A day of very little

Got absolutely nothing to do today, so I thought it might be a good time to get rid of stuff. Realized that now that my good camera is gone for good, that I can probably get rid of the attachments etc that belonged to it. (We were robbed twice in six months.) I have clothes to go through and discard. Probably a bunch of other stuff, once I start looking. There are three copies of my play that no longer match the final draft. There are tapes of my bear kids that I should at least put together in a box to edit our whole lives when I retire. I should think about what is important these days. I still seem to be collecting books- all of which which probably should be gleaned at this point. The Writers' Group I've dropped out of, had this odd X/Mas party thing of giving each other books. I have a stack of books on my nightstand from people I don't really respect as writers. Why am I keeping them? (Well, a few I will keep- from the one or two people in the group I did respect.) I have Mrs. Dalloway and "The Culprit Fay" and a very short reproduction copy of Charles De Kay's novella about NYC artist types in the 1880s waiting for me. The Culprit Fay If you are curious- early Americana. Also, Helena De Kay's grandfather for those who are aware of my hobbyhorses. The trouble with being well off is having room to collect nonsense. Happy Memorial Day. 

Scary Times

One of the scariest days of my life was the first day in New Orleans, with backpack and very little money. The difficulty of finding a place to stay was hard. Would I be taken by someone and be penniless? The trip out on the road had a whole devil may care thing going on with it. You were on your way somewhere. You talked to the people who gave you rides. Now you were here. You knew no one. Had less. What was to happen to you?

My bear son is looking for an apartment back east as we speak. He's hopefully not as scared as I was. He's got a job lined up and parents with credit cards. Shouldn't be too unsurmountable. Still, I know its scary.

New Orleans was ultimately kind to me. The first place I applied for a job- hired me. I made friends eventually.

Two graduations in just a few days. One bear at Chapman in Orange California and the other at Stevens in Hoboken Jew Jersey.

A lot of relatives and sitting around eating. Got it it all on video. Jerry Lewis made faces at the young girls Chapman and Carlos Alomar Played guitar in Hoboken. A lot of sitting, but it only happens once per bear.

Daydee- 2nd Installment

(I'm off to NYC to watch the second bear graduate. Will post more when I get back at the end off the week. The first bear graduated in Orange County early Saturday morning. If you are my Facebook friend there is 41 seconds of her on the big screen by the stage shaking hands with the bigwigs. Jerry Lewis was the commencement speaker - he was funny and spent most of the time making faces at the girls graduating. He's 85.)

More Daydee- right where we left off:

                She did a little more sorting, but was feeling the effect of the rum and evening was here. She cooked some hot dogs she found and turned off the overhead lights except for the kitchen and snuggled down on the couch to watch television. It was a bit cool because she had left the windows open. She would not have the smell around her. She’d have to get a fan when she bought a lamp. Thrift stores were good for that kind of thing, if you weren’t too choosey. This wasn’t New Orleans, but it wasn’t totally uncomfortable.  She pulled off her clothes, leaving them in a heap on the coffee table and crawled back into her blanket in her underwear. She dozed and awoke in the middle of the night. The television was still on with some old black and white movie. She turned it off, and thought she heard something or someone moving in the apartment.  She got up and wrapped the blanket around her and peaked into the kitchen. The light was still on. Nothing.  She moved toward the bedroom.  She knew she shouldn’t have left the windows open.

                “Hello!” she said to the dark bedroom.

                They were going to answer her? She jolted to the doorway and turned on the light. Nothing at all. Then she realized it was her mother. She could feel her in the room. She pulled open the closet door and there were her mother’s clothes. Those would go tomorrow. Maybe that would get her out of here.

                “You’re dead. You can leave now! I have no use for you.”

                She wanted something. Had she just been in the dream just now that Daydee didn’t remember?  Then she realized that the bed was made. Her mother had never made a bed in her life. Who had made the goddamn bed?

                “There’s really nothing you can tell me that I don’t already know,” she told the ghost. “And I don’t give a fuck.”

