How To Write a Song

I stay in a lot. I fiddle around with this and that. It used to be I spent a lot of time with the poem, but nowadays, with the advent of the blog, what ideas I had for for poems are now ideas for blogs. I was thinking of cherry picking the blogs and turning them into poems, but that sounds like a lot of work just to keep a format. If you replace the P in poet with a B from blog you get “boet,” and if you add the L from blog than you get “bloet” which sounds like “blow it” which is pretty much what a poet is anyways.

           I spent Sunday alone. I was working on a new song. The song is epic, but it doesn’t have any words, and the universe is being stingy, or I’m not listening, what ever the case, the song is taking longer to write than usual. I took a break from the song and laid down to read. I had the radio on. I can do both at the same time. A play by George Bernard Shaw came on the radio. I fell asleep almost immediately. There’s something about his plays that make me sleepy. I think it has to do with me trying to listen. I find myself trying to listen, trying to understand why he was so famous, and that makes me sleepy. 

That Cat Cooks

            A friend of mine has a cat named Wolfie. I find myself looking at Wolfie and wishing that he was a world renowned chef. If only he was French and highly trained from the Le Cordon Bleu. Sometimes I take it a step further and imagine Wolfie sharpening his knives while thinking about his next culinary masterpiece. 
            It is true that Wolfie constantly thinks about his next meal, but it has nothing to do with cooking. That cat cooks! is a figment of my imagination. That cat gets fed, is the sad, unpalatable feline reality.   

Hilltop Living

        My car's starter is going bad. I never know when it’s going to work or not. I’ve taken to hitting it with a rubber mallet to knock the brushes into place, but now even the rubber mallet is failing to work. People owe me money. I’m waiting to get paid, and there’s part of me that wants to replace the starter myself.  

        My car has a manual transmission. I find myself driving from one hilltop to another to insure a rolling start to pop it into gear. Second gear is a much smoother start than first gear. When I contemplate taking a drive I have to think about the relative proximity of a hill as it correlates to my prospective destination. Another thing I need to consider is the slope of the hill. Momentum is a crucial element to a smooth start. I’m at the mercy of nature. It’s a good thing I live in Los Angeles and not Florida.

        “Hey, why don’t you meet me for a drink?”

        “Is there a hilltop near by?”

Viagra

My friend Lee and I were talking and somehow the subject of Viagra came up. We were joking about how you can take the pill, get an erection, and then suddenly lose your vision. At that point, you’re kind of left on an island and at the mercy of your lover. Depending on your lover's mood or sense of humor, it could be a bit of a guessing game, a sort of Marco Polo in the bedroom.

            “Where are you at baby? The blood has rushed out of my head.”

            A woman with a sense of humor can have a field day with a man with an erection who can’t see. She can just sit quietly and not say a word, while her man stands there stupidly with a four hour erection and a temporary state of blindness.

            “Just say something baby, and let me know where you’re at. Say my name, say my name.”

Post to Re-post

            I do my best to blog every other day, but things have gone haywire, and I don't have the time today. I have a gig in Venice Beach, and I have to re-learn some songs. I'll try to post something tomorrow. 

A Compound Requisite for Living

            I’m waiting for the rain. I’ve covered my convertible top, the one that has holes in it, and I’ve put away all my tools that were laying around my cabin, and now I’m just waiting. It seems I’ve been waiting all year long for this. In the summer months I wish for cold. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I was born in January. Fall and winter are nice and moody, the way I like it. San Francisco was a moody town. I suppose a lot of towns are moody. But, when you live Los Angeles it’s the rain that is exciting. It rains so infrequently that it’s a big deal. Some people complain about it, which doesn’t make any sense to me. It’s only water, a compound requisite for living.

Aromatics

I tend to be a bit of a hermit, so when I do something on a Saturday night it’s a big deal.  I went to an art walk in the neighborhood. It’s good to know there are others who are out there doing it. Painters mostly, but there were some beer makers and a woman who was into aromatics. She captured my attention most. She had a well-organized carrier. It was almost like a nice looking toolbox, but for perfume. She had a whole bunch of glass vials with her fragrances. She could mix up a custom fragrance on the spot for forty bucks. She had long curly hair and she looked like she was from another place and another time. It was interesting. She was a chemist. She had to be smart.

            I went to a Japanese market on Sunday. I saw a bluefin tuna being cut up. It was fat and big, and from the looks of it very popular with the Japanese community. 

Health and Medication

I was talking to Bill the Google Master. He was sitting on the couch sorting out his medication. He had one pill for his hypertension, and another pill for his arthritis, and yet another pill for general hippie purposes. He takes five or six different pills a day to keep him going.

“You know the flu shot reduces the chance of cardiac arrest and stroke by forty-seven percent. Have you gotten you flu shot yet?" he asked me.

“I don’t get flu shots. I don’t believe in them,” I answered.

“You got to get your flu shot. You know there’s plaque build up in your arteries, and when you get the flu it constricts the arteries and thus exacerbates the plaque content relative to the circumference of the artery.”

“I haven’t had the flu in years. Forty-seven percent. It sounds too good to be true. Who did the study, a pharmaceutical company?"

I could see Bill get agitated with the comment. I was being a smart ass, but I was getting agitated too. I was raised by a healing witch. My mother could heal anybody with teas and elixirs and a few vitamins. We didn’t go to the doctor unless it was a near death state of affairs, or stitches, or something that involved a lot of blood.

            It took me a moment to realize that the man giving me health advice was administering medication to himself. The scenario did not lend itself to the Google Master’s medical credibility.    

