Google

I’m still not sure about the reliability of Google stats. It seems to spit out random numbers. I’ll check the numbers every now and again and each time it’s different. I’m beginning to think it’s a farce- that it’s all made up. I wouldn’t know the difference. I’m sure there’s an algorithm that figures it out, but why the numbers come up different I’ll never know. 

            It’s okay when the numbers come in on the high side, but when they come in low it’s a disappointment. Where’d my readers go? They just disappeared in a matter of hours. It feels like I got a demerit. Nobody likes a demerit. It’s just Google messing with me. They don’t have anything better to do. That’s what power does. It messes with the little people. 

Noodles

I’m a Noodler, not one of those catfish fishermen from the southern domain, but a real live Noodler from Los Angeles. I had noodles on Saturday night and noodles on Sunday afternoon. I like noodles. I like soup. I like saying chop suey out loud. Chop suey. But I’m not talking chop suey. I’m talking soup. I’m talking noodles. I had Pho on Saturday and Ramen on Sunday. It doesn’t seem to matter where the soup comes from, I like it.

            The Japanese restaurant was a call and response place. It was very festive. There was a lot of yelling. The staff would say things in unison in Japanese. It reminded me of a Catholic mass or the old time ice cream parlor called Farrell’s. The lord is with you, and also with you. But it was in Japanese, so it was cool. Kanpai. Kanpai!!! It was like being in church. 

Give Them The Finger

            I had a gig yesterday playing bass. It had been some time since my last gig, and my fingers didn’t take well to it. I acquired a blood blister on my index finger. It looks like a red football shaped birthmark.

            After the gig I went out and sang a couple of songs at an open mic. I sang a Sixto Rodriquez song, Crucify Your Mind, and one of my songs, Things Have Gone and Changed. I brought my rack, and played harmonica to fill the space on Things Have Gone and Changed. It went over pretty well considering the audience had no familiarity with the songs.

            I drove to my Thursday hang at the Dresden Room after that. I got into a discussion about politics and road rage. There’s not much difference between the two. They both excite anger, and involve pompous moralizing. I’m right your wrong kind of thing. How can we both be right, and both be wrong. It doesn’t make any sense. I’m not sure why I even care to talk about it. We pick a team and we stick to it. I couldn’t help but gloat about my team’s victory. My republican and libertarian friends were pissed. I could see the emotions stirring deep inside them. I think if we were driving they would have flipped me the finger.  

The Thirteenth Poem

I have a goddaughter. She turns thirteen on Thursday. My promise to her as godfather was to write her a poem once a year for her birthday. So far so good. I’ve liked some of the poems I’ve written to her, but others have read like I was fishing for answers on paper. It’s hard to write a three year old a poem, or a seven year old. I’m not sure how I did it. I’m afraid to read them to tell you the truth. I remember the feelings I had while writing them, and having to turn them in on time. I’m a better poet now than I was then. If you do something long enough you’re bound to get better.

            I’m working on this year’s poem, and I’m having trouble with it. It’s reading funny. It’s choppy. It’s lacking subject matter. I want it to be good, but it’s testing me. I have time and I know I’ll finish it. The deadline looms. My goddaughter is looking forward to reading it, and I’m looking forward to giving it to her. 

Passwords

I spend a lot of time hunting down my passwords. I’m on this site or that site and it seems I need a password in many instances. I tried to keep it simple. I have one password for my business affairs, and I have a different password for personal matters.

Somehow the situation has gotten away from me. I had to change a password ever so slightly here and there to fulfill the requirements of the site. The password required a number or capital letter, something stupid like that. My email was hacked once and I made a subtle change to my password to get the hackers off my back.

            Now I have so many subtle variations I can’t remember what’s what. I suppose I could make a password chart and hide it somewhere, but that’s evidence should I ever get robbed or violated in anyway. If I’m away from a site too long and I check in month’s later there’s a pretty good shot I’m not going to remember my password, so I find myself hunting down the password, resetting them, or answering questions about my childhood. So far I’ve remembered to answer the questions about my childhood correctly, but I foresee a day when I start to answer them wrong. 

Election Day

            I voted yesterday. I voted for Barack Obama and Joe Biden. I marked my ballot and said to myself, my guys. 
            A picture of Joe Biden’s smile flashed before me while I stood in the voting booth. What a bunch of rapscallions. I’d like to hang out with them. My team. You know they’re troublemakers when the cameras aren’t rolling, when they’re smoking their cigars and making fun of their opponents. I’d like to see that. I’d like to have a bourbon in my hand, while laughing at the expense of John Boehner’s hair, and his fake tan, or Mitch McConnell’s strange looking jaw and mouth. I’d like to see Joe do an impersonation of Mitch. Joe would make the funny mouth and jaw. We’d laugh. I’d sip my bourbon. Somebody would say “John Boner,” and we’d laugh some more. 

Back Pain

            I tweaked my back. It goes out every now and again. I don’t know if I injured myself while digging ditches, or sleeping. I’m beginning to think sex is bad for strained backs. It’s a risk verses reward scenario that requires very little thinking, at least I didn’t think about it much.

            It’s a strange thing sex with a bad back. Things slow down some. I was trying not to exacerbate the situation , but I seemed to forget all about my bad back at a certain point. I think that’s why sex is bad for backs. I lost my mind and senses and I forgot about the big picture. The picture became very centralized, and the only thing that seemed to matter was the moment. I was finally living in the moment, but now the pain is bringing up the past.