Shoe Boxes And Shit Birds

I’m bored.  I sat around this morning watching it rain and listening to Regina Spector tunes.  When you find yourself listening to Regina Spector tunes you have a psychiatric diagnosis and just don’t realize it yet. And———you’re really bored. The boredom ain’t nothin but trouble.  

My intellect is always getting its butt kicked by my imagination. My  wounded inner child makes up stuff that isn’t based in reality, which produces anxiety, anxiety about things that aren’t happening or going to happen. How dumb is that?  Add my hearing impairment to the equation. Yeah. It contributes to the anxiety but sometimes, thankfully, it can be comical. 

Examples:

Katherine and I  attended an owners association meeting two weeks ago in Gulf Shores. At the meeting we found ourselves surrounded by people(fellow owners) with such deep tans that it defies imagination. Mostly retirees,  they sported shockingly white teeth, Swiss watches and German cars.  They clearly had gobs of money. I love the word gobs.  I figure a gob is about three million. Google that. 

I was determined to fit in with these folks. I did my best to seem precocious and full of wonderment. You know, a winner. 

First I hid our pitiful Japanese car and took off my Timex watch. I tried not to reveal my not so sparkly white teeth and covered everything but my hands and face so that they wouldn’t notice my wrinkly, untanned  white skin.  Then I set about trying to find out where all of their money(gobs of it) came from. 

“I fart in shoe boxes!” Yes, that’s what I thought Hiram said.  No, I didn’t ask him for clarification. “Where does this farting take place? I said.  “What? he said. Hiram looked so perplexed that I smiled and slowly backed away. 

I approached an older, rather attractive woman with straight, bleach blond hair, piercing blue eyes and high cheek bones. She wore a diamond dinner ring, and a too short leather skirt.  Oh, and  deeply tan, augmented (rather creepy) cleavage.  

After some small talk I popped my question. “And so, Piper, what is it that you do?”  Very seriously she looked at me and said, “oh, I scorch um mung  stings and dink a beaner turtle!” “Do you enjoy it?” I said.  “Why yes!”  

Just then Katherine tapped me on the shoulder.  “So, big boy!  You forgot your hearing aids again didn’t you?  “Uh, yep.” “Do you have any idea what these people are saying or are you faking it again?”  “Faking it.” “Go over there and sit down on that couch and don’t move” she said. 

Okay, what is the likelihood that farting in shoe boxes can be parlayed into big money?  You tell me!  I mean, you can buy shellacked horse turds made to look like little dukey birds  off of the internet.  Shit birds I believe they are called.   Google that. 

Later I found out (from Katherine) that Hiram owns an online catalog business called The Smart Shoe Box.  Well, I’ll be dipped in sh*t!  I was close!  

I never found out how Piper scored the big bucks.  

Then, even later in the evening there was this character named Boo. He was an odd looking man whose head was shaped like a pencil eraser. I talked and talked and talked to Boo and questioned him about his fortune but he never answered. I don’t think. 

But then as the evening wore on and after he left I heard Piper refer to him as a shit bird.  Ha!  

What are the chances that Boo is Mr.Shit bird?! I’m gonna go google that.

Cicero, who wrote his advice on retirement in 44 B.C. while in his early 60s, didn’t recommend ways to stay busy or “give back” to society. Instead, he saw intrinsic value in aging. “How wonderful it is for the “soul” when—after so many struggles with lust, ambition, strife, quarreling and other passions—these battles are at last ended and it can return . . . to live within itself,” Cicero wrote in “Cato Maior de Senectute.

When I’m not keeping tabs on Pud Rutledge or trying some new recipe that will disappoint my children, or failing at an ill informed gardening project or standing in front of the Asian women at Crispy Donut at 5 a.m.and wondering why they are wearing bustiers in a donut shop, or writing new songs on my electric bass that nobody wants to hear, or writing such ridiculousness as this——I’m definitely in the category of “not giving back.” I gave for sixty years. Done!

My funeral has already begun. No, I’m not dying. Not as far as I know. But my children and grandchildren have already started dividing up my stuff. I must be looking pretty rough. Oh, don’t worry. It will happen to you too someday. Some of them are up front about it. “I want that wooden Indian.” Sometimes I find out from third parties where my stuff will likely be going.

