Been away for a few days. While on a whaling vessel chasing the oil needed to light our homes, I was captured by the natives of one of the mid-Pacific Marquises group. Horrifying cannibal experience. Glad I woke from that dream.


 Here in the real world I've been working on my computer. I bought a large hard-drive from Amazon and am transferring all my photo-work to a partition on the new drive. Doing all this externally.


In order to keep working on photos I deleted my catalog info on Adobe-Lightroom and re-imported them from the new drive. Next, I have to get some cans of compressed air so Josh (my son) can blow out all the dust inside my computer then install the new drive inside. Hope to be done soon.

Later,
Bob C.

WhipLash...Crack!!!

 

Kind of late in the day but at least I'm out of Bob's noggin for a while. I'm sure most people still know me from my first hit "Old Honky Tonk Truck." I spent the last 20 summers hitting the fairground circuit, television specials and anywhere possible to sell my music. 

In all the years and memorabilia, guess this old poster sums it up. As Whiplash I still live off my very first song. I don't mind. It made millions, created lots of jobs and boosted the sales of every note I've written and sung since.

Now don't get me wrong, I don't want to come off as a poser, but you must realize I am a businessman and to sell my music I need to look, talk and sing like my music. That's what I do every summer.


Wintertime I disappear. It's a question I get from all the late-night television host. Never told them and they never found out. The National Inquirer spent quite a lot of money trying to locate my hiding spot, but they too were unsuccessful. I will share it with you here for the first time.

Trinidad. Yes, named by Christopher Columbus himself. The place I inhabit is away from curious tourist and provides me with some wanted isolation. The locals just think I am a strange American with a dark past needing to hide somewhere.

In this manner I am able to write new songs, compose new music all winter in a warm beautiful place. I write maybe twenty keepers over four months time. Sell most to other artist and record a few myself the following spring. 


My neighbor tells me that Henri Cheriere, the famous Papillion who escaped from Devils Island spent some time right here in this villa on one of his failed attempts. 

Times getting short, so I'll leave you with an extra. Here is a photo of my first singing engagement. 


Later,
Bob C.

Oh yeah, I'm bad, who's your Reservoir Dog...

 

I love being a dog. Wish someone would come out and scratch behind my ear. Maybe I can get it with my back foot. Oh yeah, ooh, ooh, too hard. That's good enough. Been laying in the shade but look, there's a small hole in the fence. 


Better check it out, sniff, sniff, sniff. Holy Cow! Somebody stop this, please! I'm shrinking down being pulled into the hole... now on the other side expanding twice the size of normal.


Panting in panic, heart racing I'm flying all over, no control, out of control. Not my doing so better not be no scolding when this is over.


Although my legs are rigid and sprawled out, it's getting bearable as my heartbeat eases slightly and I gain some balance. Looking back, I still see my yard even though I'm blasting through pure empty nothingness.

 

By no action on my part a foreign shore looms into view and I gently slow and am eased onto the sandy beach. Unnoticed I have come to rest behind a treacherous looking character who is staring menacingly at two young boys. He is blocking their path and they are terrified.  

Moving close behind him, I give a low rumble in my throat and bump him with my muzzle. Seeing me his knees go shaky and he wet himself, (at that age and not house broke yet)? Thankfully he runs away leaving the boys alone. They crawl all over me and I'm loving it. They even know where to scratch behind both ears.

I took the boys close to where a frantic mom and dad were searching for them. I left so my great size would not worry the parents even more.

Back I went into the cosmos by no will of my own on a return odyssey to and through the hole in the fence. Can't explain it but after all I'm a dog and I head right back to my shady spot.

Later,
Bob C.

 I do my little turn on the catwalk...

Sorry folks must jump the line here. Things to do. Damn, landed on some bumpkin country road. Maybe a Billy-Joe will come by in a pick-up truck seeing these great legs and give me a lift to civilization. I have a runway fashion walk set for tonight and need to be there on time.

A ten-year-old Buick slowly pulled up and an elderly grandma asked if I could use a ride. She offered me a cute little dress that her niece had left in the car which I was thankful for. We had comfortable conversation all the way to the main highway where, going opposite directions I got out to search for another ride.





 
One after another these soccer moms blew right on by like I was invisible. "Whoops, there goes another soccer mom." Finally, a nice couple gave me a ride all the way to the city. They were so amazed to have a famous model in the car and drove right to the Four Seasons front door.



