The Iron Will

I ironed a shirt today for the first time in years. It use to be that people wouldn’t leave the house unless they looked proper. When I was a kid I’d sometimes iron my clothes before school so as not to look like a slob. Even the kids in gangs took the time to iron their clothes back then. They were the most meticulous. They had perfect creases on their pants and shirts. I think they used heavy starch to get their creases razor sharp.

            My mother ironed for hours at time to make sure I looked presentable. My aunt Margaret was the same way. My mother and aunt were good at it. I’ve never mastered it. I don’t have the patience for it. It’s like a wrestling match when I do it. It doesn’t matter if it’s a shirt or a pair of pants, I’ll have trouble. The fabric folds or bends in a manner that simply drives me nuts, and when I apply the steam it seems to make it worse. It makes permanent the impatience I’m feeling. It makes evident my state of mind. I don’t want to wear my state of mind, so I'll keep trying until I get it right. 

Sunday Driver

            I exited the highway on a street called Catholic Center Drive, and then made a left turn on Buddhist Circle. I drove a few blocks and made a right turn on Hindu Pass. I still had no idea where I was so I turned onto Judaism Road. Judaism Road turned into a cul-de-sac, so I doubled back and made a left on Islamic Trail Avenue. I wondered how a trail could be called an avenue. The city planners had made an error in my estimation. I saw a series of small streets: Mormon Tabernacle Way, Confucius Lane, Baptist Choir Road. I stayed the course on Islamic Trail avenue, and somehow I found the highway again, and didn’t look back for fear of turning into a pillar of salt.  

The Band

I played the Pawn Shop gig again. I need the money to get back into the studio. There was something missing when I arrived, but I couldn’t put a finger on it.

            “No drummer,” Ray the keyboard player said. “He hurt his back.”

            As the bass player of the band, that’s not what you want to hear when you get to a gig. I’ve never played a gig without a drummer. I looked at Eichenbaum the guitar player, and he had a look of disbelief on his face. The band has three female singers, and they didn’t even flinch with the news. It didn’t bother them at all.

            I found myself tapping my foot more than usual. I was thinking to myself, how am I going to get through this? I looked across the street. There was an old man with a cane waiting at the bus stop. He looked like Santa Claus in sweatpants. He had a long gray beard. I saw him looking at me. He raised his cane and started to dance. It was a beautiful sight. I couldn’t cheat him. I played harder after that.

            Then a pretty lady with salt and pepper hair showed up. She was watching the band, but then disappeared. A short time later she came back holding a Hula-Hoop. She had her boyfriend with her. He set down a lounge chair and she spun the hoop around her waist and started to move. She had the hoop going pretty good. Her boyfriend got up and started to dance. God-damn! I love the spirit. I dug in even deeper with the sight of it.

            The sun had come down. It was getting dark. A young man appeared. He was wearing a suit, but no tie. He came up to me and asked if he could play my bass. I don’t let guys sit in unless I ask them, besides he looked like he was missing some marbles.

            He walked up to Eichenbaum and asked if he could play his guitar. Eichenbaum gave him the look of death. The kid disappeared after that, but to our surprise he came back holding an amplifier, and had a gig bag around his shoulder. He found a place to plug in and started to play. He didn’t bother to ask anybody if it was okay. Eichenbaum was throwing Tomahawks at him with his eyes. The kid had some nerve.

            He was playing pretty well. He knew all the songs. He was an idiot savant. We ended a song.

            “I’m with the band!” he shouted. 

Oscar Wilde

‘A work of art is the unique result of a unique temperament. Its beauty comes from the fact that the author is what he is. It has nothing to do with the fact that other people want what they want. Indeed, the moment that an artist takes notice of what other people want, and tries to supply the demand, he ceases to be an artist, and becomes a dull or an amusing craftsman, an honest or dishonest tradesman. He has no further claim to be considered as an artist. Oscar Wilde

Spare Change

I was walking on Main Street in Ventura. It was a cold evening and I hadn’t been there in sometime, so everything was fresh and new. I was peeking into the windows of storefronts when a man asked me for some spare change.

“I’m sorry man, I’m fresh out,” I said. I wasn’t lying. I kept walking.

I walked down a side street to get a closer look at the Ventura Theatre. It’s a nice theatre, rich in history. When I was done looking at the theatre I turned around to walk back up Main Street.

“Hey man, can you spare some change?” It was the same man asking for money again. He had his hands in his pockets and was standing in the shadows. He had walked a block up the street and I ran into him again.

“No sorry man,” I said.

“Oh yeah, I remember you I saw you down the street,” the man said, “sorry.”

I went back to looking in windows after the sudden interruption. There were a few thrift stores and antique shops that caught my attention, but they were closed. The street was bustling with restaurants and bars. I’d slow to look in a window and then move on.

I walked a block up. I was near Chestnut Street when I heard from the shadows, “Can you spare some change?” it was the same man again. He had somehow beat me to the point. 

            “Oh yeah, I remember your face, I’ve already asked you, sorry man.” 

The Connection

I called Bill the Google Master, aka: Bill the Smog Guru, for my eighty-three year mother. She needs a smog check and I wanted to make sure that she went to a reputable place. She insists on doing things herself, and calling Bill was the best I could do for her. 

Bill told me to tell her to go to Ace Smog Check in Eagle Rock and ask for a guy named Varoush or Fred, and tell them Bill sent her for the discount. 

I hung up the phone and wrote down the information and gave it to my mom. 
"Here you go, the place is called Ace Smog check and you’re to ask for a guy named Varoush or Fred and tell them Bill sent you.” I said.

“Varoush? She questioned.

“Yep, Varoush or Fred,” I reassured her.

The thought of my mother pulling up to the place, slowly getting out of her car,  and telling some guy named Varoush “Bill sent me” was enough to make me chuckle. 

Clasico

I was thinking of changing my name to Clasico. I’m pretty sure I'd can get away with anything I want with a name like Clasico. I get away with a lot now, but if my name was Clasico, I think the world would be my oyster.

For one thing, I’ve never heard anybody use the name Clasico before, it’s kind of like naming a kid Perfecto. It’s just not done. If I introduced myself as Clasico people would take notice that’s for sure. And it would be hard to say anything disparaging about me. If you called me an ass it wouldn’t be taken seriously with a name like Clasico. Well, maybe, but the name is bigger than the remark.

“I slept with Clasico and he was terrible.”

            It’s hard to believe a man named Clasico could be terrible in the sack. Clasico is Clasico, it couldn’t have been that bad.