Christmas

            Christmas Day was the longest day of the year. I woke early and opened presents. I had my first Mimosa at 10:30 or so, and from there, a shot of moonshine and then after that, straight wine. I ate tamales for breakfast, then tamales for lunch. I ate off and on all day long until dinner, and then ate some more. My sister made a leg of lamb with mashed potatoes and salad. And of course, more wine. The wine put a strain on me. It was pulling me down from the shoulders.
            At seven o'clock or so, I went to a friend's house. It felt more like twelve. I couldn't feign an interest in the conversation. The responsibility of listening was far too arduous. I tried to be pleasant, but I didn't feel pleasant inside. I was in the midst of the longest day of the year and the wine was pulling me down by the shoulders. 

Drum Circle

            I went to the hippies' house for the Sunday drum circle. There was a small turnout. And the drummers who were there had attention deficit disorder. We'd get something going and then they'd suddenly stop. Sometimes people are fearful of exposing themselves and get self conscious. It's contagious. I didn't want to be the only weirdo drumming full tilt so I'd stop too. 
            It wasn't like last week where I was properly intoxicated and drummed to the point of bruising my forearm. I woke up the next morning to notice a huge red welt. It was very tender. My god, what have I done? I knew exactly what I had done. I had drummed myself internally bloody. Oddly, the bruise was healed up in three days. I took it as a sign of good health.

The Chewy Bits

             I made chorizo and eggs the other day. I think it was for the last time. My own cooking made me feel sick. The grease the chewy bits, the chili, it didn't sit well, not even the tortillas helped to soften the blow.
            The chewy bits. The unexplained substance in chorizo that nobody likes to talk about. I believe there is good reason for that. I've always felt that chorizo was hiding things. I've wondered about the orangey color since childhood, but never had the guts to ask why's it orange? I've known all along we mix it with eggs to mask the unspeakable, and for many years I've enjoyed the taste of the unspeakable. I'm not swearing chorizo off. I'm just taking a break, switching to Italian sausage for while, as if Italian sausage is above water. It's becoming obvious to me, short of vegetarianism, there's no escaping the chewy bits. 
         

          

Stuffed Animals

            A friend of mine told me that raccoons like to play with stuffed animals. Now I'm thinking about buying a bunch from Saint Vincent DePaul's and leaving them on my deck to see what happens. The thought of raccoons playing with stuffed animals is funny to me. Even better is the image of stuffed animals strewn throughout the yard, casualties of desire.

Socks in The Infirmary

          I was unloading my laundry from my car when a pair of socks I had bunched into a ball got away from me and rolled down the hill. It was dark and I figured I'd look for them in the morning. 

            I'd forgotten about the socks altogether until I was walking up the path to my car. It was then that I remembered they'd rolled down the hill. I gave it a quick search, but I couldn't find them. 

            It was about mid-day when I realized that I liked those socks and I wanted them back. I walked the perimeter of the yard to find them. I didn't spot them right off. It wasn't until I widened my search that I discovered them. They'd been ravaged. I found one sock near the old vegetable planter and another sock at the bottom of the hill near the fence. I gave them a once over for any signs of life. They were dusty and full of fox tails, but it was my determination that they were still good. My thoughts turned to the viciousness of the attack. Those socks didn't have a chance, but somehow they survived. Coon-rats I reasoned.  Sock stealers. 

       

Making Movies

            I have a friend, lets call him Moses, who built a movie set in his living room. He had a scene that called for a seedy motel, and rather than spending hundreds of dollars on a location, he bought
four pieces of wood paneling and cheap looking curtains to give him the look he needed for the scene. I commend his ingenuity. It's not the same as taking a Chevy truck and turning it into a fifteen foot high, cardboard carrying utility vehicle, but it's pretty close.
            Moses' wife is going along with it for now, but if there are any delays in production I can foresee serious short term consequences to their marriage. Let's hope Moses is organized and has his shot list in order. 

Dustin Hoffman

            I had a dream where I couldn't remember Dustin Hoffman's name. I could remember the movies he was in, Marathon Man, The Graduate, Little Big Man, I even remembered Kramer vs. Kramer, but for the life of me I couldn't remember Dustin's name. When I thought of his name it would come up Walter Matthau. Oh, yeah I remember... Walter Matthau, no, that's not it. It went on like that for sometime. I got it, I remember now, Walter Matthau.
            I could even remember some of Dustin's lines.
            "Well, what's your answer mule skinner?"
            "General, you go down there.."
            I remembered his creepy grin, his beady eyes, his nose, the fact that he was short, but I had wake up before I could remember his name was Dustin.
            

The Lady and The Mailman

            I was walking in the hills when I ran into the mailman. He and I are friendly. We wave hello when we see each other. 
            You'll never believe what just happened to me, he said. 
            What. 
            I was walking away from a house when I heard a voice say excuse me. I turned around to see who it was. There was a young woman standing at the front door in her underwear. Can you help me with this, she said. Her coffee maker was stuck. It had a twisty thing. Sure I said. I thought this was a gift from god. 
            That's every delivery man's dream I said. 
            Yeah, I know. 
            So what did you do? 
            Nothing, I twisted the thing off the coffee maker and handed it back to her. 
            You crazy fool! You'll be thinking of her for the rest of your life I said jokingly. 
            I know he said as he walked away in a fog.
            I saw the mailman again a few weeks later. 
            Whatever happened to the lady who came outside in her underwear, I asked. 
            What lady? He paused, oh, her. She moved out! About a week later she was gone. 

The Black Cat

            For weeks, I'd drive down the hill and make a left turn, only to see a black cat waiting for me on the curbside. I'd speed up so he wouldn't cross my path. I'm not overly superstitious, but you can never be too careful.
            It happened over and over. And once or twice I'd speed up in vain, for the cat had it in mind to cross my path at great risk to his safety. In those instances, I'd drive away consumed with irrational fears of the unknown, having to convince myself it was just a cat.
            The cat had a look to him that worried me, like he knew something that I didn't know. Sometimes he'd look me in the eyes and follow me as I drove by. He'd just sit there and stare like an old sage with bright yellow eyes.
            A few days ago I made the left turn in the afternoon and there was the cat waiting for me. I turned to look at him to gauge whether he was going to run or not. But this time when I looked at him I noticed something different. There were four or five other black cats asleep on the pathway behind him. I laughed. Well, that explains it. It was trickery to the highest degree.
  

