250

When The USA celebrated America's 200th birthday in 1976, I will admit I did not pay the attention to it I am paying to its 250th birthday in 2026. 50 years created a different approach from me regarding one over the other.

In the summer of 1976, I was pounding the highways of the Eastern Seaboard moving people's furnishings and lives from one place to another. I worked hard that summer. I had little time to pay attention to any birthday. I was making money I had never made before. Call it my first capital improvement period. I do remember a heightened sense of nationwide excitement from the many flags I passed and the numerous depictions of fireworks that were found in every print ad and TV commercials at the time.

In 2026, I am hard into my decapitilization period. That is, I am not actively chasing the bucks, I am living off my previous efforts at chasing the bucks. They call it retirement. I certainly wish it had come first instead of work, but then I never had a silver spoon in my mouth or even contemplated one. I probably would not have liked that either. 

Back then I could put in 16 hour days, go out and party til 4 in the morning and still make it to work by 8. It seemed I had no problem having fun and working hard at the same time. Today, a night out past midnight ruins me for a couple of days.

Being retired for this year's celebration has allowed me time to investigate different aspects, reasons, and other pertinent shit regarding our country's march into the future. My first burning question was what chunk of time exactly is 250 years in the counting of time. It seems there are several words / terms that are okay when labeling 250 years. The most popular by far is "Semiquincentennial".  

(I just wrote that from memory without looking it up. I will now look it up to see if I got it right. Lots letters in that one......... and more...... DAMN! I nailed it. Picture me now doing a jig, or rather, a sad slow imitation of one.)

At least now, after writng and now reading it, I know how to pronounce it. Other than that, I hate the word because it is entirely too burdensome to write or speak out loud. "250 Year Celebration" works best for me.

So, I let the Hoopla and Flag Waving pass me by in 1976. My excuse is I was numb and dumb and way too busy making the first serious cash of my life. My excuse for this birthday, 50 years later, is I am not that enthusiastic about a national birthday that has been hijacked by a slimy clown who is using it for his own self agrandizement. Trump has taken any celebration I may have considerd and shit all over it with his "Everything is about Me, Me,Me.....Me".

So please understand if I refuse to fly a flag this year. Please understnad that until Trump and the movement he created out of his ass is defeated, I will not be celebrating anything that pretends to show America as a great country. I fear we have lost that battle; and if not Lost, we are in serious danger of losing it, should the movemnt he created continues after he is laid to rest in the closest swamp available.

There is still greatness in this country. But it is a greatness that is currently under attack by some of its own citizens. Why? That's the problem. I cannot for the life of me understand why they hate our country so much, that they would want to marginalize everyone outside their narrow-minded  crew's view of the world. Talk about biting off one's nose to spite their face...... Geez.

Keep it 'tween the ditches .......................

( Post note - The two children in the top picture are my niece and nephew. I had yet to even consider marriage, children, or mortgages. )

___________________________

I sat on this post overnight. Not sure why. Maybe it was because it is so flippin hot. Maine is not supposed to be this hot. If I was a Republican, I would blame Biden or maybe Obama. But I am a card carrying Libtard who votes with Democrats at the moment. I say at the moment because the Democrats are really beginning to piss me off ..... again. I don't know what they are thinking sometimes. They have a president who is self destructing before our eyes and the Democrats are still pushing their often silly Woke policies over the bread and butter issues all of America wants to hear at the moment. Table the overly progressive crap for when you fools might again have the power to institute some of them. 

Regardless, this section of a post for me is to inject a musical moment to hopefully offset any panty bunching commentary I may have inadvertantly used in the main body of said post. ........ Okay.

Small town America used to personify the heart of America. Those small towns, those fields of grain and pastures stuffed with cattle were symbols of America's wide expanses and also the open hearts Americans offered everyone who was here, who came here, who wanted to come here.

Today on the Eve of the 4th of July and the 250th birthday of the country I love, America is not the shiny love is in the air country it used to portray itself. Our citizens are at each other's throats. Our citizens have become two Americas; one group wants an America that is moving forward with all of us. The other group wants to return to a past that never existed then but exists large in their minds now. You know, the America that was controlled by White folks, peckerwoods like me.

I decided that John Mellencamp recorded two songs that encapsulate the mystery that is America. So today, we have a two-fer. Up first is "Small Town", an ode to the rural small town America the World learned to love from afar.

The second song, "Pink Houses", looks behind the "Life is beautiful" America and points to some of the ugly truths America has that also plaque, in varying degrees, every country on the planet.

Bittersweet - The Sounds of Paul Simon

Last night, an 84 year old man stepped out onto the stage at the Bank NH Pavilion on the shores of Lake Winnepesaukee, Gilford, New Hampshire. The capacity crowd of 9000 or so dutifully greeted him with a standing ovation. 

The man began to speak. He outlined what the audience could expect in the way of a show. It would be a two part show. The first part would be his latest music from his latest album, "Seven Psalms".  He was specific, the first act would be 33 minutes long. There would be a short intermission. The second act he promised, would consist of many hits from his earlier years. The crowd roared their approval.

I cannot speak for the audience, but my initial impression of his first set was shock. I am not sure what I expected, but it wasn't this old man who was one of my musical heroes from the time I first heard "Sounds of Silence" in the1960s. He was a frail man. His tired voice sang songs wrapped in religious questions and faith. I was not disappointed. I was reminded that even Heroes grow old; Time makes no concessions for anyone.

I felt sad during that first set; selfishly sad I guess. Paul was onstage singing his heart out and I thought of my own situation. The crowd was polite. It was possibly from shock similar to mine. We offered luke warm claps after each song.

Intermission

The first set had given me a chance to accept that Paul had lost a step or two. I adjusted my expectations after the intermission.

The concert had started right on time at 8:30 PM. With the 20 minute or so intermission, Paul and the excellent 9 or 11 musicians ( Lis and I weren't sure ) who had his back played for a total of 2 1/2 hours I guess. Paul found his stride, his voice grew stronger, and his renditions of older hits created a new appreciation for the greatness of the music this man created over his 60 plus years as a giant in the American music scene during the second half of the 20th Century. 

His songs humbled me, caused some tears, and left me awestruck. Paul is still plying the trade he adopted so long ago. I came away with a one word summation of what I thought of the concert...... Bittersweet. 

