OK, so your band is playing at a wedding. You’ve paced the crowd just right. Dinner is over, and you’ve got a full dance floor with people dancing their asses off and screaming for more. The place is rocking. Then the bride approaches the stage and says, “Can Uncle Tony sing?”

Oy!

You hope, in vain, that she catches you looking at the screaming crowd ready to do more serious dancing, followed by your ever-so-subtle frown as you prepare to answer question. She awaits an answer, obviously having missed your visual hints. You respond, “What would he like to sing?”

You are told, “I don’t know. He’s great. He can sing anything.”

Meanwhile, the crowd is getting restless and loud. They want to party.

You’re wise enough to know that the bride is the boss here, so you say, “Sure, send him up.”

Four or five minutes pass as the bride, groom and their agents search for Uncle Tony.

The crowd is getting pissed; they can’t understand why you’re not playing. They begin to leave the dance floor.

They locate Uncle Tony at the bar, and he ambles up to the stage with a fresh drink in his hand. Great. Dean Farookin’ Martin.

When asked what he wants to sing, he says “Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime.” Yep, I knew it. The guy thinks he’s Dean Martin. Bad sign.

You ask Uncle Tony what key he would like to sing the song in.

He responds, “It don’t matter. Any key.”

Right there, with those two words, “Any key,” you know you’re screwed.

“Ladies and Gentlemen. May I have your attention, please. We have a special treat for you. Uncle Tony is going sing!”

Uncle Tony’s anticipated vocal performance has just slammed the brakes on the party.

You play the intro. Uncle Tony is holding the microphone down by his waist rendering it useless, which turns out to be a good thing, because he starts singing at the wrong time and isn’t even close to singing in the same key that the band is playing.

You try to make a bit of a joke out of stopping the music to give Uncle Tony another bite at the apple, this time in a different key. You tell him to hold the microphone closer to his mouth.

Uncle Tony makes a joke to the crowd about how the band isn’t getting it. (Flashback to Godfather II – the wedding). We all smile.

You start playing again, this time, hopefully, in a key that Uncle Tony can sing in. You realize that Uncle Tony isn’t even listening to the band. He again starts singing too early. You also realize that you could play the song in the key of “X,” and it wouldn’t make a damned bit of difference. Uncle Tony can’t sing.

The few people left on the dance floor watch, and except for the bride, groom and Uncle Tony’s wife and kids, they are just being polite.

Uncle Tony breaks into the chorus way too early. You try to follow him, but there is no hope.

Finally, it’s over, and a dozen or so people applaud. The other 175 are busy talking.

The party momentum is out the window.

As Uncle Tony leaves the stage, you can see his pinkie ring as he points over his shoulder at the band, and you can hear him tell his buddies, “Dese guys didn’t know da song!”

Thanks for every farookin’ thing, Uncle Tony.

The Garden State is DOOMED.

If you have a spare minute or five, go here, and when you get there, be defiant and remain defiant.

Via The Cheesemistress

In the wee hours of the morning at Jekyll, we got to talking about Yukon Jack liquor. I mentioned that I have a fair amount of experience drinking the stuff and, more importantly, watching others “Do Yukon J.” I should note that Yukon J is one of those boozes with a mellow, pleasant taste that beguiles the drinker into believing that it’s tame. However, hidden beneath its palate-pleasing properties, lurks the firepower of a Howitzer.

The 100 proof sledgehammer creeps up on the unwary and, more than any other liquor I know, Yukon Jack has the propensity to produce “The Stare.”

I won’t even bother to describe The Stare, because Rob, who was one of the Jekyll Night Owls, has described it so well.

A word to the wise: If you give Yukon Jack a try and you find yourself saying, “Yo, this stuff is smoooooth,” it is probably already too late. Don’t even think about driving, and you might also consider wearing shades so that no one can see you doing The Stare.

I was tagged by Evil White Guy to participate in this exercise. The deal is that one must write a few stanzas of doggerel based upon the following format.

Turd in a punchbowl,
Have no fear,
Turd in a punchbowl,
Blah, blah, blah…….., etc.

Here goes:

Turd in a punchbowl,
Long and brown,
Turd in a punchbowl,
Spins round and round

Turd in a punchbowl,
From your ass,
Turd in a punchbowl,
Not in the grass

Turd in a punchbowl,
What a bore,
Turd in a punchbowl,
Looks like Al Gore

Turd in a punchbowl,
How about that,
Turd in a punchbowl,
Not in your hat.

Here is the work of Dash and Velociman, both of whom were also hit with the turd splatter.

Now, I am supposed to tag three other bloggers. However, I prefer not to toss this turd in anyone else’s punchbowl who may have better things to do. However, I hereby cordially invite anyone reading this and who feels even a little bit poetic to have at it;

Update: Thanks to V-Man for directing me to ‘Neck’s masterpiece. It’s turd-riffic!!

Update No. 2: Dave from A Different Lemming voluntarily jumps into the punchbowl.