                She turned off the light and closed the door behind her. Her suitcase was sitting there in the light from the kitchen. She had forgotten to unpack. She crawled back on the couch and hid her face in the blanket.  Her mother hovered about her in her dreams, but when she awoke in the morning light, she didn’t remember anything of what dreams she might have had. She considered that a blessing.

                It was a bright and shiny morning when she finally sat up on the couch. The sky was blue outside and there were birds chirping. She had no idea what time it was and couldn’t remember what time Winston was supposed to be there to pick her up. She went to the kitchen in her blanket and made coffee and found toast and then did recall that she was supposed to go to breakfast with him. Eating wasn’t a good idea. Maybe a half of piece of toast to help her not feel hung over. She carried the coffee and toast into the bedroom and then returned for her suitcase. The blanket slipped off her shoulders and she glanced out the open front curtains to make sure no one was around. She wasn’t in her second story back apartment any more. The bedroom curtains were open as well.

                “Damn it.”

                She closed them all. There was nowhere to hang her clothes. She pulled all of her mother’s clothes out of the closet and piled them in middle of the bed. She threw all of the shoes up there with them and then began to pull hangers out to hang up her own clothes. She would be wrinkled today. She also didn’t own any sensible shoes. She imagined they would be walking around cornfields today. In the bathroom, she raked all of her mother’s things off the counter into the wastebasket and dumped that on the bed as well. There must be a store they go to at sixty and buy only old woman things. She took a shower and blew her hair and put on her make-up. She didn’t want to be too sexy today, so she toned everything down. It was a small town. They would really decide that she was a hooker.  The sweater was good. She’d be covered but would still give the boys something to look at while they were explaining fertilizing. Her skirts were all probably too tight. She needed a sundress, which was farm girl sexy. She looked at a pair of her mother’s shoes and then sat down to try them.  They fit. They were black. They could have belonged to anyone. Better an inch than two inches in the mud.

                She lit a cigarette and looked at herself. Not bad for an old broad, she thought. She wiped off the red lipstick and did a little gloss instead.  The apartment looked a shamble now. As she came out, Winston was pulling up in front. Was there a car? She hoped she wasn’t obliged to wait on him to get her places. She went out to meet him. The shoes felt weird. They also made her feel smaller.  He jumped out as if he was going to run around and hold the passenger door for her.

                “Relax, honey. I can get in the car just fine.”

                They climbed in.

                “I’m starving. Breakfast first?” she asked.

                “Sure.”

                “Do you make beds, Winston?”

                “Why? Oh, I cleaned up the place a little for your coming.”

                “She never made a bed in her life,” Daydee said.

                Winston smiled at her.

                “You knew that,” Daydee said. “Is there a car?”

                “There’s a pick-up over at the cemetery. We can get it for you today.  Jack was using it to carry lawn seed and fertilizer over there from the garden center.”

                “Jack?”

                “Jack Evans. He went to high school with you. He was on the football team. He’s been doing upkeep on the cemetery grounds and the openings and closings for your mother. He’s the preacher at the Baptist church, but that doesn’t pay real well. He’ll probably be at the restaurant.“

                The restaurant turned out to be the main hangout in downtown Paris in the mornings. It was the usual small town place, hadn’t been remodeled since the 60s. Booths and tables with Formica tops. Old eggshell  ceramic coffee cups that had seen the dishwasher too many years in a row. A counter where toothpicks were within easy reach.  Businessmen and farmers. There were a few older women scattered around among the men, but those were there with their retired spouse because neither felt like cooking breakfast any more. The waitresses were all Daydee’s age.  The fry cook in the serving window had a cigarette dangling from his mouth. All the men looked up when they entered and watched her cross the room.  She smiled at each group as they passed them. Why did she feel like one of the waitresses?  They sat at a table toward the back. She imagined this to be Winston’s spot every morning.

                “This brings back memories,” she said. “I was working weekends at a place out near the high school before I left.”

                “I remember. That place closed about ten years ago.”

                A tall good looking blonde man got up and came over to the table. She remembered him now. He looked pretty good, no paunch, though he was gray around his ears. He had a buddy that was just as handsome that he hung out with. They were both on the team. The girls had all drooled over the both of them. She put out her hand.

