My Ladies

       
            I was in Chinatown. I had just left Pho 87. I was feeling pretty good about myself. It was dark out, no moon, and sometimes when it gets dark early in autumn, my inner-compass gets confused and lonely. But, I wasn't confused or lonely on this particular evening. I ordered Pho to go and I was walking to my car thinking I had made a wise decision.
            I noticed an older Asian woman in the distance picking through a trash can. I saw her turn toward the sidewalk and trip on the curb and fall face first. She must have been eighty or so. Old. I rushed over to make sure she was okay. She was sitting on the sidewalk with a concerned look on her face. She couldn't get up. It happens when you get old, you can't get up. She just looked at me when I asked if she was okay. I realized she didn't speak a lick of English. I let her sit there for a moment before I grabbed a hold of her forearms and helped her to her feet. She thanked me by shaking her head in the affirmative.
            A few weeks later I was walking in the neighborhood when I noticed an elderly Asian couple in their backyard. The man was standing over his wife who was sitting on the ground. It was evident that the woman had fallen and the man was trying to help her up. The man saw me and flagged me down. He didn't speak English either, but I knew what he was saying. I walked into his backyard where I grabbed the woman from underneath her armpits and swung her into a patio chair. She was vulnerable and could barely stand. It happens. You get old and you can barely stand. It's got to be a strange feeling, 

Star Wars

         
            I stopped in for a bite to eat. The proprietor sat at my table. He looked pretty tired. He said he was sleepy. I told him to go to sleep, that it didn't matter to me. He bowed his head and covered his face with his hands. Then, a costumer came along and wanted to pay for their food, so he got up to take their money.

            I was reading the newspaper while eating my burrito when the boss came back and sat down. He reached for the calender section of the newspaper. 

            No show times yet, he said. I new exactly what he was talking about. The new Star Wars movie. They want to keep it a secret to keep the riff-raff out, I said. The boss is about sixty-some, so I was surprised when he turned into Star Wars geek right before my eyes.  Not quite a geek, but a more of a Star Wars sage, or philosopher. He was talking about the force and the Jedi all but being gone, and Darth Vader being dead. Where is it going? he asked. I was pretending to be knowledgeable. I saw episodes one, two, three, or four, five, six, how ever they call it, but that was a long time ago. I was thinking hmmm, Darth Vader's dead? I kind of remember that. Ahh, they'll probably create new characters, I said. Or, bring back old ones he said. He rattled off a few names that I'd never heard of before. I was in over my head with the conversation. Then, luckily he turned his attention to a picture in the newspaper. It was a Star Wars character holding the new light cyber. That looks like a fire cross I said. Yeah, it's medieval, the boss said. It's not supposed to be medieval, it's suppose to be futuristic. They're going turn the damn thing into Excalibur!

Sign Language

          
          I tried to buy a new tire. I know about an "el cheapo" place that did me right the last time I was there, but this time when I pulled in there were two new guys working. 
          A short stubby fellow asked me what I needed. I told him a new tire. Just then a taller thinner man walked up and asked the short stubby guy what I wanted. He answered in Spanish and the tall guy disappeared. I stood back and waited. There was a bearded hipster also waiting for something, probably a tire. He was leaning up against his late model Volvo with his arms crossed. 
          The tall skinny guy came out from behind the tire rack rolling what looked like a tire for a truck. I don't have a truck. I looked at the bearded hipster and we started to laugh. I'm not sure that's going to fit, the hipster said.  The tall skinny guy was embarrassed and lashed out at the short stubby guy. They exchanged barbs in Spanish, and when the skinny guy was behind the tire rack the short stubby guy looked at me and spun his index finger around his temples to give me the he's crazy sign. Then, he leaned back and put his thumb to his mouth with his pinky extended to give me the he drinks too much sign. I laughed.
          A few minutes later the tall skinny guy came out with a new tire. I asked him if it was still forty-five dollars? No, it's sixty-five. I told him I'd have to come back. He nearly blew a fuse and said you're kidding me. I said no I'm not. I looked at the bearded hipster and shrugged my shoulders and lifted my hands, the sign for what can I say?
          

The Negotiator

          
          I have a friend who's an expert negotiator. She's a real estate agent and has honed her skills over the years. She can turn a dire situation into no situation at all with her words. And she usually gets what she wants. I like to tease her about it.
          Will you be my negotiator? And stay by my side just in case I need to call AT&T, or the Department of Water And Power?
          She always says yes, but she doesn't really mean it. She's married. And the plan's no good unless she's at the ready. 
          I'm not a bad negotiator, but I'm apt to say it's not worth the trouble. I don't have a negotiator's desire. You need to be strong willed and fight it out. And unless you make me angry I don't have the will. 
          But my friend can negotiate two for one coupons with the best of them. She'll put any teenager answering the phone at your favorite restaurant to shame. She's good. 

Ghetto Siri

            
            I have an idea for an app. It's called Ghetto Siri. It comes with several different ethnic group voices to fit the stereotypes. It works something like this.
            Find a Thai food restaurant.
            Find it yourself bitch!
            Call Ronald.
            Ronald don't want to talk to your ugly ass!
            What does the fox say?
            What does the fox say? He says you're a stupid no-good mother-fucker!
         
         
         
         
         
         
         
         

         
         

            

Chinese Radio

           
            I've been listening to a Chinese radio station on the AM dial. I think it's Chinese. It could be Korean. Although sometimes it sounds like Japanese. I don't mean any offense, but I just can't figure it out.
            I got bored listening to my regular radio stations. And when you're bored, it just means you're boring. So I mixed it up a bit. I was looking for a Mexican radio station, but I kept finding Asian stations. I finally gave in to one and left it there.
            Now when I get into my car the Chinese station comes on and I'm interested. Oh yeah- the Chinese station. I forgot about that. I'll wonder what the heck they're saying. And what language they're speaking. It's stimulating. And it stimulates others too. When I come to a stop light I notice people looking at me funny. They look confused. I can tell they just want things to be seamless and simple. I'm challenging that in some way by what I'm listening to. 
           But I don't care. I'm just trying to grow. I want to feel and hear another culture and learn something new. The problem is I'm not learning anything new, because I have no idea what they're saying. I found myself getting frustrated. I thought about changing the station, but something told me not to. 
           Then the other day, I heard music I'd never heard before, and I knew why I had to stay the course. Chinese rap. It was so good.