Banco

            I parked my car in front of my bank. I was on a slope. I turned my wheels toward the curb. I hadn't finished turning the wheel when I heard a crushing sound coming from the right front tire. It was ominous. I got out of the car and checked the tire. Sure enough, there was a hissing sound coming from it.
            I wasn't sure what to do. I considered my options. Should I drive away and find a tire shop, or deposit money into my account? I might as well make the deposit, I reasoned.
            There was a line, but it wasn't too bad, a couple of ladies and myself. But things slowed down some. I could hear the tire hissing in the back of my mind as I stood there.
            Anything else for you, Miss? Yes, may I have a cashiers check for a hundred dollars... I was hoping she'd say oh, no thank you.
            A guy in his twenties was playing with his phone while he waited for his transaction to be made. The kid couldn't pull himself away from it. He was looking down at it stupidly. He was all thumbs. He had the fastest thumbs I've every seen. It was troubling to look at.            
            I finally had a turn at a teller. I slid him a check and asked for a dollar in quarters just in case I needed to put air in my tire. The teller looked at me oddly. I felt obligated to tell him the story. I parked on a slope and I turned my wheel... I should have never told him. 

Sleepus Interruptus

            I was startled from a deep sleep by a loud bang. It was more like an explosion than a bang. It was three in the morning. I was laying in bed when I heard a second explosion. I got up to see if I could figure out what was going on. If the neighborhood heard the noise they weren't bothering to get up. Not even the dogs showed any interest. All was still. 
            I heard a popping sound and then a loud buzzing sound. Black thick smoke was billowing in the air. I figured a transmitter blew or something. I went back to bed and listened. I heard a fire truck in the distance. The firemen turned off their sirens as they approached. It was as though they didn't want to wake the neighbors.
             The next day I took a walk to see if I could figure out what had happened. I was looking up at the transmitters, but they all checked out in good shape. (I was pleased to see that there were quite a few new ones). I kept walking. There's a windy road that leads to the top of the hill. I followed it up. I soon discovered what caused the racket. There was a burned out BMW. The heat had exploded its windows. Glass was scattered about. I inspected the carcass. There was nothing left but a burned out shell. I was trying to figure out if the fire was set intentionally, or if it was poor engineering. I never did figure it out. It was irremediable damage of the strangest kind.

Cleaning the Galaxy

            I spend my Sunday evenings at the hippie compound. They're not really hippies, but there is a communal element to their domicile. They have a fire pit, and we play music. There's a matriarch who is the brains of the outfit. She asked me if I had written during the week. I mentioned the blog I wrote about William Shatner and Star Trek.
            I have dreams about removing trash from the galaxy, she said.
            How do you do that, I asked.
            I fly from star to star and pick up the trash.
            How do you get from place to place? Do you will it to happen?
            She looked at me as if I were a dummy.
            I compress it. I use to fly around from star to star, but I realized it would take me a million years to finish, so I compress the galaxy. It's a lot easier that way.
            You mean like a digital file?
            She looked at me in a confused manner. I just do it!
            

The Way to Eden

            I heard part of William Shatner's new album. God bless him. He has a way with words, I tell you. Everybody's a poet, even William Shatner.
            I was once in a book store and I stumbled upon Leonard Nimoy's book of poetry. I read through it while standing. It was funny. I'm not sure that was his intention, but as a poet myself I laughed.
            I got to wondering if William and Leonard recited their poetry on set. I'm sure they did. Actors like to recite things. It's a shame there wasn't a Star Trek episode of their poetry. I'd pay money to see that. Kirk reciting a poem on Time. Mr. Spock reading a poem on the awkwardness of being different. Space hippies playing their bongos, Primitives singing songs: "Going to live like a king on whatever I find, eat all the fruit and throw away the rind." Episode twenty, season three.
            
           
           
            

Apps

          I've been composing music with an ipad. It's pretty dang amazing what apps can do. Equipment that would've cost thousands of dollars in the past is now $2.99-$4.99. The most expensive app I've bought so far was $15.00.
          I have experience working with vintage synthesizers, Moogs, Korgs, and samplers, so in a sense I'm rediscovering elements of my youth by composing electronic music. I have no shortage of ideas, but I haven't figured out a proper workflow yet. I've tried various approaches to sequencing, using different apps, but I'm not yet satisfied with the results. I'll be posting tracks soon, nonetheless. I figure my methodology will solidify itself as I gain practical experience, or when I find that perfect app.                                
          Writing songs is about sixty-two times harder than composing electronic music, but I like both mediums. There's a freedom to technology, it's called the delete button.

Hipster Staring at a Manhole Cover

           I was driving along. It was a nice sunny day. I had the top down on my convertible. I was speeding along when I saw a man in the cross walk. He was a younger man in his twenties. I came to a stop and waited for him to cross. He was walking real slow, like so many youngsters tend to do nowadays. He had his head down. He was wearing a baseball cap and had a beard. He was moping across the street. Lollygagging. He looked pathetic. I waited and checked myself for patience. I was in complete control of myself until the kid suddenly stopped in front of me. I thought maybe he dropped something, but no, he didn't. He was checking a manhole cover. My blood pressure went way up. He finally figured out he was being a nuisance and continued across the street.
            "You flipping moron!" I yelled as I drove past.
            I looked in my rear view mirror. The kid was giving me the finger. I raised my arm and flipped him off. That was a fair exchange, I said to myself as I drove away. 

