The Holidays

The holidays. We have a family tradition of making tamales for the holidays. This year was no different. They were tasty. My friend Lou makes them for his family as well. Lou is a tamale maker. He made so many this year that we had to go back to East Los Angeles to buy more masa. He picked me up and we made the now familiar loop, from East LA to the Venice Room, to a little bar in San Gabriel. It’s always good to see Lou.

            I have mixed emotions about the holidays. I still call it Christmas, which is nowadays, somehow not PC. I really don’t care about being PC. It’s a pain in the ass how sensitive people have become. I guess my mixed emotions come from losing a year and gaining another. We’re going to take this one away, but we’re going to give a new one. It’s conflicting. It’s some kind of man made mumble jumbo that helps categorize the past, future and present. It's necessary I suppose, but kind of strange when you think about Jesus and Christmas. 

Dust

            I got the mastered version of Dust Covered Man back from New York and posted it to Bandcamp here’s the link, http://theglenlivers.bandcamp.com/track/dust-covered-man

            I really should work on The Glen Livers page, promotion is one of my least favorite things to do. Some people love it. I find it offensive in some way. I guess it’s not that big of a deal, and I suppose I can even have fun with it at some point. I should toss up some pictures and set it up right. I’ll try to do that over the holidays. Check it out. Post a comment. Let me know you’re out there. Good bye.

The Soul Healing

            I went to see my spiritual healer yesterday. It sounds funny, spiritual healer. If I had a better word I'd use it. Some people go to church and some people go to temple, I go to a healer. There’s a lot to heal with all the muck in the world.

The sessions are always the same. We’ll talk for about an hour and then we get down to business. She’ll lay me on a table and I’ll have my doubts. I always have doubts. At first I don’t feel any different, then, things get heavy without me realizing it. She’s a powerful woman. When it was over I barely could stand. I was light headed. It’s hard to explain, but my arms went numb, during the healing. I was sweating like a racehorse. It was as though I ran a few miles. I was covered in sweat. It was strong.

            When I left her place I drove over the hill on Coldwater Canyon. I was driving at a safe speed when I noticed bright lights from a SUV right on my tail. I was trying to be calm, but I found myself getting agitated. The SUV was messing up my high. What’s the rush? I’m not sure why but there are a lot of morons in Los Angeles. They can’t slow down. They’re desperate. At best they’ll get there a few minutes faster and everybody knows that, but they can’t help themselves. It’s dorky. It seemed there was a lot of bad drivers last night. There were cars running stop signs. It was too much. You people need to get it together, and fast, I mean slow down.     

Art

            I got a sample of the master for the dustman. I sounds pretty good, but I’m going to sit with it for a day or two and listen to it on different sound systems. The cowboy song needs one more verse and it will be finished. Art is interesting. You never know what’s going to come next. I guess it’s no different from life that way. Here today, and who knows about tomorrow. I don’t take things for granted anymore. I’ve had to many friends kick the bucket without much warning. If you take things for granted you’re just a fool. I’m sorry to break it to you, but somebody had to do it.  

The Venice Room

            I spent the most part of yesterday with my old friend Lou. I’ve known him for almost a hundred years now. We drove to Whittier Blvd to buy masa to make tamales, tis the season for tamales. Of course we ended up at the Venice Room. We had a few beers. It was like old times.

We like to drive side streets when we’re together, yesterday was no different. We drove from my house to East L.A. up to the old neighborhood of Montebello, through Monterey Park, and back towards Pasadena. The nostalgic loop. We don’t drive it often, but when we do, we do it right.

I finally got the file for Dust Covered Man, back from Martin. I sent it to New York to have it mastered. It seems like it has taken forever and it has. It well be up on Bandcamp soon.

            New song update: It’s a cowboy tale about a man that does himself wrong by thieving.    

Occupy the BCS

I want to talk about college football today. My apologies to those of you outside of the United States.

College football has turned into a Bull Crap Situation, or what is commonly called the BCS. It’s a system based on perception, not fact, nor reality. I’m not going to watch this years championship game as a result of my frustration. I’m going to occupy the BCS. The Southeastern Conference is suppose to be the dominant conference in college football. I don't believe that to be true despite the fact that they have won consecutive championships. The SEC has only beat the Pacific Twelve Conference once during their run and it took some questionable coaching decisions and a last second field goal to do it. My feeling is if the SEC is so dominant they should not lose a single bowl game. Dominance shows itself with consistency. I'm betting on a mythical dominance. Mark my words, the SEC will lose more than one bowl game. 

            P.s. The song came to me this morning. 

California Cold

I was staring at a squirrel in my backyard when it occurred to me that certain people in this world look at a squirrel and think about dinner. 

It’s been a couple of days and I’m not so sure about the song. I like the chords but it reminds me of the Bruce Springsteen tribute songs to Pete Seeger. I like both Bruce and Pete but I’m not sure I want to sound like them. I played the song for a lady friend. She seemed to like it but, unless I can somehow make it my own it will find a way to disappear.

            It’s been California cold of late. When it gets below fifty degrees at night, well, that’s cause for concern. I know it sounds funny but you get use to the moderate temperatures. I’ve heard people from Toronto complain about the cold. I know, it doesn’t make any sense, but that’s California cold for you.

You My Therapist

            It’s the blank page again. I wrote another chord progression on guitar and I’ve decided it's worthy of some pursuit. I also came up with a vocal melody but I have nothing for words, not even an idea. This is usually when I become consumed with the song and start to listen extra hard. To be honest the chord progression isn’t A-1 original. I’ve heard it before. It’s American to the core. A small part of me wants to chuck it. I’m not sure if it’s worth the investment. To write a song you have to play it over and over to work out the kinks. This could be one of those songs I get sick of. And if I get sick of it, it just won’t materialize. I have mixed emotions about it. I’m sure glad I’m writing to you, my therapist. I'll sit on it for a day or two to see if I still have interest in it.   

