Cleaning the Galaxy

            I spend my Sunday evenings at the hippie compound. They're not really hippies, but there is a communal element to their domicile. They have a fire pit, and we play music. There's a matriarch who is the brains of the outfit. She asked me if I had written during the week. I mentioned the blog I wrote about William Shatner and Star Trek.
            I have dreams about removing trash from the galaxy, she said.
            How do you do that, I asked.
            I fly from star to star and pick up the trash.
            How do you get from place to place? Do you will it to happen?
            She looked at me as if I were a dummy.
            I compress it. I use to fly around from star to star, but I realized it would take me a million years to finish, so I compress the galaxy. It's a lot easier that way.
            You mean like a digital file?
            She looked at me in a confused manner. I just do it!
            

The Way to Eden

            I heard part of William Shatner's new album. God bless him. He has a way with words, I tell you. Everybody's a poet, even William Shatner.
            I was once in a book store and I stumbled upon Leonard Nimoy's book of poetry. I read through it while standing. It was funny. I'm not sure that was his intention, but as a poet myself I laughed.
            I got to wondering if William and Leonard recited their poetry on set. I'm sure they did. Actors like to recite things. It's a shame there wasn't a Star Trek episode of their poetry. I'd pay money to see that. Kirk reciting a poem on Time. Mr. Spock reading a poem on the awkwardness of being different. Space hippies playing their bongos, Primitives singing songs: "Going to live like a king on whatever I find, eat all the fruit and throw away the rind." Episode twenty, season three.
            
           
           
            

Apps

          I've been composing music with an ipad. It's pretty dang amazing what apps can do. Equipment that would've cost thousands of dollars in the past is now $2.99-$4.99. The most expensive app I've bought so far was $15.00.
          I have experience working with vintage synthesizers, Moogs, Korgs, and samplers, so in a sense I'm rediscovering elements of my youth by composing electronic music. I have no shortage of ideas, but I haven't figured out a proper workflow yet. I've tried various approaches to sequencing, using different apps, but I'm not yet satisfied with the results. I'll be posting tracks soon, nonetheless. I figure my methodology will solidify itself as I gain practical experience, or when I find that perfect app.                                
          Writing songs is about sixty-two times harder than composing electronic music, but I like both mediums. There's a freedom to technology, it's called the delete button.

Hipster Staring at a Manhole Cover

           I was driving along. It was a nice sunny day. I had the top down on my convertible. I was speeding along when I saw a man in the cross walk. He was a younger man in his twenties. I came to a stop and waited for him to cross. He was walking real slow, like so many youngsters tend to do nowadays. He had his head down. He was wearing a baseball cap and had a beard. He was moping across the street. Lollygagging. He looked pathetic. I waited and checked myself for patience. I was in complete control of myself until the kid suddenly stopped in front of me. I thought maybe he dropped something, but no, he didn't. He was checking a manhole cover. My blood pressure went way up. He finally figured out he was being a nuisance and continued across the street.
            "You flipping moron!" I yelled as I drove past.
            I looked in my rear view mirror. The kid was giving me the finger. I raised my arm and flipped him off. That was a fair exchange, I said to myself as I drove away. 

Bolano

            I'm reading a lot. I'm reading a book by Roberto Bolano, The Savage Detectives. It's a long book, six hundred and some-odd pages. My first impressions of Bolano were good, but then I was annoyed with his incessent need to name drop. He'd fill whole pages with names. Latin American writers mostly. If ever you want to learn about Latin American writers, read the first two hundred pages of The Savage Detectives. He stopped doing it and his stories got better. That's what writing is to me, good stories. Some people have them and some people don't. Bolano had them and he didn't pussyfoot around when he told them. I like that. Bad writing is like a meandering joke. It's not very entertaining, and at a certain point you'll lose interest in it. 
            There's an honesty to Bolano. He's not afraid to reveal the intimate elements of his characters. It's hard to be honest. It's a little easier in the third person. "She smells bad" is easier to say than "you smell bad."  
            

The He-Man Woman's Haters Club

            I went to an open mic to try out a new song. It was the typical He-Man Woman's Haters Club, not a female in sight. When a woman does walk into the bar she practically gets a standing ovation.
            But on this night there seemed to be a bunch of guys who showed up for the free hotdogs. I sat down and ordered a beer. I was babying it. I don't like to drink too much before I get up. I've made that mistake before. A barrel chested fellow sang a song about tits and ass. He kept repeating tits and ass over and over again. Tits... and ass. Then he'd break into the chorus. "What ever happened to songs about pussy?" A smile came to my face. It made me laugh.
            It was my turn to sing. The room was restless. People were stirring about while I was plugging in. I'd lost them before I had a chance to play a note. I blew into my harmonica, and the audience came back briefly. I got through the first song. I flubbed some words at the end, but nobody seemed to notice. A guy with a round belly started to talk to me between songs. "You kind of sound like Bob Dylan. You're Irish right? Yeah, I can tell you're Irish."
            

Max the Rip Off Artist

         My sister's car failed a smog check. I took the report to Bill the Smog Guru so he could look it over. He sat down at his desk and disappeared behind the clutter.

            "She took it to Max! Why'd she take it there?" he asked.

            "How am I supposed to know?"

            "He's a rip off! I use to send all my bad customers to him! If a customer had a bad attitude I'd refer them to Max. I'd tell them, I charge sixty dollars, but there's a guy down the street who will do it for thirty, and that includes a smog certificate. Max would complain bitterly, Billy, why are you sending me so many bad customers? You said if I was busy to send them to you. The real reason was because Max would sell gas caps for thirty-five dollars to old crippled ladies."

            "He tested my sister's car with the check engine light on."

            "He's an idiot!"

            "He said she had to fix her car at his shop to get a free re-test."

            "He's a test only shop! He's not suppose to work on cars!" Bill was getting red in the face from agitation. "What we ought do is let him fix the car and show up with a camera, then report him to Bureau of Auto Repairs, that's what we ought to do!"
            "You mean a sting operation?"
            "Yeah, you show up with a camera and get footage while he's working on the car."
            "I think it's a better idea if you show up with the camera."
            "He knows me. He has no idea who you are!"
            "I still think it's a better idea if you show up."