Bolano

            I'm reading a lot. I'm reading a book by Roberto Bolano, The Savage Detectives. It's a long book, six hundred and some-odd pages. My first impressions of Bolano were good, but then I was annoyed with his incessent need to name drop. He'd fill whole pages with names. Latin American writers mostly. If ever you want to learn about Latin American writers, read the first two hundred pages of The Savage Detectives. He stopped doing it and his stories got better. That's what writing is to me, good stories. Some people have them and some people don't. Bolano had them and he didn't pussyfoot around when he told them. I like that. Bad writing is like a meandering joke. It's not very entertaining, and at a certain point you'll lose interest in it. 
            There's an honesty to Bolano. He's not afraid to reveal the intimate elements of his characters. It's hard to be honest. It's a little easier in the third person. "She smells bad" is easier to say than "you smell bad."  
            

The He-Man Woman's Haters Club

            I went to an open mic to try out a new song. It was the typical He-Man Woman's Haters Club, not a female in sight. When a woman does walk into the bar she practically gets a standing ovation.
            But on this night there seemed to be a bunch of guys who showed up for the free hotdogs. I sat down and ordered a beer. I was babying it. I don't like to drink too much before I get up. I've made that mistake before. A barrel chested fellow sang a song about tits and ass. He kept repeating tits and ass over and over again. Tits... and ass. Then he'd break into the chorus. "What ever happened to songs about pussy?" A smile came to my face. It made me laugh.
            It was my turn to sing. The room was restless. People were stirring about while I was plugging in. I'd lost them before I had a chance to play a note. I blew into my harmonica, and the audience came back briefly. I got through the first song. I flubbed some words at the end, but nobody seemed to notice. A guy with a round belly started to talk to me between songs. "You kind of sound like Bob Dylan. You're Irish right? Yeah, I can tell you're Irish."
            

Max the Rip Off Artist

         My sister's car failed a smog check. I took the report to Bill the Smog Guru so he could look it over. He sat down at his desk and disappeared behind the clutter.

            "She took it to Max! Why'd she take it there?" he asked.

            "How am I supposed to know?"

            "He's a rip off! I use to send all my bad customers to him! If a customer had a bad attitude I'd refer them to Max. I'd tell them, I charge sixty dollars, but there's a guy down the street who will do it for thirty, and that includes a smog certificate. Max would complain bitterly, Billy, why are you sending me so many bad customers? You said if I was busy to send them to you. The real reason was because Max would sell gas caps for thirty-five dollars to old crippled ladies."

            "He tested my sister's car with the check engine light on."

            "He's an idiot!"

            "He said she had to fix her car at his shop to get a free re-test."

            "He's a test only shop! He's not suppose to work on cars!" Bill was getting red in the face from agitation. "What we ought do is let him fix the car and show up with a camera, then report him to Bureau of Auto Repairs, that's what we ought to do!"
            "You mean a sting operation?"
            "Yeah, you show up with a camera and get footage while he's working on the car."
            "I think it's a better idea if you show up with the camera."
            "He knows me. He has no idea who you are!"
            "I still think it's a better idea if you show up."
         
         
         
         

Lord of the Kiln

           Bill the Smog Guru was a teacher's assistant for a ceramics class in the early seventies. Most of the students in the class were women who wore blouses that looked like smocks, with not a bra in sight.
           Bill convinced the professor to reconfigure the class room so that the pottery wheels were at opposite sides of each other. That way he could wheel a chair down the center aisle and assist the students as needed. But it was just a ploy to look down the ladies' blouses one after another.
           As a teacher's assistant Bill wielded a considerable amount of power. It was his job to place the pottery into the kiln. All the students wanted their work to be placed in the best spot possible so it wouldn't crack. If you were nice to Bill you'd get a good spot. The women in the class began asking Bill out to dinner. In exchange for a good spot in the kiln, Bill would get a night out with a lovely woman, a free meal, and seven beers. 

Square Dancing

            I was at a local music festival and wandered into the Women's Club. It was a nice place. It was an older building, turn of the century, with wood floors and a small stage.
            A three piece fiddle band got on stage. There was a square dance caller. He organized the crowd into a circle, and within minutes people were square dancing. I saw smiles on the faces of the dancers. It looked like a lot of fun.
            The next song came on. It was a completely different square dancing configuration. Do you want to dance? my friend said to me. Had I said no I would have regretted it.
            We got on the floor and followed the instructions of the Caller. And in just a short time we were turning to the right, stepping in and out, peeling the banana. It was fun. You can act as silly as you want when you square dance. The kid in me came out. Everybody was spazzing out. It was the perfect opportunity to act like a fool.
            I looked around the room. It seemed every walk of life was represented. I got to thinking square dancing could be the cure for the world's ills. 

West Side Not the Best Side

            I went to the west side to buy bouzouki strings. I have no navigational skills when it comes to the west side. All systems turn off west of Robertson leaving me in a state of confusion. There's something about that part of town that doesn't make any sense to me. There are freeways where they're not suppose to be and boulevards that turn into dead ends. It's a mess. I'm the son of a World War Two Air Force navigator. I take pride in my inner compass. But the west side has elements of the Bermuda triangle. I find myself making U-turns just to survive. It doesn't help that everybody seems to be in a rush.
            I found the music store I was looking for. There was a helpful salesman. He was a real calm man. It made me wonder what he was doing over there. There were some nice guitars for sale. The guitars I liked were no less than five thousand dollars. Two weeks pay for a washed out lawyer. 
            I left the music store and began the hunt for a freeway entrance. 


            

The Shoe Free Environment

            I get the feeling that the next politically correct trend will be the shoe free environment. I understand this one. I'd like to have a shoe free environment all my own, but by the time I think about mentioning it to my guest, they're through my kitchen and in my living room, having taking only four or five steps. It seems silly to ask someone to take their shoes off at that point.
            Part of me has expectations of cleanliness when it comes to the shoe free environment. If someone asks me to take my shoes off I'll glance around the room to see if it's clean. It doesn't make much sense to have a shoe free environment if the place is unkempt. 
            A part of me is averse to taking my shoes off. I had dirty, smelly, stinky feet when I was a kid. I wasn't much for showers or hygiene and I'd let things go to the point of offense. I'd spend the night at my friend's house and we'd sit down to watch television with his family. I'd take my shoes off and look around the room to see off-put grimacing faces in the wake of the odor emanating from my feet. I'd know exactly what the problem was and get up to wash my feet in the bathtub.  
         