            

Tony The Barber

            
            I found a good barber. I fired the big barber, and the skinny barber too. I got tired of looking like Hitler. That's not a good look in any situation. I now have a refined older gentleman named Tony as my barber. Tony's been cutting hair since 1962. He's magic with the scissors. He cuts hair like Edward Scissor Hands cuts hedges. He's fast and precise. The scissors squeak in his hand they're moving so fast.
            The only problem is, I like Tony, and in my attempt to gain his respect and impress him with my old school knowledge, I'll make a comment every once in a while about the music he's listening to.
            Is that Tommy Dorsey?
            No it's Glen Miller.
            I can't seem to get it right.
            The other day I went in for a haircut. It was the second time I'd been there. I said, is that Frank Sintatra? No, it's Lawrence Welk.
            I've been way off. And I know the difference. It's almost like I'm being taught a lesson not to force things. 
            I'd like to be Tony's friend. He's such a kind old man. It breaks my heart how kind he is. He's told me stories about himself and his family and how they have dinner together every Sunday at six-thirty. He's a model of consistency; same job, same wife, and he appears to be content with his choices. I admire people like that. He's not chasing anything. He's letting it all come to him and working hard in the meantime. That's artistry in my mind. Just working hard. 


            

The Fellowship

           
            I'm reading The Fellowship Of The Ring. And without realizing it I've entered the secret society of nerd geniuses. They're a people who speak little of what they've know, divulging information only when asked. I don't ask them many questions for fear of ruining Tolkien's story before reading it. 
            I remember seeing these nerd geniuses when I was a kid. I'd spot one with a book in their hand and ask, "what book is that?"
            The Hobbit, they'd answer before shyly scurrying away. I didn't read much when I was a kid, so I found it very peculiar. 
            I tried to watch The Hobbit the movie. I was so angered by it, having read the book. I couldn't watch the whole thing. I can't believe people are watching the movie without reading the book and thinking that they know it. You don't know it! You don't know anything! The movie butchered the book. Butchered it, I tell you. If you're one of these people, shame, shame on you. You're missing the juicy details. The real story. You're getting just a sliver of it, just a sliver. Hollywood is playing you for a fool! It's a travesty. 
            Do yourself a favor. Read the book! And if you want to be a real nerd genius read it over and over and then read The Fellowship over and over. And then read the one after that, whatever it's called. And don't speak of it unless you're asked. And don't talk about Battlestar Galactica either.  

Twisting Knobs

           
            I've been recording bass-lines to my songs. Ironically, I've been using my Princeton Chorus guitar amp to play through. I laid down temporary sketch tracks while my Ampeg was being repaired. When I got the Ampeg back I started to record for keeps. But I couldn't get the right sound. I was getting a good sound, but the Princeton had a hollow distorted sound that seemed to fit the track better. I had changed the sound on the Princeton after recording the sketch tracks, thinking that I was going to use the Ampeg. So there I was twisting knobs on the Princeton trying to emulate the cheap sound that I recorded with earlier. I spent a lot of time trying to find "the sound." I got it pretty close, but it's not exact.
            Yawn. Anyway. I've been doing my best to channel my inner Paul McCartney for these bass lines. I'm thinking Paul is feeling pretty tired right about now.  I have ten songs to do and I haven't finished one yet. The poor guy's going to need some supplements before I get through with him.                                                                                
            

Drunk Talk; Advice From A Super Human

           
            I got the old Ampeg SVT back. I picked it up from the electrical genius' house. He trusted me to pick it up from his house, not his laboratory. I was honored. We had a good conversation about tubes and amps. Then we segued into baseball and broken windows. He lives across the street from a baseball diamond.

            The bass lines to my songs have me stumped, but my amp sounds good. I want to take back what I said about not playing live with the old tuber. I'd play live with her anytime. I'd have to put more money into her, so I'd know for sure she wouldn't catch fire. 
            It's a shame I don't play bass much anymore. I never really did. Performing, to me, has always been like lye in the face, but I'm changing my ways. Just do your job is my new motto. I think it has something to do with my distaste for fame, and the American dream, and all that bullshit. But I realized I like nice things. As a hermit I'm sacrificing nice things for solitude. Solitude is great. Nothing better in my eyes, but on the other hand there's god's purpose. Or deity, however you want to say it. And my purpose is to write songs and write books. I've fought it for years. I thought I should have a stable career and at one point I did, but I was a fish out of water for more than one reason. If it feels wrong it probably is. But most people don't live by instincts, practicality comes into play. And with practicality comes some unhappiness, especially if your purpose in life is not practical in the traditional sense. 

            So there it is. Life is really not that complicated. You have a purpose. Your purpose is special. If you're unhappy, you probably aren't doing what you're suppose to be doing. So my unsolicited advice is to do what you think you should be doing and nothing short.

           

Mariscos

           
            I took a few days off from the blog. I didn't have any ideas. Usually something will pop up and I'll write about it. There were a few things I could have written about, but the subject matter was on the borderline of complaining. And although I'm not immune to complaining I try not to cry about things, if you know what I mean?
            I found a new taco joint. Seafood really. It's right across the street from the projects. My lady friend and I were the only people there who weren't bilingual. It's embarrassing when I think about it. The fact that I don't speak Spanish all that well. I managed to order and get the check and what not, but my Spanish is lame. Even after riding buses in Mexico for months at a time, it's not very good.
            The restaurant was great and the people were friendly. If you're ever in the mood for seafood and you're not afraid of sticking out like a sore thumb, (that's for my guero readers), the place is called Cuatro Vientos on Olympic boulevard. They'll do you right as many times as you want. 

Motor Oil = Wood Stain

          
            The electrical nerd genius charged me more than he said he would to fix my amp. There's nothing I can do about it. I'll happily pay the difference. Sometimes when you're up against a genius it's better to lick your wounds than to cause a stir. There aren't too many electrical nerd geniuses around, so he pretty much has me by the balls.
            I discovered something about motor oil. It makes for an excellent wood stain. I changed the oil in my convertible before taking it in for a smog test. I kept the oil to make use of it. I got the idea from a homesteader on YouTube. I thought wow, that's both incredibly smart and stupid at the same time. I'm going to try that.
            I barbequed last night. I lit a fire. I was more attentive than usual having just stained part of the deck with motor oil. I sat there and watched the fire like a hawk. The wood eventually absorbs the oil and the danger factor diminishes with time. So I'm guessing.
           There's a part of me that wants to light a match and toss it on the deck just to see what happens. That's the part of me that didn't do so well in school. The other part of me is wiser. That's the part of me that did a little better in college. 

