The Arroyo Seco

            I spent the day at the Arroyo Seco. Once I put the tragedy of the cement creek behind me, I was fairly happy. The cement creek was a constant reminder of man's insensitivity. I kind of got over it eventually, but mistakes of that magnitude are hard to ignore. I'd look at the blue sky and think, wow that's beautiful, and then I'd look at the cement creek, and say, what happened? It went on like that. I started throwing rocks into the cement creek eventually. It was my way of solving the problem of ugly. The rocks echoed as they hit the water, then bounced out and lay flat on the riverbed. They looked out of place as they lay there. It was ironic. I walked nearly five miles so there were things to enjoy. Plant life mostly- sage, oak trees, sycamore trees, and wooly blue curls. 

The Big Barber

            I got a haircut. At my barber shop there's a fat barber who I try to avoid and a skinnier barber who I try to get. I walked in yesterday and the fat barber was relaxing in his chair. The minute I opened the door he turned around and smiled.
            "Perfect timing," he said to me.
            He had me cornered, so I sat down and hoped for the best. There were a couple of other guys in the shop, but they weren't there for haircuts. They were there to socialize and crack jokes. Nothing was off limits to these guys, gay jokes, momma jokes, jokes about girlfriends, jokes about dogs that ran away. There were personal attacks on appearance. It was great. I couldn't stop laughing. I tried to keep my head still. The big guy has trouble as it is, and I didn't want any jump cuts. 
            As for the haircut, I look like Hitler youth. No matter how much water or hair product I use, there's a section of hair towards the back of my head that sticks straight up. It's agitated. The fat guy messed me up again. Merry Christmas big guy.

Hipsters

            The hipsters have discovered my fish taco joint. Ten years later. That's alright, I know of other places they don't know about. I was taken aback when I saw them. The neighborhood demographic has shifted. I've long awaited the shift, but I didn't think it would happen all at once. Now, I find myself waiting in line with hipsters and scrutinizing their apparel. There was a leprechaun, pirate theme going on. One guy was wearing odd-looking straight-legged pants that were tight fitting around his ankles. His boots were a maroon color, Dr. Martins I was guessing. All he needed to complete the ensemble was a scarf and a turtleneck. he had that kind of look going on.
           Was I that weird in my twenties? I guess I was. Thinking back on it I wore some funny looking pants in my day. But it was still amusing to me to think the guy thought he looked cool. 

Influenza

            Sorry folks, no blog this week. I came down with a bout of influenza. Chills, fever, soreness in the muscles. It hasn't been fun at all. I can't remember the last time I've been this sick. When I was feeling the most uncomfortable and feeling sorry for myself, I'd think of the men who were skinned alive in Mongolia during World War Two. That put my discomfort in prospective. Or, I thought of being trapped in a snow storm without shelter or proper clothing. I was in a warm bed with pills and orange juice. I had it easy. All I had to do was wait it out. Four days later I'm feeling much better. I'm glad for that. The little virus had me under its spell. The microscopic underworld took hold of me, but my body fought back and thank the stars for that. 

Bacon

Breakfast, lunch, or dinner, bacon is a winner. 

Dreams

            I went to a lecture on astral projection, and now I'm keeping a dream journal. My dreams are very entertaining, but then again whose aren't? I'm glad I'm writing them down though. There are a lot of games being played in my dreams. Mostly, they're being played in the background. The games are variations of scrabble, volleyball, and basketball, close to reality but just a few ticks off. 
            I went to another lecture. This time the subject was Merlin the Magician, Greek mythology, and religion. I sat there listening when it occurred to me that dreams and religion are intertwined. The dream state is less rigid than religion of course, but religion can be just as confounding as dreams in my estimation. When I think about what people believe in and why, it becomes confusing to me. Religion is full of miracles where impossible events transpire, just like in dreams. But people think their religious beliefs are facts, and might be deeply offended by me comparing dreams to religion. To me dreams are religion. There. I said it, I meant it, and that's the way it is.

Model Trains

            I went to the the Pasadena Model Railroad Clubs open house. They have one of the largest HO model railroads in the world. They're actively seeking members, by the way.                                    

            Most of the members were older men wearing vests with patches on them. They kind of looked like bikers, but without the tattoos. These were the guys I should have been hanging out with in high school. They probably went to Cal Tech and built rockets for a living. The men had a funny way of passing notes. They'd put a note on a long stick and wave it at the person it was intended for. The men in the club were wore headphones with microphones to talk to the dispatcher, so it would take a while for them to notice they had a note waiting.
           When I walked into the building, a big smile came to my face. There were mountains and lakes, tunnels and ports, ski slopes, forests and cities. It was amazing. The amount of detail was incredible. There was a whole bank of train operators and men stationed near the tracks to fix derailments and unexpected mishaps. 
           An operator named Ron gave us the inside skinny on the operation. It wasn't just trains running willy-nilly. There was meaning and purpose behind it. It was true to life and there were economic factors that needed to be considered when a train was moving from Zion to say, McSweeney. There was cargo to be delivered. The passenger trains had the right of way just like in real life. And every train had to get clearance from a dispatcher to proceed to the next destination. It wasn't quite reality, but it wasn't a dream either. 

D.B. Cooper's Brother

            I was at the bank waiting in line, when a man walked in and stood behind me. We were the only two customers waiting. The man was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. He reminded me of the old FBI wanted posters for D.B. Cooper. 
            The tellers were taking their sweet time and there was nothing to do but look around. I noticed the man's shoes were similar to mine.
            "Did you buy your shoes at Big Five?" I asked him.
            "Yeah, $14.00. I'm not going to pay two hundred dollars for a pair Nikes. That's ridiculous."
            "I know what you mean."
            "When I was a kid, tennis shoes cost 99 cents. We'd dye them black to make them look better. Once in a while I'll buy an expensive shirt. I paid $150 for one a while back. The store threw in these pants for free."
            I looked down at his pants. Blue denim. The material looked on the thin side.
            "They've faded some now." The man reached for his belt line and flipped his pants inside-out to show me the original color of the jeans. "See look."
             "Yeah." I felt myself pull back as I looked at the man holding his belt line.
             "The only problem is the dye is turning my legs blue. I have to scrub my legs when I take my pants off. It's a pain in the ass."
           