            

Camping

            I went camping yesterday in Angeles Crest. We set up camp under some tall pines and cooked food by the fire. The stars were out and it felt good to be out of the city. The campsite has been known to be visited by bears, so we put the food away before we turned in for the night. 
            I was laying in my tent and couldn't sleep right away. My mind got away from me and I was thinking about bears. The only thing that stood between me and a bear was the equivalent of a windbreaker. I contemplated that. I was trying to think of an exit strategy should I need one, and frankly, I was stressing myself out thinking about it. I tried to talk myself down, but that didn't seem to help.
            I waited for the bear to show himself, but he never did. I thought about technology and how a bear has no need for it. 
            All was quiet and still. No animal sounds. The wind wasn't stirring. The moon was out. It was peaceful. The only discernible sound was that of pine needles falling gently a top my tent.

Supplemental Sex

            I've been thinking long and hard about this. It has occurred to me that the word masturbation is overly negative. You're going to go blind! The devil will find work for idle hands to do!
            I've never liked even saying the word. When it comes up in conversation it seldom seems appropriate. And when someone admits to it, it can be awkward at best. I'm taking a big chance writing about it. My readership is going to freak. But knowing that the preponderance of my audience is in Europe, I feel I can get away with it in this instance.
            My proposal is this. Instead, of using the word masturbation we should refer to it as "supplemental sex." Nobody will know what you're talking about if you say, "I had supplemental sex."
            Secondly, "supplemental sex" sounds somewhat academic. And if it sounds academic there's a good chance it will go unnoticed. I realize there are problems with the term for it suggests you're experiencing real sex every now and again, but for the most part, unless you're dormant or hit an unfortunate rough patch, it seems to work.    
            Wait! Now that I think about it, it can mean something entirely different which I hadn't accounted for.            
            "Did you have an affair?"
            "No, I had supplemental sex."

She Purrs

            I was having problems with my car. The car was hesitating and doing a herky-jerky thing in first gear. I'd step on the gas and it would buck like Brahma Bull. It was getting hard on the neck. I asked Bill the Spooky Guy for advice.
            It sounds like a fuel filter, he said.
            I changed the filter, but it didn't solve the problem. Shortly there after I received a text message from Bill.
            How she doing?
            She's the same. I replied.
            Sorry to hear that. Old car present many inscrutable dilemmas, Grasshopper.
            I got the feeling I was on my own on this one. I texted back, it must be the air filter. No breath, no life.
            Give it a shot. He answered.
            When you're a mendicant poet you learn to work on your own car. I removed a few bolts here and a few bolts there to gain access to the air filter, sure enough, the filter was encased in leaves. I got rid of the leaves and put her back together. I took her for a spin. The hesitation had ceased.
            I sent Bill a message. She purrs.
            Ahhhhh!
           

         
                     
         
            

Stupido

            I made a left turn onto the boulevard from the gas station when I noticed a car driving with its lights off. The car passed me as I merged onto the boulevard. What a moron I said to myself. I was behind the car when it slowed to look for curbside parking. I wheeled around him. I peeked in my rear view mirror. The guy had changed his mind and was driving in a confused manner behind me. Big dummy!
                I came to a red light. The car still had his lights off. I was in my convertible. I stuck my arm in the air and waved at the guy to get his attention. I was trying to be helpful. He didn't see me, or couldn't understand what I was trying to say. Stupido. I gave up. I drove up a half a block and stopped to make a right turn at the signal. A car heading in the opposite direction and making a left turn flashed his lights. I figured it was for Stupido behind me. I looked in my mirror to see if Stupido got the message, but Stupido wasn't there. Weird. Just then, I happened to look down to check my gas gauge, but my console was dark. Oh crap! I quickly switched my lights on. I sunk into myself. Man, I'm Stupido.

The Art Walk

            I hung out with my people on Saturday. There was an art walk in the neighborhood. The Moryork gallery was open which isn't always the case. I had a chance to go inside and see Clare Graham's work for the first time. I was stunned and amazed like most people who see his work. My favorite piece was a cabinet he made from Scrabble letters.
            While walking down the street I noticed a nondescript sign on a fence post. It read, "singing bowls Sunday 9 p.m." I'm a sucker for singing bowls, so I showed up last night. The place was essentially a big yard with a fire pit. There were a couple of couches and a mess of chairs around the pit. I found myself a chair and acted like I belonged. I didn't see any singing bowls. I just sat there and waited. There was a kid teaching a lady how to play the guitar and a few other people milling about. Three men showed up with drums. I figured the singing bowls were not far behind.
            The singing bowls never showed up. Instead, I found myself playing a djembe in a drum circle. And I met an old hippy woman who sells cookies at the Rose Bowl swap meet and lives in an RV. She was impressed, nearly envious, when I told her I built my own cabin under four trees.
            

Autumn

            I was working on my car when I sensed autumn for the first time this year. I felt a cool breeze and a scared, lonely feeling overcame me. I tend to equate autumn with the passage of time and that always puts the fright in me. I think about death and unfulfilled goals and how I'd like to fulfill them before it's all said and done. When I felt the breeze and the fear I knew it was autumn.
            I turn into a super hermit in autumn. I tend to take inventory. I try extra hard to listen to life's subtle cues. I like autumn, but it pulls on me harder than other seasons. The short days. The long nights. The dead leaves scattered on the ground. It's sad and beautiful. It makes me want to read and sleep.
              

The Blue Man Group

            I saw a big blue bald head while flipping through a magazine and thought, ugh, Blue Man Group! I'm sick of these guys! Decapitation came to mind. Not a realistic option, but I'd pay good money to see the skit.
            Sword wielding Blue Men swinging at each other wildly, maliciously, with the intent of decapitation. Blue heads rolling to the ground one after another. When all the heads were severed, the headless men would shrug their shoulders in that adorable Blue Man Group style. Then they'd pick up the severed heads and began to juggle with them. Of course somebody would eventually drop a head and it would roll toward the audience. One of the blue men would run to retrieve it. He'd stop it with his foot just shy of the orchestra pit, then bend over and pick it up and run back to his friends to begin juggling again.
            A big breasted blond bombshell, a Jayne Mansfield impersonator, would drive onto the stage in a 1966 Buick Electra convertible and wave to the crowd.

