Sex War

         
            The couple who lived across the street from me moved out. I found out later that the husband was cheating on his wife and they broke up. That would explain why it felt like she hated men whenever I saw her.
            I'd wave hello to her and she'd either pretend not to see me, or give me a cold, insincere wave back. I was thinking that she was just a bitch. I really started to hate her after a while, but it all makes sense now.
            Had I known what she was going through I would have handled things differently. I would've said, hey wait a minute, I'm just the neighbor! I'm not him! 
            Supposedly, it's a common occurrence for women, and I guess men, to hate the opposite sex after a bad breakup. I certainly can understand it, but I'm not sure I ever felt that way.
            Wait, on second thought, hell yeah I've felt that way. 

Sunny

            
            I was at my Tuesday gig. It was a slow night. The drunkards had chased all the women from the room. I broke into Sunny. 
            I played the first verse flawlessly. My voice was coming across strong and I was feeling pretty good about myself. In the past when I played Sunny I wasn't sure what I was going to get. My fingers found ways to hit the chords wrong and I worried that I was going to forget the words. 
            The second verse was just as good. I looked about the room to see if anybody was listening. Maybe one depressed looking guy sitting at the bar. No bother, I was falling in love with myself. I could do no wrong. Look at me go. I was so happy with my playing I started to think of how far I'd come as a guitar player, and how the chords were falling into place like butter.
             The third verse came along and I wasn't prepared for it with all my thinking. I stumbled into the first line, but tried to recover. I botched a chord and tried to recover. I forgot the words and tried to recover, at a certain point I realized there was no recovering. I finally said into the microphone, "fuck it! Who gives a hell?" and ended it. The drunkards didn't even flinch.

The Racist Cure

         
            I think I figured out a cure for racism. Well, maybe a partial cure. It won't work in all circumstances. 
            I'm of the opinion that if we held racists to their own convictions and demanded they stay true to their beliefs of superiority and ate only foods from their own culture, they'd quickly abandon racism as a practice. It's hypocritical to be a racist and sneak in a taco or order Chinese food to be delivered. Or to eat spaghetti. Or enjoy any food from a culture other than your own. If it's your contention that your culture is superior, then in theory, you wouldn't need the culinary achievements of others.
            And to be true to the historical record, I'm going to have to take away the potato. It was developed and grown by the Inca's. They had two-thousand different varieties. Bye-bye French fry. 
            

Angel Dust

            
            I heard that kids today are drinking whiskey made with propylene glycol, or anti-freeze. Anti-freeze?
            One of the dumbest things I ever did when I was young was to smoke angel dust. I didn't know it was angel dust. I was at a party in the hood, and someone passed me what looked like a joint. I took a hit, and luckily for me it wasn't a good hit.
            Back then, people used to smoke dust and turn catatonic, or just plum freak out and take off all their clothes and run naked in the streets. When the cops tried to arrest them, inevitably, the "duster," would become agitated and turn violent, with super angel dust strength. It took five or six cops to restrain them. The police had to hog tie them by their wrist and ankles, then toss them head first, stomach down, into into the backseat of their squad car.
           I was at a park once when I was a kid, and there was a man sitting in the bleachers. His face was ghost-white, and he was staring into space. I knew enough to stay away from him. Somebody called the police on him. When the cops arrived they tried to ask the man questions, but he didn't respond. He just stared into space. When they moved in to arrest the man he went ballistic. His super angel dust strength kicked in. He fought the cops off pretty good, but eventually they surrounded him and took him to the ground. The man was wiggling and yelling like a maniac. The police hog tied him like an animal and threw him head first into the squad car and whisked him away.
            That was my lesson about angel dust. That's why a few years later I freaked out when I found out I had just smoked it.
         
           

Cooperation

         
           I've been meaning to write a blog on the beauty of cooperation. Although in the aftermath of our recent presidential election, where we elected an admitted racist, it seems silly to talk about cooperation. I'm not sure how much cooperation there will be. So, I'll discuss the topic on the micro level, and not the macro, for people are far too agitated right now. 
           What I mean by cooperation is the giving of yourself, doing what you need to do to make life easier for somebody else. The opposite of cooperation is resistance. It takes more energy to resist. Of course resistance is necessary, especially now, but a cooperative resistance is stronger and more fulfilling than going at it alone. You can cooperate with yourself, but it's not as fun as cooperating with others.                    
            We need to get in the groove of cooperation. In other words, don't be a dick, or try not to be. It's hard I know, I have trouble with it myself. I want to resist at every twist and turn. When people talk about love, they're really talking about a form of cooperation. 
             So don't be a dick, be nice, give of yourself, cooperate. The rewards are greater than the demands.
         

         

           

           

Bill The Piano Man

         
            I used to sing jazz at bars, Tin Pan Alley, the American song book. I didn't know much about singing then. I didn't even know what keys to sing my songs in.
            A friend of mine recommended a piano man named Bill to help me find my keys. Bill was a crotchety old man, but he could play any song in any key, and that's what I needed.
            I met Bill at his house on a Saturday morning. He sat at the piano and we started to work. I hadn't even sung three notes when he abruptly stopped playing and said, "I know a good singing teacher."
            I was offended by his comment. We hadn't even found the right key yet.
            I'd pay Bill twenty bucks and leave his house with the information I needed and a cassette tape to practice to. Sometimes Bill and I would butt heads while working. We'd argue about the key to sing in.
            "You can't sing it in that key! It's too low for you!"
            Or too high. I'd always defer to Bill in the end. He was a better musician than I was, and I trusted his old-man judgment.            
            I'd pop the tape in to practice when I got home, but it was always the same. It was a strain to hit the notes. No matter how hard I tried, I never got any better. I finally got discouraged and gave up singing standards and began writing my own songs again.
            Recently, I learned some of the songs that I'd sung in bars on my guitar. I played them in the same key that Bill taught me, but I still couldn't sing them. They were either too high or too low for my voice. I tried playing them in different keys to see if that helped. Bingo. I'd been singing the songs in the wrong key all along. Thanks Bill. I thought about the nights I sang in bars and how horrible it sounded. No wonder.
            How many other singers did Bill mess up? Probably a lot. He was pretty busy.

