Jimmy Buffett - The Great Filling Station Holdup /Why Don't We Get Drunk

A nice brisk 55 degrees for our walk this morning. Perfect weather for me, Cooper, and anyone whose thermostat is permanently set to "October."

I was rooting around in the undocumented 45 boxes this weekend when I spotted a record and thought, "Well, this could be relevant." With gas prices always finding a way to sneak back into the conversation, I figured it might have something to say about wars, oil, or international chaos. Nope. Apparently the blame had already been reassigned elsewhere. Funny how that works.

One thing I've noticed over the years is that nobody in politics seems eager to accept responsibility for anything. Success is always theirs. Failure belongs to somebody else. If narcissism had a frequent flyer program, some folks would be lifetime platinum members.

And then there's the empathy problem. Regular people are standing at the pump wondering whether filling the tank now requires a small business loan, while the people making speeches seem remarkably insulated from the consequences. I genuinely hate politics because it often feels like the agenda doesn't include you or me, just whoever happens to be sitting at the UN-GROWN-UPS table this week.

Instead of elected officials holding each other accountable, they circle the wagons like an old western. Arrows flying, dust everywhere, and everybody pretending the situation is completely under control. A reporter asks a direct question. Out comes the carefully rehearsed party-line answer. All this while we are actually seeing in real time how things are "really going" and it's a completely different movie than the rehearsed answer. Would someone in the Government please grow a spine already.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are dealing with reality. High gas prices. Stories about people driving off without paying at the pump. Not exactly the "Great Filling Station Hold-Up," although Jimmy Buffett probably would have found a rhyme for it.

That brings us to the B-side, where questionable decision-making graduates from the gas station to the bar stool. Add alcohol, confidence, and a complete lack of foresight, and suddenly everyone becomes the star of a story that begins with, "You won't believe what happened last night..." and ends with somebody explaining things to a judge, a spouse, or both.

Sometimes I think those old 45s aren't collectibles at all. They're historical documents proving that people have been blaming the wrong things and making bad decisions long before social media gave them a bigger audience.

The X-Rays - Out of Control/Chinchilla

"Outttttaaaa Control... Outttttaaaa Control... didddda didddda dowah! The X-Rays are completely out of control on this short, sweet, and ridiculously infectious B-side. The A-Side Chinchilla... cha cha cha... comes wrapped in enough exotica swagger to make your living room feel like a 1960s tiki lounge.

This is the sort of platter that belongs spinning in a swinging bachelor pad while the martinis are cold and the conversation is questionable. Unfortunately, I'm fresh out of bachelor pad, martinis, and bachelor status. My better half would likely greet such ambitions with a well-aimed cast-iron skillet, and frankly, I value my health too much to test the theory.

Besides, keeping one woman happy is a full-time occupation. A side piece sounds like management-level work, and I'm barely qualified for my current position. Those arrangements seem better suited for suave playboys in glossy cocktail magazines than a fellow who spends his spare time chasing obscure 45s. And let's be honest, it would get Out of Control pretty quick once the side piece discovered the featured star of the A-Side song is a rodent. Nothing cools a romance faster than losing a popularity contest to a chinchilla. 

 
 

Spiritualights - He'll Make A Way/The World's Getting Farther Away From The Lord

I didn't think Super Cooper the Wonder Dog and I would get a walk today. Last night's forecast was calling for nearly a 100% chance of rain this morning, so I figured we'd be spending our Sunday staring out the window instead of wandering the neighborhood.

Then I woke up at 4:00 a.m., wide awake for no good reason other than apparently my internal clock had clocked in early. I checked the weather and suddenly the forecast had backed off to only a small chance of rain. I've learned over the years that sometimes you've got to seize the blessings when they appear, especially the unexpected ones.

So I started the coffee pot ahead of schedule, and by 4:30 a.m. Super Cooper and I were out the door. It was a little windy, but otherwise it was one of those perfect, quiet walks that remind you how much peace exists before most of the world wakes up.

