Outta my way George Strait... I'm a bringing a butt whoopin with this music business stuff.

Okay, I've got a group of friends that I play music with pretty regular and we sound pretty decent, it's getting better, and they've been real patient with me... although I think some of that might be mutual. :-) 3 of the 5 of us have been either professional or semi-professional musicians over the years... I am not one of those 3. I've played guitar for my own enjoyment since I was about 14, a few times I've played in public either solo or with others, but nothing regular. About last July or August I decided that I needed to play the mandolin and picked up the basics fairly quickly, but it's definitely an ongoing learning experience. Add in that my music background has predominately been rock and blues and it makes my instrument choice a little curious.

Anyhow, these folks got together pretty frequent and through chance, they heard that I was playing mandolin. Then needed a mandolin player. I needed playing time. Ta Da! They've listened to their share of sour notes that I've squeaked out of my mando, but we're doing pretty good.

Now, the guitar player, Ronnie calls Sally last week with this message. "Sal, tell Jace we've got a paying gig." Ronnie has been a professional since his late teens, so he knows what the heck a "paying gig" is.

Sally calls me on my cell.

Sal: Jace, Ronnie just called, he says you guys have got a paying gig.

Me: No kidding? What's the story?

Sal: I don't know, that's all he said other than it's gonna be at the Royal Theatre in Macon.

Me: For real?

Sal: According to Ronnie, yup.

Now the Royal is a local movie theatre that has been converted for the local theatre group to perform in several times each year. It has an attached restaurant/supper club area for a couple of black tie affairs and such each year as well. So... this is sounding pretty cool.

I get to play music

I get an audience.

I get paid.

Cool.

So we go to play last night and I'm all curious so I ask what's up. Well... lol It turns out that 2 of our members have decided that the community would like to have a little coffee house style music night once or twice a month and they're starting up on a shoe string budget.

This redefines the term "Paying gig".

Martina (our singer) looks at me and said... "admission is gonna be $3 bucks" I said, that seems real cheap. She says "Well we're gonna have coffee and deserts and stuff that'll be on top of that" Me, "Ahhh" Martina then says "We'll all pay admission as well. We need the money to get started."

I sat there, everyone smiling at me with stupid grins. "For real? I gotta pay AND play?" In unison it was a room of grinning, nodding heads.

*sigh* Okay.

I really REALLY love playing. :-)

Sal and I went out today, I got a new hat just for the show. A good "look" is important in the music business you know. lol

Chickens with teeth.

So yesterday I was fixing myself some breakfast and in my semi-conscious state of mind I was just staring at the countertop when I noted this on the top of the egg carton.





Now talk about poor product labeling. I'm thinking that most people are staring at this about the same time of the day that I am and probably don't even bother to read it... but I'm not made that way. I'm the kind of guy that notices things and I was born to stop and poke things with a stick.

The first thing that came to mind was the implication that "Vegetarian Fed Hens" means that somewhere in North America there is a colony of meat eating chickens that are eating vegetarians at random. That right there is material for a good horror movie.

*Start deep, raspy, and ominous "movie guy voice"*

"First the dog is missing.... then Grandpa... *scary cello starts* and the people of Smalltown send out a search party. *brief flashing of bloody chickens running past the camera* But... no one.... no one returns from THIS party. *Psycho shower scene music* REET REET REET REET REET! *Grandpa turning to his grandson* "I TOLD YOU NOT TO TEASE THE CHICKENS, BOY!" *screen goes to black and a scream in the background fades away* "

Now is that a ghastly thought or what?

Okay next that came to mind is, "Are these chickens fed only by people that are Vegetarians?" And if that's the case, why should that matter to someone like me, or you or Aunt Edna? And what the heck is a vegetarian doing feeding chickens anyhow? Doesn't that seem to go against a vegetarian lifestyle. (Like I even know anyone that is a vegetarian here in Meatville, Missouri.)

And finally, along the same lines... IF the egg place is trying to market these eggs to vegetarians... doesn't even that sorta go against the grain of that whole mindset? (Again, I wouldn't know a vegetarian from silly putty.)


My final thought on this.

I think Sal thinks I'm a little troubled.

A Different Kind Of Hero

You'll run into all different kinds of hero's as you stumble through life... but you don't run into them too often. This is about a man that you'll probably never meet, probably have never known about til now. A man that just plows on through with a hobby that brings joy to thousands.

