Miss American Pie

 Up With The Sun

I woke up and saw that it was 6:30 in the morning, there was faint light coming between the Venetian blinds, and Harold the cat had been out all night.

I had "American Pie" by Don McClean on repeat in my head; with the only connection being the line: "But February made me shiver" coinciding with this being the last day of January...

I had forgotten to put in my weekly claim for unemployment. 

When the deadline for the previous week rolled around at midnight, I was passed out on the bed with the lights still on, after having consumed a six pack of Modelo Negro beer; one of my favorites.

But, of course something almost always seems to get neglected, on the occasion of drinking. 

All I have to do is remember to put in my weekly certification between Wednesday and midnight Saturday, yet, through procrastination, combined with forgetting, and with beer drinking factored in, along with the microwaving of a couple of the meals that I found a couple days ago, it became a recipe for forgetting to do the only thing I have to do in order to get money. I will probably have to wait an extra week to get a double payment.. What, me worry?

I made a strong cup of coffee, and then went out and rang my keys for Harold.

I think Harold can hear the key chain from up to about a tenth of a mile; and he knows it is my keys, I am pretty sure. After I got my last bike lock and added its two keys to the existing ones on my ring, Harold made a slight hesitation before dashing out from under a parked car; something was not quite right.

Harold didn't come this morning, but it is 65 degrees out, so he will be OK. The past couple days, when it had been something like 45, he came flying after less than 8 hours of being out there, after I rang the keys.

Electronic Cat Whistle

Another thing I want to do, Project #31, is to get one of those DIY electronics kits that has the breadboards, the soldering iron, and maybe a cheap voltmeter, so I can build an electronic cat whistle. I can experiment with putting the pitch generated up to over 20,000 hertz, which we humans can't hear, and seeing if I can use it to fetch Harold. It will be cool to dust off the "LC" circuits which I used to love messing around with most, out of all the things I studied at Sylvania Technical School, back in 1982.

Heck, had I not been diverted by the carrot in front of my nose, which was a job in "computers," which required more of a digital logic focus, rather than a concern over audio waves, I might have steered my studies in that direction, and, who knows, today there might be an effects pedal one the market that, when you step on it; gives you the "Daniel" sound, as defined by me 35 years ago..

It might be called something like "The Carcass Distortion," or the "Box of Sound,"and would have been invented, by me, in the early 80's in a laboratory with a lot of wave shape measurement and analysis equipment.

Tom Schultz was a hero to me.

The legend of how Tom Schultz, lead guitarist for the band Boston, recorded the first Boston album in his bedroom, using effects that he himself had designed the circuits for in his garage (for use in the bedroom) became amplified, given that we lived 50 miles from Boston, and so, felt that we could take some of the credit, and feel a sense of pride in just how inventive we all were in "Silicon Valley East" which was a nickname given to the part of Route 128, where it skirts Boston.

But, rather than concentrate on analog electronics, I went for the instant "high paying" job in computer repair and maintenance, with my strategy being that I would work in computers and use the high pay to build a studio in my bedroom, and "get into music" that way.

Had I gone into audio engineering, I might have found an equally high paying job, and I would, to a degree, have been working on my music while on the job, as I tried to invent some kind of device that would be valued by musicians, because I surely would have recorded my first album in order to feature the new sound, hoping that it would at least be the kind of flash in the pan success that would allow me to market the effect, like Tom.

When the Rockman® came out on the market, for something like $79.99, it was an immediate sensation. You could plug your electric guitar into it, and put the little Walkman® style headphones on, and when you played, it would sound like A: you were in a huge arena, where you almost expect to hear faint crowd noises in the background, and B: the first Boston album. Depending upon what you had the switches set to, you could narrow that down to sounding like a particular song on the first Boston album. Flip it to "clean 1" and go ahead and play the intro to "More Than a Feeling" while shouting "Look, ma, no hands!!"

I have totally forgotten the point of this post, readers; sorry. I ran to the store in between the last two paragraphs...

But, anyways, if my cat whistle circuit works, then I could conceivably increase the wattage output, so that I could crank it up to call Harold from a mile away, and no humans would complain about the whistle. I would have to estimate Harold's distance from the signal by timing how long it took him to arrive at the door, factoring in how fast he was going when he showed up. I'm not sure if he accelerates upon seeing me at the door from across the parking lot, after he comes through the gate.

I think I would need a special "piezo" tweeter, or maybe, and I don't doubt one bit that this product would exist, a specially made dog whistle speaker, that takes maybe 12 volts to drive, and which puts out those superhuman frequencies. There are also those "deer" whistles that were popular in rural Virginia that supposedly emit a tone, from the air passing through them as they sit on the grill of a car that is being driven 45 miles per hour or so, towards a deer in the road. Deer can not only hear them, but they supposedly fear them, also. The things must just sound a lot like the screech of some giant, awful predator.

Goodreads

The picture to the left is just one cubbie-hole in my place, crammed with books. Books that I am going to read, really I am; after I cut out the drinking and quit weed. The latter makes it so I will read maybe one sentence out of a given book, and then, taking it as poetry, maybe lose myself in a daydream, inspired by the sentence..

All the books in this shot, I have cracked open and read from, at least once. That fat black one, that looks like it is disintegrating, is the Penguin Book of English Verse, with a "used" sticker on it.

The cosmic connections that books have is worth noting.

The Bhagavad Gita, I found, abandoned in an abandoned shopping cart, in brand new condition, on the same day that Harold, as a new-born kitten, was given to me, after he was abandoned in the parking lot, by someone whose new girlfriend was allergic to cats. The book and Harold's fir are the exact same color.

Harold may have faded a bit..

Then, at the far right, "The Color Purple," which I recently read some of, and then went out to make a store run and, on my way back, a lady whom I have often seen, sitting on the front porch of her purple house, was there, and wearing a purple shirt. I made a comment about her shirt matching her house, before walking on, and a little further on, found an unopened tube of purple watercolor paint laying on the sidewalk. There are always those types of things that happen around books.

I found John Kerry's book "A Call To Duty" at the Goodwill Store, and within hours of my buying it for 50 cents, the author was chosen by Biden to be in his cabinet, just as I was placing the book in my cabinet, I imagine...

The Dental Plan Thing

I have mismanaged my teeth my whole life.

The last time I went to the Louisiana School of Dentistry's place to have a tooth pulled for 98 dollars, I brought my little mp3 player, which I had loaded with the "Psycho violin screech" sound effect, cued so it would play whenever I pressed the play button.

This I did, every time I opened wide, so the female dentist could go after the tooth.

This made for some levity for the staff there, it seemed, but didn't lower my bill any; and you probably don't want someone using sharp dental instruments on you when they are trying not to laugh.

But, they strongly advised me that, as soon as I came across a spare 98 dollars per each, I should have certain procedures done -root canals in some instances- in order to save certain teeth.

I have been straddling the fence between trying to "save" original teeth, and just having them all pulled out and resuming with a set of dentures glued to your gums.

There are pros and cons. The biggest concern of mine, and one that I have actually come up with an idea for is that dentures are too perfectly shaped and too white to not announce their presence like the wearing of dark shades on a cloudy day announces the presence of a guy who is trying so hard to be anonymous...

The idea is that they use old photos, like a yearbook one, and then 3-D rendering technology to create dentures that are exact replacements, in dimension, at least of the teeth a person had in high school; or when their teeth were x-rayed in the military. Then, they could actually make them a shade less white, as if the person does sometimes take coffee.

