Harleys, Cars, Girls & Guitars

Opinionated Car at Sam's Club

Spotted this car outside Sam’s Club in Kingston.

Cars festooned with a multitude of opinions are not rare in this area. After all, Kingston is only 20 minutes away from Woodstock.

Jaycee Lee Dugard… Where in Hell Were the Cops?

The story of Jaycee Lee Dugard, who was kidnapped when she was 11 years old and held captive in the backyard by two monster pedophiles raises some bizarre questions about law enforcement in Nevada and California.

Phillip Garrido and his wife, Nancy (pictured above), turned Jaycee into a sex slave and forced her to bear Phillip’s children. News organizations have focused their attention almost entirely on Phillip, but Nancy was in on these crimes from the very beginning.

How in the world did the Garridos get away with this hideous crime? The answer appears to be either total failure or indifference on the part of law enforcement. A lot of people were apparently shrugging their shoulders and saying: “Not my job.”

From the moment Dugard was kidnapped in South Lake Tahoe in 1991, Garrido should have been high on the list of suspects. He was convicted and imprisoned in 1971 for kidnapping, imprisoning and repeatedly raping a woman in… South Lake Tahoe! Garrido somehow was paroled in 1988 after serving only 10 years of a 50 year sentence.  Garrido is a registered sex offender who’s been forced to wear an ankle bracelet that tracks his movements.

After the Garridos kidnapped Dugard, they drove all of 395 miles to Antioch, California, where they held the girl captive for 18 years. And, get this… the police even had a description of the getaway car the Garridos drove!

Garrido should have been among the top suspects in the kidnapping of Dugard from day one. Law enforcement blew this one big time. Garrido and his wife should have been busted within days of the kidnapping.

I smell an enormous lawsuit on the way. The Dugard family is about to become very rich. They’ll probably have a reality show, too.

For sheer creepy evil, you can't beat this story. Add to that an astonishing level of incompetence and/or indifference on the part of law enforcement. Ugly.

UPDATE! Just when you think this story cannot get crazier, Garrido decides to give an interview to a local TV station! Garrido says that, once all the facts are in, this will be a great story of redemption that will lighten all our hearts! He was a great father!

Cubs’ Milton Bradley Has Rabbit Ears

When I was a kid playing baseball, we would say that a player who couldn’t close out the jeers and name calling from the other team and the fans had “rabbit ears.” Milton Bradley has the biggest rabbit ears on the planet.

The Chicago newspapers are having a field day with Bradley. The guy can’t shut up. He’s been complaining about the fans, hinting that he’d just as soon leave Chicago and, in general making a nuisance of himself. The result: Bradley has become the focus of the Cubs’ collapse.

Kids have more sense than this Bradley character. When I was playing Babe Ruth League ball, the opposition and their fans would scream insults at me whenever I pitched. If you respond to these insults, the bastards only double up, turn up the volume, and try to come up with more hideous insults.  If I was stupid enough to yell back at the bastards, they’d scream in triuimph:

"Thomas has rabbit ears! Thomas has rabbit ears!"

Bradley simply cannot tune it all out. The term “rabbit ears” brilliantly sums up this affliction. How in the hell did this guy make it to the major leagues?

This edition of the Cubs has imploded, and will have to be dismantled. How do these disasters continue to plague the Cubs? Why can’t they ever find a player like Derek Jeter, a guy who never seems to be bothered by pressure? Well, in all fairness, Ryne Sanberg never wavered.

The word in Chicago is that Lou Piniella will pack it up after this season. Yet another hero who couldn’t find a solution to The Curse.  You've got to admire Leo (the Lip) Durocher.  He produced five consecutive winning seasons as the Cubs manager, from 1967 to 1972.  This winter, the Cubs have to figure out how to unload Bradley. They may also have to dump Alfonse Soriano and a mess of other overpaid players who cannot deliver. Next season, it’s back to rebuilding.

Why, or why, did the Cubs get rid of Kerry Wood and Mark DeRosa?

Bradley’s self-immolation is fascinating stuff. He’s virtually volunteered to be the goat for this disastrous Cub season. He’s focused all the attention on himself. What’s even more amazing is that he doesn’t seem to realize that the best thing he can do is to shut up.

Now, look, I’ve spent most of my life in the bush leagues of the music business, but I learned this a long time ago: If you are in any sort of public position, you’ve got to expect to be attacked by cruel, sadistic bastards. The world is full of pricks and assholes. If you can’t deal with this, you need to get a low paying job in the back room. Bradley should bank his $30 million and retire.

Nite Train Band at The Tasty Treat

On September 4th, I’ll be playing at the Tasty Treat in Slingerland with the Nite Train Band. Here’s a video from their last gig at the Tasty Treat.

