Thunderbird Club

[Gaolee]

@Larry V and @Gaolee, if it's any consolation, my second job is taking care of my aunt and uncle on the weekends, every weekend. And it's a full time gig, non-stop. A full work week then out to Jersey for the weekend, I'm shot Sunday night and little time to regroup to start all over again.

Your second job is much tougher than anything I have to do. I'm certainly not complaining. Just whining. It's what I do.

 

[Gaolee]

Marco left the meeting. He didn't like it when the boss got desperate, and this was marked as a desperate move. Going into homes to "Deliver" or to "Equalize" was not his cup of Hooch. But it was on. He needed to erase the experience of the volatile sit-down, if even for an hour. He decided he'd roll over to that watering hole he'd passed on the way to the warehouse, maybe there was a band or something interesting. The music always waited in the wings for him, ready to distract, seduce. His near-run-in with a career as the bass player for the Lonnie Welch Blues Review haunted his days, and sometimes nearly owned his nights.

Here it was...

"Now this is fun stuff right here...", he almost muttered aloud as he made it around the massive, hand carved post at the end of the breezeway into the barroom. The band was delivering a hot, gritty-but-elegant, volts-driven 16-bar blues from the poorly-lit stage on the far side. A few heads looked up from their meditative reveling as he stumbled over a loose floorboard and navigated his way to the bar. He made out the Vinty-looking Gibson (or probably a Gibson) Thunderbird bass, sparsely illuminated at house right of the tiny stage, rocking as if fixed to some alien pivoting assembly. He found it strangely unnerving, but riveting... that was the engine, the center of it all.

He broke his reverie to give the room a casual survey- the place was nothing if not atmospheric, and that in spades. A small gaggle of heavies in leather jackets and colors presided over a small patch of floor-space by the pinball machines and a jukebox at the far end of the room; some locals who might've just come off the set of the Red Green Show, and their women were sharing the space amicably. The bar was distributed with working girls, salesmen and college-age patrons, and the remaining floor-space was abuzz with what appeared to be the balance of a regular Friday night crowd, fully engaged in the celebration of the weekend.

He brought his attention back to the small combo, which looked as if it might fall to pieces at any moment, doing 60 down a sonic dirt road, held together by the mere forward intent of its purpose. His sensibilities rippled at such density- and seamless cohesion- from three faceless, codgery-looking characters with little dinosaur amps and an apparently unfinished drum kit that would've made Ringo balk... "How we doing boss?" He turned and ordered a Guiness from the smiling man behind the bar. "Who're these guys?" he asked while the man commenced the slow process of tapping the heavy, foamy brew. "That's Slove's band", he answered, as if everybody, of course, Knew that. He stood advised...

Marco had only heard of Sloved Dovewing in rumor and mythology. The origin of Sloved's band was murkier, surrounded in smoke, myth, and bad liquor. And memories that should have become dim, but would not fade. Not for Marco, of course. Just for the members of the band. They had incredible energy and focus, as though they were driving decades of demons from the room, one ferocious note at a time. Marco resolved to find out how the energy could well up from the abyss and be channeled through three codgers. They looked like codgers anyway.

 

[Haji]

What are your guys using for pedal doards? I'm graduating from bedroom rocker to jamming with friends and need to find a board.

My doard is an older Pedaltrain Mini. The difference between mine and the new ones is that the new ones have space engineered underneath for a power supply, where mine will have to be modified to take one. Not sure yet how I'm going to deal with that yet, as I'm currently using a Pig Hog for the 5 boxes on this doard.

 

[Drestakil]

It might even be sloped dovetail... but I kinda like Sloved Dovewing - it could be a colourful character in a detective novel ... "The gold letters on the fogged glass door read Slove Dovewing, Private Eye - I had come to the right address"

The vintage Gibson Thunderbird stood on a stand in the corner, covered with memories. It's once shiny chrome dulled with age till it now matched the .38 in the lower desk drawer. The bass was a gift from a female client many, many years ago. In return, Slove gave her his heart. She took it with her when she died.

Slove played bass with a jazz trio at a gin joint down on the waterfront. His band mates and the bar owner were the closest things to friends he had. At least close enough to keep him sane. At first, they tried to talk him into playing an upright bass. They changed their minds when a fight broke out and they saw how effective the t'bird was at protecting the small stage and their equipment. The battle scars the Gibson earned were a constant reminder to the regulars to give the stage a wide berth during brawls. Now, the band just picks up the tempo a little bit to provide the background music.



