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.