The Algorithm

         
            In the future, when I'm dead and gone, governments will be run by algorithms. Politicians will cease to exist. Hackers will try to infiltrate the algorithm to divert money, to slow the system for their own causes, or just for the fun of it. So, not unlike governments run by people, the algorithm will be immersed in gridlock from time to time.
            Power will be in the hands of those who create the algorithm and who have the ability to change it. Every four years the public will vote on whether the algorithm should be changed or not. But it will be just a formality, because nobody will really know if it was changed or not. 
            Essentially, the algorithm will be a giant treasury that collects and distributes funds much like what current governments do, but instead of people deciding who gets what, the algorithm decides.
             There will be an algorithm to check "the algorithm," and an algorithm to check the algorithm that's checking the algorithm, and so on. Instead of complaining about politicians the citizenry will complain about the algorithm. People will say, the algorithm is getting me down! And, fuck the algorithm!  

Clowns vs. Streakers

         
           I'm not sure where the clown fad came from, or why. It took me by surprise. One day I woke up and everything had turned to clowns. There were clowns on social media, pictures of people dressed like clowns, videos of clowns, lots of clowns.
           When I was a kid the fad was streaking. There were naked people running in their white tube socks and tennis shoes through the streets. No gas station, grocery store, college campus, sporting event, was safe from the sight of balls flopping, and titties jiggling. It was great.
            Once when I was a kid, I was watching the Academy Awards on television, when from out of nowhere, a man who looked like Burt Reynolds streaked across the stage at the Dorthey Chandler Pavillion. I couldn't believe my eyes. It happened so quick the censors had no defense for it.
            I'd like to get into the mindset of a streaker. One minute you're enjoying the ball game, and the next minute you're running stark naked onto a field, trying to avoid being tackled by security.
            Times have changed some. Not many people running naked as a jaybird in public these days. No balls, no flopping. 

Pussy Grabber

         
            In other news, the national dialogue has turned to pussy. Or more specifically, grabbing pussy. There's forty-six thousand, eight hundred and seventy-four homeless people in Los Angeles and we're talking about pussy. 
            I'm wondering what the bible thumpers in the South think about all this pussy talk. It's got to be tough to justify voting for the pussy grabber now. But I'm sure they're trying to convince themselves that grabbing a little pussy is not that bad. And it isn't bad if you have all your paperwork in order, and you have permission, and you wink, and they wink back. But El Trumpe didn't have his paperwork in order, he was doing it illegally. 
            I get it. I understand why the country is talking about pussy. I can't stop thinking about pussy either. So in my mind, the country is finally being honest. But it's still amusing to me. It's like sexual harrassment is finally fun again. 

Sick Of The Right

       
           I was sick for the last week or so. I had a headache and was feeling weak and tired. My body broke out with little red spots. It was a rash of some kind, but it didn't itch. I'm not sure what I caught. I was taking ibuprofen, but it made my mouth taste funny so I stopped taking them. My illness eventually, magically, disappeared. Just like that. And now I'm back to normal.
           Speaking of being sick. I'm sick of the election cycle we've been embarked upon. It's annoying. It would be more interesting if people were capable of engaging in intelligent debate, but as far as I can tell most people simply believe what their parents taught them to believe about politics. My mother is a lefty. And now I'm a lefty. But I remember sitting in class in college and asking myself if what I believed politically was because of my mother. The answer to my question was yes, definitely. I am the product of my parents' teaching. Then I thought, what if my belief system was wrong and what my mother taught me was wrong? Maybe conservatives are the true and righteous. It's not like my mother was educated. Let me think this through. So I did just that. I thought about my place in life, how and where I was raised, and I thought about my economic situation. I am part of the proletariat. I thought about conservatives and how they relate to the proletariat and I came to the conclusion that my political beliefs were in accordance with the struggles of my everyday living. It's obviously more complex than that, but this is a blog, not a book.
            I worry about the people who don't take the time to think things through. Who don't ask the question of why do I believe what I believe? The people who blindly follow, not fully aware that their beliefs may not even be their own.
            

High Five!

         
          It occurred to me that there's a generation of kids and young adults who for the rest of their lives are going to be teased for playing video games. 
           What's wrong with Charlie?
           Too many video games. 
           Is that why he can't talk?
           I think so.
           Does he know how to high-five?
           Of course.
           It also occurred to me that there's a generation of kids and young adults who were conditioned by their parents to high five for celebratory occasions. It's interesting to see adults in bars giving each other high fives. Although I like the high five, it's probably one of the dorkiest things you can do in life. And I'm guessing these same adults will teach their kids how to high five and on it will go.
           Growing up we used to say, "give me five," and then slap somebody some skin. I'm not saying it's better than the high five, but maybe just a tinge cooler.

