Nothing Sweeter

     Four or five months ago I drank a few beers and wandered onto a construction site looking for scrap wood. I found a piece. It was a two by eight by ten. I put it under my arm and carried it like a surfboard. I was walking up the hill to my house when I heard a voice say, "Hey, where are you going with that?"
     I turned to see who it was. It was a tall skinny man with long gray hair. He was standing on his porch. He looked like a old hippie. 
     "I thought it was scrap!" I told him.
     "It don't look like scrap to me."
     We went back and forth until I finally turned around and put the wood back where I found it. I walked away. But I was mad about it. What an asshole. Who does this guy think he is? It's just a piece of scrap-wood.
     Ever since, I've had an watchful eye out for the man. I saw him a couple of times while jogging. We were amiable. Although it was an awkward amiable.
     Today I was sitting on my porch trying to make a phone call when I saw the man walking his dog. I could see him, but he couldn't see me. 
     The man's dog took a shit on my neighbor's property and he didn't bother to pick it up. 
     Aha! I got him! 
     But then the man walked over to the fire hydrant. I watched him as he unscrewed the big yellow cap to the hose connection and walk off with it. A Fed-X truck pulled up just then. I saw the man put the cap under his shirt to hide it. I knew then that he was stealing the cap for sure. 
     Perfect!
     I walked to the curb and yelled, "Excuse me! is there a reason why you took the cap off the fire hydrant?'
    The man turned and sheepishly walked toward me. "You got me," he said. 
    "Yeah, and I saw your dog take a shit. And you didn't even bother to pick it up!" 
     I'm not much into revenge, but in this instance, there was nothing sweeter. 

Worth The Risk?

   
     We have a new Supreme Court Justice. We could've had someone good, but nah. We got a man-boy of dubious distinction. Yale took another hit. First George W. and now this Kavanaugh-shit-kid. It makes me wonder about intelligence as it pertains to the Ivy League.  Is it all just a farce? More than likely, but what's a poor Mexican-American to do, but watch and laugh, and then cry, at the fact that our leaders are spineless barbarians. 
     If I didn't care about this country it wouldn't bother me. Ironically, I think this force-fed appointment of our new Supreme Court Justice is going to have a long term effects on the elite. With each horrible decision this man makes there will be a greater divide of the social classes. The illusion of meritocracy will be diminished and the American dream eventually killed. Not good for the elite. Think of South Africa before the fall of Apartheid. Armed guards, security gates, living in constant fear of attack. That's no way to live. 
     It's as if the elite of this country haven't studied history, or read The Prince by Machiavelli. They're creating conditions for their own demise. It's interesting to watch. I'm not sure I'd take the risk. It hardly seems worth it. 

Blogging

     I haven't felt like blogging lately. I missed a couple of weeks, and I was thinking what's the point? I have an audience, but it hasn't grown much over the years. I stopped posting to Facebook. That hurt my numbers. I'm just not sure how much more I can give in this department. 
     Truthfully, I'm boring myself with my blogs. Blogspot is antiquated. It has been, and will be. I should have my own website by now. Everybody else does. I'm spending my time working on other things,. Music, novels, building. 
      There's a lot going on in the world. The system is on the verge of failure. It's being attacked by the same mindset of thievery that created it, and I haven't really written about it. I've thought about writing about it, and I want to write about it. I know exactly what I want to say. It's in my head. It's creeping around in there, and every once in a while I'll think about it, before it disappears into another thought. I'll get to it. Hopefully next week.

Bellows

     I took a few weeks off from blogging. I went to Bellows Air Force Station in Oahu on a family vacation. I have a brother who fought in Nam, and through him and his military ID, the family was able to stay on the military base. 
     There's a beautiful beach on Bellows, it's probably the nicest beach on the island. And it's been a private beach for the military for some years. 
     It got me thinking about stealing land and how the U.S. stole the Hawaiian islands. I read a brief history of the event. It seemed like easy pickings. 
     Most thieves think small. A car, a house, a bank, maybe a chocolate bar. Not the U.S. We steal big. Hawaii, California, New Mexico, Arizona, Puerto Rico. It takes big stones to steal large swaths of land and then pretend like nothing happened. In fact, if you bring up land stealing in some circles people get offended. As if somehow you're demeaning them for being the thieves. They're not the thieves of course, but somebody was.
     