Whirlybird

            I was visiting my friend Cheeky. It was an ordinary visit until a helicopter started to circle overhead. No big deal, it was LA. But it kept circling. Eventually my curiosity got the best of me and I looked out the window to see what was going on. There was a white truck parked in the neighbor's driveway. The truck was parked at an odd angle. It was blocking the sidewalk and sticking out into the street. There was a man standing at the back of the truck. The tailgate was down and it looked like he was holding an assault rife. He seemed to be loading it and checking it at the same time.
            "It looks like there's a man with a rifle outside," I said to Cheeky.
            Cheeky was playing words with friends on her cell phone and didn't bother to respond to my comment.
            "He has a helmet on."
            "A helmet?" The helmet piqued her interest.
            "Yeah, it's a helmet alright."
            "Let me see." Cheeky moved off the couch to peer out the window. "He does have a helmet."
            "I told you!"
            "And there's a cop blocking off the street with yellow caution tape," Cheeky said.
            "Where?"
            The man with the rifle walked away. That's when I decided to go outside to see what the heck was happening. There was a line of squad cars parked up the street. I decided to ask the cop putting up the caution tape for details. I approached him slowly. Cops are jumpy nowadays.
            "Excuse me, I don't mean to be a bother, but what's going on?"
            "Ehh, some guy attacked somebody with a brick or knife or something, he lives up the street. I don't know really, I'm just working the perimeter."
            "Oh, okay thank you."
            The cop made an impression on me; he seemed like the nicest, most normal guy in the world.
         
         
         
          

Blog 4 Blogs Sake

            This blog is for blog's sake. I used to blog twice a week, but nowadays it's just once a week. Consistent inconsistency is my model. A part of me felt like it was too much stimuli for readers, so I pared it down. There were other factors as well. I have other projects I'm working on: books, music, general malingering, things of that nature.
            Lately, music has been a lot more interesting to me than writing. I get restless when I write and it's difficult for me to sit still. Maybe my writing desk has something to do with it. I have it set up so I'm staring at a wall.
            Music on the other hand is much more fun to me. I can move around if I want to. I can take my guitar outside. I can learn songs or write my own. I have a forty-eight track studio on my ipad with keyboards, effects, drum machines, mastering software, everything I need. 
            I did write some last week, editing mostly. It's wasn't fun and games like music though. I forced myself to sit and think about the sentence and re-write for the millionth time. 
            

Germs

            With the Ebola outbreak, we germophobes are in a bit of a tizzy. I'm not an advanced germophobe, just a regular guy who washes his hands more than usual.
            Last night I found myself waiting in line at an ATM. There was an older man using the machine in front of me, a tall big fellow. He was taking his sweet time about it. He stood in front of the machine and counted his money, like considerate, conscientious people are prone to do. I heard him cough. And then I saw him wipe his nose and cough again uncontrollably. He was spreading his germs pretty good from what I could tell. I figured if he had touched the buttons I was waiting in line for, there was a good probability of contracting his illness. I packed it up and decided to find another ATM. I had never done that before. I had a sudden impulse to get away from the guy. In my mind he was bad news on many levels.
            I think I made the right decision, but truth be told, I'm not feeling a hundred percent today. Feverish. No flu shot. Never a flu shot. I don't trust them.

Addendum:

I know a guy who had a van with a water bed in it. Circa 1979.

I Talk To Myself

            It's official. I talk to myself. It's been a long time coming, but it's here now and I'm not sure I can turn it back. When I catch myself doing it, I feel kind of strange, as if I've caught myself in crazy. Thus far I'm not answering myself or having full-on conversations. Sometimes I pretend like I'm being interviewed by a reporter, but that's normal.
           At least I don't talk to my dog or cat. Now that's loony. When I talk to myself there's the probability of having a conversation, albeit with myself. But I'm not fool enough to expect an answer from a pet. I'm getting a certain satisfaction in writing this. I know a few people who talk to their pets. I wish I could see their faces upon reading this. But they'd be the first to tell you that they're nuts, and that's why I like them. They're honest about their peculiarities. 
           Deep down, I know if I had pets I'd talk to them too. I really want a cat, but there are quite a few coyotes around my cabin and I wouldn't want to put my little fuzzy-wuzzy in harm's way. 

Cialis

            I was watching a ball game on television the other day when a Cialis commercial came on. Wow! that lady looks good for her age, I thought. The camera panned to a handsome man with salt and pepper hair. When the narrator mentioned penile dysfunction, the camera zoomed to his smiling face.
            I wouldn't want to be an actor in a Cialis commercial, even if it is make-believe. I know it pays well, and acting jobs are hard to come by, but still. I think I'd be defensive about it.
            "I  saw your Cialis commercial Anthony."
            "The money was great!"
            "You were good in it."
            "What's that supposed to mean? Just so you know, it works just fine."
                                                               
                                                                

This and That

            The cut-off point for me on the heat index is ninety-six degrees. Anything above ninety-six is uncomfortable, anything below, is not so bad. That's if I'm indoors of course. The specs change if I'm outdoors. I haven't figured the outdoor specs yet. I'm not sure I ever will. 
            I went to the beach this weekend. The sand was burning hot. I had to twist my feet below the surface sand to stand comfortably on it. That's an old beach trick not everybody knows about. It's akin to finding the shady part of the sand. It's where the hobbits live. Or that's what I'd like to believe. 
            I'm still reading The Hobbit. Goblins are bloodthirsty. Thank God for Gandalf. I'm beginning to wonder if J.R.R Tolkien was on drugs, or just that smart. I've seen pictures of him. He doesn't look like a drug user, but you never know. It's the innocent looking folk that are the most pernicious. Take Diane Feinstein for instance. She looks motherly, kind, of good character, but truth be told, she sometimes votes for murder.   

The Wizard Replies

           There's a new kid in town to put the challenge to the Wizard. He's a twenty-something who rides a moped and wears a funny helmet. I heard him playing his guitar yesterday. I couldn't help but notice, he was playing so loud. When you play loud you better have some chops, because if you don't, you're pretty much announcing to the world I can't play. I heard every wrong note the kid played for fifteen minutes or so before he quit. He wasn't playing anything musical, just this and that, but he was obnoxious about it. He had a clean sound, which I don't mind, but damn, play a song, play something. I don't want to hear your cranked-up doodling.
             A short time later the Wizard responded with his tuned down distorted sound. I heard him playing Crazy Train almost to perfection. He wasn't playing overly loud, just loud enough to be heard. He broke into the lead part and I thought, ahh, that's better. Somebody with talent. Now, if he'd just play Long Live Rock n Roll by Rainbow things would be perfect.