Errands

           
            Yesterday was errand day. I went to the bank, bought a dozen tamales, got a haircut. The tamale is quite possibly the perfect food ever invented, in my estimation. You can eat them for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, and if you're hungry later in the evening you can have them for a snack. 
             My barber Tony Scissorhands went at my hair pretty good. He didn't talk much, nor did I. It was all business. I sat there with my eyes closed. The sound of the scissors opening and closing in his hands made me drowsy. 
             I'm not sure why, but Tony likes to blow dry my hair. I don't blow dry. The blow dry is a step back in time as far as I'm concerned. It makes my hair puffy and I feel like I need to buy a gold chain afterward. 
             I drove past a McDonald's on my way home. I've noticed that people drive erratically around McDonald's. People drive erratically in general, but there's a certain desperation around a McDonald's. Sudden stops, unexpected lane changes, making turns where they're not supposed to make turns. It's not like at In and Out where  there's a well organized line of cars waiting patiently. No, there's something about a Big Mac that makes people crazy. Be careful when you approach a McDonald's. People who eat there are reckless.
             

Yucca Tree

            
            I got poked in the leg by a yucca tree. It wasn't a big deal until it got infected. I was trimming a branch, when something told me to be careful. It's my belief that trees have a way of exacting revenge, because it never fails when I'm trimming a tree or cutting a branch the tree finds a way to bring me pain. I'll bump my head on a limb or hurt myself in some other way. I always tell myself to be careful, but the tree finds a roundabout to defend itself.
            The infection turned into a ball of red. My skin was angry. At first I treated it with herbs and hot compresses, but when pus started to form I had to ask for a second opinion. I showed my leg to my mother to see what she thought. She's not one to panic, and doctors are for the rare occasions when death is imminent. 
             "Hey mom, take a look at this and tell me what you think?"
             She glanced at my leg out of the corner of her eye and said, "aye mijo, go to the doctor!"

Dave the Hermit

            
            I was in the front yard when I heard someone say "wait, come back, I'm sorry." When I looked to see what was happening, I saw Dave the hermit chasing after a minivan in his wheelchair. The driver of the minivan had pulled to the curb and parked. I walked down the hill to find Dave with his breaks locked in front of the van to block it from moving.
            "What's going here?" I asked.
            Dave craned his neck toward me and said, "I grumbled at him and now he won't give me a ride."
           "What's his problem?" I asked
           "I don't know," Dave said.
           "Don't worry. I'll fix it," I said. 
           The driver had his window rolled up and was talking on the phone. When I tapped on the window to talk to him he raised his hand as to say hold on without looking at me. I waited.
           The driver finally rolled down his window. 
           "This guy needs a ride," I said.
           "I'm not taking him anywhere." 
           "Why not? He's in a wheelchair. He needs your help." 
           "Because he cussed me out when I got to his door, that's why, I'm not taking that from nobody." 
           I turned and looked at Dave.
           "He was late!"
           I turned to the driver. "He needs to buy food." 
           "He's going have to call somebody else. I'm not taking him." 
           I turned to Dave the hermit who was still locked in place in front of the van. 
           It was a stand-off. I knew I was licked. I threw up my arms. "I tried. This is between you two." I said, before walking away. 
           I heard the van backing up the hill to get away from Dave. I saw Dave struggling in his wheelchair to get up the hill. I walked down to help him. I was wheeling him to his house, trying to get him up the driveway when he angrily shouted "Hey, don't push me man!"
           

Ideas Man

         
            I think there should be a Phil Spector cam. It'd be a paid subscription. Not too expensive, just a few bucks a month. And once a month or so Phil would give a lecture on a topic of his choosing. I'd pay money for that. I'm sure the lecture would be interesting.
            I also think we should have The Religous Olympics. It would be a faith-based event that tested the participants' religious convictions.
            There'd be cliff diving for the novice and assorted knife games, the old hand on table game where you spread you fingers out on a table and somebody with a knife goes back and forth between the fingers as fast as they can. And knife throwing where the participant of one religion stands back to board while a knife thrower from another religion test his accuracy.
            Another event would be the obstacle course where participants would have to navigate the intersection of say, Hollywood and Highland on a Friday night. They'd be given deductions for failed good deeds, or furrowed eyebrows, or general bad attitudes due to a lack of patience.
            It would be a timed event, the better the time, the better the score. There would be an old lady crossing the street with a bag of groceries and cane that would need help. A tourist asking for directions to Santa Monica and not fully understanding the directions the first time you give them. Countless panhandlers asking for spare change, and of course, beautiful women in mini skirts at every turn. There'd be a two-point deduction for ogling the women in mini skirts. Only one point for a quick glance.

Poetry

A good poet pays attention while he drives, 
a great poet pays attention while he walks.

Bernal 

Dora Does Jet Ski

         
            I didn't know this about Dora, but she likes to ride Jet Skis in Marina Del Rey on her days off. She rides fast and hard as she put it. So hard that she bruises her knees from banging them on the plastic body of the ski.
            Her solution to the problem was to buy a couple of compression knee braces at the ninety-nine cent store and some kitchen sponges. She's going to stuff the braces with the sponges to soften the blow as she rides. Then all she'll need is a pair of good sunglasses to keep the salt water from her eyes.
             I stood dumbfounded as Dora told me the details of her plan. I offered suggestions to replace the kitchen sponges, but none of my ideas were any better. I'll be interested to know how it turns out. It will either work like a charm, or cut off her circulation completely.