The other day my buddy Dash posted twenty-one pieces of advice. It’s difficult to quarrel with anything in Dash’s list. Reading that list got me to thinking about advice and how I figure that I’ve been on the planet long enough, and I’ve done enough goofy shit interesting things to qualify me to dispense twenty-one bits of advice of my own. I’m thinking that I must be full of shit, good advice because rattling these off was a breeze. With that, I give you:

Jimbo’s Bits of Worldly Advice

1. Avoid stores like Home Depot, for no good will come of shopping in such places.

2. If you receive a cell phone call while in a public place, seek a private place to take the call. If that is impossible, speak softly and be brief (this is not shoot-the-breeze time), lest you become the victim of a justifiable homicide.

3. Life is too short to drink cheap whiskey.

4. Always accept someone else’s offer to drive, unless the person is drunker than you.

5. Meat should be cooked before it is eaten. It has been thus ever since the discovery of fire. “Bloody” is not “cooked.”

6. Sleeping is a monumental waste of time, and, as such, it should be kept to a minimum.

7. If you want to learn to play a musical instrument, don’t practice it, play it.

8. Profanity is a good thing, if you know when and how to use it.

9. Spend time playing music alone. You’ll be your best audience and your harshest critic.

10. Go through each day secure in the knowledge that Jane Fonda is still a piece of shit.

11. Stay away from people who think believe that O.J. did not kill those people, for they are dangerously stupid.

12. There is never an upside to smart-mouthing a cop.

13. There is almost never a good reason to be rude to a waiter or waitress.

14. Homemade spirits should be imbibed only by experienced drinkers and, even then, with a good deal of caution.

15. Don’t badger a musician on stage with requests. If the musician solicits requests, he (she) is almost always being polite; as he really knows what will work in the room. If you insist on hearing only exactly the music you want to hear, go to a saloon with a juke box.

16. It’s damned near impossible to screw up a potato or an onion.

17. If you ever have the good fortune to get the chance to shoot the breeze with Catfish, by all means do it. It’s a richly rewarding experience.

18. If someone asks for a gin and ginger ale, don’t make it for them, but rather suggest that the person seek professional help.

19. If someone not from New Jersey says, “You’re from New Joisey? What Exit? Harharhar,” be kind, smile and pretend that it’s the first time you’ve heard it.

20. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are something to be relished with reckless abandon.

21. For the love of God, don’t watch daytime television. That shit will kill you.

That’s it, for now.

Rick at See What You Share has previously warned us that unwary users of peer to peer (P2P) file sharing software may well be making the contents of their entire C-Drives available for downloading by other users of the software. He has also demonstrated that the pictures of their children that people maintain on their C-Drives may well end up being downloaded to a computer on which there are hundreds of child pornography files.

Rick has now done a Nine-Minute Experiment, the results of which should send shivers down your spine. In short, he created a folder that contained innocuous documents, but which included titles such as:

OIF Iraqi Freedom Deployment Schedule NOT PUBLIC!
Mom & Dad’s Credit Card Info.
Kids – Playday @ School

Take a look at how many people downloaded those files from Rick’s computer in a period of nine minutes! Furthermore, depending on how people have their P2P software configured, these files could be available for the picking every time the user boots up the computer.

It’s downright frightening.

As I noted here, the software producers/licensors could go a long way to minimizing this problem by changing the software defaults to permit the sharing of only music files (as that’s why most people download P2P) and to prominently warn users that changing the default could expose the entire contents of their C-Drives to anyone who has the same P2P software.

So why don’t software producers take these measures? I think it’s fair to assume that such programming changes would be a snap.

In my personal opinion, P2P software producers, many of whom currently find themselves embroiled in copyright infringement actions relating to music file sharing, currently can argue that they are not inducing copyright infringement because their software permits the sharing of all sorts of files which do not in any way implicate the copyright laws. And, as such, they cannot be blamed if users choose to share copyrighted music files with their proiducts.

Indeed, if the producers were to adjust the defaults to permit the sharing of only music files, their “we-know-nothing” argument against the inducement of copyright infringement loses much of its force.

On the other hand, the software producers, by failing to change the defaults and by not prominently warning users of the consequences of the using the default settings, could end up being defendants in tort actions by users for any number of the litany of potential horribles that one can envision based on the results of Rick’s Nine-Minute Experiment.

Finally, the national security implications of the Nine-Minute Experiment are beyond frightening and must be addressed.

YAWN…….

I wonder what the “over and under” is on how many days go by before she makes a wet-hanky appearance on Oprah.

I completed the morning walk, again in lousy weather. As usual, I brought my Muse along, and was waiting for her to deliver the goods. However, today, she must have felt musical because, instead of inspiring me with something to write about, she sang Merle Haggard and Johnny Cash songs in my ear for one hour. I believe she sang “Sunday Morning Coming Down” at least a half-dozen times. Just when I though she was finished singing and was ready to provide me with a bit of literary inspiration, she belted out a couple verses of “I’ve Always Been Crazy” by Waylon Jennings.

