The Den Den—or Ver.

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I am currently in the Denver, Colorado. Arvada to be precise. It’s a gorgeous bedroom community just outside of Denver. A hop, skip, and a jump—perhaps one verb’s length further away in distance from the city. I wonder inwardly what the people of Denver call their fine city, in some sort of local colloquialism. Do you know what I mean?

People in the Bay Area call San Francisco “The City.” Maybe Denver has something like that too? Something to put inside quotation marks when they write down the name of their home in written English. Maybe in their local circles, they refer to their mother city as The Den Den. Or just Ver. I’ll work up the nerve to ask the locals when I get tired of typing words.

Maybe they just call it home. That wouldn’t surprise me. I’m typing this at a Starbuck’s a few blocks from the home of the house concert host I am playing at this evening.

Faulkner—smoking a pipe. Not Truong. He doesn’t smoke pipes.

Truong is his name. He’s a great guy. He’s an economist. His bookshelves are full of volumes of Economic Theory, Philosophy, History, and a skosh of Literature. You might imagine that they smell of Book, Cedar, Leather, and Scotch. They don’t—well, how do I know? I wasn’t smelling his books this morning, like a weirdo. I swear.

I saw one fiction book. “The Sound and The Fury” by William Faulkner. I’m willing to bet he came from a time when men took pictures with pipes—Faulkner, not my host. I don’t think he smokes a pipe.

We can wager next time. You shouldn’t have took that bet, reader… and I need to exercise better grammar. Truong doesn’t strike me as a gambling man either—then again, he is hosting a musician from Los Angeles tonight at his house concert series. Sounds a bit like a gamble. I could suck, or at the very least, be very low on the entertainment spectrum.

With that being said residents of Den Den: y’all should come hangout tonight. Everyone is gathering at 6pm at Truong’s place of residence. Music starts at 7pm. Shoot me a DM on the social media sites. Tonight. Tonight being Sunday August 13th. Bring your pipe, and maybe some alcohol, incase I’m not entertaining—or incase I am.

This is the last date of my tour outside of California this summer. Stay tuned for my Fall Tour in October and November of 2023 down yonder.

TOUR DATES

SOCIAL MEDIA

Greensboro to Chattanooga to Nashville

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The past week has been a tornado of fun. Made it to Nashville yesterday. I am intent on leaving 1.2 pounds heavier than when I arrived (actively engaged in this activity as we speak).

Playing The Writer’s Kitchen at Jane’s Hideaway tonight at 8pm. Such a solid round of writers! My buddy Alice Wallace is hosting myself, ZG Smith, and Laura Rabell. We’re joining forces like Voltron to make a super robot songwriting machine.

SIDE NOTE: Alice introduced me to East Nash Grass last night. So so good. Had a lot of fun in Chattanooga at JMac’s on Sunday, and the Greensboro shows were a riot! Looking forward to trying to visit as many Nashville friends as I can while I’m in town.

DO YOU SOCIAL MEDIA?

DO YOU LIVE MUSIC?

Mark Twain | A New Single August 18th 2023

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Samuel Langhorne Clemens

My next single is being released on August 18th on this year of our Lord, 2023. It is probably the most convoluted story I have ever told—perhaps beside The Incredible Shrinking Brain—but we will save the later for a different day.

Mark Twain. It’s a brilliant pen name for Samuel Langhorne Clemens. It’s riverboat slang. It was also the pen name of another riverboat pilot who wrote for a Riverboat Almanac. Samuel Clemens stole the idea from him. He admits to this notion in his book entitled “Life on the Mississippi.”

Regardless, it is a brilliant pen name if you examine it for what it is and what it represents. Mark Twain is a measurement of depth. Sounding boats and sounding poles were used by those navigating the murky waters of a muddy river that we are all familiar with as American Citizens: the Mississippi River. It has no rocky foundation to its deepest depths. It is a muddy river. It constantly changes in depths and sizes naturally due to this proclivity endowed to rivers of such quality. However, because of this—it is dangerous. A riverboat can easily run ashore, or find the unwelcome sand of a shoal, if not constantly checking the depth of the river using sounding boats and sounding poles. This is where the notion of marks and numbers come from. These depths would be shouted by those using the sounding poles, to measure depth, to those listening for their instruction as they piloted the vessel.

The Mississippi River in Hannibal, Missouri

Mark Twain means two fathoms deep. It is the cut-off between dangerous and safe passage. Mark Twain is the shallowest depth in which a riverboat may pass without peril or hazard. Mark Twain is the convergence of safe and dangerous; it is the point in which these two opposing outcomes meet.

Moving forward with this as a title—I found a curious story regarding Samuel Langhorne Clemens and Halley’s Comet:

Halley's Comet appeared in the sky when Mark Twain was born in 1835. The comet moves in a seventy-five or seventy-six-year orbit, and, as it neared Earth once again in the year 1909, Twain said,

I came in with Halley's Comet... It is coming again ... and I expect to go out with it... The Almighty has said, no doubt: 'Now here are these two unaccountable freaks; they came in together, they must go out together.'

Hannibal, Missouri. Samuel Langhorne Clemen’s Childhood Home

Sure enough, he died on April 21, 1910, just as the comet made its next pass within sight of Earth.

I was born on April 21st 1979. That has no relevance to this story, and I’m sure it is quite coincidental.