I am, of course doing neither. I am procrastinating. That thing I got in the mail, informing me that I have some kind of dental procedure purchasing power, I need to respond to by, I guess, going out and finding a dentist that I like, from the list of them provided. So far I like the closest one to my apartment the most; just barely over the one a couple blocks further away.

Seriously, though. Now that we have "Here you go, here's a pen..." Biden in office, this should become the heyday for things like dental implants that can be attached to a living human's jawbone, using bone-welding technology, or whatever, and can be made to match x-rays of a patient's original teeth and sculpted accordingly; which will be permanent and will remind a person of how it really felt to chew, back when they were teenagers. 

So, I am waiting for that technology to become available to people on the Dentaquest program, as I now apparently am. Then I will go and get all my original teeth implanted in porcelain form.

Normalcy Comes Home To Roost

I woke up and regretted, to a degree, having eaten a couple of the meals that I found in the dumpster.

Not because there was anything wrong with them, they had been thrown out, still frozen, the way they were delivered, into a dumpster, still in the protective box, on a 45 degree day; like a refrigerator out there... 

It could just be that I feel better when I don't eat meat. And, especially if I don't combine meat with the yin of the rice or other starch that is invariably included to make a "complete" meal of the things. 

This violates the principle based upon, that, by combining starch and protein in the same meal (with each require a different digestive medium) you will have incomplete digestion, and will not have utilized the food to its full potential, and a heavy, slimy stool, passed in the morning will help drive home the point. . 

They had been still in the box that they are delivered in, from whatever organization looks out for whomever they are looking out for; this could be mentally disabled people; they surely have advocates, as they should. Half of the building is "disabled veterans," or more precisely, about 51% of it is. And the rest are "mentally disabled." 

So the food could be getting sent here earmarked for one group or another, or both; but it seems to wind up sitting on the table in the lobby; 

I have heard that these are the ones from people who actually receive a whole box of them for some reason, but who decline it. And so, seeing it tossed in the dumpster could mean nobody wanted to grab it off the table in the lobby while it sat there a short time, available "for free," but only to those that actually see it sitting there. 

The security person named Tim, once said to me, "Once they reach room temperature, forget it!" with that apparently meaning, forget about eating it, that would be dangerous! 

I really don't know if there is such a thing as a food that goes bad faster after thawing, than any other, but there you have it from Tim, front desk security guy. If you freeze something that is rancid, and you thaw it out, it should start to fester right away, it stands to reason; if you assume the bacteria aren't killed by being frozen, merely put to sleep... 

I will have to Google that. 

 I tried to contact the makers of the food that comes in those containers by going to their website; but an e-mail I sent them, asking about hydrogenated soy oil, went unanswered. 

That makes me think that they are coming out of some huge warehouse sized hurricane emergency relief freezer that they probably have nearby. The way I feel after I eat them, is probably comparable to whenever I have eaten meat the day before. Fish, not so bad, though...

Trump Flag Bit

® After about a 14 day slump, the traffic on this blog has gone back up to where it used to be, when an entire globe of monkeys randomly pecking keys would yield a bunch of stray visitors; an average of 45 a day.

"Yes!! Woohoo!!"

Google has a special bit set on all 3 billion users accounts. If that bit is set to 1, then the person can use social media, buy and sell online, have their blog visible to the search engine, get a job, share their music and basically be successful and prosperous at life.

If that bit is set to zero, well...they nicknamed it the "Trump flag" for a reason, I guess...

I think that Google (or more specifically, their bot) had put a shadow ban on Street Musician Daniel, so that it didn't appear in search results. I had heard that some companies like Instagram will do this, and the period of 14 days was mentioned for, maybe the first offense.

It must have been flagged as being "domestic terrorism," due to any number of reasons. 

Maybe because I will watch a Ben Shapiro video on Youtube, and then commit the sin of "liking" it; and then when something from CNN shows up in my recommendations, with a title like: "Watch what happens to these Trump supporters, at the hands of non violent protesters; a must see for all woke people!" I click the "cancel" button. (You can't cancel that video; cancelling is not in your purview. Cancellation is our department!).

The Crack Of Dawn

The addictive nature of crack shows itself in the form of causing people to "chase the dragon," or, try to get high again after coming down the first time.

It's kind of like dishwater. After you pour Joy® in a sink of hot water, it will suds up nicely. After you wash greasy dishes for a while, the suds will disappear. You might want to put more soap in, thinking that what is in there has been used up; but after you do, you still can't make any suds, even by stirring the water vigorously.

The brain is like the soap water and certain drugs, like crack, the soap. After you experience a cocaine high for about a half hour, there is no point in trying to make suds again in your brain; you need to drain the sink and refill it with clean hot water.

Which means you have to wait a period of time, at least 12 hours, before another hit would "work" on you.

Getting a good night's sleep would accelerate this process. After sleeping; the next day you will wake up with a head full of clean hot water; then you could, if you wanted,  make suds again, but you won't have a compulsion to. 

The drug isn't that kind of "addictive." You have gotten through "it," and come out OK, on the other side.

This requires paying the price of feeling somewhat the opposite of the high, and having to understand at the intellectual level that this is what is happening, and that it will pass in less than two hours, and that all the crack in the world isn't going to elevate you back to that golden state of bliss.

But, this is where the person who has a proclivity towards addiction for that particular drug (which is right near the top of the list of most addictive substances) is at risk. 

They will chase the dragon; trudging back out into the night for another 10 dollar hit that they know from experience will not do anything for them; but I guess rationalizing that "anything is better than this." It is all biochemical, and I have read about how it depletes the dopamine, or something, in the brain, making it chemically impossible for the person to experience joy. The emotion, not the dish washing product...

So, someone like me, lays down and focuses upon breathing and trying to calm the mind and appreciate the present moment, and wait for the bummed out feeling to subside; understanding that the hopelessness and despair's feeling permanent, is just an illusion. 

And then there is a feeling of blessed relief when everything calms down and you can once again appreciate just looking out the window at a bird in a tree or something.

Meanwhile, while you eventually drifted off to sleep, there was no rest for the types who struggle with addiction to the stuff.

So, I was not surprised when Bobby called me this morning, asking me to go over there, and then telling me that he is going to check himself into rehab tomorrow, once I got over there.

He then gave me his Snark® guitar tuner, about a 24 dollar value. He said that he wanted to do another hit of crack before turning himself in to the rehab people. From the looks of it, he had kept going, chasing the dragon, while I had gone through the coming down; the deep breathing exercises, and the eventual drifting off to sleep, with the help of the methadone and the sleeping pill, and the waking up, back to normal, and not really craving anything.

I thought he was telling me that he wanted to do another hit sometime before checking in to the place the next day at noon. But, I should have guessed, from the evidence that he had chased the dragon, running back and forth to and from the dealer until he was broke; that he kind of meant "right now."

I was in a slight dilemma, because I certainly didn't want to take a hit of that stuff two days in a row. It might not have my number, as much as it does Bobby's, who was giving me his Snark® Tuner because he has pawned his guitar and his amp; but there is something to letting sleeping dogs lie..

I was kind of non committal, and told him that I first had to walk to the Shell to get another nicotine vape and a bag of kratom. He said that he would walk with me.

