship. Adams refused the figurehead and commissioned another one, more in line with the moral spirit of the day; fully clothed and not dressed as a harlot, thank you very much.
The shunned figurehead sat gathering dust in my great great grandfather Lovejoy's shop until a visitor from New Jersey stopped in. Probably doing a tourist run through the docks of San Francisco at the time. He was so taken with the figurehead, he bought it and had it shipped back to New Jersey, where it supposedly resides in someone's garden today.
It is a very rare figurehead, as most of them did end up on ships. Working wooden ships from the 1800's did not usually last long. They sank or ran aground quite often as did the Cassandra Adams on its way to Tacoma, Washington in 1888.
How I stumbled onto this story all started with a promotional pocket dictionary from an other great grandfather's feed, seed, and coal store in Germantown, Pennsylvania around 1904, the year before my father was born. But that's another tale.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ..............................................
NOTE 2 - I just found out there is a watercolor painting of the Cassandra figurehead at the National Gallery of Art. It is currently not on display, but hey I'm getting some vicarious pleasure from being related to this master carver, my great great grandfather Lovejoy.
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Now, what to pick for music? This musical add on is becoming harder to come up with than the posts. I'll shelve this for the night and revisit it tomorrow when I am ...........
I tried to remember a specific sea shanty we sang in music class in grade school. I really liked that tune and even now, I occasionally find myself humming it. Of course when I want to dig it up from the memory banks, it is nowhere to be found.
Instead, here is a very well done version of "Wellerman", by Nathan Evans.
Okay I just can't take it anymore. I have been biting my tongue and resisting political rants since I came back from that two month vacation I took from the social media jungle after the last election. I have to make some comments or I'll explode. The political me is just entirely too powerful for me to keep a total lid on it any longer.
In my attempt to keep politics at bay, I stopped reading, watching or listening to the news for the most part. That isn't working either. We have the biggest accident unfolding in my lifetime and I am telling myself to drive by it without looking? Not a chance. Not an option. For better or worse and fuck my sanity, I have to involve my mind again and not the paltry flirtations I have been using lately. I will however, do my best to not let it get out of hand like it did in the run up to the November 5 election last year.
So where and how do I start and still maintain control?Finding that sweet spot is my quest. Reaching a balance between my version of personal peace and my version of over the top mania is going to be a tough job. For most of my life I have been struggling with mild form of Manic Depression. I really enjoy the mania usually, but always hate the depression.
To help temper my bad attitude about the current state of affairs the USA finds itself in, I offer up this funny meme from the past. It won't change anything. It might just make us laugh every time we use one of these very creative nicknames the Scots created for our pleasure. Pick one, pick them all, but be my guest, use them at all times. My favorite is "shit-spackled muppet fart"..... It kinda rolls off the tongue.
Regardless, I have an itch I have been trying to ignore for several months. Can't do it any longer. Holding it in is no longer an option.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .................................
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I googled "Anti-Trump Songs" and tasted roughly 30 of the ones offered. The videos were sometimes professional productions and many were just Grandma or Grandpa singing a first song on the Internet. The genres were everything from Hip Hop/Rap, Punk, Country, Metal, Rock and Folk.
I settled on a Rap tune from a 16 year old kid who recorded this 8 years ago during the first Trump Occupation, Here is The Real Red Wolf rapping his first video. Damn good effort.
"Mike, I saw the solar panel meme you posted on the Facebook."
Mike turned. It was Wally from over on the H Road.
" Waz up Wally? Had your sled out yet this winter?"
"Forget the sled, I wanna know why you spread lies like that meme is full of."
Immediately Mike realized a possible reason some folks post under a pseudonym. He stared at Wally:
"Damn Wally, what meme you talking 'bout? I ain't been on Facebook for awhile now."
"You know, the meme about the solar panels in space and how you claim they work just fine when you know damn well or should know it's too fuckin cold in space for them to work at all."
Mike was still struggling to remember the meme. He posted so many, it was impossible to remember one unless it was yesterday or maybe the day before. But to keep Wally happy, he put on his concerned contemplative look, stroked his beard like he was really trying to remember. He stopped mid stroke:
"No..... No. Wally, I just ain't remembering. Don't matter though. We're both grocery shopping here. I just want to get it done and head home. How about you? "
"Well, I ain't here to shop for groceries. I followed you in cuz I am just sick and tired of you Liberals trying to tear this country down and turn it Commie is all."
Mike stepped back and his eyes widened. Oh no, Wally slammed down the "Commie" card. "Here we go", he thought.
"You been chewing on this awhile ain't ya? ................ I don't mean no disrespect Wally, but Market Basket ain't really the place for this kind of conversation. Wouldn't you agree?"
