The Beans Are Loaded With Gun Powder

         
             My neighborhood is changing, and so is the clientele at my favorite Mexican restaurant. I stopped in yesterday for lunch and there were gringos everywhere.
             There were four dude-bros talking loudly at a table. I could hear them twenty feet away. Something about that struck me as odd. Use the volume control, dude-bros you're three feet away from each other. 
             When the waitress came to take their order only one of the men was nice. He tried to order in Spanish and was polite. The other three guys were buffoons. One of them tried to special order a tostada. He wanted chicken on a tortilla or something like that. The waitress was trying to follow along, but I could see she was confused. He had no idea what he wanted. When a you try to special order a tostada in a Mexican restuarant, it just looks bad. He looked bad. Don't do it, man.
             My advice, if you need to special order a tostada, just order the soup. Soup is generally harmless. And you don't have to worry about the beans giving you fartilitos because they're loaded with gunpowder.  
              

The Quest For Black Huaraches

           

             I was standing on the corner waiting for the light to change. I was on my continuing quest for black huaraches. 

            There was a man standing next to me. I glanced over at him. As I looked, he looked at the same time. The man shot backwards and recoiled in attempt to move away from me as though he'd seen a demon. The first thing I thought of was, whoa, I have bad energy. I took it personally, because that's the kind of man I am.
            The light changed. I let the man walk ahead of me. He was carrying two plastic bags and he kept looking over his shoulder as he walked. We crossed the street and he was still looking over his shoulder. Oh okay, he's a paranoid schizophrenic. A sense of relief overcame me. I don't have demon energy after all. It's him not me. Phew.

Hotdogs In My Pockets

            I was out the other night and there was a lull in the conversation, so I turned to my friend and said, I like to stuff my pockets with hot dogs and walk around my neighborhood at night to attract coyotes. 
             He thought I was serious. Really? He asked.
             I get a rush out it. I told him. 
             He believed me until I fessed up and told him I was messing with him. 
             I'm not sure why the image of a pocket full of hot dogs is funny to me. A pocket full of hot dogs at a dog park is even funnier. What if I stuffed my pockets with hot dogs and went to a dog park? The dogs would be all over me. I'd be the Pied Piper of dogs. They'd follow me wherever I'd go. And their owners would think I had the magic with dogs. They just love that man. I'd have five or six dogs following me at all times. Look, I'd hear somebody say, that man's some kind of dog genius. 
           
           
             

Hawk A Loogie

         

            I was driving in my car when I rolled down the window and hawked a loogie, but I didn't see anything fly. I looked down to check if it landed on me. Nope. I kept driving and soon forgot about it. 

            I stopped at Trader Joe's to pickup a few things. Coffee and chicken pot stickers, breakfast and lunch. I was in a good mood and was talking to the cashier. She was nice, but I noticed she went cold near the end of our conversation. People are weird. What can you do? I can't save them. 

            I drove home. I made a pot of coffee and sat down to play my guitar. I was strumming pretty good when I looked down and noticed a dry crusty substance on my shirt, near my shoulder. I found the loogie. 

Z Host

       
            I host an open mic every other week. It's God's work, sort of. Okay, not really, but it is an important service for musicians who want to play their songs in front of an audience.
            The other night a guy came in late and sat at the bar. He had a guitar with him and signed up to play. I noticed he was in a good mood and smiling. People who smile are worth a million dollars in gold. I told him that he was third in line to play. He gave me a confident look and said okay. I kept an eye on him. There was something about him that caught my interest.
            When he was second in line to play I saw him with his head bowed down, as if he was trying to get himself ready for his performance. When he was first in line I noticed his face had lost some of its color. And when it was his turn to play the first thing he said to me when he got to the stage was that he was nervous. I told him he'd be fine and to just do his thing. 
            He stooped down to open his guitar case. He was fumbling with the case and couldn't get it open. He wasn't lying, he was nervous. I asked if his guitar was in tune. He said he didn't know. I played an E chord on it. It was close enough.
             The first song he played was an instrumental. It wasn't bad. Atonal mood music. The second song had lyrics and singing. I think it was an original. It wasn't bad either, not great, but not offensive. When he finished his set I went up to unplug his guitar, and the guy was a wreck. He was beating himself up, and overly embarrassed. He grabbed his guitar and bolted straight for the door.
            I thought, all his troubles are in his head. Nobody cared, or thought what he was thinking. They're drinking and talking, not making judgements enough to kill someone's self-esteem. 
            I got up to play a tune. Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone come running in. It was the kid who'd just played. He grabbed something off a chair. 
            He turned to me and said, I forgot my sweater. 

Asses

         
            My mom is getting up there in years. She recently retired from driving. She had a mishap where she tried to apply the brakes to stop her car, but she couldn't move her leg to get to the pedal. It put a scare into her so bad she hung up her keys.
            Now she's relying on private companies for rides. There's a company called Access that caters to old folks and she's been using that service. But instead of calling it Access, she calls it asses. I tried to correct her, but she insists it's asses. 
            It's Access.
            Asses.
            The other day I stopped by her house. She had just gotton back from the grocery store and was putting away her food.
            How'd you get to the grocery store?
            Asses.
            Do they wait for you while you shop?
            No, I waited for over fifty minutes.
            But, do they wait for you while you're in the store?
            No, I waited for fifty minutes.
            Huh? Waited for who?
            Asses!!!!
            
            
            

The Mockingbirds Revisited

         
            The mockingbirds are back. They've come back earlier than last year. That means something I'm sure. It's seems to me the planet is prematurely ejaculating right before our eyes.
            Flowers are blooming earlier than usual. Ice in the polar caps is melting, two-by-fours are really one and a half by three and a half, things have gone terribly wrong.
            The other night I met a woman who forgot my name four times. The first time she forgot it I introduced myself as Anthony. The three other times I told her my name was Tony. I thought I'd simplify my name to help her out, but it didn't take. 
            I was bothered when she forgot my name the first time. The second time she forgot my name I figured she wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed. The third time she forgot it I shot her a dirty look and almost said something mean to her. She must be drunk I figured. The fourth time she forgot my name I just felt sorry for her and thought of Muhammad Ali, "what's my name fool?"