       
     
     

Tony The Barber

     I got a haircut. I'd let my hair grow long on account of a bald spot that showed up on the side of my head. I have a condition called alopecia areata. That's when your hair falls out in spots temporarily. Mine fell out in a huge patch, the size of a baseball on the side of my head. My hair's slowly growing back, but not enough to warrant a short haircut. 
     So I took a chance in getting a haircut in the first place. I go to an old-timer named Tony. Tony's been cutting hair for sixty years. It's amazing he can still stand. 
     I showed Tony my bald patch, and told him I wanted my hair to cover it so don't cut it too short. What I've learned about Tony and just about every other barber I've been to, is that they're always agreeable, but never do what you ask. 
     I sat in the chair and Tony proceeded to brag about his hair cutting abilities and how great his business was doing. Then he told me a couple vengeful barber stories where he put customers in their place for questioning his abilities. I was entertained by his stories. they made me laugh. And Tony is a gentleman with good manners. I like him.
     I noticed my hair flying in big chunks. Tony was using scissors that squeaked. I had complete confidence in him, even though the task was not simple. Long hair to short hair, with enough hair to cover the spot. 
    At the end of it Tony brought out a mirror. He held the mirror up and proudly showed off his work. My eyes popped out of my head when I saw what he'd done to me. He had my hair combed to one side, like Ann Rand and there were flaps of hair sticking straight out just behind my ears. The side with the bald patch was longer than the other side. All and all I was pretty disappointed with Tony's work. I didn't offer any compliments. 
     How much do I owe you? I asked
     Tony recoiled with the question. He was obviously butt-hurt about it. I couldn't help that I didn't like the cut. He messed me up.  
     I had to ask my lady-friend to fix it for me. She doesn't cut hair, but she did a good job. It looks a lot better.

Dedicated Tax System

     I think we should have a dedicated tax system where citizens can choose where their taxes go. There could be different categories. Military, health care, infrastructure, general services, national parks, etc. There would be no more than ten categories to keep it simple, and perhaps to keep the military from crying, they'd get an automatic one percent from each paycheck. I haven't worked out the numbers and I'm not sure what percentage the military is getting now, so one percent might be low or high. I'm not sure. I'm just making the general point of The Dedicated Tax System.
     This idea, in principle, eliminates or reduces the possibility of cronyism and the abuse of power by politicians and corporations. And keeps the treasury out of reach of thieves and self interested people. 
      The public can change the distribution of their money when the file their taxes. 

Gardeners

     There are thousands of Latino gardeners in Los Angeles. They come from different countries, Mexico, Mesoamerica. Most come to this country with just the shirt on their backs. They've carved out an occupation for themselves. And best I can tell, they're extremely hard workers. It's rare that a gardener calls in sick to work. At least in my neighborhood. Three of my neighbors have gardeners. The gardeners show up on Monday, Wednesday and Friday at about eight-thirty in the morning. The sound of their leaf-blowers lets me know that they're here.
     Latino gardeners work for the wealthy in Bel Air and Beverly Hills, and the not so well-off in the suburbs. If you hire a gardener in Los Angeles, there's a fair chance he's going to be Latino. 
     Unless of course you're the Los Angeles Dodgers. Their gardeners are white. They don't call themselves gardeners either. They call themselves the "ground crew." And as gardening jobs go, it's probably one of the best gigs in town.   
       

Discoveries

     I've lived in Los Angeles for the better part of my life and I'm still discovering things about it. I don't want to reveal the locations of my favorite spots. I'll just say that there's a lot to explore in them there hills. 
     Recently I've found a pristine tree-lined creek with pools and some hiking trails that I've driven past on many occasions. 
     Usually if I see a parking lot with people I'll drive past it. It's not that I don't like people, it's just that I don't like to follow the crowd. 
     For years I've driven past this one spot. There's a parking lot, picnic tables, and lots of signs. There's even an official visiting center. So needless to say, I'd skip it, 
     Well, the other day I was driving up the mountain when I realized the gas gauge was showing a little low. I forgot to check it before I left the city. I wasn't sure I had enough gas to get to where I wanted to go. I drove a ways and decided to turn around to play it safe. That's when I saw the parking lot. I was thinking it was just a good place to turn around, but I parked the car to do some exploring. Well what do you know? A hiking trail. No wonder people stopped here. 
    It was a beautiful trail. It had been there for a long time. I'm going to go back during the week to hike it without the crowds. 

