Moving

I hate it. But it's cathartic in a fashion. I never really liked those armchairs, so I set 'em at the kerb. Hour later? They gone, to a better place I hope. I filled a wheelie bin with torn sheets, threadbare towels, smelly throw pillows. Then another wheelie bin. Working on #3. I don't have a new address, so this is going into my mother's garage. One (1) really nice leather sofa, gift of one of my brothers. 7 tall kitchen bags of clean clothes and linens. 5 guitars (2 acoustic, 3 stratoid), with 3 compact amps. 2 boxes of kitchen stuff. Well, tools. I own almost as many tools as I do books,(8 bookcases full) and they're much denser. Most are at a jobsite (secure, trust me!) so it's only my mechanic's chest (~200 lb), my bed, and my computer that will be in the last load. I've lived in this 'hood for almost 20 years. Hope I can find an affordable place nearby. Had a number of girlfriends during that time. None ever stayed the night with me. Stayed with them, yes, but just never dropped in on me. I suppose I could hire one, but (1) budget, and (2) I require a serious emotional attachment for sex. 'Dial a Doxie' doesn't work. Hydraulic failure. Don't rise to the occasion. I occasionaly remember that I'm not 22 anymore. Back then (and it was only, oh shit years ago) horizontal, female, and cute were my guidelines. Had my heart broken back in high school. Played around, then fooled around and fell in love again. Heart got broken again after almost 5 years. That's like grownup, innit? Long Term Relationship! Back to hfc guidelines. Got all married and shit. Had KIDS. I fucked this one up big time. hfc. hfc, nice chick way out in the suburbs. She died. She was wonderful, didn't press me for meetings when I was recovering from TB, and was very kind to me when I was blind (Yeah, cataracts. It was such a wonder to see her for the first time after almost 3 years together). hfc no longer makes it.

Lovely Day, or Friday the 13th, advance edition

Sometime around dawn (0930) my friend Wendy rings me up. Can I give her a hand loading her bikes on a rented trailer to run them over to the shop? Not a problem. She picks me up in her Subaru Outback, and asks if I have any tiedown straps, as she neglected to snag them from the U-Haul place. They were supposed to be included in the rental. I, of course, have no tie-down straps. I don't have a trailer. Or a truck. Or anything with an internal combustion engine for that matter. I suggest a quick run to Harbor Freight, which is reasonably near her house-and-a-pool. So we head in that direction. 'Hang right here on Fondren, over to 59, and then left'. 'Nah, it's up by Gessner'. She's driving, so, WTF. Get to Gessner and 59, she hangs a left onto the SB feeder. 'Pretty damn sure it's the other way', but not driving, not my gas. The trailer is rattling behind us. Yes, the Harbor Freight IS in fact by Fondren. Buddy of mine used to live right there in that block, I know the 'hood. We pull up and I inspect the trailer. 'Is something wrong, JC?' 'Just looking to see if it says 'Radio Flyer'. 20 minutes of misdirection. Back to the house-and-a-pool, and Wendy does a very nice job of backing the trailer up the driveway. And now the fun begins. Harley Davidson motorcycles are lots of things. Iconic. Musical. Elegant. Classic. One thing they are not is light. On reflection, dropping $20 on a come-along at HF would have been a worthwile investment. I thought there was one on the trailer Tried rigging a yoke using the tie-down straps. Fail. Had to give out a shout to a youth down the street to push the fucker with its $2000 custom paint job up on to the trailer, and here's a shout out to that kid. Bravo! 'Um, JC?' Oh. Busted a knuckle there, didn't I. Right hand is covered with red stuff. First blood, motorcycle. Put that fucker into serious bondage. 2 turns and it's on its side. Nothing to do but power on, onward to Pearland. Okay, I know where I am now. 35S, there's an alpaca farm just down the road a ways here. Pull into the Harley shop. Get it upright, off the trailer, and a chorus of 'ouches'. 'You could drop a hydraulic punch inside the tank and just pop that sucker out' ''But the paint...' 'Lookit! It's just a bit shorter than the Harley blazon, just move it down a couple inches...' On the road again, back to the house-and-a-pool, to load up the Honda Rebel 250. Shit. Did I turn off the heat under the meatballs and tomato sauce? Mind making a slight detour? No, I did not remember to turn off the heat. Low heat, so Malliard reaction, but no smoke or anything. Off again. Honda goes onto the trailer like a dream, new tiedown tech leaves it vertical the whole way. Hey, I know this 'hood! Pull into the shop, Wendy goes to back the bike off the trailer. 'Center it! Center it!!!!' Gets her ankle caught between the bike and the trailer rail. I have zero mechanical advantage. Got my shoulder in the bar, and manage to flag down a dude in a pickup. We lift the bike off her leg. Thanks dude. Was about to crush her ankle. Head back. 'Damn. I FORGOT TO LEAVE THE KEYS!' '?' 'Both!' Drop off trailer downtown. 'Dude, you bleedin!' I seem to have split the nail of my right index finger up to the cuticle. No biggie. Out to her place. Looking at a 70 mile loop, but without the rattletrap trailer, thank God. Out to the Harley guy, no sweat. 35 in towards town, turns into Old Telephone Road, up to Wayside, turn here! No, other way! 20 minutes later... drop off the keys And on towards home. I know this 'hood! Grab 90 where it splits off, oh. Missed it. End up in the lemming mass. Pay no attention to your GPS! "Follow Holmes Road 10.3 miles". Holmes Road closed. Dogleg right. "In 700 feet, make a U-turn, then take a right on Holmes Road". Shut up, bitch. 200 yards and slip onto Bellfort, I say. So we do. Houston's a BIG place, but you live anywhere long enough and you get to know it. Dave lived there on Fondren. Couldn't give you directions to his place now. I think it's Tonga Tonga. Seriously. Used to drive past the alpaca farm on my way to gigs down in Angleton. Dropped the Honda off near the TeleWink Cafe, couple blocks from my old friend Linda. Don't trust your GPS when you have a native guide.