The Hobbit

            I'm reading The Hobbit. I remember kids carrying the book around when I was a young, but I wasn't a reader then, I was a dumb jock. Little league, mostly.
            There's a lot to follow. Hobbits, dwarfs, wizards, dragons, family history, the English language being used properly. I think back on the kids who read the book when they were nine. Little geniuses. They hardly seemed smart at the time, but it's clear to me now, I was galavanting with the wrong crowd.
            I tend to think of The Hobbit as required reading. It's a marker for intelligence in my opinion. Have you read The Hobbit? If the answer is yes, then you're entered into the intellectual elite. If the answer is no, then you're not that sophisticated, much like myself. Watching the movie doesn't count in my estimation, but that's another subject altogether.
            I sure hope I get through the book. I wouldn't want to be unintelligent by my own definition. I have some concerns though. I'm already having trouble staying interested. Hell, if I could get through Hemmingway's Island in the Stream, I can get through anything.

The Heat

            We're having a heat wave here in Los Angeles. It was a hundred and seven the other day. Now, we're settling in at about hundred and three. I don't do well in the heat, on account of I'm a precious little flower. I tend to wilt at about ninety-five. The heat affects my moods adversely, but if need be, I can snap myself out of it.
            I went out into the world yesterday. It was mid-day and the heat was at its apex. It never fails when I'm doing errands on a hot day that I'll see someone wearing a long sleeve shirt, or even more perplexing, a jacket. It strikes me as odd when I see it. It's like seeing someone wearing a wool cap in eighty-degree weather. I don't get that either. Some people have a tolerance for heat I guess, or they're always cold, even when it's a hundred and five.
            I worked with a guy once who would wear long-sleeve woolen shirts in the heat. I'd feel my insides burning, it was so hot, and he'd walk up in bright orange, long-sleeve shirt.
            "Aren't you hot?" I'd ask
            "The heat doesn't bother me."
            "You're nuts."
            He's dead now. Cancer. Shame. I liked him otherwise.

         
         
            

Parallel Parking

            I had dinner with my sister the other night. We ate at a Szechuan restaurant in Alhambra. The food was great, but there's always a wait for a table. The restaurant had chairs set up outside on the sidewalk as a courtesy. My sister and I sat and read the menu while we waited.
            A car pulled up to parallel park at the curb in front of us. There was nothing else to do but watch as they backed their car in. There were probably a half dozen of us watching this poor guy try to park. He was off kilter to begin with and it got progressively worse from there. He must have pulled up and backed in twenty times before he got it right. My sister and I looked at each other and shook our heads. It was hard to watch.
            About ten minutes later another car pulled up and tried to parallel park. It looked strikingly similar to the first car. I found myself getting mildly agitated as I watched one bad decision after another. I noticed the people sitting next to me were frustrated too. I heard them say, "no! Turn the wheel the other way!" To see people fail over and over again was interesting to me. Watching their wheels turn one way and then the other, as they pulled forward and backed up, stopping to make proximity calculations, pulling into traffic, backing out of traffic, only to realize they had repeated the same mistake. The drivers were Chinese. Nothing racist here, it's just an observation. (My editor still thinks it's racist).
            My sister and I shook our heads and laughed. A third car pulled up a few minutes later. We patrons sitting on the sidewalk let out a uniform groan. Oh no. 

Eldorado

          Someday I'm going to own a nineteen seventy-two black Cadillac Eldorado, and float to my destination of choice. Of course I won't drive the Caddy unless I know for sure that there's a parking lot nearby, or an abundance of street parking. That's going to be my first question, "how's the parking?"  I'll have to avoid some neighborhoods completely: parts of Korea town, mid-Wilshire, Beachwood Canyon. And then there's the gas problem. How much will it cost to get there? I figure it will be five bucks just to get her warmed up. Thirty bucks for a round tripper no problem. I know it's an impractical idea, but in my mind it's a great idea. 
          The best part of owning the Eldorado will be watching the faces of the valets as they drive off in search of a good place to park.  

Raw Power

          I've often wondered why The Stooges album Raw Power sounded so bad. It's always bothered me for some reason. Why does it sound so muffled? Nobody really talks about it. Most people revere the album unabashedly, which is perfectly understandable. But my ears have always said what the heck is going on here, where are the drums? Where's the bass? I finally got fed up and did some research. 
          As it turns out, Iggy decided to mix the album himself and something went haywire. According to my research, Iggy bounced tracks when maybe he wasn't supposed to and as a result he reduced his mixing options. He gave the master to David Bowie to mix.
       
          Bowie's quote:
       
          "the most absurd situation I encountered when I was recording was the first time I worked with Iggy Pop. He wanted me to mix Raw Power, so he brought the 24-track tape in, and he put it up. He had the band on one track, lead guitar on another and him on a third. Out of 24 tracks there were just three tracks that were used. He said 'see what you can do with this'. I said, 'Jim, there's nothing to mix'. So we just pushed the vocal up and down a lot. On at least four or five songs that was the situation, including "Search and Destroy." That's got such a peculiar sound because all we did was occasionally bring the lead guitar up and take it out." 
         
          And that's why Raw Power sounds the way it does. Amen.
          

Elvis and The Golden Gate Quartet

          I've always wondered where Elvis Presley got his singing style. It was such an unique style of singing, and of course nobody can sing quite like Elvis. I can do it as joke, for a line or two, but that's about it. His approach makes perfect sense to me from a technical point of view. It's breathy, from the gut, but also from the throat. It combines all the basic elements of singing and presents them eloquently. He kind of ruined it for the rest of us. It's fun to sing in that style.

          I stumbled upon a video clip on YouTube. I love YouTube. It was of a black gospel group from the thirties called the Golden Gate Quartet. The song they were singing was called Noah. Upon hearing this for the first time I did a double take. It immediately occurred to me that this was where Elvis got his singing style. One of the singers was a dead ringer for Elvis. I googled the Golden Gate Quartet, and sure enough, Elvis was a huge fan. So much so that he went backstage after one of their shows when he was stationed in Germany. The mystery was solved. Elvis Presley got his singing style from the Golden Gate Quartet. You don't believe me? Listen to it yourself. The clip is called Golden Gate Quartet, Early Years. Scroll to 4:42 of the clip. That's where the song Noah begins. Listen to the whole song, and tell me it doesn't sound like Elvis. Just do it! Don't cry.

