Brake Pads

            I went to Bill the smog guru’s shop to have my brake pads replaced.

            “Sit down, sit down,” Bill said.

            We sat down and started to talk. Our conversations usually start off nice and easy and then take a wicked turn, only to end politely, and cordially.

            This conversation was no different. We said our salutations and quickly thrust ourselves into the powerful effects of Bill’s prescription medication.

            “I’ll take the Norco just before bed. I’ll feel a slight tingle before I pass out.”

            Bill mentioned the other pills he’s taking, but there were too many to remember.

            Somehow the conversation deviated to Bill’s childhood. He said he had a thing for fire when he was a kid. I told him that’s how serial killers get their start. He looked confused and introspective for a moment but continued telling me his story.

He started a fire and got a beating for it from his father. His father was a Sergeant in the army. Bill, not to be deterred by the beating grabbed a large glass ashtray and a piled a mass of toilet paper on it.  The ashtray was more like a platter so the toilet paper piled up nicely. Bill put a match to the toilet paper on his bed. He was sitting crossed legged on his bed, behind the fire when his father walked into the room having smelled the smoke. His father just looked at him, but didn’t say anything.  It must have been a wicked sight.

            Bill and I talked for about an hour. I never did get my brake pads replaced.

              

French

            I was at a horse ranch in Chatsworth, when I turned to my friend John-Peter, who’s French. He was born in Paris and somehow ended up in Los Angeles. 

            “Didn’t your people eat horse's?” I asked.

            “They still do.”

            “What do they call it?” 

            “Steak de Cheval.”

            “That sounds elegant, even horse meat sounds elegant in French. How do you guys do that?”

            “I’m not sure.”
            "It's amazing."

Dust Fog

            Tree Man had a documentary crew following him about yesterday. He sat in with us for one song and then said “nature calls,” and left. The cameraman captured it all before they scooted.

Tree Man has a bunch of tree related jokes that he likes to say, dumb one-liners such as, “I need to branch out.”

            Eichenbaum our guitar player had another gig after our gig out in Chatsworth. He invited JP the drummer and I to it. He said it was a fund-raiser for a cruelty to animal’s organization. Eichenbaum said there was going to be Penthouse playmates there. I didn’t want to go. Chatsworth is not my territory. JP talked me into it. JP and I got lost on the way over there. We were on a mountainous road. It was pitch black. We finally figured it out. The party was on a horse ranch and it smelled like it. It was a nice property, but the party was winding down by the time we got there.  All the playmates were gone. We had to park on a dusty dirt parking lot. There were shuttles to take us to the party.  The dust was so thick from cars driving about that it looked like fog, a smelly thick fog. 

The Obvious

            I like listening to Alan Watts. I’m thankful somebody had the foresight to record his lectures. He speaks the genuine. There is limited snake oil to his discourse. I’ll check myself against him from time to time. He says things that I feel, but have difficulty communicating. Comedians do the same thing. They say things that I do or think about. It makes me laugh when someone else presents it to me during a performance. Much of genius is merely stating the obvious, or recognizing the obvious. The obvious is often difficult to ascertain. That’s way it’s genius when it’s discovered. There’s smart and  there’s genius and the difference is obvious. 

Piano Chops

            I was in the studio yesterday. The Liberace part didn’t go as planned. I made a couple of attempts but my piano chops weren’t up to snuff. I was all over the place. There is no substitute for practice. I knew I was licked, so I passed the baton. 

            “Hey Tim, do you want to try play something?” I asked.

            Tim’s the Producer and Engineer. He gave me the who me look, and then shyly sat down at the piano. I assumed the role of engineer. I pressed record and Tim immediately fell into the song. He was hitting all the right chords. It was amazing. I listened to the song last night, and the piano is almost there. We still need to fix some parts here and there, but I think between my bad chops and his good ones we'll find a part. 

Liberace Part

            I need to come up with a piano part for Things Have Gone and Changed. I dug out my keyboard from storage, but of course it doesn’t work anymore. It’s been years since I last used it.

            I found myself at Saint Vincent DePaul’s yesterday. They have a bunch of old pianos for sale. I was timidly and without drawing to much attention to myself trying to work out a part. I’d put some time in and then walk around and look at shirts and shoes only to go back to the piano to work on the part. I can hear the part in my head, but I wasn’t able to transfer it to the piano under the circumstances. It’s a mild Liberace part in E minor.

            I came back to my studio and found a website called pianochord.com. I opened up the chords that I needed and played them against the song on my computer on the fly. I’d press the play chord button on the website in real time against the song. I still don’t have the Liberace part, but I have the rest of it figured pretty well. 

Poor and Generous

I went to the Dodger game with Jessie Sweet last night. Jessie had four tickets that his dog-walking boss gave to him at the last minute. He couldn’t find anybody else to go with, so it was just he and I. I did the driving. We drove over in my convertible. I paid for parking. We sold the other two tickets. We sold one of the tickets to an older gentleman named Dick. Dick was very nice and knowledgeable about the game. The seats were great. Twenty rows back from the first base dugout. The night was perfect, but the Dodgers lost. Jessie bought me a beer. After the game Jessie bought us burritos with the money we made from selling the tickets. Jessie Sweet is generous. Poor and generous, there’s nothing better than poor and generous.