Don't do this to me

I had a friend, Roger, Half-assed drummer, really bad guitar player. We shared a house some 30 years ago. Was fun. It was during the time of the Michiganvasion, and our place backed up on a biker house. We would have band rehearsals, but the bikers took offense. They wanted us to play in their back yard. Hunnerd bucks plus free beer. They were mostly from Michigan, nominally, by way of California, so they were collecting unemployment from Michigan, California, and Texas. Every month a couple pair would set off on their Harleys, one pair to each state, to renew their unemployment checks. Party on! Fun was had. Later, we found this great bass player, Danny Lee. Used a thumbpick and fingerpicks, which is unusual, but he did a thumpin' bass. Ro0ger went and got married and shit, and fell out, but I tried to stay in touch. The local legend Steve Candiman took over on pots and pans. Danny Lee got married again (3rd time?) and started to fade out. Couple of weeks ago I sent Roger a Happy Birthday on Facebook, and was informed he was dead. He died in his house, and the corpse was at least a month old when it was found, 4 months before. Thanks. Ran into a friend at the grocery store. Asked about our mutual friend Danny Lee. 'Oh he's been dead some time now, close on 20 years'. Old buddy of mine from HS, married my OGF (his 4th, her 5th IIRC). 'Oh, he died around '98' Thanks for letting me know. 20 years late. Would have shown at the services, consoled the widow kinda thing. Ihad wondered for years why they didn't answer the phone. I still tried once a month. A dear OGF lives in California. She's undergoing chemo for cancer of the liver, encroaching on the spine. Scares the doo-dog shit out of me. She seems to be holding up well, she's a strong girl, but still. I'm fucking sick and tired of hearing the bad news months, years, decades, after the event.The passing of time does not soften the impact. Sometimes it makes it worse, you bastard. If you're gonna die, let me know.

A Little Better All The Time

I'm not usually a big fan of Macca, but this gives me hope. Paul MacCartney's father played in dance hall bands, which explains a lot about Macca's bass playing. He's emulating tuba and trombone parts. Listen closely, and it will become obvious. There's a thing, yanno, in vocalists. Jon Hendricks was a drummer, but phrased his vocalese like an alto sax. And fucking well. Mel Torme and Dave Lambert phrased like 'bones. Annie Ross flew with a trumpet. Jeff Beck works to emulate on his guitar the sounds of Lester Young's tenor sax. The point here is that you work in unfamiliar ground. Some of my fave vamps are Nat Cole. Seriously. How could you not play 'Route 66'if you had the chops to do it? It's a 12 bar with a bridge! Easy peasy! Chuck Berry could do it! (My personal headchart is more Mingus, but it overlays perfectly).