Saint Frank

     I spent the weekend in San Francisco. I met my half brother Gary's family for the first time. It was an awesome experience. Great, great, people. Now I know where I get my bad side from. I've always wondered. Not that they're bad in any way, but they like to have fun, so the wine was flowing, and that rarely happens on the Bernal side of the family. 
     I also got the chance to walk around the city and check out my old hang-outs. I walked mostly in North Beach and Chinatown. It's changed some. The trees are taller and many of the businesses have changed hands. I ate at one of my favorite Chinese restaurants. It wasn't as good. It used to be a tiny place with just a counter, but they've expanded it and now it's a restaurant with tables and chairs. It was good, but it wasn't as good. If that makes any sense. 
     I still like San Francisco and if I ever make any money I'd like to live there again for a short spell. It doesn't make sense to live there long term. The idea of giving large amounts of money to landlords is bullshit. I'd rather not do that. I think there should be a rebellion against landlords. Life is harder than it needs to be with high rents. 

Tiny Microscopic Structures

     I got the itch. Jock itch. The interesting thing about "the itch" is the brilliance of the fungus. I read that the more you scratch, the more it spreads. 
     I bought some anti-fungal cream. The itch subsided. And I went about my business. A day later it started to itch again even with the cream. It dawned on me that the fungus was trying to manipulate me into scratching the area again, so it could spread and survive. Genius. 
     How the fungus knows to do this is amazing to me. Maybe it doesn't know, and it's coincidence, but I doubt it. 
     The fungus has developed a method to manipulate the human mind. And it uses the smallest form of pain to do it. The itch. Simply amazing. The intelligence of tiny structures can not be understated. When planet earth gets tired of us humans I get the feeling it won't be a big calamity like a nuclear bomb or a volcano that kills us, but rather tiny microscopic structures. The invisible will figure out a way to eat us alive.                                                                                                  

Los Angeles

     I spent the day at the beach yesterday. Pristine sand. Waves. Perfect day. The beach is one of many reasons why I live in Los Angeles. 
     I have a friend who recently moved to Denver. I've never been to Denver. I'm sure it's nice, but there aren't any beaches in Denver. 
     I have another friend who moved to Portland. I've been to Portland, great town, but there aren't any beaches there either. River beaches don't count.
     People love to dog LA. We're like Cleveland that way. But I'm not moving. No way, no how. 
     New York? Zero chance. Paris? Maybe. Chicago looks nice, but for the winters. I've always wanted to live in Pittsburgh for a winter, or Detroit. Detroit interests me, with all the rundown houses. You can probably pick up a nice house for a decent price there. I'd like to restore an old abandoned dream house, and bring it halfway back. 
     Those cities are getaway destinations in my mind. Not longterm solutions for living. No, I'm not leaving LA. What for? 
     I'm not too good for LA, and LA has been bery, bery good to me. 

The Ant Problem

     I don't feel like blogging. I don't feel like doing anything. It's been real hot and humid here in Los Angeles. Humid relative to LA, about forty-four percent. 
     The ants love it. They're finding things, exploring new territory. Unfortunately, my kitchen was found. I had to battle them off. I followed their trail inside, than outside. I destroyed their bridges and flooded their armies. 
     I discovered they were working two fronts. Both fronts had bridges. One trail led straight to my BBQ. The  other to my box of Maple Nut Cereal. I couldn't locate their headquarters, but once the bridges were gone they slowed some. I still got the occasional scout looking for something good to eat. I thought about killing the scout, just because I could, but I let him  go free. I had secured my food. They weren't going to find anything else to eat.
     

Plan Or No Plan

     Sometimes I'll lay in bed and think about what I'm going to do tomorrow. I'll make a plan in my mind. When morning comes I'll find myself immersed in a task that wasn't part of the plan at all. It happens a lot. It's to the point where it's laughable. I'll be painting a piece of wood, or fiddling with something and think, this isn't what I planned for the day. 
     I've accepted the fact that I have no idea what I'm going to do tomorrow. I think I know what I'm going to do tomorrow, but I don't. Nobody does. 

Spiders And Bees

     I learned that bees sleep. Their antennas droop and and their legs splay when they sleep. Sometimes they fall asleep mid-day on a flower. It sounds rough, I know, but that's the life of a bee. 
     Bees are interesting to me. They suck flowers all day. Sip'em, drink em' up, they're almost perfectly innocent but for their stingers. Their stingers keep things honest.  
     I stepped on a bee once. That was painful. How such a tiny thing can inflict so much pain is amazing to me. It was a mega-dose of pain.
     Spiders interest me for the same reason. Size and ability. How does a spider create a seemly endless supply of webbing? It's remarkable when you think about it. The webbing just keeps coming. Where does it come from. How do they produce it so quickly? I'll have to research that next. It's all so amazing to me.
    

