This video was posted in a comment by reader JimBob. I’d seen the video referred to in news broadcasts, but this was the first I’d seen it.

It struck a chord (no pun intended) with me, because I used to travel by air with my beloved Gibson Dreadnaught, which is forty-five years old (pictured here). I even foolishly checked it with regular luggage a couple times, only to watch it get bounced around on the luggage carousel. I learned that it is way better to “gate check” it, but even then it is at the mercy of airport luggage peeps, and, as the story in the video points out, sometimes that amounts to a giant FAIL.

I decided I needed a traveling guitar – one I could bring on planes and to blogmeets without worrying about it. Having admired a guitar that the Late, Great Rob “Acidman” Smith played at a blogmeet in Jekyll Island, Rob explained that it was reasonably priced and he said, “I can get you one like it if you want.” I said, “Sure,” thinking that it was a bit of blogmeet bluster.

I few days later I got a call from Rob who was calling from his buddy’s music store. He said, “Jeeyum, I found you a sweet guitar. Listen to it.” With that, he played it over the phone and observed that it “Played real nice.” He concluded, “Buy this guitar, and if you don’t like it, I’ll buy it from you.”

I bought the guitar (here is a picture from the web), intending that it would be a knock-around – don’t-worry about-it-guitar. That was in July of 2005.

I brought my Travelin’ Guitar with me to a Blogmeet in Austin, where I got the chance to play with Rob again. He was thrilled that I was happy with the guitar that he hand-picked for me. That was in May of 2006. Little did I know that Rob would be dead the following month. I wrote about his death and our improbable friendship here.

As you may well imagine, what was to be my knock-around, don’t-worry-about-it guitar is now precious to me. I have since bought another Washburn (similar, but not the same as the one Rob picked out), again from Rob’s friend’s store in Georgia, and it has become my travelin’ guitar. I think that Rob would agree that it “plays real nice.”

Strange how that humorous video brought all that back. Go figure.

PRS Operatives, ever on the lookout for the inside scoop, have managed to gain access to Nancy Pelosi’s Tweets. For those of you not familiar with reading Tweets, the most recent entry is on top. Here is a sample:

SpeakerNan Where the f**k is the Domino’s guy?

SpeakerNan I just felt my own ass. OMG it’s awesome!

SpeakerNan Then there was the time with Jefferson Airplane and the Wesson Oil. Freakin’ awesome!

SpeakerNan Did you know that I loved Jim Morrison two times? It was in a car parked near Fisherman’s Wharf. It’s true.

SpeakerNan Publisher of my book called wanting 2 charge me to dispose of 3 truckloads of books. Prick, I asked him how he would like an IRS audit. LOL

SpeakerNan Just farted and it sounded like a blender does when you drop some really thick shit in it while it’s running. Cracked me up.

SpeakerNan Speaking of my kitty, damned thing itches. What’s up with that?

SpeakerNan Franken will fit right in around here. The day he was sworn in he came to my office and asked if he could touch my kitty. Smart boy.

SpeakerNan Listening to bootlegs of the Dead, while doing some herbal inhalation therapy, if you get my drift.

I have a germ of an idea that might well be writeworthy and readworthy and, quite possibly, even mildly amusing. The problem is that I am too cranky at the moment to concentrate enough to develop it.

Yo, Jimbo. Why so cranky?”

The list is long, but here are a few examples:

There is talk of yet another “stimulus package.” I guess that’s because the first one (unread before enacted) was such a monumental success. These people must be crazy.

Michael Jackson mega-hoopla. ‘Nuf said.

The forecasted cost of nationalized healthcare (to be financed by more taxes, of course), a shit sandwich most people want no part of.

The One and his international “America is Always Wrong” tour.

The One’s propensity to piss off our friends and to cozy up to the rat bastards of the world.

Congressmen and Senators whose corruption is in neon lights and nothing … NOTHING seems to happen. Chris Dodd, Charlie Rangel, and William “Cold Cash” Jefferson come to mind.

Cap and Trade lunacy. What a swell idea in the middle of a recession – all in the name of global warming science, which is, at best, still unsettled, and at worst, a steaming pile of bullshit.

The One’s firing of Inspectors General who were investigating his pals and nothing … NOTHING happens. Remember when Alberto Gonzales was grilled forever by Congress for firing employees-at-will?

Henry Batface Waxman stating that it is unpatriotic to oppose the Cap and Trade shit-filled taco.

The fifty-two percent of the electorate that brought us the empty-suit Marxist and his pack of rogues.

See what I mean about being unable to concentrate on creating something amusing?

I took an Independence Day groundpound. I was enjoying the gorgeous weather when I noticed that several streets, each leading to one of the main streets, were blocked off, much as the town does when there is to be parade. I rounded the corner on the main street and saw people sitting at the curb on folding chairs, as if waiting for a parade to begin. What made this different were the bales of hay straw (Jerry taught me the difference a while back) that lined both curbs and along the center line on the street.

