Festival

I went to the Eagle Rock Music Festival yesterday. I found myself smiling and laughing a lot. Music has that effect on me. The lead singers had me going the most. They were great. They had personality, no false pretense. They were pure of heart and I appreciated their honesty.

            It was interesting to walk from stage to stage. The crowd was diverse. The age range was from minus one to a thousand. 
            At one point the crowd was biggest near the DJ stage. Live music was taking a beating, but at the end of the night live music had made a come back and reigned supreme. I was happy it turned out that way. Live music is much more interesting to me. It's instant talent and pretty amazing when you think about it. But then again, so is the binary world of digital.

Scotch

I went out last night and I found myself drinking eighteen-year old Scotch. It was a gift from the gods. Thank you.

The Scotch went straight to my head. I was just trying to hang on after that, maintain as we use to say. I felt like I was the only person drinking. John was sober. Patrick was sober. It’s always a weird feeling when you know you’re drunk and nobody else is.

           I was talking to Ian at the end of the night. He asked me not to Blog about our conversation. The nerve of him. Luckily for Ian I can’t remember what we were talking about. I think it had something to do with underage girls and perverts. Sorry Ian. 

Clara's Funeral

I towed Clara to a mechanic. She needed an examination. The diagnoses was not good, but certain. She has heart trouble. She’s pretty much unusable. I asked my mechanic for advice.

“What should I do with her?”

“Sell her.”

“What do you think I can get for her?”

“Five hundred.”

Poor Clara. She’s practically worthless. I towed her back home. Skip, the tow truck driver and I were unloading her when my neighbor the avocado tree killer came home.

“Did you take her to a mechanic?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“What did he say?"

“He told me to sell her for five hundred dollars.”

"Oh, Anthony you can’t do that!”

She leaned into my chest and broke into tears.

“You love her,” she said while crying like a baby.

“Oh, it’s going to be okay,” I said with my arm around her. “She’s just no good.”

My neighbor was crying pretty hard, which was strange. Her husband was looking on, which made things even stranger.

“Promise me you won't sell her,” she said.

“Maybe my brother will buy her,” I said.

“Keep her in the family. You love her.”

The lady wouldn’t stop crying. It made me feel funny. I was still sore at her for hacking down the avocado tree, and there I was with my arms wrapped around her consoling her about my Mercedes Benz. I had conflicting emotions. I felt ugly, but I was trying to be nice in her tragedy, the death of Clara.

Clara Walter

I had to retire my car. It just gave out on me. I sold it to the state of California at a decent price. I consulted the smog guru Bill first. I gave him the cars symptoms. He said it could be anything. Rather than putting money into it I retired it.

            I’m bringing my Mercedes Benz out of retirement, old Clara Walter. Clara is a four door sedan made in nineteen-seventy. She’s a temperamental gal, so much so it’s nerve racking driving her. She’s kind of like a mule. Stubborn and uncooperative. But she looks nice. She’s a pretty gal, real pretty. 

Excerpt From Johnny

My Audience

I came home from work

laid on my bed

and read a book

then fell asleep

two hours later

here I am writing

to my audience

ME.

I’m the best audience

I have

I keep myself going

I applaud when necessary

I boo when I have to

when I write a good poem

I’m happy

I cheer and applaud

the poet in ME

eats it up

and bows

to ME the audience

on bad days

when there is

limited production

or when my imagination

evades ME

I’m hard on the poet

make him feel like a fool

you’re trying too hard

keep it simple, I tell him

he pretends not to hear ME

quit trying to be poetic

you sound like an academic

but once in a while

I’ll write something good

that makes it all worth it

my audience

loves the good poems

the good poems keep ME going

Every Hundred Feet

It use to be people liked to have fun, and then a thing called political correctness came into play. It nearly ruined Don Rickle’s career. You couldn’t make fun of people anymore, men had to be submissive, kids had to wear helmets, things really changed.

           The turning point for me was when Lawn Darts were banned. That’s when I knew for sure that the world was made for pussy’s. One bad toss and now know one can play. And that’s the way it works. There’s one screaming demon, and the next thing you know there’s a stop sign at every corner, and a speed bump every hundred feet.

The French Weekend

I saw the Serge Gainsbourg movie, A Heroic Life. I enjoyed it, although it was a little long. My lady friend grew impatient with it as she’s prone to do. She didn’t like the movie at all. I’d suggest the movie for the women alone.

            Something occurred to me during the course of watching the movie, and that is, anything sounds good in French. I wish I was a French songwriter I think life would be a lot easier. English is such a harsh language, but French is sweet and smooth,

            By chance I had dinner at a French restaurant last night. I don’t care what anybody says, I love the French.