Wally shifted his weight from one foot to the the other and looked at the floor. He clenched his fists a couple of times, took a big breath, then looked Mike in the eye.
"Don't matter where we are. You're a liar and I want you to admit it."
"I ain't admittin nothin you dumb fuckin redneck."
Mike was pissed now. He knew if Wally opened his mouth one more time, there were probably going to be police involved. He grabbed his cart and reversed direction.
Wally was having none of it. He quickly moved around Mike and jumped in front of the cart . Wally did not anticipate how hard Mike was pushing that cart. Wally went down hard and the cart fell over spilling and breaking the bottle of capers in the cart. Mike threw up his hands and looked ay Wally splayed out on the deck. He flipped Wally the bird, abandoned the cart, retreating in the other direction.
Walking down the aisle, he noticed several shoppers and one very surprised store employ watching him walk toward them. As he passed the guy in the apron, he said as calm as could be:
"Clean up on Aisle 9".
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Not sure now where this came from. I just wanted to to fiddle with some dialog fiction. It is certainly tied to the hard feelings floating around the various social media sites. America is angry, afraid, and totally off center. I imagine confrontations like this between friends, relatives, and strangers are unfolding every day somewhere in this country.
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I dubbed around taste testing various songs. Songs about the grocery store, songs about confrontation. I traveled through so many genres, my brain became addled and locked up. ......... I took a break, then hit the music from my collection of burned CD's. ...... Didn't help.
Out of the smoke came a song from my past, the first song I ever heard while standing behind the speaker stacks at a concert that I was working for. To say I was floating 10 feet in the air that day would indeed be an understatement. My first tour with SHOWCO was the last leg of the Who's, North American "By the Numbers "Tour. I would drive many miles and back my rig in at many venues for SHOWCO. But no tour had the impact on me like that first tour.
Please enjoy the WHO and the song they opened with at every concert that tour. Here is "Won't Get Fooled Again". Sadly America has been fooled again. Hope for better days.
Maybe back when I was young and numb I bought the lie that men were entitled to run this planet because they were, well, superior examples of the species over women. Luckily, my mom slapped that nonsense right out of my head early on. She was intelligent, definitely a match or foil, if you will, to the genius intellect my father was packing.
Between the two of them I came into adulthood knowing women were men's equals and maybe even had an edge on them. Yeah, male chauvinistic behavior was rare in our house. It was often parodied, made fun of, etc. Never was serious male chauvinism passed on that gave me the impression women were inferior.
Admittedly, when hanging with the gnarly dudes, the rednecks, the bad boys, I tended to keep my mouth shut and sadly, sometimes even laughed at their degrading jokes and taunts. Then I got married. And its odd, and please don't tell my wife this, but in some respects I married my mom. Not the judgmental snobbish mom, but the intelligent, never suffer fools kindly mom. They are two peas uncomfortably existing in a different kinda pod. And I mean really, comparing Mom to my wife will not be taken kindly. My life might be in danger, .... SHH. Okay?
Over the decades that have made up my life, I have watched women make wonderful strides in bridging that gulf of subjugation and begin to take their rightful place next to, and not behind men. Progress was slow, but it was somewhat steady. As women made gains, the the chest pounding men became increasingly nervous. Now, in this new century, too many of them have turned into total assholes and are doing their best to undo years of efforts to bring women up to equal status with them.
I have been upfront about my feelings regarding women and how they have been treated for the last 40-45 years at least. I never really was able to put into words just how I felt in a clean, brief, to the point way.
Yesterday, I came across the Neil deGrasse Tyson meme above on Facebook. Yesterday, I responded and nailed down how I felt about the lopsided advantage men have over women:
There you have it. An in your face traitorous denial of the feelings too many men still harbor about women. I am just sick of backing assholes who still consider women chattel. They are not. At this point in time, they are better than men. It is men who need to rise to their level, not the other around.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ......................................
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I sifted through more than a few songs, looking for one that at least gave me a feeling it supported where my head was at when I wrote the post. I found it. It is simply called "The Journey to Women's Rights", by Shivani & Reedhi. The tune is catchy and the lyrics salient. The message is on target. Too bad it will most likely Fall on deaf ears. ...... Enjoy !
Led Zeppelin's 1977 North American Tour landed in San Diego a few days ahead of the scheduled June 19th show. Having made the run from Madison Square Garden in impressive time, the first two trucks took only a little over 51 hours to drive the 2770 plus miles. The other four trucks were all accounted for by the next day.
That left more than enough time for the truck drivers to find trouble if they were so inclined. The old saying "Idle Hands..." was never truer than during those couple of days before the San Diego show. The Devil got busy when we hit San Diego.