Now I'm sitting here enjoying a fresh cup of New Mexico Piñon Coffee and watching the Sunday morning gospel lineup that helps get my soul pointed in the right direction: Dr. Merritt, Dr. Jeremiah, Amazing Facts, and Father Cedric Pisegna. There is something comforting about beginning the day with good coffee, good teaching, and a reminder that God is still on the throne despite what the headlines might suggest.

This morning's soundtrack is a gospel 45 that I don't even remember buying. That's one of the hazards of being a record collector. Sometimes I can tell you the exact place, date, and price of a record I purchased twenty years ago. Other times I'm digging through one of my many undocumented boxes and find something that makes me stop and ask, "How long have I had this?"

I always pick up gospel 45s when I find them. Sometimes, just based on the artist's name or label, it's about a 50-50 chance whether it turns out to be a Black Gospel record. In the case of this one, I had a good feeling about it because it was recorded at Mark Five Studios in Greenville, South Carolina. I've come across a few great records from that studio over the years to know that when I see that name, it's worth paying attention.

That's part of the joy of collecting. Every record is a little mystery waiting to be solved. Some are valuable. Some are rare. Some are neither. But every now and then one surprises you and becomes the perfect soundtrack for a Sunday morning.

These early Sunday mornings are becoming some of my favorite moments in life. Good coffee. A good spiritual word. A faithful dog by my side. And wonderful, obscure gospel 45s that have somehow waited decades to be heard again.

The older I get, the more I realize that happiness isn't usually hiding in the big moments. It's tucked away in these quiet hours before sunrise, when gratitude arrives unannounced and God's blessings sound remarkably like a scratchy gospel record spinning at 45 RPM.

The Tikis - Lost My Love Today/Bye Bye Bye

No fantastic stories today. It did get me wondering, though, how many of us have these little tales that are fascinating to us but land somewhere between "mildly amusing" and "please stop talking" for everyone else. I shared yesterday's adventure with my staff, and I'm pretty sure their collective takeaway was, "Well, that certainly explains a lot."

In fairness, the line between "great story to tell later" and "featured prominently in next year's Darwin Awards" is probably about the thickness of a human hair. Some people collect accomplishments. I apparently collect cautionary tales- and I have more than my fair share.

As for today's useless-but-vital music trivia: The Tikis first recorded this gem around the time of their debut Autumn 45 and for for reasons known only to record executives and possibly extraterrestrials named themselves as The Other Tikis. When it was finally released on Warner Brothers, they were back to being The Tikis. It promptly achieved absolutely no chart action whatsoever.

If you notice, the Warner Brothers stock copy has both songs listed as A-sides, while Autumn actually had the courage to pick a favorite and designate an A and B side. Apparently Warner Brothers subscribed to the "let the people decide" school of marketing, whereas Autumn preferred the more traditional "we'll decide for you" approach.

In a fascinating demonstration of record industry strategy, neither method produced even the slightest hint of chart success. So the verdict is in: whether the public chooses, or the record company chooses, absolutely nobody chooses if nobody's buying the record. Still, it's a fun little label variation. Warner Brothers basically looked at these tracks and said, "We're not taking sides here." The listening public responded, "That's okay, we're not taking either side."

Undaunted by a complete lack of commercial success, they changed their name yet again and eventually found sunshine-pop fame as Harpers Bizarre. So in the end, persistence paid off. Or maybe they just finally stopped changing their name every fifteen minutes.

Anyway, thank you for attending today's completely useless TED Talk. So say thank you for allowing me to replace whatever useful information was occupying a small corner of your brain. The information you've just absorbed has now displaced something far more important from your memory. If you suddenly can't remember where you left your car keys, wallet, reading glasses, or why you walked into the kitchen, I'm sorry, I can only apologize on behalf of The Tikis, The Other Tikis, and The Tikis again. But on the bright side, you now know the complicated naming history of a moderately obscure 1960s vocal group, which is obviously the more practical life skill. 

Ray Pollard - The Drifter / Let Him Go

When I was in college—the first time, when I was about 21 and apparently renting m, y judgment by the hour—a friend and I cooked up the brilliant idea of hopping a freight train over summer break. The tracks ran past Colorado State and headed south, which was all the itinerary two young geniuses needed. We figured we’d wind up in Texas, New Mexico, or Arizona. Details, such as which train went where, how we’d get home, and whether freight trains accepted passengers with no tickets and even less sense, were left to fate.

