I struggle through a cryptic maze of congestion and Tito Puente as the horns blare my lazy ass into motion. Cause a commotion with my locomotion motion, how loco! I must get cleaning. My Lady returns today and the trash must be emptied, the carpet vacuumed, and the house smelling fresh and clean - so fresh and so clean.

When I shake a marimba of ass work to the all-mighty Tito, I remind myself of Concepcion the Latino maid in the household of Lily Tomlin and Charles Grodin in the ‘Incredible Shrinking Woman’. She flares and flails about to the Cuban rhythms as Lily climbs up egg snot slimed ladders of toast in the garbage disposal in her little, tiny Barbie clothes, fearing she will get grinded like Starbuck's coffee. Ah, to be the shrinking woman.

I have begun to think I am like Willie Wonka or Howard Hughes. I do not employ Umpa Lumpas or piss in jugs to be hoarded, but I am becoming more eccentric by the minute, by the second. It is as if the whole World has ended and I was left to read the books with my broken glasses, and without hesitation, I create my own blurred, shattered and shifted language in order to occupy my ever fading mind of solitude and sanctuary. I am not a quitter. I go the long haul. I drive the road hard. String beans to Utah.

The beard is coming into true derelict fashion. I have been trimming my fingernails but leaving the thumb nails as carver, slicer, dicer tools. I had left the thumbs long when I was to be taken into custody too, as I thought they would make damn good eye gougers. I never had the opportunity to test my self defense theory but I do know that they make amazing implements of utility. Screw the Leatherman, all I need is talons, sharp talons of salmon tearing wear. No, I am not going bald.

I wish I still had my view finder and all the reels of miniature slides to circle graze and gaze through the light dancing fantastic as the plastic binocular eye slots wishfully pressed against my ocular sockets. I would like to create and distribute a whole Community Works Program set of picture discs to elementary school children on why being a convict is not hip. They could flip and flick the little right side lever and gawk at the prismed sweat of swither, all while thinking to themselves that it is cool to stay in school. Celebrity get-offs offer too much hope for a generation that think that they can be Paris Hilton or Brittany Spears and get away with what ever devious misdemeanors that get chalked off as a faux pau, not crime. It is not easy being Mel Gibson if you are not Mel Gibson. At least I wasn’t castrating the Jews or swilling from the swelled turkey neck of a bottle spout labeled Patron upon my detainment on that magnificent night of red and blue lights complete with straight line walking.

Why does it always come back to walking lines the right way?

After a good line walk, I am left to feel as though Wonka himself piped up from underneath his maddening hatter chapeau of thick maroon felt and grimacing as he states, “Wrong, sir! Wrong! Under section 37B of the contract signed by him, it states quite clearly that all offers shall become null and void if - and you can read it for yourself in this photostatic copy - ‘I, the undersigned, shall forfeit all rights, privileges, and licenses herein and herein contained,’ et cetera, et cetera…‘Fax mentis incendium gloria cultum,’ et cetera, et cetera…‘Memo bis punitor delicatum!’ It's all there, black and white, clear as crystal! You stole fizzy lifting drinks. You bumped into the ceiling which now has to be washed and sterilized, so you get nothing! You lose! Good day sir!” I would not like to be looking down the barrel of that smoking scold. No sir, indeed!

The Mad Hatter was mad because feltiers in Carrol's time used mercury to maipulate the felt into hat shapes. All of the chemical convergence led to mercury poisening which has the side effects of insanity. Read 'Annotated Alice'.

This may not be the best way to lurk in the shadows of everyone else’s days but it is getting me from bed to bedding each and every single day. It beats the hell out of handcuffs. Have you ever had handcuffs strangle your wrists so hard that you jerk and writhe to get comfortable and all that does is tighten them to vein suffocation that can paralyze your bear claws? I thought not. I have. Three times now. Once, for possession of marijuana under an ounce. It was one bowls worth of grass - the equivalent of five or six big hits. I was confronted by the officer because he assumed that my friend and I were packing weapons and he found the pipe. I was very clean cut at the time, as was my friend. I paid the fine - 279 dollars. Twice, for first time D.U.I. after I ran over a football sized rock left in the middle of the road as a result from a road project that had yet to be completed. I blew a 0.08 (the legal tipping point - comparable to two drinks in one hour) and was released twenty minutes after I had been brought to the Brea police department for processing. Thrice the charm was my current fiasco which is one hell of a devil’s ass rim job. No more for me. I do not care for bracelets. I wear my damn watch on the ‘wrong’ wrist. It should be on my left. I was raised by a lefty, so it is on my right. I hate wrist jewelry. That includes the joint candy known as the ‘handcuff’. Well, unless, um, well, um …

To quote Mr. Turkentine of Wonka education, “Of course you don't know. You don't know because only I know. If you knew and I didn't know, then you'd be teaching me instead of me teaching you - and for a student to be teaching his teacher is presumptuous and rude. Do I make myself clear?”

I thought not.

I rather just avoid the line and silver dangles of articulatio radiocarpea gouging. I am not the man who likes that. I am not the man who wants to deal with the men who like that. I can still hear Tito’s beat and I prefer my Sundays like this, in comparison to the ruse and rube and rouge of sly confidence banter over a cheek of chew to be rolled into a smoke that will be inhaled and shared in a shower full of naked men.

