Why I Don't Own A Gun

      I don't own a gun because I can be quick tempered, and quick tempered and guns don't always get along. I'd end up in jail no doubt. Know thyself when it comes to guns; that's what I always say.
      The other reason I don't own a gun is because I have fantasies of attending a NRA convention strapped to the nines, and the first time I heard the keynote speaker at the podium say something wrong or untrue, I'd get up and start firing. I figure I could pick off eight or so people before anyone got off a shot, proving the point to the NRA that guns in themselves won't protect you in all situations. It's a fallacy. It takes time to pull out a gun, and you can't pull out gun if you don't know what's coming.
      In my estimation those are pretty good reasons not to own gun. We don't need a bunch of lefties running around with guns. It would be safer for everybody if we just played it cool.
 
            

Maxims

It's nothing a Turkish apricot can't fix.

Sriracha wasn't built in a day.

The devil don't make no pancakes. 

Try as you may, there's no escaping yourself.

Avoidance is the mother of all procrastination.

Clutter is the root of all evil. 

No Trolling For Me

     I don't want to be a troll. They're too negative. My mom's negative. She's a troll and doesn't know it. We kids, her kids, admonish her when she's being negative. "Why do you have to be so negative?" She always looks surprised by our remarks, as if she has no idea what we're talking about. 
     She can't help it. She had a bunch of sisters and they'd talk on the telephone every morning, and undoubtedly someone would complain about their husband or kids and the negativity would snowball from one sister to another. 
     To put it bluntly, my mother's a shit talker, an eighty-seven year old shit talker. They're called trolls nowadays, but they've just been repackaged. 
     Anyway, I don't want to be none of that. It's in me though, I have to fight it. Sometimes it feels like it's easier to be an ass then to be kind. Being kind requires a certain amount of discipline, and patience. It's not always easy to take a breath, and let things go. It is easy to lose your mind with emotional tirades though, and that's the life of a troll. An emotional shit talker, the troll. 

Troll

      I'm thinking about becoming a troll. I feel like there's a certain amount freedom in it. Just spout off and kill people's dreams. Squash them even further than they've been squashed.
      Of course a troll's career is limited on social media. There aren't enough tolerant people in the world to keep it sustainable. I'm guessing the friend stash would dwindle pretty quickly and become more consistent with reality. I'd end up with one or two solid people in my corner, people I could depend on no matter what.
      Why do you comb your hair like that? Who cares? Zzzzzz. Not another selfie, please ... Why are your lips so big?
      I'm pretty sure I can do it. It's all attitude and perspective, like making fun of dresses while watching the Emmys. It's simple stuff. Judgment calls. Negativity. Small minded observations. Quick emotional reactions to multiple forms of stimuli. I've been training for this all my life. I've watched network morning shows, All In The Family, The Jeffersons, Good Times, and Sanford And Son. I think I'm ready. No more likes, just snarky condemnation. 

The Wizard Of Paint

      I was at the paint counter of my local hardware store where the wizard of paints was preparing to mix a gallon bucket of paint to match a sample. The wizard is a short older man, crotchety in personality, with a back and shoulder that lean to one side.
      The old man and I had discussed in detail his approach to altering the color to match the sample. The first mix was a little off. He was going to add a hint of green, and a little bit of white to soften the color. That, in his mind, would do the trick.
       A woman pulled up to the counter next me. She needed to buy paint. She saw the color swatches the old man had made, and leaned in to look at them. "You need to add red to that if you want it to match. I do this for a living. I'm really good with color." she said.
       I was nice to her and humored her knowing full well it was the opposite of what the wizard had said.
       The old man came back with another swatch after he had mixed the paint and placed it on the counter. It looked almost exactly like the sample. "That's great! I said.
        The woman leaned in, "I told you it needed green, the woman said to me. I was right," she bolstered.
        I couldn't let it go. I should have just smiled and said yes you were right, but no, not me. I turned to the woman with a scrunched up face, and a hint of anger, "YOU SAID RED!"

LA Fire

      There was a big fire here Los Angeles. The hillsides were aflame. I've never seen such a thing. The authorities closed a section of the 210 freeway. There was smoke and ash everywhere. I got a good view of it. The fire was burning down a hillside toward the freeway. It was immense and powerful, creating its own microclimate as it burned. The winds kicked up and the smoke from the fire was billowing from the bottom outwards. It was like a dust-devil with teeth. 
      There were helicopters everywhere, and they were flying real low. I could just about make out the faces of the co-pilots. The helicopters were rugged looking, and covered in soot. It was a battle between nature and materialism, and for a moment, I thought nature was going to win. But, between the helicopters, planes, and fire engines on the ground, the fire ran out of gas near the freeway. It made a wrong move and got bunched up near an overpass. 
      It was a typical LA story. The fire got stuck in traffic. 

The Impossible

      Not a lot to report. I didn't get out much this week. I've been introspective, and spending time alone. I'm working on a new song. I usually let the words to songs come naturally to me, but this song is different. It's pulling at me and I'm constantly looking for clues to the puzzle. I have the music. It's the words I'm after. It's always the words.
      The eclipse was the big news of the week. The birds, out of respect or fear, didn't make much of a peep when the moon was crossing the sun. I found that interesting. I believe birds know a lot more than we give them credit for. 
      A few nights ago I woke up at three in the morning. There was a mouse on my roof. I heard him scampering about. He was working real hard, back and forth he went. An owl was hooting in the distance. I got the feeling the owl was waiting for the mouse to make a mistake, to run out in the open. Somehow owls catch mice. It seems impossible, but they do. That makes me feel good in some way, that the impossible can happen. I know it's not impossible for an owl to catch a mouse, but the probability is not that good. At least in this instance it wasn't. 
      'It's impossible, to tell the sun to leave the sky, it's just impossible.'