Bull Dogs

     Just because some people don't look the way you want them to look doesn't mean they're bad people. And just because they're poor doesn't make them bad. And just because they speak another language doesn't mean they're not humans with feelings and dreams. Embrace those who need embracing, offer your shirt so they can stay warm. If you think you're better than them, I can assure you, you're not. 

Words To Live By

Just one grain of sand can ruin a good potato chip. 

If you think about wiping your ass with a corn tortilla, don't. 

Every good band needs a dancing fool. 

The Baby

     My neighbor had a baby. I didn't even know she was pregnant. I realized just the other day that I hadn't seen her in a while. For months. I wondered what happened to her. I heard a baby cry the other day, but I thought it was a friend's baby. There was a unfamiliar car parked in front of my neighbor's house and I assumed they had a visitor. 
     I've never even heard my neighbors have sex, and sound travels around here. So I'm not sure what's going on, or how it happened. All I know is I'm tip-toeing around so as not to wake the baby. I'm banging softly, and playing my electric guitar at a low volume. I'm thinking of asking my neighbors to put a sign or something on their window when the baby's asleep. That way I'll know not to make too much noise. I'm not a noisy guy, but I am building a bathhouse. 
     I found myself whistling at my other neighbor's dog this morning. The dumb thing was barking for no reason and I thought what if the baby's asleep? Luckily, his owner told him to pipe-down. Pipe-down. Haha. 
     

Why Oh Why

     There's a cowboy bar in the canyon that I visit every now and then. The last two times I was there I had conversations with racists. Yesterday, I was talking to an older man with one of those pot bellies that forms around the groin and works it's way up. I was drinking a beer when he came in. I felt his negativity right off, but I dismissed it, and talked to him anyway. 
     He told me he was from LA originally, but moved north when things started to change in eighty-four. Change is code word for too many immigrants. 
     He said he grew up on a chicken farm nearby. He was wearing a cowboy hat, and had a long gray beard. It didn't look like too much of a stretch.
     He asked me where I grew up. I told him Montebello. His eyes dropped, and was about to say something negative, but stopped short and held his tongue. I could tell he didn't approve of Montebello. I've seen it before. There are a lot of Mexicans in Montebello and Mexicans are beneath some white folks. 
     The man said other things that made me think, okay I get it, he's a racist. 
     On my drive home I thought about the man. I wondered why he felt superior to other people. I mean, really. He grew up on a chicken farm.

Change

     I've been having interesting dreams. I always have interesting dreams, but I don't usually remember them. Last night I dreamed that my sister fell in love with a goddess. She was a full-bodied woman and somewhat tolerant of men. Her father, who was sitting next to her, had four nipples. His nipples were an inch high and flat at the tips. They looked more like stumpy otters. He had other qualities that reminded me of the devil. He and his daughter were suspicious in nature, I can tell you that. 
     I was thinking about life the other day, in the most trivial manner. I was thinking that we come into this world and most of us have no idea why we're here, or how we got here. Some of us search for answers. Some of us turn to God for answers. Others are more scientific about it and still others don't care. And at the end of it all, we die. It happens to everybody. It's a strange thing this life. It's a horrible place to be if you have trouble with change. And I definitely have trouble with change. That's my suffering. Watching things change and not always for the better. 
     I was driving down the boulevard the other day and I realized that the number of stop lights had increased dramatically in my short lifetime. People are fearful of something. Death and change, or speed and accidents, or just unimpeded travel. Control is fear. Fear is control. Accepting change is a work in progress. It should be easy. Change is freedom. Freedom is life. Life is death and then freedom all over again with the answers you were searching for in life.
     