Does this upset me? Not really. I’m proud to own a few desirable things. “They” say you can’t take it with you. “They” of course are the ones inheriting the loot. Power to them. I won’t be around to witness the scuffles. I’ll be watching from above—-or below (if that Catholic things doesn’t work out.)

Yoga pants are evolving. I see them at Walmart, at the doctors offices, at convenience stores, at the gym. Even at Home Depot. Those are the places I go. Some appear to be painted on. I wonder. Was actual yoga ever in the plans for these garments? Most of the ones that come into my path say “yoga”, but their butts are screaming, “Double Quarter Pounder With Cheese!”

I have been surprised and yet somehow pleased to discover that as I have aged and then faded into retirement (key word, faded) I’ve become less and less visible. That’s right. People actually don’t realize I’m present. It’s like being furniture. There’s no need to speak to furniture. Unless you stump your toe on it. These days I’m getting about as much attention as Maxine Waters on Valentine’s Day. My family members will begin a conversation with another person while I’m talking directly to them and in mid sentence. This deviates into the “highly insulting” category and is the one thing that has dis-inheritance potential. No humor in this.

However, plenty of attention arrives when money is needed. Suddenly I’m back on the team! They talk to me for at least the time it takes to secure the moolah. Then, back to curio cabinet. How do I feel about relative invisibility? Pretty good actually. It has its perks. I no longer need to get away to get away, if you know what I mean. Alone in a crowd so to speak. I don’t hate people, but I seem to feel better when they’re not around. Do I think I’m better, smarter, wiser than those around me. Don’t make me say it.

So, a couple of days ago I ran across a fascinating recipe by a chef I follow that he calls “Velvet Sherry Chicken Embrace.” How could I resist? In reading through the recipe I the sudden realization that I know little or nothing about sherry. I’ve always had a powerful drive to know my ingredients——and so I dug in. I got on “the google” (boomers like me like me enjoy putting the word “the” in front of things like; the Walmart, the Yahoo, the Schumpert, etc.) It can’t be explained.

Sherry is a fortified wine which, in a nutshell, means it’s made to have a higher alcohol content than standard issue wine. It’s origins are in the Jerez region of Southern Spain.

Enter the scoundrel, Sir Francis Drake, who became keenly interested in all of the gold and loot the Spanish were bringing back from the new world (stolen from the native Americans while they were, no doubt, ogling the Spanish women). So in 1587 Francis sailed his happy ass into the Port Of Cadez, Spain and, instead of gold and other loot he happened onto whatever was on the dock and made off with (stole) 2900 barrels of sherry. We can only imagine that it must have been there for Spanish spring break or something. You could say that he sacked the massive supply of wine which is why, to this day, the sherry loving English still refer to sherry as “sack.”

Now, there’s a lot more to this story, but the good news for me is that the sort of sherry I need to add to my highly seductive chicken recipe is the $12 wino grade stuff, which brings me full circle to the other reason I got interested in the origins of sherry, which is this:

Years ago my dad told me that he started noticing that by the time he had turned eighty he, pretty much, knew just about everything. The caveat is of course that he was simultaneously realizing that nobody gave a shit.

As I approach eighty and rapidly take on expertise about things like sherry——and close in on knowing just about everything, I am simultaneously realizing that nobody in my circle of family and acquaintances really give a shit.
As my daughter, Julia, always says, it is what it is. Asi’ es la vida!

My next door neighbor, Rory Flenderston, showed up at my door today. Immediately I noticed that he was without pants or underwear. Of course that was the clue that he wanted to discuss steptronic transmissions and their applications in Formula VIII racing. Our old friend, Noops Bogan, developed the steptronic gear box for Mr. Ferrari back when Noops was seven. Noops had gone on to become a CIA chef and made his mark in the culinary world by creating the now famous Pig Snout Scrapple recipe which made it to the pages of Food And Wine magazine. Unbelievably he later created Stormy Night Fish Soup which won him the James Beard award. And then, in another shocker and without much warning Noops became a well dressed, anemic (and alcoholic) bassist/musician for my absolute favorite band, Kinky Friedman And The Texas Jew Boys. Noops has been credited with writing, “They Don’t Make Jews Like Jesus Anymore” but it is more likely that it was written by Flork Kladwak. Flork had been the bassist for an R&B band called Acute Negro Fit, or ANF by their devoted fans. And that’s another story.
But back to Rory, who has recently entered a new, uh, sport. Beginning at the stroke of midnight he gets in his car and drives around making it a point to take all the curves just a little too fast. When he finally rolls his car over, and while he’s still upside down, he gets his cell phone out and starts calling the Nashville purveyors of albums by Zamfir, Slim Whitman, and Englebert Humperdinck, in order to purchase albums produced by each one of these artists. Which you might think is strange, but here is something really strange—-he never orders anything from Wayne Newton!—- Just when I was certain I could explain his behavior. Go figure.
This morning I was told that Rory has driven off toward Culver City on a mission to investigate whether or not Larry King is still dead. Apparently his morphodite partner talked him into wearing underwear—-and pants, which is a good start.