The Muscovy Ducks

            I went to the bird factory at the L.A. river. There were Blackneck Stilts, Great Blue Herons, Snowy Egrets, Muscovy Ducks, Mallards, Coots, and lest we forget, Cormorants. There were a host of birds hanging out a stone’s throw away from the freeway. The birds didn’t seem to mind the bikers and walkers that were gawking at them. The bikers weren’t gawking, they were moving too fast to see anything. There’s a whole convention of birds down there, our feathered friends. They didn’t care about the cold water, or trash, or cement. They looked happy, all except the Cormorants, and even they were shaking out their feathers from time to time in exaltation. 

The Google Sandbox

As mentioned, Bill the smog guru is no longer Bill the smog guru. He is now Bill the Google master. He can get any page to appear first on a Google search. He was explaining it to me how he does it, but it went way over my head. I felt like a gorilla as I sat there listening to him pontificate.

He convinced me to write a description for my blog, that’s how little I know. He was talking about the Google slap and the Google sandbox.

“You don’t want to end up in the sandbox.”

“No, I don’t want that.”

It’s a wonder anyone finds my blog. I have no description, no internet skills, and not a whole lot of ambition.

            The last thing Bill said to me as I was leaving was, ‘Wordtracker.” His eyes were bulging out of his sockets like a man possessed. I think the hippie done lost his mind. 

Weddings and Golf Bags

I found myself at a family wedding on Saturday. It was a country club affair, and from all appearances, it was real nice. It was good to see the family come together. As time has passed, the family has become larger, although it seems to be getting smaller with all the in fighting and lack of participation.

            I’m not a big fan of weddings. I have a tendency to disappear during the reception and walk around the country club at night. A country club at night is a lonely place.  The last three family weddings have been at country clubs, and at all three weddings I found myself strolling the grounds alone peering into the window of a pro shop. The sight of empty golf bags sitting in the shadows of a closed dark pro shop is sad. The bags sit there, chubby, empty, and in isolation, all they need is a pint of ice cream to make their loneliness complete. Nobody has picked them, and at pro shop prices it may be some time before someone does.  

Google

I’m still not sure about the reliability of Google stats. It seems to spit out random numbers. I’ll check the numbers every now and again and each time it’s different. I’m beginning to think it’s a farce- that it’s all made up. I wouldn’t know the difference. I’m sure there’s an algorithm that figures it out, but why the numbers come up different I’ll never know. 

            It’s okay when the numbers come in on the high side, but when they come in low it’s a disappointment. Where’d my readers go? They just disappeared in a matter of hours. It feels like I got a demerit. Nobody likes a demerit. It’s just Google messing with me. They don’t have anything better to do. That’s what power does. It messes with the little people. 

Noodles

I’m a Noodler, not one of those catfish fishermen from the southern domain, but a real live Noodler from Los Angeles. I had noodles on Saturday night and noodles on Sunday afternoon. I like noodles. I like soup. I like saying chop suey out loud. Chop suey. But I’m not talking chop suey. I’m talking soup. I’m talking noodles. I had Pho on Saturday and Ramen on Sunday. It doesn’t seem to matter where the soup comes from, I like it.

            The Japanese restaurant was a call and response place. It was very festive. There was a lot of yelling. The staff would say things in unison in Japanese. It reminded me of a Catholic mass or the old time ice cream parlor called Farrell’s. The lord is with you, and also with you. But it was in Japanese, so it was cool. Kanpai. Kanpai!!! It was like being in church. 

Give Them The Finger

            I had a gig yesterday playing bass. It had been some time since my last gig, and my fingers didn’t take well to it. I acquired a blood blister on my index finger. It looks like a red football shaped birthmark.

            After the gig I went out and sang a couple of songs at an open mic. I sang a Sixto Rodriquez song, Crucify Your Mind, and one of my songs, Things Have Gone and Changed. I brought my rack, and played harmonica to fill the space on Things Have Gone and Changed. It went over pretty well considering the audience had no familiarity with the songs.

            I drove to my Thursday hang at the Dresden Room after that. I got into a discussion about politics and road rage. There’s not much difference between the two. They both excite anger, and involve pompous moralizing. I’m right your wrong kind of thing. How can we both be right, and both be wrong. It doesn’t make any sense. I’m not sure why I even care to talk about it. We pick a team and we stick to it. I couldn’t help but gloat about my team’s victory. My republican and libertarian friends were pissed. I could see the emotions stirring deep inside them. I think if we were driving they would have flipped me the finger.  

The Thirteenth Poem

I have a goddaughter. She turns thirteen on Thursday. My promise to her as godfather was to write her a poem once a year for her birthday. So far so good. I’ve liked some of the poems I’ve written to her, but others have read like I was fishing for answers on paper. It’s hard to write a three year old a poem, or a seven year old. I’m not sure how I did it. I’m afraid to read them to tell you the truth. I remember the feelings I had while writing them, and having to turn them in on time. I’m a better poet now than I was then. If you do something long enough you’re bound to get better.

            I’m working on this year’s poem, and I’m having trouble with it. It’s reading funny. It’s choppy. It’s lacking subject matter. I want it to be good, but it’s testing me. I have time and I know I’ll finish it. The deadline looms. My goddaughter is looking forward to reading it, and I’m looking forward to giving it to her. 

Passwords

I spend a lot of time hunting down my passwords. I’m on this site or that site and it seems I need a password in many instances. I tried to keep it simple. I have one password for my business affairs, and I have a different password for personal matters.

Somehow the situation has gotten away from me. I had to change a password ever so slightly here and there to fulfill the requirements of the site. The password required a number or capital letter, something stupid like that. My email was hacked once and I made a subtle change to my password to get the hackers off my back.