Cutie and the Boxer

            I saw the movie Cutie and the Boxer. It was good to see committed artists at their craft. I'm not sure if people understand the sacrifices artists make to be artists. They may not even care. But the movie inspired me. To see an eighty year old man still trying. And his wife trying for the first time on her own. It was beautiful and liberating to me. In my estimation that's what art is, beauty and freedom, mixed in with as few bills as humanly possible.
            I'll let you in on a little secret. It's much easier to be an artist when you're young. When you're young there's still time for you to conform. There's hope that you'll snap out of it and land a good paying job with benefits. People will look at you funny when you tell them you're an artist, but they'll let you slide because you're young. When you're older and still dreaming that's when people start talking about the crazy gene. "Oh, he has the crazy gene, he got it from his father's side of the family."
            But to me it's not madness at all. It makes perfect sense. When you're eighty and doing it, well, you're just about nobility as far as I'm concerned. You licked them all, and were true to yourself. Being true to yourself is life's purpose defined. 

The Heckler

            I went to an open mic Thursday night. I'm trying out my new songs in front of an audience. 
            A comedian got up to tell some jokes, or rather, tell some stories. He was an Asian kid and his jokes were from the Asian perspective. It was stereotypical material that was long winded and not funny. What made it worse was he thought he was funny, but nobody was laughing. It got to the point of being uncomfortable. The kid asked the MC how much time he had left. The MC said one minute. I was relieved. The kid went on for another four minutes, and then asked, "do I have more time?" 
            I surprised myself and yelled out "No!" 
            I didn't intend to say it out loud, but it was excruciating, and the words had a will of their own. The guy next to me said "you're brutal." I felt bad. I was the heckler. I had never been the heckler before. I didn't enjoy it much. I took it real hard. I wanted to apologize to anyone who'd listen. People seemed to turn on me. He's the heckler. The heckler is no place to be. It's a solitary life I can assure you. 
            The poor kid was no good. He could have used a few driving jokes. 

The Tennis Shoes

Bill the Spooky Guy gave me a pair of tennis shoes. He said he wore them once to an art opening, but they were uncomfortable to his feet. I didn’t want the shoes, but he was insistent that I have them. The shoes were funny looking, white, with strange stitching. They looked cheap.

I wore them once on a short jog and afterwards I heard a clicking sound coming from the heel. I took the shoes off and discovered the soles had pulled away from the body. I tried to fix them with epoxy and a brick, but it didn’t take. A part of me felt obligated to keep the shoes, as they were a gift. I eventually tossed them in the trash. Months had passed before I mentioned it to Bill.

“Hey Bill, you know those tennis shoes you gave me?”

“Yeah.”

“I wore them on a jog and they split in two.”

Bill buckled with laughter.

“They weren’t running shoes. They were walk around the house shoes.”

“You mean they were like slippers?”

                “Yeah, like slippers.” 

Curbside With Sunny

            I saw Sunny the Lizard hanging on to the curb. He was in a vertical position. He was peeking his head over the ridge and spying on me. He had his claws dug in and seemed to be struggling to hold his position. He dropped to the ground and scurried away when he realized he had been discovered.
            "Sunny, you freak!"
            I was somewhat offended by his behavior. I thought we were friends.
            I saw him again a day later. He was basking in the morning sun. It looked like he was recharging his batteries after a long hard night of drinking. He was dark in color. Hung over.
            I stepped over him and he didn't even seem to notice. Sunny's hard to figure that way. One day he'll be hyper-sensitive to my movements, and the next he won't even notice me coming.
            

Mid-life Crisis

            The itchy finger had no effect. I didn't even think about it once while playing.
            I think I'm going through a mid-life crisis, but rather than showing it with a fancy sports car and driving gloves, I'm manifesting it by watching horror movies from the seventies on YouTube. The language in the seventies was different. People had good grammar. I miss that. And the women in those days had sex appeal. Or more specifically, the gender roles weren't so ambiguous. Ambiguity makes for awkwardness, awkwardness makes my jaw feel funny. I get a tightness in my temples, and it's hard for me to think.
            The Devil's Nightmare is good example of what I'm referring to. It's based on the seven deadly sins. The Case of the Bloody Iris is another good one. These movies are dubbed, everything is out of sync, but they're put together in a manner that can not be recreated. 

The Itchy Finger

          I'm going into the studio today to lay down a bass line for a song I'm working on. The Gram Parsons sliced finger is sufficiently healed, but for some reason it itches. I was told once that an itch is the minutest form of pain. If that's the case, my finger is experiencing a lesser form of torture. 
             I wasn't able to practice much on account of my finger. The cut left a groove and a layer of skin that kept catching on the strings when I practiced. The string made for a perfect rail and the lip of the healing cut would get stuck on it. I'd yank my hand off the fretboard in pain when that happened. I don't have pain any longer, just a itchy sensation. I've never recorded music with an itchy finger before.  

Better Wood Than Drinks

            I went out last night for a drink. I saw my old jazz-head friends. I hadn't seen them in a while. I had a couple of drinks, but deep down I only wanted one. I woke up this morning with remorse, not from having too much to drink, but rather, that I could have spent the money on lumber for a deck I'm building. My life has changed some in recent years. I have lumber on my mind. 
            I saw Bill the Spooky Guy this morning. I needed some car advice. We talked about forty-five caliber guns and World War Two. His landlord showed up, and Bill got up to open the gate. I took the opportunity to walk to the back of his shop and look at his cars. When I got to the paint booth I saw something move. I thought it was a cat, but on closer inspection it was a black bunny. He had a spider web on his whisker. He seemed friendly, but I didn't take any chances.