Howard Hughes once said, “Once you consent to some concession, you can never cancel it and put things back the way they are.” I could not agree more. I do not need fifteen Kleenex to open a cabinet or four individual bars of soap to make my hands right and clean enough to look into the eyes of men and women that I do not know or need something from. Soap gets caked under my thumb talons. Kleenex is a name brand waste of moohlah. Cabinets are no dirtier than moonlight shining through a margarita glass in Tijuana’s dirt road side street bars that smell of death's premature birth and the incubator that masturbates and massages it’s heart into the race for the taking. Cabinets open easy for me. They slam quite well too. I will take is words, his seclusion, his reclusive mania, his money, but you can leave the germed out germination of his Obsessive Compulsive Disorder by the roadside. Must have been Texas water, look at Townes Van Zandt - some would say Dubbya. I just say Texas and water. I’m sorry George and Howard, take me back to Maine.

As horns dance and I await my Lady’s arrival, I type to all of you. Who are you all? Poor, rich, tall, short, fat, thin, or are you just all names that I have given Mr. Hughes' piss bottles as a way to forget that my glasses have broken and there are still many books left to read? I am quite sure that my anticipation and aggression is nothing more than a passing phase for the mid-day doldrums. I will be in her arms in two hours. Her plane is descending as we speak. Into Long Beach, above the shadows of the once magnificent Spruce Goose that no longer sits like a lion at the gates of Lynch Park's flower garden but became toothpicks years ago because of the treasonous termite. I will hold her tighter this time than any other time in our 19 year history. She, once again, will love my insanity, my passion. I, of course, will not stop the love, the hold, the one that we are.

I could never face the day with a mustache like Howard’s. To me it was his end, thank you Mr. Forster. I would gladly take all of the syphilis mind bender degradation and dilapidation of his Vegas retreat just to have the millions but like Howard said, “I'm not a paranoid deranged millionaire. Goddamit, I'm a billionaire.” He has two streets, one in L.A. and one in Vegas, named after him. They are not just streets, they are roadways to the past, the reason that insanity reminds us of now.

I trickle into the afternoon like beans and beads on the spiral stair case that is found within the soul of a rain stick.

I tell myself that the politics will return.

I heard of the rallies this weekend in L.A. One man was arrested for spitting on a demonstrator as he drove by. I wonder if it was El Jeffe?

I am not the lead wolf on the sled. I just look at assholes all day.

I know that I have stepped from the cliff. I am a mental lemming, not knowing why but walking forward just the same.

I want to take it in and inhale, feel, pray.

Will anyone object if I do?

I think some Latin will make the day a little less hot as sweat makes you cooler.

It is too damn hot here. It reminds me of the New England term 'Indian Summer'.

I can smell the Kingsford from a neighbor.

My stomach just grumbled, like a Hell’s Angel.

Vesania aedifico aevum.

Till tomorrow, with all of the free ten hour minutes that I can use …

Ok. Shake and shutter through the shroud of seamless shatter. Wrap yourself in ribbons and dance furiously to the jitter of jabber. I have no idea where this one might go, beyond the song lyrics I have already summed up as my night, my day, my twenty-four hour inhale/exhale.

I worked my regular gig today. I moved a vertical piano up two flights of outside stairs that narrowed upon the second staircase which had a swinging metal gate as it’s denouement. In the hot Sun it did not even remotely mean as much grind, grunt, and garrulous gander as the regular un-paid grounding that I get behind five days a week.

I rock the grind and the rock grinds me. Like a jeweler’s tool and toll, I stepped too close to the spinning wheel, I breathed the dust and still can breathe. I hold firm, in my hands, the ability to shape it all, to make the gemstone fit. Cascading gold and platinum into the mouths of rock stars. I wonder what dentist actually sets up practice to just 'do grills'? I am sure a very prolific and profiteering giant. The idea must occur before the first cup of coffee in an early morning haze only comparable to drugged out rehabbers looking to find themselves in the pantry when they are really in their bathroom wondering where the sugar is. They make the dough though, which means they found not just the sugar but the flour as well. Nissu, I taste thee!

I did what I could do today working with a fine, silicon-less, polish paste known as ‘Oz’. I climbed the mount of polished brass. Something about a little 3M polish compound that lets the shine come through the oxidation, never mind the white goo known as Finesse-It. Unless it is plated, I have a use for it. Damn the plated rubbish, as well as the Philips head screw. No one really needs that shite unless they are fully machined. I am not machined. I require coffee and cigarettes, as well as the occasional lunch.

I think of drool coming from an ancient robotic man holding close his poker hand, which he knows he has already won, as he can count cards better than rain man. He stands tall and hopes the night will not be day and vice versa as he exits his vice out onto the streets that formally hugged the casino glare, gluttony, and gala. Does he know the difference between right and wrong? Only a law or two tells him so.

Silly, isn’t it?

Why be so aggressive when the shark only bites in water?

Because swimming is fun. Who wants to sacrifice that? Me!

If you tell someone consistently and constantly and confidently that green is red, and through their color blind shades of ‘no distinction’, they believe your words and they take it to the grave; then how many generations of denial are willing to participate in the charade of belief over truth? All of them. It is called brainwashing, up-bringing, raising, conformity, collusion. It is a wonder any of us have an original thought.

