captainsblog | Fishy Things....

I began my weeknights with Hot Tuna. We ended them with the colder variety.

Let's review:

Monday, I had, or at least thought I had, an in-office appointment with a representative from the client on Case 1 of 2, the client for whom I was sent down a rabbit hole and then was summarily fired (much to my joy) from 2 of 2. Turned out Monday was just a phone conference, they were less prepared for it than I was, and I got done what needed to be done in order to get in a workout with one of my favorite trainers before the end of the day. He'd moved to Florida last year as part of a corporate "promotion," hated it, moved back here to one of their franchise-owned locations, and turned up back at the ones nearer to me this week. He's a cool guy with a cool family and I'm happy for his success.

That gave me just enough time to eat, feed animals and head back, downtown in the rain (6:30 on a Monday night), to see two greats from the 60s along with two newer-to-me actual performers I've met and love:

Larry Campbell and Teresa Williams opened for our friend Lucy Kaplansky at a club near Albany a couple of years ago. She spoke the world of them, and once they started playing, it was clear why; their performance was perfection, their stage presence intoxicating. So when I got an email, months ago, that they'd be opening here for the legendary Hot Tuna, I booked it in as much for them as for the headliners.

I'd seen half of Hot before: Jorma Kaukonen, during one of his many breaks from Airplane and Hot Tuna, entered what I call his "unfortunate punk period." It included a stop in Ithaca in probably 1979 that I attended with one or more of my roommates; the Vital Parts repertoire consisted mostly of their lead singer screaming out Airplane lyrics while Jorma tried to stay stoned enough to forget the whole thing. I never caught the whole original Airplane lineup, or Starship, or Jorma's on-off-mostly-on acoustic duo with Airplane bassist Jack Casady.... until Monday night.

First, Larry and Teresa played. Continuing my tradition of Injured Performers in Buffalo Tour, the two of them came out with Teresa rocking a gorgeous shawl. One song in, Larry explained it was to hide his wife's sling; she'd just had shoulder surgery, and she would be guitar-less for the evening. Fortunately, one of Hot Tuna's roadies is an accomplished guitarist in his own right; Myron Hart, not son of the Dead's Mickey Hart, but rather son of Myron "Pete" Hart of the Hart Brothers. That's him on their left:

(Photo credit Pete Morris, who attended the show with a much better phone than mine;)

They played for almost an hour, which for an opener is pretty generous. They played a bunch of their own songs, several from that most recent album, one co-written with Larry by William Bell, who years before wrote a little ditty with one Booker T. Jones called "Born Under a Bad Sign." They also did a number from one of their Woodstock friends named John Sebastian- one he performed AT Woodstock.

The price of admission was now covered. When they took their break, I got them to autograph the latest album-

- and then awaited the return of (as I was calling them this night) Hot Oatmeal. Jack and Jorma had joined them for their finale:)

I don't know their discography as well as Airplane or Starship- our only CD of theirs is an odd one-off they recorded on a NYC FM station during the splashdown of the Apollo-Soyuz flight in 1975. I don't think they did anything from that, mostly traditional old blues songs. Jorma definitely still has "it" on guitar and vocals; Jack mostly sits in the back and picks his oversize bass; he may be proof that after you die, your fingernails continue to grow and can still play chords.

I left after they did Airplane's "Good Shepherd." Pete got one last shot of the four of them, where you can draw your own conclusions as to the state of Jack's pulse:

(I'd thought about adding a second show to my list this week- Harry Chapin's family, including his daughter Jen, who I met not quite three years ago, is doing their annual Christmas show tomorrow night not far from Saturday's hockey venue, but plans surrounding that have not materialized and I'm going to pass.)

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Tomorrow morning, before I leave on my journey, I am checking out a new judge in Buffalo for a case he'll be getting in February, and then visiting Surrogate's Court over a case where I was apparently named executor. Our longtime neighbor Sally, who lived one house from us from the weekend we moved here in 1994 until she sold in 2012, passed away in early October. Only today did I find this out, from one of her two Battling Daughters. I'd reluctantly agreed years ago to serve as an alternate executor, but found today that she'd rewritten her will a few years ago (without telling me) to make me primary. I do not want to get involved, but I will review papers tomorrow before making my probable decision to beg out.

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Also early last week, my car shopping ended about as soon as it began.

A local dealer had a Chevy Volt for me to test drive. Not the current model, but close enough. I loved it; smaller than Eleanor's plugin, but perfect for me. Then we got into the numbers.

The Volts have not gone to Going Out Of Business prices despite GM announcing its demise, and the pre-trade price would have doubled my current car payment. Then they checked out JARVIS, and the price went up. Despite me being three years into a zero-percent purchase deal, I am upside-down on the car now, for two stupid reasons. One: Mercedes' discontinuance of the manufacture has decreased the resale value of the ones on the road. Second, and more annoying: there's an accident on my car's Carfax report. I said, Huh?, until I remembered: two summers ago, I supposedly dinged an Acura in my gym's parking lot. My car didn't have a scratch on it, but Mrs. Stepford Wife claimed my lil car had damaged her tank to the tune of 1200 bucks. Despite me and witnesses being ready to contest it, my insurance sucked it up and paid at least some of it, but the alleged damage to MY car is now turning out to be the issue.

Fortunately, Tuesday afternoon, I was awarded every penny of fees in one of my nightmare cases, which was enough impetus for me to schedule the $1000-plus repair on my car for the end of next week. (Since the paying party on those fees is the State of New York, there's some question about when, exactly, they'll be paid, but at least there's hope.)

After scheduling the damn repair, I vaguely remembered that federal law requires extended warranty coverage on emissions systems, which this part is part of. I brought out the warranty book from my trunk/backseat/whatever; ultimately I concluded that some parts, but not this one, get extended coverage, but I got a chuckle out of the deal at least when I saw the warranty book:

Honest, I didn't realize, until I pulled the manual out, that the words above the pictures were on the plastic bag and not on the warranty itself;)
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And then there's the cat.

Despite last week's diagnosis, Zoey's been playful and ravenous and generally herself. Eleanor looked into some quality of life treatments for her, connected with a local hospital pharmacist who dispenses CBD oils for animals, and she was supposed to pick up a trial dose yesterday morning. The pharmacist missed the appointment, but that might be just as well, because Eleanor noticed last night that the growth in Zoey's mouth seemed MUCH smaller.

A call to the vet, a prescription from. She's now on a two-week antibiotic course to see if it's Wot We Thot It Was after all. And it may still be the horrible fatal we thought it was, but at least she won't be felled by some secondary infection in the meantime.

It's a liquid med, administered by syringe down her gullet. They told us she would not be pleased, and they were right. But Eleanor opened a can of tuna and set aside a good chunk of it in her food bowl after the first treatment was over, and she forgave us pretty quickly. We will do the morning dose tomorrow before I leave, and then we have backup to help for Friday night and both Saturdays when I'm otherwise engaged.

At least she's likely easier to treat with this shit than Jack Casady would've been;)