The Boogie Beatniks

I'd put Billy F. Gibbons somewhere in the same graduating class as Keef. Of course these fellas don't graduate from anything besides birthdays, they both ooze a genuine bohemian snarl no institution would ever provide.
Being a card-carrying member of the microwave society, meaning, unless some action is practically at my doorstep, I'm probably not going to experience the experience. A 30 minute drive? I'm in.
Plus I was piqued by some news I dug up about the Toppers teaming up with Rick Rubin a couple of years ago to rejuvenate the Tres Hombres era ZZ. Have yet to hear a peep about that. Maybe something didn't gel. Maybe a beard thing.
(On a side note,I think Rick Rubin and T-Bone Burnett should get together and form a production alliance. They could tackle all the dudes who strayed for one reason or another, like Stephen Stills, who absolutely, could potentially howl on a blues-rock canvas. But no, sadly, he was Graham Nashed somewhere along the way).
To my delight, Billy, Dusty Hill and Frank Beard sauntered on stage and greeted us with the charming gut-bucket, Got Me Under Pressure and the Bus/Jesus medley.
It's a well-oiled show, as it should be, when Billy introduces the band, "For 40 years, the same three guys, for 40 years, the same three chords."
Their synchronized swim style dance steps and bro-code signage along with Gibbon's honkin and sqawkin, delta raunch via Marshall stack (reference mine) only reaffirms what we all would expect. That they are still the rightful heirs to the throne of the Boogie Nation.

credits: Photo of Rare Japanese Vinyl From raw-tcsd.com
Bottom Photo From klipsch.com

Happy Father's Day

My daughters will be here soon in honor (honor sounds a bit much), lets just say to enjoy Father's Day. And since its that day, I feel compelled to not do much of anything but be with the kids. This photo has no Identification or date, but I really enjoy the simplicity and how stark it is. I was going to say how I enjoyed the starkness, but thought that sounded weird. The starkness of it. I guess that sounds alright
Could be a Father's Day from another time. Let's just say it is.

Wilson's Mobil

That Forrest Wilson had some business savvy. His gas station was right across the street from the high school parking lot and a good 20 to 25 second, downhill glide on the Schwinn Typhoon from my house.
He had a tow-truck too and often hauled grizzly, car crash remnants to the back of his station. On Sundays, when no one was around, we'd sneak back there and look for blood on car seats.

"Forrey" had it all; 25 cent Coke machines; candy bars for a nickel; pop-sickles and ice cream sandwiches in that big, trunk like cooler with the glass door on top. And then, in a shrewd move to appeal to the students revolting against hot lunch, he brought in Stewart frozen sandwiches, with that little Stewart sandwich sized oven with a Stewart 5 minute timer. On the Stewart display board that sat above the oven were the choices, prices and suggested cook times for the food-like items.
My favorite was the Chuckwagon. It was the biggest and the baddest and therefore, required the full 5 minutes on the dial. And what did you do during that 5 minutes? Well, you bought other stuff to eat.

When I ran out of lawn mowing scratch and unable to locate my mom's coin purse, we (and I say we because I did not act alone and I WILL NOT rat-out my friends) turned to petty crime.
Just outside the restrooms and underneath a few tall pine trees at the filling station, was a small newspaper rack with a coin box. Whether there was 2 or 3 or 4 of us, we were always loitering around the place anyway, whether we were filling our bike tires or just stopping in for a pop. So it was no big deal to be hovering around the Coke machine outdoors. Only now we were also acting as lookouts for Johnny Law or Forrest himself while one of us turned the newspaper rack on end and shook the shit out of it till all the coins fell out.

I'd never seen so much loot. And where do you think we spent it? It's not like Forrey lost money. We just moved it around a little, like from one account to another. OK, so maybe the newspaper lost money, but we didn't know them.

That Forrey Wilson, he was a rough and ready old guy. His gas station was full service so he was always under the hood, at the till or on a wrecker call. They had those rubber ropes that rang a bell in the garage whenever somebody ran over one in front of the pumps. He'd quickly trot out while wiping the grime from his hands on the red rag he kept in the back pocket of his blue work pants. He had old sailor tats on his arms you only saw in the summer when he rolled up his sleeves. And he always sat straight up, stiff as a board when he'd ride that dirty, old Harley into work. There was a mechanic named Link there for a while. And one by the name of George. George was a high school drop-out, but the girls thought he was cute...and kind of dangerous.
And then there was Forrest Junior, who looked just like his dad, minus the glasses.
I don't think they liked us much, us neighborhood hooligans. But I think they must have liked our money.

Streets O' Fremont

Streets O' Fremont, pretty arty hunh? I didn't take that summer school theatre class with Sue Brothers back in 1967 for nothin'.
I wrangeled a disc of random photos from the Fremont Chamber of Commerce. So I thought it would be cool (I know,I should'nt use the word cool)(replace cool with nifty) to post some from time to time. There are 1500.
If you know people I make fun off, please don't be offended. I will take back any comment that is apparently unfit, unkempt, or otherwise just really not that funny (to you).
The real downside is that most of these are not dated or identified, so if someone out there can lend a hand, please do so.
The photo above? I'm thinking there probably isn't anybody alive to help with this one.
Anyway, enjoy!

Meet Rudy, The Duke Of Dickaround

A lovely fellow plucked from a lab rescue one year ago. Try as we might to emotionally prepare ourselves for any tell-tale signs of abuse or wayward learning curves, we love, accept and welcome him into our home.
Turns out, it's the normal, everyday Lab stuff that'll drive you nuts.
Rudy, like most males, is a sniffer. My God is he a sniffer. And very very picky about which corner or square foot shall be designated as a powder room (his attention to detail is unsurpassed).
One of the minor adjustments was being reminded that there is no dashing off at the last second to run an errand if he hasn't already "been out." One should never expect the Duke to perform his business on any other schedule than his own.
Unlike the Mrs., who's bladder requires relief in a nano-second, and who will dodge behind the nearest dumpster or wood pile, Rudy's search for epic real estate is deliberately slow and methodical. Every blade of grass examined. Every past doo-doo acknowledged and accounted for.
Finally, when his stride becomes a quick, stuttering shuffle, he stops to squat. Oops, nope, not there. Pacing ensues. He looks at me periodically,"I'm looking, I'm looking." Aaaaaahhhhh, here we go.
I notice his eyes rolling back a little. He blinks in slow motion. Then he peers up at me again as if to say, "Do you mind?"