Is it those wall walkers, those fence fighters, those barrier breakers that detonate and consume the darkness found within a breakfast with no one, while the sugar substitutes beg to be used, the Tabasco wonders why it is there and the eggs are always sunny; implying their pleasure at their aborted existence of yolk yummies staring up at you from the platter, plate, pontification of what the moment should be. Funny to think of day’s start so surly. I sweat it not.

Do you grip the soul of day?

Do you grasp the night’s turn?

One of my favourite expressions is, “Don’t shit where you eat my friend.” Ween, the amazing rock group duo of adolescent Scotch guard huffing splendor - complete with gas mask inhalation device of decadence and deviancy, wrote a song with such title. It is far more mellow than my description of the band would imply or impose. It is a lesson to be learned, and it is NOT the song of which I will quote lyrics to soon!

Many things have fouled the fair air of tonight. I received message that the cult of Vag Island is reading and after me. They are watching me. I wonder if they employ, implore, and explore the thoughts of the crow. I saw him this morning. He knows were my abode is and where I rest my cranium. He is a video camera eyed crow, right?

Rumour has it that I piss on walls, piss up ropes and should be pissed on. I am content with that. Let the golden rain fall but spare me the criticism. I think we can all grasp that rope to be climbed.

I will sound off with a bit of song that is intended to actually be featured here in contrast to my words …

Steve Vai’s first solo album, after the Zappa 'college', teeth cutting experience, is called “Flexible“. It contains two sets of lyrics worth a gander, not a goose - although some of you may be tempted. The first is a very complicated ditty of Zappa splendor rhythm and the second is a guitar solo signature singing spoken word rant slant that would make Frank scream, dream, and cream his jeans.

Song one is “Little Green Men”:

“We know ya' come a long way
We hope that your ship is o.k.
We hope you're gonna' stick around
Maybe to save the day.

Liw liw, liw liw,
Liw liw, liw

You look - a real keen
Even though you are green
With those big, large heads
Something off of the movie screen.

Liw liw, liw liw,
Liw liw, liw

(chorus)
Little green men, they look so funny
Funny green men
I want one to have and to hold and to
Silly green men
Where do they come from?
Should we run away, should we start to pray
Or is it a movie that they're film'?

Are the people on your planet
Usually in a frantic panic like they are here
Most of the time?
(blah...I'm freakin' out...)
Wait a minute, you, it is true about
Einstein's theory and Darwin’s too?
What about war, the soul, the mind
Love, death, god, divine?

Little, little, little, little, little, little, little

‘Ladies & gentlemen of the world, it is my utmost privilege to announce to
You that these little green men actually do exist, for they are part of the
Eternal past and venture from all regions of our galaxy to find homage in
Our earth's center. governments of the world have been very good at
Concealing these little visitors and preparing the public with loving movies
And pleasant melodies. (ya' see, like that one - did ya' hear that- yes.)
Controlled media as to cushion the arrival of our little friends. you see,
Throughout history many people have claimed to see strange lights in the
Sky.’

(oh no.) well, the truth of the matter is that these light, and beings, will
Only reveal themselves to those who are pure of heart, for these enlightened
Aliens leave permanent imprinted information on the psyche of those chosen
Human only to be revealed to our deteriorating planet at the point in which
Our civilization shall enter the new age of 'light without heat.'

Little green men about four foot one
Maybe they want to have some fun.
Little green men about 4 foot two
Maybe he wants to mate with you
(ooh, ah, eee, etc...)(simulated alien sex sequence)
Little green men about four foot three
Maybe they wanna' be set free.

We're hoping that the human race will become part of endless time. we love
You all and want you to know that in your heart and in your soul there is
Power bigger than the world.
Little green men about four foot
Maybe they wanna' kick some butt.
Mo fo
Uuuu, aaaa, eeee, grrr...
(chorus)
(chorus)
E.t.i.o.u. e.t.i.o.u. e.t.i.o.u

Ba-v-ni-ni na-ni-new,
Ba-nu-ni-ni-na-ni-new bda-da
Ba-nu-ni-ni-na-ni-new bra-da-di-dat.”

It makes me wonder and wander. Is Al Gore right? Nope. He is just one of them.

Song two is a number of non-novice nicety that is notably entitled “So Happy”, which features a naggig broad being micmicked and mocked by a pitch following guitar wank about half way through the 'people for a perfect world' optimism vomit:

“Ya know, Steve, I wish we could just always have fun, and never, never, ever have to be sad. And just always smile and laugh, and sing, and play. And just always be having so, so, so, so, so much fun. And, never cry, never be sad, never have to frown, never have anybody mad at us. Just always having fun; always laughing, and laughing loud, and getting other people to laugh, too. And have so much fun and never, never, never be sad for any reason. And if anyone would ever try to make us sad (or mad), we wouldn't be. Because we would just be too glad. And then we would make everyone else glad because our "Gladdys" would be so big, everyone else would have to be glad, too. And, Steve, I never, ever wanna cry, and I know you don't either. And I hope that we will never, never have to cry. And if we just laugh a real lot, and laugh loud 'n' hard and long, we will never, ever have to cry. And if anyone tries to make us cry, we will make them laugh instead; we will make them glad and we will keep them from feeling bad, and we will never be sad, 'cause it's so fun to be happy, and I always wanna be happy with you Steve, and I never want it to be a cloudy day. I always want the sun to shine. And even if one day the sun doesn't shine, we'll pretend the sun is shining. And we'll be so happy, and we'll just laugh and laugh anyway. And pretty soon, all the dark clouds will go away. Because we can't have those dark clouds, no! We will always be happy, and having fun instead. And if it should ever start to rain little drops of rain, we will pretend it isn't raining. We will go inside and pretend there's no rain, and sure enough, our gladness will make all the rain go away.