I had no problem deciding what  group or artist to highlight for this post. But which rendition do I pick? The period when Paul was part of the duo, Simon and Garfunkel, or the Solo Paul who continued to pump out meaningful and lyrical music for many years after?

There were so many songs I love from both phases of his career. After some thought, I picked a song from his time with Art Garfunkel. If I had to pick a favorite, it could easily be "The Boxer". That he performed it last night cinched it. Enjoy.

From the Mouths of Caddies .......

From the mouth of a caddy, the legend of Trump in Donald's own mind is justified and reinforced while Donnie and Gary Player were between golf holes recently. Gary's caddy and mock historian approached Trump with his opinion regarding just how awesome Trump was and his place in the history books.

The Donald liked the slip shod conclusions of the Caddy so much, he asked the caddy to forward his essay to the White House.

Once in the White House and Donald had time to focus at least one good eye on it, the historically hysterical comedy the caddy wrote quickly became a defintive essay from a notable historian or so it was claimed by Mob Boss Don and his ever so incompetent administration. 

I heard this story watching an interview with two reporters who have written Regime Change - Inside the Imperial Presidency of Donald Trump. It is the latest book about all things Trump. Maggie Haberman and Jonathan Swan sat down with Mika and Coffee Man Joe this morning on MS Now. This book is so recent, that today, 6/23/2026, is the official releaase date.

The two authors are reporters with credentials from years in the News business. They spent the last year investigating along with thousands of interviews to come up with a book that will hopefully hold my attention until I find the last page. I just ordered it from Thriftbooks.

The story of the caddy came right out of Trump's mouth when they interviewed him. Apparently the caddy contended in his hysterical historical piece that Donald Trump was the most powerful leader the World has ever known. No leader before him comes close. Not Alexander the Great, not Caesar, not William the Conqueror, not Napolean, and certainly not Hitler, Stalin or Mao. 

He bases his poorly contrived conclusion on the fact that all the others were just local yokels who did not have the "reach" Donald has; what with the awesome destructive power at his command and the Internet at his fingertips. No leader before him has had that.

I am guessing the Donald considered this latest idolatry as just another confirmation he owns the planet, his will be done. At least in his mind this is the Reality he has built over years and years of deluding himself.

I have not read the book yet or this caddy's conclusions and if he has anything more than "Reach" to justify the conclusion I do know. All I have at the moment is the interview with the authors this morning on MS NOW and the prejudiced from experience that anything Trumps believes or claims is probably Bullshit.

One thing is abundantly clear, the caddy seems to be a classic MAGA sycophant and a lazy historical researcher to boot. The leaders he compares Trump to may not have had the worldwide "reach" Donald has; but in the times they existed, they had more impact on their world than the pitiful clown who now squats in the White House.

I should be used to it after over a decade of Trump nonsense. I am again baffled by how any president of the United States would love being compared to Hitler, Stalin, Mao or any other tyrant from our past. Yet, Trump has more than once stated his admiration for the worst assholes on the planet, past or present.

Of course, we are not rid of Donald yet. Definitive histories have yet to be written. The next few generations will decide where in the hysterical record, Trumplestilt Dum will reside. 

If the movement he created gains power after he is dead, we could be looking at the beginning of the end of America as we know it. Of course, hysterics now when contemplating future upheval and chaos we are witnessing daily now, is definitely not helping the doomsday frame of minds Trump has created. It's a daily struggle to remain calm in the face of so much evil stupidity.

TDS exists.......  Maybe more of us should be suffering from it. History is chock full of dumbass citizens who got what they deserved because they did not pay attention. As my favorite high school teacher wrote in my yearbook in the spring of 1969:

These are Critical Times. Degeneration is around the corner.

Watch !

Keep it 'tween the ditches ...................................

_________________________

How to pick music after pumping up my anger so much is often a real struggle. Many times, even a toke or two does not help. Let's see if a pull on the pot pipe will this time. ............. Hmm. So far .... No it hasn't.

It didn't take as long as I expected. I remembered a song recorded by Tracy Chapman on her 2005 album "Where You Live". I may have used this song on previous posts in the past. It certainly is worth repeating.

Please enjoy "America" and the video Dwane Chandler created to go with it.

Baskets

This stained glass portraiture was purchased during the early days of our marriage. It is without a doubt, my favorite art piece in the house. We purchased it at a craft fair in the1980s. My wife was a basketmaker then. She went to countless craft fairs. I went to many with her.

Our family economy then was a week to week existence. I drove trucks. BA made baskets. As I look back now, that period of my life was as good as it ever had been. Domestic life suited me. Constant concerns over money though, definitely created a hitch in the life fulfilling appreciation of the time. Money was tight. Thankfully we depended on my wife's bookkeeping skills to keep us straight. I was okay handling money. She was and still is a genius.

It was my habit to wander around the crafts booths to check out the various offerings; what other basket makers were there, etc. etc. I spotted this portrait and immediately wanted it. I do not remember the asking price. I do know though, the asking price made my butt pucker. If memory serves here today, I entusiastically petitioned BA to let us take it home. I said it was so special, she needed to take a break from her booth and check it out before someone else bought it. I volunteered to watch her booth; something I was not a fan of doing. We ended up taking it home with us. It has been hanging in our front living room window the last 40 or so years. If you look closely, you might notice the mullions behind the piece.

I like to take credit for finding this portrait. It may or may not be true. Siince I am writing this story, I will make me the hero. All of us, or least some of us,; well maybe it's just me ..... okay, okay . A few of us at least have in us, traits that Trump has in spades. Hell, someone has to support our egos and it should start with ourselves. Of course Trump's exaggerated dependence on the figments in his own mind are the ultimate extreme of a militarized Ego. My case of it is certainly more in the normal range I am sure......  Oops ....wandering off the trail again. 

I notice now, I titled this post "Baskets". Not sure why I did. The image of the lady at the top was what triggered me to sit and write. I had just removed a screensaver image and replaced it with this image. Thnking of this portrait took me to thinking of the 12 years my wife spent weaving baskets and ruining her hands. Next, I thought of the craft fair culture that was ingained in our lives at that time. Memories often come back to me indirectly rather than by specific intent. In order to continue to fool myself I am indeed normal, I will assume this tendency falls with normal parameters of human behavior.

