A Bad Influence. . . .

On Friday night, Donna and I went to see the Steve Miller Band at Ravinia.  Oh my socks and shoes.  What a show!  Steve Miller was born in Milwaukee in 1943 and he still warbles like he did in his 1970’s classics.  And he plays a rock solid lead guitar.  Everything I ever dreamed of.

Steve’s family moved to Dallas when he was 7 years old.  He got his big start in music at the age of 12 – when he put a 3 piece band together and started doing gigs.  Wearing a suit and sunglasses.  On Friday nights, his mother would have to drive him to his gig.  And then pick him up.  In 1965, Steve moved from Texas to Chicago to play the Blues.  And he did.  Big time.  But a year or two later, he headed to San Francisco where he formed his iconic band.  And the rest as they say – is history.    

In my post of April 20, 2012 (“Martin O-18“), I suggested that I might well have had a different career path.  While Steve Miller was wowing the crowd with a high decibel version of “Fly Like an Eagle,” I leaned over to Donna and said “He is a very bad influence on me.”  I gave her a toothy smile.   Blinked a few times.  Sensing at once what I was referring to, she turned slowly – and gave me “that look” – and said “don’t quit the day job, Elvis.”  Sigh. . . . . 

They Dwell Among Us . . . .

I’ve seen silly emails circulated with this title.  I always delete them as I’ve felt the stories are so farfetched as to be unbelievable.   Until Monday. 

Scout’s Honor. I was on the train on Monday. Heading home after a long day.  The train was crowded with a few folks standing in the aisles.  This 30’ish woman sits down next to me. She takes an orange VISA credit card from her purse and – holding it in her hand – pulls out her cell phone and dials a number. And then in a voice loud enough to be heard 3 or 4 rows away, she says she has a question on her credit card.   She needs detail on the last dozen or so transactions.  And she repeats the card number into the receiver. THEN (as if that’s not enough) after a pause, she repeats a family name and a calendar date (presumably security codes). Then (of course) she read off the three digit security code on the back of the card (“uhmm lemme see. . . two three eight . . . no THREE eight“). For the next 15 minutes, with phone shouldered to her ear, she proceeded to dialogue on the telephone in this highly public place about questioned purchases (one charge was – I kid you not – 9 cents).  She’s writing them down.

I do not believe we should have educational tests or intelligence tests or any other criteria (than citizenship) for a person to vote.  But maybe there is something to having a “Stupid” test.  This woman would be the poster girl.  Not that it would matter with the characters we have in our government. 

By the way, I bought a great bunch of new books on line, some shoes for Donna, a new Martin guitar, I booked us a trip to Europe and I . . . . . OOOOPS  . . . never mind. . . .    

Martin O-18

In 1962, my parents bought me a guitar.  Not just any guitar but a Martin O-18.  A pristine, unused 1960 model.  It was an extravagence they could not afford — but did. 

My Martin traveled to college with me.  To law school.  I played in a group early on with two girls from my church — “Scott & the Bookends” (yes I know).   If we couldn’t get a gig as “Scott & the Bookends,” we went by the name “The Corydon Trio.”   For my daughter, I played every night when she went to bed — from the day we brought her home from the hospital and for years (see post of 8/14/11). 

I love my guitar and I still strum it nearly every day.  Usually the same old stuff (mostly the Blues) but sometimes new stuff to stretch my brain.   Ten years ago, I started taking lessons — every Monday until shortly before my daughter got married.   What a hoot! 

A few years ago, I called the Martin Guitar Company about doing a little fixup (tuning keys, frets, etc.) and they said that if I was the original owner, it was still under (lifetime) warranty.  I found the paperwork and got a “new” guitar back.  

I’ve told Donna that maybe I should try and get the Bookends back together and we could go on the road.  Her response?  “Don’t quit the day job, Elvis.”  (Sigh)  Rock on. . . . . .