Usually tour schedules did not allow as much free time as the drivers enjoyed during the 1977 Zep tour. With an extra driver assigned to each truck combined with longer drive time allowances, the tour became a vacation compared to any other tour I had been on. Higher hotel bar charges resulted as bad ideas and troublemaking plans began forming in earnest. The tour from start to finish had seen madness unfold, some of it self inflicted, most it seemed at the behest of the "what can go wrong gods". San Diego was following the rhythm track laid down back in the beginning of the tour.
After that first night of non moving sleep, I was full of piss and vinegar the next morning and ready for some downtime with no trucks, no roadies, no drivers; just me, myself and I. As the day played itself out, I was glad I had detoured down that fork in the road I had in mind.
Most of the drivers decided on starting out "tourist mode". Cabs were called and small groups set off to various ports of call around the city. The crew I was with headed to the seedy, where all the sailors flocked, part of the Mission Bay district. All kinds of fun could be found at reasonable cut throat prices. Women, Tattoos, Tittie Bars, and Greasy Spoons all in one convenient location competing for the coins in our pockets.
By mid morning I was half in the bag from drinking 3 or 4 Bloody Mary's with breakfast. Our first stop after was Tattoo Alley. Some of us wanted to get tattoos. Others were just along for support. I had planned to support, but I left the parlor sporting a 3 inch caterpillar Huffing on a Hookah.
The image is not even a close approximation of the tattoo I walked out with. I had chosen a tattoo from the bargain list; one color and cheap. If memory serves, I might have paid as little as ten bucks for it. I had the guy etch the tat on my back so I wouldn't have to regret it in the morning. One of the drivers from Texas commented as we left the place, "I've seen better tattoos in Jail."
That was alright. I had succeeded in satisfying one of my early kid bucket wishes. I had lusted after tattoos since seeing the tats on the crusty old non-coms at the several Air Force Bases where I spent my early years. When they rolled up their sleeves, the tattoos let you know these were real men, manly men. I was determined to own at least one. It was Pirates and Veins in my teeth stuff Dude. Who wouldn't want a tattoo?
We began our aimless shuffling after leaving the tattoo parlor looking for that next adventure. Someone suggested renting motor scooters at a rental place down the street. I remember thinking this might not turn out well as I was halfway to shitfaced at that point. It was early afternoon, and having an accident on a scooter did not seem like a fun way to finish what was turning out to be a wonderful day. I opted out, called a cab and bailed as catcalls of , "You're a pussy, You have no balls" followed me into the cab..
The cab dropped me at the Mission Bay Hilton. Two young women approached me. The conversation may have gone like this:
"So, are you with the Zeppelin Tour?"
I would like to think my response was as cool as I felt in my SHOWCO Zep shirt and aviator sunglasses, but I probably mumbled something like:
"Uh, yeah. ....I drive a truck on the tour..... Why?"
One of the girls said:
"Well cowboy, we want to take you out."
Just like that, I found myself with a joint in my mouth and I was seated between the two of them in a beat up mid 1960s Chevy pickup with Kansas plates. On an 8-track player behind the seat, Zep's first album rocked us out as we headed north on Interstate 5 a ways before splitting off onto Hwy 101 south to head back towards Mission Bay and the hotel.
The women did all the talking. Denise was driving. Her side kick butt dancing at shotgun was named Ellie. They were from Topeka and they had time to kill. They figured they'd try to stay ahead of the West Coast leg of the tour. I was their first victim.
The rest of my day became a fantasy unforeseen. I never imagined a day like this would ever actually land in my existence. I was with good looking women my age who wanted to have a good time. I hoped I was up to it.
We drove south on Rte. 101 for awhile smoking the joint. At a stoplight, a kid in a straw hat was walking up and down the shoulder selling avocados by the dozen. Ellie waved a five dollar bill:
"Will this cover it?"
He smiled, took the five and handed her a bag with a dozen Avocados in it; then tried to give her some change.
"Keep it", and we sped off.
When we were back in the Mission Bay area, Denise pulled into a drive through liquor store.
"So, what goes with Avocados anyway."
Ellie spoke right up.
"Fish tacos and Tequila". She pointed across the highway to a food truck sporting a huge sign that informed all motorists this was the spot to find fish tacos.
I spoke up. "Never had fish tacos. They any good?"
Ellie said, "I haven't a clue. We're from Topeka ferchrisakes. Let's try them out."
Denise ordered a bottle of Cuervo Gold tequila. We crossed the highway and parked near the food truck. With our tacos, tequila and avocados, we set ourselves up on a picnic table nearby.
I don't know about most fish tacos, but the ones we set our teeth into that evening were awesome. The sauce they used on their tacos set off a gastronomical pleasure party in my mouth. I could tell the girls were in heaven also. I opened the bag of avocados, pulled out my pocket knife and opened one up.