The Electrical Nerd Genius

         
            I'm making a record. An album. An LP. Or, something to sell. I've been working on it for about nine months now. And I still have a lot to do.
            I started to record bass lines, but my bass amp crapped out on me. I have a Ampeg SVT. It's a tube amp made between 1972 and 75. Ampeg didn't have a reliable system for serial numbers back then, so it's hard to tell what year it is.
            It's a big thing. That's what she said last night. A beast really. A monster. A heavy son of a gun. I'd never use it live. I'd probably throw my back out getting it on stage, and besides, it's sensitive. But it has a warm, one of a kind sound that you can't find anymore. 
            I took it to a place in Covina to be repaired. The technician, let's call him Joesph, is a beautiful man, probably in his fifties, with a mild case of acne. Sure genius. We talked about tubes and capacitors. He showed me his sixteen track analog studio. In my next life I want to be Joesph. An electrical nerd, an ex TV repairman. Someone with a stash of Fender vacuum tubes from the sixties. 

Mosquito People

            
            I woke up at four-thirty in the morning. My right arm was itching near the elbow. A mosquito had taken a few bites out of me. I was annoyed. It was itching like crazy. It occurred to me that I don't ever think about how great it is that a female mosquito is going to use my blood to provide the proper nourishment to procreate. And that I'm helping to sustain a population of insects. No, I usually think of myself first. The immediacy of it, not the long term ramifications, and the greater good. Sure, she'll need to find water to lay her eggs, in the midst of a drought stricken desert, but that's another story.
            Sometimes people are like mosquito's, they prick at you. They say things that might irritate you. They take little bites, just enough to make themselves feel good, before they fly into the night to look for water. I've always been susceptible to the words of others. I think it's because there are things I know about myself and when someone connects the dots and states the obvious, it burns inside, like I've been discovered and I no longer have a secret.
            The other night a woman called me strange and that feeling welled up inside me. I was shocked by it. I'd never been called strange before. Weird, goofy, crazy, but never strange. I didn't know how to react. Someone finally figured me out and had the guts to say it to my face. Once the shock wore off I felt like a weight had lifted. Phew, what a relief. No sense trying to hide it anymore. 
            Thank you unkind lady, thank you for your concise, ill-mannered remark.
         
            

The Quarter Inch Jack

            
            There are a couple things that I've never understood, and I may never understand. First of all, I've noticed that an empty refrigerator can still get dirty. Sometimes my refrigerator will have nothing more than a can of coffee in it and I'll find it dirty inside. It's baffling to me. Where do the crumbs come from?
            The other thing on my mind has to do with guitar cords. Guitar cords have a thing called a quarter inch jack at the end of them. The jack has a metal sleeve that screws tight to cover the solder and wiring of the cord. Every time I use a cord, out of habit, I'll make sure the sleeve is screwed tight. I've often wondered how it becomes loose in the first place. Sometimes, I'll pick up a cord that I haven't used in years and I'll check the sleeve and sure enough it's loose. Other times, I'll tighten the sleeve only to use the cord a few days later and find that it's loose again. I don't get it.
             I mentioned this fact to my friend and she said maybe there's an elf, or a troll, or brownie that loosens it in the middle of the night just to make me crazy. We laughed hard at the thought of it. An elf, or troll, or brownie, sneaking up to my guitar cord while I'm sleeping and twisting the sleeve just enough. Then, quietly slinking back to my refrigerator to eat a sandwich. 
           

A Hard Day

            
            The day started off okay. I told my mamacita I'd install a kitchen faucet for her. I was hesitant to do the job. Plumbing is one disaster waiting for another disaster to happen, and sure enough that was the long and the short of it. Nothing went right. Shut off valves didn't shut off. I had to buy new lines. I went to the hardware store three times. It was challenging, but I got through it. 
             I'm going to start recording bass lines for a record I'm working on. So while at my mom's, I picked up my bass cabinet that was in storage to bring back to my cabin. It has casters on it, so I rolled it down the dirt path to my studio. At a certain point it got away from me. I lost traction on account of the steepness of the slope. The cabinet rolled downhill and ended up below my target destination. I needed to pull it back up hill somehow. I was still slipping and sliding all over the place. I grabbed a garden hose and tied it to the cabinet and pulled it uphill while holding on to a lemon tree to keep my balance. It was like hauling a giant fish on board, but I finally got it on my deck.
             At the end of the day I helped bury a squirrel. The poor little guy made a bad move and got hit by car. My friend Adrian saw the squirrel laying in the street. I didn't see him until he pointed it out to me. Adrian didn't want to leave him there, so we devised a plan to bury him without having to touch him. We used a broom and a trash can lid.
             Adrian said a prayer. I added a few words at the end, something to the effect of: although you didn't play it right, and you made the wrong move, you were probably a good squirrel. 
             It was a hard day for everybody.  

Trash Picking

       
            I wanted to update you on my trash picking. I've missed some sunsets, and as a result I haven't picked up the ten pieces of trash that I promised. I tried to make up for my absence by picking twenty pieces up instead of ten on the days I was there.
            I feel embarrassed when I pick up trash. There's usually people on the hill looking at the sunset when I get there. I don't want to be the weird guy picking up trash, while they sit around and smoke pot, so I kind of look around before I do it. I figured out if I squat like a catcher I can pretend like I'm looking at the sunset while I pick up cigarette butts and bottle caps. I mentioned my trash picking trepidation to my friends and they suggested I wear a neon and orange vest to make it look like I'm doing community service. I thought that was a good idea. They were baffled as to why I felt weird about it. I think it's because my mama didn't raise no trash picker.
            While I was on the hill yesterday I felt a compulsion over take me. Once I started picking up trash I couldn't stop. I was going after the big stuff, soft drink cups from fast food restaurants, aluminum cans, cardboard beer holders. There's a trash can set up on the hill so it made it easy. I was counting the pieces as I picked them up. It was rewarding to make the little bit of progress that I did. I recommend it. Trash picking is a humbling experience, but you feel good afterward.  Like you've done something for the team.

Spider Strong

            
            I've discovered that spiders are creatures of habit. There are two spots in my cabin that I constantly have to clean spider webs away from. I'll sweep a web away and a day or two later it's back. It's an ongoing battle. I sweep, and the spider says,"we will rebuild!"

