Open Mic

I went to an open mic last night. I’ve never performed at an open mic before. I’ve heard stories about them, and to some degree they get a bad rap, and now I know why. There’s a beauty to them. Anybody can get up and sing a song or do what you want to do. There were a few people who wanted to express themselves a little too much. They forgot about their audience. Self-indulgence I think it’s called. One guy didn’t want to leave the stage. He played a couple of long drawn out songs. The host finally started clapping when his song came to a lull. It was a nudge, a subtle hint to get off the stage. The singer-songwriter was offended by it. The guy gave the artist a bad name.

           The other musicians were very nice. I got up and did my two tunes, and they went over pretty well. I’m going back next week to try out some more new songs. Guinea pigs that's what I need. Guinea pigs.  

Bowling

Bill the smog guru told me a story about the first time he smoked pot. It was nineteen-sixty something. He was a teenager living in San Francisco. His father was a colonel in the U.S. Army. Bill was living at the Presidio at the time. Military housing.

Bill was at the bowling alley when a beautiful young girl with pale light skin and straight dark hair asked him if he wanted to smoke a joint. Bill took one look at her and said yes.

The two went outside and found a field, and leaned up against a tree. The girl pulled out a huge joint and they smoked it to the roach.

They went back inside to bowl. Bill picked up a ball and threw a strike. Then he threw another, and another. Pretty soon a crowd started to gather. Bill kept throwing strikes one after another. The crowd got bigger and Bill kept throwing strikes. The crowd started to cheer him on. The bowling alley was filled with excitement.

            Bill was one strike away from a perfect game. He threw the ball and it smashed hard into the pins. The pins scattered violently. They all fell down but one. The seven pin, it wobbled pretty good before it settled back upright. The crowd was disappointed. Bill didn’t care. His best score to that point was one-twenty. 

Svengali

            It’s Monday and I should have another blog for today, but I don’t. I’m saving myself. You can’t do it all at once, you need to save something for later.

I’m a blogging conservative, which is kind of like a fiscal conservative, but for bloggers. What ever that means? The term fiscal conservative has always intrigued me, for it seldom if ever makes sense as it pertains to the Republican party. Bill Clinton was a fiscal conservative, but a bedroom liberal.

            Our society is all twisted up. There are people who are pro-life who support the death penalty, and deficit hawks who helped create the deficit. There’s crying on the left and crying on the right, and there are people who can’t make up their minds called the undecided, or as I like to call them, Republocrats. We’re constantly being manipulated into believing terms, framing I think they call it. Don’t fall in love with my writing, what ever you do, do not fall in love with my writing. 

Jujitsu

            I went out last night. I can’t be a hermit all the time. I like going to a bar that a friend of mine manages. He and I have good laughs together. He’s learning Jujitsu so there’s a lot of hand movements and jabbing and poking as we talk. I like to know what he’s learning and he’s nice enough to show it to me. But I find myself on the defensive while talking to him. I’m constantly avoiding his hand movements. I have to watch his every move. It’s a little unsettling. Last night he showed me how to dislocate somebody’s shoulder. He grabbed hold of my arm and stepped through an opening and twisted up. I stopped him before I felt any pain. I got the gist of it. I found myself in an awkward position. My friend was holding my forearm  and my shoulder was nearly touching my ear. 

The Burly Barbers

            I turned myself in for a haircut. I hadn’t had an official haircut in sometime. I’d been trimming it myself, mainly around the ears to maintain the mane. I even asked a lady friend who seemed capable enough, but with no previous experience to trim it for me. It was just a mess. It was long and choppy. People were starting to look at me like I was nuts.

            I like to go to an old school barbershop in the neighborhood. The barbers are tough looking Mexican cats who have brought back the old traditions of barbering. They give you a massage when they’re finished with your haircut. They use a vibrating hand massager that you can buy at Sears, big burly guys giving massages. It’s kind of weird, but it feels good. 

            I walked into the shop and sat down in a barber’s chair. There was a television on. It was mounted in a corner near the ceiling. I didn’t pay much attention to it at first, but as I settled in I realized the men were watching a cooking show.  There was a woman explaining how to make Pavlova muffins.

            “A cooking show huh?” I said.

            “You've got to keep the ladies happy,” said a burly barber.

Sam Kinison

I went out last night with my friend Jeff the singer to drop off a demo for a potential gig. There was a kid playing the guitar when we got there. He sounded like Sam Kinison, not a particularly good thing for a singer.  Ohhhhhh! Nooooo! Ahhhhh! Strum, strum, strum. He was a real aggressive strummer. I doubt the kid knew who Sam Kinison was. I think if he did he’d change his style.

Jeff and I were talking to the booking agent. She turned to me in between songs and said, “isn’t he great? I love his voice.”

I felt like saying to her he sounds like Sam Kinison, but she was younger and she probably didn’t know who Sam Kinison was either.

            The kid finished his set and someone yelled "one more." There were maybe five people in the place. I was hoping he wouldn’t play another song. He did. 

The Hippie Dream

            Bill the smog guru is no longer Bill the smog guru. He sold his diagnostic equipment and quit the business. He had a run in with the state of California and in true hippie fashion he lost. The state rolled right over him, and told him, my way or the state highway, and the state highway it was. Bill knew he was licked so he sold his equipment at a decent price.

Bill still has some hippie rebellion in him. He hasn’t given up yet. He already has a new scheme for a smog guru resuscitation. His plan is to sell his business to guy named Veroush. Veroush is a smog guru of a lower order, but a smog guru nonetheless. Bill’s strategy is to team up with Veroush so he can reclaim his rightful position of king of the smog gurus! Muahahaha.

            Frankly, I don’t think Veroush is going to go for it, but I didn’t have the heart to tell Bill that. Why crush the hippie dream.