Brother Jerry

            Lets see what’s new. The cowboy song has made great strides since last I blogged. The circus drummer came into the studio and laid down the perfect drum part to the song. He didn’t have time for lunch afterwards. He had to promptly leave to teach a class, so he passed on his payment. I offered him cash, but he turned that down as well. I love Los Angeles. There is a lot of talent milling about, and the circus drummer not only had talent, but he was a great person as well. I must be doing something right to be so lucky.

            I started writing a new book. I know it sounds like I’m a type A personality, but I’m not. I’m pretty lazy in actuality. The book is called Brother Jerry and its about my brother Larry. I’m about eight-pages in, and for now I’m not worried about what I’ve written. I’m going to write it and then go back and fix the grammatical errors, and piece it together. I had it in mind to write a book about a singing Mexican nomad, but the idea never materialized, or hasn’t materialized, and there is no sense waiting around.  Yesterday I wrote a new song. Things are good. I’m on a good path and I hope everybody out there is listening to their inner beauty. Salud. 

Sergio

It has occurred to me that Cuban Sergio can’t read. What a terrible thing, to go through life not being able to read.

Sergio is part child, part beast; he’s a strong man, older, in his late fifties or sixties. He’s top heavy with a big puffed out chest. He’s vulnerable about the knees, one swift kick to his legs and game over.

            I think Sergio was one of those boat people that floated over to the United States prior to the Wet Feet, Dry Feet period of Cuban migration. He said he came here in nineteen sixty-six. I have a funny feeling he was in prison at one time. All I really know about him is that he goes to church twice a week, he lives alone, he has a daughter, and he was a drug addict for many years. to which he installed illegal cable television for the poor to support his habit. His nickname among the proletariat was “Cable Man.”

            Sergio and Bill bicker all day long.

The Mother Load

            There is a pecking order when you’re in the work environment, a hierarchical system that I’ve never gotten use to. It’s a sensitive system. If someone falls out of line there are repercussions. People will turn on you in an instant like a pack of hungry wolves.

            I’ve been working at Bill’s shop for nearly two weeks now. I know my place. I’m at the bottom of the pyramid. I really don’t care so much about that. I work for Bill. He’s the boss. He owns the place. It’s Bill’s other employee, Sergio, I’m having trouble with. He has already turned on me. It doesn’t bother me all that much. I spend the day listening to Bill and Sergio’s constant bickering.  It seems everyday Bill fires Sergio, but for some reason Sergio doesn’t go away. I think the problem is Sergio has difficulty understanding the hierarchical system as well. He’s pretty stubborn, and frankly he drives Bill crazy. He doesn’t fit in, nor do I, nor does Bill for that matter. When you add in the guy that does the body work Louis, who doesn’t speak a word all day long, you have the potential for some very interesting writing. I think I might have hit the Comstock Load. 

Let's Do Lunch

What have I been doing you may ask? I’ve been recording My Blood, the cowboy tune. It’s a departure from my other songs. I plan on adding drums either this week or next. I have a drummer lined up who’s trying to improve his reel as they say in the business. All I have to do is take him to lunch. Talk about working on the cheap, unless of course he insists on steak. I’m going with my gut on this one. I haven’t even heard him play. It will be interesting, that’s for sure.
I'm also working on a short story. I have a book of them if you're interested. Po-po Mulato. Click on the icon. 

Twenty Nine Palms

I asked for a little cash and I landed a job with my friend Bill. Bill restores old American cars and I’ve been helping him around his shop. I need to make a little cash to improve my artistic operation. I can use a new computer and some monitors for my studio, some musical software, a new microphone, and to pay for my sessions. 

            Yesterday I drove out to Twenty Nine Palms to pick up a couple of fenders for a 1972 Pontiac Grand Prix. It’s a nice car. It only has seventy thousand original miles on it. I want to buy it for myself.

I found  the junkyard all right, but when it came time to load the fenders into my car I ran into a problem. Mainly my problem was Frank, the owner of the junkyard telling me it couldn’t be done, that the fenders wouldn’t fit in my car.

            “I’ve seen this before,” he said to me.

            It’s a strange feeling when you’re trying to make the impossible work, and somebody’s telling you it’s impossible. I felt like a crazy man for trying. 

            Frank got a phone call and left me alone for a moment. I got one fender in. The fenders were huge, and somehow my mind figured out a way to get the other fender in. When Frank came back out he was astonished.

            “You got them in? I can’t believe it! Those fenders are the largest fenders GM ever manufactured,” he looked at me in disbelief, "How'd you do it?"

“I’m a packing genius.”

            

The H

I’m out of focus today. I’m not sure what to work on, music or the short story? What’s the next move? It’s not like I have a lifetime to get things done.

The H on my keyboard is malfunctioning. I have to hit it real hard for it to work. It’s amazing how many H’s you use in a sentence. It’s a real pain in the ass. I suppose I could try to fix it. I’m afraid of making it worse. As it stands, it still works, and if I start to tinker with it maybe, just maybe, it will stop working altogether. 

I’ve been recording the cowboy song. It sounds pretty good. It's thematic, dramatic, a real humdinger. 

All and all life is pretty good right now. I could use some extra cash, but not to worry about that, I just can’t worry about that.

            

You Want To Be Clean

I just ate the biggest fattest burrito in the world. Carnitas. Not good for the religious folks of the world, but good enough for me. Pigs. Pork bellies. What’s the difference? It all tastes like stew to me.

            To be truthful I don’t eat meat all that often. I can feel it clog up my insides when I do. I try not to be greedy with the meat. I can understand why some people choose not to eat meat at all. My friend Franklin died from colon cancer. He loved the short ribs tips. He’d go crazy for the short ribs. I can’t say for sure that’s what killed him, but he kind of looked blocked around the colon. He had a big round belly and walked with a slow gait. He looked plugged. You don’t want to be plugged. You want to be clean.