            Now I have so many subtle variations I can’t remember what’s what. I suppose I could make a password chart and hide it somewhere, but that’s evidence should I ever get robbed or violated in anyway. If I’m away from a site too long and I check in month’s later there’s a pretty good shot I’m not going to remember my password, so I find myself hunting down the password, resetting them, or answering questions about my childhood. So far I’ve remembered to answer the questions about my childhood correctly, but I foresee a day when I start to answer them wrong. 

Election Day

            I voted yesterday. I voted for Barack Obama and Joe Biden. I marked my ballot and said to myself, my guys. 
            A picture of Joe Biden’s smile flashed before me while I stood in the voting booth. What a bunch of rapscallions. I’d like to hang out with them. My team. You know they’re troublemakers when the cameras aren’t rolling, when they’re smoking their cigars and making fun of their opponents. I’d like to see that. I’d like to have a bourbon in my hand, while laughing at the expense of John Boehner’s hair, and his fake tan, or Mitch McConnell’s strange looking jaw and mouth. I’d like to see Joe do an impersonation of Mitch. Joe would make the funny mouth and jaw. We’d laugh. I’d sip my bourbon. Somebody would say “John Boner,” and we’d laugh some more. 

Back Pain

            I tweaked my back. It goes out every now and again. I don’t know if I injured myself while digging ditches, or sleeping. I’m beginning to think sex is bad for strained backs. It’s a risk verses reward scenario that requires very little thinking, at least I didn’t think about it much.

            It’s a strange thing sex with a bad back. Things slow down some. I was trying not to exacerbate the situation , but I seemed to forget all about my bad back at a certain point. I think that’s why sex is bad for backs. I lost my mind and senses and I forgot about the big picture. The picture became very centralized, and the only thing that seemed to matter was the moment. I was finally living in the moment, but now the pain is bringing up the past. 

Open Mic

I went to an open mic last night. I’ve never performed at an open mic before. I’ve heard stories about them, and to some degree they get a bad rap, and now I know why. There’s a beauty to them. Anybody can get up and sing a song or do what you want to do. There were a few people who wanted to express themselves a little too much. They forgot about their audience. Self-indulgence I think it’s called. One guy didn’t want to leave the stage. He played a couple of long drawn out songs. The host finally started clapping when his song came to a lull. It was a nudge, a subtle hint to get off the stage. The singer-songwriter was offended by it. The guy gave the artist a bad name.

           The other musicians were very nice. I got up and did my two tunes, and they went over pretty well. I’m going back next week to try out some more new songs. Guinea pigs that's what I need. Guinea pigs.  

Bowling

Bill the smog guru told me a story about the first time he smoked pot. It was nineteen-sixty something. He was a teenager living in San Francisco. His father was a colonel in the U.S. Army. Bill was living at the Presidio at the time. Military housing.

Bill was at the bowling alley when a beautiful young girl with pale light skin and straight dark hair asked him if he wanted to smoke a joint. Bill took one look at her and said yes.

The two went outside and found a field, and leaned up against a tree. The girl pulled out a huge joint and they smoked it to the roach.

They went back inside to bowl. Bill picked up a ball and threw a strike. Then he threw another, and another. Pretty soon a crowd started to gather. Bill kept throwing strikes one after another. The crowd got bigger and Bill kept throwing strikes. The crowd started to cheer him on. The bowling alley was filled with excitement.

            Bill was one strike away from a perfect game. He threw the ball and it smashed hard into the pins. The pins scattered violently. They all fell down but one. The seven pin, it wobbled pretty good before it settled back upright. The crowd was disappointed. Bill didn’t care. His best score to that point was one-twenty. 

Svengali

            It’s Monday and I should have another blog for today, but I don’t. I’m saving myself. You can’t do it all at once, you need to save something for later.

I’m a blogging conservative, which is kind of like a fiscal conservative, but for bloggers. What ever that means? The term fiscal conservative has always intrigued me, for it seldom if ever makes sense as it pertains to the Republican party. Bill Clinton was a fiscal conservative, but a bedroom liberal.

            Our society is all twisted up. There are people who are pro-life who support the death penalty, and deficit hawks who helped create the deficit. There’s crying on the left and crying on the right, and there are people who can’t make up their minds called the undecided, or as I like to call them, Republocrats. We’re constantly being manipulated into believing terms, framing I think they call it. Don’t fall in love with my writing, what ever you do, do not fall in love with my writing. 

Jujitsu

            I went out last night. I can’t be a hermit all the time. I like going to a bar that a friend of mine manages. He and I have good laughs together. He’s learning Jujitsu so there’s a lot of hand movements and jabbing and poking as we talk. I like to know what he’s learning and he’s nice enough to show it to me. But I find myself on the defensive while talking to him. I’m constantly avoiding his hand movements. I have to watch his every move. It’s a little unsettling. Last night he showed me how to dislocate somebody’s shoulder. He grabbed hold of my arm and stepped through an opening and twisted up. I stopped him before I felt any pain. I got the gist of it. I found myself in an awkward position. My friend was holding my forearm  and my shoulder was nearly touching my ear. 

The Burly Barbers

            I turned myself in for a haircut. I hadn’t had an official haircut in sometime. I’d been trimming it myself, mainly around the ears to maintain the mane. I even asked a lady friend who seemed capable enough, but with no previous experience to trim it for me. It was just a mess. It was long and choppy. People were starting to look at me like I was nuts.

            I like to go to an old school barbershop in the neighborhood. The barbers are tough looking Mexican cats who have brought back the old traditions of barbering. They give you a massage when they’re finished with your haircut. They use a vibrating hand massager that you can buy at Sears, big burly guys giving massages. It’s kind of weird, but it feels good. 

