Song Writing Exercise #357

            Sometimes a song takes too long to write. When it takes too long I think something is wrong and I worry about writing words that are contrived. I'm experiencing that right now. I have a guitar part and a vocal melody that I like, but the words are taking their sweet time about it. All my ideas seem wrong, so I'm waiting around for good ideas while pressing the buttons I usually press to
write a song.
            Maybe it's a song that will never be written. Maybe there is a lesson I'm supposed to take away from this. In the past, if a song took too long to write I'd chuck it and move on. But this song I like. I want it to work out. And I'm willing to wait for it. But the process is so different I'm concerned it will turn into a dud. If I force it, it will be dumb, if I don't force it, it will never be written. It's a conundrum. I'm going to have to feather this one in. Stroke it softly. Find the right kindling and start a fire with just one match.

Obamacare

            My cash-strapped conservative friends are beginning to taste the fruits of national health care. I remember listening to them complain about the prospects of the new law. Like usual, I wasn't convinced they were making much sense, but I heard them out anyway. I knew my friends didn't have money, or health care, and when you hear a man argue against his own interest, then you know for certain he's stupid.

            Recently, one of my conservative friends in a moment of exultation exclaimed boldly, "I'm on Medicare!" He proceeded to show me his newly minted state issued health card as evidence. 

            "Oh, that looks like Obamacare," I said.

            "No, it's Medicare, I didn't sign up for Obamacare!"

            "It looks like Obamacare to me. You better thank "that bitch" Nancy Pelosi." 

            "It's Medicare! Look how much I pay for my prescriptions... zero," my friend  said to me with a smile.

            "You should give your thanks to Barry!"

            

   

            

Good Credit

           My nephew-in-law had his identity stolen by someone in Tulare county. He was trying to buy something big when it was revealed to him that he owned a house in Tulare. Apparently, he had lost his wallet in Yosemite on a hike to Half Dome, and somebody from Tulare picked it up.
          "I don't own a house in Tulare county," he told the woman from the credit report company.
          "Oh, yes you do, and it's good to see that you've been making your payments on time," the woman said.
          "What did you do? How'd you fix it?" I asked my nephew.
          "I didn't do anything. I had bad credit at the time, I figured I'd let the family in Tulare county make payments on the house until I had good credit. I reported it a year later."

Monterey Park

            A friend and I found a tasty Chinese restaurant in Monterey Park. It's the real deal. The first time we ate there we were afraid to go in. We peered through the window. The patrons were exclusively Chinese. They're such a close-knit community, we wondered how they'd react to us. We had to summon all our courage just to open the door.
            The wait staff were friendly. However, did I detect a degree of burdensome dread emanating from them? The Americans.
            I looked around the room. The patrons were staring at our table as though we were foreigners. Hell, I practically grew up in Monterey Park. I use to play with the Wang twins. Where were they then, I asked myself? They were dodging Chairman Mao.
            The kid sitting at the table next to us couldn't help but gawk. Some people were friendly, and others weren't. Some people looked at us with a hint of there goes the neighborhood. They'd look at me and I at them. I was wondering if I had honked at one of them on the drive in. Hey, weren't you just on the 10 freeway? Sure, hide yourself in the soup, I don't blame you, it's delicious.
         
            

Zapatos

            I bought a new pair of Italian shoes. They're black cap toes that are so shiny, a glare emanates from them in the dark. I had trouble putting them on for the first time. They were so stiff, I couldn't get my foot into them. I didn't have a shoehorn handy, so I tried using a spoon. That didn't work, so I flipped the spoon around and used its handle as a shoehorn. That did the trick.
            I lost my balance and nearly fell over with my first step. I had to steady myself before I could take another. The shoes had a kick to them. I stumbled a few more times as I walked to my car. The shoes took hold of me and turned me clumsy.
            I got out of my car and was walking on the sidewalk. I looked down to admire my shoes. There was a glare coming off of them that made me happy. The moon must be out I reasoned. I looked up into the night sky. Yup, it was the moon alright, a beautiful waxing gibbous. 

Cash Rewards

            I was on an afternoon walk when I saw a sign posted for a lost bunny. Reward, Lost Bunny. There were pictures of the bunny and the bunny looked familiar to me, but that's another story for another time. I kept walking. I had the bunny in mind as I made my way through the neighborhood. Every once in a while I'd look for him, but he was nowhere to be found. Poor bunny, he had no idea the danger he was in. 
            It was a nice sunny winter Southern California day, not a cloud in the sky. I was hoping for some rain, some personality, but it was getting warmer not colder. I was walking up a steep street when I came upon another sign. Reward: lost Haynes flute $500.00, no questions asked. I stood and stared at the sign. The no questions asked part made me laugh. I can use five hundred extra dollars I thought. I started to look for the flute as I made my way. First, I was looking for a bunny and now I was looking for a flute. What's next, a sign that says lost Flemish embroiderer who answers to the name Wizard?

The Rose Parade.

            New Year's Day started off with a parade, the Rose Parade. My sister and I took a train into Pasadena and found a spot to stand just east of Marengo. It was a good spot, since the bands started to play music just about then. I like going to the parade for the marching bands. And I learned something yesterday, and that is, a parade doesn't start until you see the first marching band. Marching bands bring parades credibility. A good parade should start with a marching band, and end with a marching band, the rest is just filler as far as I'm concerned.
            I did like the equestrian acts. Settlers I called them. Here come some more settlers. They looked fantastic in their costumes and some of the ladies looked real pretty.
            The parade itself was paced funny. Everything got bunched up and it became bumper to bumper. There were marching bands pressed up against floats, and floats pressed up against the settlers. It was a mess. I wish society wasn't so half ass. I'm sick of half ass. You'd think after one hundred and twenty five years of putting on a parade, you might know what you're doing.