A Big Yellow Mustang

Tags

California, cars, driving, Gordon Lightfoot

With apologies to Joni and her old man.

Spell check thought I was going for Big Yellow Mustard but I said no so fast buster.

I recently spoke over the FB pages to a friend who is on her way to Los Angeles, not for the World Series ( Trademark registered, MLB & all rights reserved) but for a vacation and a drive from southern California to northern California and San Francisco.  I suggested she keep driving until she got stopped at the Canadian border.

I also suggested that her rental car ought to be a ( see title ) A Big Yellow Mustang with 6 on the floor and my reasoning is the following:

How many times are you going to get to do something like this??????

I say go for seven or eight on the floor, make sure it’s a convertible too.

I once made the drive from San Francisco to Arcata, CA and if my fuzzy brain recalls correctly I rented a manual transmission in a dark blue Opel.

I’m open to suggestions to correct my faulty memory as to if Opels existed in California in the 1980’s and if they were part of rental stock.  Those were the days.

I should have kept driving to the Canadian border and told the border agents that I knew Gordon Lightfoot and I was on my way to see him perform.

I bet if my friend plays the GL card she gets into Canada no sweat.

 

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The First of December…

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James Taylor, Kenny Loggins, kids, music

I suppose it might be covered with snow this year and then again maybe not.  Perhaps it was in 1968 when James Taylor wrote ” Sweet Baby James.”  It turns out there really was a baby James Taylor born to James’ brother Alex and his wife.

I was perusing the Pandora channel this morning when I came upon James Taylor telling the story of how he came to write ” Sweet Baby James” for his nephew James.

The bottom line is that there is another James Taylor and if he was born circa 1968 he would be, let’s see, 6 plus 7 carry the one around 49 years old.  I wonder how it feels to have a song written about you.

Further on down the road, also on Pandora, ” Danny’s Song” popped up.  You know           ” Even though we ain’t got money…”  And that song is also written about a baby which I think Kenny Loggins wrote for his brother and his wife who were also about to have a son. So where’s that kid and how does it feel to also have a song written about you.

And thanks to a dear friend who introduced me to Loggins & Messina in the wilds of Connecticut once upon a time.

Maybe James Taylor, James Taylor, and the Loggins kid should get together with Kenny and write another song or at least record a medley of their hit birth announcement songs.

Clearly, I have too much time on my hands and too much space left in my brain.

 

I Went Somewhere Last Night but I Don’t Know Where I Was, How I Got There OR How I Got Back Home

Tags

driving, GPS

Sounds like the lead in or a set up for a three day blackout bender of a weekend but no.

The big band played a gig in East Greenville last night which is somewhere up there  – motions up and to the right.  Originally we were booked into Red Hill but the gig was switched  to the fire hall in in East Greenville.

As I said, I sorta knew where East Greenville was but not really.  GPS to the rescue.

I plugged in the address, got the driving directions and was off.  Forty eight miles, arrive in 1 Hour, 17 minutes.  Easy enough.  I’m on the road but I really don’t know where I’m going.  My faith in the GPS unit is unflinching and I suppose that’s how people drive off cliffs or into lakes.

” Go right on Lakeside Drive, turn at the boat ramp and go straight.”  Glug, glug.

I informed one of my bandmates about my lost in space predicament and he proceeded to draw me a map in the air  waving his arms .  ” Allentown is here and Pottstown is here and so East Greenville would be right about where my nose is.”  I get my Potts mixed up, we could have been near Pottsville.

During the drive I saw to my amazement a sign for the Tacony Palmyra Bridge which I though was way over there near his left ear.

We play the gig, I’m dialed in and the date goes well.

I load out, punch in ” Go Home” and  the GPS says turn right on Quakertown Road only it says Quackertown and of course Reading is pronounced as Reeding.  I wonder how the GPS does with Ypsilanti?

The funny thing is that the brains in the GPS take me home on a different route and amazingly it’s still only 1 hour and 17 minutes.  How can this be?  Have I drifted in to Einstein’s Time Space E=MC squared theory?  Am I bending time and space?  Do I have Marty McFly’s GPS?

I observe the speed limit so there’s no way I’m going 186,000 miles a second.  It’s a 10 year old Subaru – come on.

I went somewhere last night,  got there ( somewhere)  and got home.

Go figure.

 

 

 

This is a True Story

Tags

Frank Sinatra, humor, knees, MRI, music, pumpkin spice

During my prolonged summer and early fall absence from these pages I’ve been awarded customer of the month twice at the local orthopedic surgeon store.  The details are unimportant.

I highly recommend the nerve block for any surgery.  It’s got a delightful aroma of hickory with a hint of whimsy.  Plus, your arm, leg, shoulder or knee feels like a 2 x 4 for a day and a half after the surgery so there’s that.  I have no idea what it costs but I’m telling you it’s a bargain at twice the price.  Which bring us to our most recent MRI.

I get suited up or dressed down as the case may be and as I’m lying (laying?) on the table that’s about to slide me into the magnetic tunnel the MRI tech asks if I would like to listen to music instead of bricks rolling around in a dryer.  I say yes – what do you have?

He hands me the play list and I say channel 788 which is the Frank Sinatra station.  The quality of the audio in the headphones is terrible but I don’t care.  I’m just hoping I haven’t forgotten if I have a pacemaker or a stent or any other piece of metal in my body which I guess would get zoomed out of me at hypersonic magnetic speed once the machine starts.  Clearly there would be blood everywhere, all of it mine along with an internal organ or two draped over the MRI machine.  And so much paperwork – Oy.

In I go, the music begins, it’s old Blue Eyes, the Chairman of the Board and the first sounds I hear are… BANG BANG BANG BANG AND NOW THE END IS NEAR AND SO I FACE THE FINAL CURTAIN …BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG…

It’s ” My Way” one of Frankie’s biggest hits not exactly appropriate but I laugh it off without moving cause you can’t move once the magnets start taking pictures.  That tune is followed by Dean Martin’s ” Ain’t that a Kick in the Head?” and soon the hammering stops, I’m back on my feet and on the way home.

I don”t know if Frank was trying to reach me from the great beyond or if I was a victim of a simple twist of fated black humor.  But Frank, if you’re listening keep those hits coming.  I’ll take the pumpkin spice nerve block next time.