@JIO please feel free to pick this up again. Or anyone else for that matter.

He met her one fateful afternoon after an unsuccessful stake-out. Sloved Dovewing was not one to give anything away, and that included what he was thinking. The afternoon should have been dark and moody, but it was bright and sunny. If it had been dark and moody, perhaps things would have worked out differently, but in the bright light, the world looked more optimistic than Sloved was accustomed to. It had an effect on him as well. It didn't stop him from stopping in and having a double of cheap gin. He would have done that if the stakeout had been successful, too. Some things in his life needed to be routine. That afternoon was trying to be one of those routine things, but when he walked out of the joint, he saw her looking through the grimy glass door to his office down the street. She was either plotting a break in or was a potential client.

Marco left the meeting. He didn't like it when the boss got desperate, and this was marked as a desperate move. Going into homes to "Deliver" or to "Equalize" was not his cup of Hooch. But it was on. He needed to erase the experience of the volatile sit-down, if even for an hour. He decided he'd roll over to that watering hole he'd passed on the way to the warehouse, maybe there was a band or something interesting. The music always waited in the wings for him, ready to distract, seduce. His near-run-in with a career as the bass player for the Lonnie Welch Blues Review haunted his days, and sometimes nearly owned his nights.

Here it was...

"Now this is fun stuff right here...", he almost muttered aloud as he made it around the massive, hand carved post at the end of the breezeway into the barroom. The band was delivering a hot, gritty-but-elegant, volts-driven 16-bar blues from the poorly-lit stage on the far side. A few heads looked up from their meditative reveling as he stumbled over a loose floorboard and navigated his way to the bar. He made out the Vinty-looking Gibson (or probably a Gibson) Thunderbird bass, sparsely illuminated at house right of the tiny stage, rocking as if fixed to some alien pivoting assembly. He found it strangely unnerving, but riveting... that was the engine, the center of it all.

He broke his reverie to give the room a casual survey- the place was nothing if not atmospheric, and that in spades. A small gaggle of heavies in leather jackets and colors presided over a small patch of floor-space by the pinball machines and a jukebox at the far end of the room; some locals who might've just come off the set of the Red Green Show, and their women were sharing the space amicably. The bar was distributed with working girls, salesmen and college-age patrons, and the remaining floor-space was abuzz with what appeared to be the balance of a regular Friday night crowd, fully engaged in the celebration of the weekend.

He brought his attention back to the small combo, which looked as if it might fall to pieces at any moment, doing 60 down a sonic dirt road, held together by the mere forward intent of its purpose. His sensibilities rippled at such density- and seamless cohesion- from three faceless, codgery-looking characters with little dinosaur amps and an apparently unfinished drum kit that would've made Ringo balk... "How we doing boss?" He turned and ordered a Guiness from the smiling man behind the bar. "Who're these guys?" he asked while the man commenced the slow process of tapping the heavy, foamy brew. "That's Slove's band", he answered, as if everybody, of course, Knew that. He stood advised...

Marco had only heard of Sloved Dovewing in rumor and mythology. The origin of Sloved's band was murkier, surrounded in smoke, myth, and bad liquor. And memories that should have become dim, but would not fade. Not for Marco, of course. Just for the members of the band. They had incredible energy and focus, as though they were driving decades of demons from the room, one ferocious note at a time. Marco resolved to find out how the energy could well up from the abyss and be channeled through three codgers. They looked like codgers anyway.

Sloved watched her for a few seconds when Jake the bartender came up behind him. Jake Donivan was a big man with muscles as hard as an eighth grader's algebra test. His Irish temper was custom made to go with his mop of red hair. A temper that landed him more that a few nights in jail. A temper that would have landed him in prison had it not been for Slove. He owed Dovewing big time for that. So did the man Sloved stopped him from beating to death. "Is there a problem, Slove?"

"I hope so. I've always enjoyed problems when they look like that."

He went over the scene from the night before in his mind again. That's where he remembered her. She seemed to be enjoying herself until Marco came in. She left in a hurry before Marco could spot her. And now she, along with every beautiful curve, was at his door. If it was Marco she was running from she had even bigger problems with the man he worked for. And now they were about to become his problems. Sloved smiled.

 

[JIO]

Sloved watched her for a few seconds when Jake the bartender came up behind him. Jake Donivan was a big man with muscles as hard as an eighth grader's algebra test. His Irish temper was custom made to go with his mop of red hair. A temper that landed him more that a few nights in jail. A temper that would have landed him in prison had it not been for Slove. He owed Dovewing big time for that. So did the man Sloved stopped him from beating to death. "Is there a problem, Slove?"