I own and manage a woodworking forum of about 1000 members, one of those members is Dick Grage. All of those guys and gals know about him and his ministry already, but you don't. Dick is retired, lives in Arizona with his bride... and Dick makes toys.

LOTS of toys.

I've seen him say more than once that when he retired he'd never do woodworking for money, it's his hobby, his enjoyment, his past time. He makes the type of toys that are timeless and more or less indestructible to young hands. I asked Dick this morning if he had any idea how many toys he'd made and it made me laugh... he actually had kept records over the years, and friends....... it's mind boggling. Here's his numbers.

Cars = 4,036

Cradles = 92

Trucks = 134

Graders = 57

Tractors = 101

Toy boxes = 40

Play kitchen sets = 11

Crosses = 132

Amazing eh? I tried to locate some of his pictures but most have expired from his picture hosting place, but here's a couple.

A batch of doll cradles he, with some help from his wife, finished up and all lined up drying.





And when he hit the "4000" mark on cars, he made a special one out of Zebra wood... just for himself.



All of this is done out of his own pocket, in his own time, and then he takes them to churches and preschools and day care centers and he gives them away to eager teachers and others.... by the box fulls.

And how much does he charge for all this?

Zero.

Dick Grage, you're a good man.


************************

I want to add to this just a bit. One of the guys on the woodworking forum had saved some pictures of Dick's cars that he's made, in process and finished. Here's a few of those. Again... the amount of time that he put's into this.... wow.

Thanks for the pictures Dan.

Get Away From Me With That Animal.

I've been a cowguy and outdoorsman most of my life and I can safely say that I've been assaulted by roughly 50 percent of the flora and fauna that thrive in north Missouri. More than a few have been pretty weird ones, and a couple gave me nightmares for awhile.

I think my very first animal assault was brought on by a first attack by me. I was about 8 and I had a fishing dip net. My grandma had a big, longhaired, grey pussycat that she loved like all get out. In my yet undeveloped 8 year old mind I rationalized that catching that pussycat in the dip net would be a great idea. Good Lord in heaven! Up until then it was the worst idea I ever had. When I caught the cat it started flipping around like it had springs on it's feet and it was dodging rattlesnakes. In the span of 2 seconds it had itself so wound up in that dip net, it seemed hopeless. I had a timeframe to get that cat out too. That time frame was indeterminable but definate... it would be the amount of time it took my Grandma to hear the cat and walk out the front door and see what I had done, and then probably an early death for an 8 year old that up until then was an angel as pure as the driven snow in his Grandma's eyes.

I fought that cat like trying to stave off a bull elephant attack with nothing more than a limp willow switch to fight it with. I drug the whole mess around the corner of the house, out of view of the front window and set into my task. The dip net was actually my Dad's, so it had to be preserved as well. I have no idea how many times that cat bit me and clawed me and generally poked holes in me, but if I had immediately drank a glass of water it woulda spewed outta me like Daffy Duck after Elmer Fudd shoots him.

My grandma never found out. The cat ran from me everytime it saw me from then on. I was fine with that relationship.


Deer hunting once I shot a nice buck, walked over to it and laid my rifle down and the "dead" deer kicked me so hard in the shin I thought my leg was broke. I limped around for a week had to explain about 1200 times that I was attacked by a dead deer. That'll make you the Great White Hunter among your pals.


I cornered a ground hog under a house once and he actually charged me getting mere inches from latching onto my lower lip and removing it from my face... AND I had a gun to defend myself with! I did the most rapid reverse crab crawl outta that crawlspace that you ever seen. Groundhog gnashing those huge yellow teeth in front of my face. I left my gun under there. I lost all the hide off my elbows. I scraped the skin offa my spine as I bumped floor joists coming out.

Killer groundhogs. They exist. I've seen 'em.

*shivvver*

I hate bats. Little tiny, half mouse with fangs, half Dracula winged thing from hell. Out in the yard at night, I don't mind 'em. They're eating mosquitoes and minding their own business, but up close and personal... man they give me the heebie jeebies like nobodies business.

I went down in an old celler once and opened the frost door and a bat fell offa the top of the door and fluttered against my chest for 3 or 4 seconds whilst I beat myself half to death and most likely soiled myself. He got away... I did too. Gaaah! I got the willies just thinking of that one.