            I've always admired this quality in people. A disaster occurs and destroys a neighborhood and a reporter puts a microphone in the face of a home owner. 

            What are you going to do now? asks the reporter.

            We're going to rebuild!

            And that's what spiders do. There's no logic to it. You'd think after four or five disasters you'd move on and maybe find another spot. Somewhere far from the broom, but no, they don't do that. They have a spider strong mentality. "We're spider strong! We will rebuild!"

            No, don't rebuild! Move somewhere else! Find another corner! Find a tree! Find a weight lifting bench! 

            But we're spider strong!
            Aye, aye, aye.
            

            

            

            

Sunsets

           
            I made a deal with myself to make more of an effort to watch the day's sunset. I've missed a lot for sitting indoors, and it occurred to me that I'd become indifferent to something special.
            I drove to a nearby hill top that has the best view in town, with the San Gabriel mountains on one side and downtown on the other. I got there a little early and I was standing around waiting for the sun to set. There was a lot of trash on the ground. The hill top is a popular party spot with the kids. I can hear them sometimes at night yelling and laughing. The sight of the trash made me angry. How sad, that people don't know enough to clean up after themselves. I was stewing in it when I realized that if I showed up every day to see the sunset and picked up ten pieces of trash it would eventually be gone. And if I brought two or three friends and they picked up ten pieces it would be gone quicker. I felt better having figured out a solution to the problem.
            I grew impatient standing there. I didn't want to wait for the sunset anymore, so I got in my car and drove off. I knew it was going to be a sunset for the record books, but the ten or fifteen minute wait seemed daunting to me. I had driven a short distance away when I asked myself, what's more important, me getting ready to go out and play music, or the sunset? I turned my car around and drove back to watch the sunset. 
            After all, our lives depend on it. 

Sharing The Path

           
            I was at the top of the steps looking down at the dirt path to my cabin. I saw my neighbor walking up the path with her head down. She has a vegetable garden down below. I  felt a strange and sudden urge overcome me and when she looked up, without much of a thought, I made like a scary monster. I raised my arms over my head and said rawwwwrrrr, with a scrunched face. I happened to be carrying a pair of needle nose pliers in one hand, and a sheet of white typing paper in the other. I scared the living crap out of her. I must have looked like a Yeti.
            I didn't anticipate scaring her so badly. I felt bad about it. I apologized. She was somewhat understanding and was half heartily laughing. I quickly changed the subject to coyotes.
            "Did you hear the coyotes last night?"
            "Yes, I did."
            "They're so cool. I love them."
            "Me too," she said.
            "Some people don't like them."
            The conversation wasn't helping. The situation remained awkward. 
            If I could offer up a piece of advice: scaring your neighbor with a pair of needle nose pliers and a sheet of white typing paper is not recommended. 

Tree Ivy

            
            I got the skin itch on my shoulder. It looks like hives or poison ivy. I'm calling it "herpes on my shoulder." I'm trying to cure it naturally. Baking soda works pretty good. Lemon isn't bad either. I've noticed it's calmed down some, but it's persistent.
            A couple of tree trimmers were doing a job next door. I asked them if they'd do me a favor and cut a branch from a tree that I'd become accustomed to conking my head on. They obliged. I was breaking down the branches and leaves with my shirt off, and the leaves from the tree must have gotten tree revenge on me. Or who knows where it came from. I don't recommend it though.
            Let's see, what else is going on? I was waiting for a fish burrito when I noticed a car parked at the curb that looked like a running shoe. I was thinking that whoever designed that car was moonlighting as a shoe designer. The owner of the car was a blonde lady that was sitting next to me. I thought about initiating conversation with her. I was going to lean in and say, "Do you know your car looks just like a tennis shoe," but I caught myself.                             
            Because you know, sometimes I say things, like, "herpes on my shoulder."

Two Chickens Or An Egg?

            
            I checked the time. It was four-forty eight a.m. I lay in bed looking at the sky. The air was thick and heavy. I could see a small band of clouds floating in the distance. I thought about the chicken and the egg conundrum and I was feeling confident I could solve it. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? The chicken. Wait, there's another problem here, how did the male and female chicken come about. Time created two distinct chickens not just the chicken and the egg. There are other factors involved here. The question should be what came first, the male chicken, the female chicken, or the egg. The female chicken could have come with an egg within her, but you'd still need a male chicken to fertilize it. Unless, of course, the egg came pre-fertilized, which would solve the conundrum providing the hatchling was male. Hmmm. I was digging a hole for myself.
            I looked out the window and saw a silver flashing skyrocket exploding in the air. It looked like a long stream of glitter as it flew. Someone was awake just like me and lighting fireworks at five in the morning and I was fortunate enough to see it. I was overcome by joy. The person who had lit the skyrocket was living and that made me happy. 
            I went back to thinking. How did it happen that both male and female came into existence? How long did that take? Billions of years? I looked out the window. There was another silvery-glittering skyrocket flying through the air. It made a sizzling, crackling sound as it traveled. Whatever the answer, life was great.     

Guacamole

            
            I think we should rename guacamole. Nobody can say it. Even my Mexican-American friends have trouble with it. I know I hesitate before saying it. I'll ask myself, should I pronounce it correctly, or butcher it like most people? Gwakamolie. I'm looking for suggestions. Mexican dipping sauce? Nah.
            I get embarrassed when I hear it on television, or when I hear someone say it in public. They don't even try to say it right. It makes them sound unsophisticated when they butcher it. So, I'm proposing that we change the name, or at least the spelling. "Rock-a-molay," which is closer to how it's suppose to be said. Or, even better, "walk-a-molay," which is pretty close to saying it correctly. Here's one more, hold it ... "wok-a-molay." 

