Richard Jernigan -> RE: New Torres at guitar salon (Jan. 24 2015 16:08:14)
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Last time I was in San Bernardino was some time in the 1980s. I used to go to Norton Air Force Base regularly on business. One time I got to the hotel, unpacked and noticed I had failed to bring anything to read. Hopped in the rent-a-car, went in search. After checking a half dozen places, the best I could come up with was a Spanish language edition of Mad Magazine. (Broad, lowbrow satire in comic book format.) Another time I had spent a day at Norton on a "black" project. The documents I brought qualified for an armed guard. We drove in my car from Santa Barbara, with another car trailing us. On the way back, having dropped off the papers in the vault at Norton after the meeting, we stopped at the San Bernardino Harley Davidson dealer to buy a battery for my bike. To my surprise, the guy behind the parts counter was wearing his San Bernardino Hell's Angels colors. For those who may not know, Hell's Angels are a notoriously violent criminal motorcycle gang. In those days the San Bernardino chapter was second only to the founding chapter in Oakland for its evil reputation. We were dressed in suits and ties. Seeing our apparel, the gangster began to give us some lip. I said, "Just bring us the battery. We didn't come in here to listen to your f***ing bullsh1t." Briefly startled, the parts guy was still alert enough to take in my companion's buzz haircut, cheap blue suit, shiny black shoes, level stare and the pistol bulge under his coat. Without a further word he fetched the battery and said, "Anything else I can do for you, sir?" When we got back to the car my companion said, "It's probably not a good idea to push it with those guys." "Yeah, sorry. It was a frustrating day at work. If you want I'll buy you a bistec ranchero at the Familia Diaz Restaurant in Santa Paula on the way back." "I like the chile verde." "Done." A good friend--flamenco guitar playing buddy--accompanied me on a business trip to San Bernardino. He usually ran 8 or 10 miles a day. He went out in the morning, came down with a sore throat and bronchitis from the air pollution. At one point I was living half the time in Austin, half the time in Palo Alto, California. I decided to bring my car from Austin to California. My 16-year old son accompanied me for a visit to California. He had a buddy in school who had lived in Redondo Beach. From his buddy he had heard about the beach, surfing, California girls. I played a trick on my son, entering the sprawling Los Angeles urban area from the high desert, driving through San Bernardino, Ontario, etc. on Interstate 10. My son looked right and left, surveying the utterly ravaged landscape, abandoned steel mills, slums and choking smog. "So this is L.A.?" he asked. "Suburbs," I replied. He brightened up a bit when we checked into the Portofino Inn on the Pacific Ocean shore in Redondo Beach. The next day he was positively chuffed when we walked up the beach as far as Manhattan Beach, surveying acres and acres of beautiful teenagers in tiny bikinis. I would kind of like to play that Torres myself. The trebles sound more like a mezzo soprano than a coloratura, or even a high contralto. Reminded me a little of Brune's Barbero. I bet it would bark if you pushed it. RNJ
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