I grabbed a wild turkey once that was stuck in a fence. I fought that battle for maybe 1/2 of a second, got winged in the face, fell backwards down the ditch bank and cut my arm on something that the turkey pulled out of his boot. I will never ever grab another turkey in the wild that is not suffering heavily from death.

I was in an old barn of ours one night and a raccoon fell out of the ceiling of the loft and landed on my head. I KNOW I soiled myself on that one. Holy cow. I fell down over something in the dark trying to get away from whatever creature it was that was attacking me. Panic is always funny later on.

And I started this to tell y'all 'bout a cow that "rubbed" me this morning... eh well. Another time. :-)

It Ain't Always Posies And Pancakes

No matter how much we want things to go so smooth, it'd take 5 "o's" to spell it correctly... they usually don't.

Calving has been going real good up til yesterday. All that horrible weather, all that cold, all that mud... and we get a sunny 65 degree day and it's the one that turns into a bucket of turds spilled in the middle of your living room. Yesterday was one of 'em. Holy mackerel.

Death number 1. A first calf heifer gets upside down in a small depression in the ground while giving birth and dies. This happens pretty fast, you need to find them within about 30 minutes of them getting upside down or it's all over. A cow is a belching, farting machine. She's gotta let it go continually to keep from blowing up bigger than an August roadkill. During the birthing of a calf, there is no farting, just not enough room for it to come on past, so it's all belching... and actually there's none of that that takes place "on purpose" through the action of what an animal with a rumen does, but some slips past. So the cow by chance rolls into a small depression, her center of gravity is all thrown out of kilter with a 70-80 pound baby coming down the alley, and she can't right herself. So in the span of a few minutes she starts to gas up, ballooning grotesquely out of proportion, her inflated stomach pushes all her innards up into her lungs, compressing them.... until she just suffocates.

Death number 2. This heifer's calf. When the cow gasses up her brain stops the contractions, self regulating what oxygen she's able to suck up with her diminished lung capacity. Survival mode. The calf is already in the birth canal or part way out and needs to get on out to suck that first breath of air that it cannot while still halfway in the cow.

Death number 3. An older cow gave birth on the edge of a ditch bank. Cows do this quite a bit, it reduces the directions that a predator can come in and snag the calf or attack the cow. She only has 180 degrees that she has to watch instead of 360. It appeared that this calf just tumbled off into the ditch that had about 2 foot of water in it, drew a breath and drowned.

Death number 4. Another heifer's calf. We don't really know what happened to this one. It came fine, it's mother was in good shape, she cleaned it up and all appeared well with it. Next time my uncle saw it about 2 hours later... it was dead. I felt it's ribs and bones thinking that maybe she had stepped on it, but it seemed to be all intact. Just one of those deals.

That was yesterday. How much of a loss you ask? The calves bring about $600 at sale time each. The heifer was a very nicely proportioned with a nice bloodline with a lot of potential for a long life of calving. She'd be somewhere in the $1200-$1500 range on a good day. A little over $3000 loss.

Hoo boy...

The good news, no death today!!

Here, this video of mine goes well with this, I've got the blues...

Making My Dad Crazy

Holidays always has my brother back home with my folks. Bill contracted spinal meningitis as a 1 year old baby and the fever caused irreversible brain damage. He navigates through life at about a 2nd grade level. Pretty happy most of the time, unless my folks are bugging him too much and then he becomes as bull headed as anyone you'll ever see. Anyone that can hold a smile back when Bill announces "I like you very much" has got something busted in their appreciation gland.

Anyway, Dad was feeling a little funky today and didn't want to make the 140 mile round trip to take Bill back to his place, so I drove him and my Mom down there this afternoon. Mom was on her best behavior, so that was cool. I bought ice cream at Sonic on the way home and became her hero for the day. Dad though...lol Dad likes to give instructions.

A for instance, and this is a classic. Dad will come down to the farm shop while I'm say... changing motor oil in a tractor or dozer or whatever. The concrete kills him anymore so he'll stand around for a little while then pulls up a chair beside where I'm working and give me step by step procedure doing something that I've done most like a few hundred times.

It kills my son when he hears it. Everything will be announced from the size of wrench that I need for the oil plug to where the new filter is (which is "filther" in Norm/Dad) stored in the shop, how much oil I'm gonna need, don't forget to note the hour meter reading and date, don't forget to prime the oil filters (filthers lol) don't over tighten the filters (filthers) and on and on. I really don't mind. I know he'd be doing it if he could stand to be on his feet much, and I always get a laugh from something he comes up with, so it's all cool if he wants to do that.