Searching through my safe yesterday I ran across a precious, somewhat faded photo of my good friend Ned Imbrie. Our friendship has spanned more than four decades and found us in many times far away and exotic places. The subject of the photograph was a Rickshaw outting around the City of Hangzhou located in the Zhejiang province of China. Battling an illness we were holed up in a crude hotel on the outskirts of town set in the back water of the Qiantang river. A quest for antibiotics took us on a tour of Hangzhou “pharmacies” via the Rickshaw powered by a rough looking, big legged Chinese wench with rotten teeth and a bandaged leg.
Ten days later and on the mend we would be detained by the Red Chinese Army on a remote stretch of road outside Ningbo. The Russian van we traveled in was miraculously equipped with a cassette player which blaired “Lets Come Together” by Canned Heat while our interpreter, Hongji Wong convinced the soldiers that we were scouting locations to film “Hunter” the TV series (which was the only western TV program allowed on state television), and that I was in fact Hunter himself. (We all look alike to them too). To this day I rememeber how unnerving that experience was and how Hongji gave the performance of a lifetime.
I remember the dim dingy God forsaken orphanages full of little girls, the school children that just wanted to touch our face and gaze endlessly at these two huge caucasians. The cook in the Hotel in Zhaoxing who invited us into the kitchen and stood over his gargantuan wok, cooking down a reduction of soy sauce and wine in which to simmer whole baby ducks as his long cigarette ashes fell below to garnish the preparation. As he spoke his cigarette never left his lips as it bounced up and down, squinting through its smoke he gave testimony to his delight to be in the presence of Americans and fawned over Hongji’s shapely behind. That evening’s meal turned out to be one of the finest of my lifetime. The soy steamed Chicken’s feet, the tender baby Bok Choy, canal fish fried in the straw fueled wok and the tender baby ducks complete with entrails were simply unforgettable.
Bok Choy has since become widely available to the states which reminds me that respecting the ingredient may no longer be an economic necessity in much of the emerging world; it is now a pleasure, to be experienced and enjoyed at one’s chosen time and place. What an awesome time to be alive.
Ours experiences in Communist China helped shape our lives, gave us new insights into the reality of the true spirit of the Chinese people and their fascinating culture set apart from the ugly politics of the world stage.
Ned, now relocated to Denver, remains one of my very closest friends. We have been loyal to, and lived, our dreams. There is much more to write. The trip from Bejing traversing the desert wilderness to the Mongolian capitol of Ulaanbaatar has been on the table for a number of years. It would be rough and perhaps involve such survival necessities as suckling the teat of a feral Yak. I have obsessively studied the maps and wondered if the herders would have fuel and supplies. Do two second hand lions still have possession of enough blood of adventure to make this long haul? Only time will tell.

I actually caught a rainbow trout on a fly fishing trip way back in about naught six I think. Did I actually land that fish? The memory isn’t real clear.

Yes, I talk big and travel long distances to the most beautiful and breathtaking white water rivers on God’s earth! I really do! But actually catching fish? Well, that’s a different story. Such is the dilemma of this fly caster. And it would be a sad story except that there is never anything sad about fly fishing. There just isn’t.

Wonders never cease though! Last week, after Katherine finally threw me out of the house, I loaded up with the absolute bare necessities for any fly caster ; fried chicken, Cheetos and, of course, Dr Pepper, and rolled on up to the Lower Mountain Fork River. Oh—-and I took my fly rod too!

Conditions on the river were as perfect as they ever get. The magnificent stream was picturesque with manageable and wadeable white water rapids and pooling along the banks that typically harbor trout. The temperature was a perfect 62 degrees. The sun was shining and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Amazing! Hey! I deserved this! I donned my waders, ate a piece of fried chicken(the chicken grease attracts trout) munched a couple of Cheetos and polished off a Dr Pepper. I then began my hike down Heart Attack Hill to the trail that would lead to my secret spot. I have come to call my secret spot Palo Gaucho. The meaning of Palo Gaucho is a secret as well. There is, after all, some mystery in fly casting.