            I walked into the shop and sat down in a barber’s chair. There was a television on. It was mounted in a corner near the ceiling. I didn’t pay much attention to it at first, but as I settled in I realized the men were watching a cooking show.  There was a woman explaining how to make Pavlova muffins.

            “A cooking show huh?” I said.

            “You've got to keep the ladies happy,” said a burly barber.

Sam Kinison

I went out last night with my friend Jeff the singer to drop off a demo for a potential gig. There was a kid playing the guitar when we got there. He sounded like Sam Kinison, not a particularly good thing for a singer.  Ohhhhhh! Nooooo! Ahhhhh! Strum, strum, strum. He was a real aggressive strummer. I doubt the kid knew who Sam Kinison was. I think if he did he’d change his style.

Jeff and I were talking to the booking agent. She turned to me in between songs and said, “isn’t he great? I love his voice.”

I felt like saying to her he sounds like Sam Kinison, but she was younger and she probably didn’t know who Sam Kinison was either.

            The kid finished his set and someone yelled "one more." There were maybe five people in the place. I was hoping he wouldn’t play another song. He did. 

The Hippie Dream

            Bill the smog guru is no longer Bill the smog guru. He sold his diagnostic equipment and quit the business. He had a run in with the state of California and in true hippie fashion he lost. The state rolled right over him, and told him, my way or the state highway, and the state highway it was. Bill knew he was licked so he sold his equipment at a decent price.

Bill still has some hippie rebellion in him. He hasn’t given up yet. He already has a new scheme for a smog guru resuscitation. His plan is to sell his business to guy named Veroush. Veroush is a smog guru of a lower order, but a smog guru nonetheless. Bill’s strategy is to team up with Veroush so he can reclaim his rightful position of king of the smog gurus! Muahahaha.

            Frankly, I don’t think Veroush is going to go for it, but I didn’t have the heart to tell Bill that. Why crush the hippie dream.   

Google

Good news! My stats are back. Thank you Google, you're not so bad after all.  

Google Stats

            Google has statistics for us bloggers who use Blogspot. There are a couple reasons why I use Blogspot and one of them is the statistics that I can access. It’s interesting to see where people are reading from and how many readers I have on any given day.

            Today, tonight I went to check my stats, and it seems all of my history has disappeared. Erased. Imagine my disappointment when I realized I’d been wiped out.  This is Googles equivalent of Apple Maps in my estimation.  This has happened to me before. The last time it happened it involved money from ads on my blog that people clicked on. The money in my account one day vanished. I took down the ads on my blog as a matter of principle shortly after that.  
            I’m not sure what’s going on with Google, but I don’t like it. I’m a stats guy. I need them to keep me interested. I’d really like my stats back. Imagine baseball with no stats, blogging to me is no different. 

Hip Hop Waltz

            I had a bass playing gig in the valley yesterday. It was a paying gig and having money isn’t all that bad. It was raining off and on, when there are clouds in Los Angeles it’s a special day, and when it rains it’s extra special.

The gig was on Sherman Way and as it turned out it was in front of a Pawn Shop. I saw the stage set up on the sidewalk. I’d never played on a sidewalk before. My initial reaction was “oh man,” but a gig is a gig and I had to make the best of it. We set up and played a couple songs when it started to rain. We were under an awning, Protected. I was looking at the clouds and the rain. It was beautiful. There I was playing my bass in the rain. Perfect.

            People would stop and listen. Two high school kids stopped and were listening intently. They applauded after every song. Commuters were waving and honking their horns as they drove by. It was interesting. Then a fat African American couple stopped. They looked like they were into Hip Hop based on their wardrobe. They were standing in front of the band when they broke out into a waltz. It was unexpected, and incongruous. They were waltzing on the sidewalk, lovingly, affectionately, as if they were the only two people on earth. It was the most beautiful and romantic thing I’d ever seen.  

Bagpipes

            There use to be a bagpipe player in the neighborhood, but I haven’t heard him play lately. I’m assuming he moved away. Either that, or he gave it up. I liked listening to him practice. The sound carried up the hill into my cabin. He usually practiced during the day. What he was playing was indistinguishable. Bagpipe mumbo-jumbo of the official order. Who knows what they’re playing, but it sounds good. It’s a commanding instrument. If you walk into a room with a bagpipe heads are going to turn. And if you start to play, even though nobody will know what you’re playing, people will be interested for a song or two. It’s hard to hold an audience for more than that with a bagpipe. You can’t do a bagpipe concert. They don’t hold. They wear on you. They’re better suited for parades, where you can hear them coming and going, and as they pass they sound beautiful.    

Sausage and Porn

            I went out last night as I’m accustomed to do on Thursday nights. I’m trying to change my night out to Tuesday, but it seems Thursday won’t let me.

            I’ve been going to the same place for years, not because the people are nice, but because the atmosphere is just weird enough to keep me entertained.

            Last night I met a man from Minnesota who was in town making a documentary on the children of porno stars. It sounded interesting enough. We talked about Bob Dylan, and I mentioned Rodriquez to him. He had never heard of Rodriquez. I asked him about the sausage in Minnesota. I have a thing for sausage and any chance I get, I’ll ask a mid-westerner about the sausage in their state. He told me about a place called Klinker-hurst or Capiastan, I can’t remember, but it sounded like an Estonian country. That was my night, I talked about sausage and porn, mixed in with a little music. Themes that follow me where ever I go. 