But I also like to tease and get maximum mileage from the "instructions" that he doles out. :-)

Today I've got my brother in the front seat of Dad's Lincoln beside me, and Miss Daisy in the backseat getting ready to give instructions of her own. Dad is standing beside the car in the garage and he suddenly pulls my door open.

Dad: "Jace, don't forget to get Bill's suitcase out of the trunk when you get down there"

Me: (playing dumb) What suitcase?

Dad: You know what suitcase... the only suitcase in the dang trunk.

Me: Ohhhh that suitcase.

Dad: Don't mess up my settings on my seat and stuff.

Me: *pushing and poking every seat adjustment button at once*

Dad: You damned honyock. What's wrong with you?

Me: *grinning*

Dad: The last time you drove my car you messed up all the heat and air stuff too. It's all programmed the way I like it. Just move the temperature button and leave everything else alone.

Me: *turning to Bill* Hey Bill, see all these buttons all over the dash? Just poke any of 'em that you want. We'll figure out what happens later... okay?

Dad: Bill, don't do what Jace says... he's just causing trouble.

And then Dad closes the door. I start to creep back out of the garage and I'll be danged if he didn't grab the door handle again and open my door!

Dad: Jace, drive careful.

Me: *maniacal laugh*

Dad: Shirley, fasten your seat belt back there.

Miss Daisy: Yes dear *heavy sarcasm*

Dad closes my door. I lock all 4 doors. I then step on the brakes and load her up a bit with the accelerator, with it in reverse.... and do a little reverse tire squealing outta the garage and out the driveway. Dad just standing there in the middle of the garage, mouth moving and lots of hand motions.

Miss Daisy: *laughing* Jace you oughta be ashamed.

Me: I am mom.

Bill: OH BOY!! HERE WE GO!

It was fun.

Another thing, my Dad has a gas mileage fetish. He ALWAYS checks his mileage every single time he fills up with gas. Years ago he had bought a new Chevy pickup that was just horrible on gas... A real stinker. The poor guy was pissed off every time he filled it up, so..... everytime I drove it without him, I made a point of stopping and putting in a gallon of gas. Maybe 2, but absolutely no more. This went on for months. He couldn't figure out how come he'd have these fits of greatly improved gas mileage out of the clear blue and everytime he'd mention it, I'd have to just stare at the floor while he discussed it with himself outloud.

I eventually confessed when he started talking about spending a bunch of money to get it fixed once and for all. If I remember he just looked at me and shook his head.

I get my entertainment where I can find it.

Roadkill!

The buzzards migrated back yesterday... good thing too! We're stop sign deep in dead stuff here in Missouri. The crows and coyotes and possums can consume only so much of this carnage, and a good percentage of them become roadkill themselves in the process of cleaning things up.

Sal and I ran into town today and must have been the full moon or something, but the body count was exceedingly high. So much in fact that we could have worked in 30 or 40 sessions of "Roadkill, The Game" in the 10 minute trip. On a chance I did a Wikipedia search for "roadkill". Solid gold, Eugene. I found out that someone (obviously Roadkill, The Game enthusiasts) had done some statistic compilation and the number that particularly snagged my attention...

Opossums - 19 million.

That's 19 million annually, nationwide, of one of the ugliest, nastiest, smelliest, thick headed creatures to ever walk the centerline and not make it on their own free will to the other side of the road.

That right there is a whole lotta possum. Gah!

Anyhow, on our way home we came upon some choice roadkill... a possum. Just your regular run of the mill, overgrown road rat, but arranged by chance in a pose that made Sal and I simultaneously cackle. I think I actually shot a load of the root beer I was sippin' on, out my nose.

To be honest, we both looked at one another and said "Picture!" I turned around and went back, Sally bailed out to risk death to snap some pics of this Pogo wannabe. I have no idea how to caption this, but Sal seemed to think he looked like he was trying to trip the next car that came by.






Thank God I married a woman with a warped sense of humor, huh?


Oh and a little sidetrip, while doing the Wikipedia search for Roadkill, lol I came across this guy... A professional wrestler known as "Roadkill, The Angry Amish Warrior". :-) Go get 'em Mose!