Twilight Zone/ Al Capone/ Rolling Stone/ Eva Perón


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  • Recent Finds

    This is part of the stuff I brought back from my dad's house.  My own chud greals.  All up for grabs.  Moastly Jazz/Fusion/R&B/Boogie/Fuzak/Whatever I thought would be good to learn bass from. You can right-click/open image in new tab/ for teh zoomage.

  • Donald Trump for President!

    I win the lottery.  I pay more in taxes that Sabadaba will earn in his entire lifetime.  Yet somehow, simultaneously, less than $750 a year.

     herself joins the Strut and, taken in by my sparkling wit and repartee, leaves Bill and marries me.

    She gets Bill's VW as part of the settlement.

    I crush my enemies, see them driven before me, and hear the lamentations of their women.

    I carry my schlong in a wheelbarrow.

    Damn L*o.  That's tough. At least mine was out like Buster Douglas.  The long haul, that's the worst way.

    You got this though.  Your thinking is clear.

    If you down for a transatlantic zoom with beers, holleur.

    I'll share this with the Strut because it's one of the few places on the internets where my family won't see it:

    Getting old fucking BLOWS.  (Not me, natch.  Mandems will attest to my ageless beauty.  And also attest to the power of my moisturising routine.  No, I'm talking about losing your parents. )

    I dunno how old you kids are, but I'll bet my bollocks to a barn dance, younger than me.  And at your age I used to think old age was like, an easy and sun-blessed bicycle freewheel down from your peak years of getting your kids through school and money in the bank (well, one out of two ain't bad) to a golden sunset over life's finish line in some bucolic vista.  Your folks would always be there to share their sunset years watching your own kids grow up.

    IT IS FUCKING NOT.  After the peak, it's a series of ever-worsening debilitating pile-ups, or straight-up, through-the-bastard-railings headlong plummets down the side of the mountain.  If you are lucky, you might wobble over the line with what is left of your shattered body sputtering its last breath.  I sat there last week watching my 82 year-old mum unable to identify herself in a photo despite wearing her best seeing glasses and a magnifying glass in front of them.  Knowing it's not going to get any better.  Macular degeneration.  She's also got osteoporosis.  And going deaf.  And hearing aid batteries last a week, and you need the eyesight and digital dexterity of an underage sweatshop worker to replace them.  She's never had a mobile phone.  She can't swipe up.  She couldn't read the screen if she could.  And they expect her to do Zoom calls with doctors?  Does nobody think of these things?

    And nobody wants to tell you this.  Not even your folks.  Every fucker is grinning on the funeral plan brochures.  Doesn't seem to matter if your are loaded AF or don't have a pot to piss in, the descent is littered with shit certain to fuck you up.  And now her manor is on lockdown so I'm not really supposed to visit.  My dad was the one doing the care there, and he was all there - until he had a heart attack out of the blue last month.  Life suddenly got an order of magnitude worse for mum.  And the other thing is ...  Despite your best efforts, she knows she's near the end and has got a knowing, weary "WHY FUCKING BOTHER?" attitude sometimes which is alien to me at my age.  Maybe it comes when you are 82.  Maybe you've earned it.  It's not going to turn around, is it?

    What knowledge am I trying to impart here?

    Expect this and plan better for it than we did.  Stay in shape for yourself and your kids.

    (Goes to get a Friday beer).

    Bless dem Strutmen dem.



    Was researching the old family tree after pops joined the choir invisibule and I knew my mum's side were all Scottish.  Here's a name for ye:

    "John Trane Train was born in 1702 in Muirkirk, Ayrshire."
    5th great-grandfather

    Next week : J i m s t e r finds out he's related to Archbishop Desmond Choo-Choo.