Hallelujah

            
            I once sat down to play an acoustic guitar at a music store. There was a sign posted: please don't play Hallelujah. I laughed. I like the song myself, and frankly, I think it's cool that people know of Leonard Cohen because of it. That is if they don't think Jeff Buckley wrote it.
            The other night while at my once a week gig, a man came up to me and said he wanted to hear some Motown. He put a bill down on the pool table as a tip. I forgot about the man, but on the way to the bathroom I heard him say "hey, what happened to the Motown?" Oh yeah, next song I told him. 
            When I came out of the bathroom I heard him complaining to the bartender about the music. My friend was playing Hallelujah at the time. He was doing a great job of it as far as I was concerned. It wasn't a sappy version like some others. My friend has a deep voice, and it sounded good. But the man, maybe he had too much to drink or something, he just couldn't take it anymore and exploded in his seat. He was yelling at the top of his lungs. I'm not sure what he was saying. The bartender had to ask him to leave. Some people just can't stand that song. It turns them into salami heads.
             I picked up the tip the man had left. It was a buck. All that for a buck. I tried giving it to the bartender, but she didn't want it. She tried giving back to me, but I didn't want it. She put it into my musician friend's pocket. A smile came to his face. "I didn't even have to dance for it!"

Yellow Jacket

         
           I stepped on a yellow jacket in my bare feet. I felt a zing shoot through my foot and when I looked down I saw the little guy struggling for life. I disembowled him. I had to pull his stinger from my foot. They pack a punch for their size. It's amazing when you think about it. The amount of energy they have stored up in them. 
            Four or five of his yellow jacket buddies were circling around him as he died. It was almost as if they were checking to see if he was alright, or if they could help in anyway. They were still circling when he finally died. It was a funeral of sorts for making the ultimate sacrifice. I left them alone just in case they had intentions of revenge. 
            My foot still hurts, but thankfully I didn't swell up and break into hives. The sting is interesting to me. The immediacy of the pain. My reaction to it. I poured rice vinegar on it. I figured that it would keep it clean, but I was hoping it would take the pain away. I was in a bit of a panic and grabbed the first thing that came to mind as a remedy. It didn't take the pain away. I guess the only remedy for a sting is time. Time heals all stings, personal, or otherwise. 
            

Pigeons of The Government

         
            I was with the masses at Venice Beach when a pigeon walked up and looked me in the eye. I was a big fan of the television show Get Smart when I was a kid, and I imagined the pigeon as an agent for the government. And the not-so-attractive woman sunbathing next to me as Agent 13.
            I don't usually go to Venice Beach, so it was a very different experience for me. I liked it. It reminded me of the old days when being around people was fun for me.
            I made my way to the water. The waves were not the best, but everybody was having a good time. I had a notion that people were not much different from chimps as they played. I'm a chimp, you're a chimp, everybody's a chimp. The waves were rolling in and we chimps were diving under them to survive. There was a joyful laughter to survival. The living was good.
            I got out of the water and was sitting on my towel daydreaming, when a sexy lady in a bikini spotted a dolphin just beyond the surf. "There's a dolphin!" 
            As it turned out there was a pod of them playing and blowing water from their blowholes. I'd never seen so many in one place. I thought to myself, the little rapists are having a good time. Dolphins are rapists, but nobody seems to mind. We chimps, pigeon agents of the government, the rapists, Agent 13. We were all at the same place, at the same time, and that place was Venice Beach California on a hot summer day in Los Angeles.
         
            

Dora #5

         
            I was talking to Dora. She asked me if I ever watched the sitcom Head Of The Class? 
            No, not that I can remember. Why? 
            Because I have a date with Arvid tomorrow night. 
            Arvid? Who's that? She pulled up a clip of the TV show on her phone and showed it to me. There was a scene with a nerdy guy with glasses. I shook my head and laughed. We're meeting for coffee. We both laughed. Hahaha!!!

Bar Stories

             
            Last night I was talking to Angel the bartender. I asked if he'd heard from Kiki, a bartender who worked with him years ago. He said he hadn't heard from him, that they weren't friends. Then he told me a story about how Kiki accused him of putting a jalapeño in his eye drops. Angel denied doing it, but Kiki didn't believe him and held a grudge for years. They didn't talk when they worked together, that's how bad it was.
             Kiki turned on me too. We had a good relationship until one night I brought in a woman I was dating for a few drinks. Kiki fell in love with her. And when the woman and I stopped dating Kiki took her side and was friends with her, but not me. He stopped talking to me, and treated me as if I'd beaten the girl or something. Years later he started talking to me again, but it was too late then.  
            Last night after a few bourbons and a beer I told Angel that I was impotent, which isn't true.
            Really? Yeah really. I don't believe you. You're joking right? No, it's true. I made a wilting flower gesture with my finger. You're kidding? No, I'm not.
            I'm not sure why I told Angel that. I just wanted to mess with him, kind of like the person who messed with Kiki, by a putting jalapeño in his eye drops. 