I wandered around the house looking for some of the baskets my wife had made. I found three that were still performing the duties they were woven for; holding junk that should have been somewhere more appropriate. I pulled out bits and pieces of 40 years of accumulations. They were dusty and the color was faded on the one. One is a hurried basket she made over 40 years ago for the cats to lay in. It is still functional. It still holds the occasional cat.

The other two were bread and butter baskets. BA made many of them. I am guessing she could make them in her sleep. In retrospect, the price BA paid for those 12 years of manual labor was higher than it should have been. Carpal Tunnel Syndrome and artritus as she aged damaged her hands and wrists horrenduously. Becoming an accountant was the smart shift in careers.

I am so thankful for BA allowing me to share her life. She has definitely been the rock upon which our relationship started and been able to last these past 45 years. ....... 45 years; Damn. Thats a huge chunk of my life. I wouldn't change it for anything.

Keep it 'tween the Ditches ............................

____________________

I picked "Basket Case", recorded and released in 1994 by Green Day. My wife was still weaving baskets. Every time I played or listened to it, I thought of her. I still do.

Here is a live version they performed at their induction to the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame in 2015.

Unappreciated

 Some people contend:

"You never truly appreciate anything until it is gone"

I have had this truth shoved in my face many times over the last 74 years. You might think I would get used to it. You might consider I would not be so surprised every time it popped up. Now, many years later, I am appreciating the fact that I allowed so many constants in my life go unappreciated.

Nothing lasts except Assholes and the infinite ways they bring assholery into my life. I include those moments of my own assholery of course, because , well, I am not Donald Trump whose infallibilty in all things pertaining to everything in the Universe is beyond Truth, Justice and the American way. Hail to the Head Honcho, the Man, the Grifter in Chief. 

He is leading us down the path we chose for ourselves. Through a combination of willfull admission and willfull omission over the last forty years, America finally has found what it was looking for, what it was headed for, what it deserves.

There's still time to fight back. Being smarter with your vote this next time would be a good start.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ...................................

____________________

The tune today, I found by typing "Song about Don". The track below is what popped up first in line. I tasted it and then finished it. Perfect song. Throughout it, the visuals made me think of Trump and the possible reality he lives with in his mind. Glitzy sets, Luscious Bimbos of the exotic kind while our stud hero is dashing smoothly throughout the video and wowing all the girls. He knows he is cool. 

If Trump has a hero, this must be the guy.

I actually like this tune. Well produced, slick, everything is perfect in this Bollywood Classic. The subtitles help immensely😏. I defy anyone to not tap their feet at some point in this song. 

Opthoneurorectitus

 It has become much easier and more predictable of me to have a chronic case of Opthoneurorectitis. For those you who have never heard of the condition:

Opthoneurorectitus is an inflamation of a nerve that runs from the eyeballs to the asshole; resulting in a shitty outlook on Life

Come on now, there is not really much in the news lately that lifts smiles and doesn't create frowns. The news offerings from the multitude of media machines around the the world seem focused on bad news first, any other news is accidental and comes in a very very distant second place.. It has always been the tendency of the many news outlets to concentratie on the sensational. Sensational and bad together can turn into a long term focal point of negativity. In a nutshell, that is what Trump's existence in our reality has done.

When it comes to what might be good turn of events under his leadership, well, I cannot see one major policy, executive order, or Royal dictate that ended up a plus for America. The only good that happens now is when Trump fails.

I long ago stopped even wondering and or hoping Trump would change his narcisstic criminal ways. I know longer want to debate anyone over the various failures of character Donald has used to enhance his position personally. He has never cared one iota about this country. His only concern is much more mercenary and self enriching for him. The whole world to him is a landscape populated by chumps just waiting for him to pick their pockets or any other resource he thinks that might make his pockets bulge or self image balloon in his own mind. I cannot think of any leader in history who has created a bigger legend in his own mind than Donald Trump.

With such an amoral scumbag like Trump having the world by the shorthairs, I think it's understandable to take on an opthoneurorectal view of the world around me. Tump works hard to create a shitty existence for those around him. He will literally throw anyone, loyalists and enemies alike under the first bus he finds when one of them displeases him. He demands loyalty, but fails to reciprocate in kind.There are absolutely no redeeming qualities in this swamp dwelling scum sucker of a President.

Hmm ............... I thought I would feel better firing off a rant of one kind or another. I was hoping to purge some of the recent Trump Stupidity pressure. Didn't work. .... Well maybe, just a tad.

Later Gators .....................................

________________

I have been busy multi-tasking. I forgot to even think about music until I typed the word on the screen.

The song I have today, "White Freightliner Blues" has always been a favorite song. I spent a lot of miles in a White Freightliner. The one on the left was my first one. I drove two other ones. Dependable and fast enough to get the job done. 

If we were on a Crunch Time run, we'd often use visegrips to pinch off the fuel return lines. That forced more diesel fuel through the injectors. I could squeeze out on the flat, another 10 to 15 MPH out of that 290 Cummins. The only faster way was Okie Overdrive on the steepest and longest hill in the area. I only did that once. Once was more than enough.

It was a bit tricky getting that visegrip to have the right amount of squeeze. Too little and it was a useless exercise. Too much and damage to the injectors and other parts could result. The best way to hook it up was at night so I could monitor the glow of the exhaust as it came out of the stacks at a high RPM. A nice warm red glow not too high was perfect.

"White Freightliner Blues" was first recorded by Townes Van Zandt in 1973. It has been a favorite country song to cover by many bands. Please enjoy this collaboration cover by Molly Tuttle and Tommy Emmanuel. Awesome guitars. Both of them can really pick.

Just to juxtapose some, here is the original tune as recorded by Townes Van Zandt in 1973:

Ain't Too Proud

Carol, a client of my wife the accountant, owns and operates a local weekly ad circular. Carol has been a booster and supporter of the Ogunquit Playhouse in Ogunquit, Maine for years. Because of her good relations with my wife, we have had the opportunity to see more than a few productions gratis. 

The playhouse is one of the premier summer playhouses in America. Since 1933, hundreds, if not thousands of actors and performers have played there. Many played there before they were famous, many played there after they became famous. The list of the celebrated stars is huge. 100,000 people take in performances every summer.

My first experience with the playhouse was in the summer of 1961 I think. I was in Maine spending some time with my aunt and uncle. They took me to a children's matinee production, the name of which, I cannot remember. Since then, I have had the pleasure of seeing many shows there.