Waiting for the File

            I’ve been recording acoustic tracks at home. Martin has been recording and mixing an album with his band. He has left me in the lurch. It would literally take him ten minutes to send me my file but for some reason he can’t find it in him to take care of business. A little professionalism would be nice. I’ve been waiting nearly a month. It’s kind of sad and pathetic really, but I don’t hold it against him. I wish I did. I’m not happy about it. His record must be pretty important to him.

            I personally couldn’t record an album with something hanging over my head. Maybe he thinks if he ignores it he’ll be able to keep focused. I don’t see it that way. Loose ends clutter the mind and spirit. It's more difficult to channel music when you’re in a clutter. I hope he can find it in him soon. Music is pure, like some forms of prayer. 

Santana Winds

            The Santana winds came howling in and knocked out the power. I haven’t had a computer or electricity in three days. As far as I know I still don’t have power at my studio. I’m at my lady friends now typing this up. The winds snapped branches off of trees and pulled trees right from the ground. There are palm leaves strewn on the streets and remnants of trees everywhere. We just about had a hurricane.

            The winds were mysterious. I had no idea they were coming. They just showed up in the evening and started to howl. I can’t remember ever seeing the winds blow so hard. It made it difficult to sleep. The whole experience was interesting to me. I woke up in the middle of the night and listened to the wind. The winds power was exciting to me. I enjoyed it. I love the awesome power of nature. It makes evident how insignificant man really is. 

Waiting for the Bank

The music is in limbo while I wait for Martin to get his computer back form the studio he was working at. I don’t like to wait but I don’t have a choice. I started recording some basic guitar tracks at home with the hopes of emailing the files to Martin. I want to work off of them when we start recording again. I have seven or eight songs ready to record. My only worry is matching up my file to a click track. I’m not sure how that’s going work. I’ve learned my lesson not recording to a click. Things get squirrelly in hurry without a click.

            I have a friend who went to the bank to deposit some money. She was shocked when she looked at her balance. It was lower then expected. She asked a teller where her money had gone, and as it turned out my friend had four bank accounts without her knowing it. I asked her how that happened, but she was too embarrassed to explain it to me. I’m hoping one day that she will, her explanation should be fascinating. 

Thanksgiving

            I did the Thanksgiving thing. I’m thankful for many things in my life, my health, my family, my friends, my trust in the cosmos. We had a good time. Patrick McCarthy the painter sat across the dinner table from me. He was on a roll. We talked about the creative process, and how it ebbs and flows. It seems to follow a familiar pattern. In the beginning an idea tends to be good if not great. It’s positive. It’s fresh. It’s worthy of exploration, but as time goes by the euphoria of the idea seems to fade into doubt and discontentment, and if the idea is not abandoned due to frustration, you’re just glad to be finished with it. But seldom are you fully happy with the end result. Until of course the next great idea comes along, and the pattern repeats itself. 
            We had a good time on Thanksgiving. It was a lot of fun. Thanks to the bird. Thanks to the wine. Thanks to everyone who showed me a good time.    

The Body Good

            I ate something that my body reacted violently to. Food poisoning. The body is an amazing entity. My body fixed itself by expelling the foreign matter that it did not recognize to my well being. My operating system detected the abnormality and countered attacked with reverse peristalsis and diarrhea. It was a two-pronged attack that was highly successful. I suffered some discomfort during the campaign, but war is not for the timid.

            After the third battle where there were causalities on both fronts, my body was overcome by an inferno from within. Perspiration welled up from my interior and exuded itself on the exterior. I was drenched in sweat. In an instant the war was over. I felt much better. I was cured. It was a miracle. I cured myself, or my body cured me for me.  

A Day Late

            I’m trying to stay focused with the art. It’s not easy. I tend to need periods of rest to gather myself. I’ve been writing tunes at such a clip I can’t remember the words to them. I’ll write a song and then move on to the next one, and forget about the previous song until I have a whole bunch of songs I don’t know the words to.

            My plan is to record a song a week until I have them all on tape, or hard drive. I need to pick up the pace, at the rate I’m going I’ll be old and gray before I have it all recorded.

            When I ask myself if I should die tomorrow would I be content? My answer is no. I’d like to leave behind a finished body of work. All I have right now are a few recorded tunes and some demos that I recorded at home on GarageBand. My writing is in better shape. It’s the music that has fallen behind. Of course I have old tunes from long ago, but those don’t count. It’s the here and now I’m after. 

The Birthday Poem

            I have a goddaughter named Natalie. She’s going to be twelve. My gift to her has been to write a poem on her birthday. Her birthday is coming up so I’ve been working on the new poem. I haven’t written her a poem that I’m proud of yet, but I think they’re getting better. My first poems to her were poetic. I was trying too hard to be clever or smart. I’m not interested in that anymore. I’m more interested in the story than the poetics. It’s never easy writing a poem for somebody. It’s intimate, kind of gooey. It can leave a poet feeling vulnerable. I wonder if she appreciates it, or feels equally gooey. I should probably ask her. 

Soup

            I went to the Japanese market today. I sat down and had some udon soup and tempura shrimp before I did some shopping. I think I may have been Japanese in a past life. I have a real kinship for the culture. However, I also have an affinity for the Korean culture. I like things that are pickled. Kimchi. I like dogs that have the name Pickles. I like sauerkraut. 

             I did some research on Dashi. I read the boxes to check the ingredients. There was a lot of variation. Some had chemicals and some didn’t. I have it in mind to make udon soup at home someday, but I can’t ever just buy something. I have to research it over and over before I make a decision. I do that with everything. I’ll go back and check the udon noodles next. It’s a lot of work for a bowl of soup.  