The Flip Phone

           
            I had a dream that a hippie man was giving me grief about my flip phone. He'd fought in Vietnam and he was looking at me as if I was un-American. He layed it on pretty thick without having to say much.
            I really do have a flip phone. I keep it for emergencies, in case my car breaks down, or for the rare occasion when I need to make a phone call. I don't like talking on the phone, and texting riles me up after a while, especially if the texts are coming in rapid fire. 
            I rarely if ever bring my phone out in public. I keep it in my pocket. From time to time I'll feel for it, and grab hold of it as a sort of security blanket. Or check the time. But that's it. I don't bring it out partly out of embarrassment and partly because when I do bring it out, people make a fuss over it. Is that a flip phone? Yep. It's like owning a Blackberry or something. It's nostalgic. 
            If you find that you're using your phone too much, and you're that person in the cafe that is talking loudly and obnoxiously to seemingly no one, and you want to change your ways, buy a flip phone. You'll never talk on the phone in public again. And all the people looking at you with disgust will be nice to you. And your life will be happy again for ever and ever. I swear to god.
            

Home Depot

            
            I was talking to Dora. She said whatever you do, don't wear an orange shirt to Home Depot. 
            Why?
            I wore an orange blouse there once and I had three people ask me for stuff one right after the other. Where's the drywall screws? Where are the light bulbs? I don't know, I don't work here. 
            I was standing in line and someone asked me if I knew where the corrugated metal was. How'm I supposed to know? People are like zombies. They just look for orange. Nothing else matters.

The Poor Man's Swimming Pool

         
           It's been warm here in Los Angeles, with temperatures in the hundreds. I soaked a t-shirt in water and put it on to beat the heat. It worked like a charm. Photos of the event are pending. 

Gun Talk

         

            I don't own a gun for obvious reasons, they're dangerous, and with my luck I'm liable to shoot myself in the foot, so I stay away. I'd prefer to own a machete anyways. I can use a machete in the garden, or to crack open a coconut or something. 

            If I owned a gun it would always be in the back of my mind. And I don't want a gun in the back of my mind. I'd rather think about other things more peaceful. The ocean breeze, a tree lined forest, a field of flowers, or a beautiful lady. 

           And I don't hunt. I've never enjoyed it. I tried shooting at a jackrabbit once. I missed. I understand some people like it, but even hunters have a season and quotas on how much they can kill. 

            Truth be told, I think people are being hoodwinked by the gun industry to believe they need guns for protection. On one hand, they're telling folks to be safe, and on the other hand they're selling guns to just about anybody who wants one. They're selling to thieves, gang-bangers, stockbrokers, extremists, drug dealers, drunkards, the deeply religious, cops, grandmothers, the mentally unfit, athletes, anybody.
            I think it's true that we're not safe, but for the opposite reason the gun industry has told us. We're unsafe because there are far too many fools with guns. We're being had. They got us coming and going. If it's protection you need, buy a machete. Or better yet, a Delta Force Combat Spike.

The Toy

           
            I don't have a smart phone. I have an iPad. And every once in a while I have to tell myself to put the toy down. I can go back and forth from one website to the next with the best of them, but at a certain point I feel myself spinning my wheels. So I put it down.
            I think it's curiosity that gets me. I turn to the box constantly for information, to learn things, to satisfy my need to know. Almost anything I need to know is in the magic box. Its become part of my life. But damn it's addicting. Thankfully, I'm not one of those people looking down with a phone in my hand while I'm walking. Those folks need help. And soon, I suppose someday there will be services to aid them, so they can manage their internet dependency.
           It's bad enough people text and drive. Which is worse than driving drunk, in my estimation. At least a drunk driver is looking where he's going. I'm not saying it's the smartest thing to do, to drive drunk, but I'd rather drive near a drunkard who's trying, than a texter who's driving with their forehead. But that's just me, and what do I know. I voted for Bernie. 

Bukowski Dream

         
            I had a dream that Charles Bukowski wrote a book in the key of B. He began the book by writing a sentence that used words in alphabetical order from A to Z. The first word started with an A, the second word started with a B, and so on. 
            Later in the dream I was in Virginia, or some place like that, eating outside at a wooden picnic table, under tall trees. There was a silver platter with wood charcoal and good size pieces of BBQ meat before me. Hobos who walked up from the highway were trying to steal my food when I wasn't looking. They were shifty people, mean spirited and hungry. I said in my dream, these people are worse than Mexicans.
             Next, I was playing music in a hillbilly punk-rock band. The bass player was standing far off on the other side of the room. There was a giant television screen behind him. When we finished playing he turned on the television and loaded up a video game to check his bass score. Eighty-six percent. I thought that was pretty good.

Moths, Lights, And Tailgating Truckers

         
           I saw a kid on a leash the other day. He was trying to spin out of it. His mother was tugging at him, trying to reign him in, but the kid wasn't having it. Keep it up kid, you're going to make it someday.
            It's come to my attention that certain porch light fixtures are killing machines. Moths are being massacred at an astounding rate. It's an atrocity that nobody speaks of, but I have a feeling the insect community is aware of it. They have lots of issues to contend with. Pesticides for one, the use of the word pest as it pertains to them is another. But they're a well organized bunch and thankfully their representatives in Congress work on the cheap.
           In other news, people who drive trucks like to tailgate. I'm not talking about tractor trailer-trucks, but three quarter ton trucks. Chevy's, Fords etc. It seems people who drive these vehicles have a sense of entitlement and are often in a hurry. I think there's a psychology associated with height and horsepower that makes them irrational. When you drive a truck other cars look small and insignificant, and somehow that translates into get out of my way, stupid.
            I tend to slow down when I see them riding me. They go nuts then. It's like I'm controlling their mind with my lack of speed. Sometimes I'll turn on my turn signal and then not turn at all. For blocks. It's almost like having a dial to their sanity. What's the rush? You got a date? I'll see them in my rear view come up on me real fast and sit on my bumper. I can feel their desperation. It's kind of sad. It's as though the system has twisted their hearts into a pretzel of stress.
            Maybe that's why old folks drive slow. There's a wisdom to it. Aaah, I'll see you at the next signal Mr. Silverado.

