Plant-Based Meats

     I was waiting at a red light. There were people to my left standing in a long line that wrapped around the corner. There was a sign that read, "plant-based meats." I had seen the place before. It was a little pop-up restaurant that served plant-based tacos.
     Why do they call it meat? I wondered.
     The following day I found myself in a plant-based restaurant. I looked over the menu. Curry chicken, seafood soup, noodles and ham. I was confused by it. Why were the using old terms for new things? It didn't make sense to me.
     I ordered the udon stir-fry. It was delicious. It had chunks of plant-based meat that reminded me of a hotdogs.  
     I've seen it all before. The plant-based movement is nothing new. And I understand why people choose to be vegetarians. The meat industry doesn't give a hill of beans about you. Or anything else, for that matter. 
     After dinner I started to think. What's in plant-based meat? How is it made? Where are the plants coming from? How are they grown? Where are the grown? I had a lot of questions. There was so much to think about and so much to learn. It's not like I eat a lot of meat to begin with, but if things keep up, I'll be eating meat all the time, even when it's not meat.
     
     

Song Writing

      
      I try not to talk about the songs that I'm writing. I've learned my lesson that way. First of all, I'm not very good at explaining them. And no matter what the explanation, if I talk about it, it tends to fall flat and makes me feel bad.
      My songs are important to me, and I realize they're not as important to other people. So when I open up to somebody about a song I'm writing, I'm taking a big risk. I risk that they might say something insensitive and not fully formed, and stunt the creative process. 
      Sometimes I feel by talking about a song I'm putting a hex on it. It's no longer pure. Its been affected by outside forces.
      Songs are subject to change and if I talk about a song too soon, before I have it figured out, it can sound ridiculous. It's like talking about a dream. Dreams are hard to follow and not always that interesting to the listener. 
      Try to imagine John Lennon talking about "I Am The Walrus," to somebody. Yeah, it's called I am the walrus, and there's this part where I say, "sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come." 
      
      

My Life In A Nut Shell

      From time to time I like to give an update on my doings. To keep my readers abreast of my life and otherwise. 

      I finally got the second proof of my book in order, "And Then Dawn Dies." I had some trouble with the formatting. I went to the University of YouTube to rectify the problem. The answer didn't come right away, so the book languished while I did my research. What I discovered was that a computer is not a typewriter. It seems fairly obvious, but the long and the short of it is, there are hidden characters in the computer world, and the space bar is not to be used to make indentations. I don't remember using the space bar to make indentations, but that's neither here nor there now. 

      I've also been recording a new album. I finished the old album, "Solar Road," but I'm not happy with the mixes so I haven't promoted it. The same thing happened to my first album, "Janus." I'll have to remix both albums at some point. But until then I'm working on my third album, which I haven't named yet.

     I've been writing songs for both the new album and The Glen Livers. The Glen Livers is the live act, the band, or the general term for my music. I'm trying to keep The Glen Livers live show upbeat. Many of the songs I write are not upbeat, so I'm using them for the third album. 

     I'll be compiling my blogs for a book idea I have. While I re-write my second book, "Lilies In The Fridge," as I finish my third book, "Brother Jerry."

     That's the report. Stayed tuned. 

Change

      My neighborhood has changed some over the years. It used to be a quiet neighborhood inhabited by older graying folks with nondescript faces. Ordinary looking people who rode bicycles up hill in the dark. I remember an older woman in particular who would ride at night with a fluorescent green flag sticking up from the back of her bike. She lived in the house below me, down the hill.
      One day I noticed that her husband was gone. Just gone. I don't know what happened to him. I remember emergency vehicles showing up to their house one night. I don't know for sure if it was their house, or the house next door, but he did disappear forever.
      The lady sold the house in his absence. An ambitious couple bought it, fixed it up, and then sold it again. Now the house is sitting empty. It's been that way for a couple of months. I don't mind. It's peaceful in an eerie way. The lights come on, but nobody's home.
      I had it in mind to write this blog about noise. The neighborhood is noisy now. With ambition comes noise. I've also noticed that the ambitious have a distaste for trees. I'm not sure what that's all about. Maybe they see trees as a form of competition. I mean, let's face it, trees are much smarter than the rest of us.
      

The Landlord

      
      I had a landlord who liked to talk about money. He had a theory about real estate trends. According to him, the market dipped every ten to twelve years and that was the best time to buy property. It was always the same when we talked. It was like we never talked before. It was money, money, money.
      His desire for money struck me as wrong being that he was a pastor of a Christian church. What added to my disgust was that I knew he was going to jack my rent up at first opportunity. Some Chriatain. 
      I'm forever thankful to the man though. If it weren't for his overt greed, I'd never gotten angry enough to move out of his beat up bungalow and build a cabin on the cheap. I didn't want to give him half my income for the rent anymore. I sacrificed time and energy for that money. Having to navigate through the wing-clipped personalities of my fellow workers was enough to bring me down. We're all wing-clipped in some way or another, but still.
      I drove by my old place the other day. It looks the same seven years later. It still needs paint, and it still looks shabby. It made me think about the landlord and his disease. It's a disease lots of landlords have, chosing money over people. It's the sad reality of the sick mind. Money over people. Money over everything. 

The Snake River Project

      The Snake River Project was a development I was working on for my G.I. Joe. It was a joint construction with the neighborhood kids to provide a training ground for the aquatic special task force. 
      We started digging it in my backyard behind the garage. I soon discovered the neighborhood kids weren't as enthusiastic about the project as I was, but undaunted, I kept digging. 
       The idea was to build a river with twists and turns that emptied into a pool so I could collect my G.I. Joe before sending him back down the rapids in his black special task force raft. There was to to be a waterfall, which was to be made from rocks and a water hose, the details of which I hadn't fully worked out yet. But that was the gist of it. 
      When the digging was complete I approached my eldest brother. "I need to buy a bag of concrete. Will you give me a ride?"
      To his credit, he didn't ask many questions and gave me the ride. 
      Not fully confident as to how to apply the concrete the project stalled. 
      Ultimately, the project was sabotaged by other developers, my brothers, who decided to build a patio in its place. Angered but outnumbered, I moved on.
      

No Muhammed

I was a big fan of Muhammad Ali when I was a boy
I was introduced to him while he was laying flat
on his back after being dropped by Joe Frazier in their first fight
he was on the cover of Sports Illustrated Magazine
and it struck me that the magazine was mocking him for some reason

I used to watch his fights and cheer for him
and I was always disappointed when he lost

The thing about Muhammad was,
he'd make me feel squeamish when he talked
he was so brash and outspoken
and contrary to the accepted norms
that I wished he'd shut up

A part of me felt like he was being used by the media
to show how ill-mannered the black man was
keep in mind I was just a boy,
but I remember having these feelings

When he talked to Howard Cosell
I'd say no Muhammed
don't mouth off and I'd get uncomfortable
listening to him brag about his greatness

I didn't know what a poet was until I heard
people calling Muhammed one
I remember liking some of his poems
and being disappointed by others
he was hit or miss