                “Jack. How are you?”

                There was a wedding ring on his hand.

                “Deidre. Boy, has it been a long time.”

                “You want to join us?” Winston asked.

                He sat down. The waitress came over with coffee and took their order. Jack had just finished eating.

                “She just got in yesterday. I was going to take her around to get the lay of the land,” Winston said.  “I thought the cemetery first. You going over there?”

                “Well, I need to see Edward first. I’ll meet you in about an hour?”

                “So where have you been all this time?” Jack asked her.

                “I’ve been living in New Orleans.”

                “How long before you have to go back?”

                “Oh, I’m not.”

                “It must be a lot more exciting than here.”

                “Quiet will be good.”

                “What exactly were you doing there? You have a family?”

                “Never married. I’m a para-legal.” She had used that for years.

                “Well, it’s good to see you. I need to go. Winston, I need to talk you for a minute.”

                He stood and motioned him to follow. They went over by the door. Secrets. They seemed to be arguing by the front door. Everyone else in the place were either watching them or watching her. She smiled at the men that made eye contact. Frank Harris appeared at the table.

                “I brought the rest of the money. I was going to run by to see you, but this is easier.”

                He pulled out his wallet and handed the bills over to her. Great, she thought. Now I really am a hooker.  Winston returned and made arrangements for them to meet up with Frank later that morning at the farm.  Their breakfast came.

               

                By the time they walked out of the restaurant, Daydee really felt like she knew what movie stars must feel like when they are out in public. She was being memorized by the other customers. Soon the whole town would discussing what she had on, how she fixed her hair, what blemishes she had and where they were. The men were all eyeing her up and down, which was a good sign. If you were a hayseed and over forty, she looked real good, she guessed. She could work with that. The old women were probably scandalized by her look. The waitresses were the ones whose tongues would really wag. She envisioned the headline on the Beacon tomorrow: ‘Back From The Dead!’

                Winston had a toothpick and was rooting around in his mouth.  They got in the car.

                “Well, let’s do the cemetery first,” she said.

                They drove the few blocks- it was only a half mile away, on the north side of town. It had a archway in front with Paris Memorial Gardens in wrought iron over the dirt road entrance. It was just a large expanse of green lawn. There were a couple of trees. All the markers were flat in the ground as plaques. There was a little concrete bunker of an office and a large shed to house the mower and tools. The pick-up truck that was her mothers’ was sitting by the shed. It was old. She knew immediately it had to be a stick. There was a big back hoe sitting behind the shed.  Jack Evans wasn’t here yet.

                “Your mother is over here.”

                They walked over to the mound of brown earth.

                “Shall I leave you?” Winston asked.

                Daydee laughed at him.

                “No, don’t be silly. I didn’t love my mother.”

                She was looking at the plaques nearby. Her Grandmother and Grandfather. Her Great-grandmother and Great Aunt and Great Uncle separately. Her father. 

                “We’re all here,” she said. “My father came back?”

                “Well, that’s a story in itself. About fifteen years ago, he was spotted wandering around the farm. Your mother and your Great Aunt drove out to look for him, but never found him. The next day Frank Harris found him dead in the middle of the corn. The sheriff decided your mother had killed him and arrested her. There was a big investigation. Your mother hired Edward to be her lawyer. They never found enough evidence to put her on trial. So they let her go.”

                She felt like she was ready to cry. She had always imagined him crazy as a loon wandering the countryside or pushing a shopping cart in some skid row in some city. He’s been here for fifteen years.

                A car pulled up by the office. It was Jack. She was glad for the distraction. She dabbed her eye and started over. Winston followed.   

                “I swear you’re just as good looking as you were in high school,” she told him.

                His eyes jumped to Winston behind her. She had embarrassed him?

                “I have a wife and two kids now.”

                “Good for you!”

                “I’m the pastor of the First Baptist Church here in town.”

                “Well, I wouldn’t have imagined that. I’ll have to come to hear you. What time Sunday?”

                “The first service is at nine.”

                She had no intention of really going, but she thought he needed buttering up a bit.