Bales of straw all over the place? Not something one sees every day – or ever, for that matter in these parts. I figured, ”Horses … gotta be horses somewhere” Stupid, I know, but I really didn’t know what to make of it – farookin’ straw bales? I got around to asking one of the peeps sitting in a chair by the curb.

“Yo, what’s goin’ on?”

Not a man of many words, he replied, “Soapbox Derby.”

Wow, I hadn’t seen one of those since I was of single digit age. I stood by the finish line (in front of more bails of hay straw, which were there to stop a runaway soapbox) and shot a cell phone picture of the track.

I continued walking toward the starting line and stopped long enough to snap pictures of the vehicles and the drivers in the waiting area.

It looked as if it might be a little while before the races actually started, so I continued on with the groundpound, hoping that on the return trip I might get to see a race or two.

As luck would have it, on my return trip, I saw the first race of the day go off. It was a girl driver versus a boy driver. The girl appeared to be winning, but about halfway down the hill, the boy caught and passed her. Once across the finish line, the boy applied his brakes, but the girl must have been so intent on racing that she either forgot to engage the brake or her brakes failed. In any event, she and her “car” went zooming full speed into two of the hay straw bales at the end of the track. KaaaahBLAMM!!!

I was worried that kid was hurt, when I saw the bales go flying. As it turns out, her mom ran to her, and she was OK. There were a few tears, but that was because she lost the race, not because she crashed or because she was hurt.

Given the state of the economy, the rogue nations talking nukes and the toxic politics of the day, a soapbox derby was a rare and most welcome find – especially on America’s holiday.

Here are the cell phone photos.

Here’s the track. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen so much hay straw in one place.

Here are some of the “cars.”

Here are some of the drivers preparing to rock. Unfortunately someone got in front of the “camera.” After all, I was on a groundpound, not a photo mission.

It was pretty cool.

My spam zapper has been letting things through into the moderation queue lately. Clearing the clutter is a pain in the ass, but occasionally I’m amused by the spamturds who try to pose as real readers. Today a spammer, commenting on an old, old post, which consisted mainly of a picture wrote as follows:

“You know so many interesting infomation. You might be very wise. I like such people. Don’t top writing.”

Yep, that’s me alright. I have very, very many interesting information, and I might even be very wise. Glad you like me, pal. Oh, and I won’t top writing either.

Dooshbags.

HAVE A HAPPY AND SAFE INDEPENDENCE DAY

You might want to take a few minutes to listen to Scott Ott (Yes, of Scrappleface fame) do an excellent, straight-up reading of the Declaration. It’s well worth your time.

After receiving many well wishes for a “Happy Fourth,” I got to wondering if “the Fourth” has just become a date; a date on the calendar that signifies a day off from work, fireworks, barbecues and general merriment. Don’t get me wrong, all of that is wonderful and it’s wonderfully American. I wouldn’t want to dampen any of that spirit.

I am, however, a tad concerned that some people, (particularly the younger peeps who have spent years in the public school system), may not keep in mind what the holiday is all about.

It marked a day when men from the thirteen fledgling colonies assembled and decided to risk their “lives … fortunes … and sacred honor” to break loose from the grip of England and declare independence. Indeed, it ended up costing many of them, their lives and fortunes, but they maintained their sacred honor.

For that reason, tomorrow and in future years I shall no longer wish people a “Happy Fourth,” but rather I shall wish them a “Happy Independence Day!”

Swiped from SondraK

LeeAnn wrote a post about the death of someone who apparently will not be missed much by many.

It reminded me of a wake I attended many years ago. It was held Down Neck in Newark in Rucki Funeral Home (known by everyone as “Rucki’s” — pronounced “Rookie’s”), which was The Place to be laid out back then. You could always count on a couple old Polish ladies from the neighborhood coming in off the street to view the body and cry, even though they didn’t know the person in the casket.

Anyway, the deceased in this case was a guy who was one of my uncle’s buddies, and he was sort of a Soprano’s type fellow (although he died of natural causes). I only vaguely knew him, but I went because he was my uncle’s friend. The funeral home was packed with flowers and people, and all the friends of the deceased lined up to console the widow, “Yo, if you need anything, you just call. Anything at all – just call.”

Based on the outpouring of affection being displayed in the room where the body was, I figured the guy had been a friend to everyone and had been the salt of the earth, so to speak.

After a while, it was time to retreat to the smoking room for a break. My uncle was there along with several of the men who had offered solace to the grieving widow. I figured that I would join in with the deceased’s friends in some light repartee about what a fine fellow he was and how much he would be missed.

We stood in a small circle making small talk until one of dead guy’s friends said, “F**k, this funeral shit: they should have backed up the garbage truck to take the c**ksucker the f**k away.”

I think lots of wakes at Rucki’s were like that.

It’s a Jersey thing.