A conversation began between myself and the women about whether Avocados tasted better than they looked up close and personal. It took some convincing, but Denise finally took a small piece from me and reluctantly put it in her mouth. Immediately her hand came back wiggling her fingers. She wanted more.
"Damn cowboy, these are great....... How come you know avocados but not fish tacos."
"My mom. Wherever we moved when I was a kid, she found a way to get avocados."
I think we were at "Dog Beach", a beach set up for the pooches to run, cavort, and be the loose dogs they were meant to be. There were certainly a lot people out with their mutts while we watched and consumed our fish tacos, avocados and shots of Cuervo Gold Tequila.
By the time we
had eaten the tacos and half of the avocados, the shots of tequila began to
have their way with us. The sun was setting. I wanted to lay down; I was
suddenly struck with a case of the whirlies. Too much alcohol, too much pot and
on top of a full stomach, well, I was going to be in trouble if I didn’t lay
down. So I did under the lone palm near the picnic table.
Denise and Ellie
followed me over fussing about my condition. Did I feel okay? Was I going to
puke or something? One of them left us for a moment and came back with two huge
blankets. They spread the blankets out and both of them plopped their butts down
all the while trying to entice me into joining them. Laying in the sand had to
be uncomfortable they reckoned. For my part, I was feeling no pain. All I could
think of was I needed to hold it together.
It took a few moments, but I recovered enough to join the girls on the blankets The sun was
still peeking over the horizon. Ellie handed me a shot and we all toasted being
in San Diego and being young and numb. There were no cares considered that
night. We were gloriously drunk and stoned. Life was never better. We sat on
those blankets and eventually passed out, sleeping the night away only to be awakened by the
beach raking guy the next morning.
The girls dropped me at the hotel. I told them they could pick up back stage passes later. They waved and Denise hollered, "We got your room number now. We'll be back later."
MEANWHILE
After I had bailed from the crew the day before, events got really out of hand. Apparently, the drivers decided it was a good idea to do some bar hopping with the scooters. I do not know how many bars they hit, but it was definitely more than one too many.
While I was sitting at a concrete picnic table with two good looking women, tossing back shots of tequila and watching the Sun disappear into the Pacific Ocean, the scooter crew were being corralled by the cops and hauled off to jail. They had cut a swath of minor damages and close calls throughout downtown San Diego, the area around Broadway in particular.
Their scooter mania cost them plenty. Thankfully, it was only folding money they had to pay. But it could have cost them so much more had they not been hooked up to the Zep Tour. The hit and run charges were dropped. Any DUI charges were overlooked. They hadn't really taken anything or anyone out with the scooters. Most the damage was of a side swipe careening damage. The powers that be just wanted the tour out of town with as little negative publicity as possible. The drivers involved had some costs, some fines for damages and such. They were all back at the hotel when I came in after my night of tequila and avocados. Some were even back in the hotel bar getting tuned up again for another loud night in San Diego.
I often think of that time in San Diego with the Zeppelin Tour. A magical night of drunken companionship kept me out of jail. I would run into the girls again up in Los Angeles. Our relationship changed dramatically then.
Later ...............................
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The morning after our night on the beach, Ellie, who was charged with taking care of the music, put on an 8-track with the Eagles 1973 album "Desperado". When "Tequila Sunrise" came on, the terrible voices of a very hung over trio belted out the tune. Damn, that was funny. I think I actually stayed in tune better than the two women did.
It was bound to happen. But I never thought it would be because of a conversation Bike Shop Jim and I had the other day. He sent me a text concerning a wheel build issue he was having. It felt good to be consulted; even better that my suggestion may have helped.
It should have ended there. And it did end here in the waking Reality I functioned in day to day. It was in the murky fog enshrouded alternate universe I spent sleeping in that allowed the demons loose to have their way with me.
Most of the time I sleep unscathed and oblivious to the misadventures my brain conjures up. Not this afternoon however. This afternoon, my afternoon nap lost control. ..........
I came in on the dream after the initial fuzzy moments had already moved on. I had just finished re-spoking a wheelset. The customer came to pick up the wheelset. A heated conversation ensued over what price I promised in the initial estimate and what I was charging now. He called me a crook and said he wasn't paying. He followed up by insisting he was still entitled to the wheelset, new spokes and all.
This clown was a get over guy, a con man. I just knew it; I could tell every word that passed his lips was slippery, butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, sleazy rhetoric and most likely was a lie. I found the estimate, shook it in his face, balled it up and threw it at him. Not happy to stop there, I took the brand new re-spoked wheelset out of his hands, tossed the wheels on the floor and stomped the brand new spokes right out of the them.