Masochistic

            
            I saw American Pharoah last Saturday at Santa Anita Race Track with my sister. He made an appearance between the seventh and eighth races. I don't usually fall in love with horses, but I'm a big fan of the Pharoah.
            The first thing we did was bet on a race. I used the same technique I used the last time I was there, which was to look at the horses in the paddock and go with my gut. I lost two straight races and I was kicking myself over it. My gut was right, but my mind was off. The horses that won were horses I considered, but I changed my mind at the last second and bet on two long shots instead. Fool.
            The seventh race came up. I looked at the racing form. The first horse that jumped out at me was Masochistic. I turned to my sister, "look, Masochistic."
            "Oh, I'm betting on that one," she said, "for sure betting on him."
            "Me too."
            If ever there was a horse I should bet on it was Masochistic. I thought about my blog and began to write the story in my head. This was going to be great!
            "Let's get another beer," my sister said.
             While at the bar we meet a drunk guy named Rick. Rick had just won a race and he was anxious to share his knowledge with us. His knowledge didn't include Masochistic. We weren't going to listen to Rick. He was drunk after all. 
             But by the time we got to the paddock to look the horses over we'd forgotten all about Masochistic. The six horse, Wild Dude caught my attention. I bet on him to place. My sister bet on another horse. She said the horse looked her in the eye, and she had a good feeling about him. The beers had gone to our heads some. They were craft beers and real strong.
            They ran the race and the five horse came in by three lengths. He looked good, a strong finisher. Wild Dude came in third. The bum.
            "Who won?" My sister asked
            I checked the tote board, "Masochistic."
            Fools!
         
         

Wood

            
          I'm always on the hunt for free wood. I found some, but technically it belonged to someone else. I discovered it months before so I knew it's owners weren't treating it well, and that it was being neglected. Honestly, the wood looked bored. It was only right to rescue it before someone did the unthinkable and chopped it up for firewood. 

          There were two pieces, they were both twelve footers. They were stiff and awkward to carry. I swung them around and lifted them over the passenger seat of my convertible and slid them lengthwise as far as they'd go. They stuck out from the back of my car pretty far, but no matter, I drove them home anyway.

          I cleaned them up before adding them to the unfinished deck that I'd been working on. They still look bored as they lay there, but I was happy, and the deck was happy. Everybody was happy. 

The Flick

            
            I spent the night in the mountains on Saturday. It was a night of camping. Frankly, it's more peaceful in my cabin. People talk really loud. Even when they're close to each other. I'm not sure why. I think it's cultural, or in this case, a lack of culture. It was both men and women alike. Other than that, it was nice. Stars, fire, food. I didn't take a single picture. Old school.
            I have mixed feelings about digital photography. It used to be when you bought film and photography cost money, you used a certain amount of discretion when it came to taking pictures. We didn't take pictures willy-nilly. Each shot was precious. We had rolls of twenty-four or thirty-six, and we had to think about whether the subject was photo-worthy. We never took pictures of feet, or food, or our workouts, because frankly, we knew those pictures were boring and not worth the investment. They're still boring. Sure, we goofed off at the end of a roll, and from time to time we dedicated a roll to "art," but we didn't take pictures of dinner. Besides, that's food bragging.
            I heard a rodent outside my tent in the middle of the night. He was real close. He may have been messing with the tent itself, I can't recall. I was half asleep. I remember feeling scared for a moment before I extended my arm and flicked the tent with my middle finger. I pinned my finger behind my thumb and flicked. It made a thud sound that put the fear of god into the mouse, kangaroo rat, or what ever it was. He ran away as fast as he could and never came back. I thought it was funny. I was satisfied in some way. The flick. It's my weapon of choice.
           

Planet America

            
            I got nuttin' this week; no funny stories, no interesting observations. Nothing. I found a pair of French doors on the street. That was about as exciting as it got. I haven't been out. My person to person contact has been minimal. My art however has been flourishing. I'm working on seven new songs. I can't keep up. It's putting the words to the music that is slowing me down. The words are the tricky part. All it takes is one bad turn and the house of cards collapses. And you can't force it, so it's a bit of a waiting game. At the same time I'm thinking about things, searching for ideas, writing things down, sorting through the chicken scratch, trying to make it work without settling for all the typical no-good ideas I come up with. Sometimes the song ends up sounding typical anyway. Some songs just want to be cliche. Don't ask me why. It must have something to do with conformity and obedience. 
            I have an app called Skyview on my ipad. When events turn interesting, which is more often than not, I'll check the app to see how the planets are aligned. I like to see where they sit relative to earth and my tiny life. The funny thing is, no matter how hard I try, how diligent I search, I can never find Uranus. 

Grandma

            
My grandma, upon meeting my grandfather said,
he was so tall and handsome.
I found out recently that my grandfather
was five-ten and a half.
How tall was grandmother?
Four-eleven.

Buried Treasure

            
            There are two things that Mexican families have in common:
            1) Their grandfather, or great grandfather, or great-great grandfather was an officer under Pancho Villa in the revolutionary war.
            2) Their family left behind a buried treasure in Mexico that nobody can find.
            My grandfather was a general under Pancho Villa. As stories go that's pretty good. I saw somebody post on Facebook the other day that his great grandfather was a colonel under Villa. Ha! A colonel. Somebody's not using their imagination. I tend to believe my grandfather story. There are black and white pictures of him in military uniform. He was working for Diaz then, but supposedly he switched sides.
            The buried treasure part is harder to believe. As usual, there was a death bed snafu. The words were uttered but not fully understood. Legend has it people were digging holes willy-nilly to find it, but it was never found.
            It's my belief that at a certain point in life a Mexican kid is going to turn to his parents and ask, "why are we so poor?" To which the story of the buried treasure will be told. "We weren't always poor, we were rich before the revolution. We had to bury our treasure ..."
         
            

Lady, Chick, Neighbor

            
            Things took a turn for the worse when I asked her if she needed help. I saw her carrying her baby in one arm and trying to move a trash can with the other. She was standing at a steep incline on her driveway. It looked awkward, as if she was going to topple over, so I offered to help. I think I offended her masculinity. How was I supposed to know? I was just thinking about the baby. I saw it's head tilt down toward the pavement as she reached for the can. The little bald head (actually it was a big head for a baby) looked vulnerable hanging down like that. And she seemed on the verge of losing her balance. Now when I see her she ignores me as though I committed an unforgivable offense. It's getting worse and worse. I'm starting to think of her as an asshole. Now we're both butt-hurt. So, so, butt-hurt. 

Drivers In The Video Game

            
            I've noticed that over the years driving in Los Angeles has become progressively worse. People are taking more chances and having difficulty exercising a healthy amount of patience while driving. This is especially noticeable with left and right turns into traffic. Drivers are making snap decisions and putting others at risk. I have a hypothesis as to why this is occurring. I have no proof to back it up, but it makes sense to me.
            Cell phones and technology have made us impatient. It's to the point where drivers can't wait a few extra seconds for a car to pass to make a safe turn. A few seconds is an eternity in the digital world. I think people are having difficulty transitioning from the binary and code, to reality. And when they get behind the wheel their impetuous digital behavior becomes an analogue hell. I wish it weren't true, but it is, and I don't think there's any stopping it.
           To add to the problem, nobody seems to be aware of it. I'm thinking it has societal effects beyond driving, but I can't think of anything specific right now. Maybe I'm entirely wrong and everybody is just hyped up on coffee and amphetamines. Or extremely conscientious when it comes to punctuality. Maybe it has nothing to do with technology. But something is going wrong out there. It could be that people are selfish assholes, and they're interbreeding with other selfish assholes, to make more selfish assholes. Who knows? All I know is drivers are making unsafe turns and it's getting worse and worse.