 Fortunately, the train never came. So we activated Plan B: get in the car and drive to Utah, visiting Goblin Valley, Moab, Archesand Glen Canyon like slightly more responsible idiots. 

Looking back, that missed train was less a disappointment and more divine intervention with a timetable. The trains that roar through town here in the mornings are moving so fast that, had we tried to jump aboard one, our adventure might have lasted four seconds and ended very badly. Even if we had made it on, we could have been arrested, stranded in a town we’d never heard of, or introduced ourselves to a serial killer who appreciated door-to-door service. 

And somehow we assumed we’d simply catch another perfectly convenient freight train back to Fort Collins, as if the railroad operated a special round-trip package for clueless college students. Being a drifter sounded romantic for a week. Actually drifting would probably have delivered a world of pain, hunger, and deeply regrettable footwear. Ah, youth: when confidence is unlimited, planning is optional, and survival is partly dumb luck.

Twiggy - Over And Over/When I think Of You

Girl Group Thursday continues with a U.S. promotional 45 on Capitol complete with picture sleeve from Twiggy.

I'm not entirely convinced these were the most flattering photos they could have chosen for the sleeve, but then again, I'm neither a photojournalist nor a marketing guru. Still, considering the record wasn't exactly a hit, perhaps they could have jazzed things up a bit. Buyers can be a fickle bunch. Sometimes they hate the song but think, "Oooh la la, look at that sleeve," and suddenly they're heading to the checkout.

Twiggy was undeniably a cultural icon and one of the defining faces of the 1960s. Her music career, however, never quite made the same impact. She managed three minor hits in the UK, but the charts were ultimately far less interested in hearing her sing than they were in seeing her on magazine covers.

In other exciting middle-aged homeowner news, roof work is scheduled to begin later this month. I have absolutely no idea what the wood underneath the metal on my upper roof looks like, which is either a very good thing or a very expensive thing. There appears to be no middle ground.

I'm also thinking I may need to drape some plastic sheeting over the home office, which doubles as the record room. As much as I enjoy rare vinyl, I don't think "roofing debris variant" is a collectible category I want to start pursuing. One flying splinter landing on a stack of records and suddenly I'm crate digging through my own floor.

Until then, enjoy a little Twiggy and be grateful your hobbies probably don't require simultaneously worrying about obscure records and structural integrity.

The Jags -Party Games /She's So Considerate

Why not kick off Wednesday with a little Power Pop and get this train rolling? I'm feeling surprisingly human today after actually getting a decent night's sleep. Of course, my brain has apparently decided to use all that extra rest to produce some truly bizarre dream programming over the last few days.

The party games started the other night when I dreamed I was back with a couple of my old grade-school schoolmates who bullied me. We were running in line somewhere and were way behind everybody else. When we caught up, we were directed to crawl under a building to do foundation work. As if this is something you do as an adult with childhood bullies. As if that wasn't weird enough, one of them and I were having a perfectly normal conversation about a supervisor whose primary management technique was yelling "Holy Balls!" at regular intervals.

I'm not much of a dream interpreter, but I did recently see a picture of one of those bullies. Back in school he was one of the popular kids who looked destined for greatness. Now, based on what I saw, his job seems pretty ordinary. Then again, who am I to critique anybody's career choices? I spend a non-zero percentage of my free time sorting old 45s and debating whether a pressing variation is worth an extra five bucks.

The foundation work part probably came from last year when I spent quality time crawling under our house pulling out debris before getting it encapsulated. And the "Holy Balls!" guy? That likely came from my old high school football coach, who treated that phrase as both punctuation and a management philosophy whenever things weren't going according to his carefully crafted plans.

Whether it's a profound message about life, a warning about unfinished business, or simply my brain cleaning out its junk drawer, I have no idea. My subconscious apparently operates like a late-night DJ, taking requests from old bullies, a house encapsulation project, and a football coach shouting "Holy Balls!" and decided those tracks belonged on the same compilation album. I can't explain it, but I'd probably buy the record.