In the meantime, the customer and a sidekick grabbed a thrashed Barco-lounger I had in the back corner of the bike shop and ran out the back door with it. I chased, flinging harsh and threatening words about what I was going to do should I catch you, you sleazy fucks.
Out at their vehicle, the customer comes into better focus. It is Donald Fucking Trump. His sidekick I still don't identify. I am in a rage now and ................ police are called, I end up in handcuffs for why I am not sure. As the cops drive me away, my last glimpse of Trump is him sporting that shit eating smirk on his face he so likes to use.
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This is the first dream I have had with the Orange Shit Gibbon as the main character. In the last decade of him polluting the political conversations, I have no memory of him haunting me in my sleep. It had to happen I guess.
I admitted long ago that Trump owned part of my brain. I couldn't quite get him out of it, so I owned it, went with it, always hoping for relief. Ten years of allowing him rent free space in my mind is long enough; too long actually. I never should have let him in.
I'll figure this out. I always have. Fuck Trump. I bet a shrink would have a field day with this dream.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ....................................................
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Google "Songs about Dreams" and what pops up are entirely too many songs to pick from. My first choice was the Everly Brothers, then Roy Orbison and then ........ I tasted 20 tunes at least. It finally came down to choosing between "Sweet Dreams are made of this", by the Eurhythmics or "Enter Sandman". by Metallica. "Sandman" is about fear and nightmares." Sweet Dreams are made..." is about, well, I am not quite sure. Couldn't make up my mind, so I picked "Dreams", by the Cranberries" just so I could end the debate going on in my head.
I long ago gave up wondering why people decide that everything has to have its own day, even if it means sharing it with another undeserving thing.
Today is "National Peanut Butter Day" and "The Farmer's Almanac" thinks we should all take a 30 second moment of silence as we cover our hearts, remove any head wear, and stop scratching our crotches, in order to pay Peanut Butter a modicum of respect. After all, it's the least we can do; way less than what Peanut Butter deserves, that's for sure.
This recognition of something so common as peanut butter got me to wondering just what other mundane, common, almost invisible thing could or would share this day, or for that matter, any day.
I decided to take a minute or two to exhaustively search through at least two Google hits and get right back to you with my well researched conclusions...... Be right back.
After a 30 second slog through the mire we know as Google, I have found that January 24 is not just a day of celebration for Peanut Butter, but the 24th is "National Beer Can Appreciation Day" and "National Compliment Day".
I decided that finding 3 days in 30 seconds was where I get off. If I keep looking, before the day is through, I will have too many things to celebrate and it will be time to hit the hay.
So I'll just stop here and celebrate. I won't celebrate Peanut Butter, Beer Cans or the lost art of Complimenting. I'll just celebrate because I can.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ..........................................
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Only one song will do. Here is Kool & the Gang with "Celebration". Back before good sense and sobriety kicked in, I tipped back many a shot when I heard this song.
I first wrote this almost 20 years ago in the summer of 2005. That was my first full year of blogging. I recently dredged it back up and thought I should share again as now I actually have an audience. I liked it then and I like it now. I can still smell the pink from that day.
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A woman came into Crum Cycles a few weeks ago. This is not an unusual occurrence, but how she dressed and acted was. Located in Maine, our community prides itself in reticent Yankee behavior. We dress down most days and are slow to warm to strangers. The invasion by a boisterous and buxom woman dressed completely in Pink, big hair, and enough makeup to make Maybelline bust with pride was a noteworthy event.
When I say she was pink, I mean pink. Pink pumps, pink miniskirt wrapped around a rather generous butt and a pink belly button blouse that highlighted a naval piercing with a, you guessed it, pink stone in the setting. She even smelled pink. A heavy odor of what I imagine 2 thousand pink flowers would smell like. And to top off the overall effect, a wide pink hairband that kept her Baltimore doo standing up and living large. As soon as I saw her, I thought of Divine and the movie "Pink Flamingos". The only thing missing was the "Bawlamer" accent. When she opened her mouth, the hard speech of someone from the blue collar fringes of Boston came out.
Our encounter was a comedy. She had recently purchased a couple of new bikes from some mass merchant nearby. She wanted to outfit them and her with many accessories. Racks, Helmets, locks, etc. As I worked through all the options, she took every chance she could to throw her sexuality in my face. She was obviously well versed in using her female wiles to seduce men to do her bidding. A touch here, an accidental brush there. And always that pink smell permeating the whole shop. I countered every attempt of hers to get close with tactful retreats to keep her out of "my space". I am only human and that smell combined with her overwhelming femaleness was having it's affect on me. It was not like she was seducing me, rather it was more she was winning by overwhelming me with superior firepower.
