Other Alternatives
Sunday. Not all that much sleep night before last, although yesterday was just fine, felt good, alert, up for what's about until nine last night, when I hit the wall. To bed before ten, up at seven. Up in the sense I was awake, but had to pull myself out of bed like an old cork solidly wedded to his wine bottle, the sommelier in me having to pull like crazy. But up, to breakfast, back now before nine under an overcast sky, a Sunday spread out before me. Before us. If I could balance a short night's sleep followed by a long night's sleep every time I'd be a better Mouseketeer I'm thinking.
Mouseketeer? Bite your tongue! Slap your face! Wake up!
I actually watched the damned thing as a kid in the fifties during the time they were building the first Disneyland. I was pretty young, so I don't quite remember who of the Mouseketeers was my favorite, but I do recall Annette Funicello being rather attractive. At the age of ten. A deep dark secret admitted here in public. Mickey Mouse Club. Annette Funicello on a mind made of jello.
Nothing wrong with Annette Funicello. At the age of twelve, I might add, the thing starting in 1955 when your family still lived just north of Seattle.
Sometimes I have a brief insight into how really ancient the '50's are, rather like someone mentioning the thirties or World War II back then to me. Mentioning the thirties and forties to me must be like mentioning the fifties to someone born in the sixties and seventies. History book stuff. Horse and buggy time. Well, '55 Chevy time, rock and roll time when the world was new, the dinosaurs still roamed and gas was something like 25 cents a gallon.
Later. It's now the middle of the afternoon after what I must admit was a most muddled morning, an hour's nap around noon, a bus ride, finally, downtown and a walk back, stopping at a sub shop for a sandwich. A reasonably large breakfast and, for me, a reasonably large afternoon lunch, followed by an ice cream cone from the Seven-Eleven look alike just down the street on the final leg home.
I think, now that I've arrived, a bath to see then where the head is at, the long night's sleep having done little to launch a decent day in my estimation. Of course, without the sleep, who knows where my head would be now, how long this piddly rant might last?
Some guitar practice?
Oh, yes. I'm close to finishing the first book of lessons, books two and three are on the way due to arrive tomorrow. Chords to practice, notes to pick, Layla to analyze. But after the bath. At my age I don't want to become one of those stinky guitar players you read about in the papers. Then again, if it's the only way to realize a number one with a bullet, we can negotiate. Here in Oakland.
Later (and cleaner). We are better now I think. Perhaps because the late afternoons seem to be better, for some reason, perhaps because, well, because. I think we shall slip into the sunset playing a few chords now that we've had our bath. No interest in alcohol (well, no interest in expending the energy required to go out and get some), no interest in the scintillating things you find on Sunday television. Not so much interest in fingering these chords either, but significantly more than any of these other alternatives.
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