These days, it’s really simple — and easy — to be your own boss. Everything’s online now, and everyone is fully and totally trained to obey online directives, like “Buy Me”, and “Eat Me” and “Drink Me”.
Lewis Carroll was not only prophetic, he had a concept.
Look, advertising isn’t what it used to be. It useta was that you’d try to convince the customer to try your product, service or otherwise something that conveyed some form of wealth from one purse to another, and that included men.
The whole thing of carrying stuff in your pockets didn’t come along until pockets, which was very recent. Most men carried a pouch on their waistband or belt, if they had one.
Some didn’t. Quite a few didn’t. Actually, come to think of it, most didn’t. The guy with a belt was the exception, not the rule.
Ah, but now, everyone can purchase and wear a belt. It wasn’t always so. As a matter of fact, everything you needed to be a musician you had to carry with you, on the presumption that something would snap, sooner or later.
One of those things that definitely snapped back then (back then, back then) was Socrates. He snapped way before snapping was popular. Now, everybody snaps, and you don’t see any of that in the headlines.
All you see are the usual things, and you don’t need the news for that. Read Mark Twain Comic Reader for stories about his experiences with the U.S. Senate back in the 1800s, and you will note a definite similarity between the politicians of yesteryear and those of today.
Same games, different names. Actually, quite a significant number of names are the same ones you always see related to the Mayflower or the Daughters of the American Revolution or the Sons of the Pioneers.
No, wait, that was Roy Rogers’ singing group. I meant, of course, Sons of the Golden West, of which my stepfather, Paul Donner Spencer, was one — he was a descendant of George Donner, of “Donner Pass” fame.
So when Donner invited guests to supper, he’d send engraved invitations that read: “The Donners Would Love to Have You for Dinner.”
Naturally, people were curious, and many sent R.S.V.P.s and even attended, with the full expectation that they would be the very next course, but they weren’t.
Nothing strange happened at dinner, except my mother’s horrible Velveeta Cheese Meatloaf.
She figured out the recipe herself during the postwar years — that’d be the Second World War — sometime in 1946 or 1947, when meat was no longer rationed, but real cheese was impossible to get hold of in any form.
So the government cheese was processed into Velveeta, and that’s what most folks ate as cheese back in those days.
The thing was, you also couldn’t easily find canned goods on the shelves, and tomato paste was out of the question. Chef Boy-Ar-Dee didn’t have an outlet in our local grocery shop.
But there was a tomato product that was very similar to tomato paste, and it had been developed by Heinz just for wartime use — Heinz’s Tomato Ketchup.
My mother would lavishly spread the Velveeta cheese on top of the meatloaf, which had already been mixed with the Miracle Extender, which was breadcrumbs from leftover toast, and at least partially baked.
Then into the oven it would go again, until the Velveeta melted, which was almost immediate, and she’d then slide the oven shelf out, exposing the meatloaf, and then she’d pour the whole bottle of Heinze ketchup onto the melted pseudo-cheese.
She might or might not sprinkle some herbs on top, and then bake it for another few minutes, pop it out of the oven, and slice n’ serve, along with some mashed potatoes with a blob of margarine.
That was the meal. Take it or leave it.
If I left it, I’d get it served again the next morning, instead of cereal, so I made sure to eat it, and I even asked for seconds, just to make sure I’d get my breakfast cereal.
That was, for me, a big treat. The biggest possible cereal treat was, of course, the little boxes that you got to cut with a butterknife, in an “H” pattern, then you’d lift the two resulting tabs, fill the inner waxed-paper insert with milk, sprinkle a bit of sugar on top, add a few berries or banana slices on that, and devour the whole thing, right there with no bowl but the tiny cereal box itself.
Back in the day, it didn’t get any better than that, and that’s why I’m here now.
What I mean is, I’d really be appreciative if folks picked up one or more of my NFTs that I’ve got up for sale on sourdough.com — no, that’s not it, that can’t be right. Was it “OceanSpray”? No, that’s my favorite brand of canned cranberry sauce.
I had some the last time I had turkey, which was 1957.
I dunno, for me, turkey has always been a non-starter. I find it “gamey”, in the same way that I find fish and fish eggs “fishy”.
Not that I dislike fishy, I don’t. I used to eat a 3 lb. Maine lobster every week, when I could get it, right up to 1959, when I stopped eating seafood because I didn’t like the taste of something — turned out to be mercury and iodine, both of which are “no-no”s on my particular Dr. Pepper Diet.
That’s right, Dr. Pepper. Keeps the weight on, keeps the weight off, and I’ve been a patient of Dr. Pepper since kindergarten.
He was the one in kindergarten, not me. Hell, I didn’t even start selling my artwork until I was 19, and that meant paying taxes.
I’ve paid them ever since.
It’s not that I’m complaining, but I have paid my taxes fair and square, no messing around, no fudging, forever — so what I want to know is, are you guys okay? Do you need more, or can you do with what you’ve got?
I worry about the government. They seem so utterly incompetent, so incredibly helpless. Oh, not all of them, just the ones who don’t happen to be in charge.
And then there’s the music scene, which is totally changing, along with sports and fashion, because of the NFT Revolution.
What’s the NFT Revolution?
It’s similar to the Kangaroo Hop. It’s the very latest craze, and if you’re not doing it, everyone is going to look at you as if you’re crazy.
Really. The Kangaroo Hop. Truly.
Now, it should be obvious to you that what I’m really trying to say is so obscure that even if it’s spelled out loud, it won’t be understood.
That’s why I’m making a muffled shout of “Hooray for our side!”, which is what we shouted when Lady Godiva passed us, riding side-saddle.
Animated NFTs or stills? That is the question.
See You At The Top!!!
gorby