The Lincoln Memorial

            I was a history major in college, so it makes sense that I like to watch the History Channel from time to time. I was watching a segment on Abraham Lincoln when it was suggested that "Honest Abe," maybe wasn’t so honest. Abe had a friend. His friend was a man. Abe and his friend spent a lot of time together and shared the same bedroom. I got to thinking, how great would it be if Abe had a streak of lavender in him. That would set the country on fire. The evangelicals would be upset, that’s for sure. My mind raced thinking about the possibilities. I thought about the Lincoln memorial and the five-dollar bill. We’d have a great big statue of a gay man in DC proper. The bigots would be beside themselves with anger, but then again, the bigots are always besides themselves with anger. 

Rodriquez

I saw Rodriquez on Friday night. There’s Bob Dylan, there’s Johnny Cash, and then there’s Rodriquez. He was great, barring his issues with keeping his guitar in tune. Performing for people can be a strange thing, especially if you’re strange yourself. I know this first hand, for obvious reasons. We all have our tics, It seemed to me that Rodriquez’s tic was tuning his guitar. I don’t blame him if that’s his tic. It could be that his guitar doesn’t stay in tune. He uses a nylon and those things go out of tune when you breath on them.

            I enjoyed the show. He was magical. His song writing skills are amazing to me. His songs are very simple and very catchy. What complicates them is his strumming technique. He plays guitar like a Ranchero. It’s a very personal style. His strumming patterns are different from most guitar players. His technique fills a lot of space. It makes his sound bigger, wider, warmer then most. I love Rodriquez. It would be great to jam with him someday. That would be a dream come true. 

The Chicken Lady

            My friend mentioned to me that if the dogs should somehow escape that they’ll run to a neighbor’s house, for the neighbor was prone to feed them chicken. Sure enough, that’s where I found them. They were barking at her gate. The lady was in a tizzy when I walked up. She was trying to hold back her dogs, and greet the yappy dogs that had escaped.

            She was an older skinny lady. She was wearing a pair of blue short pants that displayed her rail thin legs.

            “Hi my name is Anthony.”

            “Don’t you have control of those dogs?”

            “Not really.”

            “You’ve got to control them!”

            I felt myself ready to anger with her comment, but I didn’t fall into the trap and decided to charm her instead. I gave her the soft eyes and wit, mixed with some honesty and pinch of humility, by the end of the conversation the chicken lady was mine.

            “You’re such a handsome young man,” she said to me before I departed.
            Thank you chicken lady.

Let The Little Dogs Run

            A friend of mine asked me to walk her dogs for a day while she was out of town. There are four dogs in total, a big smokey gray Pit Bull named Blueberry and two little dogs and another big one. She explained to me the procedure. I was to walk Blueberry first and then the two little ones, and then the big old timer after that.

            I walked Blueberry. She and I had a good time. I was set to walk the little dogs. I had them on their leashes and was attempting to open the gate when Blueberry and the big old timer started nudging at the gate door trying to get past me. The two little dogs were yapping. They were eager to take a walk, but Blueberry and the old timer had other ideas. I was trying to keep them back so they didn’t escape, but it was as though they formulated a plan behind my back, and ganged up on me. There was a lot of confusion. The little dogs were yapping and the big ones were nudging at the gate, the dogs had turned stubborn and weren't listening to my commands. I was trying to control the situation the best I could. I felt like a substitute teacher. I was being abused. The little dogs' leashes got tangled up around the legs of the big dogs. I finally gave up, and let the little dogs run. 

You've Got To Burn To Tan

            I went to the beach yesterday. It’s now autumn so the crowds have dissipated some since my last visit. I like to travel north towards Malibu when I go to the beach. It was high tide when we got there. Much of the sand was covered by water, leaving few options to make camp.

            I noticed there were a lot of tourists. I can spot a tourist pretty easily. It’s their beach manner that gives them away. A family walked up and made camp near by.  The father was wearing all black. Californians don’t wear all black to the beach. It’s rare when they do. The father started aggressively throwing seaweed off to the side to clear a clean space for his blankets. He was grabbing big handfuls of sand with the seaweed. The sand was flying through the air. Luckily, it wasn’t windy or we would’ve had a problem. Californians are sand conscious, we don’t throw sand wildly through the air. Sand travels well, and it irritates people when it hits them.  The other hint that the family was from out of town was that the father didn’t take his shirt off and sat under an umbrella. He was scared to burn. Californians know you've got burn to tan. 

The Best Products

I was looking at kitchen faucets at a hardware store when an older fellow came up to me and said that the younger generation was killing him, that they wanted the best products but they didn't want to pay for them. I figured he was a handyman of some sort, and was talking from experience. I smiled at him but didn't say anything back.

Then the man said, “we blame the Jews,” and walked away. I didn't know what to say to that. I stood there dumbfounded. I sent my Jewish friend an email and told her what had happened at the hardware store. 
She emailed me back, “He had it half right, I do like the best products.” 

Corporations Aren't People

I had to cash a check. I was asked by the drawer to cash it at his bank for some unknown reason. I obliged. I entered the bank and everything was copacetic. The teller I approached was nice and fairly attractive. I was familiar with the bank. I had an account there for years before they changed their checking policies. I thought their new policies discriminated against poor people so I changed banks. I’m poor. It affected me. I’m happy with my new bank. It’s classy and there are no lines.

            Everything was going to plan. The transaction was being processed. Then, the teller started to play with her computer a little bit more then I wanted her to. She asked if I had an account with her bank. I told her that I had closed the account. She fiddled with her computer some more and finally said it would cost six bucks to cash the check. I thought to myself this is a multi-billion dollar bank and they're trying to chisel six bucks from me. Fat chance. If corporations are people, then they work for me.   

