The Hippy Compound

I’m back from the hippy compound. The hippy’s are older now, and they’re into blending.

“Are you using that Blender?”

All health no fitness, for the hippy’s, nobody looked all that healthy to be honest.

The hippy compound is an old hot springs north of San Francisco. I made the drive and stayed for a couple of days. It’s gods country up there, hills and oaks, wild turkeys and the hot and cold plunge. The hippy’s were nice. They weren’t all hippy’s, in fact, very few were, there was a mixed bag of tourist from Japan and Russia, mixed in with everyday people who happened to be naked. It’s a clothing optional place, and to tell you the truth, I saw more people than usual wearing clothes, which made me think that the clientele is shifting.

All the young, good looking women were lesbian’s. I kind of felt left out of that equation. I was wondering why things had to be so cut and dry. Good for them. The only thing that bothered me about the lesbians, was my exclusion.

I took a hike up a trail, and followed a sign that said, Tea House. I walked up hill for a ways, when I finally ran in to it. It was an octagon shack that was perched on a ridge that over looked the valley. There was a sign outside the door that said it was to be used for mediation purposes only. Guest had contributed to an alter that was set up, and there was a couple of journals with notes that people had left behind. It was very interesting place. I was just starting to explore it when a naked man walk in. He kind of ruined my moment alone. He was a nice man. He told me the history of the place. I decided to draw a face in one of the journals. I used some colored markers that were sitting on the floor to make the face more interesting. I wrote at the top of the page in black ink, above the drawing, Don’t think.. trust.. if only it was so easy.

Dusty's

Jason and I went to a new bar yesterday after rehearsal, a little bar called Dusty’s. I’d seen it a million times before, but never had the guts to go inside. Our regular spot was being remodeled, a good thing or a bad thing, I’m not sure yet.

            We walked in and there was a room full of old bikers, with their long graying beards. I said hi to one, he grudgingly said hi back. There was a version of Black Sabbath’s War Pigs playing on the jukebox.

I bought the first round. Seven bucks. It was a lot cheaper than the other place.

            We sat down and tried to blend in. Nobody seemed to care that we were there.

            I noticed an older guy who looked just like a desert turtle feeding the jukebox. He kept playing Black Sabbath tunes. I didn’t mind. I like Black Sabbath.

            A man with a funny looking hat, came up to me, and asked if I wanted to play a game of pool.

            “Sure, but I’m not very good.”

            I looked over to Jason. He was rubbing his thumb and fingers together. He wanted me to play for money. The man looked legitimate. He had a booming voice. He kind of looked like a Yuppie. I played him straight up, although I should have played him for money. He was the worst pool player in the world. As it turned out, he might not have had all his marbles. He kept saying "Nice!" when the ball went in.

Frankly the bar felt like an insane asylum for hardcore drinkers. The clientele seemed just a little off. Mouths were turned funny, people were tight around the forehead. I couldn’t help but look around every now than to analyze the situation. Jason kept buying rounds. It occurred to me that Jason was one of them.

Target

I found myself in an institution of lower-learning, or to be more precise, of no learning. I was trying to fit in, and having difficulty. My three point seven-five years of college education was shining through. I tried to repress it. I needed to buy a phone card in the worst way, so I broke down and went to a Target store. There’s nothing French about it.             

            Negotiating through the miasma of slow thinkers was a daunting task. There were confused looks on the faces of every day consumers, and no rhyme or reason to their pace.

I made for the technology department. The section of higher learning, I suppose it’s all higher learning to some degree.

I was looking for the book readers in the crowd. I didn’t see any. I was instantaneously depressed. I wanted out and fast.

Bugsy Two

            Bugsy’s owner Bill took him to the groomer one day. Bugsy wasn’t too excited about it. The groomer had Bugsy on the grooming table and was just about ready to strap him in, when Bugsy bolted for the door. The groomer tried to catch him, but was unsuccessful.