Poet Sized

            
            I get asked for money a lot. I'm sure everybody gets asked for money, but I seem to have a talent for attracting the every-day beggar. I'll kick a buck every now and then depending on the situation. If I see a creative sign that reads, "residentially challenged," or something to that effect, I'll donate out of respect for the creative process. If I see a kitten or a puppy I'm less inclined to give. I've been fooled by that before. I don't support the exploitation of kittens and puppies.             
           How I handle the straight up beggar depends on their approach. If they're overly aggressive I'll throw up my hands and say "I don't have any money. I'm a poet." Nine times out of ten they'll say, "oh okay," and walk away. It's like an universal understanding of poverty. Sometimes the beggar will size me up to see if I'm a good poet. They'll look at me with a discerning eye to decipher whether I can write or not. 
           The other night a beggar in front of a Seven Eleven store asked if I could buy him a cup of coffee. There was a slight drizzle in the air and it was three degrees colder than usual, so I bought the guy a cup. I was feeling pretty good about myself. I walked outside to give the man his coffee only to realize that somebody had beat me to it. When I approached the man he was holding a king size cup- way bigger than the cup I had bought. The cup he was holding was from someone with a full-time job and a career. I gave the man the coffee anyway, even though it was just poet size.

The Proprietor

            
            I ordered a burrito from the proprietor.
            I said in my best cowboy voice,
            "let me have one of them Mexican burritos."
            To which he said, "how do you want that designed?"
         
         
         
         
            

The Human Mapanoid, Elvis, and Waze

            
            I'm the son of a World War Two Air Force navigator. I seldom if ever get lost and take great pride in knowing how to get places. Maps are a form of entertainment to me. It's not uncommon to have perfect strangers ask me for directions. I guess I look like a man who knows how to get places without doubling back.
            Most times I'm accurate with my responses. I'll point the person in the right direction and they're forever grateful, and I'll feel good about it too. But there have been cases where I realized I sent the person in the wrong direction. Those were tense and introspective moments. I wonder what happened to those people. How long did it take before they figured it out. Did they curse me when they realized they were heading in the wrong direction? Did they slam their fist on the steering wheel in frustration? Did they have to stop and ask somebody else for directions, (did the somebody else give them the right directions)? If they saw me in public and remembered me, would they walk up to me and say, "hey man, you're the guy that gave me bonk directions!"
           I don't get asked for directions as much now-a-days with advent of GPS and all. Everybody knows where they're going. Unless you're using Waze and taking directions from Elvis. That can be a dicey proposition. Elvis likes to wait till the very last minute to give his commands. Ah' keep a right. Ah' take a left.  

Santa Anita

            I spent my Saturday at Santa Anita race track. I had an urge to look at pretty horses. There's something about a thoroughbred that I find majestic. I like the paddock area best. You can get a good look at the horses there. We were looking at the horses when the eight horse suddenly reared up out of anxiety or bravado, I'm not sure which, and nearly fell over backwards. He most have been ten feet tall as he stood on his hind legs. He was scratched from the race. He didn't look injured, but I'm guessing his owners didn't want to take a chance with him before having a veterinarian check him out.
            We got to the track kind of late and we didn't bother to buy a racing form. I wanted to place a bet just for fun so I looked over the horses in the paddock and based on bone structure, coat coloration, and general demeanor, I placed a bet on a long shot to win. He came in the money, but I was still out two bucks.
            I used the same technique for evaluating horses in the next race. I noticed a chestnut that just looked better than the rest. It was the five horse. I bet two bucks on him to win and he came in. He paid fourteen-seventy. 
            I was going to bet on a couple more horses for the next race, but we got to the ticket booth too late and weren't able to place our bets before the race started. The horses I picked for that race were losers and out of the money, so I felt like a winner even when I was losing.
            I bet the next race. This time the nine horse spoke to me. There was something about his haunches that said winner. I like a thoroughbred with a nice ass, and he had a nice ass. I bet him to place. He won. Winning is good. Who needs a racing form when you have nice asses to look at. 
              

Dead Parrot

            My friend Lester told me a story about how he killed his parrot, Pip. Pip had a thing for a towel and would hump it on occasion. I never knew this about parrots, but when I thought about it, it made perfect sense.
            One day Pip was on the couch under his towel, when Lester sat down to watch television. Lester got off the couch when he realized Pip had gone missing. He looked high and low for him and was in a panic. He finally thought to look underneath the towel and there was Pip, his neck was snapped. Lester took it hard. He loved Pip. He tried to put Pip's neck back on, but it didn't work out.
            Lester was living in an apartment building with a courtyard at the time. It was a typical LA arrangement. He asked the gardener if he could bury Pip under a tree. "Of course," the gardener said.
            Lester gave Pip a proper burial. He put him in a box and wrapped a necklace around him. Then he said a few words and apologized once more for killing him before placing him gently into the ground.
            The next day there was a knock on the door. It was the gardener. He told Lester that raccoons had dug up the grave site in the middle of the night.
            "Is there anything left?" Lester asked.
            The grave site was in disarray. The box Pip lay in was torn up and his necklace was flung in the dirt. Lester took it hard. 
            It had been years since Pip's death. And when Lester told me this story we both had a few drinks in us. Lester has a way of using his hands when talking, and making face gestures to enhance the effect of what he's saying, like a clown. So needless to say we both laughed our asses off as he told the story.  

