Square Dancing

            I was at a local music festival and wandered into the Women's Club. It was a nice place. It was an older building, turn of the century, with wood floors and a small stage.
            A three piece fiddle band got on stage. There was a square dance caller. He organized the crowd into a circle, and within minutes people were square dancing. I saw smiles on the faces of the dancers. It looked like a lot of fun.
            The next song came on. It was a completely different square dancing configuration. Do you want to dance? my friend said to me. Had I said no I would have regretted it.
            We got on the floor and followed the instructions of the Caller. And in just a short time we were turning to the right, stepping in and out, peeling the banana. It was fun. You can act as silly as you want when you square dance. The kid in me came out. Everybody was spazzing out. It was the perfect opportunity to act like a fool.
            I looked around the room. It seemed every walk of life was represented. I got to thinking square dancing could be the cure for the world's ills. 

West Side Not the Best Side

            I went to the west side to buy bouzouki strings. I have no navigational skills when it comes to the west side. All systems turn off west of Robertson leaving me in a state of confusion. There's something about that part of town that doesn't make any sense to me. There are freeways where they're not suppose to be and boulevards that turn into dead ends. It's a mess. I'm the son of a World War Two Air Force navigator. I take pride in my inner compass. But the west side has elements of the Bermuda triangle. I find myself making U-turns just to survive. It doesn't help that everybody seems to be in a rush.
            I found the music store I was looking for. There was a helpful salesman. He was a real calm man. It made me wonder what he was doing over there. There were some nice guitars for sale. The guitars I liked were no less than five thousand dollars. Two weeks pay for a washed out lawyer. 
            I left the music store and began the hunt for a freeway entrance. 


            

The Shoe Free Environment

            I get the feeling that the next politically correct trend will be the shoe free environment. I understand this one. I'd like to have a shoe free environment all my own, but by the time I think about mentioning it to my guest, they're through my kitchen and in my living room, having taking only four or five steps. It seems silly to ask someone to take their shoes off at that point.
            Part of me has expectations of cleanliness when it comes to the shoe free environment. If someone asks me to take my shoes off I'll glance around the room to see if it's clean. It doesn't make much sense to have a shoe free environment if the place is unkempt. 
            A part of me is averse to taking my shoes off. I had dirty, smelly, stinky feet when I was a kid. I wasn't much for showers or hygiene and I'd let things go to the point of offense. I'd spend the night at my friend's house and we'd sit down to watch television with his family. I'd take my shoes off and look around the room to see off-put grimacing faces in the wake of the odor emanating from my feet. I'd know exactly what the problem was and get up to wash my feet in the bathtub.  
         
            

Camping

            I went camping yesterday in Angeles Crest. We set up camp under some tall pines and cooked food by the fire. The stars were out and it felt good to be out of the city. The campsite has been known to be visited by bears, so we put the food away before we turned in for the night. 
            I was laying in my tent and couldn't sleep right away. My mind got away from me and I was thinking about bears. The only thing that stood between me and a bear was the equivalent of a windbreaker. I contemplated that. I was trying to think of an exit strategy should I need one, and frankly, I was stressing myself out thinking about it. I tried to talk myself down, but that didn't seem to help.
            I waited for the bear to show himself, but he never did. I thought about technology and how a bear has no need for it. 
            All was quiet and still. No animal sounds. The wind wasn't stirring. The moon was out. It was peaceful. The only discernible sound was that of pine needles falling gently a top my tent.

Supplemental Sex

            I've been thinking long and hard about this. It has occurred to me that the word masturbation is overly negative. You're going to go blind! The devil will find work for idle hands to do!
            I've never liked even saying the word. When it comes up in conversation it seldom seems appropriate. And when someone admits to it, it can be awkward at best. I'm taking a big chance writing about it. My readership is going to freak. But knowing that the preponderance of my audience is in Europe, I feel I can get away with it in this instance.
            My proposal is this. Instead, of using the word masturbation we should refer to it as "supplemental sex." Nobody will know what you're talking about if you say, "I had supplemental sex."
            Secondly, "supplemental sex" sounds somewhat academic. And if it sounds academic there's a good chance it will go unnoticed. I realize there are problems with the term for it suggests you're experiencing real sex every now and again, but for the most part, unless you're dormant or hit an unfortunate rough patch, it seems to work.    
            Wait! Now that I think about it, it can mean something entirely different which I hadn't accounted for.            
            "Did you have an affair?"
            "No, I had supplemental sex."

She Purrs

            I was having problems with my car. The car was hesitating and doing a herky-jerky thing in first gear. I'd step on the gas and it would buck like Brahma Bull. It was getting hard on the neck. I asked Bill the Spooky Guy for advice.
            It sounds like a fuel filter, he said.
            I changed the filter, but it didn't solve the problem. Shortly there after I received a text message from Bill.
            How she doing?
            She's the same. I replied.
            Sorry to hear that. Old car present many inscrutable dilemmas, Grasshopper.
            I got the feeling I was on my own on this one. I texted back, it must be the air filter. No breath, no life.
            Give it a shot. He answered.
            When you're a mendicant poet you learn to work on your own car. I removed a few bolts here and a few bolts there to gain access to the air filter, sure enough, the filter was encased in leaves. I got rid of the leaves and put her back together. I took her for a spin. The hesitation had ceased.
            I sent Bill a message. She purrs.
            Ahhhhh!
           

         
                     
         
            

Stupido

            I made a left turn onto the boulevard from the gas station when I noticed a car driving with its lights off. The car passed me as I merged onto the boulevard. What a moron I said to myself. I was behind the car when it slowed to look for curbside parking. I wheeled around him. I peeked in my rear view mirror. The guy had changed his mind and was driving in a confused manner behind me. Big dummy!
                I came to a red light. The car still had his lights off. I was in my convertible. I stuck my arm in the air and waved at the guy to get his attention. I was trying to be helpful. He didn't see me, or couldn't understand what I was trying to say. Stupido. I gave up. I drove up a half a block and stopped to make a right turn at the signal. A car heading in the opposite direction and making a left turn flashed his lights. I figured it was for Stupido behind me. I looked in my mirror to see if Stupido got the message, but Stupido wasn't there. Weird. Just then, I happened to look down to check my gas gauge, but my console was dark. Oh crap! I quickly switched my lights on. I sunk into myself. Man, I'm Stupido.