Last night, we experienced a musical biopic of "The Temptations", a rythm and blues (Soul) group from the 1960s and 1970s.The Temptations, along with "The Supremes" often owned AM radio as their music crossed over racial lines and helped our culture heal some wounds between the races from the nasty legacy of Slavery and later, the Jim Crow era in the South.

I never owned a Temptations album, but I knew their songs. Their music popped up everywhere; Teen Club nights in the North Bethesda Jr. High gym and teen clubs across the nation. I can remember "My Girl" as one of those early "our songs". For the life of me, I cannot remember the girl's name who shared "Our Song" with me. 

"Ain't too proud" was a real treat. 31 songs woven into a narrative as told by Otis Williams, their leader for years. It  followed the trajectory of this super group's rise and fall. The voices of the players were amazing, the band that played the score was true to the music of the group. Overall, another excellent presentaation at this iconic playhouse.

One section of the perfomance caught me up and I could feel my eyes moisten. It was their journey through the Jim Crow South around the time Rev King was assassinated. For a few moments I was back in Tallahassee, Florida as a 12 year old watching white peckerwoods with bats and sticks descend on black protestors as the cops turned their backs or just looked away. I had gone to the protest, defying my parents orders to not go. I never told them until I was an adult.

That moment still haunts me 63 years later.The reality of Jim Crow came full circle for me. I really had no experience with racism until my years in Florida. It was a rude, in my face come to Jesus experience that insured I would never be comfortable around racism. It was maybe my first hint that white folk were no better than anyone else, contrary to the image they painted of themselves.

The biopic last night was not only a great musical treat, the way the narrative of the Temptations became an integral and seamless part of the story made for some fine theater. I had a wonderful time. The set was sparse. But a minute into it, I knew they were not going the rely on the set to prop them up. It was the narrative and the music. The music was fantastic. The outfits were perfect and the doos right on target.

I would have never thought all those years when I was dragged to this concert, that theatrical production; that it would all rub off on me so that now that I am an old fart, I can appreciate that which I did not as a child. Again another full circle has been completed.

Keep it tween the ditches .............................

_______________________

Of course I am going to use the Temptations hit, "Ain't tToo Proud to Beg" for this post. I also have to include the first and maybe the only "Our Song" I ever shared with a girl. "My Girl" is a song that has stood the passage of time. Finally, my favorite Temptations tune, "Ball of Confusion". Not just a political song, more importantly, they stepped outside of their comfortable "Pop Music, Motown" sound. 

Iconic Cinema Moments

I first saw "Cool Hand Luke" in the theaters when it first came out in 1967. It was so great I sat through it a second time. To say it is a long time favorite of mine would be a serious understatement. Paul Newman at his best. He should have won an Oscar, but well, he didn't mesh well with the politics of Hollywood back in the day.

I watched again for the umpteenth time a few nights ago. The movie is chock full of wonderful cinematic moments and acting, but the one moment that stands out and the scene I think of first was when the prison captain of the work camp says:

"What We've Got Here Is Failure to Communicate"

He is justifying beating Luke for being an uncooperative prisoner. Definitely a cinema nugget that has been immortalized as one of the great ones.

There were so many iconic moments in my quiver of iconic cinema moments, I could write about them ad nauseam. But I won't. Here is two more.

The the image of King Kong on top of the Empire State building in the original 1933 film is the iconic moment most people mention. The scene in the film I remember though is when King Kong kills the Tyrannosaurus Rex he is battling by prying his jaws apart. Still gives me the willies when I think about it.

It was the first and only movie that ever gave me nightmares that I remember. I was age seven or so and living on Augusta Street in Bethesda, Maryland. My parents told me it was the last time I asked to sleep in their bed. The only reason they ever brought it up was because they refused my request. It was one of those forced "grow up moments". I returned to my bed and laid wide awake for quite awhile. That I still remember it now 67 years later tells me that night was a tough one to get through.

Another cinema nugget I remember regularly is from the film, "Schindler's List". Being shot in Black and White makes the horror of the Holocaust stand out so much more vividly than shooting it in color would have.

The point is driven home and singled out as a little Jewish girl shows up in quite a few scenes wearing a red coat; the only color in the whole film. Understanding the point of the red jacket puzzeled me at first, until towards the end of the film. As the Ghetto is emptied by Hitler's troops and the Jews are processed to be shipped to the concentration camps, a handcart carrying bodies enters the scene. One of the bodies is wearing a red coat. That scene is on the loop of cinema memories I carry around to this day.

I have many other cinema moments. These three are ones that came to mind when I decided to write about the power of the arts. I have similar memories from books I have read, art I have looked at and music I have listened to. The Arts should always be free to expose the good and bad of Humanity. To censor any of it is to cut out parts of our souls.

Take care and please, Beware. .............................

_____________________________

I googled "music from Cool Hand Luke and found Paul's version of "Plastic Jesus".

I did the same for King Kong and found this. It is called "Main Page". I call it an overture.

And finally,from Schindler's List, this wonderful piece performed by Itzhak Perlman and conducted by John Williams.

The Cigar Aficionado

I spotted a recent issue of "Cigar Aficionado" sitting at the kitchen table this morning while savoring my second cup of coffee. The name on the label was my wife's accounting business in Springvale, but with our home address under the name. How she came to have a subscription to "Cigar Aficionado" delivered to our house is one of the many modern mysteries directly associated to our new high tech existence. 

It appears that the publisher decided to reach out to accountants. Reach out? Why would a magazine devoted to smoking cigars reach out to an lady accountant in Maine?  My wife claims she does not smoke cigars. I have no memory of ever seeing her chewing on the butt of a 50 cent cigar. I will have to take her word on that. 

It must have been through gee whiz computer wizardry, the cigar market analysts discovered there are millions of accountants out there. It would follow, that most accountants must be men, what with crunching numbers being only slighlty less macho than ropin steers out on the Range. Accountants are most likely not poor. And because they wear suits, they are probably not fans of Chawin Tobacca.

Accountants often have offices with waiting areas. What do we find in most waiting areas besides chairs and small tables? Magazines. Clients who need accountants on a regular basis usually have deeper pockets. While the clients sit waiting, they might just pick up the "Cigar Aficionado" and be sucked into the world of cigars, bitches in bikinis, and guys wearing pork pie hats with names like Longshot Louie.

