Gimme Gimee

Me First and the Gimeee Gimees sing Nothing Compares. You’re welcome.

A Tribute to Glenn Miller Vol. II

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For maybe decades, this languished in my Grandmother’s basement somewhere. She had long ago lost interest in her victorla, I reckon (she used to have one, I remember this, but she’d long disposed of it I think). I am listening to it tonight and it is pretty great. It’s no Illinois Jaquet, but it’s pretty excellent. Maybe some historical interest in it too, as it is a tribute, released posthumously I assume. I had a conversation with her when we visited her on her birthday a month before she died. I asked her what it was like when Glenn Miller died. It was awful, she said. They had no idea what had happened to him for a long time (Miller died in a downed aeroplane returning from a campaign of entertaiing our troops). I was trying to imagie the scope of the death of such a valued figure in popular culture, because Prince had just died, and I was trying to explain his import to me and to relate to something equivalent she had experienced in her life. Anyway, so it’s appropriate that I have absconded with this fine Miller tribute. It plays fine. P.S. Vinyl is still worth the real estate.

Oh Deer

Right outside my apartment balcony early this morning…

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Music Meld for the Day

Courtesy of my magical gray matter. Yes, they do go together. They really, really do.

“Jesus is Just Alright With Me” by the Doobie Brothers and “Let It Whip” by the Dazz Band.

Booty City

Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears, ladies and gentlemen.

Around The World In A Day

I learned a few things this morning. I learned that the bookstore at 123 East Main St. is not open at that time on Sunday morning. I learned also that there is a bearded man in an orange shirt on East Main Street in Rochester New York who would very much like to know if you have an extra cigarette he might have.

Extra? I don’t even have one.

I wanted to show Mom the previous living situation. We could only gaze into the lobby, but I think she understood the gist of my living standard for the past four years. Especially after man in the orange shirt asked us a second time on the pass the other way up the street if we had an extra cigarette and then in front of the music store where one man on a bicycle had already successfully cajoled a dollar from one of these four or five young Dave Matthews Band fans, and when a second, not on a bicycle, approached to ask them where’s HIS dollar, the first man on the bicycle commenced to school the second gentleman on his bad form.

This was on a Sunday morning.

Thank you all for helping me clarify to my Mother that her help and my dear Grandma’s help in getting me moved elsewhere was a good idea. I severely appreciate it.

I did get to show off the gem of the neighborhood, Hart’s grocery. Grabbed one of my favorite morning staples, the Natalie’s Grapefruit Juice. You should go there and buy one because they are the most best things around.

They even taste good without vodka. I’m not kidding. And, for some reason, I can’t find a single drop of the product in my new neighborhood. I’m going to take this to you, Lori’s Natural Foods. I want my Natalie’s gapebook juice. It’s dreamy.

Anyway. So after that we took East Ave. to Clover to all the way to Honeyoye Falls, so that was quite the scenic route. Tried to show Mom the house she rescued me from buying but couldn’t find it. She said hey. We’re here. Let’s go to Canandaigua. (She is still working on pronouncing that town’s name without getting that little cramp in her neck and then somehow saying “Canada-booger-freestyle-wheat-thin.” We’re working on it. I cannot wait until we graduate to “Ganondagan.” I can’t even say that one yet without the eye twitch and the sweating and all.)

(I don’t even ask my Mother to say “Rehoboth” anymore. Her doctors insist. It’s “that beach in Delaware” or weeks of steroids.)

So we went to Canada-booger-freestyle-wheat-thin and there were boats and a beach you had to pay five dollars to get in. And we went to Wally’s for lunch and they apparently like to blare the local country station at you while you consume there excellent food in their weird little dive. I of course had the full-on Wally Burger, my Mother had the chicken cordon bleu.

We crossed the road to walk up and down and some broad yelled at us about taking the crosswalk, although we did not hold up traffic a bit. I showed her my bare ass. It was magical.

Then I said, but we’re 14 miles from Geneva. And we went.

Geneva, I think, is an improvement over Canada-booger-freestyle-wheat-thin. I find it not a bit ironic that, just miles from Ingersoll’s first home are some really beautiful churches, really, they are stunning, and in this tiny lakeside place. Geneva downtown is open and lovely, and pleasantly hilly. This to me, with my limited knowledge of the geography, is the start of wine country, and I only know that from several attempts previous to visit Ingersoll’s house in Dresden (New York).

I mentioned Dresden to the cheerful, helpful woman at the Geneva visitors’ center (open Sunday), and how the place is basically a post office, Ingersoll’s house, and some kind of military installation. Yes, she says. Long since decommissioned, and boy was that a hit to the area. Wow. I had no idea.

No sightseeing heading back. Full-on thru-way, baby Then a beer on my deck. Then a fine meal at the finest bar in ROC, the J.B. Quimby’s.

I think if the goal was to give my Mom a good snapshot of the area as she daydreams about where to spend her life in future years now, I think we did okay.

Yep. I think we did okay.

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In Other News
As I punched up the elevator, a neighbor of mine was talking in the lobby on his mobile device. He said, “so, what do you think of Big Brother? I think they’re going to get rid of that girl…”

I said “SHHHHH! I haven’t seen it yet!”

And I wasn’t kidding. Off to watch it now. What a stupid thing to do, and yet,