Thus, I started walking towards the store with Bobby in tow. I could feel the weight of his condition as if through osmosis. It reminded me of how Leslie Thompson used to follow me the mornings when he knew I had money; and knew that, whenever I decided to start drinking that day, I would be considerate enough to buy him something.

So, he would follow me; just waiting. I wasn't as bad an alcoholic as him, if the fact that I usually didn't have my first drink until the sun was going down was any indication; while Leslie had his first drink at one minute past whenever the liquor store opened, if he had money.

But there was just something off kilter about being followed, step for step, by someone who is praying to God that you are going to want some whiskey, the sooner the better...

Bad enough to feel guilty about the drinking that you do from sundown until black out time 'round midnight; but here's someone who is encouraging and wishing you to be a worse alcoholic; and that you would just fall in line, and resign yourself to drinking whiskey as the sun is coming up.

And, Leslie would mope, and be a drag, in the sixties sense.

Miserable and not really even hearing anything I said. Responding mechanically with "really?" to every utterance I made, and just putting out the vibe of misery. Looking at me with eyes like a mal-nourished kid on a Feed The Children poster.  And, then there were the times when his ploy, as I have to think of it as such -the machinations of a diseased mind- worked on me.

Those times, feeling like I was babysitting a fussy child, and guessing that the only thing that was going to make him stop fussing (and give me some peace of mind) came in half pints and pints, I went ahead -well before I would have normally drank- 

"Well, I suppose I could pop in here and get a pint of whiskey..." a proclamation that caused an instant reaction in Leslie, with the utterance of an elated cry, lifted to the sky, of "Yes!" accompanied by a little jig.

My gloomy, bump on a log, friend had morphed into a chipper, happy-go-lucky guy, with the weight of the world lifted off of his shoulders; and a spring in his step; all because of me! 

You see, that wasn't so hard to figure out -spend your money on whiskey for Leslie, and you will have a happy friend, who will be the life of the party and a pleasure to be around. Don't do so, and your mood will be brought down, just from standing near him, by the shear gravity of his morose self.

As I walked towards the store, with Bobby tagging along, it brought that memory back so strongly that I stopped and said: "Hey, I'm not going to take another hit; I'm not really Jones-ing for one, and so why push it; why flirt with the stuff?"

Bobby fell back a few paces, and then, when I turned around, he had done the same and was trundling back towards the apartments, looking utterly lost in this world.

I continued walking towards my nicotine vape; feeling like I had kind of punished Bobby for the sins of Leslie Thompson.

I thought about the guitar tuner he gave me; evidence that he had no money and was trying to offer me anything he could, in trade. I thought about all the things he has done for me and given me; the red electric guitar I play was given to me by him.

I decided what I would do would be to get some cash back at the store and just give him the money so he could chase the dragon, and that way I wouldn't have to do any. I have to go to Whole Foods to get cash back because my debit card for unemployment doesn't work at certain other ATM's, so I set off for that place almost a mile away.

I thought about the fact that, by the time I got the money and got back home, he would have had an extra hour of coming down time, and might be just seeing the light at the end of the tunnel and feeling like he could get through it and come out on the other side. He might even conclude that he was glad that I had reneged on doing a hit; maybe even admire my "strength" and resolve. Then I would knock on his door and hand him a 20 dollar bill and tell him to have fun.

But then I thought that, as a friend, I should help him out regardless of what he is going to spend the money on. He has given me countless things, including money, those times that I had had a bad night busking.

I didn't want to stand in judgment over him and go with the notion: "I know that you're gonna buy crack with this money and so I'm not going to give it to you!" But, I did feel a bit of a responsibility. 

I kind of was deciding whether or not he was going to get high -withhold the money, and he would have to suffer through the withdrawals.

But, in his suffering, he would probably dwell on the fact that he has helped me so many times, and given me so much stuff, and he would have a right to be resentful to a degree...

So, I got the money at Whole Foods, deciding that I wasn't going to make any moral judgments or whatever...

It just put me in kind of a spot, because I needed at least a degree of "strength" to not want to join him in his debauchery. I certainly couldn't get any beer at Whole Foods, because then I would be at risk for: "Are you sure you don't want to hit it just once?"

Many times, the first mistake I've made in what would turn into a series of them, was "to have a beer."

Back From The Dead

I was really just joking about Kamala Harris replacing George Washington on the one dollar bill a few posts back, but...this just in...

The White House Is Reinstating Plans to Replace Andrew Jackson With Harriet Tubman on $20 Bills

 

In April 2016, secretary of the treasury Jacob J. Lew unveiled plans to remove Andrew Jackson —who enslaved scores of Black Americans and forced thousands of Native Americans off their land during his presidential tenure—from the $20 bill. Jackson would be replaced with Harriet Tubman, hero of the Underground Railroad.

The conceptual design of the new bill was expected to be finished by 2020 to coincide with the centennial of the 19th Amendment. Though The New York Times revealed an image of it in June 2019 (three years after the design had reportedly been completed), 2020 came and went without any official announcement of the design change, and it became apparent that the project had been delayed. ["between the lines" -by a white supremacist administration]

Now, according to CNN, the White House is hoping to accelerate the process [though it won't take priority over jobs and security for legal American citizens, right?] and produce new $20 bills bearing Harriet Tubman’s likeness sometime soon. “It's important that our notes, our money … reflect the history and diversity of our country, and Harriet Tubman's image gracing the new $20 note would certainly reflect that,”* White House press secretary Jen Psaki said on Monday, January 25.

There’s no word yet on when exactly we’ll get to see the new design, or how soon we can expect the new money to enter circulation;⁑ a treasury department spokesperson told The New York Times that she had nothing to share about a possible timeline. 

Also as-yet-unanswered is what will be on the reverse side of the bill; Lew’s 2016 announcement said it would feature both the White House and an image of … Andrew Jackson. Since the new administration hasn’t announced any details, it’s still possible that could change.

When It Rains, It Pours

Friday, I got a letter out of the blue, from my mom. It was just to wish me well, and had 20 bucks in it. 

Then, I got a call Saturday morning from the front desk, informing me that a package had arrived. 

That package contained the calendar that the Lidgley's have been sending me annually. It always has a fresh 20 dollar bills taped to the picture for the month of October, when my birthday falls.

The first year they sent one, I didn't discover the money until one October day when I was flat broke, and sitting at home, worrying about where my next kratom and cigarette were to come from. Something kind of drew my eyes to the calendar. It was still showing September. I figured that I should at least flip it to the correct month; and then go back to worrying about where my next kratom and cigarette was going to come from. The rest is history. "No way!" I exclaimed after flipping September up to expose the bill. I then hopped on my bike and headed for the Uxi Duxi kratom bar, recalling the motto of Alfred E. Neuman from Mad Magazine: "What, me worry?"

This is what I picture

Alex in California to look like...

But, since then, I have flipped right to October and claimed my birthday money 10 months early each year.

Coming back to the apartment, calendar shaped parcel in hand, I stopped at my mailbox, to find one envelope in it, containing a check for 600 dollars; which I just slipped in between the pages of one of the books strewn on my bed.

Back From The Dead

So, early Sunday morning 1/24, I had woken up and resolved not to start the day off with the consumption of a beer, as that had been the first stop along the road to ruin the day before.

And, so, happy to see that the NFL playoff games were being broadcast over the free antenna stations that I get, I settled in to listen to the pre-game shows, knowing through experience, that a six pack of beer to go along with the game, although as American as apple pie, was not advisable. 