Either way, when I finally arrived at Palo Gaucho it was occupied by two fly casting freaks wearing enough fly fishing gear to fill the Bozeman Montana Fly Shop. Vests, backpacks, sidepacks, fanny packs, sling packs, tippet rollers, and some of the stupidest looking hats that looked like they were straight out of Orvis Magazine.

Let me tell you something—-there is nothing worse than having your fishing hole occupied by two fly casting snobs wearing stupid hats. Once I was down stream a ways I picked up their scent. It was the smell of confused corporate executives, most of whom think fly fishing is an art or a sport or something else besides what it is——a pole, a line and a hook which, hopefully, will catch fish. They smoke expensive cigars and sip designer whiskey from their “favorite distillery.” They refer to themselves as “tactical fishermen” and “purists” which feeds into their confusion. They utilize things like trout stomach pumps to see what the trout are eating and select flies that mimic the stomach contents, forgetting that they just caught a fish. Maybe, just maybe, they should continue to use that fly. (Useless trout stomach pump pictured below.) They didn’t catch a single fish. I watched them leave, ate another piece of fried chicken and took out a stringer of nice three pound rainbows!

These execs’ could use a few of my fly fishing tips. Here are a few: In my experience the best way to find fish and find success in fly fishing is to have a seat on a rock near the water, have a piece of fried chicken (Gasquatch, a convenience store near Broken Bow has the best fried chicken) and sip on a Dr. Pepper while looking for fish in the water. Polarized sunglasses will help you see them. If you don’t have any polarized sunglasses, get some. The cheap ones work just as well a the expensive ones. You will be able to see the fish. If they’re not there, go to a different location on the river. It’s just that simple. Then, when you find them, fish with a woolly bugger or a streamer. The Clouser Minnow is one of the best streamers on the market. There are really cheap imitators. Streamers have a high success rate anywhere in the world. Have on hand a variety of woolly buggers too. Black and olive are nearly always successful. Forget about “the hatch” and all of that scientific crap. You will catch fish on streamers and woolly buggers. And if you don’t, just remember, there are no bad fly fishing trips. Not ever.

And as to the intro to this story where I joke about rare success catching fish——-there are those trips when I don’t catch a dang thing. Trips like that are actually rare. By the way, I took home four, three pound rainbows on this particular trip.

Remember, the next time you go fishing, pick up some trash and be a part of the solution.

My fascination with modern grammar and spelling abuse took an ugly turn this morning as I scanned through the Huff Post and ran across the story of the unfortunate Mr. Lee Kroll, who several years ago legally changed his name to Dez Nuts. It seems that, by happen chance, Mr. Nuts encountered one of his white friends who convinced him that an extra E would more accurately accomplish the goal of highlighting his, uh, personal assets. Dez showed up at the local courthouse recently and departed as the newly minted “Deez” Nuts.

We only know about Deez’s name journey because of his domestic abuse charges. It seems he pointed a gun at his daughter and punched her. Mr. Nuts was reported to be “highly intoxicated” at the time of his arrest. We can only surmise that his angst over wasting six years as “Dez” may have failed to garner him the intended focus on his package, causing him to drown his sorrows with ethanol. Perhaps a flash course in phonics while serving his jail sentence would be time well spent.

I wonder about chickens. Do they have feelings, emotions, lust, lament, ambition? Do they have any idea that “crispy fried” or baked or rotisserie will someday be in the same sentence with their name? When I see them in the cages on the big trucks on interstate, looking around, bobbin their heads like teenagers at a concert I wonder, are they suspicious? When I was a kid I had chickens. My favorite was a black giant rooster we named Big Boy. I loved that old rooster. When I found him dead in the chicken house he was still warm. So we ate him crispy fried

I must admit that this story is little more than just hot air, butt:

I’ve been reading about this little trollop, Stephanie Matto, on the TLC channel who has been selling her own jarred farts for $1000/jar.  Subsisting on a diet of yogurt, eggs and well, beans, of course, she set about devising a system for capturing her own flatulence.  Just when I thought her escapades had reached a low point, it was reported that, for an extra fee, a video of her actual gas trapping process could be made available.  It seems this purveyor of her own methane has earned $200,000 over a two month period.  Is “fartepreneur” a word? Who in the civilized world could have dreamed up such  a farce or should I say, farts?  My understanding is that her project “blew up”, so to speak, after she made a visit to emergency room complaining of severe upper abdominal pain and fearing that a possible heart attack was the cause.  Could this mean that there is an untapped market for adolescent and colleges age boys?  