                “So you’ve been taking care of the cemetery?”

                “Yes, Ma’am. I mow and keep the lawn up and do the opening and closing of the graves. There haven’t been very many lately. I’ll show you the office.”

                They walked over and he unlocked the door.  It was a nice little cozy room with file cabinets and a big desk and two overstuffed chairs for family of the deceased. Lots of windows with their curtains open, looking out to the green outside. There was a bookshelf with what had to be the Harris’ mantle clock.  Jack handed her the keys.

                “Your mother ran the business, sold plots and vaults and scheduled everything. She’d just call when she needed something done.  I can’t say that I’d be much help on the accounts. She handled all that. “

                “There’s no answering machine,” she said.

                “Everybody knew to call her at home. She was never out here much toward the end. “

                They locked up and went out to the shed.

                “All of the equipment belongs to the cemetery. The truck and the backhoe too. I’ve never used this one. I don’t know if it will even start. I own my own, a smaller newer one. Your mother would pay per the grave. “

                “Let’s just keep everything the way it was until I can figure it all out,” Daydee said.

                “That would be great, Deidre.”

                “So where next?” she asked Winston. “The farm?”

                “Sure, if you want.”

                “Let’s take the truck,” she said.

                The men followed her. She managed to climb in without making a fool of herself, but was sure audience appreciated her rump in the tight skirt. She knew because Winston hadn’t budged.

                “You coming?”

                She pulled her door shut as he trotted around to the passenger side.  She was actually scared to death. She hadn’t driven anything in a couple of years. Didn’t have a driver’s license in Louisiana. But these hayseeds were not going make her dependant on them. It started up well enough. She hit the brake and the clutch and tried shifting into first. It grinded.

                “You have to double clutch it,” Jack said.

                “How do you do that?”

                “You have to pump the clutch every time you shift,” he said.

                “You want me to drive?” Winston asked.

                “No!”

                She tried again, the gears screeched a bit, but the truck jerked forward. She went off the drive a little and cut it close going out the entrance.

                “I can drive,” Winston said.

                “I know!”

                He gave her directions. She ran a stop sign, but didn’t hit anything. They were on a road leading out of town. She eased it into second and gassed it up to the top of second gear and made it into third. Her hair was going to be a mess from the open window. She should have a scarf. Downshifting was just as much of a problem. They reached the farm, and she took the turn off a little fast. She was certain she was going to run off into the ditch. She slapped Winston’s shoulder.

                “That was fun!”

                Coming up on the barn, she kept the clutch in and jiggled the stick back into first and let it jerk to a stop. The engine died.

                “Well, I’ll practice.”

                She tried fixing her hair in the mirror, but saw it was hopeless. They got out and looked around. The barn was on its last legs, and leaned to the left, about to topple over. It was ancient. It wasn’t the one that had been on her great-grandmother’s farm. There was a tractor on its way to them.  There was  a house here, a big two story Victorian with boarded up windows. The crop rows had been planted up to the very walls, so there was no yard or even a path to it its front door.

                Frank Harris was on the tractor. He had a fertilizer rig attached to the back. He pulled up and turned it off. It continued to putt along as he climbed down.

                “You were lucky to make that turn coming in,” he said.

                “Glad you liked it, sweetie.”

                He frowned.

                “No, seriously.”

                “Seriously, I could give a flying damn about what you think of my driving!” It was out before she could stop it. But she did smile.

                Frank looked at Winston.

                “I don’t think he’s going to help you,” she said.

                “Sorry, Miss McIntire. I was just concerned about you hurting yourself.”

                “Hey handsome, let’s not let it get us down. So what’s going on with the farm?”

                “You want a tour?”

                “Not today, love. Next time for sure. So what do you have planted?

                “Its half soybeans, half corn, about 180 acres each. I’ve got a futures offer for 7.40 a bushel on the soybeans that we probably should take. It won’t go any higher than that.”

                “I don’t know what that means,” she said.

                “We get offers to buy the crop before it even comes out of the ground. Most wait until mid-summer, but it’ll be below that by then.”

                “Let’s do it if you think we should.”

                He was smiling now.