Conspiracies

     I'm a sucker for a good conspiracy. JFK, 911, Vegas, are just a few conspiracy theories that I subscribe to. Pearl Harbor is another.
     Though not conspiracies, I believe O.J. is innocent and Michael Jackson wasn't a child molester. I wouldn't normally admit that in public, but both men were acquitted, so I'm not entirely mistaken.
     Where I draw the line is when people say the moon landings never happened. I think these conspiracies are nuts. Not only are they nuts, they're offensive to me, because I was a witness to the moon landings. Television would never lie, haha.
     There were things that struck me as odd at the time. The manner in which the astronauts moved about the moon. The shadows. The footage. The fact that there was any footage at all was amazing to me. How did they do that? I wondered. The whole event was incredible to me. Not to be missed, that's for sure.
     But when you think about the complexity of fooling a nation, the world, with a moon landing, I'm not sure it's possible. There are too many variables involved. You'd have to emulate a rocket taking off into space. A moon landing, a moon orbiter, Cape Canaveral, a splash down, astronauts being quarantined (that's not so hard), interviews with astronauts for years and years afterwards. I think it would be too difficult to fabricate. Plus, someone would break their silence and spill the beans if it wasn't true. People blab. They're braggers. It would be next to impossible to keep everybody quiet. 
     Another thing is money. There was a lot of money to be made by the aerospace industry. They're not going to fake it, they're going to make it, and sell it. Even if it doesn't work. 

Justify

  
     I met a gambler the other night. He was going to plop down five-hundred dollars on Justify to win the Kentucky Derby. Gamblers are weird dudes. They're optimists. They're forever chasing a hunch. 
     This gambler pulled into the bar I was playing music at. It was about 1:30 in the morning when he came in. He was an older man. In his sixties. I respect people who go out at night. But it does strike me as odd at times when they come in late. 
     This man was different, no doubt. He had a big head, and I couldn't stop staring at it. He was a confident man. He was convinced that Justify was going to win. I thought he was on the right track. Justify is a great horse. But for some reason I told him Bolt D' Oro was going to win. I immediately regretted my words after saying them. Deep down I knew I was wrong, but it was early in the morning and I didn't feel like correcting myself. Instead, I grabbed my guitars and said good-night.
     Justify did win the derby. I hope the man followed his instincts. I'd sure hate to be the reason why he lost five-hundred dollars. 

Number One Or Number Two

     I wonder if there are countries in the world where number one is number two and number two is number one. I'd hate to be a taxi driver in one of those countries. You pick up a tourist and few minutes into their fare they tell you they need to use the restroom. Number one or number two? You ask. Number two, but you think it's number one, so you take your time. 
     I wonder how long we've been using the number system? It seems it never goes away. You can be eighty-three years old and turn to your wife, friend, or lover and say I have to go to the bathroom. And they might say, number one or number two. You look at them funny, thinking you're not a kid anymore, number two ...
     
     
     
     

Mansion

     I have an idea for a new social media platform. It's called Mansion. The goal is to make enough friends to build a mansion. 
     When you make your first friend you get an icon of a man with a shovel. With your second friend a man with a pick-axe shows up, and so on. A couple of thousand friends later and you get an one bedroom apartment. And so it goes. Until, one day, maybe you're living in a tract-home in the suburbs. 
     The part of the game that is not revealed is that the algorithm would be designed so it's nearly impossible to get a mansion. It's more like a dream than a realty. There's no old money. Nepotism won't help you. Sure, there will be a few people who get mansions, but just enough people to make the game believable. Most folks will be living in a trailer park in hurricane country, or a studio apartment in Jersey.

     

The Unbreakable Piñata.

     I finished a twelve hundred and eighty-seven page book and was unsatisfied with the ending. I don't regret reading the book, but come on. I understand, endings can be difficult. Saying good-bye can be difficult. But, when you read a long book, a book that didn't need to be as long as it was, you deserve a good ending. 
     I had a sinister thought the other day. I had the idea to invent an unbreakable piñata. It's similar to the mindset behind the trick birthday candle, but on another level. 
     When I was a kid there was no cutting corners when it came to the piñata. You got blindfolded. There were strict rules that had to be followed. You only got a certain number of swings. 
     I remember trying to cheat when the blindfold wasn't put on right just to survive. I could see out of the corner of the blindfold just enough to take a few good hacks.
     Kids today have it easy. Sometimes they don't even get blindfolded and they get as many swings as they want. The fun of the game is trickery. You're blindfolded and swinging wildly, and being mocked by the adults when you miss. When else can a parent mock their child? It's an opportunity.
     The unbreakable piñata levels the playing field. You don't need a blindfold, hahaha!!!