("They told me I was gonna get a balloon.")

And, Steve, you and I are so happy; and, and, Steve, we will just take our happiness with us everywhere. We could go into bad neighborhoods where very sad and very bad people live. But we'd make them happy, and they wouldn't be sad or bad anymore. And we would walk the streets of the worst places in the world, and make everyone so happy. Why, why, we could go to New York, and make all the people in New York so happy. Why, we could even go to Tokyo. Why, Steve, we could go to all the big cities, all over the world, making people happy wherever we go. And make 'em laugh and make 'em sing.

Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-. Make them sing. So many little, come on everybody sing along with me now; just everybody go, do-do do dodo do do, do-do-do; whatever you feel like singing; just go do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do do do do do, etc... “

This latter song, presents my current interpretation of most who try to engage. Happy, happy, happy! Kind of frightening.

I am slipping off the wall. I will soon be fist smoking cloves with the hoodlums behind the Taco Bell. I am sure my church money will evade the wicker basket and go to devious deeds. No need, the reason I write is writing itself. How cathartic and profound. One on the previous, none on the latter. Amen!

How does one truly tell the difference between the absolutely bonkers and the genius? Is it really the juicy fruit falling from the ceiling into their watered skulls? Is it the recognition of that juicy fruit flavor? Is it the chomping of the Zebra Stripe gum? No one knows the blackjack I’ve seen, nobody knows but Clove gum. Jeesh, I have become a line crosser. I cross the line. No Chekhov for me; straight insanity is my luncheon plate. Dig in and devour!

Chew, chew, chew, chew.

Spit it out.

Stick it behind your ear.

Under the desk

"Cool it, Mother. Now, this little piece of gum I've been chewing on for three months solid. That's a world record. It's beaten the record held by my best friend, Miss Cornelia Prince Medal. And, WAS she mad. Hi, Cornelia. How are ya, Sweetie?"

Make sure that you know it is what I know.

You will revisit the hardened mastication exercise emporium upon next year’s schedule, the next bus trip, the next graze through the park of grouse. Grease those shoes, grease them good.

It is still almost a full year till the next St. Peter’s Fiesta in Gloucester, MA.

I want my fucking baloon. A 'bay-loon'.

Stroke me Pompadour!

Party on St. Peter. Grease your over-water walking pole. Grease that bitch thick. Make the Guineas walk fast, slick, and scared.

The booze will stop the ‘real’ fisherman from feeling a damn thing.

Fish on …

I learned a little yesterday. I learned a lot of me. I am a bastard. I am the mule of which the stubborn phrase was born. I grab onto every little cross or jab and stick it deep into my craw as if to save it from nuclear winter. I am the fat son of a bitch that elephants wish they had the memory of. I hold onto things in my trunk for far too long.

I am not saying that now I am a 'bygones be bygones' man of constant forgiveness bereft of a spine and host to a myriad of other swishy malleability. I will still remember the big ones. The high sea mutinies, the Family snitch, the treasonous Arnolds, the one who leaks my dreams and inner most workings to the press; these are all big crosses, deceptions, trust crushers. These I will not forgive and forget.

I realized that everything to me is far too serious and I am disgustingly petty when it comes to my peeve of others not taking things seriously as well. This is not to say that I do not joke around. I am quite the comedian. I constantly am looking for the funny angle. I like to do characters. I love to act out comedic exchange. I would probably be a big hit at amateur night down at the ol’ comedy club or improve show. But when things are serious they need to be taken with a grave seriousness that I hold the bar far too high on, or low depending on whether or not we are high jumping or doing the limbo.

I guess I should just come out with the two instances, interactions, exchanges that sculpted this new inner mirror reflection and then maybe, just maybe, the beginning three paragraphs will make far mo’ better sense.

Yesterday at the Ranch it was just Big Willie Style and me. His 6’4” frame of gaunt thinness and elongated gait was there promptly with a gigantic lunch. He smiled and was full of ‘good mornings’. I thought that I must be in for it. This was the day I was to be shanked with a shiv out in the field and left to compost the trees. I am still here, or so I think I am, so that is a good indicator on the barometer of lessons learned.

It was to be the day of trimming the endless bush. I am thinking the Knights Who Say Nicht would have been for ever muted as mimes if this were the shrubbery they had received. This bush was of the same pine needle variety as the one trimmed the day before except this one had it’s own zip code, municipalities and school district. Did I mention that it was big?

