Harleys, Cars, Girls & Guitars

Bling For Your Bitch in Hell’s Kitchen

The client worked my off ass this week. To escape for a few minutes, I took a walk mid-afternoon through Hell’s Kitchen, and wandered past Spoiled Brats, a pet accessory shop on West 49th Street. Yes, the spoiled brats they’re referring to are dogs and cats. Yuppie kids don’t have kids until they’re 40 years old, you know.

If you want some “Bling for Your Bitch” (see picture below), this is the place to go. The bitches in questions are female dogs. Buy your bitch a sequined collar! Spend your yuppie salary on toys for your purse pooch.

Among the fine products sold by Spoiled Brats is Cat-Man-Doo, dried fish flakes for your cat. According to the company website, Cat-Man-Doo “… products contain no additives, preservative or byproducts.” So, the store is sort of a Whole Foods supermarket for pets, too.

I’m surprised that I can still work as hard as I worked last week. Stuck in my chair, face in the computer for 8 hours with barely a breather! Every night, I hurried to the gym to try to unlock my arthritis plagued joints. Next day, up early and on the subway by 8 a.m. for another round.

And, I agree with the sentiment expressed in the picture above. Time for a subway cleaning. Who climbed over the third rail into the no man’s land of the 34th street station to etch that message on the wall? Had to be a subway worker. Anybody else would have been risking his life. 

Gail Archer at St. Paul's Chapel

Took a trip to Manhattan's Upper West Side last night to listen to an organ concert by Gail Archer, director of music at Barnard College and College Organist at Vassar College. I figured I might as well check out a pro to see what playing the pipe organ is all about. Below, Ms. Archer taking a bow after performing one of her pieces.

The concert took place at St. Paul's Chapel on the campus of Columbia University. I took advantage of the beautiful, unseasonably warm January night to have dinner at a local diner and to check out the campus.

The concert was more academic recital than rock star rave, but I learned some interesting things from watching and listening to Ms. Archer. She's a consummate pro. The repertoire for the night was compositions written by American composers, two of whom are friends of Mr. Archer and were in attendance.

The second picture above is the library at Columbia.

I'm looking forward to hearing Ms. Archer play the more standard classical repertoire for the pipe organ. She's playing again soon in Midtown.

I'll bet my regular readers are not aware that I am a trained classical pianist. I'm full of surprises!

Outsourced and Pissed Off

Last night, I was at the gym and on the exercise bike. The guy on the bike next to me was peddling faster and faster, and I could tell he was pissed off. Just about everybody is pissed off about something nowadays. He was an old, bearded white guy with a balding head.

First, he wanted to tell me that the condition of the men's room at the gym was deplorable. I had to agree with him. Then, he started to tell me his sad story. Everybody's got a sad story nowadays, don't they?

"I was outsourced from my job three years ago," he said, as he continued to peddle furiously. "Now, I'm working as a contractor in a shop with 60 Indians."

Nothing new to this story. I've been a contractor for six years. When I've got a job, the money is good. I was very fortunate to have one contact that lasted three years and allowed me to work mostly at home. And, everywhere I go, I find Indian programmers on H1B visas taking American programmers' jobs, including, sometimes, my own.

"The six weeks to 4 months between contracts is what really hurts me," I told the guy. "I'm always playing financial catchup. I'm hoping to work three or four more years, then pack it in. That is, if the work is there."

"Tell me about it," he answered. "This country is just going to hell. I hope I die before I see it go completely down the shit hole."

I've had this conversation dozens of times. People think that immigration is only hurting us on the low end of the financial spectrum. This is not the case. For some reason, our politicians are allowing thousands of Indian H1B tech workers into the U.S., who are willing to work for lower wages, to take jobs away from American tech workers.

I've worked with many Indians. Some of them are outstanding programmers, and I sympathize with their desire to seize the opportunity to live in America. But, I have a tough time understanding why, in a period of deep unemployment, the government continues to encourage H1B visa workers to enter the country. Why not protect the jobs for U.S. techies?

I don't expect politics to answer this question, because our political class, Republican and Democratic, seems to have its head squarely up its ass. I'm just hoping to stay afloat in the job market for another three or four years. My little niche demands high level English language skills as well as high level programming skills. Whether this is enough to keep me working... well, who knows?

If you want to really get pissed off and depressed, read this article from the Sunday New York Times on the outsourcing of the manufacturing process for Apple iPhones. It's pretty damned grim going up against Chinese who are willing to work for a few dollars a day and live in a dormitory on the factory grounds on 24 hour call.