Occupy

I caught a cold. It’s been a while since I’ve had an affliction. It’s slowing me down some. When I was a kid I’d stuff my pockets with vitamin C and tissue paper and call myself good. Nothing could slow me down then. I was a lot tougher in those days. Back then the smog alone could burn a hole in you, but that’s another story for another day.

I’m thinking of taking my guitar down to city hall to occupy. I’d like to voleenter my services to keep things moving. The state of the world is such that in some instances the political right and the political left are converging. I’m not talking about politicians. Politicians are in their own coin-operated world. All you have to do is slip them some money and they’ll spit out what ever you tell them to. I’m talking about the proletariat, and the bourgeoisies. It’s getting to the point that on some issues such as banks and corruption there’s commonality. I’ve never seen it like this before. That’s when you know the aristocrats are digging their own grave. The only thing the aristocrats understand and respond to is money. When the workingman gets hip to that fact, I mean really hip, that’s when the sea will turn into an ocean. 

 

I Don't Speak the Language

I stayed in for most of the day. When I finally left the house I looked down at my shoes and I realized I was still wearing my slippers. I remedied the problem and went on my way.

            It has occurred to me that Los Angeles is full of want to be’s. They come here from all over the world and take on a strange insecure approach to life. A simple email can turn into a calamity. It’s asking too much for a response. Maybe it’s the way of the world now a days and I’m out of touch, but when I was growing up your word was golden. Folks don’t even try to be polite anymore. That would be too easy, you have to stretch it out, make a game of it, use your power. A simple email can turn into a sexual escapade in an instant. Being communicative is almost like making a pass. It’s nuts! The thing about it is, the real people, the nice people, the cool people, the people who should be movie stars, the people who are polite in Los Angeles often times don’t speak the language. 

Capitalism is a Bitch

            I got a handle on the song I’ve been working on. It came to me magically the other night. It’s working out pretty well. I’ll fiddle with it some more, and work out the details before I sign my name to it.

            I helped a friend move yesterday. It wasn’t easy. His wife is a bit of a hoarder, and they weren’t all that organized. To top it off his wife had bad ideas. My friend and I were doing all the work, but every once in while he would defer to her for ideas. She would inevitably say something that didn’t make sense. I ignored it, but it didn’t do much for my hypertension.

            Capitalism is a bitch that’s the way I see it. I‘m a capitalist, but I don't need much. Sometimes I wonder if folks have their heads screwed on right. The furniture my buddy had was heavy. The bed frame alone used half a tree to make. There was a marble table that looked like it took a huge chunk out of Italy. There’s half a mountain side missing somewhere in the world as a result of this table. Yes indeed, capitalism is a bitch, a back-breaking bitch. 

Song #2

            My trick for forgetting the song didn’t work. I took a train downtown yesterday and couldn’t think about anything else. I tried to put it out of my mind, but it didn’t work. I’ve been working on it without pen and paper. It’s in my head, but still not finished. It’s going to be one of those songs that take’s a while. I like the songs that write themselves. Too much thinking can kill a song. I have to give it time, but I’m an addict. I can’t stop myself from trying to put the puzzle together. It’s like wondering if a girl likes you or not. I’m trying to say the right things to get the romance started. 

Song Writing

            I think I spoke too soon when I said the songs were coming easy. I was working on a new one and it was flowing pretty good, when I got stuck. Now I’m running the risk of creating something that is contrived. There’s nothing worse than that. It’s bad for everybody, the listener, the artist, it’s just a bad scene. I’m going to let it go, not try, regroup, rather than force it. I hope it works out. I like the chord structure and the melody, but I can’t seem to fit the words in without it sounding preachy. The words are thematic. I haven’t had much luck with themes in the past. Sometimes if I don’t think about it, the words will come. But I can't pretend to not think about it, it has to be honest, sincere, there's no tricking the cosmos, not even on Halloween.
 

The Cosmos

It’s one of those perfect days in Los Angeles. Not too hot, not too cool. But don’t move out here all at once, we still have lot's of traffic.

            I’ve been keeping busy stacking rocks. I’m making a flowerbed near my cabin. In between rocks I’ll jot down words to a song I’m working on. The songs are coming one after another. I think the cosmos are trying to tell me something. I don't hear voices exactly, but I do listen. I highly recommend you just sit and listen. But if you hear something that involves guns and murder, check yourself in case you're nuts. 

1968 Oldsmobile

      I took a look at a car today. It was a 1968 Oldsmobile 98 with a 454 engine. It’s not all that practical but, it is a convertible. It’s a beautiful car. It's been sitting for years, it's beat up, but romantic. There was a kid selling the car for his parents. He was a nice kid. He was a twenty-nine year old attorney but not a practicing attorney. He seemed wise beyond his years. He had tiny eyes, like a cowboy's eyes in the sunlight. We talked for twenty minutes or so before I hit the road. I really want the car but it does need work. It's a little piece of history and I'm a sucker for history. 

Train

      I’ve been riding the train to get around. I’m in between cars. Being in between cars is like being in between girlfriends in many respects. I don’t mind the train. I rode the train for years when I lived in San Francisco. It’s always an adventure. I like it. I feel like I’m on the road traveling, but I’m just seeing the city in a different light. It takes longer, but I’m not in a rush. The tricky part is walking once I’m off the train. I haven’t mastered the connections yet. I don’t think it will be that bad once I set my bike up. I’m looking forward to the exercise. 