I had two hours of preparation getting my hair and makeup taken care of finishing the show wearing a great looking strapless dress in a teal color. The crowd was pleased, and the photographers worked me over from every angle. It was a great night and they gave me the dress due to a small flaw in the hem.

After the show I walked down the block where a couple of brothers were playing some pretty smooth music. Going inside letting my eyes adjust to the low light, I had a drink to relax. A real nice guy, seemed somewhat familiar but I just couldn't place him, gave me a ride back in a beautiful red sport car. 

It seems to all fade after that. before rejoining the throng inside Bob's thick skull. (What a mess in here, he has no idea!)



Later,
Bob C.

 One of these mornings, sure gonna leave this town...

 

Cold wind circled me as I sat knee-hugged with an oversized coat drawn around me like a blanket.
Jumped between two empty coal cars on a train headed to Wyoming for a fresh load of anthracite. 
Rolling through small cities and towns, each has white billows of steam pouring out of every heat source and exhaust.

The train made a stop in Eaton, Colorado returning four empty grain cars to be reloaded. I hopped off my cold steel perch.

All four rail-cars filled with livestock feed would head south for Texas in the morning. Don't want to miss that ride with winter setting in.

I spent the day dodging the law, staying out of everyone's way. Bought some food, stole some cigarettes and looked for a place to sleep. Found an abandoned truck next to a junkyard and crawled in. Filled with dust, dried leaves and weeds, it was cold, so no need to worry about rodents. It snowed all night.

 



 Early morning, still dark the cold woke me up. I found a spot to conceal myself and hopped on my new ride as soon as it was moving south. Don't want to end up like Hobo Bill, sad, sad song. Won't let you call me Bill, but Jeffrey is OK.


Later,
Bob C.


.

Interesting story follows...

Early this warm clear morning, I decided to get the red Jag out of the weeds and wash it. Looked great so I put the top down, went to Denver for a nice dinner and some cool jazz.

In 1947 a single mother delivered twin boys at Denver General hospital. With an amazing unique idea of humor she named both boys Robert. Being identical they would not be able to pull the famous twin switch on her. She would say Robert quit playing your foolish tricks on me, I know it's you. I never found the complete story of the mother but am still researching.

The boys after struggling with education, due no doubt to endless teasing about their shared name, went by the nickname Bob. Later in life they became famous as the Bobs Twins. Not being old enough, I never understood the humor or significance of the title. I later found a reference on Google to an old book series about some twin children.

Both boys loved jazz and excelled on each their own choice of instrument. Bob, being laid back blows smooth syncopated riffs on a saxophone. He also does imitations of other famous musician styles, Coltrain, Parker, and Cannonball Adderly just to name-drop a few.

On the other hand, Bob played the trumpet, much in the style of Miles Davis his hero and mentor. Bob of trumpet fame always followed the lifestyle of a hipster as he still does in his 70's.

I spent the evening absorbing their talents and feeling the thrum of sweet jazz through my system as they finished the last set. Met a beautiful girl at the club and offered her a ride. With the cool night air I kept the top up on the Jaguar and the honest conversation going all the way home, happy to be alive and young. Gotta get up tomorrow and start preparing the tractor for fieldwork now that its spring.

I want to mention how grateful I am to get out this near to the front of the line with my story. There is a whole crowd of us in here and it's quite a jostle to hold your place in line since Bob started this blog. Everyone has a story to tell and wants to be one of the first. I'm getting right back in line as I already have another one ready. It will be a while though because the line is so long. I got a name but not quite ready to share it yet.





Later,
Bob C.

Real or imaginary? Don't know...

While in Paris, couple of weeks ago, I met two pretty French girls on bikes. Invited, I rented a bike and we had a great time riding uptown somewhere on the Rue De Tolbiac. I crossed the street to get a quick picture of the two lovers before they advanced when a beautiful 1963 Studebaker Avanti made a turn right in front of me. Got a great photo of it as the girls fumbled around trying to get to their phones.

Later we racked the bikes to enjoy a break and found a long narrow park filled with yellow butterflies. Must have been a murgle of them (something between a crow murder and a goose gaggle).  While I tried to get a close-up photo of a butterfly, allusive Adele of the female union caused a distraction. Wanting an opinion of her cute lesbian underwear, she lifted her short dress.

The underwear seemed pretty but I was too distracted by the beautiful unattainable form they held. Darn French women anyway!

Later,
Bob C.