D.B. Cooper's Brother

            I was at the bank waiting in line, when a man walked in and stood behind me. We were the only two customers waiting. The man was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. He reminded me of the old FBI wanted posters for D.B. Cooper. 
            The tellers were taking their sweet time and there was nothing to do but look around. I noticed the man's shoes were similar to mine.
            "Did you buy your shoes at Big Five?" I asked him.
            "Yeah, $14.00. I'm not going to pay two hundred dollars for a pair Nikes. That's ridiculous."
            "I know what you mean."
            "When I was a kid, tennis shoes cost 99 cents. We'd dye them black to make them look better. Once in a while I'll buy an expensive shirt. I paid $150 for one a while back. The store threw in these pants for free."
            I looked down at his pants. Blue denim. The material looked on the thin side.
            "They've faded some now." The man reached for his belt line and flipped his pants inside-out to show me the original color of the jeans. "See look."
             "Yeah." I felt myself pull back as I looked at the man holding his belt line.
             "The only problem is the dye is turning my legs blue. I have to scrub my legs when I take my pants off. It's a pain in the ass."
           

Whirlybird

            I was visiting my friend Cheeky. It was an ordinary visit until a helicopter started to circle overhead. No big deal, it was LA. But it kept circling. Eventually my curiosity got the best of me and I looked out the window to see what was going on. There was a white truck parked in the neighbor's driveway. The truck was parked at an odd angle. It was blocking the sidewalk and sticking out into the street. There was a man standing at the back of the truck. The tailgate was down and it looked like he was holding an assault rife. He seemed to be loading it and checking it at the same time.
            "It looks like there's a man with a rifle outside," I said to Cheeky.
            Cheeky was playing words with friends on her cell phone and didn't bother to respond to my comment.
            "He has a helmet on."
            "A helmet?" The helmet piqued her interest.
            "Yeah, it's a helmet alright."
            "Let me see." Cheeky moved off the couch to peer out the window. "He does have a helmet."
            "I told you!"
            "And there's a cop blocking off the street with yellow caution tape," Cheeky said.
            "Where?"
            The man with the rifle walked away. That's when I decided to go outside to see what the heck was happening. There was a line of squad cars parked up the street. I decided to ask the cop putting up the caution tape for details. I approached him slowly. Cops are jumpy nowadays.
            "Excuse me, I don't mean to be a bother, but what's going on?"
            "Ehh, some guy attacked somebody with a brick or knife or something, he lives up the street. I don't know really, I'm just working the perimeter."
            "Oh, okay thank you."
            The cop made an impression on me; he seemed like the nicest, most normal guy in the world.
         
         
         
          

Blog 4 Blogs Sake

            This blog is for blog's sake. I used to blog twice a week, but nowadays it's just once a week. Consistent inconsistency is my model. A part of me felt like it was too much stimuli for readers, so I pared it down. There were other factors as well. I have other projects I'm working on: books, music, general malingering, things of that nature.
            Lately, music has been a lot more interesting to me than writing. I get restless when I write and it's difficult for me to sit still. Maybe my writing desk has something to do with it. I have it set up so I'm staring at a wall.
            Music on the other hand is much more fun to me. I can move around if I want to. I can take my guitar outside. I can learn songs or write my own. I have a forty-eight track studio on my ipad with keyboards, effects, drum machines, mastering software, everything I need. 
            I did write some last week, editing mostly. It's wasn't fun and games like music though. I forced myself to sit and think about the sentence and re-write for the millionth time. 
            

Germs

            With the Ebola outbreak, we germophobes are in a bit of a tizzy. I'm not an advanced germophobe, just a regular guy who washes his hands more than usual.
            Last night I found myself waiting in line at an ATM. There was an older man using the machine in front of me, a tall big fellow. He was taking his sweet time about it. He stood in front of the machine and counted his money, like considerate, conscientious people are prone to do. I heard him cough. And then I saw him wipe his nose and cough again uncontrollably. He was spreading his germs pretty good from what I could tell. I figured if he had touched the buttons I was waiting in line for, there was a good probability of contracting his illness. I packed it up and decided to find another ATM. I had never done that before. I had a sudden impulse to get away from the guy. In my mind he was bad news on many levels.
            I think I made the right decision, but truth be told, I'm not feeling a hundred percent today. Feverish. No flu shot. Never a flu shot. I don't trust them.

Addendum:

I know a guy who had a van with a water bed in it. Circa 1979.

I Talk To Myself

            It's official. I talk to myself. It's been a long time coming, but it's here now and I'm not sure I can turn it back. When I catch myself doing it, I feel kind of strange, as if I've caught myself in crazy. Thus far I'm not answering myself or having full-on conversations. Sometimes I pretend like I'm being interviewed by a reporter, but that's normal.
           At least I don't talk to my dog or cat. Now that's loony. When I talk to myself there's the probability of having a conversation, albeit with myself. But I'm not fool enough to expect an answer from a pet. I'm getting a certain satisfaction in writing this. I know a few people who talk to their pets. I wish I could see their faces upon reading this. But they'd be the first to tell you that they're nuts, and that's why I like them. They're honest about their peculiarities. 
           Deep down, I know if I had pets I'd talk to them too. I really want a cat, but there are quite a few coyotes around my cabin and I wouldn't want to put my little fuzzy-wuzzy in harm's way. 

Cialis

            I was watching a ball game on television the other day when a Cialis commercial came on. Wow! that lady looks good for her age, I thought. The camera panned to a handsome man with salt and pepper hair. When the narrator mentioned penile dysfunction, the camera zoomed to his smiling face.
            I wouldn't want to be an actor in a Cialis commercial, even if it is make-believe. I know it pays well, and acting jobs are hard to come by, but still. I think I'd be defensive about it.
            "I  saw your Cialis commercial Anthony."
            "The money was great!"
            "You were good in it."
            "What's that supposed to mean? Just so you know, it works just fine."
                                                               
                                                                

This and That

            The cut-off point for me on the heat index is ninety-six degrees. Anything above ninety-six is uncomfortable, anything below, is not so bad. That's if I'm indoors of course. The specs change if I'm outdoors. I haven't figured the outdoor specs yet. I'm not sure I ever will. 
            I went to the beach this weekend. The sand was burning hot. I had to twist my feet below the surface sand to stand comfortably on it. That's an old beach trick not everybody knows about. It's akin to finding the shady part of the sand. It's where the hobbits live. Or that's what I'd like to believe. 
            I'm still reading The Hobbit. Goblins are bloodthirsty. Thank God for Gandalf. I'm beginning to wonder if J.R.R Tolkien was on drugs, or just that smart. I've seen pictures of him. He doesn't look like a drug user, but you never know. It's the innocent looking folk that are the most pernicious. Take Diane Feinstein for instance. She looks motherly, kind, of good character, but truth be told, she sometimes votes for murder.