The Drive Show

          I think there should be a game show called The Drive Show where tourist who'd never been to Los Angeles would have to drive from, say, the Westside, Sepulveda and Palms to 515 Flower downtown. They'd have forty-five minutes to get there, (an hour and fifteen in rush-hour traffic) and if they didn't get to their destination in time they'd have to drive to Blue Jay Way in the Hollywood Hills for less prize money.
          Of course they wouldn't have a GPS or anything like that, maybe they'd get a Thomas Guide if they still make them, and they'd be sent on their way.
          It's solid entertainment. Not for the weak of heart, that's for sure. The time crunch alone would make them loony. Of course there would be cameras in the car, so we Angelenos could monitor the contestants and laugh as their stress starts to build.

Tear-Away Pants

          I had a conversation with a friend about tear-away pants. My friend wants to reach down and pull off a pair after singing Money (That's What I Want). I think it's a good idea. There's an entertainment value there that audiences would appreciate.
          I got to thinking about tear-away pants and wondered why they've never made it into the mainstream. I know NBA players use them. I've always thought it looked cool when a player got off the bench to check into a game, and reached down and ripped off his sweat pants in one pull. Blam! There's a ready-to-go element to tear-aways. If you pull off a pair, you'd better be ready to go.  
          A part of me is rooting for tear-away pants for everyday use. Especially for dates. 
          "How'd your date go?"
          "Man, I didn't even get out of my tear-aways!"

Robin Williams

          I was saddened to hear of Robin William's death. Late-night television will never be the same. People are compelled to tell stories about him in his memory and many of the stories are far more important than mine. But it's my Robin Williams story, and the time to tell it is now.
          I was at a men's clothing shop on Melrose avenue in the mid-eighties. I was trying on a sports jacket. That's what we did back then. I was aware of a man standing next to me. He came into the store after me and was trying on jackets as well. I paid him no mind. But at some point I looked over and realized it was Robin Williams. We both had jackets on and simultaneously turned toward each other. He asked, "how does this look?" The jacket he was wearing was a pond-scum green color. "I'm not sure it's your color," I said.
          "That jacket looks great on you, but it's a little wide around the shoulders," he said to me.
          I looked at myself in the mirror. He was right. We both took off our jackets and hung them back on the rack. Neither of us were interested in buying one. We stared at the jackets on the rack one last time before stepping away as if to leave. I nodded my head to Robin and said, "have a good day," he nodded his head to me and said, "you too."

Big Trees

          I've taken to saying outlandish things to strangers in bars. The other night I told a man that I liked hunting moose. When he pressed me for details about the type of gun I used, I replied "I use a musket, old school." I've learned that if you speak with conviction humans are apt to believe it.
          This part is true. I spent three days on a forty-nine acre ranch near Sequoia. The ranch had three springs that emptied into a swimming pond. There was a herd of goats with long menacing horns on their heads. The goats scared easily. Maybe they knew I was thinking of them as bowls of soup. There was a dog named Roxanne from the great Pyrenees mountains. She escorted us to our cabin at night to protect us from mountain lions and bears. We hiked near the ranch and came upon giant trees. Some of the trees were over three thousand years old. Fire couldn't kill them. Lightning had tried and failed. Loggers brought some of them down, but the trees were too big for them to move, so they lost money.
          There were Indian spirits, but talking about Indian spirits makes you sound like a lunatic so I didn't say a word. And if you yelled into the distance, the distance yelled back. 
          

The Metric Imperials

          When I was a teenager, if you bought a bag of weed it was called a lid. Generally speaking, there were two finger lids and three finger lids. I've heard of four finger lids, but I think it's an urban myth. The unit of measurement was the height of two or three fingers put together. The weed was sold in a plastic baggy and you'd hold your fingers up to the baggy and call it even at some point. It was the hippie system of measurement.
          Things changed when I was in high school. The grass industry became more sophisticated. It employed the metric system as a form of measurement. Pot was measured in grams. A small bag of weed was a gram. It seemed like a gyp, but the weed was better so it evened out. The next step up from that was an eighth. An eighth of what was unclear. I always thought it was an eighth of an ounce, but that wouldn't make sense, if it was the metric system. Or was it the British Imperial System? You can buy a gram or an ounce, a pound or a kilo. It's still like that. It's higgledy-piggledy. 

The Information Age

           I had a realization the other day that I'm not cut out for the Information Age. First off, I don't have a smart phone, I have a burner. It's a throw-away flip phone that I use in case of an emergency. On occasion, I'll receive a text from a friend and most times I'm surprised by it. And sometimes I'll receive a phone call, but it's my policy never to answer unless it's really important. I find that if I get more than one text consecutively, I get worked up as if somehow my privacy is being invaded. I caught myself the other day getting angered by a singular text message, and I had to ask myself, "what the hell is wrong with you Anthony?" To which I concluded that I'm not made for the Information Age, (I didn't want to pry too deeply into it).
           There are some whom I refer to as fancy texters, who will text five or six messages consecutively. That style of texting is the most egregious to me. I find myself yelling "stop!" when that happens. If you're a close friend I'll pull you aside and have talk with you at some point, "You know that texting style you have? It drives me loony, can you formulate a complete thought and send it all at once?" Most times people are a tinge insulted, as if I'm telling them to shut up. But I'm not telling them to shut up. I'm telling them to talk more at once, which is the complete opposite of shut up. How many times have you heard that- talk more at once? Probably never.

A Bad Year For Corn

         It's been a bad year for corn. I planted two different varieties and both have performed unsatisfactorily. It looks like the two varieties became one and in their confusion they forgot to make corn. The corn that is there looks ill formed and incomplete. I've never seen anything like it in all my corn-growing days.
         Last year's crop was spectacular. I had so much corn I didn't know what to do with it. I planted one variety last year, and I made sure that the weeds were cleared. I was more meticulous. This year, I let the weeds grow in. I had a notion that the insects would stay in the weeds and leave the corn alone. But I think the weeds sucked all the nutrients from the soil and the poor corn suffered for it.    
         Who knows, really. I'm just glad I'm not a farmer. My family would starve. 

The Wizard

        There's a guitar player in the neighborhood who plays a fuzz-tone guitar. I call him the Wizard. He usually plays on weekends. I'll hear him playing in the distance, rock classics mostly. Pink Floyd's Shine On You Crazy Diamond, War Pigs, a bit of Creedence. It soothes me to hear him play. It's his tone that makes me smile. It's positively cliche, and that's brilliant to me.
        There's no telling when the Wizard's going to play next. He tends to play in the afternoon, or just before sundown. I heard him play at eight-thirty in the morning once. He wasn't shy about the volume either. No matter, he's the Wizard. He can play as loud as he wants, whenever he wants. Nobody's going to complain. No one ever complains. It's a Mexican neighborhood. 
       