Joshua Tree

           I took a trip to Joshua Tree and stayed in the very room that Gram Parsons died in. I didn't want to stay in his room, but all the other rooms were booked.
           I felt a presence when I walked into the room; maybe it was just the history of the place, or the fact that someone famous died there nearly thirty years ago.
           I brought out a bag of almonds and tried to pry the bag open, but it wouldn't budge, so I reached for my pocket knife. I was thinking about Gram. I was mocking him for having a trust fund. He was just a rich punk kid I reasoned, while I held the knife in my hand. I cut into the bag of almonds, and sliced my index finger in the process. Blood started to ooze out of it. I quickly apologized to Gram. I guess I was being a little bit too harsh. I remembered that Gram's father committed suicide and his mother was a drunk; money couldn't fix that. 
           Gram and I got past it. All was forgiven. I sat down to strum my guitar. I'm working on a new song, and I thought I could use some help from Gram. I hadn't been strumming long when the words started to pour out of me. I wrote them down the best I could. I read them later. I'm not sure I can use them, they might be gibberish.

If You Don't Sing, Hum

            I met a woman at a bar the other night, and she said she never sings. 
            "Not even in the shower?" I asked.
            "No, not even in the shower."
            "Oh, you must be a whistler," I said.
            "No, I don't whistle."        
            "Do you hum?"
            I could tell the woman was getting annoyed with the conversation, but that didn't stop me. When somebody mentions that they don't sing my immediate thought is dead spirit. There's nothing sadder than a dead spirit in my estimation. 
            I took it upon myself to revive the lady's dead spirit by asking more questions. This had an immediate effect. The woman started to gather her things and walk away. It made perfect sense to me, dead spirits want to remain dead, and no matter how hard you try to revive them they resist. Which reminds me of an old song we use to sing when we were kids: "every party has a pooper that's why we invited you, party pooper."

Sunny

            There's a lizard in my backyard. I call him Sunny. I have to watch my step so as not to crush him when I get to a certain section of stairs. Yesterday I had to do the jig to avoid him. I came real close to ending Sunny's life. "Sunny, you fool!" I said in anger. My neighbor happened to be outside and she heard me. It was one of those awkward moments I couldn't explain away.
           I thought I'd try to clarify it to her so she wouldn't think I was talking to myself. I played the scenario over in my head. I was going to tell her that I was talking to a lizard, and that I almost stepped on him. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that trying to explain the situation was a bad idea.
            I saw my neighbor gently close the front door behind her. She thought I was bananas. I kind of look bananas; my hair is getting long and my beard is wayward. 
         
            

The Mouse Departed

            The mouse is gone. He packed his bags and caught the Night Crawler to the next town, but not before he took a few bites from my loaf of wheat bread. I guess he thought it was cheese. I don't miss him. He wasn't the best roommate. He was a night owl and somewhat neurotic, not to mention there was a scent to him. He smelled like death, but he was still living. 
             He was an intimidating little guy, a bit overbearing. I think he had an eating disorder. He'd risk life and limb for a bite to eat. And rude too, no consideration whatsoever. I could hardly get any shut eye with him around. I heard a screech owl in a tree one night when he was around, I wanted the screech owl to kill him in a bad way.  

The Mouse Revisted

            The field mouse is exploiting my cabin's imperfections. I'm being haunted by all the instances where I said while building, "eh, that's close enough," or "good enough for government work." I plugged a few holes and found myself listening later that evening to the mouse as he tried to gain access to my cabin. He sounded frustrated and desperate. A smile came to my face. I took great joy in his suffering.
            The mouse kept at it. I heard him run toward the closet. I got out of bed and turned on the light. I thought he'd run scared with my activity. I sat at my desk and turned my computer on to read the paper. The mouse didn't scare. He was furiously scratching at the closet.
            I heard a noise behind me. I turned around. The mouse was crawling on the shelf of the closet. I was spooked. I went one way and the mouse went the other. I think. I lost sight of him in my haste to get away. 
            I gathered myself and emptied the contents of the closet but the mouse had disappeared. I spent part of the next morning plugging holes. Which reminds me of an old adage someone once told me, "if you didn't have the time to do it right the first time, why do you have time to do it over and over again?"

The Burglar

            Last night I found myself face to face with a field mouse. My cabin had been breached. I knew there was some riff-raff going on. There was evidence of it, a broken shot glass here, uncustomary rustling sounds in the exterior, a rodent dropping on my kitchen counter. The dropping was the catalyst for war!

           The field mouse knocked into something pretty hard. It made a racket. I popped up from a dead sleep and turned on the light. I pointed the light in his direction and waited him out. He buckled under the pressure and made a break for it. That's when I saw him, and he saw me. He was scared, but so was I for that matter. What rodents lack in strength they make up for with disease. I'm a bit of a germ-a-phobe. I wash my hands a lot. 
            I got out of bed and thought I'd show him the door. I moved things to get at him. I grabbed a broom for protection. I was a bit jumpy. I was careful not to be surprised by a counter-attack. Somehow the little critter eluded me. I figured he ran out the same way he came in. I spent part of the day reinforcing the cabin. I'm hoping he gives up, but something tells me he won't, survival tends to be persistent.    

Advice For The Average Man

            If I could give one piece of advice, it would be, don't wash your ass before you wash your face.
            I was sleeping on an air mattress. I woke from a deep sleep. I had a premonition that the air mattress was going to lose its air. At that exact moment the mattress lost its air and sank to the ground. I have supernatural powers, I reckoned, as I lay on the collapsed mattress.
           I laid on the hardwood floor and imagined that I was at a superhero convention in Las Vegas. I was walking from booth to booth in my superhero suit with an emblem of a deflated mattress on my chest. Other superheroes slowed their gait to get a glimpse of me and my chest. I knew they were intrigued as to what my powers may be.
           Finally, one of them had the courage to ask, "Excuse me, now just what are your super powers?"
           Deadpan, I answered, "I can make an air mattress deflate on command."
       
