The Tennis Shoes

Bill the Spooky Guy gave me a pair of tennis shoes. He said he wore them once to an art opening, but they were uncomfortable to his feet. I didn’t want the shoes, but he was insistent that I have them. The shoes were funny looking, white, with strange stitching. They looked cheap.

I wore them once on a short jog and afterwards I heard a clicking sound coming from the heel. I took the shoes off and discovered the soles had pulled away from the body. I tried to fix them with epoxy and a brick, but it didn’t take. A part of me felt obligated to keep the shoes, as they were a gift. I eventually tossed them in the trash. Months had passed before I mentioned it to Bill.

“Hey Bill, you know those tennis shoes you gave me?”

“Yeah.”

“I wore them on a jog and they split in two.”

Bill buckled with laughter.

“They weren’t running shoes. They were walk around the house shoes.”

“You mean they were like slippers?”

                “Yeah, like slippers.” 

Curbside With Sunny

            I saw Sunny the Lizard hanging on to the curb. He was in a vertical position. He was peeking his head over the ridge and spying on me. He had his claws dug in and seemed to be struggling to hold his position. He dropped to the ground and scurried away when he realized he had been discovered.
            "Sunny, you freak!"
            I was somewhat offended by his behavior. I thought we were friends.
            I saw him again a day later. He was basking in the morning sun. It looked like he was recharging his batteries after a long hard night of drinking. He was dark in color. Hung over.
            I stepped over him and he didn't even seem to notice. Sunny's hard to figure that way. One day he'll be hyper-sensitive to my movements, and the next he won't even notice me coming.
            

Mid-life Crisis

            The itchy finger had no effect. I didn't even think about it once while playing.
            I think I'm going through a mid-life crisis, but rather than showing it with a fancy sports car and driving gloves, I'm manifesting it by watching horror movies from the seventies on YouTube. The language in the seventies was different. People had good grammar. I miss that. And the women in those days had sex appeal. Or more specifically, the gender roles weren't so ambiguous. Ambiguity makes for awkwardness, awkwardness makes my jaw feel funny. I get a tightness in my temples, and it's hard for me to think.
            The Devil's Nightmare is good example of what I'm referring to. It's based on the seven deadly sins. The Case of the Bloody Iris is another good one. These movies are dubbed, everything is out of sync, but they're put together in a manner that can not be recreated. 

The Itchy Finger

          I'm going into the studio today to lay down a bass line for a song I'm working on. The Gram Parsons sliced finger is sufficiently healed, but for some reason it itches. I was told once that an itch is the minutest form of pain. If that's the case, my finger is experiencing a lesser form of torture. 
             I wasn't able to practice much on account of my finger. The cut left a groove and a layer of skin that kept catching on the strings when I practiced. The string made for a perfect rail and the lip of the healing cut would get stuck on it. I'd yank my hand off the fretboard in pain when that happened. I don't have pain any longer, just a itchy sensation. I've never recorded music with an itchy finger before.  

Better Wood Than Drinks

            I went out last night for a drink. I saw my old jazz-head friends. I hadn't seen them in a while. I had a couple of drinks, but deep down I only wanted one. I woke up this morning with remorse, not from having too much to drink, but rather, that I could have spent the money on lumber for a deck I'm building. My life has changed some in recent years. I have lumber on my mind. 
            I saw Bill the Spooky Guy this morning. I needed some car advice. We talked about forty-five caliber guns and World War Two. His landlord showed up, and Bill got up to open the gate. I took the opportunity to walk to the back of his shop and look at his cars. When I got to the paint booth I saw something move. I thought it was a cat, but on closer inspection it was a black bunny. He had a spider web on his whisker. He seemed friendly, but I didn't take any chances.

Joshua Tree

           I took a trip to Joshua Tree and stayed in the very room that Gram Parsons died in. I didn't want to stay in his room, but all the other rooms were booked.
           I felt a presence when I walked into the room; maybe it was just the history of the place, or the fact that someone famous died there nearly thirty years ago.
           I brought out a bag of almonds and tried to pry the bag open, but it wouldn't budge, so I reached for my pocket knife. I was thinking about Gram. I was mocking him for having a trust fund. He was just a rich punk kid I reasoned, while I held the knife in my hand. I cut into the bag of almonds, and sliced my index finger in the process. Blood started to ooze out of it. I quickly apologized to Gram. I guess I was being a little bit too harsh. I remembered that Gram's father committed suicide and his mother was a drunk; money couldn't fix that. 
           Gram and I got past it. All was forgiven. I sat down to strum my guitar. I'm working on a new song, and I thought I could use some help from Gram. I hadn't been strumming long when the words started to pour out of me. I wrote them down the best I could. I read them later. I'm not sure I can use them, they might be gibberish.

If You Don't Sing, Hum

            I met a woman at a bar the other night, and she said she never sings. 
            "Not even in the shower?" I asked.
            "No, not even in the shower."
            "Oh, you must be a whistler," I said.
            "No, I don't whistle."        
            "Do you hum?"
            I could tell the woman was getting annoyed with the conversation, but that didn't stop me. When somebody mentions that they don't sing my immediate thought is dead spirit. There's nothing sadder than a dead spirit in my estimation. 
            I took it upon myself to revive the lady's dead spirit by asking more questions. This had an immediate effect. The woman started to gather her things and walk away. It made perfect sense to me, dead spirits want to remain dead, and no matter how hard you try to revive them they resist. Which reminds me of an old song we use to sing when we were kids: "every party has a pooper that's why we invited you, party pooper."