THE "HIGH FIVE"

We all know what the High Five is, so I won't bore my readers with an unnecessary description thereof. For those who are interested, however, it is generally accepted that the High Five was first done by Glenn Burke and Dusty Baker, both of whom were members of the Los Angeles Dodgers baseball team. This occurred on October 2, 1977.

Taken in its original context, that is, as an act of sudden exuberance among athletes on the field of play, I have no problem with the High Five.

However, for better or for worse, the High Five is now a mainstream phenomenon.

The following quote attributed to Jon Mooallem and Abdul-Jalil al-Hakim illustrates the High Five's evolution into the mainstream and is a good place to start when discussing its use outside of the athletic spectrum:

"The high five liberated everybody. It gave you permission to enjoy your high points. And not just in sports but at your kid’s spelling bee or your office after a killer PowerPoint presentation."

What?

The writers of the previous paragraph would have us believe that the High Five (as a quasi liberator) is a modern day Emancipation Proclamation that entitles all of us to slap hands  in all sorts of situations. I can imagine the following:

"Here comes the #17 bus to Omaha!" (HIGH FIVE)

"I just got my flu shot!" (HIGH FIVE)

"My cat coughed up a hair ball!" (HIGH FIVE)

"I'm scheduled for a colonoscopy next week!" (HIGH FIVE)

I argue that these examples aren't very far from reality. Note: it was my fervent hope that Covid-19 would put an end to the High Five. Alas, I was wrong.

If you have surmised that I'm not a big fan of the mainstream use of the High Five, you are correct. My disenchantment began at a Jimmy Buffett concert some years ago when two age twenty-something brutes who were sitting in front of my wife and I executed massive, dislocate-your-shoulder-elbow-and-wrist High Fives at the start of each song. I was betting that the ambulances would appear upon the start of "Margaritaville". Thankfully that didn't happen.

Nonetheless, when at a sporting event, concert, bar or any other place where people gather, there is a high likelihood of being subjected to a raised hand being held on high in search of another hand to complete the High Five.

A question: how does one (politely or not) turn down a High Five? A method that I've used is to put my hands in my pockets and turn my eyes away, pretenting not to see the hand that is within inches of my face. That usually works on all but the most insistent High Fivers. Here's another idea: those of us who would like to opt out of this practice should charge for our services. To that end, here's an idea that can't miss:

If you like the idea, throw me a High Five...and PayPal me a buck.

Readers, enjoy your day.

QR CODES

Does anyone know what QR codes are? I know two things about them:

- QR stands for quick response

- They are scan codes "on steroids"

The best thing about them is that, like the common cold, we all can have one.

How exciting! I'm reminded of the Steve Martin movie "The Jerk" when he proclaims that he has an identity because the new phone books are here and his name is printed in them, supposedly giving him personal legitimacy.

I don't know why I want or need a QR code, but I don't want to be left out.

Accordingly, in the spirit of blog legitimacy and I suppose for the convenience of both of my readers, if anyone would like speedy access to West of Denver, just copy the following QR code and you will be whisked away to the very blog that you are currently reading. Why you would want to do that I cannot possibly imagine but, like Steve Martin, West of Denver is now part of the Internet brotherhood of QR Code websites.

As an aside, if you look close enough and long enough at the above code you'll see a likeness of my Uncle Fred. (Not really.)

Readers, enjoy your day.

DOG "BUSINESS"

It's a subject that no one wants to address. That's the subject of dog "business".

You see them every day - dog owners taking their pets for a "walk". Yes, that's technically true, but the real purpose of the walk is to get the dog to do you know.

So, armed with small plastic bags and a look of frustration on our faces, we mutt parents trudge twice a day with our beloved child substitutes waiting for the moment of truth, as it were.

My dog "Gus" is a Welsh Corgi - they look like hamsters on steroids and they're so darned cute that nearly all passers-by can't resist petting the little buggers. Corgis love it and will eagerly walk an extra hundred yards out of their normal path to get doted on by smiling strangers. You can almost hear the wheels turning in the Corgi's small mind: "Oh boy, here comes a trio of Jack The Ripper, Godzilla and Charles Manson. Let's go and say 'hi'"!

Yesterday's "business walk" with Gus was an interesting experience. It was a blustery day with wind gusts exceeding thirty miles per hour. Limbs were falling from trees, leaves were blowing and dust was in the air. As a result, Gus was distracted and a distracted dog is not a productive dog, (if you know what I mean). So we walked. And walked some more.

Just as Gus was getting to the moment of truth, a well-meaning neighbor approached with a pocket full of dog biscuits and a litany of cute epithets to describe her love of my (now distracted) dog.

The walk goes on. The long-awaited moment of truth again approaches along with the appearance of a guy on a bike. Brakes are applied, down goes the kick stand and Gus goes into another petting-induced frenzy, forgetting about the job at-hand.

I have a great idea. I'm sure that most of us have seen the capes worn by service dogs - the ones that say "I'm a service dog and I have a job to do. Please don't pet me".

I'm thinking about buying my dog his own cape: "I'm Gus and I have a job to do. Go ahead and pet me anyway - you know you want to".

Readers enjoy your day.

BICYCLING WOES

PSSSSST.....THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

These are the sounds that cyclists dread. They are the unmistakable sounds of a flat tire. I happened to me this morning during my daily bike ride. In examining the damage to my three-day old super-duper, herculean strength tire, I noted that the flat was caused by a nail. In looking at my surroundings I saw that the flat occurred in front of ***'s Building Supply. You know, the type of place that sells lumber, plumbing and roofing supplies. Oh, yes - and fasteners, including NAILS. (Please note that I did not specify the name of the store as they were most likely not responsible for the nail that ended up in my tire.)