Last Gig In Venice

I did my last gig with the Venice band. Tree Man stopped by, but he seemed to be in a bad mood. It looked like he was overwhelmed by the attention he was getting. He was an unhappy tree, dead wood. He didn’t even bother to sing a song. He walked in and walked out.

            The General sang a song instead. The General is a Jamaican guy who thinks he’s Bob Marley. He isn’t. Once The General gets on stage it hard to get him off. He insisted that we play another song with him. We didn’t. The General is a good nickname for the guy. He does start to give orders.  He has a real high opinion of himself. He’s downright conceited. I’ve always thought of him as a Rasta poser. He’s probably not even from Jamaica. He could very well be from Venice Beach. 

The Parking Lot

            It occurred to me the other day while trying to pull into a parking lot, that perhaps it wouldn’t be all that bad to grow old and lose my short-term memory. 

            A man had pulled into the parking lot going the wrong way. He was stupidly blocking traffic. There was somebody else waiting for a spot and he too was blocking traffic. It was mayhem. My temperature rose a point or two just sitting there as a witness. If I didn’t have a short-term memory my anger would last but a minute or two and then my problems would dissipate into thin air. That sounds promising to me. I’d hardly have resentment, because I couldn’t remember my resentment. Old and in bliss, that's what I'd be. 

Jury Duty

            I talked to Bill the smog guru yesterday. He told me a story about his stint with jury duty. He was a juror on a domestic abuse case. A man came home drunk from a bar and tried to force his lady to perform oral sex, to which the lady responded by hitting the man over the head with a frying pan. The man socked the lady in the eye before he passed out on the floor.

            The lady went to work the next day with a black eye. Her workmates, upon seeing the black eye, asked how she got it. They convinced the lady to report her boyfriend to the police. The police arrested the boyfriend later that day. He was still asleep on the floor in the same position.

            Three felony counts later there was Bill deliberating with the other jurors who had unanimously voted to send the man up the river to San Quentin for the thirty odd years. 

            Fry him was the popular sentiment.

            Bill thought it a waste of taxpayer money to send the man to prison for thirty years. He said his neck twitched to the left when he realized how the jurors were leaning. Bill was the lone holdout. 
            After much deliberation the jurors convicted the man on a couple of misdemeanor charges. He did time served. 

Juan

            It turns out that the weird guy on the boardwalk that dances around with sacks of pinto beans on his head is an ex-history professor. There is an intelligent aspect to his pageantry, and now it makes perfect sense. He’s an academic. Supposedly he’s done interviews for TMZ. Even the freaks on the boardwalk are trying to be discovered. It is Los Angeles. It seems like a circuitous route to discovery, or on the other hand, it could be sheer public relations genius. I'm not sure.

            I have one more gig with the band before it’s all over, and to tell you the truth, I’m a little worried about a lack of blogging content without Venice. Venice the pearl, the slime, the ocean.

Water

            There’s a strange phenomenon transpiring in my cabin. I’ll measure two cups of water and pour it into my coffee maker, and inevitably, I’ll get four cups of coffee back. I can’t explain it, but I’m not complaining given the current state of my economic situation.

            I’m not sure a physicist could explain it. It defies all laws with regard to mass and matter. I’m beginning to think water mates, or that cloud structures have found their way into my coffee maker.

            Feel free to click on The Glen Liver icon. I posted a couple of new songs. Thanks.

No Good Answer

I was at my Venice gig when the drummer in the band came up to me and said, “Can you do me a favor? Can you watch the restroom door while I go to the bathroom?”

            He’d been having stomach problems for the last two weeks. His stomach had him running around looking for a nice safe place to crap.

            “Where are the restrooms?” he asked me.

            “I think they’re right over there,” I pointed to a building that I thought were the public restrooms near the beach.

            “Those aren’t public restrooms,” he reported back to me after checking them out.

            I had a simple job. I was to stand in line to give the appearance that I was waiting for the restroom, while “Gus,” we’ll call him Gus, did his business.

            At first it was just me in line, and every thing was easy, but then thirty seconds later another guy showed up, and fifteen seconds after that still another guy showed up to be third in line. We were all standing there waiting. We weren’t waiting long, but it seemed long, because it was the restroom and the fellows had to go. The guy third in line got impatient.

            “Hey, there’s two urinals in there!” he said to me.

            I just smiled and threw up my hands. I was thinking the guy had too much information. I had a bad feeling about him. He was a loose cannon.

            Sure enough, the guy third in line took matters into his own hands and rushed past me toward the door. There was nothing I could do to stop him, it happened so quickly. In my deviousness I was curious to see his reaction once he opened the door. 

            He flung the door open and saw “Gus” sitting on the toilet taking a crap. He made an awful face and shut the door as quickly as he could.

In my mind I had just taught the guy a valuable lesson about patience. I subsequently abandoned my post. I was sitting at the bar when Gus walked out of the restroom. He was tucking in his shirt and looking for me at the same time. 

He caught up to me.

“What happened?” he asked me in a whisper.

            “The guy stormed the door. There was nothing I could do to stop him,” I whispered back.  

            “What if we were at war, and my life depended upon you?”

            To that question I had no good answer.

Ear Splitting

I’m going into the studio today. I’ll be on cymbal detail. The plan is to turn down the cymbals on two songs. Some of the cymbals are ear-splitting. It’s a small detail, but I’m just thinking about my audience. I don’t want anybody wearing headphones to lose their hearing with the sound of crashing cymbals. Maybe some day as a practical joke I’ll release a song that appears normal on every level, until, unexpectedly, a deafening cymbal crash descends upon the listener and jolts them from the doldrums of everyday living.

            I imagine somebody walking down the street with a cool look on their face, then suddenly stopping to yank off their headphones and saying, “damn!”  