     
        

Adam's Rib

           I went to a rib joint and had a singular rib for dinner. I thought I was getting ribs, but no, it was just one rib. Albeit it was a big rib from a big steer with as much meat as three or four ribs, but it just wasn't the same. Having a rib for dinner changes everything.
          "Honey let's have a rib tonight!" 
          It's hard to get excited about a rib.
       
       
          

Silverlake Reservoir

          I want to swim in Silverlake Reservoir. The plan is to wait for a warm summer night, hop the fence with a long rope, tie the rope to a tree, and shimmy down the concrete embankment to the water. I'll swim until I'm satisfied, which more than likely, wouldn't take very long. My paranoia will kick in at some point.
          I have a similar plan for the Griffith Park plunge. That's an easier job. One fence, no need for a rope, easy pickings. I'm looking for a accomplices. But when I bring it up to people they look at me strange, as if I'm saying something peculiar.
          I tell them, "Imagine having the whole plunge to yourself after midnight, swimming in the deep end with the night sky hovering above, it sounds nice, right?"
          No takers yet. I think it has something to do with breaking the law. But it's more than that. It's breaking the law to swim in a gigantic public pool at night with nobody around. Someday, someone will see the beauty in my vision.

A society without accountability, is a society in peril.

Nick Cave

          I saw Nick Cave at the Shrine Auditorium. It was a great show. Nick has a way with an audience. He was born to perform. 
          As a musician it's difficult for me to just sit and listen to concert. I like to take in the whole band. What's the drummer doing? What kind of sound is the guitar player getting? What's the bass player playing? Is Nick flubbing words? How's his voice holding up? How's that giant chandelier being held in place, the one that is suspended over the orchestra seats? Concerts for me are learning experiences mixed in with fun. I felt sorry for the bass player. There was a lot of eighth note picking in E. Not the most interesting of parts, but important to the grand scheme of things.  
         As far as Nick goes, he can sell a song. It's not easy to sing about mermaids or God and still maintain a sense of cool. The mermaids alone are enough to destroy you. But Nick pulled it off. He knew every trick in the book. He went into the crowd a lot. He did his Dance Dance Revolution moves. He's an entertainer. I enjoyed his show immensely. 
         

The Ballerina

          I lived with a ballerina once. She was my roommate. She had dreams of dancing with a company, but like many ballerinas, she fell short due to injury. In my roommate's case it was her knee that did her in.
          When a ballerina can no longer dance, her soul takes a beating. That's what happened to my roommate. She was living in the past and hardly ever thought about the good things in the present. She smoked cigarettes, to my irritation, and when she ate it was in itty-bitty portions just like a ballerina.
          Her disposition fostered a self-fulling prophecy. Bad things happened to her, one after another. First, she had a motorcycle accident. Then, she couldn't keep a man. And to top it off, she ended up losing her job.  
          As a roommate I tried to encourage her to stay positive. But my own cynicism never thought it would happen. Some people are doomed until they decide not to be. You have to un-doom yourself. It's easier said then done, but I believe it to be possible. The first thing you need to do is reboot. 

Numbers

          I'm thinking of a number from one to six. It's an odd number, not three or five. It's not one either. One is not an odd number, but a number with very few peculiarities. An odd number is four. It's a triangle on a stem. Even, odd, it's just another way of saying every other. But it's more profound than that. Numbers can plot a path to the moon, to the stars and back.
          I find it interesting that the numbers that changed the world are zero and one. Two numbers, and presto you have yourself a life altering technology. The Mayans thought of it long ago. It took us a while to catch on. I wonder what would happen if computers used three numbers instead of two. Now, that would be nuts. 012. Your computer might be the head of household then. You'll be asking permission to go outside. And your computer will ask you "why did you buy that?... You know we can't afford it!"
          

The Rub Down

          I had a massage. It's hard to complain about a massage. I like everything about them. The lighting alone was enough to put me in a good mood. It was nice and dim with very little stimuli. And when the masseuse told me to strip down to my boxers, I really warmed up to the place.
          I was told to lay on my stomach. There was a donut hole thing to rest my head on. I put my forehead and a good part of my face into it and closed my eyes.
          The masseuse started in on me. I felt her hands. They were kind of small and clammy, but I didn't mind. I thought about my life and the masseuse's life and how at that exact moment we came together- she from halfway around the world, her life, whatever it was before she placed her hands on me, and mine.
          I had my face in the donut hole and I imagined sapphire and citrine colored diamonds floating in blackness, and a Tinker Bell fairy flying through the air with a magic wand. Beams of light shot out of the diamonds. The fairy was wearing a peach colored leotard and ballet slippers to match as she danced through space. 
          When a baby laughs for the first time, that's when a fairy is born.

Targeted Advertising

          I'm thinking of starting a tactical war with the Internet. All I'd have to do is click on any old thing to upset the system. I figure if I'm going to be profiled, it might as well be as a gun-loving, conservative fundamentalist who likes women's clothing. I think it will be liberating to click on links I dislike. Each click will be a big F-you to the internet stalkers of the world, big brother and otherwise. I'm going to confuse the algorithm. Turn it on it's head.
          I'll be interested to see what ads pop up on my page. If they're for diapers or women's clothing, then I'll know for sure that I'm on the right track.
          

Email or E-mail

          I bought a new pair of hiking boots. My old boots had holes in them. It got to the point where I could feel blades of grass shooting through the bottoms. I'd take my shoes off and my socks would be caked in dust. I'd been meaning to buy new shoes but hadn't gotten around to it. Shopping is not at the top of my list.
          Today's shoes are on the ugly side. I mean they have a lot of personality. Bright colors, stripes for stripe's sake. Even the plain basic shoes are strange looking to me.
          I found a pair of shoes that fit. The sizing has changed some as well. Either that or my feet have grown. Anyway, long story short, I got to the cash register and was paying for the shoes when the cashier asked me for my email address. The store wanted to send me coupons via email and notify me of upcoming sales events.
          "No thank you," I said. 
          I was in the parking lot when I thought about the email question. What if the next time someone asked me for my email address I told them that I didn't have email. I made myself laugh. I'd love to see the look on their face when I told them that. 
             