                “Yes, ma’am. I’ll bet you a percentage if you want.”

                “No.”

She held out her hand. He swiped his on his rear and then shook with her on it.

                “What about the other farm?” she asked.

                Frank shrugged at her. She looked at Winston.

                “You’re thinking of your Great Aunt’s land?” he asked her.

                “Yeah.”

                “Your mother ended up with just a parcel. Edward owns the rest now.”

                “How did that happen?’ she asked.

                “Come on, let’s go there. I’ll tell you about it on the way.” Winston said.

                “You be careful driving, ma’am.” Frank said.

                “You mind your own business, Sweetie.”

A little horse

Well, the four some got there at 8:30 am to play at the Farmer's Market at Tyler & The Galleria near Riverside. It wasn't quite the largest market, but it was OK. It was however, right by the freeway. We set up and played until 11:00 and then realized we hadn't taken a break. Renata bought us humus and pita and we snacked and started again, at the beginning of our list. I have a bad head cold. My voice was cracking and breaking and finally died at 12:30. I did do a good rendition of Mississippi John Hurt singing Pallet On Your Floor. I have a cold, but that wasn't going to stop me. We made about $15.00 in tips and we'll be there again next Sunday. We'll hopefully be moving to the Hollywood Farmer's Market next month. Now a day drinking tea and chicken soup so I can talk again. Four hours is nothing- It goes by real quick.

The Future

Little Dinosaur

This was one of the kids  books that sort of became a silly ritual in our house. There was a phrase in here that read "Time to get up, time to get your book bag ready, time to get your lunch bag ready." I found myself saying it my grown son as I'm waking him up to go to his sister's graduation from college yesterday. I told him it was probably the last time I would ever say it to him. 

I'm feeling generally deserted these days.

Oh, well.

Useless Folks

(n) A useless, shady, deceitful person who is so unreliable and selfish they cause you much anger and frustration. A Flake's only agenda is what they want to do. They have a weak character, often the products of bad parenting/spoiling kids. A Flake will make plans, never attend, and give no reason for their absence, even after they spent hours calling, texting, or emailing you. Flakes try to manipulate everybody, and sometimes are not the idiots they appear to be. A Flake often has little to no real friends due to their erratic behavior. You can never rely on a Flake. When questioned about their behavior, a Flake just gives up on the relationship and moves on to another person. Flakes can't get by in the real world and often act immature beyond their years, causing them to be labeled as "useless" human beings.


Discovering that middle-aged musicians can be the worst. They all think they are the star. They are all freaked out by playing in front of people. And eventually they talk themselves out of doing things because its out of their comfort zone. And they justify it as 100 other things. I'm getting tired of stroking these egos to try to keep things together.
I'm close to quitting- this is becoming just too much work.


I ask everyone if they want to do a gig. They all say yes, then when its time to do it, they all have ambivalent feelings and half drop out. None of them have looked at my written songs that I've offered them for free. But I've accommodated a lot of stupid requests to learn and perform old chestnuts. 


I think I need to rethink what I am doing and who I am doing it with. And none of them read this blog.
    

Empty Rooms

Working with the id these days. I've reached 60 pages single spaced in the first draft of the novel and realized that my main character, who has moved into her dead mother's apartment and who is trying to deal with her estate, has yet to figure out the apartment building which her mother had owned. Someone has painted 'Whore' in big red letters across her front door, and (even though she once was) she doesn't want this town to know and doesn't really think anyone in the town does know, she's decided perhaps it was done by a crazy person that lives in the building or some crazy ex-tenant. So she goes knocking on doors, and soon discovers that there are no tenants. All the other apartments are empty.

We have transitions happening in my house. One of the bears won't be back again, except for vacations and a holiday here or there. The other two will be here until August and then they are gone, with probably only one returning next summer. What does one do with empty rooms? You change again, you refocus. I'm trying to get a band running. Trying to learn a new craft. Trying once more to write a book. I have a play to peddle. Still trying to succeed at work. Happy Graduation!  

