Banco

            I parked my car in front of my bank. I was on a slope. I turned my wheels toward the curb. I hadn't finished turning the wheel when I heard a crushing sound coming from the right front tire. It was ominous. I got out of the car and checked the tire. Sure enough, there was a hissing sound coming from it.
            I wasn't sure what to do. I considered my options. Should I drive away and find a tire shop, or deposit money into my account? I might as well make the deposit, I reasoned.
            There was a line, but it wasn't too bad, a couple of ladies and myself. But things slowed down some. I could hear the tire hissing in the back of my mind as I stood there.
            Anything else for you, Miss? Yes, may I have a cashiers check for a hundred dollars... I was hoping she'd say oh, no thank you.
            A guy in his twenties was playing with his phone while he waited for his transaction to be made. The kid couldn't pull himself away from it. He was looking down at it stupidly. He was all thumbs. He had the fastest thumbs I've every seen. It was troubling to look at.            
            I finally had a turn at a teller. I slid him a check and asked for a dollar in quarters just in case I needed to put air in my tire. The teller looked at me oddly. I felt obligated to tell him the story. I parked on a slope and I turned my wheel... I should have never told him. 

Sleepus Interruptus

            I was startled from a deep sleep by a loud bang. It was more like an explosion than a bang. It was three in the morning. I was laying in bed when I heard a second explosion. I got up to see if I could figure out what was going on. If the neighborhood heard the noise they weren't bothering to get up. Not even the dogs showed any interest. All was still. 
            I heard a popping sound and then a loud buzzing sound. Black thick smoke was billowing in the air. I figured a transmitter blew or something. I went back to bed and listened. I heard a fire truck in the distance. The firemen turned off their sirens as they approached. It was as though they didn't want to wake the neighbors.
             The next day I took a walk to see if I could figure out what had happened. I was looking up at the transmitters, but they all checked out in good shape. (I was pleased to see that there were quite a few new ones). I kept walking. There's a windy road that leads to the top of the hill. I followed it up. I soon discovered what caused the racket. There was a burned out BMW. The heat had exploded its windows. Glass was scattered about. I inspected the carcass. There was nothing left but a burned out shell. I was trying to figure out if the fire was set intentionally, or if it was poor engineering. I never did figure it out. It was irremediable damage of the strangest kind.

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."