The Muscovy Ducks

            I went to the bird factory at the L.A. river. There were Blackneck Stilts, Great Blue Herons, Snowy Egrets, Muscovy Ducks, Mallards, Coots, and lest we forget, Cormorants. There were a host of birds hanging out a stone’s throw away from the freeway. The birds didn’t seem to mind the bikers and walkers that were gawking at them. The bikers weren’t gawking, they were moving too fast to see anything. There’s a whole convention of birds down there, our feathered friends. They didn’t care about the cold water, or trash, or cement. They looked happy, all except the Cormorants, and even they were shaking out their feathers from time to time in exaltation. 

The Google Sandbox

As mentioned, Bill the smog guru is no longer Bill the smog guru. He is now Bill the Google master. He can get any page to appear first on a Google search. He was explaining it to me how he does it, but it went way over my head. I felt like a gorilla as I sat there listening to him pontificate.

He convinced me to write a description for my blog, that’s how little I know. He was talking about the Google slap and the Google sandbox.

“You don’t want to end up in the sandbox.”

“No, I don’t want that.”

It’s a wonder anyone finds my blog. I have no description, no internet skills, and not a whole lot of ambition.

            The last thing Bill said to me as I was leaving was, ‘Wordtracker.” His eyes were bulging out of his sockets like a man possessed. I think the hippie done lost his mind. 

Weddings and Golf Bags

I found myself at a family wedding on Saturday. It was a country club affair, and from all appearances, it was real nice. It was good to see the family come together. As time has passed, the family has become larger, although it seems to be getting smaller with all the in fighting and lack of participation.

            I’m not a big fan of weddings. I have a tendency to disappear during the reception and walk around the country club at night. A country club at night is a lonely place.  The last three family weddings have been at country clubs, and at all three weddings I found myself strolling the grounds alone peering into the window of a pro shop. The sight of empty golf bags sitting in the shadows of a closed dark pro shop is sad. The bags sit there, chubby, empty, and in isolation, all they need is a pint of ice cream to make their loneliness complete. Nobody has picked them, and at pro shop prices it may be some time before someone does.  

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.