Plant-Based Meats

     I was waiting at a red light. There were people to my left standing in a long line that wrapped around the corner. There was a sign that read, "plant-based meats." I had seen the place before. It was a little pop-up restaurant that served plant-based tacos.
     Why do they call it meat? I wondered.
     The following day I found myself in a plant-based restaurant. I looked over the menu. Curry chicken, seafood soup, noodles and ham. I was confused by it. Why were the using old terms for new things? It didn't make sense to me.
     I ordered the udon stir-fry. It was delicious. It had chunks of plant-based meat that reminded me of a hotdogs.  
     I've seen it all before. The plant-based movement is nothing new. And I understand why people choose to be vegetarians. The meat industry doesn't give a hill of beans about you. Or anything else, for that matter. 
     After dinner I started to think. What's in plant-based meat? How is it made? Where are the plants coming from? How are they grown? Where are the grown? I had a lot of questions. There was so much to think about and so much to learn. It's not like I eat a lot of meat to begin with, but if things keep up, I'll be eating meat all the time, even when it's not meat.
     
     

Song Writing

      
      I try not to talk about the songs that I'm writing. I've learned my lesson that way. First of all, I'm not very good at explaining them. And no matter what the explanation, if I talk about it, it tends to fall flat and makes me feel bad.
      My songs are important to me, and I realize they're not as important to other people. So when I open up to somebody about a song I'm writing, I'm taking a big risk. I risk that they might say something insensitive and not fully formed, and stunt the creative process. 
      Sometimes I feel by talking about a song I'm putting a hex on it. It's no longer pure. Its been affected by outside forces.
      Songs are subject to change and if I talk about a song too soon, before I have it figured out, it can sound ridiculous. It's like talking about a dream. Dreams are hard to follow and not always that interesting to the listener. 
      Try to imagine John Lennon talking about "I Am The Walrus," to somebody. Yeah, it's called I am the walrus, and there's this part where I say, "sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come." 
      
      

My Life In A Nut Shell

      From time to time I like to give an update on my doings. To keep my readers abreast of my life and otherwise. 

      I finally got the second proof of my book in order, "And Then Dawn Dies." I had some trouble with the formatting. I went to the University of YouTube to rectify the problem. The answer didn't come right away, so the book languished while I did my research. What I discovered was that a computer is not a typewriter. It seems fairly obvious, but the long and the short of it is, there are hidden characters in the computer world, and the space bar is not to be used to make indentations. I don't remember using the space bar to make indentations, but that's neither here nor there now. 

      I've also been recording a new album. I finished the old album, "Solar Road," but I'm not happy with the mixes so I haven't promoted it. The same thing happened to my first album, "Janus." I'll have to remix both albums at some point. But until then I'm working on my third album, which I haven't named yet.

     I've been writing songs for both the new album and The Glen Livers. The Glen Livers is the live act, the band, or the general term for my music. I'm trying to keep The Glen Livers live show upbeat. Many of the songs I write are not upbeat, so I'm using them for the third album. 

     I'll be compiling my blogs for a book idea I have. While I re-write my second book, "Lilies In The Fridge," as I finish my third book, "Brother Jerry."

     That's the report. Stayed tuned. 

Change

      My neighborhood has changed some over the years. It used to be a quiet neighborhood inhabited by older graying folks with nondescript faces. Ordinary looking people who rode bicycles up hill in the dark. I remember an older woman in particular who would ride at night with a fluorescent green flag sticking up from the back of her bike. She lived in the house below me, down the hill.
      One day I noticed that her husband was gone. Just gone. I don't know what happened to him. I remember emergency vehicles showing up to their house one night. I don't know for sure if it was their house, or the house next door, but he did disappear forever.
      The lady sold the house in his absence. An ambitious couple bought it, fixed it up, and then sold it again. Now the house is sitting empty. It's been that way for a couple of months. I don't mind. It's peaceful in an eerie way. The lights come on, but nobody's home.
      I had it in mind to write this blog about noise. The neighborhood is noisy now. With ambition comes noise. I've also noticed that the ambitious have a distaste for trees. I'm not sure what that's all about. Maybe they see trees as a form of competition. I mean, let's face it, trees are much smarter than the rest of us.
      

The Landlord

      
      I had a landlord who liked to talk about money. He had a theory about real estate trends. According to him, the market dipped every ten to twelve years and that was the best time to buy property. It was always the same when we talked. It was like we never talked before. It was money, money, money.
      His desire for money struck me as wrong being that he was a pastor of a Christian church. What added to my disgust was that I knew he was going to jack my rent up at first opportunity. Some Chriatain. 
      I'm forever thankful to the man though. If it weren't for his overt greed, I'd never gotten angry enough to move out of his beat up bungalow and build a cabin on the cheap. I didn't want to give him half my income for the rent anymore. I sacrificed time and energy for that money. Having to navigate through the wing-clipped personalities of my fellow workers was enough to bring me down. We're all wing-clipped in some way or another, but still.
      I drove by my old place the other day. It looks the same seven years later. It still needs paint, and it still looks shabby. It made me think about the landlord and his disease. It's a disease lots of landlords have, chosing money over people. It's the sad reality of the sick mind. Money over people. Money over everything. 

