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.