Big Willie did big work. We were in the sun all day. My forehead is as dark as espresso. I am one tan fellow. I was not thinking of my new found ability to masquerade as George Hamilton as I was dropping sweat that would be able to replace Pluto as Planet Number Nine. Number nine, number nine, number nine. Willie was working with me though, not against me. He was not going to kill me, the God’s of Heat Stroke were. My shirt was soaking, I mean able to wring out into a bucket, wet within about ten minutes. The gas driven hedge clipper trimmers were making my arms turn to miry Jell-o as Willie and I helped each other and worked our asses off. We were a team, a newly forged partnership of glistening bronze.

It appears, through the conversations we had through out the day, that I overlooked one HUGE thing that could have shaded the whole Willie interaction debacle with a much pretty colour. He had not fallen into a routine. He had not yet become complacent with the punishment at hand. He was still being brow beat by the visit to labour land. As of yesterday, he was much more at ease with the routine and was able to relax. Up until then he was still looking for a way out and looking over his shoulder to sum up those around, which offered up his detached, ‘piss off’ attitude towards me and his lack of conversation in general.

I was wrong to so quickly sum up, pass judgment, and administer sentence to someone who had yet to really round himself out in my knowledge realm. If he had been a stranger on the street or a one time run in than it would be a tad different but this is someone that I must share space, time, and duties with for the next three weeks. I could have been more patient. Patient, I am not. I wave my finger at myself and sternly say, “Tsk! Tsk! Tsk!”

This brings me to round about two.

I had been politically feuding with a blogger of opposing viewpoint on BlogStream for quite some time now. I even wrote a whole post about how infuriated I would get after running comments back and forth and feeling like I was truly blue in the face from trying to get my point across to deaf ears. After last night, I am now red, not blue, in the face.

His name is Mokie Joe.

I was asked to do a ‘fill-in’ interview for the BlogStream Inquirer and have it in by last night. I was given the opportunity by Lucy (the sculptress of ‘Trying Not To Come Undone” - where you can find the Sunday BS Inquirer: http://tryinotocomeundone.blogstream.com/) on Thursday night. I rushed through my interview options.

My first pick was a blogger named Iagniappe who writes a very clever piece called “The Oh Really Factor” (http://lagniappe.blogstream.com/) as well as an amazing piece of prose called “Mr. Q-Tip Popcorn Man” (http://sliptease.blogstream.com/). I thought that his clever intelligence mixed with the fact that he is not a ‘social’ blogger, meaning he does not have numerous PM’s going or participates in the chat room, would make for a good addition to the Sunday feature. I did not hear back from him.

Second up was Girlpreacher, the ever caring and witty GP (http://fatgirlsforjesus.blogstream.com/). I like her take on things and how she presents religion. We have a common sense of humour and we have been reading each others blogs since the beginning. She did not get back to me until Friday and was having IM issues but I had number three all ready and waiting, so I had to pass on a lengthy e-mail exchange. Sorry GP!

This tailspins and turns me back to Mokie Joe (http://touchysubjects.blogstream.com/). I thought for sure that it would prove interesting. Two opposing political and journalism, writer junkies squaring off for some heated crossfire. I honestly thought it to be a long shot that he would even respond to my request. That is how poorly the past exchanges had gone. When I arrived home and turned my computer on, there was correspondence from him saying that he was waiting with the IM ready and willing. That had been three hours before I had come home. He was still there when I sat down with my pack of smokes and a lighter, eager with anticipation, and typed ‘Good Evening, this is Richard” into the little icon sided IM box.

He was beyond cordial, polite, and civil. We even laughed over some the typos we both had had as we typed away in Q&A. He is informative and funny. We may not always agree (on most politics we fervently do not) but it was good to sit at the table across from each other and have a reasonable discourse that left us both feeling better about each other and the past back and forths we had had.

I do not want to give too much of the interview away as that would be a spoiler, and it is going to be posted tomorrow, but there is one thing that I will say. He blew me away with one of his answers. He really almost made me tear up and drop some emotion down my cheeks. I felt an almost uncanny sense of redemption, like I made good on being the feisty stubborn bastard that I can be.

I had him so misjudged and incorrectly countenanced that I just was getting mad at everything he was saying. The politics was the only thing that we seemed to disagree on and even some of that we are not that far gone from each other that we can not see each others foothold and grounding. Two feverish exchanges had left me snow blinded to anything else. I even felt slighted when he had come in the chat room the other day and mentioned something remotely political. How self centered and egocentric am I? The World does not revolve around Richard, it revolves around the Sun and the Sun I am not. Maybe I am that hot and bright and big but I digress as I appear the boob.

Two about faces.

Two completely different people and circumstances, miles apart, worlds apart, telling me the same message. Bitch smacking the same lesson into the gourd.

I am just a man and sometimes not a good one at that.

My problem is that I think too much. Far too much.

Analytical attack is my favourite musing. Sum up. Sum down. Repeat. Over and over again ad infinitum.

I need to accept that things are not all to be controlled and conformed into pre-made molds that I prepare situations and conversations in like some sort of interactive parfait.

I need to be like the Winwood and roll with it. Roll with it baby!

Take his words one mo’ ‘gain and get back in the high life again as tomorrow will bring me a higher love.

My lady returns tomorrow. I think she will like my slightly humbled self.

The black bird continues his stalk. He will be confused over the long weekend's absence. 

Change can be a good thing.