Fabio

         
            Dora was at the check-out counter when she noticed that Fabio was standing behind her. Oh my god it's Fabio!
            Her excitement quickly turned into embarrassment when she remembered that she was buying two boxes of Tampons, a four pack of douches, and an enema kit. 
            She tried to hide the items from Fabio's view by turning her body.
            Fabio must have thought Dora was cute. He was trying to chat her up. But Dora was self-conscious and gave curt, nervous answers to get rid of him. She wanted to talk to him, but not with a four pack of douches on the counter. To make matters worse, Dora's phone kept ringing. It was her business partner; she could tell by the fart sounds the phone was making as it rang. Her relationship with her partner had soured, so she'd programmed the phone to make fart sounds whenever she called. 
            None of it seemed to bother Fabio. He didn't notice, or he ignored it completely. He kept at it, trying to talk to Dora, but Dora wasn't having it. She couldn't get over the embarrassment of her hygiene needs. 

Get Down Mr. President

         
           There's a game called Get Down Mr. President. Here are the rules:
           It's played in a group. You have to pay attention. And if someone cups their ear and pretends to be listening to an ear piece, like a secret service agent, you need to cup your ear and do the same. The last person to figure it out and cup their ear gets tackled to the ground while the others yell, "get down Mr. President!"

Camarillo

         
           My friend Dora was a volunteer at Camarillo State Mental Hospital when she was a teenager. It was a summer job she and a friend signed up for. 
           Dora is the youngest of six children. She has five sisters and one brother. Her sisters never invited her to any of the parties they went to, and were seldom nice to her. Until one day they invited her to see a band play at the local bowling alley. Dora was excited to finally be included.
            Things were going well. Dora dressed up for the occasion and for the first time in her life she felt like a grown up. She was talking to boys and making friends when a bus pulled into the parking lot. A group of kids got out and marched into the bowling alley. The kids were making a racket. It was a grand entrance that you couldn't help but notice.
           Hiiiii Dorrra! one of the kids said.
           Hiiiii Dorrra! said another.
           They were the special needs kids from Camarillo that Dora had been working with. At first Dora pretended not to know them. She was trying to be cool around her new friends. But one after another they came up to her and said hello. Hiiiii Dorrra!
         
           

Cats And The Good Life

           
            I wonder how you get reincarnated into a house cat with a good owner? Do you have to volunteer at the Salvation Army, or work for Greenpeace? Feral cats, in my opinion, are more than likely ex-CEOs of Fortune Five-Hundred companies. As cats go, they drew a bad straw. They have to hunt for their food, duke it out with other cats, watch out for coyotes. It's a lot like being a CEO, but without the food service.
            House cats on the other hand get food service, maid service, daily massages, playtime when they want it, and plenty of naps with comfortable bedding. They can also walk into their masters' bedroom while they're having sex and pretend not to know what's going on. Dogs can do that too, but dogs are more obvious, you know they're up to something when they do it. Cats look like they made a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in the bedroom by mistake.
            Well hopefully there's no such thing as reincarnation and I go straight to heaven when I die, but man ...
           
           
            

How Are You Doing?

           
            It never fails. Whenever I'm asked "how are you doing, or, how've you been?" My brain finds a way to seize up on me. I don't think I've ever answered that question to my satisfaction. I rarely think about how I've been, so when I'm asked, I'm caught off guard. And how you answer a question like that can have an effect on a relationship.
            If I played golf it would be easy. "I've been playing a lot of golf." But I don't play golf, and to condense my life into a few words is not realistic. But I try. "Ah, I've been pretty good, I'm writing songs and working on my book."
            But this answer leaves me feeling empty inside. I leave out the juicy parts, the details of my life. I don't tell anybody that I've rewritten my book hundreds of times, or that sometimes writing a song can take months. They don't always take months, but sometimes they do. And when I'm finished writing a song, I may or may not even use it.
            A part of me wants to carry a scroll with the particulars of my life. When somebody asks me what have I been up to, I could reach for my scroll and read it top to bottom without having to think about it. But that will never happen. I'm not going to carry a scroll. That's just plain silly.
            So instead, I'm going to try to be more honest about it when I'm asked how I'm doing.
           "I wish I could explain it to you, but it's not easy."

The Rebuild

            
            My car conked out on me. I had it towed to a mechanic that I'd never used before. I'd talked to him once prior and I had a good feeling about him, but when he told me how much it was going to cost to fix I had a immediate reaction to it.
            "That sounds high." I said.
            "I know," was his response. 
            I have an older car, and the parts are hard to find. In this case I needed a distributor. I asked the mechanic if I could find the part myself. He agreed to it.
            I found the part for less money on the internet, but something felt funny about buying it on the internet. I wasn't sure what the exact part was, and I didn't want to buy it blind. I decided to check with a neighborhood Latino shop that did me right once before. They deal with starters and alternators, but I thought I'd ask if they had distributors. The man at the counter said no. But then he added, Yoonikee.
            Yoonikee?
            He wrote down a number on a scrap piece of paper and sent me on my way. I called Yoonikee. He said he could rebuild it at a real fair price, half of what the mechanic was going to charge me. I picked up the distributor from the mechanic and took it to Yoonikee's. It turned out Yoonikee is Unique. The man at the counter had his doubts about rebuilding it. He made a phone call and talked to Unique and told him I was waiting for him.
            When Unique walked in he seemed to circle around the distributor and eye me at the seem time. He picked up the distributor and examined it closely. He turned to the man at the counter and said a few words in Spanish. He was still holding the distributor in his hand. I was getting a sinking feeling, like he wasn't going to be able to fix it. The the man behind the counter translated for Unique, "It's going to be a little more, the parts are hard to find"
            Then Unique spoke to me in broken English. "I've been doing this for forty years. I gave you a good price." I nodded my head in agreement. Unique was wearing a Dodgers cap. He had small eyes, and a big heart. I felt like the cosmos had cradled me in its arms. 