That’s Ken Briggs leading the band and dancing and singing with his daughter, Amy.

It’s a family affair. Come on down.

Chopping Down Some Old Friends

A couple of weeks ago, I demolished my old carport. Today, Keith, his son (recently returned from Afghanistan), and a couple of helpers showed up to take down a couple a trees in my back yard. The trees had to be removed to make room for my new modular garage.

Keith pulled up in this monster truck.

Here’s another view of the truck. If you look near the base of the truck on the right side, you’ll see how it’s anchored into the ground.

That huge boom on top of the truck unfolds into a cherry picker that reaches up about 100 feet. Keith quickly pruned the branches away from the trunks of the trees.

Keith used a surprisingly small chainsaw to do the job. Here, he’s pruning. Later, he took me up for a ride in the bucket. I had had enough by the time we rose to about 60 feet. It was a bumpy, seasick sort of ride.

The branches and small limbs were fed into this chipper. I’ve now got several pretty substantial piles of biodegradable rubbish out in the woods.

Everything about this job is dangerous. The risk of falling is omnipresent. Getting crushed by falling chunks of tree is a definite possibility. And, that chipper can definitely sever an arm or a leg. Read this dire warning.

I told Keith that my ride up in the bucket just about made me shit my pants.

“I guess you’re not afraid of heights?” I asked him.

“I’m terrified of heights,” he replied.

“How do you function?”

“Whatever you do,” he said, “don’t look down.”

Trolley Indo-Pak… You Gotta Have Permission

On my way home from a job interview in Kingston, I passed by this little diner.

I was a little surprised to discover that Kingston has a diner that caters to Indians and Pakistanis. So, I turned around, pulled into the parking lot in back and walked around front to take a picture.

As I walked back to my car, an Indian guy began walking briskly toward me.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked

“No, I just took a picture,” I answered.

“Don’t you think you should ask for permission first?” he demanded

This is an insane scenario that I encounter from time to time. I take a lot of pictures, particularly of buildings. From time to time, I run into some moron who thinks that he owns the rights to the image of whatever building he owns or manages. Talking to such people, beyond telling them to go away, is usually a mistake. They usually don’t have any more sense than a mangy mutt guarding some old junk yard.

“No, I don’t need permission to take a picture,” I told him, as I sat in my car, closed and locked the door and pulled out of the parking space.

He was still chasing after me as I pulled out of the lot and onto the street.

The place looks like a dive. The food, as you can see from this sign, appears to be dirt cheap. I wasn’t tempted to walk inside.

One of my classmates in nursing school is an Indian woman. Her husband, predictably, owns a gas station in Saugerties. When I lived in Jersey City, Indians were flocking into town and buying big houses for cash. Jersey City has a little India that features a few good Indian restaurants.

Although hip westerners like to picture India as the ultimate hip society, I’ve never found Indians to be the most sociable and inviting people. They don’t pride themselves on openness and hospitality, as Filipinos do. Indians tend to be a little distant, suspicious and hard.

Oh well, Kingston seems to be acquiring an Indian/Pakistani population. Maybe there’s a good Indian restaurant in Kingston. I like good Indian food. I’ll have to check it out.

Five Guys Burgers and Fries in Kingston

Five Guys serves up the best French fries I’ve ever eaten. Hands down. Cut right in the store with the skin left on, these spuds are fried to crunchy perfection in peanut oil.

Warning! This joint is not for calorie counters, cholesterol worriers or those suffering from guilt over fat. A single order of fries feeds a family of four. A steady diet of these fries will earn you at least a double bypass and, if you really hit the jackpot, corrective surgery for diverticulitis.

Not that anybody who patronizes Five Guys seems to care. The clientele at the Kingston store sports some of the widest asses and thickest thighs you’ll see anywhere.

60s macho rock plays over the loudspeakers. I don’t want to renew that argument with a recent commenter, but 60s macho rock is what everybody wants to hear. I judge that by what’s playing in the mall, on the radio and at rallies, festivals and social events. The clientele at Five Guys comes in all ages, but they all seem to like 60s macho rock. Think The Doors, Steppenwolf and The Doobie Brothers.

The burgers are good, but not great. They don’t quite measure up to the fries. Of course, the meat is a 1,000 times superior to McD’s. It looks like and has the texture of real meat. The Karaoke Queen says the burgers taste “a little gamey.” Give Five Guys their due. The burger meat is obviously fresh, not frozen, and it’s got that shoe string texture of properly ground beef.

I’m never really turned on by griddle fried hamburgers. The only time burgers truly work for me is when they’re grilled outdoors over a real wood charcoal (not briquet) fire. And, yeah, a really good burger should be stuffed with garlic.

The Karaoke Queen likes the free peanuts. I could care less.