Oh, well... for the moment, I've got a job! Make hay while the sun shines!

Work Wanted: Brutal Death Metal

I can remember a period, back when I was about 19 years old, that I would only listen to "hard rock." Be damned if I can remember the precise definition. But, I wasn't listening to any of that sissy, no account "soft rock" or "pop" or any of that other lilly livered shit. So, I sort of get where this girl singer who advertised in craigslist is coming from.

In fact, I can remember when I didn't want to go see a band unless it had a boa constrictor!

I like this girl's bravado! She don't do no pussy low screams. I'll bet you wimps out there do that all the time!

You've got to sign up to listen to her stuff on the linked site, and I didn't want to go through that. Be my guest.

Somebody, please, fill me in on this shit. Is there really a lot of paying session work out there for girls who sing death metal and brutal death metal? How do you tell the difference between the two?

Grumpy Commuter Self-Portrait on Cold Winter Day

Most of the time, life is just about getting through the day as painlessly as possible. I swore that I’d be living in some balmy climate this winter, but I’m still humping my ass to work on the train in New York City. Below, a self-portrait of grumpy old me bundled up against the cold, wearing my bland worker’s uniform and my no-name hat.

Shit… at least I’ve still got a job!

I don’t know why, but each day of the week the commuter crowd thins out. By Friday, the volume of worker ants marching through the bowels of Penn Station is about half what it was on Monday. Do the worker ants get discouraged, or are they allowed to work at home? Who knows?

Once at my desk, I drag a comb across my head. I don’t have to look good for my job… just presentable. I can even wear jeans to work. Cuts down considerably on the weekly laundry.

My iPad does double duty as my desktop mirror. Pretty good deal for 500 bucks!

Grumpy start to the day. Wish I could say that I’ve got the weekend off, but tomorrow I’ve got a full day CPR class at the rescue squad.

Work till you die!

Weekly Mug Shots from Chicago

One of the great things about the internet is that I can follow my home town newspaper, the Chicago Tribune. Since Chi-Town is justifiably famous for all kinds of crime, one of my favorite features is the weekly collection of mug shots.

The attractive lass in the picture above got caught in a prostitution sting run by suburban Aurora’s police department. Seven Johns and four ladies of the night were sucked in through fake craigslist ads.

The prettiest girl caught in the bust was one Antonio Chavez, above, who, it turns out, ain’t no girl at all! What a surprise when she/he pulls down her panties!

Prize for the wildest mug shot pose goes to Andre Bibbs, who was arrested on a DUI charge.

Chicago’s claim to fame, of course, is heartless cold blooded murder. Tommy Johnson, only 19 years old, is charged with gunning down a man on the South Side. No surprise here. Check out the gang tattoos on Tommy… “Love Hate Kill Take!” I wouldn’t want to meet this gang member in a back alley.

Al Capone’s hometown keeps on cranking out vicious criminals. Maybe we could recruit some of these killers to play for the Cubs. Couldn’t do any worse than the guys we’ve already got. We certainly won’t have to worry about Leo Durocher’s old maxim: “Nice guys finish last!”

My Next Life as a Church Organist/Choir Director

I admit it.  I get bored easily.  I’ve lived in San Francisco, New York City and Woodstock, and I wouldn’t mind living in a few other places, in particular the Philippines.  I’ve changed careers repeatedly.  I left a secure lifetime job at a wealthy law firm 16 years ago to jump into the world of multimedia.  I’m glad I did, but from a practical standpoint it probably didn’t make much sense. 

For my next act, I’d like to become a church organist and choir director.  This appeals to me for a wide variety of reasons, but I don’t know yet whether it is a practical ambition.  I’ll find out soon.  Two weeks from now, I’m going to a organ concert at St. Paul’s Chapel at Columbia University.  The organist will be Gail Archer. She boasts quite an impressive resume, as you can see if you visit her page.

I’m hoping Ms. Archer can give me some guidance on how I can acquire the skills of a church organist and choir director. (I'm also going to enjoy the show. She's a tremendous, exciting musician.) It’s a good job that pays, in the NY and NJ metro area, from $28,000 to $35,000 for an evening choir rehearsal and for performing at Sunday services.   That would be a great retirement income for me, and would give me something useful and worthwhile to do after I stop working.

Can I do it? Can I actually learn the skills and find the job?

Don’t know yet.  Stay tuned. 