Bugsy was moving at a pretty good clip for a dog with a nervous condition. The front door to the pet store was open and Bugsy managed to get through it as well. He headed north bound on the sidewalk up Fairfax Boulevard toward the hills. It’s a busy street. The pet store workers were chasing after him, but Bugsy didn’t want anything to do with them. He had run for half a block, and was just about gassed, when Bill his owner happened to be driving by. Bill saw Bugsy running up the street.

            “That’s Bugsy!!”

            He quickly pulled over. He flung the passenger door open.

            “Bugsy!!” he yelled.

            Bugsy saw him. He ran towards the car. He hopped in.

            “What are doing boy?”

            Bugsy didn’t answer, but from all appearances he was just happy to be in the car.

            To Bugsy’s surprise, Bill took him back to the groomer. It was not a good day for Bugsy.  

Bugsy

Bugsy is a little dog. He has a nervous condition that makes him shake under normal circumstances. His owner Bill also has a nervous condition that makes him shake. The two are quite the pair when Bill takes Bugsy out for walks.

            One day Bill left Bugsy in the care of his friend Wayne. Wayne lived in a second floor apartment that over looked a busy street.

Wayne had to run a quick errand. He had no choice but to leave Bugsy alone in his apartment. He took all the precautions. He made sure Bugsy had water, and he left the sliding glass door to the balcony slightly ajar so Bugsy could breath fresh air. Wayne said good-bye to Bugsy, and shut the door behind him.

The minute the door closed Bugsy’s nerves kicked in. He was instantaneously panicked. The noise from the street over-stimulated him. His mind was jumbled. It was difficult for him to breath. He wanted out.

Bugsy made a snap decision to extricate himself from the situation. He nudged the sliding glass door open with his nose, then climbed a top a chair, and leaped off the balcony.

He dropped the two stories down and landed on the sidewalk with a mighty thud. He was shaken, but in intact. He tried to run off, but he didn’t get very far. Luckily for Bugsy there was a woman outside smoking a cigarette when he landed. The lady smoking the cigarette sprung into action and corralled him before he could run into the street. That was the first close call for Bugsy. There was another….

Hollywood Dog

I have a friend who works in a pet store. A customer came in with his dog and my friend’s workmate said to the customer, “That’s a good looking dog, he should be in the movies. “

Well, as it turned out the dog had been in two pilot’s, a commercial, and had just finished his first movie.

“That’s impressive,” the workmate said. “Where’d you get him?”

“The pound. I fell in love with him the minute I saw him. I tried to adopt him right then and there, but he had a chip in him... pound policy is if a dog has a chip in him, they wait twenty-eight days before they give them up for adoption. I went to the pound every day for the next twenty-six days to check on him. Nobody claimed him after twenty-eight days. He was ready for adoption. I was going to show up early in the morning and bring him home. It was the night before the adoption when the phone rang. It was the pound.

“If you want the dog, you better get here at five in the morning to claim him, we have ten families interested in him.”

“I showed up at five in the morning.”
"What did you name him?"
"His name was Echo, but I changed it to Jake."

Bob Dylan

Last night I fell asleep with the radio on. I’ve been doing that lately. There’s a radio show called, “Something’s Happening,” with Roy of Hollywood. Roy’s been doing the show since the seventies.

            I got in bed and was listening to Jack Cornfield. The last thing I heard Jack say was, be kind to people, for they are involved in an epic battle, or something to that affect. I might have added the word epic, but you get the point.

It made perfect sense to me. Good old Jack Cornfield. He’s a wise one.

            I woke up to the grand announcement that it was Bob Dylan’s seventh birthday. I had no idea. I’m glad he made it to seventy, but it struck me as odd for some reason. Him being seventy didn’t sit well with me, but on the other hand I’m glad he didn’t pull an Elvis. 

            They were playing old radio clips from 1961 when he was twenty. He was just a nice goofy kid then. The host asked him a few questions and than Bob played a song. His playing was effortless, perfect timing, no mistakes, didn’t forget the words, good parenting. Amazing. I’m about as opposite of that as you can get. It takes me years to remember the words to my own songs, and at any given moment I could forget them, and drift off to think about something else. I’m pretty sure I have Attention Deficit Disorder, which makes it doubly hard to get through a song. I have fun writing them, but it sure is a battle to play'em.