The Flutter

            Martin and I finished the tracking to Dust Covered Man. We laid down a tambourine and a trumpet yesterday. I played the trumpet at the end of the song. The only problem was I’m not a trumpet player. I gave it my best shot anyway. We were listening to the play back and began to laugh uncontrollably. I was that bad. It was a bunch of squeaks and low end flutters. The flutters really got us going.

            "Excuse me," Martin said, in an English accent. "Do you have a handkerchief?” 

            You had to be there. I hadn’t laughed that hard in a long time. It’s hard to remember what we were laughing at the end. It was just funny. We couldn’t stop laughing if we tried, and oddly we tried.

The NBA

About this time of the year I usually watch NBA basketball. I’m a huge Laker fan, and have been ever since I can remember. To tell you the truth I don’t miss it much. The league was starting to wear on me some. The officiating was suspect and over all, the product has diminished over the years. 

           Frankly, I think the league is being mismanaged. The owners are saying they are losing money. What they should be saying is we’re mismanaged. I can’t bring myself to feel sorry for multi millionaires who are supposedly losing money. What does that mean? That they’re driving Porsche’s instead of Ferrari’s? It’s amusing to me that the owners are crying poor. Have they no shame, pride or otherwise?What are they aiming for? To be the richest men in the grave? 

Challah

            I went over to my lady friends house. I got there a little early. She wasn’t home from work yet. I was parked in front of her house listening to the radio when I noticed and older orthodox Jew with a long gray beard and a black hat staring at me. There was a heavyset woman in a black dress standing next to him. She was staring at me as well. I turned my attention away from them and went back to listening to the radio.  When I looked over again they were still standing stiff looking at me, like a cat stands stiff before they attack. Just then my lady friend pulled up and parked behind me. I got out of my car to greet her. She was getting out of her car when the old man rushed at us. He kind of corralled us.

            “Are any of you Jewish?” he asked excitedly.

            “I’m Jewish but he’s not,” my girl said.

            The old man turned his attention to me. “My daughter tripped over the light and it’s the Sabbath, can you help me?” the man said in a voice that sounded like Woody Allen mocking a Jew. “You want trousers? We have trousers!”  

            “Sure,” I said

            “Oh, thank you, I’ll give you some fresh challah in exchange.”

            I wasn’t sure what challah was but I followed him into his house anyway.

            The old man led the way. It was a very nice house. We walked through the kitchen toward the backyard where we came upon twenty people sitting at a long table. They looked at me with some interest. The old man pointed at an extension cord that had been unplugged. Apparently the man’s daughter had tripped over it. I crouched down and took the extension cord in my hand and plugged it back in, nothing to it. The lights came back on. The crowd cheered. I took a bow.

            “Don’t forget your challah,” the man said as I walked past the kitchen. 

Songs

      I went over to Martin’s today to work on Dust Covered Man. It’s slow going but I’m happy with what we have so far. Today I added background vocals to the tail end of the song. I want to add tambourine and start mixing so that I can have it mastered and start work on another song. 
      I’ve been writing songs one after another of late. I’ve written more songs in the last year than I have in the previous ten. I’m falling behind with recording them. The newest song is always the most interesting song. If I lose interest while writing a song, I’ll scrap it. What’s the sense of writing songs you don’t like?   

Dawn

I woke up at five in the morning and went for a walk. I couldn’t sleep so I decided to do some research for the ending of my first book. It ends with a man standing on a hill watching the sunrise. I did that this morning. It took a little longer for the sun to come up than I remembered, but I think the walk was useful.

            It’s strange to see people moving about at that time of morning. I saw a couple of dog walkers and a lady who backed her car out of her garage and took off in a hurry. That struck me as odd. 
            It’s the perfect time of day to be alone. It’s fresh and new. I heard the mockingbirds sing with first light. It was inspiring. A much needed change in the routine. Try it sometime, it works wonders.

Mariachi Plaza

I took a train to Mariachi Plaza and had dinner with a woman who knew Jack Kerouac. Jack had slept on her and her husband Bob’s couch for a month back in the day. 

One day Jack came into the room and asked the woman for a blow-job. The woman said no on account of her being married, and guilt and all.

            “Oh, that’s okay,” Jack said. “I’d prefer Bob to do it anyway.”

Steve Jobs

Steve Jobs is dead. I’d like to thank him for thinking about the artist. As a musician and writer he has improved my life considerably. He included free musical software with each Apple computer and single handily destroyed the antiquated business practices of record companies with the advent of iTunes.

            When I worked as an assistant editor for television commercials, no assistant wanted to work on the Apple jobs that came in because of Steve. He asked for things that nobody wanted to give him. He was demanding and pushed the technology as far as it would go. He insisted that we use Final Cut Pro to edit his commercials and in turn we assistants told Apple about the software's deficiencies. Apple made improvements and Final Cut became what it is today.

            Thanks Steve. Thanks for thinking about the artist. Thanks for understanding that an art driven society is a society that is always growing, always creating, not stagnant, but

dreaming about the world and a better future.  

Dialysis

It was my job to take my dying cousin to dialysis today but for some reason I had trouble remembering it. You’d think with something so important it would be easy to remember, but it wasn’t. I’m starting to wonder if I have feelings, or if I’m being affected by one of those brain diseases. I kept telling myself don’t let him die on your watch, but it didn’t seem to help. I asked a lady friend to remind me to take my cousin to dialysis, she just looked at me in disbelief.

“Are you serious?”

“For some reason it keeps slipping my mind.”

“He could die if he doesn’t go.”

“I know.”

I got him there. I showed up to his house early, as I’m prone to do. He didn’t look so good, but oddly he looked worse when I went back to pick him up. He was weak. It looked like he had the life sucked out of him and in some strange way he had.

