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Money and sex aside, this ain't a bad life, sorta.

Living by myself after sharing a household with the same gorgeous skinny babe for twenty-some years (I'll get myself in trouble if I'm too specific) has at least a few advantages in the Freedom of Action Dept. Last summer, for example, when she was in the UK in a preview of our current expansive gig, I maxed out the RAM on the iBook she uses and never even told her. Some things don't need to be said though, especially when it makes little difference. Oh, to the iBook it did, for sure.

These days my honey's up in Dubuque. So for that matter is her fabulously clever and talented niece [Note to Tina: yes, I have one too!], now graduated from Ripon College and living at home. Gee, ain't the recovery great? She's working, though, and looking for better things. I guess I shouldn't tell her what it was like when I got out of school, and employers were flying wide-eyed 21-year-olds across the country just for interviews ... Those were the days, though.

I was married then too, different wife. We rented an excellent house for $75 a month. My Volkswagen payments were $36 each. A visit to the doctor cost $5. I was raking in the dough as a college teacher, all of $600 per month I'll have you know, and we finished each month with money in the bank. Neither of us had credit cards (nobody needed them), and worrying about how to get by was the farthest thing on ours or anybody else's minds. The year was 1968, a time more turbulent than this perhaps because more people still had balls and weren't afraid to rock the boat. Lose your job in '03 and everything's at risk (you could be forgiven for thinking someone wants it that way). The bad guys then were out in plain view, too: you had to do something.

But back to the afore-mentioned niece, or rather "Audrey," her much loved iMac, still constantly in use despite the limitations of its standard 32MB of RAM. I've been making the case for more memory, but the example provided by the proximity of Aunt Kathy's iBook cruising along with nearly ten times that amount may actually have done the trick. I also told her that my 8600 has 648MB and the TiBook in my lap a helpful 768MB, hee-hee. (Oh, I'm bad.) But what I'm really saying is that not everyone can do this stuff or knows they should, the point being that if you know any college graduates in similar circumstances, PLEASE MAKE SURE THEIR MACS ARE MAXED OUT TO THE GILLS! We need these people up to speed, independent, and courageous, so they can kick some serious butt and fix stuff, you know?

Meanwhile, back in Llano Quemado, I ponder this freedom of action thing and marvel at the potential rewards of following our hearts instead of doing what we've been told. Well, maybe you were told to fly like an eagle, I sure wasn't! When you come up through life that way, it takes a while to realize just how much oomph is underneath the hood. Hopefully one does figure this out before they haul you to the mortuary. The point is that it's never too late, so long as you're not dead. My '87 Ford F-150 is still drawing breath, so I'm giving it some slack as well.

I've written about it at my blog, so this is old news, kinda. But there's something about the scheduled exhaust system work that resonates (no pun intended) beyond the automotive realm. It's like a symbol. What I'm having done is a) removal of the ancient, corroded, stopped-up, second catalytic converter and b) replacement of the OEM-type muffler with a premium glasspack. The Ford has two converters, actually, one of which is darn near impossible to get rid of, but leaving that one in place satisfies the letter of the law, and no one checks emissions out here anyway.

I know the engine's straining to push those gases out. It's just too whiny and grindy when I wind it out. I don't want "whiny and grindy," I want RUMBLE and burble! I've always wanted "rumble." I can't tell you how long I've wanted "rumble," and not just when it comes to big straight sixes. Rumble is what this is all about. Rumble is why my honey's niece needs RAM for Audrey. LET THERE BE RUMBLE, by God, and let that sucker breathe.

That's what I'm doing in this crazy old adobe house. I've turned my space into the psychological equivalent of chrome-plated, free-flow exhaust. I have old rifles stacked against the wall, cow skulls hanging by the door. The "living room" is all my office. I turned the dining room into a saloon (it even has a bar). I have almost nothing on the walls, so that ideas hit the plaster, bounce, and keep on spinning round and round. My bedroom is a "dream chamber" -- bare walls, no photos anywhere, and hardly any keepsakes. This really helps, I'll sure say that. I'm even not so angry any more. Say what you will, there's something to this letting everything go just how it wants.

Today I dragged my turntable from the storage unit and set it up inside the saloon. A turntable! I hadn't played an LP for at least four years, but that's all changed. To inaugurate the newfound rumble in my soul and clear the crud from all the psychic pipes, I dug out the Fugs first album (yes, that one) and played both sides. Oh joy! It isn't rock & roll (far from it), but it got me going.

Almost ready to go to Santa Fe, yup.

Senior Applelinks editor and columnist John H. Farr invites your emails.

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