I am not the Sun King even though I have a cryptic tongue …

The bird read my essay. He has brought friends, who enjoy aerial fighting wild parrots, and I know they want to get me. They fight the parrots valiantly like the Red Barons of WWI, swooping and cat fighting above my head. I think of Snoopy more than the bird would probably like. I kept yelling up at the trees today, through the insanity of repetitive punishment, telling them to go eat shit. They can’t because it is on their own feet.

Birds and Cats and Dogs, Oh my!

Rake, rake, rake; Clip, clip, clip; and a couple of tra la la’s; That’s how we pass the day away in the merry old land of Oz. I have become the horse of a different colour.

The ornery ornithological beast of daytime’s passing makes it’s visage visible by it’s voice. I look up and there he is with his friends, laughing his vocal ass off.

Today was not a good day.

Have you ever had to use inferior tools, tools that are not acceptable for the task at hand, tools that are not sharp? Try trimming a lawn with nail clippers. I am quite familiar with the colloquialism ’not the sharpest tool in the shed’ and I know far too well the slang phrase ’that person is a tool’. Both make their glitter coat presence far too well known throughout my dreary plug along. I was trimming some insipient little shrubbery with thin little Christmas tree needles and branches so thin they would make Kate Moss look fat. Very dull hedge clippers, yes the manual kind, do not complete this job efficiently. This is what stirred the muck bottomed pot that is the relationship between me and the convict known as Willie.

I view my daily chain gang tasks as a waltz with Monty Hall. You never know what is beyond the prize at hand. Door number two can mean trading in that magnificent new car for a friggin’ toaster or a hair clip. I know I have a bitchin’ convict costume that has attracted Monty on his quest for high ratings, increased advertising revenue, and just plain good television. He wants me to take the chance. I know that if the feat is to be accomplished, the hurdle to be jumped, it is a meek and mild one that I should stick with and do right. Not only does this prevent me from having to revisit the quest the next day but it also comforts me in knowing that it is not as bad as what is around the bend, behind door number two. I would have sucked as a contestant on ‘Let’s Make A Deal’. I would have blown the chance for the Fiji Trip and went home with a bottle of Head and Shoulders.

I was told by Willie that I was doing far too of a good and effective job. He explained, that we should all be as incompetent as him. It was just James, Willie, and I. Willie and James struck up great conversation and both of them bitched way too much about the inability of the tools to work for us. I thought the whole thing odd. Like mental patients explaining that they were too crazy for the asylum, that they should be free because of their ‘extra' insanity. I told him that we would have to do it right once El Jeffe came to review our sweat driven efforts and upon failure sent us back to task. I explained that if it was my last day than I would not give a shit but that I have 140 hours left and did not want to return to the project of glassy, gassy, bush trimming with unsharpened utensils. He told me I was not a 'team player'. I asked him if that was what he was yesterday as he walked around talking to himself while we all picked avocados. He likes confrontation. I dislike it very much.

At every chance from that point out, this mute of a criminal made tons of conversation with the felony-assault-against-an-officer-surfer-dude-a -decade-older-than-I. He did this just to isolate me and make me more confrontational. Nice jail trick Willie. That Willie is slick. Willie also took the opportunity of the sun blared day, devouring my energy - both the sun and him, to point out how wrong I was about everything I said and to accuse me constantly of arguing and not doing any work. My blood didn’t just boil, it chug-a-lugged chipotle chili as if it were water. I was fuming harder than a bar whore's menthol cigarette around closing time. I gripped the shrub shears, as dull as they were, and thought of what would happen if I had shoved them through his God damned throat. I chose not to sink to a criminal level. I knew it was all wrong to even think. If you had been there you would have thought the same thing. He talked about me getting a vagina because of my long hair and accused me of liking men and dressing like a fat woman which made me even more upset and infuriated. Willie continued claiming I was nothing more than a long haired beat nik hippie moron who deserved less respect because of my width and appearance rather than what I said.

This kid must have a resume thicker than the friggin’ Bible. He has done everything and, not only has he done it, but is an expert at it all. I have worked a lot of jobs, most of which lasted a year or more. This kid has done them all. He groomed dogs, sold home loans, was in the military, went to Iraq, was a cop, is an electrician, is a landscaper, is a construction supervisor, and a DJ, and a coke dealer, and a …

He claims to speak Spanish. He is bilangual. His only two Spanish phrases to date are: "Beuno" and "No Beuno". That, my friends, is not speaking Spanish! This is typical speak for anyone having been raised in Southern California. No big whoop there!

By the end of the day I was pegged as some negative old man asshole as he talked to the 40 year old surfer about rent price differences between Costa Mesa and Mission Viejo. I am 31. Super Willie, the man of many hats and acclaimed proficiency at everything, except community work and avoiding arrest, is 26. All of a sudden in one caw of my big black beast berater it became clear, very clear, crys-tal.

He is just a youngin’ who has been married since he was 24. His wife comes from old money and he is your typical criminal bumpkin child who was raised around devious acts and inadvertently, or quite precisely, moved up through marriage. He likes his brand spankin' new cars and toys and gadgets. He likes to up his salary everytime you talk to him about. At one point he has himself making 12,000 dollars (yes twelve thousand dollars) a month as a back scrubbing, rubbing loan officer. I assume this was when he was 9.