Festival

I went to the Eagle Rock Music Festival yesterday. I found myself smiling and laughing a lot. Music has that effect on me. The lead singers had me going the most. They were great. They had personality, no false pretense. They were pure of heart and I appreciated their honesty.

            It was interesting to walk from stage to stage. The crowd was diverse. The age range was from minus one to a thousand. 
            At one point the crowd was biggest near the DJ stage. Live music was taking a beating, but at the end of the night live music had made a come back and reigned supreme. I was happy it turned out that way. Live music is much more interesting to me. It's instant talent and pretty amazing when you think about it. But then again, so is the binary world of digital.

Scotch

I went out last night and I found myself drinking eighteen-year old Scotch. It was a gift from the gods. Thank you.

The Scotch went straight to my head. I was just trying to hang on after that, maintain as we use to say. I felt like I was the only person drinking. John was sober. Patrick was sober. It’s always a weird feeling when you know you’re drunk and nobody else is.

           I was talking to Ian at the end of the night. He asked me not to Blog about our conversation. The nerve of him. Luckily for Ian I can’t remember what we were talking about. I think it had something to do with underage girls and perverts. Sorry Ian. 

Clara's Funeral

I towed Clara to a mechanic. She needed an examination. The diagnoses was not good, but certain. She has heart trouble. She’s pretty much unusable. I asked my mechanic for advice.

“What should I do with her?”

“Sell her.”

“What do you think I can get for her?”

“Five hundred.”

Poor Clara. She’s practically worthless. I towed her back home. Skip, the tow truck driver and I were unloading her when my neighbor the avocado tree killer came home.

“Did you take her to a mechanic?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“What did he say?"

“He told me to sell her for five hundred dollars.”

"Oh, Anthony you can’t do that!”

She leaned into my chest and broke into tears.

“You love her,” she said while crying like a baby.

“Oh, it’s going to be okay,” I said with my arm around her. “She’s just no good.”

My neighbor was crying pretty hard, which was strange. Her husband was looking on, which made things even stranger.

“Promise me you won't sell her,” she said.

“Maybe my brother will buy her,” I said.

“Keep her in the family. You love her.”

The lady wouldn’t stop crying. It made me feel funny. I was still sore at her for hacking down the avocado tree, and there I was with my arms wrapped around her consoling her about my Mercedes Benz. I had conflicting emotions. I felt ugly, but I was trying to be nice in her tragedy, the death of Clara.

Clara Walter

I had to retire my car. It just gave out on me. I sold it to the state of California at a decent price. I consulted the smog guru Bill first. I gave him the cars symptoms. He said it could be anything. Rather than putting money into it I retired it.

            I’m bringing my Mercedes Benz out of retirement, old Clara Walter. Clara is a four door sedan made in nineteen-seventy. She’s a temperamental gal, so much so it’s nerve racking driving her. She’s kind of like a mule. Stubborn and uncooperative. But she looks nice. She’s a pretty gal, real pretty. 

Excerpt From Johnny

My Audience

I came home from work

laid on my bed

and read a book

then fell asleep

two hours later

here I am writing

to my audience

ME.

I’m the best audience

I have

I keep myself going

I applaud when necessary

I boo when I have to

when I write a good poem

I’m happy

I cheer and applaud

the poet in ME

eats it up

and bows

to ME the audience

on bad days

when there is

limited production

or when my imagination

evades ME

I’m hard on the poet

make him feel like a fool

you’re trying too hard

keep it simple, I tell him

he pretends not to hear ME

quit trying to be poetic

you sound like an academic

but once in a while

I’ll write something good

that makes it all worth it

my audience

loves the good poems

the good poems keep ME going

Every Hundred Feet

It use to be people liked to have fun, and then a thing called political correctness came into play. It nearly ruined Don Rickle’s career. You couldn’t make fun of people anymore, men had to be submissive, kids had to wear helmets, things really changed.

           The turning point for me was when Lawn Darts were banned. That’s when I knew for sure that the world was made for pussy’s. One bad toss and now know one can play. And that’s the way it works. There’s one screaming demon, and the next thing you know there’s a stop sign at every corner, and a speed bump every hundred feet.

The French Weekend

I saw the Serge Gainsbourg movie, A Heroic Life. I enjoyed it, although it was a little long. My lady friend grew impatient with it as she’s prone to do. She didn’t like the movie at all. I’d suggest the movie for the women alone.

            Something occurred to me during the course of watching the movie, and that is, anything sounds good in French. I wish I was a French songwriter I think life would be a lot easier. English is such a harsh language, but French is sweet and smooth,

            By chance I had dinner at a French restaurant last night. I don’t care what anybody says, I love the French. 

Dexter

I have a lady friend who works out at the same gym as Dexter, the actor, the character, the show.

            “I saw Dexter today. He seems like a nice guy.” 

            “He’s a serial killer.”

            “Yeah, but he seems nice.”

            I’m not a fan of the show, but my friend Jessie Sweet is. He loves it. He thinks it’s great.

            “What do you like about that show?” I asked Jessie one day.

            “I don’t know. I just relate to Dexter.”

            “You relate to a serial killer?”

            “Yeah, I guess I do.”

“Interesting.”

            I didn’t press the issue, but I was beginning to wonder what was going on inside Jessie’s head. 

Globe Arizona

Lee and I were just outside of Globe Arizona and we needed a room for the night. We ended up at the Econo-lodge, which looked nice enough on the outside. Now that I think about it didn’t look nice at all, but I wasn’t complaining. It was Lee’s call, Lee’s money, Lee’s film.

The room was cheap, forty bucks plus tax, and Lee was happy about that. When I walked into the room it looked nice enough, a little run down, not quite to my taste. There were two rooms. The first room had a queen size bed and the second room had two queen size beds. The first room was much nicer than the second room.