Using these assumptions, they must have thought they had a chance of landing more fans. There is a reasonable chance there are enough stogie smoking accountants to support the expense of sending them gratis, an obviously expensive to publish magazine. I am also guessing that a manly mag that supports the cigar smoking culture would be ecstatic to win over some these awesome examples of maledom who roll up their sleeves and fight the good fight, using nothing but their large brains and a calculator.

As I pondered all this and sipped that second cup of coffee, I noticed that the person on the cover was none other than one of my favorite Wingers to hate, Ronald Dion DeSantis, lame duck governor of Florida, the Sunshine State. And lying next to "Cigar Aficionado" was a black sharpie. 

Old men, no matter how old, never really grow up. Well, I know I haven't. I can think like an 8th grader in a heartbeat. Matter of fact, the older I get, the more fun it is for me to remember the silly fun and stupid games I created at that age; not really out of childhood and not exactly a teenager yet either. 

I picked up that sharpie and my awesome artistic talent took over. While I drew my masterpiece, I remembered how much fun it was sometimes to be a boneheaded 8th grader.

I looked at what I had done and laughed and laughed.

Ya'll keep it 'tween the ditches..Hear?

___________________

I promise. I had a tune picked out not 1/2 hour ago. Just right now at this moment, I have misplaced that thought. It is understandable, given how much garbage I have shoved into my brain over the years. There's not a lot of room anymore for any more garbage. And because I am a hoarder of things physical, apparently my afliction includes stashing my thought waves also. Instead of a garbage in, garbage out scenario, in my case it's garbage in, nothing out. And before I know it, my short term memory quiver is so full, it makes the 3000 emails I have ignored look like chump change.

I have never heard of Steve Earl . He is a musician I am not familar with. I was caught by his tune, "City of Immigrants". It is excellent. A real foot tapper with great lyrics. One play and I am hooked.

Not sure how I missed Steve Earle. He was born in 1955. He began his career as a songwriter in Nashville, Tennessee. His first abum debuted in 1986. He didn't look back I am sure. As of 2026, he has recorded or been part of 21 studio albums. He plays Country, rock, folk and most likely a slew of other genre's. The man is a talent. I can't wait to taste all of his music.

Who is Really Smarter?

My mom was sure women were smarter than men. My father never contradicted her unless he was drunk. Not just drunk, but stupid drunk. As a functional alcoholic his whole adult life, he crossed the line into the stupid drunk zone quite often. When he was sober or just at the functioning drunk peak while drinking, he was usually the smartest person in any room he walked into.

So, I was raised to accept that women were smarter than men, if only to get along better with them. My father never really believed women were smarter. He did believe however they were sneakier and much better than men at laying evil plans. Of course, his record of three marriages would indicate they were smarter. At least the ones he married were. Each marriage cost him an arm and a leg that meant his General officer paygrade only elicited the pay rate of a First Lieutenant after the alimony had been paid. 

My mom also thought that while women were considered second class citizens by men, she felt the effort to lift them up should have been done with better planning. Her favorite example was that living with low expectaions actually made women more powerful. She was sure women and their higher IQ's, and men's tendency to think with their genitals made manipulating men easy peasy. Coming at them like they were equals did not often work out; where "yes dearing" them often kept their men on the path they wanted their men on. Too many great men had wives who made them greater. Mom had little sympathy for the women in her circles who did not use their superior intellect to get what they wanted out of the relationship.

I love and admire my mom. But I hated her ability to twist me and my father around her little finger. My dad was a genius. But my mom? Well, my mom was an evil genius.

Which brings me to my point; a point I reached many many years ago. Women are smarter and tougher than men. Men are fighting a losing battle trying to get them back in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. If we men were smart ( it is apparent we are not); If we were smart, we'd hand over the keys to the Kingdom to women. The male species has proven that under the Male ego guidance, Humanity's growth has been hit or miss. We have survived in spite of the patriarchy's hamfisted way of running things.

Later Gators ...............................

_________________

This post is the result of my wanting some words written to accompany a song I was humming in my head when I woke up this morning. Here is a cover of "Man Smart. Woman Smarter", by the Grateful Dead. Harry Belafonte made this Calypso tune and many others famous back in the 1950s. I always liked Harry's versions, but then I remembered the Dead performed it quite often. The number of their renditions on Youtube is impressive. 

Orange Barrels

I actually checked emails the other morning. Near the top of the piled up spam was an email from John, a fellow cadet from back in high school. John seems to be the self assigned historian of all there is to know about Charlotte Hall Military Academy. John's email was about past cadets who became famous statewide, nationally, and even worldwide. An institution that lasted 200 years is bound to have a sizable celebrity bucket. 

I looked through the list. In a school that never had more than 200 students in any given year, I was impressed by the number of eventual movers and shakers who would make headlines later in life. 

There was one ex-student who was conspicuous by his absence. Owsley Stanley was a student for one year at Charlotte Hall. He was expelled for supplying enough alcohol to intoxicate a large charge of the student body. Owsley would continue his manic way through life, upsetting conventional apple carts wherever he went. Eventually he would stock the nation with enough LSD so millions of Americans could: 

"Turn On, Tune Out, Drop Out"

Owsley never graduated from high school, yet he was accepted into college. That lasted one year and he was off on his own road again, landing out west where he took a job as an engineer at some high end defense contractor. It was around this time in the early 1960s, he discovered LSD 25. He learned how to brew it up in his homeade lab and the rest of his influence on the planet became legend. 

Owsley Stanley became the largest manufacturer of LSD on the planet. There is no way to know how many hits of LSD he made and distributed, but in the mid to  late 1960s and early 1970s, nobody made more. I was told the Orange Barrels LSD I ate on my first trip in 1969, was Owsley Acid.

Owsley Stanley was not content to just flood the West Coast with LSD. He sponsored and gave out free acid during many Acid Test hoe downs the Merry Pranksters took on the road. The Acid Tests was where he hooked up with the Grateful Dead. They were the local band that played at most of the Acid Tests in the west.

LSD was but one part of Owsley's life. It is however, what he is most famous for. Many people consider him one of the pioneers of the modern audio world. He took a job at some point during the Acid Test Days as the sound man for the Grateful Dead. From his LSD profits, he paid for, designed and built the band's famous "Wall of Sound". It was the sound system they hauled around for awhile so the huge crowds that attended their concerts could hear them, up to a 1/4 mile away. The system had over 500 individual speakers and ran on 28,000 watts of power. 