Me again

Home again home again, jiggety jig. Here I come riding on a big fat pig. You may or may not know the old folk song. What is it with piggies anyway? And feet? I just recently realzed that the piggie that went to market wasn't there to shop. Oh no no no. Piggie gonna be a bacon buttie. With brown sauce, if I know my Brits. Yeah, my foot's giving me gyp again. Left foot is a #14, right foot is a #10. I'm an asshole, I freely admit it. I'll go into Walmart and buy a pair of shoes from 2 different boxes in different sizes. I just recently snapped to a...thing. Old Jeff Beck Group recording I have on vinyl. 'Rock My Plimsoll'. Well, I KNOW what a plimsoll is, right? It's that line on the outside of a ship which indicates how heavily laden it is. Rock my plimsoll, baby. Like a ship in the water. Lovely image, innit? BUT NO! It's a SHOE! A canvas shoe, like PF Flyers, Cons, or Vans. Shake my sneakers sugar! I feel, somehow, the less for this bit of insight. But an insight, once inseen, will linger forever in that vast warehouse that pleases itself to call itself my brain. I don't NEED this shit! Behold my Unicorn Fist! Anyway, back to more interesting things, to wit, my left foot (should make a movie. What? IT'S BEEN DONE? See 'Unicorn Fist, supra.) Hurts like the Dickens. And this bothers me no end. The pain? I have a pretty high pain threshold. I go in to Ben Taub Trauma and my foot's half ripped off, and say 'it hurts', they know not to offer a 'Narcos!' (sounds like a breakfast cereal, dunnit?), move directly to a double dilaudid plus 100 ml iced vodka. As the interns are vomiting. Not that. It's the phrase 'like the Dickens'. Ol' Chuck, bless his heart, wrote to make money. There may have been a muse involved, but mostly covering his rent. Penny-a-word, for serials. Every week. So they wandered on and on. And on. And on. So we end up with the Twisted Oliver, or Miss Havisham. That is why I say 'my foot hurts like the Dickens'.

Been a while boys and girls

Life is good. For a given value of 'good'. 'Up to a point, Lord Copper'. For the 5th time in 4 days I've been excised from FB for a common joke, MeWe. Gab and Parler take ages to load on my browser, and Twitter takes a good 2 minutes. Not sure how long Blogger will allow me to speak my piece. Personal life? Sucks, nothing of interest to anyone who doesn't have my phone number. 5 friends have reported new cancers. Stop it, please. Of course I will pray for you, but my knees are over 60 years old. My brain. well it's a thing. Rocking between The Horndog Years (from, call it 15 to 50) and the incursion of the timor mortis conturbat me. The Covid years have been very bad for me. Lucrative work has vanished. Musical work is no longer. Very big suck. I've got serious COPD, having lost half a lung to TB, and I limp quite horribly.thanks to being run over by a bus. But I do what I can. I climb onto my bicycle (I can't afford to keep a car, it's an early 70s Raleigh, and I love it very much). I smile, and I say howdy, and folks smile back and that's a GOOD THIMG. My smiles and waves are getting a 200% return on investment.

Home again home again.

So my senior younger brother is in town, camping at our mother's house, estimated 4 months. My older son had been living there to help his grandmother for about 3 years. My brother Dan has done fucked up. His son own declined to be under the same roof. With his woman and their child. My younger son says 'nope', and he's a fucking Marine.

To keep from being expunged

Evidently. Google wants me to post to keep the blog alive. So I haven't posted for months. Meh The UK seems to want everyone to use heat pumps. Maybe it's a different thing there. (cf 'boot' on a car, not on a foot), I worked a building that used heat pumps. Hour per month maintenance per unit. 10 story building. 30 units per floor Equals 300 heat pumps. 4 x 40 hour week. Doesn't fit. So I come up with a protocol that cuts it to 20 minutes per unit, or with the princely investment of about $12 per unit in parts, obviates the hour's labor. 'NO' Okay. In person, I'm a slob. But an organized slob. The shop at this building had no As Builts, no schematics, no one-lines. Dick. Fuck-all. Sweet Fanny Adams. I mapped that motherfucker. Every outlet, every fixture, labeled with the breaker and panel, the way the Baby Jesus intended. I did this on my weekends, because you have to let the goddamed heat pumps run for a full hour to see if they're actually working, and I have a magic box. (It's a 277vac light switch in a rubberised case, with a plug on a pigtail. Plug it in, flip the switch for a dead short, and you know what's on that circuit.) I had problems with this job. I moved into an apartment half a mile from the place of work. Nice! I'll bicycle! "You must use your assigned parking space!" for my bike? I'll just keep it in the shop. Plenty of space since I've cleaned out literal tons of trash.'You have an assigned parking space!' No bike rack. I got fired for having 2 buttons undone on my shirt. Hotel I worked for was worse. Can't keep your bike in the shop. Can't keeep your bike in the warehouse. You must park on the rooftop area. You can't take a parking space. I ended up dangling it over the edge of the parking area 5 floors up. Made the local news. Got fired for cursing in Russian.