The First of its Kind

Taking Orders Now

Saturday

Saturday, we drove east of downtown for a traditional Ethiopian wedding of the sister of a guy who works for me. We showed up at the time on the invite and the couple of people at the church said 'Oh, you white people are always early' An hour later it started. We understood to be an hour late to the reception a long way aways from where the wedding took place. The reception and wedding were actually larger and nicer than what is here but the spirit is close. We left at 11:30 and they still had not cut the cake or finished with an hour long wedding party dance. It was well worth going, if you ever get invited to such things.

Sunday

Spent the whole day here. Just missed my friend Betsy play in the intermediate banjo competition. She won 1st place last year in the beginning category. Kept running into folks I've played with. We ended up sitting in a circle up under the Eucalyptus trees and jamming our beginner jam from about 3:00 to 6:00. Didn't bring home any CDs from the main stage performers. Wayne and I checked out the bands that were in the competion, thinking maybe next year, Rhubarb Meringue would try our wings up here.Fun.

Found This Guy Last Night

He has 400 video postings on Youtube -him singing different songs- The simpler stuff is better.

Listen To The Mocking Bird

In the fine tradition of Woody Guthrie and Bobby Dylan

                                  Listen To The Mocking Bird

                             (Slow mournful tempo & new words by Dan McNay)

          D7                   G                              D7                      G
I’m dreaming of sweet Hallie,          sweet  Hallie,    sweet Hallie,
I’m    alive   to      remember,           to remember,  to remember
Our daughter has found a lover,     a lover,               a lover,

           D7                                      C              D7                       G
I’m dreaming of Hallie for the           dreams of her have never died.
I’m alive to remember when             we picked cotton side by side,
Our daughter has found a lover and is leaving   us          far  behind,

            D7                   G                         D7                           G
She’s sleeping in the hollow,         by the water,        by the water ,
In a third harvest in September,   cool September,  in September,
I see her in her new window,        cooking dinner,    In her window,

             D7                                                  C                          D7                   G
She’s sleeping by the water and the              mocking bird is singing where she lies.
The cotton kept growing back and her little hands were bleeding all       the time.
With the fire burning bright and without     a thought of          us in            the night.

CHORUS

G                          D7                                        G
Listen to the mocking bird, listen to the mocking bird,

            D7                   G        D7             G
The mocking bird still singing over her grave,

                            D7                                         G
Listen to the mocking bird, listen to the mocking bird

           C                     D7                        G
Still singing where the weeping willows wave.

My Version is slower than this:

Old Songs

I found this book in a thrift store, my copy printed in 1899. I thought I could definitely find some public domain songs in here. So I brought it home and have been leaving through it, and typing in the song titles in YouTube to see what pops up. Found this one:

And this:

I ain't the only one looking for free songs. These words are adapted from Robert Burns by the way.

A Good Horse

There was a rodeo pony that had belonged to my first wife, but she had sold him to a couple that was moving to Utah in her second year of college. We got married and moved out to Logan, Utah after a visit there. I learned to ride on that horse, and went up deer hunting a couple of times in the Wasatch mountain range there. The horse was very smart. Could let itself out gates.


I had a dream in my thirties which inspired a poem: How Long Has It Benn Since I've Dreamed
which has now been re spun into a song:

Rusty was a fine horse. One of the best. If you are going to be a cowboy, you should have a good horse.

Bare Lightbulbs

There's a song by John Hartford "A Simple Thing As Love" that has caught me early on, because I remember the bare light bulb. How many of us remember cheap rooms with bare light bulbs?