After setting her up with all the goodies she wanted and I had her safely on the other side of the counter, I began to breath easier. The 3 feet of glass and wood seemed enough of a barricade to keep me faithful to my wife and out of the madness of brief encounters with the opposite sex. She paid for her items and turned to leave. Then she stopped and turned, making sure all that could jiggle did jiggle. Dirty thoughts danced through my mind as she began to inquire about having me show her how her new bikes worked. I did not answer. And as she repeated herself, she smiled that knowing smile that she still had it. She could still turn a man's head.
She knew she had me if she wanted me. I had lost. That jiggle turn had done it. The icing on the cake. Satisfied she had another notch in her gun belt, she smiled, said see ya and left. I sat there staring at the door for several moments wondering what had just happened. It had been a lot of years since a woman had turned my head like that. The feeling was familiar but new at the same time. And then I grinned and thought, "Damn women. Gotta love em. We have no choice. They literally have us guys by the short hairs."
My first thought regarding what tune might work with this post was a song from the Movie, "Pretty in Pink". I checked the songs from the flick and lookee there, a tune called, "Pretty in Pink".
"Perfect", I thought, "Nailed it."
Then I listened to it. Let's just say I won't punish you with it. Totally forgettable: they should be sued for even playing it in public.
So what now? I reset and began what is often a lengthy dive into the world of song relevancy. Finding a tune that is even remotely connected to a post can take some time. I thought there had to be songs about pink. The first song I checked out was "Pink" by Aerosmith.
Now I nailed it. What a great tune and the video is outrageous. Love it.
Google claims the distance from Madison Square Garden to the San Diego Sports arena in California is 2765 miles. My SHOWCO itinerary has it as 2770 miles . The last Zeppelin show in New York was June 14, 1977. We had four days to cover the distance. SHOWCO wanted no issues making stage calls on time. They flew in a co-driver for every truck.
My co-driver was named Jim. A very likable guy who could not back up a tractor trailer for shit. Of course he had only been sitting in that rig for a few days at that point. In forward mode, he was rock steady, shifted clean and didn't ride the clutch. What really impressed me though, Jim was not a Chatty Cathy nor a whiner. All the way across country he pulled his weight just fine. He was from Kansas City and he enjoyed sipping Codeine cold syrup when he wasn't driving and we were in a state where it was still legal to get it over the counter. He also turned me onto a nationwide network of dealers who sold go fast pills to truckers. He gave me a card with a phone number on it. All I had to do was call that number for a location (usually a truck stop) on my route where I could score some pills. That's about all I remember about Jim.
Two drivers in every truck meant we could legally drive 24/7 across the US; well... almost legally. It could also have been a casual drive at sight seeing speeds. Instead, one of the drivers puffed up his chest in NYC, threw down the gauntlet and loudly claimed in the hotel bar he was going to beat the rest of us to San Diego. This in our face test of our manhood would not go unchallenged. All of us were in. Each truck put up $50, winner take all.
One problem was the first truck to load out ( Band Equipment) would have an advantage of at least a couple of hours over the last truck to load out. Rather than try to work out something fair, it became an, "oh well, you lose dude...see ya later chump". I was hauling sound at 3rd or fourth in the pack.
Six trucks left Madison Square Garden dark thirty the morning of June 15, 1977. Other than one sighting, that was the last time I saw any of them until I hit the super slab outside the San Diego city limits. I saw one of our trucks heading the wrong way. I tried to reach them on the CB, but I got nothing back on either Channel 19 or the west coast Channel 17.
When we found the secure lot for the trucks and trailers, Jim and I were sure we had won. We were the first truck there. A cab dropped us off at the San Diego Hilton on Mission Bay Drive just over 51 hours after we had left New York City. Our average speed with fuel and food stops was just shy of 55 MPH. Yeah, all the way to the Hilton we were full of ourselves discussing what we were going to spend the wager money on. After all, depending on how quick we made the trip, we could count on some significant time off before the one night stand.
As we approached the Hilton, I noticed one of our rigs pulled over to the side of the road. It was Rick's truck. He had not gone to the secure lot first. I envisioned a heated discussion over drinks about whether he and his co-driver had cheated. My recollection of the initial wager was, the first truck to park at the secure lot, not the Hotel won. He knew San Diego did not allow big trucks to park on the streets in that part of town. There would be no fudgin,
Rick was gonna be bummin hard. As we passed by his rig, I noticed a yellow wheel lock clamped to a set of his drive wheels. The San Diego cops didn't waste any time.