The Pine Tree Dropped Its Seeds

           
            I'm a compulsive weather watcher. I like to look at satellite pictures from the National Weather Service. I'll check the site two or three times a day to see what the clouds are doing in the Pacfic. My hope is that it will rain someday. But I'm constantly fooled. I've been let down so many times, I'm beginning to resent Oregon.
            A curious thing happened the other night. I was awoken from a deep sleep by the sound of pine nuts falling on my deck. The pine tree that abuts my cabin is dropping seeds. The seeds look like, and are about the same size as Milk Duds. I thought it was odd that the tree would be dropping seeds without the prospect of rain. At least that's what the experts were saying. No rain. But when I looked at the satellite picture it looked like rain to me.
            Does the pine tree know something about the weather that scholarly man does not? As it turned out, it rained the following day despite the forecast. Just lightly, but it rained. My assumption was, yes, the pine tree does know more about the weather than scholarly man. Of course it could be coincidental. But it's cloudy now and the forecast says clear days. The satellite picture says rain to me, and the pine tree dropped more seeds ... I'm betting on the pine tree.
             Days later: It never rained. The storm conked out. Lesson: Never bet on a pine tree when it comes to predicting the weather. 

Click-on Breasts

     
          Here's a question: Why is it acceptable to be deceptive on the Internet? It seems like if a website is not trying to trick you, they're not putting in the work. I think most people have come to accept this as normal. Or they don't even think about it as depraved.
          I'm not saying the Internet should have rules or anything like that. I'm just saying I'm aware of how its affecting my life. I can't even click on a photo of a nice pair of tits anymore. It's disgusting. I'm led down a rabbit hole to a world of horrifying faces and tummy tucks. It's just not right. Nobody asked me if it was okay. Would you like to see our horrible world? No, they just put their foot on the gas and blammo! I'm looking at cosmetic surgery disasters. It's hostage taking that's what it is. And it ain't right.

The Catholic Funeral

     
          I had to go to a funeral. It was a Catholic mass. I've always wondered why Catholic funerals were so long. I grew up Methodist, and the Methodists will sing a few hymns, say a few words and blam, send you on your way. Not the Catholics. They make it last.
          It occurred to me during mass that the church probably charges by the hour. That's why the masses are long. You get the church, the father, the organ player for an hour. And the fathers don't short change their customers so when you go to a Catholic funeral expect to sit for that long.
          I didn't time it, but it felt like an hour. I can only sit still for a little while before I get ants in my pants. At Catholic masses I get antsy about three minutes in. So it feels longer than it actually is.  
          I'm not sure why the fathers still speak Latin. Nobody speaks Latin anymore. There was a whole segment of the mass where nobody knew what was being said. They could have said anything they wanted. They could have made fun of people and said the most ridiculous things. A part of me wishes they did. 
          All I was thinking about, and I'm probably going to hell for this, was Cheech and Chongs' character Sister Mary Elephant. O' felli me fossi a sus dominos.
          

NBA Basketball

         
            I don't usually blog about sports, but this has been on my mind and I need to get it off my chest. There's a lot of generational comparisons of the NBA. Who was better? Would Stephen Curry be as good a player back then? I think he would have been.
            What no one is talking about is the game itself. What is the object of the game? The object of the game is to put the ball in the basket, and to stop your opponent from putting the ball in the basket. Whoever gets the most points wins. The easiest and best shots are slam dunks and lay ups. The hardest and worst shot you can take is a three point shot. It's such a bad shot that you're awarded an extra point if you make it. Simple, right? There's a logic to it.
            When I was growing up, when we walked to and from school uphill both ways, basketball players abided by these simple principles. Sure, players took three point shots, but it was understood that it was a bad shot. Nowadays, players are chucking three point shots as if they were good shots, and that can drive a thinking man crazy. It's hard to watch. Even the best three point shooters in the league miss half of the time.
            When I played on the playground, if someone was chucking threes over and over and missing, we'd either tell them to stop shooting threes or not pass the ball to him. Sometimes I'd look a player right in the eye and pass it to someone else.
            The object of the game is to win. The best shot in basketball is a slam dunk or a layup, the worst shot in the game is a three point shot. That will never change unless there's a four point shot. And let's hope that never happens or we'll have change the name from basketball to bouncy ball. 
             

