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.