I met my friend Lou at the Roost last night. It was free popcorn night. We ordered two beers and a shot of whiskey each for starters. The place was filled with the regular clientele, mostly older men who looked down on their luck. It occurred to me after my second beer that everybody in the place looked similar. They were all about the same weight. Nobody was overly good looking. Most were out of shape. I figured they felt comfortable around each other and that’s why they were regulars.

The jukebox was playing good music and Lou and I were having a good time. We went outside to smoke one in the parking lot. We were standing in between two cars when out comes a drunk. He stopped dead in his tracks and kind of hunched over like a cat whose trying to catch a bird. But this guy was far from being nimble. He had a pot- belly and was old. He looked like he could pass out just from rapidly waving his arms. I guess he thought we were trying to break into his car. He had an old Chrysler that looked to be in fair condition and in his mind we were standing to close to it. The manner in which he was staring at us gave Lou and I the impression that he was working for the bar, but he wasn’t. He was just some old coot trying to act tuff, because deep down he was afraid we were going to rough him up. We were just smoking and minding our own business. We assured him the best we could that we were harmless.

We went back in the bar and finished off our beers and on the way out Lou walked into what was at one time the telephone booth. I saw him do it. He thought it was the door. I heard him push at something and then he turned around and tried to play it off. I was already laughing. He said something ridicules, something to the effect of, “are you ready to go.” I opened the door and we laughed real hard. It was a good laugh, one of those hold your knees laughs. God it felt good.

The Snake Pit Modality

  I drove to the Westside last night to pick up my poetry books. “The Nick Poems." They look good. I’m happy with them. My publisher and I drank some wine and celebrated a little bit. I drove over to the Dresden from there. Berry the produce guy was there. He’s always funny and entertaining. I sat with him and we talked about Robbie Knievel. Robbie shows up to Barry’s house from time to time. He likes to knock back a few. He drives a big motor home on the tiny streets of the Hollywood hills.

            At the end of the night Liz the cocktail waitress came up to me. “Guess who's here?” she asked.

            “Who’?

            “Bill Burr.”

            She knows I like him. He’s a funny man.

            “Do want his autograph.”

            “Yeah, have him sign my book,” I had brought two books into the bar.

            I’m not normally a celebrity hound, but for Bill I made an exception. Liz came back with the book that Bill signed and I wasn’t sure what to do after that. I was pacing around.

           “What am I suppose to do now?” I asked Liz.

           “Go talk to him, he’s nice guy.”

            I felt funny about it, but I wanted to thank him for the autograph. He was sitting at a booth with his girlfriend and a few young fellows. I finally approached him and broke into his conversation mid sentence. My timing couldn’t have been any worse.

           “Hi Bill I wanted to thank you for signing my book.”

           We shook hands. It didn’t go much further then that. I sensed he was somewhat uncomfortable with the interruption so I got up and left. But not before telling him that he was my favorite comedian. I felt like a dork. I left the bar shortly after that. I took the side streets back to my shack. The cabin I built for myself to entertain my writing habit. I slept it off. It was a cold night, but I felt alive because of it.

Hello

After years of not sharing my work, I am thrusting myself into the digital domain to become an uninhabited blogger. This, despite the relative comforts of my patented introverted lifestyle. I fully expect the transition to be a rocky one, for peoples minds and opinions can be the cruelest form of uncertainty. I am a poet, writer, musician, by choice and I make no apologies for my lack of notoriety. My lack of notoriety has given me what an artist needs most, freedom, freedom to create freely. I’ve tried to conform on numerous occasions, tried my hand at having a real job in the real world, only to be spit out to a life where I was suppose to be all the while. Call it fate, divine intervention, or good-luck. I call it not following my instincts and suffering for it. This blog will be mainly about listening, for a life without listening is a life spent needlessly.