The Snake River Project

      The Snake River Project was a development I was working on for my G.I. Joe. It was a joint construction with the neighborhood kids to provide a training ground for the aquatic special task force. 
      We started digging it in my backyard behind the garage. I soon discovered the neighborhood kids weren't as enthusiastic about the project as I was, but undaunted, I kept digging. 
       The idea was to build a river with twists and turns that emptied into a pool so I could collect my G.I. Joe before sending him back down the rapids in his black special task force raft. There was to to be a waterfall, which was to be made from rocks and a water hose, the details of which I hadn't fully worked out yet. But that was the gist of it. 
      When the digging was complete I approached my eldest brother. "I need to buy a bag of concrete. Will you give me a ride?"
      To his credit, he didn't ask many questions and gave me the ride. 
      Not fully confident as to how to apply the concrete the project stalled. 
      Ultimately, the project was sabotaged by other developers, my brothers, who decided to build a patio in its place. Angered but outnumbered, I moved on.
      

No Muhammed

I was a big fan of Muhammad Ali when I was a boy
I was introduced to him while he was laying flat
on his back after being dropped by Joe Frazier in their first fight
he was on the cover of Sports Illustrated Magazine
and it struck me that the magazine was mocking him for some reason

I used to watch his fights and cheer for him
and I was always disappointed when he lost

The thing about Muhammad was,
he'd make me feel squeamish when he talked
he was so brash and outspoken
and contrary to the accepted norms
that I wished he'd shut up

A part of me felt like he was being used by the media
to show how ill-mannered the black man was
keep in mind I was just a boy,
but I remember having these feelings

When he talked to Howard Cosell
I'd say no Muhammed
don't mouth off and I'd get uncomfortable
listening to him brag about his greatness

I didn't know what a poet was until I heard
people calling Muhammed one
I remember liking some of his poems
and being disappointed by others
he was hit or miss

The Trampoline House

      There's a house in my neighborhood that I walk by on the way to the grocery store. I've been walking by this house for years, twenty-five at least. 
      There's a trampoline in the front yard and from time to time I'll see kids playing on it. I can't help but look over at it and watch them play. They're usually screaming and laughing, having a good time.
      The funny thing about the kids is they never seem to age. Ever since I could remember they've always looked the same. These kids are about seven or eight years old, nine tops. I've never seen their mother pregnant. She looks the same as well. She drives a Subaru wagon, and the car hasn't changed much either.
      I can't figure it out. Maybe the kids are foster kids, or extended family. What gives? Ageless kids that's what. The reality is that they're really thirty-five years old. Or a generation slipped by me without me knowing it. 

Candy

      I was putting gas in the tank when I saw a kid holding a cardboard box filled with candy. Chocolate bars I presumed. He was selling the candy for an "organization," it's common in Los Angeles.
      I did my best to make myself small, and for a time it was working. But the kid was making his rounds, and I was his next target. I tried to think of what to say to him when he finally did get to me. I was bored with my standard answer, no thank you. 
      I know! I'll tell him I'm a diabetic! Genius.
      The kid and I made eye contact, and he moved toward me. I was staring at the cardboard box under his arm as walked.
      Sir, would you like to buy some candy? The kid asked. 
      I'm sorry I'm a diabetic, I said with a sad face.
      The kid didn't blink an eye. Well, you can buy one for your mother, your aunt, your girlfriend, your kids. 
      I wasn't expecting such a quick-witted answer. I stood dumbfounded. It was obvious the kid had heard the diabetic line before. 
      You've heard that excuse before I said to the kid. Let me get back to you when I think of something else to say. 

The Why Me Movement

     
      I was in line at my local taco stand when a lady wearing a lime green sweat suit and two of her male counterparts walked up. They ignored the line altogether and instead stepped to the side and were talking. I kept my eye on them, curious as to what they were doing. I saw one man slide a bindle of contraband to the other man, and their meeting began to make more sense to me.    
      The lady in the lime green sweat suit was pacing back and forth and I gathered she was on an upper of some kind based on the limited information that I had. At one point the lady moved behind me and was standing way too close to me. I could feel my hackles stand up. She wasn't all that attractive or likable from what could tell. 
      Then she moved to a stool and sat down next to me. She was facing me with her legs extended. She kept opening and closing her legs in a suggestive manner while she sat there staring at me. 
      I thought to myself "why me?"
      And that's when I became the founder and CEO of the Why Me Movement? 