He is a neurotic little braggart that needs things to be one up'd ( aphrase which I was told by him that I was usiong wrong). It all became like geyser water refracting it’s clarity through sun beams. He is a very insecure young man. Beyond any of my own insecurity bear hugs, this kid is in the grips of delusion. Must be the meth.

 I could understand it all. From here on out the day became manageable and not the suicidal roadside attraction that it was until that moment. Tom Robbins has just thanked me for the plug, even though no one reads this enough to change book sales based on refference or recommendation.

The birds followed me all the way home today as I walked that BBQ heat walk back home. I had become a smoked tri-tip awaiting the chew. The leader of their pack, their flock, made it known it was him with his condescending screams and flew my way all morning, all afternoon, all evening. My last foot blisters burst and I knew it was at the will of the crows, the one crow indeed.

Do I react as much to the racism of the Mexican supervisor? Do I react as much to Willie? Do I know the crow will be there tomorrow? Yes, yes, yes. Tomorrow will be better. I get a free ten hours for Labour Day as long as I arrive tomorrow and Tuesday. I get the three day weekend (one consumed by my real job) and the ten hour Monday credit.

At the end of the day I bummed a smoke from Willie when we left the gates of our incarceration park. He is just a boy, a boy that hopes and wishes he was better than most men but especially the ones in his wife’s family.

I have no song lyrics to share.

Yet, the horns and bass lines cryptically sway to the melodies. The black bird knows all the dances.

Willie knows them too.

Willie if you are reading, tomorrow will be better.

Tomorrow is Friday.

It is nothing more than a house of mirrors. My reflection is all I should care about.

For God’s sake, I am doing work with criminals.

It is a shame that I have had such heinous actions to lead me to this place.

In the end it is what I take from it, not what they do.

Mantra number three:

I am not here to save the World, I am here to save myself …

My patience, and tolerance of the lack, for the good day is growing exceptionally thin. Thinner than the silk that the small Asian women used for the sewed together imagery that I viewed at the Museum of Science in Boston when I was just a wee one tot that hid on the bus and stared out the window as we trekked into the city as a group of fourth graders from Beverly, MA. So thin that I myself could become an exhibit. I will raise the handle and lay down a call to the Mother of convex consortium at the halls of viewing in Boston. I am sure the roadway looks far different than I remember it through those young child eyes, all big and wide with the view escape that let me hide from the bastard ass yellow roadway train that would ridicule and isolate me from those good days that I previously mentioned.

I wish I was still that little boy, with his brown hair so brown that you thought it was something from a Rembrandt painting. The little boy who spoke up when he needed not to hide. The young boy who eventually screamed or shut up because the barriers of outer existence provided to steep, still, and solid a leverage point to argue with. The young boy who fears the crow.

The crow has found me, found me indeed. Do I know where this blackbird comes from, do I know why he is following me, do I care ? Two no’s and a yes make up, in order, that graphic pie standing tall for analytical duel. I do know that he is watching me and I know it is the same bird, the same bird that shits on his own feet, a totem that was meant to haunt me with it’s caterwauls.

This morning was gripped in the fog and mist so deep that you would figure me in Cheshire. Right from the start point, the get go, the little foot push off into the day, the morning, the fear of what the day would grant after my stroll. My specs fogged up, misted a second epidermis, and rainbow flared every headlight that shone it’s interrogation upon me. There was more traffic this morning than any other so far. Does anyone pay attention to the gas prices? I know not. They keep moving and shaking and shining their lights. Flick, flick, twitch, tick. They were as fabulous as LSD flashbacks but without the comfort of the trip ending with bacon, bong hits, and bed.

I can’t stand this loneliness anymore. To think of how much I would type if I was alone this much all the time. The living room hates me. The porch tolerates me. The door locks are wondering when a more feminine hand will molest their idiosyncrasies. I spoke with the refrigerator last night, and it is, simply put, pissed off that she is not here. I try to tell the cooling wonder of Freon oddity and necessity that I am the only one to open and shut it’s mouth. Needless to say, the fridge shut up.

I almost went fisticuffs with a meth head convict today. He drags his ass in circles avoiding the bumpy green fruit of which we pick. I am there five days a week. He should be there five days a week. He is not and constantly, consistently, talks about how he could, and should, just go finish his time - the time he has at hand for three ounces of methamphetamine and a loaded gun. This is a man who should not have the opportunity to be in my shoes. He is a convict of ‘whatever’ stature. He does not care if he returns to jail, he cares not of the rules. He sneaks his smokes all day. He text messages his wife while he hides behind trees looking for the big boss man. In contrast, I am a mere inmate.

I play by the rules, sweat, work hard, and follow orders without distinction. I was in a fabulous mood all day and broke into Charlie Manson by two. I was ready to kill, I just was not up for the task, or the repercussions, myself. I prayed for a tree to fall on this dumb mother fucker’s head. No trees fell. I did not hear them. The pope does shit in the woods though.

He claims he is an Air Force veteran who just got done with two years in Iraq. He says a few smart things in the morning. He breaks up the lunch half hour with a clever comment. He ends the day with a few nickel and dime remarks that ensue a chuckle. Willie stays quite the rest of the day, except when he refutes my sweat tongued field comments of ‘are you going to do anything today’. He does not care. I do. If it were a toe to toe situation, I would take him down. We both would end up in a bad place, a place that he is surely calling home sweat home, a place I call an empty douche bag. Bad.