So it's obvious. Major fraud in the Presidential elections. It's done. there is nothing to be done to repair the damage. Sweet Fanny Adams. Cube root of fuckall. The only thing to do is to enforce the voting laws.

I told you

 I guess I could be rich. A buddy asked me to help him on a project for housing Vets. I looked at it and said NO. It was a federal subsidy which fell through. My buddy didn't know any vets, didn't care about vets, but saw a sugar teat that he wanted to suck. I don't blame him. I declined to join his effort because I thought it was immoral and corrupt.

But he was trying to tell me 'it's for the vets', and he really believed that he could make big money doing that. Step back and take a good look.

Doesn't look so good from here. I mean, he really thought he might do some good. Thinking was never his strong suit, he's on wife #5

Go into the 'Smart House' dealio! Totally interactive, intertubenetweb connected all-smart iFridge holistic internet enabled living environment! You're a smart guy (actually, I'm not), you can do this stuff! Sorry, I have read enough Phil Dick characters trying to get the fridge to open without a valid credit card. Blow that for a game of soldiers. So now some POS working for the man can program Alexa to play nothing but vintage uplifting Soviet music for you. Or Nickelback. (Which spellcheck recognizes).

I said NO, no fucking way was I going to be a part of that. Any cat could hack it, or a big cat could just make you despereasciado. Step back and take a good look.

 

On stolen goods and recovery of same

OR

'Help help! I been robbed!'

This happens all the time. Mook with a handgun, junkie with a brick through your window, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammie Davis ripping off your casino. Somebody done took something of yours. You would like it back, thank you very much.

Or maybe an election.

Now the first thing you have to do is prove that something was stolen. Your wallet and watch, plus your girlfriend's purse. The jewelry you keep on the top of the dresser and in that box, plus your husband's bedside gun and the shottie in the closet, and the contents of the liquor cabinet. Maybe millions of dollars in cash.

Or maybe an election.

How do you pursue this outrage? Well, you have the pale spot on your wrist where the Rolex used to be, and the credit card numbers. Receipts for the jewelry, serial numbers on the guns, and the Rolex as well. Records from the casino counting room, to prove that the property's yours.

Unless it's an election.

Was it really stolen? Well they pistol whipped me and ripped the pocket where I kept my wallet, and the bruises on my GF's arm where they pulled off her purse and she saw them too, of course. And there's the brick through the window, and the footprints in the flower bed. And the closed circuit cameras in the counting rooms and the parking lots.

But witnesses were excluded from witnessing, if it's an election. All that exists is a bunch of numbers, and a few forensic auditors.

Now we come to the level of redress. Mook gets busted pawning your Rolex. Sorry, that's EVIDENCE now. Take it up with your insurance company. He's already sold it, and spent it on hookers and blow. Brick Guy? Traded all of the catch for pennies on the dollar, take it up with your insurance company. He'll never be found, and he spent it all on hookers and blow. And those poor bastards who ripped off the casinos? All the money ended up being burned. Didn't even get a chance to spend it on hookers and blow. Take it up with your insurance company.

Now we got an election.

I'm gonna have to get mathy here. There's a distinction between a proof and a demonstration, between 'Proven' and 'QED'. In law, it's the distinction between 'beyond a reasonable doubt' and 'a preponderance of evidence'. I am not a lawyer, nor am I a mathematician. I am (I flatter myself) much closer to being one of either than the average bear.

Here's how I break it down.

1: Was there a thing to be stolen?

Well, yes. Votes.

2: Did they have a presumptive owner?

Again, yes, the voter

3: Is there evidence that there was in fact a crime?

Here's where it gets dicey. There are eyewitnesses. There's a preponderance of statistical evidence pointing that way. BUT. Those accused will tell us that it's just due to changing rules. It's patently evident, although not provable, that those changes were initiated with the sole purpose of fraud. But we've got an unproveable here, in that it requires proof of a negative so we have do deal with QED.

4: Redress.

This is a real toughy. It's not as if one party has shot it all away on hookers and blow, despite best efforts. The only thing we as Americans have in the hope of redress is the court system. The courts are not an insurance company which can give us money to replace those things lost. What's been lost is a family heirloom, of immeasurable value, which cannot be replaced. The mugger with the gun can be put in jail, the junkie with the brick, and even the Rat Pack can be punished, but you'll never get back that watch that your wife gave you, your grandfather's shotgun, your grandmother's wedding ring that you put on your wife's finger so many happy years ago or even that lucky dollar coin you lost in Vegas.