I hadn't slept since Thursday into whenever I woke up Friday, but the games were to start in a few hours and I would risk sleeping all the way through both of them were I to try to grab a few winks.

I had an energy drink spiked with kratom and listened to some of the pre-game hype coming over "sports radio" 990 AM, which is also where I go to hear Ben Shapiro, (sports and conservatism go hand in glove; we just wish those sons of bitches would stop kneeling down for the national anthem).

As I waited for the first game to start, my nicotine vape ran out, which meant a trip to the Shell was imminent.

I started walking that way. 

Somehow, as I walked, I reasoned that, if I were to drink, it should be a good bottle of red wine to go with the good meal of grouper with chips and salsa that I was planning to prepare. That is the healthy way to consume alcohol. Beer is not so bad, especially a dark beer, as long as you have some peanuts or other legume, to make a complete meal of it. Hard liquor on an empty stomach is stupidity...

I bought a bottle of sangria which I started to sip as I walked back home, ignoring the fact that that was kind of throwing the "with a good meal" theory out the window. I was thinking about a good meal as I walked, though.

Then, maybe due to having been up almost 48 hours, and with the nagging thought that I had just gotten 600 bucks in the back of my mind, and after polishing off the bottle, I decided to visit my friend Bobby, even though (or maybe because) I knew he would most likely be doing cocaine, heroin, smoking weed, or who knows what.

Not to shift the responsibility to him, but he didn't disappoint. We each got high as kites off a hit of crack that he happened to have laying around, and watched the Kansas City Chiefs defeat the...what was the other team? I forget; things got a bit foggy. But, being the gracious host that he is, he gave me a wafer of methadone "to come down with" and a sleeping pill, to go down even further. 

I was out of cat food, so I took a walk to get 3 cans of it; and grabbed a bottle of New Belgium Trippel© beer while I was at it. That is one of my favorites, but this time it tasted kind of funny, perhaps because of the methadone; or maybe I have Covid19...

I didn't really like the feeling of the methadone, just as I hadn't the first time he ever gave me any (when it made me hiccup for something like 28 hours) and so I took the sleeping pill after I had gotten home and fed Harold; the perfect end to a perfect day.

Then, I believe I died in my sleep; it was Sunday evening when I went to sleep and Monday evening when I finally got up and tried to piece together things. I had no craving for anything. My nicotine vape was on the bed with me, but I just looked at it and didn't want any. My mind was very calm. Shouldn't I at least have a cup of coffee? I thought. Kratom?

I really felt like I was done with it all. Like I had been purged; maybe momentarily my heart stopped and I went down the long tunnel of light, but came back as a new person. 

How long am I going to go, being addicted to nicotine, caffeine, kratom, weed and alcohol? At some point in my life I am at least going to want to experiment with total abstinence; to wake up, drink alkaline water, meditate, go for a jog, then drink grapefruit juice and get to work on my projects, taking a mid afternoon break for an avocado or two, washed down with kale and carrot juice from the juicer. At least I have no addiction to sugar; I don't even buy it...

Maybe I shouldn't talk, or write, this way because just typing the preceding sentence was ratcheting up the urge to run down to the Shell station for a Heineken. I just ran out of kratom, and so I'll have to go there anyways...

"Look Out, That Thing Is About To Fall On Your Head!"

It's funny -the psychological underpinnings of addiction- I remember, back when I was married to the Russian mafia via my wife Nina; I had a 22 year old stepson named Michael.

Michael didn't want to work. Nina had a ton of money, and had ostensibly brought him to the U.S. with her, so she could keep an eye on him; mostly to keep him an ocean's breadth away from those who would corrupt him by selling him drugs and turning him into a raging addict; against his better nature. For, in Nina's eyes, Michael could do no wrong.

And, as part of her plan to gain citizenship through marrying an American (one who, in my case had more than one ID, and so, could marry her "on the side") she was to benefit from being able to send Michael to medical school, to become a dentist, as a domestic student, thereby saving something like 8 thousand bucks a semester on tuition, compared to what they would have had to pay if he were coming in as a foreign student. Plenty with which to pay me for my troubles.

Michael's education "to become a dentist" was just a red herring -one that swam across the Atlantic with him in its belly. 

It was based upon the fallacy that a 22 year old, who had never lasted more than 3 hours on any job in his life, was going to grind it out; study hard and (here's that word again) work for a degree.

One job was arranged for him, through a Russian guy who had ascended to the position of management in a nearby Albertson's grocery store, who was a friend of "the family."

Of course, Ivan was populating his staff with no one else but Russians, to the exclusion of all other qualified candidates -probably behind the argument that Russian was the predominant language spoken at the site, given the existing composition of the crew, and it would be problematic for an English speaker to try to work there. He wouldn't understand "Look out, that thing is about to fall on your head!" shouted in broken English, for example. 

That was just one more straw in the back of the the working U.S.-born citizen's back. 

There was a Winn-Dixie nearby that was 90% Bosnian, becoming so in quick order after a Bosnian took over as manager. The U.S. born people who worked there (the 10%) that I spoke to, told me I wouldn't want to work there. It was a terrible place, where they were treated like dogs, even whistled for by the manager, when he needed them for something. 

The Bosnian employees there seemed relatively happy, though, except for a low-key contempt that they seemed to seethe with, just below their surfaces, that I picked up on whenever I shopped there, if ever I tried to make friendly conversation. I guessed that that was because I was born here. What would happen to me if I moved to Bosnia, opened a business and then started mistreating Bosnians, while hiring only American ex-patriots? What is the word in the Bosnian language for "boycott?"

It would take subtle forms, like, if a cashier had bagged one of my items and I were to reach my hand forward, to take it from her, she would drop it on the counter and withdraw her own hand, with a frown, as if not wanting to even complete the gesture of handing me the stuff that I had just supported her and her family with, by paying for. That kind of thing...

And, then there was the Starbucks right down the street that you had to be Albanian to work at, and...well, I digress...

And, so Nina had arranged for Michael to work on the overnight crew, stocking shelves at Albertson's, through her Russian ties and connections.

His first shift was to run from 10 PM until 6 AM. At about 1 AM, the manager called Nina to inform her that Michael had never returned from his first 15 minute break at around midnight.

But, Michael didn't return home either, until after six, probably because he wanted to take advantage of the fact that, for the occasion, he was given use of the car, and that, at midnight, the night was still young, and there was plenty of fun that he could "get." (Michael's lack of *total* fluency in English was evident when he said things like "We got a lot of fun last night!").

His version of fun would be showing up at some club, dressed to the nines (he owned nothing but dress clothing) and mingling with people, who would become intrigued by his accent, which would open the door for him to give his spiel about being from Russia, and how he was here in America, to go to medical school to become a dentist. 

They would look him over, taking in his clothing and his shoes (especially his shoes -the family made their fortune in the shoe industry) his manicured hands and his hair, which was edged every Saturday morning, with the barber taking off barely enough to see, and not even needing to sweep the floor after he was done; and someone would invariably tell him not to worry about having left his wallet at the restaurant with his money in it, or whatever b.s. he was going with that night, and would offer to buy him drinks, invite him to do a few lines of coke in the men's room (He was a coke seeking missile when it came to picking those types out of a crowd; probably by using the same metrics of clothing and shoes that they did) and over the course of the night, they would become happy to have befriended a future dentist, and a fine young man, and Michael would have gotten his fun.