Time, Earth, and Your Momma

            I'm going through some kind of transformation where time is accelerated. Thirty seconds on a microwave seems like fifteen seconds in life. I'm not sure why, but I'm paying more attention to time. I think it's because every where I turn there's a clock. My cell phone, my ipad, my computer, my car, I'm surrounded by clocks. And what I've noticed is that even the simplest task can be a bit of a time warp. For instance, the other night I sat down to read. I checked the clock, it was two a.m. I read a short blurb from a magazine, and checked the clock again, two minutes had passed. It was the shortest two minutes of my life. Mind you, I was slightly inebriated, but it didn't feel like two minutes at all. 
            It got me thinking about time, man, and earth. The earth is five billion years old, give or take. Relative to the earth, man is just a baby. Yet, we've figured out way to destroy the planet. But the reality is we're destroying ourselves and other living creatures. In the grand scheme of things, man is micro-important compared to the planet. The death of man would be liberating to earth. So perhaps in some twisted manner, the earth is trying to kill us off without us realizing it. If the planet should decide that's it, no more water, we humans are toast. And it seems things are moving in that direction. Soon, we'll all be huddled up in the state of Washington hoping for some rain. 
           And Mother Earth will say to us in a Spanish accent. "I tol' you!"
            

The New NFL

           I had a dream that the NFL no longer had male players, instead, they had hired women from Southeast Asia. The women were having trouble with the the late hit, tackling out-of-bounds rule. They were gang-tackling players fifteen yards too late, then wondering why the officials had thrown their flags.
           I went to the concession stand to buy a beer. There was a young boy waiting in line. He ordered a beer. The concession stand attendant hopped into a van and apologized to the kid, saying he had to make a delivery, and that he'd be right back. We watched as the man drove away. We saw him minutes later in the distance. He was driving on a windy road that abutted the ocean.
          "There he is!" the kid said excitedly as the van showed itself.
           Waves crashed beneath him as he drove northwest into the sunset. 

Peacemaker Almost

            I was at an open mic at a locale bar when a fight broke out. It happened right in front of me. I shot out of my seat to be a peacemaker. I got between the two guys and led one of them away from the skirmish. Things calmed down without anybody throwing a punch.
            The guy I led away was a hippie black guy named Donald. Donald grabbed his instruments and walked out of the bar. He looked defeated as he left. I felt sorry for him. I followed him outside to see if he was okay.
            "Hey Donald, are you alright?" He didn't bother to answer or look at me. "What the hell happened?" I asked again. I got nothin. I think I tried to talk to him once more before I gave up in frustration.
            "Fuck you Donald!" I said to him as I left. He heard me then. 
            "What?!"
            "You heard me, fuck you, you asshole!!!"
            Donald's hearing had improved and now he wanted to fight. And frankly, so did I, the son of a bitch.
            "I know karate," Donald said. He looked like the type to know karate and it got me thinking. What the hell am I doing? I calmed down and tried to broker a peace agreement. I apologized for saying fuck you, and Donald and I eventually shook hands. 
             I thought cooler heads had prevailed until Donald started doing karate chops against the bus-stop stanchions. He was hitting the metal post with his forearms and doing flying kicks. He was attacking the bus-stop pretty good. Then he moved away from the bus-stop and was punching the air around me. I could see his confidence growing with each punch. His punches were getting closer to me. I looked on without much of a flinch. From the way he was kicking and punching it was pretty apparent that Donald didn't know karate. He did a flying kick that nearly hit me. He was testing me. There was no doubt about it. His next punch came even closer. He followed that up with a punch that brushed my shoulder. He crossed the line with that punch. I snapped and went at him. Before he knew it I had him on the ground with my elbow at his throat and my other hand on his huevos. He was pinned. I thought about hurting him, to teach him a lesson, but something inside me wouldn't let me.
            "Let go of me," I said.
            Donald eased his grip. I let him up and walked away.

     

Medicine Man

           I stopped talking about turmeric. I told a few people of its powers, but their eyes glossed over half-way through my presentation. I got the feeling they didn't believe me, or even worse, that they thought I was loony. I wanted to share the information I had. It was my way of being helpful, but, people are stuck in their ways.
            My mom had been sick for a couple of weeks. She couldn't hold her food down and had fever and the chills. She went to the doctor. The doctor gave her some pills and set up time for a CAT scan. She's getting up there in years and there's always the risk of cancer I suppose. It seemed like a gyp to me, and it was. I gave her some ginger and turmeric and she was healed up two days later. I can't say for sure it was the roots, but they healed me without a doubt.
            So this is the last of it. The parting words for a two-dollar fix to simple ailments. You can buy the bull-crap magic they're selling at the drug store, or you can find yourself a root. Roots are strong. They hold up trees. When you eat a root you're practically eating the whole of the earth. Holler.

The Outsiders

            I'm a little on edge while in my neighborhood. With gentrification came conflict. The old doesn't like the new, and the new doesn't seem to care one way or another. I have mixed feelings about gentrification. On one hand the beer and the fences have improved tremendously, yet on the other hand, prices have ballooned to the point of people being evicted. I'm not in favor of eviction. I blame the false economy and make believe prices.
            This is the story of my life; I get confused for Caucasian, which I technically am, mixed in with Indian blood which defines me as a Mexican, which in a general sense makes me an outsider. But because I look like an insider (Caucasian) I get hard looks from the outsiders who are my own people. The outsiders are mad at the insiders in my neighborhood, because the insiders came late to the party and didn't bring any beer. But they did bring beer. Good beer, kind of hoppy, but good.
            Nowadays when I'm in public, I wonder if the outsiders think I'm insider and stealing their beer. I'm waiting for the day when someone says something to me, to question my station in life. I'd like to have a card or a badge to display for such an occasion, to present as evidence to the amount of time I've accumulated in the neighborhood. To prove my insider status. Or is it my outsider status? I may have crossed the line somewhere with regard to that. None of it makes much sense. The outsiders are the insiders and insiders are the outsiders. It's a game we play to keep things simple. 

Throat Update

            I fixed my throat. I can fix anything! Almost. I don't want to get too cocky, but the throat is nearly  healed. I used turmeric, ginger and habanero peppers as mentioned in a previous blog. I figure if I stick to my regimen I'll be completely healed by next week sometime. On day two of my treatment I blew my nose and a cylindrical mass of mucus was expelled. I was relieved by the sight of it. No cancer I surmised. Since then I've been diligently battling whatever virus I contracted. There's still a trace of discomfort in my throat, but it's relatively minor. The pain on the left side of my neck has eased and I'm feeling much stronger. It seems like the kind of virus that can come back at anytime, so I'll have to be persistent with my remedies. Thanks for listening. And hopefully this helps somebody out there with the same problem. 

