Poet Sized

            
            I get asked for money a lot. I'm sure everybody gets asked for money, but I seem to have a talent for attracting the every-day beggar. I'll kick a buck every now and then depending on the situation. If I see a creative sign that reads, "residentially challenged," or something to that effect, I'll donate out of respect for the creative process. If I see a kitten or a puppy I'm less inclined to give. I've been fooled by that before. I don't support the exploitation of kittens and puppies.             
           How I handle the straight up beggar depends on their approach. If they're overly aggressive I'll throw up my hands and say "I don't have any money. I'm a poet." Nine times out of ten they'll say, "oh okay," and walk away. It's like an universal understanding of poverty. Sometimes the beggar will size me up to see if I'm a good poet. They'll look at me with a discerning eye to decipher whether I can write or not. 
           The other night a beggar in front of a Seven Eleven store asked if I could buy him a cup of coffee. There was a slight drizzle in the air and it was three degrees colder than usual, so I bought the guy a cup. I was feeling pretty good about myself. I walked outside to give the man his coffee only to realize that somebody had beat me to it. When I approached the man he was holding a king size cup- way bigger than the cup I had bought. The cup he was holding was from someone with a full-time job and a career. I gave the man the coffee anyway, even though it was just poet size.

The Proprietor

            
            I ordered a burrito from the proprietor.
            I said in my best cowboy voice,
            "let me have one of them Mexican burritos."
            To which he said, "how do you want that designed?"
         
         
         
         
            

The Human Mapanoid, Elvis, and Waze

            
            I'm the son of a World War Two Air Force navigator. I seldom if ever get lost and take great pride in knowing how to get places. Maps are a form of entertainment to me. It's not uncommon to have perfect strangers ask me for directions. I guess I look like a man who knows how to get places without doubling back.
            Most times I'm accurate with my responses. I'll point the person in the right direction and they're forever grateful, and I'll feel good about it too. But there have been cases where I realized I sent the person in the wrong direction. Those were tense and introspective moments. I wonder what happened to those people. How long did it take before they figured it out. Did they curse me when they realized they were heading in the wrong direction? Did they slam their fist on the steering wheel in frustration? Did they have to stop and ask somebody else for directions, (did the somebody else give them the right directions)? If they saw me in public and remembered me, would they walk up to me and say, "hey man, you're the guy that gave me bonk directions!"
           I don't get asked for directions as much now-a-days with advent of GPS and all. Everybody knows where they're going. Unless you're using Waze and taking directions from Elvis. That can be a dicey proposition. Elvis likes to wait till the very last minute to give his commands. Ah' keep a right. Ah' take a left.  

Santa Anita

            I spent my Saturday at Santa Anita race track. I had an urge to look at pretty horses. There's something about a thoroughbred that I find majestic. I like the paddock area best. You can get a good look at the horses there. We were looking at the horses when the eight horse suddenly reared up out of anxiety or bravado, I'm not sure which, and nearly fell over backwards. He most have been ten feet tall as he stood on his hind legs. He was scratched from the race. He didn't look injured, but I'm guessing his owners didn't want to take a chance with him before having a veterinarian check him out.
            We got to the track kind of late and we didn't bother to buy a racing form. I wanted to place a bet just for fun so I looked over the horses in the paddock and based on bone structure, coat coloration, and general demeanor, I placed a bet on a long shot to win. He came in the money, but I was still out two bucks.
            I used the same technique for evaluating horses in the next race. I noticed a chestnut that just looked better than the rest. It was the five horse. I bet two bucks on him to win and he came in. He paid fourteen-seventy. 
            I was going to bet on a couple more horses for the next race, but we got to the ticket booth too late and weren't able to place our bets before the race started. The horses I picked for that race were losers and out of the money, so I felt like a winner even when I was losing.
            I bet the next race. This time the nine horse spoke to me. There was something about his haunches that said winner. I like a thoroughbred with a nice ass, and he had a nice ass. I bet him to place. He won. Winning is good. Who needs a racing form when you have nice asses to look at. 
              

Dead Parrot

            My friend Lester told me a story about how he killed his parrot, Pip. Pip had a thing for a towel and would hump it on occasion. I never knew this about parrots, but when I thought about it, it made perfect sense.
            One day Pip was on the couch under his towel, when Lester sat down to watch television. Lester got off the couch when he realized Pip had gone missing. He looked high and low for him and was in a panic. He finally thought to look underneath the towel and there was Pip, his neck was snapped. Lester took it hard. He loved Pip. He tried to put Pip's neck back on, but it didn't work out.
            Lester was living in an apartment building with a courtyard at the time. It was a typical LA arrangement. He asked the gardener if he could bury Pip under a tree. "Of course," the gardener said.
            Lester gave Pip a proper burial. He put him in a box and wrapped a necklace around him. Then he said a few words and apologized once more for killing him before placing him gently into the ground.
            The next day there was a knock on the door. It was the gardener. He told Lester that raccoons had dug up the grave site in the middle of the night.
            "Is there anything left?" Lester asked.
            The grave site was in disarray. The box Pip lay in was torn up and his necklace was flung in the dirt. Lester took it hard. 
            It had been years since Pip's death. And when Lester told me this story we both had a few drinks in us. Lester has a way of using his hands when talking, and making face gestures to enhance the effect of what he's saying, like a clown. So needless to say we both laughed our asses off as he told the story.  

Time, Earth, and Your Momma

            I'm going through some kind of transformation where time is accelerated. Thirty seconds on a microwave seems like fifteen seconds in life. I'm not sure why, but I'm paying more attention to time. I think it's because every where I turn there's a clock. My cell phone, my ipad, my computer, my car, I'm surrounded by clocks. And what I've noticed is that even the simplest task can be a bit of a time warp. For instance, the other night I sat down to read. I checked the clock, it was two a.m. I read a short blurb from a magazine, and checked the clock again, two minutes had passed. It was the shortest two minutes of my life. Mind you, I was slightly inebriated, but it didn't feel like two minutes at all. 
            It got me thinking about time, man, and earth. The earth is five billion years old, give or take. Relative to the earth, man is just a baby. Yet, we've figured out way to destroy the planet. But the reality is we're destroying ourselves and other living creatures. In the grand scheme of things, man is micro-important compared to the planet. The death of man would be liberating to earth. So perhaps in some twisted manner, the earth is trying to kill us off without us realizing it. If the planet should decide that's it, no more water, we humans are toast. And it seems things are moving in that direction. Soon, we'll all be huddled up in the state of Washington hoping for some rain. 
           And Mother Earth will say to us in a Spanish accent. "I tol' you!"
            

The New NFL

           I had a dream that the NFL no longer had male players, instead, they had hired women from Southeast Asia. The women were having trouble with the the late hit, tackling out-of-bounds rule. They were gang-tackling players fifteen yards too late, then wondering why the officials had thrown their flags.
           I went to the concession stand to buy a beer. There was a young boy waiting in line. He ordered a beer. The concession stand attendant hopped into a van and apologized to the kid, saying he had to make a delivery, and that he'd be right back. We watched as the man drove away. We saw him minutes later in the distance. He was driving on a windy road that abutted the ocean.
          "There he is!" the kid said excitedly as the van showed itself.
           Waves crashed beneath him as he drove northwest into the sunset.