Chance Encounter in Penn Station

I was making my way through the bowels of Penn Station this morning when a guy stopped me and said:

“You’re Shouting Thomas, aren’t you?  I read your blog.”

Chance encounters in Manhattan are rare.  The city is so big, the people jams are so dense.  Everybody’s got their head down during the morning commute, too.

“I’m Stephen,” I said, as we shook hands.

“Paul,” he replied.  “I lost my wife seven months ago.”

“That’s a terrible thing,” I answered.  “I’m sorry.”

I know what you’re going through, Paul.  The first six months after Myrna died were Hell.  It will get better, but only because it can’t get much worse.  It still ain’t so great without Myrna.  I’m always thinking about her.  The pain will only finally go away when I join her again in the next life.

We agreed to meet some day for a beer.  I can’t drink any more, so it will have to be a cup of coffee.

Running into Paul really cheered me up.  Good start to the day.

I found the pic, by the way, at the Night Deposits blog.  Some pretty good cartoons over there.

Official Old Fart Certificate Arrives!

Yes, it’s official! My 62nd birthday is tomorrow, and I can now ride New Jersey Transit on the Senior Citizen Discount. 65% of the standard fare! I’ll save about $60 a month!

This tickles me. I don’t know why.

I’m looking forward to discounts for movies, the gym… whatever. Do whorehouses give a Senior Citizen Discount?

The NJ Transit discount is good at any time. The New York City subway system offers a senior discount, but it’s useless for me because it cannot be used during rush hours.

Here’s hoping that I can use that discount for quite a few years. I’m still working! Need to work 4 or 5 more years before I pack it in.

Old Dawgz Basement Tapes!

For New Year’s Day, here’s a few Old Dawgz' tunes recorded during rehearsal. First, let’s go way back to 1965 for an R&B tune from Rufus Thomas, "Walkin’ the Dog." Get that damned dog on a leash!

Shouting Thomas barking out the vocals on that tune, for all you Old Dawgz’fans! That wedding march bit in there is way cool!

And, now, another blast from the past, from the year 1952. I was barely a gleam in my Daddy’s eyes when Big Mama Thorton hit the charts with "Hound Dog." And, of course, the King, Elvis Presley, did it all over again in 1956.

That was Puppy John howling out the blues on that tune! Shit, the Old Dawgz should do all Dawg tunes!

Finally, from the year 1967, a bit hit from the Boxtops, "The Letter!" In 1967, Detroit rioted and went up in smoke. Muhammad Ali refused to sign up for the draft. The Cubs finished in third place! It was a great year.

Big Joe barking up a storm on that one, kiddies!

Hope you enjoyed this little taste of Old Dawgz. We’ll be heading to the studio soon.

Until then, Arf! Arf!

Frank the Drunk’s Shack Remodeled

Frank the Drunk only emerged from his shack on St. Patrick’s Day and New Year’s Eve… drinking holidays. He stood on the corner of Route 212 and thumbed a ride into Woodstock on those days, and headed for the bar as soon as he hit town. Frank died about a year ago.

Now, his kids are rehabbing his shack. The shack is about 30 foot square. During Frank’s life, it had rotted and crumbled. Constructed out of cement blocks, the shack probably started life as a hunting lodge, without heat, water or plumbing.

Before Frank’s kids started the rehab, the shack was covered with black tar paper that must have been 30 years old.

Woodstock has a lot of drunks. Every place has plenty of drunks, but Woodstock seems to be an especially idyllic place for a drunk. The licentious, rebellious tradition of Woodstock means that nobody is too surprised (or angry) when somebody decides to hole up in his house and drink for 30 years.

Which is precisely what Frank did. I have no idea how the alcohol found its way into his shack, or how he ever provisioned the place with food and drink. I never saw him outside his shack, except for those two drinking holidays. His kids must have kept him supplied.

Frank wasn’t particularly friendly, but then again, drunks seldom are. If you picked him up on the drinking holidays and deposited him at the bar, he’d chit chat a bit and thank you for the ride.

What were his kids supposed to do with Frank’s shack after he died? Nobody would buy or rent the place. So, they’re doing a cosmetic overhaul, probably in the hope of renting the place. Underneath the cosmetic overhaul, it looks to me like the place is still rotting out. But, the renter won’t know or care.

Drunks always remind me of Kentucky Kate, a singer and mandolin player I worked with many years ago. She decided to recruit a bass player for our act. She found one of the most outrageous drunks I’ve ever met.