Sore Throat

            I've had a sore throat for about a month and a half. I finally made up my mind to get rid of it. A sore throat is the first sign of throat cancer so I was a little, well, very concerned about it. What made it worse was researching it online. I thought for sure I had cancer until I found a thread of people complaining about the same symptoms I have. I saw a doctor, but all he did was give me a prescription for antibiotics. I took them but they didn't work. 
            I did some research on herbal cures. My herb friends online suggested a variety of remedies. I chose turmeric root, garlic, ginger, habanero chili, apple cider vinegar, honey, lemon, and and for good measure jaiogulan tea. I haven't tried the jiaogulan yet, but after just one day of treatment I feel  much better. I ate the turmeric and ginger root raw and made a tea with the habanero, lemon, honey and more turmeric. Oh yeah, I did a hot compress on my throat as well. I'm not healed completely yet, but I think I'm on the right track. 
            I went to the local Indian spice store for the fresh turmeric root. And to Chinatown for the jiaogulan tea. The herb store in Chinatown was amazing. They had giant jars of teas from all over the world. I was on a walk the other day when it occurred to me that every plant has a purpose, and that there is no such thing as a weed. The term weed is American for messing up the grass. If I don't get better in a week I'll go back to the doctor. 

The Animals

            I figured out how to attract animals to my BBQ. Just pour a little sardine juice onto some leaves. I ate a can of sardines and I wasn't sure what to do with the juice. I didn't want to trash it in my cabin. I figured the smell would be unpleasant.
            I'm not sure what kind of animal it was. A clumsy animal, I know that. I heard a ruckus on my deck. I looked outside but I didn't see anything. It was too dark. The leaves were rustling in the distance. I could tell the animal was looking at me, and that he was frightened. I think he felt bad for knocking things over. Wild animals are sensitive creatures. If it weren't for the kill, and the food chain thing, they'd be more lovable.     
            Some people become friends with wild animals. I've never had that talent. I leave them alone. I've thought about becoming friends with the raccoons and the skunks, but deep down, I don't trust them. There's nothing comforting about a squirrel. I'm trying to become friends with a woodpecker. He's in the tree now. I realized that woodpeckers don't like to work alone. They like a little company. But you can't look at them while they work. They'll fly away then. It's best if you work while they work. I think they're community oriented. 
            Later that night I dreamt of coyotes. The coyotes were friendly in my dream. They showed me their den, and they were running about excitedly. I was honored to be their guest. I felt a vortex of energy that I defined as coyote consciousness shooting through me. I could see it in the sky too. It was shaped like a tornado. The energy was swirling upwards until it reached the widest point. At the moment the energy peaked, I understood that I was one with the coyotes. As the realization came to me in my dream, in reality, the coyotes that live on the hill across the way started to howl. Yip, yip, yip. It was a frenzied sound that woke me from a dead sleep. A smile came to my face. "That was cool."

It's Not Easy

            I spent a day at the Desert Hot Springs Inn. It was seven dollars to get in. There's a bunch of pools with mineral water from an hot springs aquafier. The water comes up at a hundred and forty degrees, but they cool it down to a hundred and five. It's a good place for a soak. The clientele is usually older. I noticed a lot of skinny thighs. I'm not sure why there were so many skinny thighs, or how, but there were and I found that interesting.
            There's a diner and bar, should you have the urge to eat or drink. The waitresses at the diner were the salt of the earth. I'm amazed when people are so nice. It makes me feel good. But I do wonder how they manage to keep so even-keeled. It's something I aspire to, but have difficulty with. I'm quick to react to imbecilic behavior. It messes up my moods. Any mention of Congress and my blood starts to boil. If you really want to get to me say, "citizens united." Or stick me in a car and ask me to drive. I turn mean as a matter of survival then. So when I saw those sweet ladies working behind the counter, it was a stark reminder of how things are supposed to be. 

Victoria No Secret

            I was waiting for an order of fish tacos. There were a few of us waiting. I saw a heavy set woman pick up her phone. She talked into it. I'm pretty sure she was talking to Siri. I heard her say, "Victoria's Secret," in a loud voice as people tend to do when they talk to their phones.
            My first thought was, eew. But then I changed my mind. Oh that's cool, she wants to look sexy. Nothing wrong with that. Her man was sitting across from her. He looked disinterested. I took another look at her and imagined her in panties. I was making it hard on myself.
            I picked up a bottle of salsa that was sitting on the table and read the ingredients. It was a simple recipe. I'm not sure they're going to have her size, it occurred to me. I thought about how big the panties would be. Think of something else Anthony. You're being mean and judgmental. I couldn't do it. I kept looking at the woman. She looked nice enough. Maybe a tinge depressed. She had droopy cheeks. She was getting old. Why? Why am I thinking about this? Why did she have to talk to her phone? Now her business is my business, and don't want her business to be my business. Go away lady, leave me alone! 

The Gift

            I saw a neighbor I've never seen before. He was a husky man in his forties, with long salt and pepper hair. Is that the wizard, I wondered? I wanted to walk up to him and ask, but I couldn't rightfully do that. "Are you the wizard?" Awkward silence.
            I'm convinced the wizard is a mature man on account of his repertoire. Although, the thought of the wizard being a young kid has crossed my mind. I'm looking for somebody slightly overweight, with chubby fingers. It's been my experience that those are the best guitar players in the world. They seldom become famous outside of their hometown. But it's usually the oddly shaped fellows that have the gift. They're the kids you ignored in school. The nondescript. The invisible. It's part of being a wizard I think. You can't be a wizard if people are hounding you. Wizards are sensitive and need a lot of space. This man fit the bill. He looked like a wizard, but for his worn t-shirt and oversized Bermuda shorts. 

A Good Year

            I didn't do much on New Year's Eve. I laid low. Thank god for my Mexican neighbors or it wouldn't have felt like New Years at all. They held it down with firecrackers and cheers. I even heard an old school toy horn blowing. That brought back memories. I'm happy to have lived another year. Frankly, I never got use to writing 2014. I seemed to mess up the four, or have to think about the year before I wrote it down. I think 2015 will be different.
            My New Years resolution is to stop saying the word stupid. That's going to be a tough one, considering we have whole industries dedicated to stupid. We have politicians that vote stupidly, we have sports commentators that say stupid things, we have day time TV that is stupid, we have school curriculums that encourage stupid. There are investors that invest in stupid. I am a product of stupid. The schools I went to taught stupid. The word is easy to use, and frankly, I've been blurting it out far too often. So good-bye old year and stupid, and hello new year and imbecilic. With time comes change.