But, that time, he had returned home to receive a tongue lashing from Nina, who later explained to me that the problem had been that the work was not suitable for Michael because he could have chipped a hundred dollar nail, just trying to make eight bucks an hour, arranging cans on a shelf. And also, he had started to sweat, and "what do you want me to do, ruin a $140 single stitch silk shirt; sweating like pig? Nina understood his point and relented. Maybe her connections could find him some job that didn't involve working.

Michael succumbed to drug addiction, having spiraled down pretty far by the time I left the scene a year after marrying Nina, and having been half of the reason I left, as Michael had persistently encroached upon me, one inch at a time, trying to be "the man of the house" which started with his taking control of the environment, blasting the heater in the winter on high, until a certain point where he would ejaculate "Man, is hot as f** in here!" and then would turn the unit off, and throw open the front door to let the winter air in to cool it back down (he had no understanding of the thermostat) and by commandeering the TV remote, not even thinking to ask "Oh, were you watching that?" One time he was out of cigarettes and I had one left, which I said I would share with him. He lit it and then went about daydreaming and smoking it, and, only after it was down to the filter, did he say: "Oh, shit man, I smoked whole of it; I'm sorry I forgot.." That type of stuff. I guess that's what happens when everything revolves around you, as the only son of a wealthy Russian lady.

About a year after I left, I was arrested in Washington state, on a worthless check charge and flown back to Jacksonville. The real reason that happened was because they wanted me as a witness in a murder trial that I had knowledge of.

They figured they would set some bond amount that would be out of the reach of a guy found living in the woods in Federal Way, Washington who worked as a cashier at a gas station. That way, they would know where they could find me, once the trial came around.

To this day, I have no idea how Nina found out about this, after a year of me being away and having made no contact. Maybe the Russian mob had operatives at the jail.

But, I wasn't there for more than a few hours before this mysterious Russian lady showed up at the jail and posted my whole bond amount in crisp 100 dollar bills. Pretty impressive, considering the way I had gone off, and just about said "F you and your derelict son!" Knowing her, she probably hadn't satisfied any of their curiosity about who she was or why she was doing it. They are kind of obligated, at the clerk's office to warn people that, should the bonded person not show up for court, then they will have to forfeit the entire amount. I'm sure Nina cut that person off in mid sentence: "Is ok, here!" then shoved the money at them. "I know, is ok, here!"

She was waiting to bring me back home with her.

There I witnessed Michael, having lost all his muscle tone and looking 33 rather than 23 years old. He would kind of pace around randomly with his arms flopping at his sides like a rag doll, mumbling incoherently to himself.

This could very well have been from whatever drugs the psychiatrist, that Nina was undoubtedly paying a fortune to, was giving him, as much as from whatever ailed him.

"Michael's not well" she said, as I was making those observations. She told me that he had had some kind of breakdown and wound up in his room, terrified, and yelling to her that there were men outside with guns trying to kill him, but that it had all been in "golova" (pointing to her head). Was she still in denial of the fact that her prince had destroyed his mind with drugs, and that it wasn't some mental illness that he had come down with, like catching the flu?

That was, I guess, when she took him to see the mental health professional who put him on some medication which was worse than any guys with guns outside could ever be.

The whole story of the Russians is on my other hard drive at about 25,000 words, and is overlapped by and mixed with the story of Angela, the one black girlfriend I ever had, and the whole thing with the murder trial (the real reason I was flown back to Florida on a worthless check charge) and I will retrieve it and add it to the timeline of this blog as soon as I get around to booting up the laptop with the old drive in it and copying it off. I always hesitate to do that because it could be the last thing I do on the laptop, should it freeze up during the procedure. But, back to the point:

The psychological underpinnings of addiction...

One of the things that I noticed about Michael, before he fried his mind on perhaps crystal meth or a combination of that and ecstasy, the latter of which he had been up to swallowing 5 to 7 "beans" of (in order to get fun), was that whenever he got off the phone after talking to his sister, Illonya, who was in Moscow (our phone bill averaged between 600 and 800 bucks a month because of his 2+ hour talks with Ilonya) he would be absolutely fiend-ing to smoke a joint. He would come to me, half panting and almost out of breath: "Daniel have you got some weed? I really need to smoke right now!" It never failed. He had the insane urge to get high as soon as he hung up the phone.

It may have been partly because 2 hours of doing anything that kept him away from drugs put him into a state of withdrawal; but I always suspected that there were psychological catalysts, too. 

My guess at the time was that he had spent the whole time on the phone blowing smoke and painting a glorious picture of how well his life was going and how he couldn't wait to start college to become a dentist, and just how wonderful everything was and how rosy the future looked; and that, of course, he was staying away from heroin...and that that was such a big lie, or self deception, that he couldn't wait to get high just to help delude himself himself into believing that everything he had said to her just might come true. 

A line of coke would have done that. "I know I'm going to become a great dentist, I'm going to study hard!" he might utter after a good toot...

But, my point is, when I blog here about my resolve to abstain from everything and put all my addictions to rest, I can often feel an increased urge to run to the store for a beer as soon as I hit the "publish' button. Maybe the A.A. people have a term for that -a person whose proclamations about their sobriety always precede, and maybe help bring about, their downfall. Maybe it's something that you don't talk about, you just do it. It's almost as if you get your reward in the form of people saying: "Good for you, I'm glad to hear it. I'm happy for you. I know you can do it!" Then you've already gotten your praise; why bother earning it the hard way, to ultimately get up at a meeting and say: "I'll be one year sober tomorrow," when all you are going to get then is: "Good for you; I'm happy to hear it; I knew you could do it!" It's like getting the cup before you even run the race...

So, maybe I'll stop going public with my efforts to kick habits. Maybe blog readers will be able to figure out that I'm not seeing men outside with guns that want to kill me, just by the way I write. 

Well, right now my mind is saying: "Come on, let's get some fun!" I guess I'll go to Youtube to catch up on things.

Things

Imagine; people thinking that Trump had anything to do with the Capitol riots!

Please. 

If Trump had organized it, there would have been a van waiting out back, which Pelosi and McConnell would have been spirited to, at gunpoint. 

They would now be being held on the second floor of some defunct motel in Frederick, Maryland, from where they would be allowed, once a day, to text things like: "Please, hurry up with those signature verification's and get those Dominion machines audited; let him have Georgia, if you have to. Just get us out of here! There's mint chocolate chip and heavenly hash here, but it's just not home! And Mitch is starting to look like a turtle out of water; please, just hurry!"

*Don't rednecks, who have a portrait of John Wayne hanging in their living rooms, and a .357 Mangnum within reach in their pickup trucks that play the first measure of "Dixie" when they honk the horn, deserve a place in that history, in order to more comprehensively represent the diversity of this great nation?

Shouldn't things qualify to become history by...happening?

Or does Psake mean that the new bill will reflect the history and diversity that their administration has approved, and decided not to "cancel"?

Am I just going to have to dust off my college degree, and use it to apply for a job teaching history in grade school, so as to become a champion of what is unbiased and authentic?

Between Obama and Biden? Er, there was no president; they went without for a term... But, more importantly; why do you ask? Am I going to have to call your mother and your other mother to have a little talk?!

 

But, If they ask for a photo, along with the resumé, I could staple to it the mugshot I had taken when I was arrested for "possession of child pornography," in Mobile, Alabama. I come across as very "likeable," in that particular one, I must say. It's a pose that just say's "hire me!" Theirs was a state-of-the-art camera -a good use of tax payer dollars, for a change. Imagine the quality of the "special little pics" you could take with that thing, I remember thinking.   