Drum Circles

           
            I went to a drum circle. I never felt more empty in my life. I got there a little late so I sat outside the circle with some other guy. He had a blank empty look on is face. He could have been a robot spy for all I knew.
            I grabbed a drum and sat on a love seat. A man walked up to me- without me knowing it, I had sat on his shirt. I apologized. His shirt looked like part of the couch to me.
            I started drumming and true to form at most drum circles no one was holding down the bass. I looked around the room and people were frantically drumming away. I was like having a room full of lead guitarists. Whatever, I'll hold down the bass.
         The man whose shirt I'd sat on kept looking over at me. I wasn't sure why. He looked just like a snake oil salesman.
          The hostess brought the drumming to a stop and suggested that people outside the circle find a seat in the circle. I got up to move toward an empty chair. I was reaching for it to sit down when the snake oil salesman cut in front of me and took it. I stood in disbelief. I would have said something if it weren't a drum circle in a respectable home. My idea of a drum circle is good vibes. I let it go, sort of.
           Now I was sitting behind the snake oil salesman, and the energy of the drumming picked up. I was pounding on my drum pretty hard. All the while I was thinking that my drum was the snake oil salesman's head. I'd look at his head and pound my drum left, right, left, right over and over. I really took it out on him. Deep down that's what I wanted to do, I just wanted to slap him silly. We were instant enemies in my mind.
           So much for good vibes at drum circles. Sometimes they're just pure evil.

Ideas

         
            I hit a lull in my writing. I haven't written a song in months and my blog ideas have dried up some. I have ideas, but they're not very good, so I'm letting them slide. I don't like to force things onto paper. It makes me feel funny inside as if something's wrong.
            Lately, I'll have a good idea but it will turn into a bad idea real quick. I'll try to fix it the best I can, but it doesn't always work out. Ideas have a point of reckoning where you have to decide whether to put the work in or abandon ship. I usually abort the mission if I have to try too hard. It sounds counter-intuitive, but that's the way it works.
           I never set timelines or completion dates. Nor do I set quotas for myself. It's not a numbers game to me. I'm amused when I hear someone say I want to write a song a day, or ten songs a month. I never understood that. It seems silly to me. I rather write a good song, however long it takes, then write a bad song in a day.
          Bad ideas tend to eliminate themselves eventually, at least in theory. I've written some horrible things, but at the time they had meaning and seemed to be good ideas. So you never really know. Your mind can play tricks on you. It's best to have someone you can trust to give you their honest opinion about your work. And even then I may or may not listen to them. That's the kind of guy I am, a regular stubborn know-it-all.

John Waters

         
           I saw John Waters last night at the Luckman Theatre. Funny dude. You can't say anything bad about him, unless you're uptight. I laughed for an hour straight. I appreciate the John Waters of the world. He said it plain. He was intellectually gritty without having to say fuck every other word. He talked about assholes and fist-fucking, and glory holes, but he was so eloquent in speech it wasn't offensive at all. It was the complete opposite. He was interesting. I learned about flakka and meow-meow, drugs I've never even heard of before. I feel so much wiser now. Street savvy.
           I know about upper-decks, or how to leave one if someone should mess with you on an extreme level. He talked about his movies and Divine. And at the end of the show he had a question and answer session. 
           It was a great night. Thanks Dana.

I Don't Know Man

         
           I've been saying, "I don't know man," out loud, to myself, in recent days. I'm not sure why. I'm no more confused than usual. I think it has something to do with realizing how cruel our society is.
           I drove through downtown yesterday morning, and I don't usually do that. It was plain to me that people were suffering. I stopped at the corner of Fifth and Los Angeles. There was a man picking through a trashcan. I was almost numb to it. I turned the corner, and there was another man picking through a trashcan. And it occurred to me that most people are numb to it. We're taught to be numb to it. Had he just followed the rules and gotten a good education, some people say. But these guys were bat-shit crazy and it didn't seem right.
           As I drove away I couldn't help but think that the men are victims of a heartless society. I thought about the government. What is government? I boiled it down to one word. Assistance. Now who the government should assist is a matter of debate. All I know is we have a problem and it doesn't go away by ignoring it. In fact, it cheapens life for everybody. It cheapens life for the man picking through the trash. It cheapens it for the man driving by who sees the man picking trash. And it cheapens it for those politicians who are making the decisions about where we spend taxpayer money. It's all connected and I guess that's why I've been saying, "I don't know man, I just don't know."
           Because deep down I do know and that's what makes it hard to understand. 

Rock and Roll

            
            I talked to the proprietor of my favorite burrito joint the other day. He told me stories about the concerts he saw in the seventies, Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, Alice Cooper. He had a connection who worked at the Los Angeles Forum. He got free tickets through him. Actually, it was his father's connection. In typical Mexican-American fashion, his connection ran the cleaning crew at the facility. 
            He said he met Alice Cooper backstage, that he was a nice guy. And that the stadium had a fog hovering over it from all the pot that was being smoked. You could get high just breathing.
            We talked long after I had finished my burrito. I'm always amazed by the proprietor's consistency. How do people do it? They find a way to be nice and decent against all odds. 
            I nearly broke out in tears on the walk to my car. The goodness of people. Sometimes it makes me want to cry. 
            

To The Man I Just Flipped Off

            
            To the man I just flipped off. I saw you before you saw me. You were walking with your head down and not paying attention. So I waited to see if you'd step into the crosswalk without looking. You nearly did. But you stopped yourself short. That's when you noticed me waiting for you to make up your mind. The sight of me waiting for you agitated you in some way. You angrily waved me forward as if I was putting you out. You swung your arm hard as if to say hurry up and go dumb ass. 
            I decided, without much thought, to show you how I felt about that. So I drove by real slow to make sure you saw me holding up my middle finger. I held it high and strong and even shook it some for good measure. And you saw it alright. I saw your face drop with the sight of it. You had the look of, yeah, you got me. I deserved that.