Moths, Lights, And Tailgating Truckers

         
           I saw a kid on a leash the other day. He was trying to spin out of it. His mother was tugging at him, trying to reign him in, but the kid wasn't having it. Keep it up kid, you're going to make it someday.
            It's come to my attention that certain porch light fixtures are killing machines. Moths are being massacred at an astounding rate. It's an atrocity that nobody speaks of, but I have a feeling the insect community is aware of it. They have lots of issues to contend with. Pesticides for one, the use of the word pest as it pertains to them is another. But they're a well organized bunch and thankfully their representatives in Congress work on the cheap.
           In other news, people who drive trucks like to tailgate. I'm not talking about tractor trailer-trucks, but three quarter ton trucks. Chevy's, Fords etc. It seems people who drive these vehicles have a sense of entitlement and are often in a hurry. I think there's a psychology associated with height and horsepower that makes them irrational. When you drive a truck other cars look small and insignificant, and somehow that translates into get out of my way, stupid.
            I tend to slow down when I see them riding me. They go nuts then. It's like I'm controlling their mind with my lack of speed. Sometimes I'll turn on my turn signal and then not turn at all. For blocks. It's almost like having a dial to their sanity. What's the rush? You got a date? I'll see them in my rear view come up on me real fast and sit on my bumper. I can feel their desperation. It's kind of sad. It's as though the system has twisted their hearts into a pretzel of stress.
            Maybe that's why old folks drive slow. There's a wisdom to it. Aaah, I'll see you at the next signal Mr. Silverado.

Fabio

         
            Dora was at the check-out counter when she noticed that Fabio was standing behind her. Oh my god it's Fabio!
            Her excitement quickly turned into embarrassment when she remembered that she was buying two boxes of Tampons, a four pack of douches, and an enema kit. 
            She tried to hide the items from Fabio's view by turning her body.
            Fabio must have thought Dora was cute. He was trying to chat her up. But Dora was self-conscious and gave curt, nervous answers to get rid of him. She wanted to talk to him, but not with a four pack of douches on the counter. To make matters worse, Dora's phone kept ringing. It was her business partner; she could tell by the fart sounds the phone was making as it rang. Her relationship with her partner had soured, so she'd programmed the phone to make fart sounds whenever she called. 
            None of it seemed to bother Fabio. He didn't notice, or he ignored it completely. He kept at it, trying to talk to Dora, but Dora wasn't having it. She couldn't get over the embarrassment of her hygiene needs. 

Get Down Mr. President

         
           There's a game called Get Down Mr. President. Here are the rules:
           It's played in a group. You have to pay attention. And if someone cups their ear and pretends to be listening to an ear piece, like a secret service agent, you need to cup your ear and do the same. The last person to figure it out and cup their ear gets tackled to the ground while the others yell, "get down Mr. President!"

Camarillo

         
           My friend Dora was a volunteer at Camarillo State Mental Hospital when she was a teenager. It was a summer job she and a friend signed up for. 
           Dora is the youngest of six children. She has five sisters and one brother. Her sisters never invited her to any of the parties they went to, and were seldom nice to her. Until one day they invited her to see a band play at the local bowling alley. Dora was excited to finally be included.
            Things were going well. Dora dressed up for the occasion and for the first time in her life she felt like a grown up. She was talking to boys and making friends when a bus pulled into the parking lot. A group of kids got out and marched into the bowling alley. The kids were making a racket. It was a grand entrance that you couldn't help but notice.
           Hiiiii Dorrra! one of the kids said.
           Hiiiii Dorrra! said another.
           They were the special needs kids from Camarillo that Dora had been working with. At first Dora pretended not to know them. She was trying to be cool around her new friends. But one after another they came up to her and said hello. Hiiiii Dorrra!
         
           

Cats And The Good Life

           
            I wonder how you get reincarnated into a house cat with a good owner? Do you have to volunteer at the Salvation Army, or work for Greenpeace? Feral cats, in my opinion, are more than likely ex-CEOs of Fortune Five-Hundred companies. As cats go, they drew a bad straw. They have to hunt for their food, duke it out with other cats, watch out for coyotes. It's a lot like being a CEO, but without the food service.
            House cats on the other hand get food service, maid service, daily massages, playtime when they want it, and plenty of naps with comfortable bedding. They can also walk into their masters' bedroom while they're having sex and pretend not to know what's going on. Dogs can do that too, but dogs are more obvious, you know they're up to something when they do it. Cats look like they made a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in the bedroom by mistake.
            Well hopefully there's no such thing as reincarnation and I go straight to heaven when I die, but man ...
           
           
            

How Are You Doing?

           
            It never fails. Whenever I'm asked "how are you doing, or, how've you been?" My brain finds a way to seize up on me. I don't think I've ever answered that question to my satisfaction. I rarely think about how I've been, so when I'm asked, I'm caught off guard. And how you answer a question like that can have an effect on a relationship.
            If I played golf it would be easy. "I've been playing a lot of golf." But I don't play golf, and to condense my life into a few words is not realistic. But I try. "Ah, I've been pretty good, I'm writing songs and working on my book."
            But this answer leaves me feeling empty inside. I leave out the juicy parts, the details of my life. I don't tell anybody that I've rewritten my book hundreds of times, or that sometimes writing a song can take months. They don't always take months, but sometimes they do. And when I'm finished writing a song, I may or may not even use it.
            A part of me wants to carry a scroll with the particulars of my life. When somebody asks me what have I been up to, I could reach for my scroll and read it top to bottom without having to think about it. But that will never happen. I'm not going to carry a scroll. That's just plain silly.
            So instead, I'm going to try to be more honest about it when I'm asked how I'm doing.
           "I wish I could explain it to you, but it's not easy."

The Rebuild

            
            My car conked out on me. I had it towed to a mechanic that I'd never used before. I'd talked to him once prior and I had a good feeling about him, but when he told me how much it was going to cost to fix I had a immediate reaction to it.
            "That sounds high." I said.
            "I know," was his response. 
            I have an older car, and the parts are hard to find. In this case I needed a distributor. I asked the mechanic if I could find the part myself. He agreed to it.
            I found the part for less money on the internet, but something felt funny about buying it on the internet. I wasn't sure what the exact part was, and I didn't want to buy it blind. I decided to check with a neighborhood Latino shop that did me right once before. They deal with starters and alternators, but I thought I'd ask if they had distributors. The man at the counter said no. But then he added, Yoonikee.
            Yoonikee?
            He wrote down a number on a scrap piece of paper and sent me on my way. I called Yoonikee. He said he could rebuild it at a real fair price, half of what the mechanic was going to charge me. I picked up the distributor from the mechanic and took it to Yoonikee's. It turned out Yoonikee is Unique. The man at the counter had his doubts about rebuilding it. He made a phone call and talked to Unique and told him I was waiting for him.
            When Unique walked in he seemed to circle around the distributor and eye me at the seem time. He picked up the distributor and examined it closely. He turned to the man at the counter and said a few words in Spanish. He was still holding the distributor in his hand. I was getting a sinking feeling, like he wasn't going to be able to fix it. The the man behind the counter translated for Unique, "It's going to be a little more, the parts are hard to find"
            Then Unique spoke to me in broken English. "I've been doing this for forty years. I gave you a good price." I nodded my head in agreement. Unique was wearing a Dodgers cap. He had small eyes, and a big heart. I felt like the cosmos had cradled me in its arms.