You've gotta feel sorry for those rednecks, especially the ones who live in Jacksonville, Florida or Jacksonville, Texas or Jacksonville, North Carolina; because they're going to have to deal with more than just the new bills. They will have to change the address on their licenses and at the post office (so that their stimulus payments will continue arriving). 

But, hey, maybe the Tubstown Jaguars will make it to the Superbowl and give, at least the Floridians, something to cheer about...  

⁑ It may also have been delayed because they foresaw that the issue of "circulating" money was soon to become a moot one, as the move towards a cashless society is furthered. Why issue something new, and then turn around and try to phase it out of existence? The Corona virus was a godsend to that movement, because everybody knows that when people feel a sneeze coming on, they will usually pull their money out to sneeze into; and then go out and circulate the virus.

That's why my friend Bobby and I joked that the drug using culture was particularly at risk for Corona because the prime use for cash money these days is for buying drugs off some dealer on the street, who probably doesn't sanitize his hands between sales. And prostitutes who might have sex with 15 guys a night, have all of their germs to pass along by spending the cash that they are paid in; usually on drugs, from the guy on the corner who doesn't sanitize his hands. Then there is the matter of: what crackhead is going to refuse a hit of crack out of a pipe that is being passed around by junkies who are standing well within the six foot "radius of risk?"

So, Bobby and I joked about that. We are both having a bit of the sniffles, along with slight body chills, as a matter of fact, though..

Still, though, to take those Jackson bills out of circulation, if only for as long as paper money still winds up being used, will spare countless people of color from suffering the indignity of being slapped in the face every time they see 20 bucks, with Andrew there, telling them, from beyond the grave, that they ain't never gonna be nothin' but niggers ("in case you all forgot!").

 

The Eight o' Clock Beer

Quick Note On Inauguration: It would have been nice, had they all sung that "Reunited (and it feels so good)" song, standing 6 feet apart, of course.

The music could have started emanating from the house speaker system (maybe right after the poetry reading) and then the house speaker, Pelosi could have led the singing. Why do I get the notion that Harris would sing way out of key and sound like a buffoon? Because it would be fitting for her to not even possess the natural "rhythm" that is purportedly the birthright of all people of color? Maybe that's why. They probably would have figured a way to auto-correct her singing, using the same caliber of technology that they used to produce the blown up picture of the ceremony, within a half hour of it being taken.

One of the most telling moments, and a big clue as to what we can expect from the next 4 years -as far as cronyism and the symbiosis of a corrupt culture, was when that one guy (they're interchangeable) called Biden "Joe" and then quickly corrected himself with: "I'm going to have to get used to calling you Mr. President!" Somehow I get the idea that, underneath the paint and grease, it's going to be less "Mr. President" and more "Joe," no matter what they call him...

I had gotten busy after noticing that it was already midnight, Thursday turning into Friday; and all the stores that I wanted to go to, were closed for the night.

This gap in time used to seem more enormous when I would be going to sleep before returning to the store. That would make it really feel like coming back "tomorrow." 

But, with the ability to get lost for 6 hours easily, with a music file taking 3 hours, just to add a high, tinkling piano part to a bass/guitar track that was done the previous night, and then, God forbid, watching the latest coverage of the latest impeachment for another hour or so; but then being compelled to check out the "other side" of the story which might be about impeaching the "other" guy, instead, it seems like the next thing you know there is light coming through the cracks in the blinds, and Winn Dixie is rolling out the red carpet and putting up the "beer for breakfast!" sign, if only in my imagination...

And so it was, that I only made it to the Shell station at about 8 in the morning; after having lost track of time and overshot the opening of Winn Dixie by an hour.

I only threw on a light, plastic? rubber? jacket that I have, and left the cumbersome umbrella at home. 

The jacket seems to have been manufactured backwards, as, in order to wear it so the prettily decorated side faces out, the zipper has to be backwards, and the pockets on the inside. In order to wear it so that it is easy and natural to zip, and the pockets are where you have been conditioned by a lifetime of wearing jackets to expect them to be; you have to wear it so the "ugly" side is showing.

And so, thus adorned, I sallied forth from Sacred Heart, and on to the Shell I went, only getting lightly rained on and thinking that the purpose of the jacket was being fulfilled in that capacity; my hat would be pretty wet, but not my shoulders or back.

I emerged from the Shell with a can of Heineken in hand, to find that the rainfall had picked up considerably; enough so that it probably looked like I was a normal person, just waiting it out, and not a skeezer, as I stood there sipping down the beer.

My mission was to walk up to the Winn Dixie, but to stop first at a "Staples," or an "Office Depot" -I forget which- in a little strip of businesses that includes Panera Bread, a PIzza Hut, and the Jefferson Feed Store. 

The latter is where I have gotten Harold some pretty exotic gourmet foods before. These would be times when I had come into some good fortune -a 50 dollar tip at the Lilly Pad, perhaps- and wanted to spread the wealth to my likeable, yet finicky pet. 

But, alas, after I had payed as much as $2.79 for a single can of something (compare to 67 cents for Friskies at the dollar store) Harold refused to eat duck, pheasant, venison, trout, duck in pumpkin sauce, pheasant with peas and rice, venison with duck and peas, etc...

But, today's order of business was not to overpay for an unwanted item, or at least it wasn't at this early hour with only one beer in me.

I was looking for a way to connect the turntable that I am borrowing (i.e. I might be able to keep it the rest of my life, but they reserve the right to ask for it back) from Jacob and Bob, to the speakers that I recently bought; and I found none, in all of Staples or Office Depot (I really should maybe walk with my head up more, so as to notice the names of businesses; or maybe just surrender to this possible onset of Alzheimer's and enjoy the ride, LOL).

I saw all kinds of adapters and connectors to facilitate all kinds of connectivity between the ubiquitous smart phone and almost everything else under the sun, except turntables. 

The Aiwa has "RCA" outputs which are most likely at "line level" voltage.

It runs on electricity, so it can rotate the record, and power the robotic function of elevating the tone arm, then shifting it to a precise location and then lowering it gently to the first groove of the record. The tone arm is returned to its cradle using a similar procedure after the needle reaches the end of the line, which is a stationary groove that may, or may not, have a bump inserted, which will make the player emit a dull thumping noise, as a subtle reminder that the device is still playing, though not playing anything else.

The Intruder Hiding In The Dark Right Near The Stereo

When I was about 12 years old, I had put an album on the old Zenith stereophonic, high fidelity appliance that sat in our basement, where also was located my bedroom. 

Then I got distracted and went out into the back yard or something, and forgot about the "The Cars", album by The Cars, which wound up spinning perpetually with the needle in the last groove.

Having my bedroom moved to the basement was based partly upon making room for my brother, who had arrived in the world ten years after me, to give him his own bedroom, decorated for a 2 year old, and for me to be able to create a middle school aged environment, in the basement.

Some of the advantages were that, for one, a stereo has to be playing quite loudly in a basement which is literally underground, to disturb any neighbors and, no mater how hot the New England summer days got -temperatures soaring into the 90's- the basement always offered a cool, clammy retreat from it.

I was in favor of the move. Especially since the Zenith high fidelity stereophonic phonograph player, manufactured the same year we sent a man to the moon, had already found its way down there.