       
       
         
         
             

The Fourth of July

            I spent the fourth of July in the working-class neighborhood of Cypress Park. It was a war zone. There were so many illegal fireworks that for all intents and purposes they were legal. The police didn't even bother to issue citations.
            I had a good seat and the display was spectacular. It was more professional than in the past. The quality of illegal fireworks has improved dramatically over the years.
            I stood and watched one explosion after another. There was a barrage of different types of fireworks in the air, combined with M-80s and Cherry bombs on the ground. The neighborhood was taking the fourth very seriously.
            I heard someone playing Stars and Stripes Forever in the distance. I couldn't tell where it was coming from. It was a faint sound at first; it sounded like it was coming from a neighbor's house. How brilliant, I thought.
            Smoke filled the air and Stars and Stripes Forever was getting louder. I saw a car emerge from the smoke. It was a police car, LAPD, with two officers laughing uncontrollably inside. Stars and Stripes Forever was blaring from from their loudspeaker. I caught one policeman's eye and waved, he waved back. He was still laughing.
  

Pelicans

           I've been going to the beach on weekends with my hot lady friend. She gets hotter as she lays in the sun. It's a secret beach. I can't tell anybody where it is as a matter of principle. I've made that mistake before and I've ruined a great beach by word of mouth. People are blabbermouths. It took years before it was ruined, but the last time I was at the great beach, there were models doing photo shoots and people from all over the world speaking in strange tongues with pallid skin. It was a disaster. 

            I found the new secret beach by accident. I couldn't explain where it is if I tried, that's how secret it is. 

          When I'm at the beach flocks of pelicans fly overhead. They do maneuvers, drills of some sort. They're organized flyers with multiple formations. They look well fed, and as of yet, I haven't been able to determine who the ring leader is. I'm amazed they can fly as well as they do. They're chubby birds, viable replacements for Thanksgiving. With all the fish they eat, there's a good chance they taste like sushi. 

  

White Pants

         I saw a man wearing white pants. I was thankful he was wearing them. It was night and I was driving on a dark winding road and if it wasn't for his pants I wouldn't have seen him at all. 
            Men don't wear white pants anymore. White pants use to be cool. John Lennon went a step further and wore a white blazer with his white pants for the Abbey Road album. 
            I have a white summer suit that I haven't had a chance to wear, but I swear I'm going to wear it someday. I'll probably wear it at night when it's cooler.  The idea of wearing a suit during the day in the summer time seems like minor form of torture. I'm thinking I'll wear it to a restaurant, some where like Musso and Frank, or Dan Tana's. I'm bound to impress somebody, even if it is just the maitre d'. 

Sound Bath

            I went to a sound bath yesterday. Gongs and singing bowls. There was a crowd of people for the event. It was free and we were lucky to get in. We had to sit on a bench in the back of the room. I wanted to lay down. I was disappointed. I'm from a culture were we can fit five people in the trunk of a Nissan Sentra, so in my mind there was a lot of space being wasted, but there was nothing I could do to change it. 

            A man and a toddler sat down next to me. The man had a strange odor to him. I was trying to convince myself that bringing a kid to a sound bath was a good idea. I was interested to see the response of the kid to the sound. I wondered if it would calm him down. It didn't. The kid started to squirm and vocalize two gongs in and the man stood up and walked off. 

            I was having difficulty sitting still. I'd close my eyes only to open them moments later to have a look around. A woman had fallen asleep and was snoring. Another woman stood up and got something out of her purse. I closed my eyes and tried to think of love and patience, but soon opened them to find a man in his thirties holding a skateboard with orange wheels, tiptoeing through the mass of bodies that were laying on the floor. He was looking for a place to land. He found a spot next to me. There's something about a thirty year old man holding a skateboard with orange wheels at a sound bath that I found amusing. 
If I was a woman, I wouldn't sleep with him. 

Autopia

            I was driving home from the beach when a fond memory surfaced from the deep recesses of my mind. It was a Disneyland memory. I remembered driving a brightly colored car on a highway with a rail on it in Tomorrowland's Autopia. I was with my cousins. We all had our own cars that were all painted in primary colors. We were just kids, so the cars were giant in comparison to our tiny bodies.
            It didn't take long before we realized that driving a car on a highway with a guard rail was not that interesting, so we figured out a means to entertain ourselves otherwise. It involved driving as fast as we could and then slamming on the brakes so the car behind would have to slam on their brakes or crash. Of course the car in front of you was doing the same thing, so for the duration of the ride we'd be slamming into each other. We thought this was just great fun. We laughed our heads off. There was a worker hiding in the bushes to put a stop to the chicanery. He was a nerdy guy, wearing a polyester Disney uniform. The sight of him made us laugh even harder. 

The Shirtless Mechanic

I received a text message from Bill the Spooky Guy (formerly known as Bill the Google Master.) He asked if I could give him and his crew a hand pushing a car into the paint booth.

I showed up and it was the same old banter. Sergio was there. He was shirtless like usual. He still thinks he’s in the tropical heat of Cuba. Bill has to ask him to put his shirt on when a customer comes in.

Bill was trying to get things done. He was telling Sergio what to do. Sergio doesn’t take orders very well and he’s a back-sasser.

             “Boy you’re grumpy today,” Sergio said to Bill, “let me give you a hug.” He turned to me and said, “it changes his mood.”

             Sergio proceeded to put a bear hug on Bill

             “Get away from me! I’m tired of your abuse!” Bill said.

             “Oh, somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed, come here.”

             Sergio tried to wrap his arms around Bill, which Bill resisted vehemently. Sergio is a big strong guy, so it looks kind of funny when he chases Bill around to give him a hug.

             We pushed the car into the booth and then George the music producer drove up. 

NSA, The Nefarious Spy Agency

Hello Anthony, this is your government. After reading your last email, we wanted to say that we hope your aunt Mary makes a full recovery after her surgery. Huntington Memorial is a fine hospital and Doctor Lee is a outstanding surgeon. According to our records he only has one malpractice suit pending at this time and it’s an ongoing suit from 2011. He says he didn’t do it, but his conversations with his wife seem to suggest something different.

            We’ve noticed that the frequency of emails from your lady friend have decreased in recent weeks. Don’t worry; according to our algorithms this is a natural occurrence, but you might want to buy her flowers just in case. 

            We'd like to let you know there are other women looking at your facebook account, but they seem to lose interest after looking at your pictures, as it stands they click on 2.27 pictures before they move on. We suggest that you make improvements in this area.