Palm Springs

          I was in Palm Springs a couple of weeks ago. I like Palm Springs in an 'I wish it were different' kind of way. The mountains are nice and some of the architecture is to my taste. But there was something about the grass lawns and golf courses that bothered me. I noticed that the citizens of Palm Springs wasted a lot of water. And for reasons unknown, nobody was saying anything about it. I get it, you need a swimming pool. I'm with you there. It's hotter than Hideous and you need to cool off. But what's with the tropicals? The plant selection was abhorrent. Everywhere I went there was a sprinkler watering a lawn, or plants that were plucked from a rain forest and didn't belong in the desert. The waste was incredible. I saw a sprinkler watering a barren dirt field for reasons unknown. To keep the dust levels down I suppose. The Palm Springs mindset was troubling to me. 
          Beyond that, I had a good time. I especially enjoyed watching old conservative men cross the street. I noticed they tend to dress the same, white socks, white tennis shoes, short pants, with their shirts tucked in. To top off their ensembles they'd wear a funny looking belt. Not all the dinosaurs are in Cabazon.

Dodger Dugout Seats

          A friend of mine invited me to a Dodger game. She had dugout seats. I'd never sat in the dugout seats before, so I was excited. My friend hadn't either, and between the two us there was a bit of a learning curve.
          We walked into the stadium and the first thing on our mind was beer. I stood in line and waited. But the line wasn't moving so we decided to skip the beer and find our seats. We contemplated buying beer a couple more times as we walked. We were mixed up and lost so we asked an usher for directions. 
          "See that glass door? Open that door and walk down the stairs and you'll see another door, open that door, walk past the buffet and you'll see yet another glass door, go out that door, up the stairs to the dugout seats."
          "Got it!" He'd lost me at "see that door."
          We found our seats and the minute we sat down a waiter approached us to take our order. We ordered two beers, peanuts and nachos. That was before we figured out that the buffet was free, and it was all you can eat. It was a hoity-toity buffet, if that's even possible. Boy, did we feel stupid.
          "Everything is free?"
          "Everything but the beer!"
          "So this is how the privileged live."
          To our credit, we ate a total of three Dodger dogs and a bratwurst sausage. I skipped the Dijon mustard for the sausage. Oh yeah, I also had a bag of Cracker Jacks. The prize was a stick-on tattoo. 

Blessed

        I've noticed the word blessed is being used more frequently. It used to be that people would use the words fortunate or lucky to express their good standing in life. I cringe when I hear blessed. It sounds smarmy to me. In my mind there's a religious association with the word, as to say, blessed by god. But people are just saying, "I'm so blessed," and they're leaving out the "by god" part. And that strikes me as sneaky. Why not just say blessed by god if that's how you mean it? A part of me feels like the word is being misused to begin with. 
        "I'm blessed." Eeew. Cringe.
        You can't really say anything to somebody who says they're blessed, although I want to. I want to engage in a philosophical discussion. I want to know in what manner are you using the word and who has bestowed their blessing upon you? It bothers me that people are saying it without fully understanding the complexity of the issue. Yes, there are people in this world who are blessed, I get it. But we're humble enough to know that we're fortunate.

Brownie

        I was walking to my car when I saw her lying on the sidewalk. She caught my attention immediately. I changed course to take a look. She was old. I could tell that much. I knelt down and flipped her case open. She was beautiful; a brown shimmering color with barely a scratch on her. I picked her up and played some. Her strings were set a little high, but she was solid and straight otherwise. A Harmony steel string acoustic. She'd found her way to a yard sale in my neighborhood.
        "How much for the guitar?"I asked a lady.
        "Treinta!"
        Thirty? For a second I thought treinta was three hundred, but I had it mixed up. I kept calm. Unemotional.
        "Will you take twenty-five?"
        "Si." 
        I didn't have the money on me. I tried to explain to the lady that I'd get the money and come back. But my Spanish was so poor I think I told her that I didn't have the money today, that I'd be back today with the money. She looked confused but was nice enough to hold the guitar for me while I got the money.
        I discovered that the guitar is either a 1963 or 1964 Harmony H165 Mahogany. It has the Big Bill Broonzy sound I've been looking for. And I've always wanted a guitar made of mahogany.
        Just to let everybody know, the guitar and I have a polyamorous relationship. And that's just the way it is.
        

Temperature Index

        We were in the midst of a heat wave here in Southern California. It was hard on the flowers and those people who have an aversion to glare. It was especially hard on the furry critters. The last four days were bad days to have fur. I noticed that cats and dogs had a sad, weary look on their faces. It was a help me I'm dying look.
        I'm thinking there should be a furry critter temperature index for such occasions. It could be part of the every day weather report. There would be color-coded graphs with degrees of warning for the furry critters. It could have descriptions like mild suffering, much suffering, and certain death. Hairy men might also find it beneficial.
        It's going to be 98 degrees in downtown Los Angeles. That's 106 on the Furry Critter Temperature Index, with much suffering.
        "Did you hear that honey! It's going to be One-Oh-Six! With much suffering!"
   
        Authors note: I 'm sorry about the content, but when you're running low on ideas for your blog, you'll pretty much write about anything.
        

The Deal Breaker

         I used to think she was cute until I saw her drive. She was racing up the hill. She didn't even bother to slow down at the stop sign. She was driving like a lunatic. What an idiot! She and I can never date now, I concluded. I was on my way to my favorite taco stand when I came across her. Sheesh, what's the hurry?
         A short time later I found myself on the main boulevard looking for curbside parking. There was a car blocking traffic. Somebody was trying to parallel park, but couldn't get it right. The car kept pulling out into the boulevard, readjusting, and trying to back in again. I wheeled around it and found a place to park. I got out of my car and was about ready to place my order, when I noticed the car still trying to park. There was a new group of cars trapped behind it as it moved forward and back with failed attempt after failed attempt.
         I placed my order and sat down and waited. I noticed the car had finally squeezed into the parking spot. A young, long legged Latina get out of the car. She placed her order and stood off to the side. I was staring at the ground. When I looked up I caught the Latina giving me the eye, the once over. I snuck a peek at her at her when she wasn't looking. She was as beautiful as a field of wild flowers at sunset, but knowing that she couldn't parallel park ruined it for me. We can never date, I reasoned. It would never work.
         

Don't Get Your Mind Made Up

        I went to open mic to play a new song that I wrote. It's probably the best song I've ever written in my entire life. I was looking forward to playing it. I sat at the bar, sipped a beer, and waited my turn. 
        The bartender walked up to me, "are you going to play something new tonight?'
        "Yep," I beamed.

