First of all thanks to all my readers and followers. I have no idea who most of you are but I appreciate that you stop by whether it’s for the cats, the commentary, or a fruitless search for a photo of Tricia Helfer’s butt.
I give thanks for my wife who cooked an awesome and inspiring meal this day, for loving and caring for a dolt like me, and making my day every day.
I give thanks to friends and family from all over who, despite the distance, do an often stellar job of keeping in touch with us. We will likely be living here, well often the cliched beaten path, for the rest of our lives. Yet so many make an extraordinary effort to stay in touch and that means so much to both of us.
And thanks to our two dogs and the multitude of cats that make our lives so interesting, entertaining, and loving.
Minus the catastrophes, this was my little bus this morning. It was below freezing and a wave of rain swept through the road I was going back and forth on. I can handle that pretty well with a car but with a heavy bus half-full of sleepy children it’s a different matter. I drove with caution and didn’t get into any trouble but DAMN my heart was palpitating.
And now it’s on to a four day weekend, over-eating, football, and sleeping in. Just what my poor cardio system needs.
Charles Manson has died at the age of 83. Now he answers to a new boss.
Manson was diagnosed with a couple of mental illnesses included schizophrenia and yeah, he was subjected to a horrible upbringing. But some rise above it, others do not. Most mentally ill people are a danger to themselves. Manson was a manipulative little shit with delusions of grandeur, a racist, a misogynist, and the motherfucker never showed a single bit of remorse or self-awareness his entire incarceration. May he now be subjected to all of Hell’s particular delights.
The late 60s in CA was a crazy time. Great for music but the social upheaval was substantial. And some could feel the coming of the monster in the air. I saw this quoted today and it’s worth posting:
“This mystical flirtation with the idea of ‘sin’—this sense that it was possible to go ‘too far,’ and that many people were doing it—was very much with us in Los Angeles in 1968 and 1969…The jitters were setting in. I recall a time when the dogs barked every night and the moon was always full. On August 9, 1969, I was sitting in the shallow end of my sister-in-law’s swimming pool in Beverly Hills when she received a telephone call from a friend who had just heard about the murders at Sharon Tate Polanski’s house on Cielo Drive. The phone rang many times during the next hour. These early reports were garbled and contradictory. One caller would say hoods, the next would say chains. There were twenty dead, no, twelve, ten, eighteen. Black masses were imagined, and bad trips blamed. I remembered all of the day’s misinformation very clearly, and I also remember this, and wish I did not: I remember that no one was surprised.”—Joan Didion
I spent about an hour and a half on Saturday working on the turntable again. It’s extremely slow work taking it apart to make the minute speed adjustment and then putting it back together to play a smidgeon of a tune. But I finally got to a point where I could not tell the difference between record and CD in terms of timing.
Because this thing had a problem with keeping the speed I set it I gave it a few days and tested it again today with one of my wife’s records (see below for the song). And goshdarnit, it sounded fine. So we’re set for an onslaught of some tunes I haven’t played in quite a while and a metric ton of Carjo’s old Christmas vinyl. Nothing says Yuletide like lounge lizards drunkenly swaying through hymns or choirs so white they make the Trump family look like they came from Riyadh.
So we set for the holidays. All I have to do is set up two artificial trees, string lights outside, haul up decorations from downstairs, hang wreaths…yeah, I’m going to have fun.
Last weekend I took apart my turntable and with a jewelry screwdriver made adjustments to the speed. After about an hour and a half adjusting, re-assembling, checking the speed, and then taking it apart again, John Bonham on record hit the same beats as John Bonham on LP. All was good and a celebration ale was consumed.
Last night I put on my wife’s Schuyler, Knobloch, and Bickhardt album to play one of her favorites: This Old House. We’ve moved a lot in our tumultuous life and this song goes deep for her. And goddamn it was running a little fast!
So this weekend I’ll take it apart again. If if can’t maintain a consistent speed the damn thing is going back to the electronics cemetery downstairs. And my wife will have to just stream the song on YouTube (album is long out of print)
On this date thirty-eight years ago these two crazy kids said “I do.” And now here we are.
We love, we fight, we agree, we argue, we laugh, we weep. And we’ve always done it together and I hope we always will. There is nothing better than coming home to this woman, nothing I look forward to more.
Love ya dear.