Nasty Bitch

I was talking to Bill the smog guru when his cell phone rang. He gets a lot of phone calls during the coarse of the day. People call for information regarding smog test, and ask him repair questions for their vehicles. Bill will answer the phone but on rare occasions. If someone calls and doesn’t meet his high standards, or expectations, he’ll give the caller a label on his cell phone. He’ll type in something to the effect of “El Grand Stupido,” or if it’s a lady “Nasty Bitch,” if she tries to push her weight around.

            We’ll be sitting there talking about Fairport Convention, or about the time Bill saw Jimi Hendrix at the Hollywood Bowl when Bill’s phone will start to ring. He’ll pull it out of his shirt pocket and take a quick look at the caller ID to see who’s calling. “El Stupido Maximo,” He’ll stick the phone back in his pocket, until the phone rings again. He'll look at the caller ID, “Nasty Bitch #19.”  

AAA Batteries

            My friend Lee was driving down the boulevard when a kid in a BMW cut him off.  They pulled to a red light and Lee looked at the kid.

            “You’re driving like a douche bag,” Lee said to him.

            The kid looked at Lee and threw up his hands. “It’s not the end of the world.”

            Lee looked at the kid in degust and reached down to his astray. He grabbed a triple A battery that he had stored for such an occasion and tossed it out his window. The battery hit the BMW squarely on the side panel. It made a huge racket, but it did little or no damage.

            Lee looked at the kid straight in the eyes, and threw up his hands, “It’s not the end of the world.” 

            A chase ensued and after many blocks of driving the kid finally caught up to Lee and got out of his car.

            Lee stayed in his car. “Did I do something wrong?” Lee said to the fuming kid as he approached.  

Nappy Time

            I was talking to Bill the smog guru about naps. He likes to sneak in a nap while his workers are at lunch. He says it’s easy to fall asleep on weekends. All he has to do is set the television to a station that is showing a golf tournament.

            “It works every time.”

            As he told me his technique for napping, and we expounded on the merits of the sleep aid called golf, I realized the sure genius to this approach. First of all, the announcers speak in a hushed tone of voice, as if there were a baby sleeping. “This putt is for birdie,” the announcer might say in a whispery, pleasant voice. It makes me sleepy just thinking about it. 

            The crowd is quiet. They don’t boo or jeer like at a football game. In football you hear a whistle blowing every fifteen seconds that’s not good for sleep.

            Even the golf swing is pleasant. It’s a whooshing sound, not like the crack of the bat in baseball. Yes I do believe we’ve found a purpose for golf, it’s a sleep aid.  

Not Much, But Something

            I’ve resigned my post as bass player from the Venice gig. The fun and games are over. The sole reason I was playing in the band was for the money, but the leader of the band started booking free gigs. I can’t play free gigs, unless it’s for a worthy cause, a benefit for the poor and needy, or for family.

            I gave him a month to find a new bass player. With all the time and energy I put into playing the bass, it’s a slap in the face for someone to expect me to play for free, the operative word is expect. I’m not going to be pushed around for free. It’s going to cost you a little something, not much, but something. 

Enough

            I spent my studio money on a woman, and now I’m just about broke. I had a good time. The process had meaning. I learned a few things about tenacity and recognition. When there’s a woman in my life money becomes an issue. Even if that woman is unique and understanding. I feel bad not having money. The life of an artist is filled with dichotomies. It’s tragic and beautiful. It’s peaceful yet stressful. I best let money flow. I’ll let it find me and leave me without worry. It has a way of doing that when you have enough, and I have enough.  

Pay Included

            Last nights gig was a first for me. We were asks via email by the leader of the band to play at a lower volume. Of course the engine room didn’t take kindly to the suggestion. It had more to do with the tone of the email than anything else. I figured I’d turn down. I like playing load, too load at times.

            We played the first song, and the drummer was barely hitting his skins, and Eichenbaum the guitar player looked like he was playing air guitar.  I played accordingly, at a hushed tone.

The first set was like a funeral it was so quiet. The singers didn’t start asking questions until after the second set.

            “Why are you playing so quiet?” they asked.

            They usually ask us to turn down, now all of a sudden they were concerned about us not being load enough. All their vocal imperfections were audible, more than usual. 

            The third set was the same, whenever Eichenbaum went in for solo you could see his fingers move, but there was no real sound coming from his amp.

            I turned up my bass for the fourth set and the drummer started to hit his skins, but Eichenbaum remained defiant and refused to turn up his guitar. The gig was a total loss, pay included. 

The Answer is Easy

            Leadership is a bitch. It’s hard to find a good leader. Frankly, I sometimes wonder if it’s even possible? Yes, of course it’s possible but uncommon to find a good leader. It’s exceptional when leadership has the respect of its subjects. I know I rarely respect leaders, but for the rare few that take the time to organize and plan and come prepared.             

            Patton was a great leader, probably the last great American general we’ve had. I know, I know Eisenhower, well, that’s argument for another day.

            The presidential election is fast approaching. I’ll have the privilege to choose between two potential leaders. I’ve simplified the process for making my choice. The important issues more than likely will bog down in congress, so I’ve come up with my own method for selecting a president. I came up with it just this instant. The question I ask myself is, “who would I be more apt to follow on a marked hiking trail in the San Gabriel Mountains?” Honestly, my rebellious spirit would have trouble following either one of them, but if I had to choose the answer is easy. 

Feeling the Freak

Last nights gig in Venice was blasé. The crowds were much smaller than usual, maybe it had something to do with the weather, or now that it’s August and nearing the end of summer the crowds are thinning. Even Tree Man was blasé. He came in and said hello, but quickly left without singing a song.