Mike bought his whiskey by the gallon jug and consumed one jug a day. He started drinking as soon as he woke up, which was none too early. He was one of the nastiest, meanest drunks I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a lot of drunks.

Mike was a great musician. Could play any instrument and needed no rehearsal. But, he was a drunk precisely because of his fears about performing. Not surprisingly, the entrance of Mike into our group spelled the end of my partnership with Kentucky Kate.

Another story. Another time. So many drunks.

Back to Work in Manhattan

I’m back to commuting into the city. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful that I have a job. I really need it. But, I wish I could work at home. Working at home is much less stressful on this old body, and I do a better job at home, too.

The hubbub of Manhattan, especially in Midtown, always thrills me. This new skyscraper is in the early stages of construction very near my workplace. I take several walks a day through the theater district to try to unlock my body. For a small town boy from Illinois, the shear volume of people and the hectic pace of the big city will always be a thrill.

But, hunching over my computer for eight hours a day wreaks havoc on my body. If I were working at home, I could spread that eight hours over the entire day and take a lengthy break for exercise and to rest my mind every couple of hours.

I’m working for one of the world’s biggest and busiest websites. The work is extraordinarily challenging. I just spent eight days on a programming problem that resembled a gigantic three dimensional jigsaw puzzle. I picked it apart and solved it one tiny piece at a time.

I can still do the work! Adapting to new environments is more difficult than when I was younger. One of the other advantages of working at home is that I can hide these difficulties from my employer.

I’m hoping that this gig develops into a work-at-home thing over time. If I could even work at home two or three days a week, that would be an enormous improvement.

I’m getting my first major senior citizen discount! New Jersey Transit issues a senior citizen card to riders 62 and over! I’ll be 62 in a couple of weeks. The senior fare is about 65% of the normal fare.

So, there are a few advantages to being an old fart.

Goofy Christmas Display in Suburban Jersey

Suburban Jersey is all about family.   During the Christmas season, Keeping Up With the Joneses in Jersey means decorating the yard with miles of lights and goofy displays. I passed this one on the way to the train to work this morning.

The little Snoopy character in the foreground cheered me up. And the big old goofy dog on the right made me laugh and think of those damned Old Dawgz. You know, the band.

We’ve been thinking about changing the spelling of the name of the band to Old Dawgz to avoid infringing on any other group’s name. The debate has now boiled down to a choice between Old Dawgs and Old Dawgz.

Some of the Jersey Christmas displays are almost professional. Up in Park Ridge, I saw an almost full size replica of the town’s fire truck, replete with tons of lights. That must have cost a fortune!

Christmas is not such a big deal when you’re an old man. My kids are grown up and long gone. My Christmas shopping amounts to buying a couple of gift cards. On Christmas Eve, I’ll have dinner with the Karaoke Queen’s family, and on Christmas, I’ll go to mass and have dinner with my daughter.

My daughter is old enough now to give me advice, and she does. Her main advice is: “Don’t be a grouchy old crank!”

Easier said than done.

Feel pretty good this morning.  The goofy Christmas display made me laugh. Things that make me laugh are good.

New York City, Asshole Magnet

Yes, New York City attracts assholes from all over the world. The attraction and curse of NYC is that it is a vast sea of anonymous people. You can do whatever you want, so long as you steer clear of the law. For good and for bad.

The morning commute on New Jersey Transit trains is an asshole extravaganza. The benches on the left can seat three people, the benches on the right can seat two. Even if the train is empty, passengers sit on the aisle and block the interior seats. Once the aisle seats are full, you’ve got to ask the assholes to move to get to the interior seats.

Invariably, the assholes stand up and move into the aisle, instead of simply sliding into one of the interior seats, where they wait to reclaim their aisle seat. Then, you have to slide in. Why do the assholes do this? Because that is the nature of assholery!

Then, it’s on to the subway where everybody is jammed shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. The trick here is to avoid all eye contact and to acknowledge nobody. You fight your way out at the exit with a few “Scuse Me’s” to announce yourself. Black overcoats are essential armor for the battle. Assholes rub against you, hold newspapers up in front of their faces and place their briefcases on the seat next to them in the hope of reserving a little more space.

The war with the assholes spills out onto the street in New York City, too. I like to get to work by 8 a.m. to minimize the combat. After that, people jams block the streets.

Every day, a fresh supply of assholes moves into the city.  The saga continues.  There are 8 million stories in the Naked City.  (Well, maybe more like 10 or 11 million!)