“Which room do you want?” Lee asked.

“I’ll take this room.” I picked the first room.

The more we looked around the more we realized the place was a dump. Lee refused to sleep in the either of the queen size beds in his room, for fear of the unknown. Instead he grabbed a cot that he kept in his car to keep his gear off the ground and slept on that. It was pretty bad. It smelled like cigarette smoke. I could smell alcohol on the sheets. We slept with one eye open.

At three in the morning I heard a car pull up. It sounded like an older car, a gangster car. I heard knocking on the door to the room next to us.

“It’s your cousin!”

“Who?”

“Your cousin!”

“What do you want?”

            The guy kept knocking, but the cousin inside didn’t answer the door. The knocker finally got back in his car and drove away.
           We woke up at six-thirty in the morning. We packed the car and hit the road.  

Family Matters

I’m going to stray away from Arizona for a moment. I still have one more story, but I’ll save it for later.

I’m a card carrying member of a Mexican-American family. It’s a good family, but as time passes it has become more and more unsettled.

            I have a cousin who is in Virginia studying to be a doctor. She’s in her fifth year now, and I’m very proud of her, as are her parents.

            I was talking to my aunt Maggie the other day, and she told me that my cousin Lily was trying to talk my Virginia cousin out of being a doctor. Lily said something about the preponderance of lawsuits and time, and money. Lily's argument was that it wasn't worth it. 
            I was sitting there listening to the story and all the while I was thinking how god damn ridiculous. I’ve never heard of such a thing. I was appalled. Only in a Mexican family will somebody try to talk you out of being a doctor. 

Yuma

I’m falling behind on my blog, sorry about that. Here’s another story from Arizona.

Lee and I stopped for gas in Yuma. I was sitting there with nothing to do when I got the idea to take some pictures. It was a desolate setting, the arid desert and a singular palm tree offset by concrete from the gas station and an abandoned car. I took a picture. It wasn’t all that interesting, but for maybe the clouds hovering overhead.

I noticed a gold Ford van from the seventies filling up next to us. The van had three six inch wide pin strips on the side of it. The pin strips were in three different colors orange, Sedona red, and a deep shade of brown. There was a four foot by four foot square tinted window half way back on the drivers side, and when I looked inside the cab area I noticed a teenage girl sitting in the passenger seat.

I had the camera in hand, and there was something artistic about the scenario. I pointed the camera at the girl and the van and took a picture. Then I took a picture of Lee in his cowboy hat, and put the camera away. I saw the young girl talking to someone, but I didn’t think much about it.

Out of nowhere a big fat woman approached Lee.

“Did you take a picture of my daughter?” the woman asked in an high pitched aggressive tone. She was a beast, a big ugly woman. I saw her husband shrink. He didn’t want anything to do with the situation. He was whistling to himself. He wanted to move on. He got behind the wheel as quickly as he could and waited.

“We have an old camera and we were making sure it worked.” Lee said to the woman.

Lee’s answer took the woman by surprise. She wasn’t sure what to say.

“Oh,” was all she could muster.

With that the conversation was over. She got in the van and they drove away.

            “Did you take a picture of my daughter?” I kept saying over and over. 

The Grave Yard at Quartzsite

My friend Lee hired me to help him with a film he’s making. He needed to film some pick-up shots in Arizona. I agreed to help him for my day rate.

            He picked me up in a run down red 1986 Volkswagen Rabbit sixteen valve. The car was an essential element of the film he was making. He didn’t tell me about the car’s electrical problems until it started to rain.

            “Hey Lee it’s raining why don’t you put your windshield wipers on?”

            “That's because they don’t work.”

            “They don't work.”

            “Nope. I don’t need them anyway. I’ve learned to drive without them. I just stare into the distance, it’s a trick of the mind.”

            It turned out the only thing that worked were the headlights and the passenger window and I was grateful for that. No air-con, just sweat and warm water there and back.

            Lee would stick his arm out of the window to change lines. It was a primitive means of transportation but we got there alright. 
            Our first stop was in Quartzsite Arizona where we shot at a grave site. We set up the camera and we were just about ready to shot when it started to rain. We stood there in the rain and waited for it to stop. It didn’t stop. It came down progressively harder. We were soaked to the bone before we grabbed the camera and retreated to the comfort of the Rabbit. We sat in the car and ate turkey sandwiches. Lee’s wife made them for us. I was dry. But Lee was still getting wet, because Lee's window didn’t roll up.   

Arizona

        I'm just back from Arizona, where the trees grow funny with spikes. I just about lost my skin to the heat. It was nothing short of hot. It made me wonder how people do it, or why. I have many stories to tell and I'll be sure to tell them, however, I need a little time to digest them, and some time to sit and write. Bare with me. I'll try to get back on schedule tomorrow. 

Sunflower Seeds

            I think I’m addicted sunflower seeds. I walked to the neighborhood gas station where I pick up my seeds. They carry an off brand, possibly organic, the seeds are large, pregnant, swollen with just the right amount of salt on them.

            I walked toward the rack where I usually find them, but there weren’t any left. Sold Out. I couldn’t believe it. I looked more than twice, thinking they were hidden behind the peanuts. I had a false hope. I kept looking. My heart sunk, my mouth felt a longing for them. I searched high and low. I was having a hard time excepting reality.

            I walked back home feeling empty, beaten, and looking for solutions.

Mumble-Jumbo

I just got home. It’s almost nine-thirty. I was running around today. I like to post a blog every other day as a matter of principle. So here I am writing about the mumble- jumbo of the day.

I woke up and tried to fix the lady friends car without much success. There was a bolt I couldn’t budge, so we took it to a mechanic up the street. He fixed it for thirty-five dollars The fat mechanic losses.