Finished The *&%%# Doors

Interesting endeavor to say the least. We have two sets of these in our bedroom. They were originally reddish wood with mirror panels that were this funky 60s style mirror with a dark pattern in it. They were heavy, they kept coming out of the runners on the top. I kept intending to do something about them. We had the house re- carpeted. The #%$* carpet installers didn't do their job right, but I didn't notice at the time. They took the doors down and rehung them when they replaced the carpet. One day a couple of weeks later, one of the doors just falls down. These doors are custom built doors, 93" tall and weigh a ton, so when it fell, the wood broke and a couple of the hinges came off and it was a mess. So I took them all down and stuck them in my son's room (who is away at college) and tried gluing the wood back to together after removing the hinges on the two part door that broke. Discovered my wonderful carpet people had re-installed the bottom brackets, which the doors pivoted on, on top of the carpet. So the doors weight were on a base that wobbled and finally came loose. I decided it was too late to hassle the carpet people. The doors weren't broken when they left. (And life is short) So I looked into getting new doors. $1,000.00 to $1,500.00 and they had to be special ordered. Luckily, we decided this was too expensive, and I would try to repair the ones we had. It turned out, as I started to dismantle the second set, I discovered they were a different width than the first set, so I would have been out half of my new purchase money, because I was ready to order four sets with the dimensions of the broken one. I investigated how doors like these might be put together, Thinking the the mirrors were glued in the wooden frame. I learned all about how you can heat glue with an iron and loosen it, etc.  The plan was to glue and sand the broken wood, dismantle the doors and paint the wood and replace the mirrors with rice paper. (Out entire house has shoji screens in all the windows.- Japanese-American family owned it before us that did custom rice paper screens as a family business in LA.) Well, the dismantle was easy. The doors were actually constructed by the family's business (that owned the house). I've been repairing shoji screens in our house for the last twenty years. No glue. The mirrors were just held in place with small wooden sticks tacked in place behind them. So they were dismantled. The mirrors thrown away. More rice paper ordered from the place up in Northern California. Shoji screens, American style at least, are made with a fiberglass paper that is very sturdy. It does makes you sneeze and the fibers make your skin itch like installation will and there is a fiberglass smell at first, but it goes away. It's a paper like thing that can be wiped cleaned with a moist rag if it gets slightly dirty. So. I sand and paint the wood. I don't like the way it looks. The paint was the last of an old can and I had drips and it was not cool. So I sand them all down again and re-paint all of them. The first took three coats- the second time took three coats. I had started before Christmas on this project. We were robbed, the bandits hopped over the doors on the floor of my son's bedroom to steal his Eagle awards and money etc. (They got caught and we got it all back.) I moved the doors to my studio over Christmas where they stayed. Finally finished one set in March and hung them. Finally finished the second set today. I tried to jury rig some the hardware on the second set and it didn't work, so had to start all over and finally after a eight hours got these damn doors up and working. NOW I can get on with my life.

Josie

When the Bowser dog (the German Shepherd pup) disappeared, we found a little white version of this in his place. She was already old and died and then we got a black version. I can't remember if they both had the same name. Probably not. I was a lot closer to this one, but then I moved out and got married and got divorced and my Mom remarried and moved into the guy's house. I went out a few times and found her in a pen out back. Don't know if she was allowed in the house or not. Didn't want to know. Didn't ask. I did make a point to go pet her. Later, I think when I was in New Orleans, my Mom told me over the phone that she died or was put down. She had survived my first Step-father. She was a good dog.

33rd of August

Joan Baez covered this song in 71-72. I was driving back from Utah to Indiana and getting a divorce. I slept somewhere on the highway in Wyoming, the wind whipped through the driver's side door because it hadn't been repaired correctly. It was cold- March- with snow still on the ground in some places. I ate No-Doz to drive straight through because I had no money. I was 19 and understood this song.

Gigs

Well, the band is on the move. We are playing the 22nd and the 29th at the Riverside Farmers Market from 8:30 to 12:30am. The Fountain Valley Summerfest, June 10th. And it looks like the Hollywood Farmer's Market for a couple of Sundays in June. Come by and get Rhubarb and Rhubarb Meringue Pie. That'll be us by the lettuce.

'Nother weekend

Hit the dog park Saturday morning with old dog and banjo. All had fun, even when the old dog jumped me in the middle of singing "Friend of the Devil." She was trying to tell me it was time to shut up and go home. (The Bluegrass Meet-up is next to a dog park in Long Beach, so I brought her along and we did that first.)
Did another 50 miler today, it was 80 something with blue blue ocean and dolphins dancing out in the surf and a lot of attraction volleyball players. A little sun burnt. Two more of the guys finished their Cycling Merit Badge. They need 150 miles to get it.