            Well, Anthony, just one more thing before we go, can you please refrain from calling the NSA the Nefarious Spy Agency? It’s a matter of national security that we make this request, and more to the point, it hurts our feelings. 

Harry Nilsson

Saturday night, nine-seventeen p.m, I began watching a documentary about Harry Nilsson, a man I never knew. Sure, I’ve heard his songs, but I didn’t know the details of his life. And after watching the documentary I still don’t know who he really was. I know he liked to have a good time, and that he was stubborn, and a baby maker. I know he had famous friends, and had trouble performing live for people. It was an entertaining documentary. I enjoyed it. It always surprises me when a man can sing in key. Parts of Harry’s life were very sad. Yet, it seemed that Harry had an army of angels surrounding him, for he could do no wrong, although he did wrong much of the time.

Eleven–nineteen p.m. I checked my phone for messages. I had one. It was from Bill the Google Master. It read, “You ever heard of Harry Nilsson?”

                 I’m thinking of changing Bill the Google Master's name to Spooky the Spooky Guy.  

The Comb Over

            I came across a picture of my mother and my sister and me. I took the time to look at the photo in detail. My mother and sister look great, but I look funny. There was something wrong with my hair. I had a bad haircut. My bangs were bluntly chopped and in general it looked like my barber had failed. My wolf teeth smile might have had something to do with it, but I was focused on my hair. 

            I got to thinking who are these barbers anyways, and where do they learn to cut hair? In the military? I put an awful amount of trust in my barber and I know nothing about him. It’s no wonder I feel uncomfortable when I walk into his shop.  I don’t take photos often, but when I do, I usually have a bad haircut. It’s strange that way. It doesn't feel like I have a bad haircut when I have a bad haircut. It could be coincidence, but I doubt it. Anyway, I’m letting my hair grow long, F-it.

The Raft

I paid Bill the Google Master a visit. He and Sergio were at it again. It seems they can’t have a conversation without yelling at each other. Sergio speaks loudly to begin with. He has no finesse whatsoever. He can make your ears bleed from a distance.

Bill enjoys teasing Sergio. I'm a witness to the abuse. Sometimes, I’ll chime in and tease him as well. It's kind of fun.
Sergio is from Cuba, so we make jokes about “the raft.” He’s a good sport about it, sometimes he’ll even laugh himself.
                Bill and Sergio have a homophobic banter between them. Sergio likes to hug Bill and Bill resists his affection vigorously.

“Have you ever been with a man?” Bill asked.

“No never!” Sergio answered.

“Not even on the raft?” I chimed in.

“No, not even on the raft!” Sergio yelled-spoke.

The two disappeared into the shop. I was sitting underneath a canopy where customers wait for their cars. A short time later I saw Bill backing out of the shop.

             “How many times have I told you, don’t grab my ass! 
            

The Death Corn

           I was taking a walk when I came upon a dead squirrel laying flat on his back in the middle of the road. It had been hit by a car. The squirrel's legs were sticking straight up in the air. "You got me," could have been his last words. It was an ordinary road kill but for the giant acorn that was still lodged in the squirrel's mouth. The little guy found the perfect nut just before he perished. He could barely wrap his mouth around it it was so big. He'd hit the jackpot and was probably in a rush to share his discovery before he was run down. It was the agony and the ecstasy that's for sure. It's a nutty world I tell you, just plain nutty. 

Phil, Amongst the Coyotes

        Ray Manzerak is dead. I sent a text to Bill the Google Master that said, "rest in peace Ray." He sent me a text back, "we'll all be hunched over our instruments one day." That's happening to me now, I thought.
           I'm going into the studio tomorrow to record vocals for a song I've been working on for months. I don't have John Lennon's bank account so I can't book time the way I'd like to. Soon I'll be mixing the song. I've been listening to All Things Must Pass, to study what the masters did with their mixes. George Harrison and Phil Spector. It's a shame about Phillip. He's a good argument for gun control.
            I live in a neighborhood with a lot of coyotes and today I wondered if the coyotes think of dogs who are on walks as prisoners. I imagined the coyotes standing on a hill and muttering to themselves there goes another prisoner when they see a dog on a leash.
            They get an hour of yard time, one would say to the other. It's hard labor.
            I'm glad I'm not a prisoner, the other coyote would mumble under his breath.
            Hey wait a minute. On second thought, that dog looks well fed. He looks downright chubby to me. He's not skipping any meals that's for sure. His coat looks full and healthy. What do I have to do to become a prisoner? What laws do I have to break? How can I run afoul?
            I know how you can get a death sentence. Eat a Terrier.

Dear Bottom

            Dear Bottom. I miss you. My pants miss you, and my belt has informed me that he has to hold on for dear life just to keep the pants from sagging.
            I realize that I never really had you, but for the brief spell when I played basketball once a week with the neighborhood kids at Carlin G. Smith recreational center. But still, I want you back. I don't necessarily want to work hard to get you back. It would be nice if you showed yourself with the mild intermittent exercise that I do, the occasional knee bends, the moon light walks. Don't make me run for you, please anything but that. I'd consider a quick sprint on the beach, but the idea of distance makes me think of hard work and discipline, and that doesn't sound like fun. 

The Same Old Story

I drove down the hill to pay a visit to Bill the Google Master. He was entertaining as usual. He tells his customers the same story about baby-boomers and the need for adult day care centers. He was telling the story to a young woman when I pulled up.

“I’ve heard that story before Bill,” I said to him afterwards.

“No, it’s morphing. It’s taking on a life of its own. It changes every time I tell it.”

“More sensational?”

“Well, I don’t overdo it, but yeah, more sensational. I added the bit about the lack of birth control after the war.”

There was a lull in the conversation. 

“Have you noticed my people are driving much faster these days? When did that happen?" I asked Bill.

“Since last I drove the freeway when that son of a bitch Carter changed the speed limit to fifty-five.”

“I guess I haven’t noticed. We use to be known for driving slow in the fast lane. I think those days are over. I’m beginning to think my people are trying to kill me. They keep pulling out from the curbside in front of me. I have to break hard to avoid them.”

                “That's why I don't drive unless it's absolutely necessary.”