Sadly, the system's reliance on antiquated tech created so many gliches, they abandoned it after only a few years of use. But it set the bar high. The sound company I would drive for a couple of years later, owe Owsley some credit for showing what was possible.

A wonderful biography by Robert Greenfield gets right into the weeds with his book, "Bear: The Life and Times of Augustus Owsley Stanley III".

Regardless how anyone feels about Owsley's influences on the American landscape back in the Hippy days, he was a giant in the roles he chose to pursue. His nickname was "Bear" which he got while going to Charlotte Hall. I find it interesting he ended up at Charlotte Hall for the same reasons I did. He was deemed unmanageable in the public schools. Montgomery County did the exact same thing to me. I was a punk, that is for sure. My time at Charlotte Hall came at a perfect time in my life. I enjoyed the three years I went there.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ...............................

________________________

What to play? 

After some consideration, "In Da Gadda Da Vida", by Iron Butterfly, is the only song that could fit. 

Spring 1969,  someone asked me if I wanted to Trip. I was still at Charlotte Hall Military Academy at the time. I knew I wanted to. But where? We were stuck on campus for that weekend. The fellow who had the LSD lived in the New Barracks on the side that bordered woods. He told us there was a small clearing just a few feet into the woods. We would start there. "Start there?" What they fuck was he talking about? Where were we going?

I found out. He put this 17 minute long version of "In Da Gadda of Diva" on his record player and set it to repeat. For the next I don't know how many hours. this song blared out through his open window while we played in the woods. He said that if we got lost, follow the sound. It would take us home. I remember my anxiety level jumped a little more. Lost?... Follow the sound? Shit, what was I getting into?

He told us the LSD we had just ingested was called "Orange Barrels". It was made by Owsley. Okay. Yeah, so what? I would find out during the many LSD trips I took over the next few years, Owsley LSD was far and away the best of the best. Chemically so pure, I never had the uglier side effects of pre trip cramps and coming down was always gentle. I might wake up exhausted, but I was ready for whatever came next.

While the other guys eventually wandered off into the woods, I settled down in a prone position and watched an ant hill for what seemed like forever. Iron Butterfly's song washed over me, time and time again, raising the hair on my body and causing laughter inducing rushes to rage back to back. I never left the clearing physically, but mano - man, my brain left the planet. I was  in that anthill, man... in that anthill.

I understand if one might not want to listen to the whole song. Yes, It is long, But it kept me calm in the face otf what could have been something else. Or so I thought at the time. Apparently, I was one of those people who never allowed LSD to completly take over. I certainly gave it plenty of chances.

And today, as I write this ode to Owsley Stanley, I feel a circle of sorts has been completed, or was completed on that day when I first ate LSD. The man who provided the way to a different approach to Life, had come back to reap some revenge on the power structure that had always tried to keep him down. Owsley was never tamed.

Maybe This Time

I recently decided that I was going to stop embracing the "woe is me" mindset regarding Old Age. Eight or nine years ago, I picked up another tick borne disease and next, within a year I had the worse run of gout I had ever had. I also chose that time to quit smoking tobacco. I was a mess. I hated Life. I figured selling my bike shop and retiring was the thing to do. Functioning like I used to was not happening anymore. My weight ballooned to 306 pounds. I became a chubby lizard on a sad rock, fat and not happy.

In 2024, the negative effeccts of the tick borne illness lessened and the gout was under control. The off and on again Depression that came with the medical issues dissapated. I was ready or so I thought, to re-emerge full of piss and vinegar again. I had already lost a serious chunk of weight, dropping forty pounds. 

For the last two years, the positive swing I had been on stalled.... many times it stalled. Since then I have only lost approximately 16 pounds or so. I was still not exercising, telling myself, my knees and hips just weren't up to the task anymore. I remained an unhappy whiner who has had no one to blame but myself. I bet in the last two years, I have promised myself once a week, I was going to Man Up, say "Fuck the Pain" and actually get over this mental plateau I created for myself.

I have made headway with the diet problem. But diet without exercise does not a complete weight loss plan make. I was unsure if I could ride my bikes, as my balance had become shaky over the past 8 or so years. What to do? 

I remembered a friend in the area who began a fitness program by working his property using as little machinery as possible. Get a workout and make property improvements. I have considered this idea before and even promised to start doing it "next Spring", but for several years, it has been an empty promise.

Finally, over the last week or so, I have been outside poking at the obvious yard issues. At this point, I am concentrating on cutting back the jungle, particularily the recent invasion by a vine from away, called Asiatic Bitterseet. The best time to attack it is before the leaves show. 

Since I started, I have dropped another five pounds. I have worked through the pain and now with each new day of grunt work, I find I hurt less when I get up in the morning. I won't say I am back or claim "Mission Accomplished" yet. I am not even close, but maybe I have turned the broken promises into a "Maybe this Time".

In an effort to carry this effort through to a satisfying conclusion, I also hope to record my progress here in the BoZone as the warm seasons pass by.

Later ......................................

________________________

I am just picking a tune I like. ....................

I got lost. I Googled "Number One Hits of........." First up was 1963, then 1964, 1965, ...you get the picture. I tasted so many Teen Club hits from those years, my brain numbed out and the smiles I was enjoying made my face hurt.

I was looking for the one song that defined that Teen Club period of my life. Finally, as I began to write this, "My Girl", by The Temptations hit the target. No song represented the awkward intensity of learning how to deal with young girls as a young teenaged boy. Clumsy moments of making out outside the club, sucking down some of the first alcohol of my life, and smokin my first joint. ...... Yeah, "My Girl" is a good choice alright.

The Mo

I have lusted after a Mohawk from that afternoon I watched "Last of the Mohicans" (1936 version) on our old B&W TV when I was 7 or 8. I was smitten. Mohawks were cool and I wanted one.

A couple of months ago, I almost gave myself one. I'm no barber, that's for sure. Common sense kicked back in and I put away the antique electric clippers I inherited from Aunt Helen. 

Just turning them on scares the shit out of me. They remind me of the countless buzz jobs I suffered as a child at the hands of bored Air Force barbers who all seemed to be the same guy; at least the the haircuts were always the same and the clippers all sounded evil; the way they buzzed like angry bees on steroids.

