The Flick

            
            I spent the night in the mountains on Saturday. It was a night of camping. Frankly, it's more peaceful in my cabin. People talk really loud. Even when they're close to each other. I'm not sure why. I think it's cultural, or in this case, a lack of culture. It was both men and women alike. Other than that, it was nice. Stars, fire, food. I didn't take a single picture. Old school.
            I have mixed feelings about digital photography. It used to be when you bought film and photography cost money, you used a certain amount of discretion when it came to taking pictures. We didn't take pictures willy-nilly. Each shot was precious. We had rolls of twenty-four or thirty-six, and we had to think about whether the subject was photo-worthy. We never took pictures of feet, or food, or our workouts, because frankly, we knew those pictures were boring and not worth the investment. They're still boring. Sure, we goofed off at the end of a roll, and from time to time we dedicated a roll to "art," but we didn't take pictures of dinner. Besides, that's food bragging.
            I heard a rodent outside my tent in the middle of the night. He was real close. He may have been messing with the tent itself, I can't recall. I was half asleep. I remember feeling scared for a moment before I extended my arm and flicked the tent with my middle finger. I pinned my finger behind my thumb and flicked. It made a thud sound that put the fear of god into the mouse, kangaroo rat, or what ever it was. He ran away as fast as he could and never came back. I thought it was funny. I was satisfied in some way. The flick. It's my weapon of choice.
           

Planet America

            
            I got nuttin' this week; no funny stories, no interesting observations. Nothing. I found a pair of French doors on the street. That was about as exciting as it got. I haven't been out. My person to person contact has been minimal. My art however has been flourishing. I'm working on seven new songs. I can't keep up. It's putting the words to the music that is slowing me down. The words are the tricky part. All it takes is one bad turn and the house of cards collapses. And you can't force it, so it's a bit of a waiting game. At the same time I'm thinking about things, searching for ideas, writing things down, sorting through the chicken scratch, trying to make it work without settling for all the typical no-good ideas I come up with. Sometimes the song ends up sounding typical anyway. Some songs just want to be cliche. Don't ask me why. It must have something to do with conformity and obedience. 
            I have an app called Skyview on my ipad. When events turn interesting, which is more often than not, I'll check the app to see how the planets are aligned. I like to see where they sit relative to earth and my tiny life. The funny thing is, no matter how hard I try, how diligent I search, I can never find Uranus. 

Grandma

            
My grandma, upon meeting my grandfather said,
he was so tall and handsome.
I found out recently that my grandfather
was five-ten and a half.
How tall was grandmother?
Four-eleven.

Buried Treasure

            
            There are two things that Mexican families have in common:
            1) Their grandfather, or great grandfather, or great-great grandfather was an officer under Pancho Villa in the revolutionary war.
            2) Their family left behind a buried treasure in Mexico that nobody can find.
            My grandfather was a general under Pancho Villa. As stories go that's pretty good. I saw somebody post on Facebook the other day that his great grandfather was a colonel under Villa. Ha! A colonel. Somebody's not using their imagination. I tend to believe my grandfather story. There are black and white pictures of him in military uniform. He was working for Diaz then, but supposedly he switched sides.
            The buried treasure part is harder to believe. As usual, there was a death bed snafu. The words were uttered but not fully understood. Legend has it people were digging holes willy-nilly to find it, but it was never found.
            It's my belief that at a certain point in life a Mexican kid is going to turn to his parents and ask, "why are we so poor?" To which the story of the buried treasure will be told. "We weren't always poor, we were rich before the revolution. We had to bury our treasure ..."
         
            

Lady, Chick, Neighbor

            
            Things took a turn for the worse when I asked her if she needed help. I saw her carrying her baby in one arm and trying to move a trash can with the other. She was standing at a steep incline on her driveway. It looked awkward, as if she was going to topple over, so I offered to help. I think I offended her masculinity. How was I supposed to know? I was just thinking about the baby. I saw it's head tilt down toward the pavement as she reached for the can. The little bald head (actually it was a big head for a baby) looked vulnerable hanging down like that. And she seemed on the verge of losing her balance. Now when I see her she ignores me as though I committed an unforgivable offense. It's getting worse and worse. I'm starting to think of her as an asshole. Now we're both butt-hurt. So, so, butt-hurt. 

Drivers In The Video Game

            
            I've noticed that over the years driving in Los Angeles has become progressively worse. People are taking more chances and having difficulty exercising a healthy amount of patience while driving. This is especially noticeable with left and right turns into traffic. Drivers are making snap decisions and putting others at risk. I have a hypothesis as to why this is occurring. I have no proof to back it up, but it makes sense to me.
            Cell phones and technology have made us impatient. It's to the point where drivers can't wait a few extra seconds for a car to pass to make a safe turn. A few seconds is an eternity in the digital world. I think people are having difficulty transitioning from the binary and code, to reality. And when they get behind the wheel their impetuous digital behavior becomes an analogue hell. I wish it weren't true, but it is, and I don't think there's any stopping it.
           To add to the problem, nobody seems to be aware of it. I'm thinking it has societal effects beyond driving, but I can't think of anything specific right now. Maybe I'm entirely wrong and everybody is just hyped up on coffee and amphetamines. Or extremely conscientious when it comes to punctuality. Maybe it has nothing to do with technology. But something is going wrong out there. It could be that people are selfish assholes, and they're interbreeding with other selfish assholes, to make more selfish assholes. Who knows? All I know is drivers are making unsafe turns and it's getting worse and worse.

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.