Rooms had been conjured up off the bare concrete floor, so that our house had an upstairs, and a downstairs. One had been turned into an evening TV watching lounge, complete with one comfy chair (pappy bear) another more utilitarian one (mama bear) and a couch (us) on top of a wall to wall carpet, which had also been chosen for its ability to stand up to the occasional flooding which came when the water table rose during certain years. This lounge was only used for a couple months in the summer, when my father took in Walter Cronkite from the alternative comfy chair down there. By the time bed time rolled around, even in the middle of summer, the temperature would have fallen into a more sleep-able range. I can only think of a few occasions when any one of us went down into the basement to sleep because it was just too darned hot upstairs, not at 9 at night...

But, one of the considerations in moving my room to the basement was that, at my age of 12, I was old enough so that I wouldn't be afraid, sleeping down there, where it gets extra dark, and sounds are muffled -and being six feet underground, at least, isn't helping much. The book "It," by Stephen King was out then, and provided a lot of food for thought for a 12 year old with a room in the basement, but, that was just a book, and I wasn't really afraid of the dark; that much.

I had gone to bed that night and, after the noises from upstairs subsided as everyone else went to bed, with the TV up there being turned off, and after the sound of water through pipes from people taking showers or whatever had stopped, I was left in an eerie stillness.

After it got quiet enough, I began to hear it.

The "thump-thump" in regular rhythm. Like a heart.

The heart of whomever it was who had gotten into the basement -probably after coming through the woods and who had waited until just after dark to creep unseen, across the back yard and in through the screen door- and who was now ready to attack me. He was hesitating, for some reason; maybe to still his heart, which was pounding in anticipation of the kill. Thump thump......thump thump...

Well, my own heart was pounding as I considered that my best chance was the element of surprise. 

I needed to summon all of my strength and courage for one desperate lunge for the staircase leading upstairs. Why I never considered yelling at the top of my lungs for my father to come down, pistol in hand, in response to a "There's someone down here!" plea was probably in part because of the "I thought you were big enough to sleep in the basement without getting scared" criticism, but mostly because I thought the guy would have plunged his dagger in me long before that; maybe to get me to stop yelling for help.

After an imaginary count of three, I took off like a sprinter coming out of the blocks, across the flood resistant carpet and on a beeline for the staircase. Twelve steps up, and I would be where he couldn't get me, I imagined. I was counting upon the element of surprise giving me a half second or so head start, but I was prepared to throw a stiff-arm or do otherwise, to break free from its grasp.

I hadn't taken 3 steps when the little red dot on the front of the Zenith caught my eye; and had already stopped running, by the time I got to the foot of the staircase. It kind of all came together in my mind in that second. The Cars album that I had abandoned in the middle of the first side, why, of course. I went back to bed.

But Staples had no such connector. I won't be hearing any of the classical albums that I found about 3 months ago, just piled up on the sidewalk at the edge of Canal Street. Who knows what their story is, but they are boxes with at least 5 vinyl albums in each, and they were still in the air-tight plastic wrappers. Each one comes with a substantial booklet, with all kinds of notes on the compositions and performances of. Vinyl albums are $1 at the Goodwill Store.

So then I went to Winn Dixie and loaded up with about 20 pounds of groceries. The alkaline water that I now like to drink is going for about 2 and a half times the amount of regular purified water.

But, I bought another 24 ounce Heineken, and by the time I had walked the mile back to my place, carrying the two bags balanced between both arms as best I could, I was kind of in a useless state and wound up taking a nap from about 5 until I woke up at 10 at night, thinking that it should have been much later. Starting the day early in the morning was having that effect.

Tomorrow (today, as it is already 6, and the sun comes up in 40 minutes) I should think about going to Walmart, where I could get an adapter for the turntable, perhaps some slime for the bike tubes that the patches don't seem to be working on, so that I'm no longer walking everywhere...

And, other than that, I am starting to focus upon which time frames are the most productive for me. Am I an 8 to noon person, or a 7:30 till midnight one? 

This is an issue dealt with in the book "The Biology of Success," which is in the stack of 57 or so books that I am reading right now.

I am finding that drinking alcohol is like putting water in my gas tank, and I start running progressively slower, and getting a lot less accomplished.

It looks like I'm going to have to establish a routine. This routine of working on stuff for long stretches of time and then only falling asleep due to sheer exhaustion, only to wake up at random times and have to scramble to think of what I can get accomplished, given what time it is, and what might be open or not.

It is still the feeding of Harold that is lending the most sense of order to my life, as his appetite is more in tune with the natural cycles of the earth. 

There is seemingly no end to the list of things that I have been meaning to get to, but haven't; the list is growing faster than I am checking the items off, to be sure.

Yesterday, the morning beer and then the 5 in the afternoon until 10 at night nap led me to have been pecking away at this post, while listening to my folder that I use to dump whatever music I work on each day since about midnight. It's 7:30 now, Saturday morning. I guess I will see if there are any NFL playoff games on today.

But first, to Youtube for whatever I wind up watching. 

It seems like something is going to have to be jettisoned from the schedule; maybe the Youtube watching. I could spend the same time slapping together my own video that I already have the idea for. 

Someone with this much free time should be a lot more productive than I have been; what with having had a flat tire for 3 weeks now on the bike, and not having made that trip over to Walmart to get some Slime™ or a new tube; or a Slime® tube.

Waiting For The Sun

I might as well wait until the sun comes up before going to get cat food and litter.

I can do some kind of blog post; or maybe mess with a music file; or fritter away 3 hours on Youtube, being led by click bait down a cyber rabbit hole.

Disclaimer for left photo: I AM NOT A FAN OR SUPPORTER!
I think it's cool that they recently brought a 109 year World Series drought to an end, but I found the hat in brand new condition, and it fit me; and so, there you go...

Don't assume that I am a Cubs fan from looking at this picture, is all I'm saying.

I am NO ADMIRER AT ALL of that particular baseball organization.

Now that I am trying to produce another music video. 

As it stands, it might only have still shot photos in it. 

I have to just make a short duration piece, maybe 3:05, out of a bunch of hour-plus jams that I have laying around my hard drive.

I'm trying to make music the way it used to be done.

This was basically where a human being had to play an instrument on the recording. 

They had the advantage of being able to roll the tape repeatedly and repeat their parts, and then had the powerful tool of being able to use track "a" until such a point that the guy makes some blatant mistake, then to switch to track "b" for just that one part where the mistake was, and make a mistake free rendition out of several dozen passes through the song. 

And so, you could wind up with a guitar solo where some notes were played on a particular Tuesday night, but the second part of the musical phrase might have come from a session a month later and a thousand miles from the first studio.

But, the listener pictures a guy standing there, cranking out one contiguous solo.

Now, it is even more ridiculous.

I could play the hell out of the guitar for a couple minutes, doing random stuff; and then cut and paste and warp it into a song.

There is a happy medium somewhere in between the extremes. 

I have always been a believer in letting the computer repeat stuff that is more or less background, while the solo voices are kept live and spontaneous and certainly "in the moment."

If I were to lose my arms in a horrible accident, I would have enough material on my hard drive to continue releasing albums for years. I could slow stuff down, speed it up, change the pitch and put a variety of effects on stuff...

In theory, I could just record me playing a scale on a guitar, and digitally make a whole piece of music out of it, by manipulating pitch and duration.

Above: The surrounding universe is starting to materialize. It has taken a lot longer than 7 days to create.