        I finally had a turn at the mic. I plugged my guitar in and broke into the song. I noticed right off that nobody was listening. In fact, people were talking very loudly. I couldn't believe it. I played the song the best I could, all the while thinking, wow this sucks. When I finished the song, the crowd's response was lackluster. 
        I stepped back and gathered myself for my second song. I decided to play a tune I'd written a couple of years earlier. I was going to can it at one point and remove it from my repertoire entirely thinking it was too soft and gushy. But I thought I'd give it one more chance before I did that.

        I broke into the tune and right off I noticed a change in the audience's demeanor. At one point near the end of the song the room fell silent. They were actually paying attention. When I finished playing I walked back to the bar and sat down to finish my beer. The bartender walked up to me. He was moving real slow. He had a coy look on his face. He put his hand to his jaw and rubbed it as if to think. He looked me in the eyes and leaned in. "Did you write that second song?" 

Butt Hurt

        It seems I'm surrounded by people who are very sensitive. I'm sensitive too. If someone says something that I don't like I get butt hurt. But that rarely happens to me. Usually, I'm the guy that says something insensitive. I don't mean to hurt people. It just comes naturally. I try not to be offensive. Sometimes I even think about what I'm going to say before I say it. It doesn't help. People are sensitive. It's getting to the point where I want to run what I'm going to say by the person before I say it.  
       
        "So hey man, I wanted to say something, but I kind of wanted to run it by you first."
        "What do you mean, run it by me?"
        "Well, you know, just to make sure it's okay."
        "What do you mean, "okay"?
        "Well, you know, sometimes, I say stuff, and like, maybe, it rubs you wrong."
        "What are you talking about?"
        "Well, like when you didn't talk to me for a couple weeks, you know, a couple months ago? I still don't know exactly what I said, but you got kind of upset."
        "You don't know what you said? Don't gimme that, you know what you said. I had every right to be pissed."
        "What did I say? I mean, see, this is what I mean. This is why I wanna run stuff by you first."
        "Why? Because you think I'm difficult? Like a delicate flower, you can't just say things to me?"
        "Hey, hey, I'm not trying to start anything!"
        "No, really, what do you mean by this anyway? You know, you're always pulling stuff like this!"
        "Hey man, just trying to be, you know, considerate...
        "I don't need your consideration! Treating me like I'm a kid, like I need to be "handled." You know, maybe you and I shouldn't hang out for a while. I mean, if I'm so sensitive, and all.
         "Never mind, Okay, just forget it.
         "Forget it? No, what did you want to say? I can handle it. C'mon, tell me. What is it?

The Luthier

            I took my acoustic electric guitar to a luthier. It needed to be re-wired. The guitar was broken, no good, useless as far as being able to use it with an amp. I had to use a microphone when I performed and stand in a fixed position to be heard. I'm not very good at standing in a fixed position. I get a little antsy. I felt like a robot when I played.
            Sometimes I'd lose track of where the microphone was and bang my guitar into it mid-song, or pull away from the mic and have the sound of the guitar disappear. I'm glad the guitar's finally fixed. Now, if I want to break into a flat foot in between verses I can. 
            The luthier has his own line of guitars called Marble Head Guitars. When I communicate with him via email I use the heading "Dear Marble Head." It cracks me up every time. I'm not sure why, it just does. The luthier does have a round head. Wolf pup. 

The Way Things Work

          I've been watching late night documentaries of iconic historical figures- Stalin, Chairman Mao, Mussolini, Rockefeller, the Vanderbilt's, the Rothschild's, J.P. Morgan. I'd rather be a banker or a businessman than an autocrat. Stalin died in a puddle of his own urine, the victim of a suspected poisoning. Chairman Mao, some suspect, suffered the same fate. And Mussolini, he was shot to death, then hung upside down before being spat upon and dragged through the streets. Being a tyrannical leader just doesn't pay.
          The bankers have it figured. They go unnoticed. They finance the winners and the losers. The system of governance doesn't really matter to them. All that matters is that the government is stable so they're making money. The loan and the bond, the two most powerful things in the world. Loans and bonds turn people and governments into dependents. Dependency is the byproduct of power. Bombastic tyrants serve as distractions for financiers. It's all too familiar and overly cliche. But sadly, that's how it works. There. I said it, I meant it, and that's the way it is. 

Blood Moon

          I hiked to Kite Hill to get a good look at the blood moon. It's a hilltop with a panoramic view of the city. It wasn't exactly an original idea. There were people parked and waiting for the eclipse when I got there. Some people were sitting on lounge chairs and others were sitting on the hoods of their cars. There was a lot of activity. There were the sounds of radios and people talking loudly. I overheard a woman tell her friend, "I don't want to make love, I want to fuck and have a baby." A part of me wanted to stand next to her, but I looked toward Pasadena instead. 

          More and more people were showing up and I was getting overstimulated, so I decided to find a new spot. I walked down the hill some and found a spot that had a view of downtown and the moon. I heard a mockingbird singing in the valley and there was a gentle wind blowing. There was nobody around but me. I had the whole moon to myself. 

Marlon Brando

          I frequent an establishment where the proprietor is a mumbler. I'm a mumbler too, so you can imagine the conversations we have. I was talking to the proprietor the other day and I realized I had no idea what he was saying. You can't ask a mumbler to repeat every sentence. If you do, they tend to freeze up and get irritated. So I pretended to understand what the mumbler was saying.                   
          Somehow we got on the topic of mustaches, but to what extent I didn't know. The proprietor seemed to be saying that he could use his mustache as a weapon. I wasn't sure how to respond. If I guessed wrong and was off topic, he'd be offended. I just laughed and waited for more clues. 
          The proprietor became more animated. I still wasn't sure what he was saying. I studied him while he talked. He was smiling. He was telling a joke of some kind. He started to laugh. I laughed and put my arms up in the air as if I was holding the handlebars to a chopper. I made the sound of a motorcycle. Vroom-vroom! The proprietor had a confused look on his face, but laughed anyway. 

The House Next Door

            The house next door is being worked on. There's a scraggly looking older guy who comes in the morning. He sits in his car until his boss shows up. I've seen him sit there for hours. It's not the best use of time, but it's none of my business. When the boss shows up, that's when the work begins. The men have taken four weeks to do a two week job. The job's winding down now. The older man with the scraggily hair is gone and now it's just the boss that shows up.
            It's quiet now that the job is over. There's an eerie silence and it gives me an empty feeling inside. I got used to the sound of the men working, the hammering and the sawing.
            The boss came by later in the afternoon to finish things up. He worked into the night. I heard a huge racket. He was cutting something with a saw in the dark. It started to bother me. Then it dawned on me, the boss liked it here too. 