I step, with waders on, into the pond, pool, and murky puddle of post six, consecutive. I wonder now if I should have kept it all up for a big weekend extravaganza and then realized I am still facing the nose out from that crest in hopes that the shore never comes. I hate the undertow. I have made that toady comment before.

I suppose it matters nothing to the bird who follows me. He does not follow Willie or James or Johnnie. He follows me, with gilded wing and chastised vocal calling, mocking me into wondering why the black bird calls.

Caw! Caw! Caw!

His perverse little tree noises that interupt his call remind me of the predator.

Upon my arrival at the park, somewhere around 6:10 a.m. P.S.T., the little black villain sits high upon a eucalyptus tree across from me as if we are preparing for a mean Central Park game of chess, complete with timer. Those in Boston could compare it to the chess prep found in the pit at the Au Bon Pain. He caws, cackles, and cacophonies, at me and my meek and mild presence all wet with sweat. On and on and on and he knows when I look at him and mutter, mumble, muse swears in his general direction. I fear him. He knows it.

Black birds, and specifically crows, are not a good totem; not to mention the fact that birds are not my favourite creatures on Earth. With all of their pecking and birdy turdy feet, they intimidate me more so than any human being could ever accomplish on their own. The only bird, and black bird at that, is the song mused by Paul McCartney on the White Album.

When I get into the park and await my daily assignment of never changing sweep duties, the bird has found me. He awaits my fear and me more so than it would even splendor it’s children. Up high and too tall of a tree for it to be a reckoning. I could not do anything to that damn bird if I wanted to. Cawing at me, and only me, as it’s blank shark like eyes gaze and glaze off in my direction, with beak a flailing.

When we travel many miles, one half hour by crazed Mexican directed van or truck, to the work site around 8:45 a.m., the bird is there. Caw, caw, caw. Screech and verbal scrawl upon my paranoia, my neurosis. Blanking out and blacking out my confidence for the day. My ailments return and my self conscience acceptance of a future that I have yet to see blur up like those wet wiped headlights guiding towards me as I stumble from concrete section to concrete section like Helen Keller pretending to know their familiarity. I go to work, from site to site, and that damn bird is there - usually bringing a friend or two as if my mental health check is a free keg party featured on MTV complete with half naked broads and twisted sexual trysts that only make their way into diaries, never to be viewed until a mid life crisis.

On the big and mighty drive home today, after all the avocados that I ever want to see, pick, eat, smell, or carry were loaded up, I saw the bird and it’s brethren. Like Heckle and Jeckle awaiting some sort of Chris Robinson nightmare to justify the fence sitting, they gazed at my returned stare as the dump truck careened past their fence post. At lunch I made comment about how the bird would travel our way home to the base of operations. I even mentioned, as it flew into the gusts of higher altitude, that it would have to hang a hard left and coast away South to find me upon check out. It must have heard me. I know it did.

When I got to the return departure destination, the damned bird was there. When I stopped at the store, it chased me to the air conditioned swish-swish of the auto doors. It was like Captain Kirk against the Big Bad Black Birds of Doom. Swish-swoosh and the bird was left outside. This two legged parasite of my constitution was actually chasing me, running after me, and terrorizing me into the door's entry. I went to urgent alert red. I was under increased security clearance as the bird ran towards me with the cocky indifference only found in Irish bar fights. I was safe within the walls of consumerism. Something is wrong about that. Something is wrong about the whole damn thing.

I know in the morning that beast of winged fury and intimidation will be waiting for me, waiting with a blood thirsty beak, a ripe for the pecking. If I could climb eucalyptus trees that fucking bastard would have more of a fight than I would ever sock to Willie the circle walker.

With the lonely and all of the mental dodger dives during duress I reflect on the words of the song “The Shape I’m In” by The Band:

“Go out yonder, peace in the valley
Come downtown, have to rumble in the alley
Oh, you don't know the shape I'm in

Has anybody seen my lady
This living alone will drive me crazy
Oh, you don't know the shape I'm in

I'm gonna go down by the wa - ter
But I ain't gonna jump in, no, no
I'll just be looking for my mak - er
And I hear that that's where she's been? Oh!

Out of nine lives, I spent seven
Now, how in the world do you get to Heaven
Oh, you don't know the shape I'm in

I just spent 60 days in the jailhouse
For the crime of having no dough
Now here I am back out on the street
For the crime of having nowhere to go

Save your neck or save your brother
Looks like it's one or the other
Oh, you don't know the shape I'm in

Now two young kids might start a ruckus
You know they feel you trying to shuck us
Oh, you don't know the shape I'm in”

Lyrics sometimes do better things to people than my words.

The black bird can not sing, but rather caw and cackle and crackle, so I know it means nothing to him.

This leaves these lyrics between you and I and my healthy mind.

I will be ok. The bird can not find me when I sleep. Neither can Willie.

I will be the pimp, the pimp of my own mind and being and how much I can sleep at night while I handle all of my handles.

Make sure that you can handle my handle.

CAW! CAW! CAW!

Call me from time to time.

Melissa, if you read this, I love you …