            I talked to Bill the smog guru about my case. Everything is moving along nicely. He even offered me a job. Bill’s a cool cat. He lived in San Francisco in the sixties. We have a lot in common. I didn’t live in San Francisco in the sixties but I lived there for a time. We were talking music and smog and jobs, before he got a phone call, and I had to leave for Martin’s.

            Martin and I worked on the Dust Covered Man. I laid down some backing vocals. Improvised stuff that left me feeling raw. Exposed. I killed the mood with my criticism of myself. It’s dumb to be critical, but I seldom feel comfortable in my own skin. It feels awkward when you kill the mood.

            Things are good beyond that. Things are real good. Don’t grasp, don’t cling, just swing.  

The Fat Mechanic

Now my lady friend’s car went down. Nothing major, just a bolt that holds the shifting linkage in place. A tow truck driver and I put a temporary patch on it. The plan was for my lady friend to drive it to work the next day and have it fixed at an automotive repair shop nearby. Painless right. Wrong. The mechanic wanted to charge her eighty bananas for the repair. She called me in a panic. I drove over to see what the heck.

            The mechanic was a big fat guy, he kind of looked like Diego Rivera.

            “It’s just a bolt right!” I asked.

            “”No we have to order a bracket from the dealer, replace the bushings, dig deep into your wallet, so I can eat steak for dinner. I like porter house steaks, or the biggest most expensive steak I can find,” he might as well have said.

            “Well how much is that!”

            “Twenty-five for the part, forty-five for labor.”

            I yanked the car out of there. The fat mechanic was angry at me. I didn’t care, He was crazy. The bastard was trying to take advantage of a nice woman to feed his over sized mug. I figured I could fix it myself for two dollars. If I can’t fix it we’ll take it somewhere else. 

The Seafood Man

            I went to a barbeque last night. I met a man named Paul. We were the only men there and we bonded at the grill.

            Paul and I got to talking and he told me he was in the seafood business in Vegas for twenty years. That didn’t sound sketchy at all. I was instantly intrigued. He said he had stories and I believed him. He wanted to be a writer but he kept making excuses for not writing. He was from Minnesota. I asked if he knew Bob Dylan. It’s my standard question for people I meet from Minnesota.

            “Well, yeah, my dad knew him really well,” he said.

            I wasn’t expecting that answer. It took me by surprise.

            “Do you want to meet him? Give me your phone number.”

            I froze up. I’m not sure why. Nothing came out of my mouth and in an instant the subject changed. Paul’s mood changed too. He seemed to take offense to my inaction.

            It’s the second time I’ve blown a chance to meet Bob Dylan.

Smog Test Equals Fail

            The long and short of it is the car didn’t pass smog. After running every errand I could think of and driving through neighborhoods I’d never been in to get rid of the gas, the car just didn’t perform. The cars condition was beyond additives. I got a bad feeling when it started to idle funny while it was on the rack.

            The smog test administrator gave me a detailed explanation for the cars failure and he suggested a couple of mechanics in the neighborhood to take it to. After the test I drove to one of the mechanics he suggested. The mechanic was a shifty eyed character. I didn’t trust him at all. He said it would cost three to four hundred dollars to fix, that it was an all day repair. I said no thank you and walked out.

            I drove to the other mechanic the smog man referred me to but he had moved his business to Van Nuys. I noticed there was another smog tester on the same property. I walked over to his place and I got a good feeling about him. He had grey hair and looked like an ex-hippy who made the conversion to smog test respectability. I wanted to ask him a few questions but he was engaged in a conversation with a young a couple.

            “Have a seat. There’s some bottled water in the refrigerator,” the man said.

            I grabbed the water and sat down in a fancy tropical patio area offset from the garage. There were magazines and comfortable patio chairs and foliage from the plants. It was shady and cool, very respectable.

            I grabbed a magazine and waited.

            The man finally came over and sat down.

            “So your car failed the smog check.”

            “Yes,” I handed him the printed report.

            He looked at the report and asked a whole bunch of questions to which I answered. There was an air of calm and confidence to the man. He handed me a couple brochures and explained to me that California had a number of programs to help people like me. He meandered into a story about oilmen playing golf with the state of California and how the oilmen had to make a deal with the state of California to offset their greed and that’s how the programs came into place. The story was hard to follow but I got the jest of it.

            As luck had it, I stumbled into the guru of smog testing. His name is Bill. He said I could fix the car for free or retire it for fifteen hundred dollars.

            He handed me an application and said, “Think about it and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Gas

      I took a drive to my brother’s house in the suburbs. It was another gas wasting mission. I thought I could pick up a sink for my cabin and waste gas at the same time. I went there and back and the needle barely budged. It seems the solution I added for the smog check has improved my gas economy tremendously. Normally, I’d be very happy about that, but I’m under the gun. I need to get rid of the gas by tomorrow.

            I’d like to apologize to the environmentalist in the crowd. I honestly and truly have deep concerns when it comes to the environment. I didn’t take care of business and now I find myself in this unusual predicament of hoping the needle goes down. It could happen to anyone with an old car, really.

            I have an itinerary for tonight. It includes some driving and more driving and maybe an open mic. I’ll keep you posted. That's blog humor, get it? Posted. 

Smog Check

            Every two years I have to get a smog check and every two years I start to worry. I have an older model Honda Accord LX. It’s a real gold digger deterrent, no looks, no glory, which is okay by me.

            I’m not sure why I worry. I think it has to do with dealing with the government. At worst it will cost me time, energy and money. But I still worry.