The Actor Problem

            A friend of mine is an independent filmmaker. He was approached by a woman who wanted to be in one of his movies. She was a persistent young actress without a hint of name recognition. She downright pestered my friend until he finally relented and gave her a small part. It was a simple scene; a conversation with Hitler.
            They shot the scene and all indications were that she was excited to do it. But a few days after the shoot my friend received a call from the actress. She demanded to be removed from the movie. My friend asked why? The actress said it was because the industry was run by Jews and she didn't want to ruin her career. My friend told her he couldn't re-shoot the scene, but that he'd change her name in the credits if that made her happy. The actress didn't go for that; she wanted to be removed completely. Fifty-three emails later and the threat of a lawsuit, the issue was finally resolved, with the actress somehow remaining in the film. 
            I'm having trouble remembering the punch line to this one, or the moral to this story. Maybe it's be careful what you ask for, you just might end up in a movie with Hitler. 

The Confidence Artist

 Victor Lustig sold the Eiffel Tower to a scrap metal dealer, twice.

Here's a set of instructions known as the "Ten Commandments for Con Men" attributed to Lustig:

• Be a patient listener (it is this, not fast talking, that gets a con man his coups).
• Never look bored.
• Wait for the other person to reveal any political opinions, then agree with them.
• Let the other person reveal religious views, then have the same ones.
• Hint at sex talk, but don't follow it up unless the other person shows a strong interest.
• Never discuss illness, unless some special concern is shown.
• Never pry into a person's personal circumstances (they'll tell you all eventually).
• Never boast - just let your importance be quietly obvious.
• Never be untidy.
• Never get drunk.

These techniques are remarkably similar to those I've employed over the years as a writer, with the exception of "never get drunk."

Get a Pair

            I was starting to feel kind of ordinary. I couldn't put a finger on it. I was blending in a bit too much, and frankly, I'm not used to that. I want to blend in when I want to blend in, but I don't want to blend in because people blend me in, and people were blending me in. I was practically invisible.
           Through a series of events, none of which were all that interesting, I found myself buying shoes at a high-end department store. I bought a pair of black Italian shoes that were on sale for forty-five dollars. The shoes have changed my standing in life considerably. I look a lot nicer. And between you and me, people notice. "Nice shoes," are words I'm becoming familiar with. Now, when I walk into a room people look down at my feet, and when you look at someone's feet there's a good chance you'll notice the rest of them on the way up.
           And that's what's happening to me. I'm wearing the same clothes, just different shoes. The shoes are magic. I highly recommend a pair of nice shoes if you're going unnoticed. The results have been astounding.

Andy The Baller

            I met Andy years ago at the neighborhood basketball court. I was there to practice my shot and Andy came up to me and asked if I wanted to play a game. It was a two on two, or a three on three. I can't recall.

            We were about a minute into the game when Andy started to mouth off. "What are you laughing at?" He said to me.

            Who is this guy? I wondered. He was obnoxious. I wanted to punch him. 
            Eventually, Andy and I became friends and as it turned out he was only obnoxious in competitive situations. 

            I was with Andy the other day when he turned to me and asked, "did I ever tell you the story about how I met Rasta Lenny?"

            "No."

            "He came up to the court to play and he started throwing his elbows around. I told him, hey man watch the elbows! We were jawing back and forth. I started to slap his elbows away when he threw them. After the game Lenny walked up to me and said, "okay Andy, you throw the first punch and after that I'm going wrap your balls around your neck!" My brother was there and he stepped in and Rasta Lenny told him, "I'll do the same to you."   Well, we Flanagans, we're not fighters, we're talkers and instigators. I can't fight and I know for sure my brother can't fight."

            "Isn't Rasta Lenny a black belt in karate?" I asked.
            "We didn't know that at the time."
            "What did you do?" 

            "We did what we Flanagans do best. We talked our way out of it."

            

ATM

            I pulled into a gas station. It was an Arco station with a communal ATM on the pillar. I wasn't familiar with it. I'm used to using ATM's that are on the pump. It took me a second to figure out how to slide the card in. I studied the picture example and stuck the card in the slot. The ATM snatched the card from my hand, ran the numbers, and spit the card out. Then it asked for my PIN number. I punched it in. Select a pump number was its next directive. I selected the pump number.
            Too late it said.
            What?
            Select pump! it demanded.
            I typed the pump number in again.
            Too late, it said.
            Huh? I tried it again.
            This time when it said select pump I punched in the number as fast as I could.
            Too late!
            Is this a joke? Am I being punked? I started talking to myself as I wrestled with the machine. I just wanted gas. I contemplated giving up and paying with cash. No, I can do this.
            I figured I'd cancel the transaction and start over. Maybe if the machine thought I was someone else it would quit messing with me. It worked. I got past the select pump number directive. I was relieved. Then the machine prompted its next message. A thirty-five cent fee will be added to this transaction.. accept or decline. 
            I accept! You son of a bitch! 

Colors

           My friend lives near the border of two rival street gangs. Every few months or so the gangs will tag a garage across the street that straddles their territories. One gang will tag the garage to stake a claim to it and the other gang will come along and cross it out. It's a turf war, a battle for land they don't own.
           Usually, one gang sprays the garage with black paint, and the other gang retaliates with red paint. And then somebody calls the city and the city paints the garage back to white. 
           I paid a visit to my friend the other day and I noticed that the garage had been tagged, but in this instance, one gang used yellow paint, and the other gang crossed it out in a baby blue color. Soft colors, I said to myself. Hardly menacing. How did that happen? I wondered if there was a conversation about the paint.
            "Yellow? What happened to black?"
            I created a picture in my mind of a gang banger pulling up to the garage and getting out of a car while his friend waited with the engine running. I pictured him crossing out the yellow tag with the baby blue paint, then getting back into the car to have his friend say, "What kind of paint is that? Where's the red?"
           The city sent two young men and a truck full of paint to the scene. The men looked like they could have had possible past associations with the gang life. They were standing by the truck and it looked to me like they were scrutinizing the tag. I detected some disappointment on their faces. I watched them spray paint the garage back to white. I wouldn't be surprised if they called the taggers afterwards and said, "Hey homie, what's with the paint? Caught you slipping."