I experienced this inconvenience at a spot three miles from home. Facing my alternatives there was no other choice but to hoof it home, pushing my bike along the busy Washington State Road 19. Worse than the flat tire itself is the embarrassment of pushing rather than riding the bike. One could almost hear the laughter of the unsympathetic motorists whizzing by. In short, there were hundreds of cars and trucks which sped by me, offering nary a wink, nod or wave. I would have hoped that other human beings might stop and at least offer a few words of sympathy or encouragement.

"Need a lift?"

"Can I help?"

"Cup of coffee?

"Lemon bar?"

Alas, no assistance of any type was offered. Not that it was expected, mind you.

As always, I looked upon the experience as an opportunity rather than a problem. Accordingly, I was able to peruse the various roadside articles (trash, if you will) that have been presumably discarded by passing motorists. 

It was a veritable weekend garage sale of free stuff that is available to all. Along the way I gathered the following useful items: an Allen wrench, a small piece of styrofoam, a supermarket gift card and various coins totalling 35¢. Admittedly it was hardly a treasure trove but it gave me something to do on my walk home. 

But the best and most interesting item that I found was a construction pencil from a local building supply store. Here's a picture:

The irony of this find is unmistakable.

Readers, enjoy your day.

IN PRAISE OF CHEAP BEER

Some years ago I played in an old-time band. The musicians in the group were the most talented and fun group of people I’ve ever known. Our jams were loud, raucous and fun and our concerts and contra dances were equally so. What made our jams so much fun was the ever-present inclusion of beer. In fact, looking at these fine musicians, one would think that they were more of a vegan-granola crowd. Not so! Rather, they were a group of the hardest-core beer drinkers with whom I’ve ever had the pleasure of associating. 

To give you a feel for what our jams were like, picture 20-30 musicians complete with guitars, mandolins, banjos, fiddles and other assorted stringed instruments. Along with their instruments were various sizes of coolers strewn about each containing various brands of beer. 

There was one guitarist in the group who never brought any beer. Unfortunately, “Jim” would always select a spot next to me during our jams. Predictably he would ask me what brand of beer I happened to bring. At that time I was into the emerging IPA variety and would reveal the label of the bottle to him. He was quick to ask “Is it any good?” to which I would casually reply that I liked it. He would be put off by this response and would proceed to ask various detailed questions about the product such as where it was brewed, types of barley and hops used, water source, brewery employee relations, etc. One satisfied that the beer was up to his high standards he would reach into my cooler and help himself to a free beer. On an average night, of my six-pack he would consume four and I would get two.

After about four weeks of Jim’s grand larceny of my beer, I switched to the cheapest crap that I could buy. You know the kind - it’s usually at the end of the beer aisle in rusted cans that proudly proclaim that the beer was “aged in the truck”. Needless to say, Jim took umbrage to the fact that my beer selection was offensive to his refined palate. After several weeks of rejecting my cheap, disgusting and offensive beer, he selected another place to sit, far away from the perils of the nasty swill whose quality matched that of my guitar playing.

So, to both of my readers, I would like to leave you one small nugget of wisdom. If you happen to be sitting someplace with a cooler of beer next to you and should someone sit next to you and ask you if your brand of beer is any good, quickly respond:

 “Oh hi, Jim. No, it’s pretty lousy stuff.”

Readers, enjoy your day.

STORAGE

The following article came from the May, 2021 edition of the monthly AARP Magazine. To call it fascinating would be a vast understatement. I would describe it as astonishing. In brief, the article illustrates the remarkable pile of useless crap that we Americans have accumulated. So much so that we have to rent additional spaces outside of our dwellings to accommodate the volumes of various items which we refuse to sell, give away or otherwise get rid of. In our little town there are storage units galore - seemingly one per mile. Given the large number of local storage rental units, it would seem that availability would not be an issue. In fact, there's a long wait to acquire one of these rentals - at present, six months or longer.

So, take a look at the article below. It tells the story way better than I can.

Readers, enjoy your day.

 

LOST

Over the years of my producing this blog I’ve written about my love of guitars. I’m not real sure if it’s a love of guitars or a love of buying and selling guitars. After some consideration I’m guessing that it’s the latter. This proves beyond a reasonable doubt that the act of losing money is addictive. 

The past two weeks have involved my selling three Fender Strats, all of which I have sworn that I would never sell. The wife has learned to interpret that phrase as “I will never sell this guitar in the next 3 days.” 

As is common in my marathon selling sessions, the minute I sell off unwanted instruments, my fingers magically drift to Craigslist to look for castaway guitars that have lost favor with their owners. Craigslist is a guitar freak’s godsend - eager sellers, reasonable prices and cash only.

Now, to the subject at hand.

Let’s rewind the clock to the mid-1960’s. One of my first guitars was a model called a “Texan” made by the Epiphone Company of Kalamazoo, Michigan. I was very taken by the sound of this guitar when I tried it out in a music store. In fact, I passed over more notable brands such as Gibson and Martin in favor of buying the Epi Texan.

I kept that guitar through my years in the military and during college. This is where things get a bit weird. For the life of me I cannot remember what happened to my Epi Texan. Did I sell it, give it away, pawn it, lose it in a bet? 

No matter - it’s gone.

To make things worse, I have learned that 1964 Epiphone Texans are very valuable collectors items. This is due to the fact that a Beatles song was produced using the very same model of guitar that I used to own, thus sending its value through the roof.

The final miserable chapter to this story is the fact that I can’t recall the name of the Beatles song in question.

All I know is that this experience has left me with some terrible emotional scars. Ultimately my feelings are that:

I’m not half the man I used to be and that there’s a shadow hanging over me.

Readers, enjoy your day.