ATM

            I pulled into a gas station. It was an Arco station with a communal ATM on the pillar. I wasn't familiar with it. I'm used to using ATM's that are on the pump. It took me a second to figure out how to slide the card in. I studied the picture example and stuck the card in the slot. The ATM snatched the card from my hand, ran the numbers, and spit the card out. Then it asked for my PIN number. I punched it in. Select a pump number was its next directive. I selected the pump number.
            Too late it said.
            What?
            Select pump! it demanded.
            I typed the pump number in again.
            Too late, it said.
            Huh? I tried it again.
            This time when it said select pump I punched in the number as fast as I could.
            Too late!
            Is this a joke? Am I being punked? I started talking to myself as I wrestled with the machine. I just wanted gas. I contemplated giving up and paying with cash. No, I can do this.
            I figured I'd cancel the transaction and start over. Maybe if the machine thought I was someone else it would quit messing with me. It worked. I got past the select pump number directive. I was relieved. Then the machine prompted its next message. A thirty-five cent fee will be added to this transaction.. accept or decline. 
            I accept! You son of a bitch! 

Colors

           My friend lives near the border of two rival street gangs. Every few months or so the gangs will tag a garage across the street that straddles their territories. One gang will tag the garage to stake a claim to it and the other gang will come along and cross it out. It's a turf war, a battle for land they don't own.
           Usually, one gang sprays the garage with black paint, and the other gang retaliates with red paint. And then somebody calls the city and the city paints the garage back to white. 
           I paid a visit to my friend the other day and I noticed that the garage had been tagged, but in this instance, one gang used yellow paint, and the other gang crossed it out in a baby blue color. Soft colors, I said to myself. Hardly menacing. How did that happen? I wondered if there was a conversation about the paint.
            "Yellow? What happened to black?"
            I created a picture in my mind of a gang banger pulling up to the garage and getting out of a car while his friend waited with the engine running. I pictured him crossing out the yellow tag with the baby blue paint, then getting back into the car to have his friend say, "What kind of paint is that? Where's the red?"
           The city sent two young men and a truck full of paint to the scene. The men looked like they could have had possible past associations with the gang life. They were standing by the truck and it looked to me like they were scrutinizing the tag. I detected some disappointment on their faces. I watched them spray paint the garage back to white. I wouldn't be surprised if they called the taggers afterwards and said, "Hey homie, what's with the paint? Caught you slipping."
         

Got My Goat

           I had a great idea for a blog, but I can't think of it right now. I should have written it down. That's  the stage I find myself in. The I should of written it down stage. I carry a miniature notepad these days, but thought I'd remember it. (I'm still trying to think of the idea I had; maybe it will come back to me).
           I saw some funny videos on baby goats. Baby goats hop adorably. They keep their front hooves together, and prance and spin, and bow their heads like they're going to ram something. They're full of life. I'm thinking I'd like to keep a baby goat just for entertainment. I'm not sure what I'd do with it when it was older. They'll eat just about anything from what I understand.            
           I can imagine the conversations I'd have with my goat.
           "Hey what happened to my leather shoes?"
           "I ate them," says the goat.
           "And what about my Vincente lizard grain embossed calfskin black belt?"
           "I ate it. It was delicious."

Cult 102

           I saw my friend Skip the guy who wants to be a cult leader. He was wearing a pair shorts and black tennis shoes. It was night and it wasn't even warm and there he was Mr. Casual. I didn't say anything about his attire, although I wanted to. It's hard to follow a guy who wears shorts in any situation.
           At one point I mentioned to Skip that he should start a cult based on the two common elements of all forms of life, breathing and reproduction, but my comment fell upon deaf ears. Skip was busy watching a video of a squirrel attacking a snake on his cell phone. I didn't know squirrels had the upper hand when it came to snakes, but apparently they do. A squirrel can get the better of a snake in most situations. Skip was riveted.
           "Hey, Skip I think you should grow your eyebrows out," I said.
           "I can't," he said. He was still looking down at his phone. He had moved on to videos of meerkats fighting scorpions.
            "Remember Brezhnev? He had a set of eyebrows, people are captivated by eyebrows," I said.
            Nothing. 
            I'm losing faith in Skip as a cult leader. I'm not sure he has it. Earlier in the evening he was trying to convince the hippies to replace their fire pit with kerosene lamps. It seemed like a bad idea to me. The hippies weren't drinking the Kool-Aid either.
         
            

The Optimist

            I was talking to my friend Willie and I felt like my contribution to the conversation was overly cynical. Or was it? Maybe Willie was being overly optimistic. His optimism was making me feel bad. I thought it would be funny to lecture him on his optimistic outlook on life.
            "Hey, Willie, can you tone down the optimism some? I'm having one of those how do I fit in days."
            I try not to be negative, but sometimes it's difficult to flip the polarity switch and put on a happy face. I feel like people just want to wave a magic wand to make everything happy, ignoring the casualties in life. Sometimes the casualties are loved ones, and that's enough to bring anyone down.
            

Cult 101

            I know a guy who's trying to start a cult. So far he has no followers. I'm trying to give him tips on how to be a good cult leader, but it's slow going. His wardrobe is all wrong and as far as I can tell he doesn't really have a clear message. More importantly, he doesn't have the gift of gab. I'm not saying you need the gift of gab to be a cult leader, but it helps. If you don't have a good wardrobe and you're not an engaging communicator, then you're pretty much screwed as a cult leader in my estimation. My friend has the desire, and deep down I think he can do it, but he'll have to put the work in. He'll need to come up with a manipulative pitch of some kind. Either that, or let his eyebrows grow out and walk with a cane. Something.
             My friend keeps talking about Plato, but Plato's not going to get him any followers. Plato's not sexy. He needs sexy.

Hair Styles

            My friend Willie liked to drink beer in his courtyard. Every now and again he'd see his neighbor Ann Marie walk by. Anne Marie had a different hair style every time Willie saw her. One day she'd have black hair with bangs, and the next she'd have blond hair cut in a sixties bob. One time she walked by and her hair was spiked and dyed pink.
           "Hey, nice hair cut," Willie would say when he saw her.
           Anne Marie, usually answered in the negative. "Eh, it's alright, or, eh, whatever."
           "Would you like a beer?" Willie was prone to ask.
           "No thanks," Anne Marie was prone to answer.
           One day Anne Marie finally accepted Willie's drinking invitation, but she didn't drink his cheap beer. She brought over a bottle of Bourbon, and poured it into her own glass. 
           Willie waited until he had enough courage in him to bring up the subject of Anne Marie's hair. He finally did.           
            "Every time I see you your hair is different?"
            "I'm hair model for extra cash." 
            Willie didn't believe her. He thought she was working undercover for the Burbank PD.