But back to the Mohawk. A Mohawk is absolutely the best tough guy Hair-Doo ever to top the head of Mankind or Womankind for the matter. You want to impress people with your manic ways, create your own mohawk. 10 inch spikes are a nice touch, but that's just my opinion. Meanwhile work on bulging out your eyes. You won't have to do anything more to make people step out of your way. There is no way, sporting a "Mo" makes one look like a libraian, or a 4-eyed pencil pocket protector packing geek, or the little fat dough boy always standing on the sidelines of the local neighborhood kick ball game. Wear a Mo and you will get picked first.

I was not bold enough, brave enough to sport a Mo once I had control of my own hair. It must have been that new kid syndrome I had developed after the years of constant re-location. One of the basic new kid rules when trying to fit in. Don't look different. Looking different is a magnet for all kinds of local assholes to find you and put you on their list of dimwits to harass. I never sported one until I made an attempt to get one 15 years ago. Bike Shop Jim's now ex-wife had a hair salon in Sanford on "The Square". She was a damn good hair cutter. But she was too sensitive to the possible reactions of a dissatisfied customer. She couldn't know that I had become resigned to whatever haircut I ended up with once I sat down in that chair.

When I asked her for a Mohawk, she tried hard to talk me out of it. I was having none of it. I had finally manned up and decided that was going to be the day I finally got the haircut of my dreams...... No, seriously. I have had many dreams of wearing a Mohawk over the years. They started after I watched the first Mad Max movie in the late 1970s. So what was her idea of a "polite Mohawk"? The image to the left should answer that.

I still have time. We'll see .........................

_______________

I picked a song by Ferocious Dog. They are a Scottish Folk-Punk band from ..well, Scotland I guess. Folk music with a serious edge and no rules. Their front man, Ken Bonsall, used to sport a great Mohawk. Apparently he outgrew it or that receding hairline he has in the snap shot just couldn't support that first spike anymore.

I am not sure when and how I found Ferocious Dog. I think it was a drive by taste on Youtube over a decade ago. If memory serves, it was the song, "Broken Soldier" that caught my attention. These guys are different and very talented.

Because I feel their music should be shared. Today, here is another two fer. First "Broken Soldier" followed up by maybe their best known song, "Slow Motion Suicide". 

Enjoy. ..... The violin solo on "Slow Motion Suicide" is fantastic.

Joe Pyne

I used to watch "The Joe Pyne Show" on WTTG, Channel 5, as a kid when I lived in Bethesdaa, MD outside Washington, DC in the mid 1960s. He was a pioneer TV host who hosted extremely confrontational interviews. 

He was at his best or worst maybe interviewing the stranger folks in America. He prided himself on denigrating them, berating them, and laughing at them. Perfect entertainment for an immature punk with a chip on my shoulder.

Joe's penchant for the weird and the odd allowed me to witness many strange people sit on stage with Joe. Some could not handle his nasty demeanor, but many could and would give as good as they got. Joe Never batted an eye. He could take it and never let up.

This meme crossed my FB feed thiis morning. It regarded an interview in 1966 with Frank Zappa. I had heard of Frank Zappa at that point, but had yet to buy any of his vinyl. He and his band played before the interview. His music was a revelation; outlandish and very disrespectful. I loved it.

Joe Pyne was MAGA long before MAGA had invented themselves. He was an ex GI who was shot in the leg in WWll, which later in 1955 resulted in cancer causing him to lose that leg below the knee. To his credit, I never heard him mention it.

Joe didn't flinch or show any compassion. He was a bull dog with a bone if he smelled fear. Oddly, he was often more willing to suffer a fool who made him laugh. General Hershey Bar was one such guest. I saw him several times. Gen. Hershey Bar was a street performer turned Peace Activist during the Vietnam War. Joe being a hardcore "My Country, Love it or Leave It" conservative was brutal with the General. General Hershey never faltered; never flinched. He held his own, and could put Joe in his place. Gen. Hershey helped me see the stupidity of war and aid me on my path to becoming the Libtard I am today, over 60 years later. And I have Joe Pyne, Conservative Hater Extraordinaire to thank for hooking us up.

Thank You Joe, you nasty SOB, you. Loved your show.

 

Keep your rubber side down and your sunny side up.......................

_________________

Frank Zappa and his music has been a mainstay with me since I first saw him on the "Joe Pyne Show"so many years ago. I was 14 and his music fit me perfectly and still often does. I tasted many of Frank's songs today, trying to find the one that "fit". I decided "Joe's Garage" was the song. More I think because I had to hit the head and it was the last song I listened to.

Parent Music

When I was young, I guess around 11 or 12, I began to fight the status quo I found around me. Classic rebellion of youth I guess. Anything my parents were into and that I had also been into, became a target to remove with prejudice as Old People Bullshit. I wasn't a kid anymore. Of that I was sure.

Outwardly, I appeared to be that cool kid who was hip to all the other hip kid shit my hip buds were into. We thought we were so cool, I did not appreciate the fact until much later, we weren't cool, we were just fooling ourselves like every generation before us had; we were the hippest and coolest generation in our minds only. 

While I was busy trying to fit in by talking back, breaking hard and fast rules and packing that surly punk attitude, I had cut out of my life so many wonderful things my parents had made part of our lives. 

Parent music, one of the pleasures I used to enjoy so much, I dropped in the dust behind me as I hurried to grow up. And now, I am only just really appreciating the musical foundation my parents gave me by exposing me to the music of thier lives. Dad was into Classical, some Jazz. He thought the human voice just got in the way of good music. You can imagine what he thought of opera or musicals, one of my mom's favorites. I think she maybe forced the musical/ dance experience on me just to piss off my dad. They had that kind of relationship; one baits, the other would bite. They did it so much, I figured it was just part of their normal at home leisure time.

Now that I am on my retirement cruise, I have actively attempted to dredge up as much of my past as I can. I wanted to examine what turning point moments or mindsets brought me here; the seminal moments, the eureka moments, the deep despair moments. No, in the scheme of what's important maybe, looking back has little use in the here and now. I'm fuckin retired. Recalling my past surely beats sitting on the couch, sucking down Live Stream on Netflix.

I used to rock out to my mom's swing music and tunes from the musicals I watched on the Early Show on rainy afternoons. I also experienced classical music at home and in person. When my mom was not home, my father would blast Classical or Swing Jazz throughout the house. I think he did it more because he built many components found in every common room. The amps, the speakers he built were powerful and huge. He literally liked to feel the house shake. At age 9, I loved it. At age 73, I still love the house rattle but I do it quietly now. I use headphones and jack it up to WOW.