            I’ve waited to the last minute to take care of it this year. I bought a cleansing additive to insure my every chance of passing. The additive requires that you fill your tank up with gas before you add the solution. The solution is supposed to clean your engine of smut while you drive, which in theory gives you a better chance of passing the test. My deadline for the test is Wednesday. Today is Sunday. I’m driving more than usual to use up the gas so I can refill the tank and take the test. It’s very logical I can assure you.

            I offered to drive to a fundraiser last night and I offered to drive my lady friend to the gym this morning. I drove to a restaurant for lunch. I can’t get rid of the gas fast enough. I’m not sure I can use it all by Wednesday. The gas needle has barely budged. It’s an odd set of circumstances, I know, especially because I’m use to driving on empty.

The Clingers

I’ve been thinking about “Clingers,” people who cling onto you like black tar on the soles of your feet. I went out last night and I was introduced to a clinger first thing upon walking into my favorite bar. Because I’ve been thinking about it, I didn’t let the clinger get to me. I shook his hand and said hello but quickly moved away. I know a clinger when I see one.

             I think we’ve all been a clinger at one time or another. I found myself acting like a clinger at a party the other night. There’s a man named George who I like to talk to. We’ve talked before. He’s very creative. We've had good times together. We talked about interesting concepts and ideas and made things up on the fly. We'd ask stupid questions about the ordinary. It was a lot of fun.

The other night when I saw George, I thought we could continue with the same funny banter, but no, George was snubbing me. 

There was something about the snub that turned me into a clinger. I wanted it to be the way it was, fun and interesting. I found myself standing near George waiting for a chance to talk to him. The snub had consumed me. I wasn’t thinking straight. I lost myself for a moment. I fought through it and finally came to my senses. You can’t force things. When you're clinging, you ain’t swinging, so stop your clinging and move away.  

               

Busting

I went to Martin’s house yesterday to lay down bass lines for the cover band. We’re making a demo so we can get some paying gigs.

            It’s taking longer than I expected to record the bass parts. I thought I’d go in and play the songs a few times and that would be that. Oh no, not with Martin. He’s a perfectionist. I found myself pushed to the brink. I was playing the same part over and over and making up new parts on the fly. I was working hard. I felt like we were making an album for Capital Records. My resolve was being tested. I started to feel insecure with my playing, as if I wasn’t good enough.

            “You can do it tighter, “ Martin said.

            I wasn’t sure if I could. Martin has a way of pushing me. I went along with the drill sergeant’s request, but deep down inside I wanted to give up. I battled through it. My personality is more about pleasure than pain and to Martin’s credit the music does sound tighter.

            I wrote an email to my band mates. They have to record their parts when I'm finished. I said beware! Martin is busting my balls.  

Hemmingway’s

Last night I went to a place called Hemmingway’s in Hollywood. My friend Lou’s nephew was playing bass in a band called Kiev. I’ve known Derrick the bass playing nephew since he was a kid.

I liked Hemmingway’s. The walls were lined with vintage books and typewriters, there were stacks of papers lining another wall above the bar. I felt at home there. I’ll have to go back sometime. The typewriters were amazing. 

I wrote a book once (currently unpublished) where I used vintage typewriters as an element to the story. I love old typewriters. There was a time in my life when I was considering starting a typewriter museum. People laughed at me when I told them my idea,  but I was serious. Now all I have to do is go to Hemmingway’s to get my feel.

You never know what kids are going to be when they grow up. I have a secret hope that they’ll pursue physics, or computers. Last night as I was watching Derrick play bass, I knew he made the right choice in life. He’s in the right place, with the right people, and as far as I’m concerned, that makes him a huge success. 

Dog Specific

I spent the night at Lon’s house last night. I don’t know Lon. I’ve never met him, but I must say he has a nice house. Lon asked my lady friend to take care of his wiener dogs while he visited his dying father in Seattle. The wiener dogs were lovable but kind of on the spooky side. First of all, they’re pretty small, almost delicate. Their heads are tiny, and they have a hard time backing up.

Part of the deal was that my lady friend had to spend the night with the dogs. She was doing Lon a favor and asked me if I’d come along with her. I didn’t mind but the dogs seemed to be staring at me constantly. It makes me insecure when dogs or cats stare at me. I can’t tell if they’re judging my spirit, as if they have a greater understanding of universal properties, or if they’re just needy. It’s almost too much when they just sit there and stare at you.

We took the dogs for a walk last night. I wasn’t into it all that much. I had fun but there was something about it that made me feel ordinary. I was holding one of those push button leashes that’s designed in an inferior manner. You have to push down and hold the button to lock the dog in. It should be the other way around. You should have to push down on the button to let the dog out.

            I like dogs. I like big dogs with a nice coat. I want a dog I can let run wild, a dog I can use as pillow, a fluffy dog. I guess you might say, I’m dog specific. 

Technology

I went over to Martin’s today to work on Dust Covered Man. We picked through the guitar parts we recorded the other day and laid them into the track. It’s sounds pretty good.

Today’s technology is such that you can monkey with a song at the click of a mouse, which is nice. The art of sound and music is of course old, and antiquated. For the most part you’re using analog recording techniques and applying them to a digital format. There are tricks and secrets for capturing sound. It can be as easy as playing a guitar through an amp, or you can make it more complicated if you want. It depends on what you’re going for, what you want to hear.

           Guitar and voice is about as pure as you can get but it’s more interesting to me to try and come up with other parts to go along with the guitar and voice. Ultimately, I’d like to have two versions of the songs that I write. An acoustic version and a studio version. That way people can pick and choose what they want to hear, more or less, less or more, electric guitar, no electric guitar, drums, no drums. I suppose that’s where we’re heading. You can play a song and create your own mix by clicking a button. You feel like hearing the drums. Click. That bass line is driving me crazy. Click. That singer sucks. Click. Oh, that singer was me. Click.