            “I just came in to say hello,” he said in a tone of voice that suggested low energy. 

            The usual crazies weren’t there.  The man that balances things on his head while wearing a fur coat wasn’t there. The woman with the white haired wig that dances to the sounds of the drum circle was missing. The freaks were on vacation, or just not feeling the freak. 

Brake Pads

            I went to Bill the smog guru’s shop to have my brake pads replaced.

            “Sit down, sit down,” Bill said.

            We sat down and started to talk. Our conversations usually start off nice and easy and then take a wicked turn, only to end politely, and cordially.

            This conversation was no different. We said our salutations and quickly thrust ourselves into the powerful effects of Bill’s prescription medication.

            “I’ll take the Norco just before bed. I’ll feel a slight tingle before I pass out.”

            Bill mentioned the other pills he’s taking, but there were too many to remember.

            Somehow the conversation deviated to Bill’s childhood. He said he had a thing for fire when he was a kid. I told him that’s how serial killers get their start. He looked confused and introspective for a moment but continued telling me his story.

He started a fire and got a beating for it from his father. His father was a Sergeant in the army. Bill, not to be deterred by the beating grabbed a large glass ashtray and a piled a mass of toilet paper on it.  The ashtray was more like a platter so the toilet paper piled up nicely. Bill put a match to the toilet paper on his bed. He was sitting crossed legged on his bed, behind the fire when his father walked into the room having smelled the smoke. His father just looked at him, but didn’t say anything.  It must have been a wicked sight.

            Bill and I talked for about an hour. I never did get my brake pads replaced.

              

French

            I was at a horse ranch in Chatsworth, when I turned to my friend John-Peter, who’s French. He was born in Paris and somehow ended up in Los Angeles. 

            “Didn’t your people eat horse's?” I asked.

            “They still do.”

            “What do they call it?” 

            “Steak de Cheval.”

            “That sounds elegant, even horse meat sounds elegant in French. How do you guys do that?”

            “I’m not sure.”
            "It's amazing."

Dust Fog

            Tree Man had a documentary crew following him about yesterday. He sat in with us for one song and then said “nature calls,” and left. The cameraman captured it all before they scooted.

Tree Man has a bunch of tree related jokes that he likes to say, dumb one-liners such as, “I need to branch out.”

            Eichenbaum our guitar player had another gig after our gig out in Chatsworth. He invited JP the drummer and I to it. He said it was a fund-raiser for a cruelty to animal’s organization. Eichenbaum said there was going to be Penthouse playmates there. I didn’t want to go. Chatsworth is not my territory. JP talked me into it. JP and I got lost on the way over there. We were on a mountainous road. It was pitch black. We finally figured it out. The party was on a horse ranch and it smelled like it. It was a nice property, but the party was winding down by the time we got there.  All the playmates were gone. We had to park on a dusty dirt parking lot. There were shuttles to take us to the party.  The dust was so thick from cars driving about that it looked like fog, a smelly thick fog. 

The Obvious

            I like listening to Alan Watts. I’m thankful somebody had the foresight to record his lectures. He speaks the genuine. There is limited snake oil to his discourse. I’ll check myself against him from time to time. He says things that I feel, but have difficulty communicating. Comedians do the same thing. They say things that I do or think about. It makes me laugh when someone else presents it to me during a performance. Much of genius is merely stating the obvious, or recognizing the obvious. The obvious is often difficult to ascertain. That’s way it’s genius when it’s discovered. There’s smart and  there’s genius and the difference is obvious. 

Piano Chops

            I was in the studio yesterday. The Liberace part didn’t go as planned. I made a couple of attempts but my piano chops weren’t up to snuff. I was all over the place. There is no substitute for practice. I knew I was licked, so I passed the baton. 

            “Hey Tim, do you want to try play something?” I asked.

            Tim’s the Producer and Engineer. He gave me the who me look, and then shyly sat down at the piano. I assumed the role of engineer. I pressed record and Tim immediately fell into the song. He was hitting all the right chords. It was amazing. I listened to the song last night, and the piano is almost there. We still need to fix some parts here and there, but I think between my bad chops and his good ones we'll find a part. 

Liberace Part

            I need to come up with a piano part for Things Have Gone and Changed. I dug out my keyboard from storage, but of course it doesn’t work anymore. It’s been years since I last used it.

            I found myself at Saint Vincent DePaul’s yesterday. They have a bunch of old pianos for sale. I was timidly and without drawing to much attention to myself trying to work out a part. I’d put some time in and then walk around and look at shirts and shoes only to go back to the piano to work on the part. I can hear the part in my head, but I wasn’t able to transfer it to the piano under the circumstances. It’s a mild Liberace part in E minor.

            I came back to my studio and found a website called pianochord.com. I opened up the chords that I needed and played them against the song on my computer on the fly. I’d press the play chord button on the website in real time against the song. I still don’t have the Liberace part, but I have the rest of it figured pretty well. 

Poor and Generous

I went to the Dodger game with Jessie Sweet last night. Jessie had four tickets that his dog-walking boss gave to him at the last minute. He couldn’t find anybody else to go with, so it was just he and I. I did the driving. We drove over in my convertible. I paid for parking. We sold the other two tickets. We sold one of the tickets to an older gentleman named Dick. Dick was very nice and knowledgeable about the game. The seats were great. Twenty rows back from the first base dugout. The night was perfect, but the Dodgers lost. Jessie bought me a beer. After the game Jessie bought us burritos with the money we made from selling the tickets. Jessie Sweet is generous. Poor and generous, there’s nothing better than poor and generous.