The unsweetened iced tea is good. Do yourself a favor and skip all that sugar you’ll consume in a soft drink. Please... you’re doing enough damage with the burger and fries. Obamacare can’t fix everything. Ketchup is dispensed by a pump, so you don’t have to squeeze it out of all those damned little plastic bags. This is pretty important, so far as I’m concerned, because I really lather my fries up in ketchup. The little plastic saucers make for perfect dipping.

Sometimes, I stop by Five Guys just for the fries, although I regret it later. That big smooshy mess of fried goo is not what I would recommend for optimum intestinal health. You‘ll feel better if you add in the burger. Everything mixes better in the stomach, leaving you with that “gut bomb” bloat that is relieved about two hours later with a gloriously rewarding visit to the outhouse. Don’t wander too far from the restroom or you might find yourself in an emergency situation.

Please Boss, Give Me a Job!

I’m back out on the job interview trail. Don’t even really know if my contract with the pharmaceutical company is ending. It’s been extended month by month for over a year.

Makes me wonder. How many job interviews have I endured in my life?

Some have been classic. The phone interview with the media company was my all time favorite. My interviewer was an Indian woman who spoke with a heavy accent. She kept asking me what were apparently very complex questions about a programming language, and I couldn’t understand a word she said.

“Could you repeat that, please?” I kept asking her.

No, thank God, I didn’t get the job. It was a job I wanted, with a very interesting media company. If I’d gotten the job, I’d have spent my days trying to decipher her incomprehensible accent.

On another interview, the manager was determined to tell me his political views. He was an Obama supporter with a burr up his ass about single payer health insurance. And, although he made his living doing media work for pharmaceutical companies, he wanted me to know that his clients were blood sucking vampires.

I passed on that one.

Then there was the lady wearing the low cut dress who spent the entire interview displaying her ample cleavage to me. She was pretty, too.

I’ve stopped interviewing with the advertising agencies, design shops and the glamour media outlets. My interviewer at these joints is almost always a 35 year old gay guy wearing a t-shirt and torn blue jeans. No way in hell he’s going to hire an almost 60 year old multimedia developer. Since it costs me $50 bucks to drive to New York City and park for the day, these interviews are dead losses.

I’ve been working at home for the past two years. This has its plusses and minuses. I’m out of the loop of office politics. Thank God. But, spending too much time in Woodstock is not a good thing.

Who knows what the next gig will be? I get a lot of calls and e-mails from the Indian recruiters. They are obviously still resident in the sub-continent. Many of them think that Hollywood is within commuting distance of New York City. I e-mail them back, and ask if they’re willing to pay my living expenses for that two year contract in Boca Raton or Houston or Burbank, and they don’t reply.

Maybe my next gig will be in the nursing biz. I’m interviewing there, too.

Sam Rice: Baseball Hall of Famer from My Home Town

I’m a big baseball fan… if you can say that about a Cub fan. Yesterday, I searched the web to try to learn whether the area around my home town of Watseka, Illinois had ever produced a significant major league player.

I was stunned to discover that Sam Rice, a Hall of Fame player with the old Washington Senators, once called Watseka home. Rice played from 1915 to 1933 and retired with a .322 batting average. He fell just 13 hits short of 3,000 career hits.

Edgar Rice (Sam’s actual name) was born in Morocco, Indiana, less than a half an hour away from Watseka. His life before baseball is a fascinating and tragic story. His wife, two daughters and his father were killed in a tornado in 1912. Sam disappeared from the scene for some time after his horrific personal tragedy, only to arrive in the big leagues as a 27 year old rookie.

Rice played in the 1924, 1925 and 1933 World Series, winning the World Championship in 1924. In 1920, he led the Major Leagues in stolen bases.

Sam Rice’s life story is utterly fascinating.  Talk about the slings and arrows of outrageous fate!  I’m currently reading on online version of his biography. It’s a great story.

Come to Woodstock

Lately, I’ve been considering playing in Woodstock. Haven’t done it in 20 years. Why? Well, Myrna and I lived mostly in New York. And, it’s almost impossible to make a buck playing in Woodstock.

The Come to Woodstock site is yet another of those periodic attempts by recently arrived hipsters to revive our music scene. God knows, it needs reviving.

We have a new folkie joint in town, The Alchemy Café, next door to The Bear restaurant. It hosts the usual Open Mic night on Wednesdays. Maybe I’ll check it out. I’ll try to talk Big Joe, my partner in the V-Twins, into making it one night.

Many restaurants have gone belly-up in the site occupied by The Alchemy Café. I’m not sure why, although proximity to The Bear and The Little Bear might explain that.

Looks like The Alchemy Café attempts to re-do the Unitarian coffee house bit. No alcohol. Folk singing. Leftie politics. We’ll see.