Actively looking for the music of my past now for well over a decade has taken me to places I remember, but more importantly places I have never been. It is only now I can say without a doubt in my mind, every genre of music has something for everyone. Japanese Metal, Swiss yodeling, and Mongolians beating on drums next to their camp on the Gobi Desert; there is something there that can entertain any one of us; if we take the time to look for it. I will admit I had to dig deeper into some genres than others to find tunes I could connect with. But they are there.

Which finally brings me to the point of this post; Mixing genres, Mashups, and covers. Not only has the collection of musical genres increased because they have finally been discovered, now the creative folks are mixing them together and creating sub genres that are a hoot to listen to.

Without any more words that don't matter, please enjoy this Swing cover of the Spice Girls tune, "Wannabe", as performed by Postmodern Jukebox.

Thanks Mom. Thanks Dad. You put music in my life.

Later ...............................

__________________________

Rudy

This is an entry into a Flash Fiction Challenge I participated in in 2011. I pulled it from my other Blog, the llittle used "Lost in the BoZone - Too". I always liked this story. The image of the Hat was the inspiration.

~ <> ~

Five years in a row Rudy had been voted the best Red Cap on the line from Grand Central Station in New York City right through to the LaSalle Street Station in Chicago.  His behavior, like his uniform was always spotless.  His smile was dependably quick and pleasant.  His ability to solve baggage problems became mythical tales told in station break rooms from coast to coast. He remembered all the regulars by name and treated the many travelers just passing through like old friends.

Many times early in his career, the company had offered Rudy the opportunity to leave the baggage to others and step into a management role.  Rudy refused.   More than one train executive had tried to steal him for their own station.  Rudy would not budge.  This station was his home and for the brief moments travelers came thorough his house, they were his family.

Rudy plied his trade for 52 years.  He never called in sick nor was he ever late.  He worked whatever shift needed working without complaint or excuse.  He was the perfect employee.  That is as much as anyone ever knew about him.  His time away from his job was a mystery.  He never talked about family, home, or what trouble his kids might have gotten into.  Everyone assumed he was married with children.  Rudy refused to confirm or deny any conjecture he was faced with.

It was four or five years after Rudy had retired and the old LaSalle Street Station was empty and waiting to be torn down that a son of one of the railroad executives decided that he would become a writer.  His first work would be a history of the railroad he remembered as a youngster.  He would look up old employees, try to find famous travelers, and seek information from company archives so that he could write the grandest train tale of all time. 

The young man’s father, now retired and living far away in warmer climates, told him he should stop this writing nonsense and pursue a life with more predictable rewards.  But if he was going to insist on this writing stupidity, he needed to find Rudy.  Rudy would have more stories than one book could hold. Suddenly, the old man became silent.

“Dad, what’s up?  You okay?  Dad?”

“Uh, nothing son.  I was just remembering Rudy.  He saved my job you know.  If not for him and finding that briefcase when I was a wet behind the ears young executive, I wouldn’t be here in Florida relaxing comfortably now and you would have had to attend a state college.  Yep, Rudy was special.  Find Rudy. He’s the only person you need to talk to if you want a great story.”

It took some time and some digging through old employee records, but the young man finally had a last known address for Rudy.   When he visited the address on the south side, it was nothing but an abandoned shell waiting for demolition.  Just another tenement among many blocks of tenements slated for urban renewal.  The only sign of life was a trashed bodega a block down.

The old black woman behind the counter remembered Rudy.  She filled in a few blanks, but as to where Rudy was now, she had no clue.  She did mention that just before he had simply disappeared, he had begun to act oddly.  The young man asked her how.

“He stopped smiling”, was all she said.

The young man would not give up.  He checked the obituaries. No luck.  He looked up ex-coworkers.  They had nothing for him.  It was not until he found a sympathetic bureaucrat with the Social Security Administration who, against the rules, gave him two important pieces of information.  One that Rudy was still alive because he as still receiving a monthly check.  Second, was the address that check was going to.  The young man headed there the next day.

Pulling up to the St. Francis Home off Wabash, the young man was struck by how similar in appearance it was to the tenement that had been Rudy’s last known address.  It was not unexpected, but he had hoped Rudy had found better.  He walked in and the stench of old age almost knocked him down.  He collected himself and addressed the elderly woman behind the front desk.

“Excuse me.  Is there a Rudy Renfro living here?”

The elderly woman was busy with her pencil on a form of some kind.  Without looking up she pointed to his right, “In the Day Room most likely.”

“How will I know him?  I have never met the man.”

The elderly woman looked up from her paperwork.  Her hair, which must have started the day a neat orderly arrangement ending in a tidy tightly wound bun had come apart and she had to shift some escaped strands from in front of her eyes.  She looked perturbed.  “You a relative?”

“Uh, no ma’am I’m not.”

“Well young man, we have rules here.”  She looked as if her hard professional armor was being raised and then, “Oh go ahead, it’s not like anyone visits him anyway.”  She continued to point to his right.  “Just look for the old black man wearing a red cap.”

“Thank You.”  The young man walked down the hall towards the Day Room.

Entering the Day Room, the young man was immediately faced with a tall elderly black man wearing a well worn red cap like he remembered as a child traveling the lines with his father.  The black man smiled.

“Sir, may I take that bag for you.”

The young man looked down at his brief case.  “Uh, no that’s alright, I’ve got it.”

The old black man’s eyes lost their sparkle and his shoulders slumped.  The young man changed his mind, “ Oh sure, please take the bag.  I am here to see you I think.  Are you Rudy?”

The old man smiled.  It was a broad smile revealing the yellowed and cracked teeth that come with age.  He straightened as best he could and grabbed his hat brim between his fore finger and thumb.  He lifted the brim a tad.  “Yes sir. I am Rudy.  The best Red Cap on the line.  Where are you headed, West or back East?”

_________________________

I worked hard to find the exact song I wanted. My father had recorded it from an FM station back in the early 1960s. He transferred it to his "Swing" Reel. I could sometimes talk him into playing the tape. When "Choo Choo Ch' Boogie" came on, I would dance.  More to see my dad smile than anything else. He was going through some tough times at the time.

Loved that song. Here is the original version from 1946 performed by Louis Jordan & His Tympany Five.