"I hope so. I've always enjoyed problems when they look like that."

He went over the scene from the night before in his mind again. That's where he remembered her. She seemed to be enjoying herself until Marco came in. She left in a hurry before Marco could spot her. And now she, along with every beautiful curve, was at his door. If it was Marco she was running from she had even bigger problems with the man he worked for. And now they were about to become his problems. Sloved smiled.

Sloved opened the door and his steely eyes met pools of azure - the dame had been crying and tried to keep composed but she wasn't doing a good job of it. He offered her a shot of scotch and she downed it. He opened his palm to the chair in front of his messy desk and she sat wiping her tears with a tissue he offered her. Sloved was a real gentleman when it counted, and he knew his timing in these situations meant everything. He sat on the corner of his desk to her left with crossed arms..."So.., how can I be of service to you?"

 

[Count Bassie]

Love me some good pulp.

 

[JJR58]

Your second job is much tougher than anything I have to do. I'm certainly not complaining. Just whining. It's what I do.

You're not alone good sir.

 

[Drestakil]

Love me some good pulp.

And if Sloved would post a picture of his bass he could get a number.

 

[JJR58]

And I was going to tell my story about getting kicked off the alien mothership.

"Sloved" has got me beat.
Intriguing it is I tells ya.

 

[Count Bassie]

And I was going to tell my story about getting kicked off the alien mothership.

"Sloved" has got me beat.
Intriguing it is I tells ya.

Hold onto that theme! We'll do you next!

 

[Drestakil]

Hold onto that theme! We'll do you next!

And here I thought the alien might have been Marco's boss.

 

[JJR58]

Hold onto that theme! We'll do you next!

A couple of things to possibly introduce into it, but totally your call.
Experimental breeding on humans and a Pelham Blue Thunderbird as the nemesis alien mothership.

 

[TBird1958]

Unless you're gigging, right? Nice way to start a week!

Yay next week! I'm on the road to scenic Sequim, WA., 4 day weekend!

 

[Drestakil]

A couple of things to possibly introduce into it, but totally your call.
Experimental breeding on humans and a Pelham Blue Thunderbird as the nemesis alien mothership.

I like it. It's like the game of "take it" we play with the grandkids. One of us starts an story and then says "take it". The next person adds to it then passes it on to the next person. There's no way to tell how the story ends.

 

[JJR58]

I like it. It's like the game of "take it" we play with the grandkids. One of us starts an story and then says "take it". The next person adds to it then passes it on to the next person. There's no way to tell how the story ends.

The way you guys have been running with "Sloved", I just find brilliant!

 

[JIO]

Sloved opened the door and his steely eyes met pools of azure - the dame had been crying and tried to keep composed but she wasn't doing a good job of it. He offered her a shot of scotch and she downed it. He opened his palm to the chair in front of his messy desk and she sat wiping her tears with a tissue he offered her. Sloved was a real gentleman when it counted, and he knew his timing in these situations meant everything. He sat on the corner of his desk to her left with crossed arms..."So.., how can I be of service to you?"

Finally getting her composure, she answered ..."my name is Cleo Copernicus and I'm a singer. I just moved to the city and I work a waitress job during the day to pay the bills. I can't pay you a lot but I need your help." He thought to himself, yah well... I got bills to pay too, more than a few past due and my amp is in the shop. But he was a sucker for a damsel in distress and she was easy on the eyes. "Ok Miss Copernicus, we'll see what we can do" as he offered her a cigarette.

 

[JJR58]

I think the title could be "The Noctarians and The Crystal Blue Mist"

 

[JIO]

Finally getting her composure, she answered ..."my name is Cleo Copernicus and I'm a singer. I just moved to the city and I work a waitress job during the day to pay the bills. I can't pay you a lot but I need your help." He thought to himself, yah well... I got bills to pay too, more than a few past due and my amp is in the shop. But he was a sucker for a damsel in distress and she was easy on the eyes. "Ok Miss Copernicus, we'll see what we can do" as he offered her a cigarette.

His band "The Gum-Souls" was looking for a singer and his minds-eye flashed a pretty picture of Cleo front and center.

 

[Gaolee]

And if Sloved would post a picture of his bass he could get a number.

 

[theFixer]

I need coffee before I can join back in.
The aliens got tired of me, so that threw me out of the ship.

Really??? How rude! They seemed so nice when they picked you up...