So, there you have it – Jimbo on a Sunday morning sidewalk strutting my shit in shitty weather and dealing with a singing Muse. I don’t have much else to say right about now. Please address all complaints to the Singing Muse.

As a result, rather than sitting here staring at the screen, I plan on spending a bit if time sitting in a comfortable chair and reading a book, with pages and all, before I head over to the Post to commiserate with the Usual Suspects. Once there, I will wash down a few Yuengling Porters, have a bit of chow and puff on a CAO Gold Robusto.

I shall return to the House by the Parkway in time to watch Deadwood and, with any luck, I won’t fall asleep in Mr. Recliner.

Sounds like a plan to me.

It was great being in a band in Jersey in the ‘70’s. Virtually every saloon in the area, large or small, had live music on the weekends. Bands built up followings, which saloon owners were more than eager to attract. Our band was no exception. Back then, we were playing as a trio, with guitar, bass and drums (all three of us sang), and we had managed to build up a following of our own, so we were perfect for many of these places.

We played quite regularly at a place called “The 288 East,” which was a cozy place in North Arlington, New Jersey. It had a medium-sized bar, maybe twenty stools, and about 6-10 tables. The only way that the little place could accommodate a band was to renovate a large closet in order to create a “stage” that was about six inches higher than the postage stamped-sized “dance floor,” which was directly in front of the so-called “stage.”

In truth, the “stage” probably would have worked for a solo act, or even maybe two people, but in our case, once we set up the amps and I set up the drums, there was no room for anything else. In fact, in order to get behind the drums, I would have to move the hi-hat cymbals (the ones you play with your left foot) and the snare drum out of the way. I’d climb behind the set and move everything back in place once I was seated. The bass and guitar players stood directly (and I mean directly) in front of the “stage” on the teeny dance floor. In short, we were “up close and personal” with the crowd.

One Saturday night, we were into our fourth and final set. It was pretty crowded in the place. During the break, we had been sitting with a couple people who had taken to following us wherever we played. Part of the group was a young woman who had brought her mother with her as well as her new boyfriend, a guy who apparently just got a job as a cop and who seemed exceedingly happy to tell everyone that he was carrying his “off duty piece.”

“Very big deal,” we thought. But, a following is, after all, a following.

About one third of the way into the final set, a group of guys, already well oiled, showed up. By their swagger and general demeanor, it was quite plain that these guys were potential trouble. Nevertheless, I didn’t pay all that much attention to them, thinking that as long as they don’t give us any trouble, who cares?

Somewhere in the middle of “Color my World” I saw the unmistakable minuet of an impending brawl. Within what seemed to be mere seconds, the teeny dance floor turned into a moving mass of angry people, with the newbie cop in the middle of it all. We continued to play, because that is what you did when these things happen. You played until either the owner tells you to stop, or until the cops arrive.

Then I heard someone shout the word “GUN”!!!

Sure enough, from the center of this moving amoeboid mass of people popped up a hand in which was a chrome, snub-nosed revolver (surely the “off-duty piece”). A dozen or so hands were grabbing at the gun, which at that moment happened to be turned directly in my direction. So much for “Color my World.”

The bass and guitar players unplugged and ran for the door, still wearing their guitars. Watching the hands struggling to gain control of the six-shooter, I didn’t bother to move the hi-hats and snare drum, but rather I somehow leaped over the damned snare drum and knocked the hi-hats out of the way, just to get the hell off the stage and out of the bulls eye. By this time the bass player and guitar player were already out on the sidewalk.

I ran for the door, which was, at that moment, blocked by a hysterical woman. She was standing directly in the doorway screaming her ass off. Not moving – just screaming her ass off. No time for introductions: I just picked her screaming ass up and dragged her outside with me while the combat inside continued.

In a few minutes, it was over without any gunshots having been heard.

When we re-entered the place, a big guy (I believe a friend of the owner) had managed to break up the melee and “convince” the wise guys to leave, presumably by reminding them that they had been messing with a cop and that more cops were just a phone call away. Naturally, they didn’t leave quietly, as they dropped the F-bomb on the owner, his place, his friends, and quite possibly even his dog, but leave they did.

Apparently, it all had started when one of the wise guys made a nasty remark to the mother of the newbie cop’s girlfriend, and it went downhill from there.

We still had about fifteen minutes left to play, and the owner wanted us back on stage to get things back to normal. Besides, he still had fifteen minutes to sell drinks to a bunch of real nervous folks, all badly in need of a libation.

The guitar players plugged back in, and I climbed behind the drums and repositioned the snare drum and hi-hats. We were ready to go back to work.

The guitar player turned to me and said, “OK. Color my World.” I suggested that we play something else, thank you, which is what we did, as this hadn’t been the first time that the shit hit the fan while we were playing “Color my World” But that is a story for another day.

I got a million of ‘em.

P.S. Oh, as for the title of this post, in the grand tradition of the Bowery Boys, the term “Routine 288” would forever become the words we would use when it was time to evacuate the stage immediately.