When we hit the lobby, I immediately headed for the front desk. My co-driver Jim had other plans. Told me he was hitting the bar to decompress over a couple of alcoholic pops; he would catch up later. I set him straight right away. Drivers always checked in first before any personal time could commence. Too many times there were foul ups and our rooms did not exist or were not ready. It was always soon straightened out as SHOWCO definitely had serious pull in the Hospitality world. But we had to be there front and center to make sure they worked it out. SHOWCO spent buckets of money on traveling and any hotels that screwed up lost their business. The tours were planned months and oftentimes a year or more in advance. Pre-paid Cash deposits with no quibbling were sent in to ensure top of the line service.
Jim didn't like it, but he came with me to the front desk. We checked in, found our room, dumped our stuff and then I said, "Time for cocktails. Let's find Rick and give him shit for cheating." Rick had been with SHOWCO awhile and I knew his habits. He loved to hang out at the hotel bars or the closest one nearby and sip Vodka Tonics until the wee hours of the night. He would definitely be in the bar. He and his co-driver were there as expected.
I slapped Rick in the back of the head as we walked up.
"Bet's off. You cheated."
Rick turned. The look on his face told me the slap was going too far. When he saw me, his frown switched to a smile.
"We did not cheat", he insisted. "We have been here 30 minutes at least, right?' He looked to his co-driver for back up. The co-driver had a blank look on his face and a full drink in front of him. He didn't say anything.
Rick smiled and said:
"Oh don't mind Bill... I don't think he's used to driving straight through from New York. He drove the last leg. He should probably be sleeping, but I insisted he come with me so we could laugh at all you losers when you came in behind the winner.
Rick's grin widened:
"So where's the $50 bucks you owe us?"
" Like I said, you cheated. The winner was the first one to drop their rig at the secure lot. From what I can tell, your truck ain't at the lot and besides, it has a wheel lock clamped on to one set of the drivers."
Rick's smile went slack as he realized the headache he was about to have with the San Diego cops. They were not very tolerant of big trucks that did not follow their rules. My grin became a chuckle.
I continued, " But while you figure out how to bail out your truck, I'll sit back here in the hotel lounge and nurse a double Jack Black on the rocks." I worked up the best shit eating grin I could muster.
John got up awkwardly and staggered toward the exit. I thought he was already hammered and had been in the bar for awhile. As it turned out, he had only been at the bar long enough to order one drink and not finish it. His codriver ratted him out. His awkward exit was just him straightening out truck driver stiffness after a long run.
Two of the other trucks made it to town a few hours later, with the last two arriving the next day. Everyone agreed John had cheated and I agreed to not push the win. It wasn't about the money. It was about bragging rights and I decided to split the ownership with John. I didn't want to win on a technicality, although I had every right to do so.
End of Part One
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Led Zeppelin is considered by many to be the greatest Rock n Roll band of all time. I don't know about that. When I bought and listened to their first album in the summer of 1969, I was positive they were Rock Gods. Not even Eric Clapton or Hendrix could carry their water.
That initial infatuation calmed some and their place eventually settled near the top of my all time greatest playllist. There was and still is entirely too much great music in all genres floating around this planet to make claims of "Greatest", Best Ever", etc. They were great and that is all that matters to me.
To have had the privilege to drive for their tour is one of my great memories. That tour was chock full of madness.
One song on their self titled fantastic first album, "Led Zeppelin" sent shivers up my spine and still does every time I hear it. Please enjoy their cover of Muddy Waters' wonderful Blues tune, "You Shook Me".
If you can't or won't turn the volume up to WOW, shame on you.
I had a dream last night regarding a bottom bracket and how it spoiled a friendship with a long time bike shop customer who now lives in Virginia. Definitely a silly dream as most dreams seem to be, but I still woke up pissed off. It also followed the tendency my dreams have of coming out of nowhere in the middle of another dream.
I was in a quandary. My garage needed a new roof. As I stood looking up at it and deciding what action I should take, Dave S walked up to me. He had with him, his recent custom build bike I sold him not two weeks previous.
"Wazup", I said, "How you liking that new ride I built up for you?"
"Love it dude. It's a beauty alright."
The way Dave said it though, I knew there was something wrong. I had owned a bike shop a long time and I could tell without hearing the customer whine, something was wrong.
"What's wrong Dave, something not right?"
"Well, now that you...."
Dave looked at the ground and mumbled. I could not hear him.
"Jeezum Dave spit it the fuck out...... What the fuck is wrong?"
Dave looks up. His face was not a happy face. I couldn't tell if he was mad or just sad. I reached for the bike.
"Let's throw it on the stand while you decide whether to tell me what's wrong or not."
"Okay"
Dave released the bike to me and we both went in the shop. I threw the bike up on the stand and gave it my standard repair triage to find out what was wrong. I noticed the bottom bracket was loose; not just loose but sloppy loose. Whoever installed it must have been an idiot. Since I was not an idiot, I knew immediately someone else had put a wrench to my "build".