Teddy Bear

   
      Back in the day, when I was delivering flowers, I used to see a young woman walking the streets holding a teddy bear. She was in her twenties, with short blond hair, and wore dresses that reminded me of the girls I knew in the first grade. She was an attractive woman, but it was obvious that she was missing a few screws.  
      The teddy bear she carried was worn out from being held too much. It was a white teddy bear, but it had become ragged and soiled. 
      I'd see the girl walking in random places. Sometimes I'd see her in the neighborhoods near the mountains, and other times I'd see her closer to Colorado Boulevard. She had a blank expression on her face as she walked.
      The pervert in me thought of trying to talk to her, but I never did for fear of something. 
      I hadn't seen the girl in a while. I wondered what happened to her. Then, one day as I was driving near Washington boulevard I saw her walking toward Colorado boulevard. She had the teddy bear under her arm as usual, but this time I noticed something different. There was a bulge coming from her skirt. I had to look twice to make sure, but sure enough she was pregnant. 
      Huh? Someone took advantage of my little girl. 

Crazy Bird

   
      When I was a kid there was a man we called Crazy Bird. Crazy Bird had turned his backyard into a vegetable garden, and in my mind, because of the way he dressed and how he carried himself, he was a farmer.
      He was a an older man who wore white button-down shirts and beige khaki pants. His shirts were finely pressed and tucked into his pants. He always wore a hat. Sometimes it was a straw hat and other times it was a more formal hat like a Philadelphia.
      The thing about Crazy Bird was he didn't like us kids walking on his lawn. There was a stretch of grass that was sandwiched by sidewalk. That stretch of grass was Crazy Bird's. We kids would walk on the sidewalk and then hit Crazy Bird's grass to get to the sidewalk on the other side.
      If Crazy Bird happened to catch you walking on his grass he'd grab the water hose and chase you down. "Get off my grass!!" he'd yell.
      He was a tall lanky man. He looked a lot like William Burrows. Try to imagine a man that looked like William Burrows chasing you with a water hose. That was Crazy Bird. 

War Robots

      My last three blogs have been on the negative side. I was going through a funk where outside forces were getting the better of me. I suppose there are people who aren't tuned in to world events, but I am. The news cycle has been bizarre to say the least, and it's been enough to bring me down at times. I wouldn't say all hope is lost, but I do wonder if others understand how they're been manipulated. 
      I'm not a war robot, so I notice the scale of manipulation. It's constant. It's so constant it has reached the point of being unrecognizable.
      I don't want to be the guy whose constantly complaining, but part of being alive is making observations. Observations in some instances are a matter of life and death. The mere process of asking questions and wondering can cause internal frustrations. I have many questions and I'm constantly wondering, which contributes to my daily agitation. Sometimes I wonder why others don't wonder, that in itself can cause me agitation, especially, when their lack of curiosity contributes to what I deem as poor choices. 
      Poor choices are a killer. Poor choices destroy the environment, people, and the process of tranquil living. So do us all a favor, read, read, read, and make informed choices so we don't have to suffer from poor choices. 
      This has been a public service announcement from the ninety-nine point nine percent. 

Beer

Even beer farts.   

The Flip Phone

      "Don't they know I have a flip phone?" That's what I say to myself when someone sends me an unsolicited text message. My phone isn't sophisticated enough to show the image they're sending, if there is an image. I can only imagine what it looks like. Maybe a naked lady, I'm not sure. I'll look at the phone to see who it is and when I figure out it's nobody important I'll delete the message. 
      I'm fascinated with the strategy of sending text messages on a phone in hopes of drumming up business. Sometimes the messages will come in five, six at a time. It's annoying. The sound of my phone vibrating is enough to set me off. 
      It's some kind of weird old fashioned strategy. I imagine some people answer the messages though, or they wouldn't keep sending them out. 
      India pops into my head. "They're coming from India." Sorry India, I don't mean to discriminate. They can just as easily be coming from the Philippines or Ohio. 
       When someone sends me an emoji, the image always comes up as a series of squares. It's none too exciting to receive an emoji that looks like a square. I try to figure out the intention of the sender. I'll look at the screen and depending on how many squares there are, I figure that's the number of emojis. I had to tell one of my friends to stop sending me emojis cause I can't see them. He laughed, and then sent me the old :))))