I had the Fleet—ing thought that Ms. Matto may well be a genius!  In fact, she said so herself! 

“I kind of feel sort of like I’m the Einstein of fart jars at this point.” 

I wonder if she should be paying a tax on her carbon footprint, since she has made it easy for the Fed to track her jarring activities.  If me and my dormitory full of lunatics at Oklahoma University had figured this out back in the seventies we might be billionaires today.  Hats off to Ms. Matto for converting ALL of her, uh, resources, into income.  

”The free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it.” Charles Bukowski

Recently I had dinner at a local restaurant/music venue. I can’t remember the name of the band. The music was clean, tame and well, dare I say it, muskrat love-ish. Some of their offerings were a little bluesy and at the same time, very civil. The musicians were dressed as though they were headed to Sunday school. Their musicianship was exemplary. As a rock musician who pays attention I must say that they never missed a single note. Very impressive. I left feeling like I had been sterilized. Sort of a soul vacuum. What was missing in their musical act is the subject of this blog.

I was born an outlaw, a skeptic and at times an all out nihilist. I reside in the world of Blues/Rock musicians because, after all, that is where such characters in the music world reside. In order to penetrate a listening audience who are true fans of the Blues/Rock genre a band must be believable. They must have soul. Let’s call it the “it” factor. I’ll be the first to admit that there have been music artists out there that have enjoyed commercial success who aren’t the least bit believable. No soul connection whatsoever.

e.g. Kenny Wayne Shepherd , Joe Bonamassa, The Monkeys, Vanilla Ice, Billy Ray Cyrus

What’s missing from such performers is that soul, along with the “it” factor along with an aura of nonconformity. Stevie Ray Vaughan had “it”. His artistry penetrated the soul. When he stood there channeling his music you immediately believed it. Vaughn came from relative poverty, from the blight of Oak Cliff in Dallas, from the wrong side of the track. Though technically amazing, artists such as Kenny Wayne Shepherd seem unable to channel blues, heartache, joy, suffering, celebration, or gritty realism with any believability. These are the essential elements of an original, came out of nowhere, believable artist in the blues/rock genre. Kenny Wayne emerged as a coddled, upper middle class soccer league child, born of innocence with little, or no, believability. Along with it, a critical lack of non-conformity and soul. It’s not his fault that he isn’t Freddie King.

Back in the fifties the “beatniks” along with the rock musicians of that era defined a generation of non-conformists. Their views and style of dress, according to Webster, were, “pointedly unconventional.” Out of this movement came an expression, “real gone cats” used to describe these beatniks, musicians and the simultaneous emergence of rock and roll or more specifically, “rockabilly” music.” Collectively these characters dominated the pop culture of that time. The prevailing sentiment became that of kicking back, relaxing(in manner of dress and attitude) and enjoying the musical offerings of these non-conformist miscreants. It came to dominate the American zeitgeist. Dwelling within this movement was a special kind of magic that drew people in. If only for a moment these people wanted to be non-conformist and well, bad. Somehow it penetrated their soul. There was a proclivity for the “it” factor in the overwhelming majority of these acts. It was magnetic.

If the legendary blues icon, B B King, had ever entered a guitar playing contest, competing with the world’s greatest guitarists, he wouldn’t have even placed. But B B made you feel it without the technically fancy guitar licks. His distinguishing factor was this—-he was a free soul—-and it, “it”, came through.
🎶 The Thrill Is Gone, the thrill is gone away🎶. We all know what he was talking about don’t we? But it took B B to convey that to us in a way that penetrated.

I play in a band, The Bossier City Torpedos, that is rife with rawness and imperfection but at times a shimmering frisson of soul connection. We miss notes occasionally and start off in the wrong key. But we have a loyal and faithful following who call themselves Torpedo Heads. I feel the connection in the midst of our performances, but I can’t adequately explain it. Perhaps there is a free soul in there somewhere. You know it when you see it.