I turned to Dave. He was still looking at the floor. His demeanor told me there was more to the story. I grabbed my crank extractor and had the crank arm off and on the bench in no time. That high end White Industries titanium endlessly adjustable bottom bracket with the stupid light alloy cups was loosy goosy. I bent down to get a better look and noticed the soft alloy tool flats were dinged, dented and mangled so bad, I knew I was right. Someone else had been fuckin with my "build".
"Whoever messed with this Dave is a moron........ If you had a problem, why didn't you bring it to me?"
Dave was still looking at the floor.
"Speak up goddammit. We're friends ferchrisakes. What happened?"
"Uh well,.... I .... you didn't answer your phone so I uh,....... took it to that new shop in south Sanford, "Ball Cycles ......... The owner, Jeff, said he could fix me right up."
I felt this huge wave of betrayal waft over me; leaving me speechless for a minute. Before I spoke, I gathered what wits I could find and in a calm voice, almost a whisper really:
"Did he fix it, ... you know, did he make it better?'
"No. He made it worse...."
Before Dave could finish his thought, I interrupted him:
"And now you will have to pay me to replace whatever parts he ruined with his ham fisted mechanics. I can tell you right now you will need new cups and bearings, but I think the Ti axle will be fine. They are more than tough, almost indestructible actually. .......Hopefully, I have some new cups in stock. White Industry parts aren't run of the mill."
I looked at Dave. He was miserable standing there with his hang dog look.
"Well, if you had answered.........."
"Don't even start. You knew I was up country for a visit with an old college buddy....... Just leave it and I will take care of it. I'll give you a call."
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It has been more than a few years since my bike shop days popped up in one of my dreams. This one was about as close to a nightmare as I have ever had. Of course, this dream was just that. Dave S never brought me a bike like that. Actually, he may have been my favorite customer. He was and still is one of my great friends.
Remain calm. Dreams may come true but so what?
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Only one tune will fit the bill for this post. Here is "Bicycle Race", by Queen.
I was enjoying my morning coffee, a couple of scrambled eggs with toast, and avoiding the news on the kitchen TV. Usually I avoid the news by watching old TV shows, "Leave it to Beaver", "The Rifleman", "Have Gun Will Travel". This morning though I stumbled across a 1954 John Wayne film, "The High and the Mighty".
I assumed it was either a western or war movie. They seem to account for a lion's share of the movies John Wayne starred in. I was surprised to find it was disaster movie of sorts. A passenger plane flying from Hawaii to San Francisco was not going to make it for a reason I was not aware of as I came into the movie past the mid-point.
Robert Stack was the captain of the flight. William Campbell was his co-pilot and John, well I am not sure why John was on the plane, but he was also a pilot for the airline and was carrying a checkered pass that may have or not kept him from flying at that time.
It was a classic averting disaster movie that reminded me in many ways of the fine Hitchcock film, "Lifeboat". Personal stories were plugged in to make the flight interesting and not just a bunch of panicky passengers screaming they did not want to die. I don't like many John Wayne movies, but this one was well done.
"Lifeboat" was written by John Steinbeck and "The High and the Mighty" was penned by Ernest Hemingway. The two of them were giants of 20th century American Literature. Start with good writing and that will always help a movie become more successful.
In the end though the plot became predictable. John Wayne was the hero I guess because he slapped Robert Stack into manning up and flying the damn plane when Stack had a crisis of confidence. Robert Stack stopped being a Nancy, thanked John for the intervention and successfully brought plane into San Francisco with 30 gallons of fuel to spare.
While I did enjoy the parts of the movie I watched and will most likely search it out to see the entire film; throughout the minutes I watched, the passenger seats kept popping into my mind. Look how freaking big they were and oh look at that , some guy's smoking a cigarette. Times have certainly changed.
My days of air travel peaked during the 1950s and early 1960s. My family flew all over the freaking place, especially the Pacific. I hated it. Mom learned to pack extra air sickness bags. I think eventually I might have puked some when the would "flight" was even mentioned. Didn't like flying then and I still don't. It doesn't scare me, I just hate the whole process; especially now, with all the extra pain the ass requirements just to step on board.
As the movie wound down and the passengers exited down the wheeled staircase, the little kid on the flight came down alone. That struck me as I remember flying alone at around the same age. My mom actually pinned a scrap of paper to the lapel of my new suit with contact info should I become lost, stolen or misplaced.
If you are into old movies, I would recommend both, especially "Lifeboat".
Keep it 'tween the ditches .....................................
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"Fly Away", by Lenny Kravitz seems it might just be a decent choice for this post.
