Cutie and the Boxer

            I saw the movie Cutie and the Boxer. It was good to see committed artists at their craft. I'm not sure if people understand the sacrifices artists make to be artists. They may not even care. But the movie inspired me. To see an eighty year old man still trying. And his wife trying for the first time on her own. It was beautiful and liberating to me. In my estimation that's what art is, beauty and freedom, mixed in with as few bills as humanly possible.
            I'll let you in on a little secret. It's much easier to be an artist when you're young. When you're young there's still time for you to conform. There's hope that you'll snap out of it and land a good paying job with benefits. People will look at you funny when you tell them you're an artist, but they'll let you slide because you're young. When you're older and still dreaming that's when people start talking about the crazy gene. "Oh, he has the crazy gene, he got it from his father's side of the family."
            But to me it's not madness at all. It makes perfect sense. When you're eighty and doing it, well, you're just about nobility as far as I'm concerned. You licked them all, and were true to yourself. Being true to yourself is life's purpose defined. 

The Heckler

            I went to an open mic Thursday night. I'm trying out my new songs in front of an audience. 
            A comedian got up to tell some jokes, or rather, tell some stories. He was an Asian kid and his jokes were from the Asian perspective. It was stereotypical material that was long winded and not funny. What made it worse was he thought he was funny, but nobody was laughing. It got to the point of being uncomfortable. The kid asked the MC how much time he had left. The MC said one minute. I was relieved. The kid went on for another four minutes, and then asked, "do I have more time?" 
            I surprised myself and yelled out "No!" 
            I didn't intend to say it out loud, but it was excruciating, and the words had a will of their own. The guy next to me said "you're brutal." I felt bad. I was the heckler. I had never been the heckler before. I didn't enjoy it much. I took it real hard. I wanted to apologize to anyone who'd listen. People seemed to turn on me. He's the heckler. The heckler is no place to be. It's a solitary life I can assure you. 
            The poor kid was no good. He could have used a few driving jokes. 

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.