This puzzle is challenging because there is a lot of writing that isn't vertical, there are circles that are inscribed all the way around, so that writing is at all angles. The pieces are all on an X/Y axes, though, and this is turning into a pretty fun puzzle, albeit one that competes with about a dozen other projects at any given time.

But, the sun is set to rise in about 40 minutes. I might start on foot for the Shell Station.

I have been on foot for a couple weeks now. I really need to spend about a half hour putting another tube in the bike tire. It's just discouraging; having had 3 tubes in a row develop slow leaks. 

One Can Away From Starvation

 I looked at the clock and realized that I had missed the closing of the grocery stores at 10, but then,

I got busy doing some music and some messing around with photos -I haven't even gotten to Youtube, a 3 or 4 hour burner, and lo and behold, the sky is lightening up outside and in less than 2 hours, they will be opening those very same markets for the dawn of a new Tuesday.

A Hat That Is Technically Too Small For My Head

Harold has a lot to be thankful for, and will have a can of food as soon as I get back from the little store that also sells beer.

I want to make a video using, if I have to, due to laziness and not going out to capture that "footage" using still shot photos. I can make them move around and stuff; but, it is a good way to get music on youtube, rather than Soundcloud.

I don't really know what difference it makes. Except for a blog readers ability to play the stuff back, should she want to hear a song -which is probably going to be put together with still photos just so I can use the Youtube platform for basically, the audio.

I am starting to think that the media coverage in the political arena is scripted by someone like a Jerry Springer.

How can we create drama out of nothing, type of thing.

But, still, off I go to Youtube to see how many times I can get sucked in by click-bait headlines.

"Liberal gets schooled on socialism in check out line at the 7-11, type of stuff...

  Left: After watching a lot of political stuff on Youtube...

Kamala One Dollar Bills To Replace "Unwoke" Washingtons

 

...uhh.

I haven't written much here, lately; just checking in...

Bungle In The Jungle

I guess it was the "VPN" on my neighbor's router that was preventing me from seeing images on this blog. That is better news than if Google had un-linked my photo album from the blog.

It is cool that Wayne gave me the password to the router, and it was way cool, at first, when I could put Youtube on, and just let it auto-play for hours, off of his "unlimited" data supply.

From Chernobyl To Jethro Tull In Eleven Hours

One time, I watched a video, probably of pedestrians caught on video getting hit by cars, maybe Evel Knievel jumps, or perhaps it was an old Boston Celtics game, that Larry Bird won with a buzzer beating shot (heaved up, off balance, with one hand, as he was falling out of bounds. Have you seen that one?) or it may have been that I watched a movie, such as "Inseparable," which was a movie set in Chernobyl, Russia, at probably the worst time in history to be at that particular spot on the globe.

But, I began an eleven hour thread of content, that I fell asleep about 3 hours into (based upon where the stuff that I remembered seeing ends) the player auto-selected a string of them which, about 11 hours later, wound up being a Jethro Tull, live-in-concert one.

What Do You Call It When A Blond Dyes Her Hair Dark?

That is interesting to me because, for one, I have never sought out any Jethro Tull videos, and secondly, it makes me wonder if the Google algorithm takes into account that the person has fallen asleep and the machine is on auto-pilot. This should be detectable by the fact that the person skipped no ads at all over the ten hours of, ostensibly, watching videos. It should trip a flag when a long series of "recommended that you watch next" videos are all accepted by the viewer. For, the recommendations, at this stage in the evolution of artificial intelligence, fall more into the category of "you might also like..." with a leap of faith taken by the algorithm.

Artificial Intelligence LOL!

For example, I might watch an entire Linda Ronstadt concert on Youtube, but that doesn't mean I am up for a full concert by Emmylou Harris, Alison Kraus, or Shawn Colvin. That doesn't mean I like all female country singers from the late 70's. I could have searched for "beautiful Latinas, if they can sing, all the better."

I am more worried that Google is dividing people into right and left, politically, based upon what they watch on Youtube. This goes along with a general fear that the Internet is becoming the global government.

Just yesterday, President Trump was barred from using twitter, and perhaps other platforms. because of the claim that he had used his thumbs to instigate whatever it was that happened at the Capitol Building.

Did he tweet something witty like: "I've got half a million bucks for the scalp of Nanci Pelosi, while you're in there."

I don't know, because I refuse to get my news from any of the free antenna TV stations that emit electromagnetic waves around here. And the current situation with Wayne's router precludes my going to Newsmax along with half of the worldwide web.

My 4 gigs of free data usually appears on my phone no later than a few hours into the 11th of any given month. That would mean that, any minute now, I could have data coming through Assurance Wireless as mobile data, piped through the hotspot to this laptop. That would isolate Wayne's router as being the problem, should all the issues resolve themselves. And that would be a moderate amount of stress lifted off me. I really am a bit paranoid about the huge tech companies being able to marginalize a citizen, by setting some bit in their file that would be the cyber equivalent of dropping them somewhere on the Yucatan Peninsula with nothing but the clothes on their back.

The "cancel culture" that has been responsible for "disappearing" some people's work into the Great Recycle Bin, is a real presence in the world.

There's A Hole In The Bucket, Dear Liza

I wasn't able to log into my account even to buy more data last night, using Wayne's wi-fi. Talk about a scenario like there being "a hole in the bucket" (that is ultimately going to require water in order to mend; and with what shall I fetch it (the water)? type of thing...) 

It just gives me the heebie jeebies to think that there might be software in place to make me disappear from the web just for rendering the syllables: "the scalp of Nanci* Pelosi" in a post.

*yeah, I intentionally spelled the name wrong, to add a layer of insulation against bots that crawl through all the text posted online, looking for sentiments of ill-will expressed towards the wrong people.

Eureka?!

Just now, I checked the Assurance Wireless site, using my phone, and I have 12 gigabytes of data -the monthly allotment of 4 gigs, plus the odd amount of 7.5 gigs, given as a courtesy to help those who are sheltered in place, and who are poverty stricken (or they wouldn't have qualified for the Obama phone in the first place). I think it is very nice of Assurance Wireless to do that. 

A cynic might think that they are doing it so people's data connection will be active, so that "they" will know if they are indeed staying in their dwellings.

The same cynic probably said that the phones were given out, in the first place, to give the government a means to track the homeless population; to ascertain their existence (adding them to the census tally, since, even though they might be homeless, and have no door for a census taker to knock on, they can be pinned down by the fact that they are in the county and using their Obama phone to perhaps call their drug dealer. So, count 'em!).

Then the cynic might go on to warn that, in the near future, gatherings of, say, 75 or more people (Obama phones) in one place might put the local riot police on alert.

The news I heard today about the "alternative to Facebook" site "Parler.com" being removed from the worldwide web for reasons related to the fact that it is a gathering spot for Trumpers and is allegedly used by them to foment their hatred and promote their violence, is just amazing.

It reminds me of the military tactic of knocking out the enemy's communications by taking out the radioman, as soon as he gives his position away by raising his antenna, with only the lieutenant and the medic ahead of him on the hit list. 

Someone told, back in 1981, when I was training to be a medic, that in the event of an enemy ambush, us medic's life expectancy would be about 7 seconds.

Before a flare ignites with a "pop" in the sky, throwing daylight on the whole area; and the enemy all yell: "Surprise!" we would have already been picked out by dedicated snipers, who would already have bead on us. It wasn't the recruiter who told me that, by the way...