What can be done? I really hate to say it, but a mulligan in some states, done under rigorous rules and absolute transparency. If they'd cared enough they could have put in downticket votes, but those are missing in hundreds of thousands of votes. Just the top place.

IN THE FUTURE? Demand personal ID on all ballots. Demand a real reason for an absentee ballot. I voted in a wheelchair one year. In person. (I was touched by the number of people who offered to help. Thank you all, and God bless you). This is not rocket surgery.

Oh deadie dearie heavens me. I started this thing about 10 years ago and I have neglected it. I am so sorry.
I wish I could say I was busy, but I hate to tell a lie. Leon tells it.
I wanna like the cat in the mirror. Not sure I do now.

Sorry kids!

it's been long time since last I posted. Deaths in the family, but that's no excuse. cut me off on Facebook I Last I'd heard from him he'd just married my old girlfriend. Now I find out he died like 10 years ago.

I had a girlfriend, backa long time ago.

Had a girlfriend in High School. I'd go and drop the family car into neutral, and push it a block or so away, to be distrete. Then I'd drive many miles to the place where my heart dwelled, pitch some pebbles at her window, climb up the fence, monkey across the gutter, and then slip into the bedroom window. And then we would make love like there was no tomorrow. There was no tomorrow for me. She told me she was pregnant, but not by me. Thanks, darling. She ended up marrying her coke dealer, who was well over twice her age, but she claimed that I was Daddy. She miscarried. I caught up with a mutual friend, who reminded me that (name goes here) had married (name goes here, my best buddy in high school). Well yes, my future ex wife and I caught up with them some years ago. Well, you do know that (best buddy from high school who married the first girl I ever really loved) died like 10 years ago. I had no idea. I just knew that he didn't answer his phone. I went to St Thomas High School, and hung out with the chicks at Duschene. Or the girls who went to Duschene, the girlfriends of my old buddies, who married guys I don't know,there are like zero children. Some of the chicks have decided that they were lesbian. Not my problem. But the greater mass just followed the scapegoat. hhigh School

It's been a year now

And I still want to call him up, say "Hey Dad, there's this thing I just found out about (whatever)(I finally had somebody explain how e, the root of natural logs, works in real life, 'cause of Euler's equations!)( Just like we said, the government dietary guidelines were a load of shit!) But I can't, cause you're gone. I meet 'smart people' and make a reference to Shakespeare, and we've got 'Low Flying Aircraft'. Fibonacci is an Italian sauce. 'Google-fu' is a replacement for 'actually knowing stuff'. "Hey, Siri?" Fuck you. What's one over seven? What's one over eight? No idea. Except maybe my kids, because baseball. i miss you, Dad.

I got a lot of pain. The hospital says no more opiods, cause I'm obviosly an addict. Cunts. Stupid stupid cunts!I didn't even ask for pain killers, I don't like them! I haven't been prescribed opoids for years

My Dad's gone now

I don't remember him so much in my youth. He was busy doctoring. Making house calls in a Buick but went for a VW 412 when they came on to the market.A kinda sorta station wagon thingie, but not really one or the other. This was during the track period. My dad was doing serious running, along with some that's when I learned to do the metric conversion  factors. I can't do that now.
More later.

More about my dad

I've seen their wedding pix.  They got the fire in their eyes.I found a white dinner jacket at a resale shop one time.  Shawl collar with black piping. Thought it made me look like James Bond. Made me look EXACTLY like my Dad in the wedding pics, but with a bearded-Spock-with-a-bad-haircut vibe.  Showed it off to my Mom and she nearly fainted. But on HIM it looked good. Think a white Cab Calloway, but without the pencil moustache. Good looking man.

Recuerdos de mi padre

I really can't say it in English.  It just seems so clinical.

But I remember being sent with my father, sitting in the old Blue Rooster, a POS example of a marque lost to history. He was an intern physician, and there were these interesting flashing lights.  Sometimes he would stop at the great Shamrock Hilton Hotel for a shoe shine. Because that's important.

I don't know if my brothers were there then. I remember the lights, and my dad crying. I was very young at the time.  I thought maybe he hurt his toe, and tried to help. Not a good idea. Having an infant crawling under your feet whist driving a '56 Nash Rambler. Doubleplus ungood. There was a thing called "Hamm's Beer" that seemed to make my daddy feel better. It was from the country of elevenhundred springs. More on this later.