This song, that I am releasing August 18th, tells the story of Halley’s Comet and our Sun. It also, can stand for something completely different. It can be representative. Metaphor. Hyperbolic. Whatever the case may be: I am proud of its words and music and to be releasing it as I hear it in my head. It is a tip of my hat to someone I admire and a love letter of sorts to a romantic idea. I can’t help but be carried away by the trade winds of whimsy. I prefer it, as I can’t imagine life without my creativity to put wind in my sails in the first place.

For you.

May we all be friends and find the beauty in one another, no matter how difficult or easy that proves to be, ultimately. Perhaps—perhaps there are intrinsic links that bind us all to one another, if not just within the matter which makes everything, the gravitational forces caused by mass and its manipulation of spacetime, and the loosely understood physics of such.

You can pre-save the song at this link:

PRE-SAVE LINK

SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS

UPCOMING TOUR DATES

Chattanooga, Tennessee Show August 6th at JMac's

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Chattanooga, Tennessee Friends, I am back at JMac's this Sunday August 6th playing music I wrote at 7pm. It's a private show and tickets just went on sale today at this link for $10:

https://ticketstripe.com/Mike_Vitale_Aug_6

In case you don't remember me...

Short Bio:

Imaginary astronaut and singer/songwriter Mike Vitale has decided to punch holes in his own analogy to create stars as a backdrop for his latest inner-space journey DESERT DOGS—an album he is fullishly releasing, one single at a time, throughout 2023 and early 2024, in order to continually inundate both suspecting and unsuspecting bystanders with troubadourian exploits of waxing and waning pandemic meanderings, mental flatulence, stories—what have yous—carefully laid over predetermined blocks of music. What am I trying to say in third-person? Witness this monkey, playing music he wrote, with his imagination. Can I get a witness?

UPCOMING TOUR DATES

Who Is Mike Vitale?

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Mike Vitale (Photo Courtesy of Monika Lightstone Photography)

I spent hours yesterday updating this website. Good golly, there is so much that needs to be updated. Who would have thoughts its such a busy job updating when you are busy updating simply creating and living life without talking about the fact that one is creating or living life? Here is my latest bio update. One more serious, and a second—less serious:

Mike Vitale is a singer-songwriter based out of Los Angeles, CA. He is currently out touring the United States in support of a full length album called φ: 12 new songs written by Vitale over the course of the past several years, as well as 11 new singles he is releasing over the course of 2023, that will eventually lead to a complete 12 song album called DESERT DOGS.

The third single from DESERT DOGS was released on May 27th 2023 and is entitled "Coyote." It's a tip of the hat to the great cowboy country writers of the 1940's and 1950’s, to Mark Twain (quite possibly one of the funniest people I have ever read), and to the end of a long pandemic—finally being able to appreciate the fact that I can tour again, and to count the many blessings of good health and the freedom to roam that which has never been explored by me. I am so very lucky. We are all so very lucky to live in such a beautiful country full of natural splendor.

The fourth single from this record is being released Friday July 7th. Capturing the feeling of deep attraction when seeing a beauty across the bar from the narrator, "Drunk on Your Mystique" is a summer vibe, frothing with the energy and excitement behind a crush on a total stranger. It's music and lyrics convey the Caribbean local and estuary of a port city where people are free to indulge in the fantasy and reverie of romantic whimsy. I plan to play this song all over the U.S. on my tour that starts this week and to promote on socials and playlists.

DESERT DOGS is immediately available as a BANDCAMP download to anyone who would like to contribute to Mike’s 2023 tours through his GoFundMe page: https://gofund.me/e6dcc0b9

LESS SERIOUS?

Mike Vitale is a Singer-Songwriter/producer/forward-slash enthusiast, based out of Los Angeles, CA. Eagle Rock to be precise (come by for a cup of coffee with him). When not preoccupied with speaking in third-person about music related stuff, he enjoys short walks on long beaches with his two border collies, Border and Collie. He is certain that this sentence is useless, but also doesn’t believe in absolutes. The dogs may or may not be fictional. All the other stuff is probably true, especially if it involves putting one word in front of another while simultaneously singing those words over-predetermined blocks of music. Totally his idea (don’t steal it).

TOUR DATES

COYOTE is Now Available to Stream and Purchase

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This song is a tip of the hat to the great cowboy country writers of the 1950’s, to Mark Twain (quite possibly one of the funniest people I have ever read), and to the end of a long pandemic—finally being able to appreciate the fact that I can tour again, and to count the many blessings of good health and the freedom to roam that which has never been explored by me. I am so very lucky. We are all so very lucky to live in such a beautiful country full of natural splendor.

Link to stream: https://www.songwhip.com/mikevitale/coyote

Link to purchase: https://mikevitalemusic.bandcamp.com/track/coyote-2

Thank you to my friends who worked on this with me:

Coyote

words and music by Michael Patrick Vitale

Vocals, Background Vocals, Acoustic Guitars, Upright Bass, Wood Blocks - Mike Vitale

Drums - Evan Stone

Background Vocals - Anastasia Flionis

Produced by Mike Vitale

Engineered by Mike Vitale, Evan Stone and Anastasia Flionis

Mixed by Ryan Lipman

Mastered by Mark Alan Miller

"Coyote" | New Single on Streaming Services May 26th 2023

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Hey everyone,

I will be releasing my first single for the new year on Friday May 26th 2023. It is by far, one of my favorite cuts from the new album. It's a song called "Coyote."

While I do come from a generation more accustomed to the idea of releasing an album all at once—perhaps this is no longer a wise decision as an artist in 2023. Doing my due diligence, I am confident that the model of releasing one single at a time may be—better.

So, that is what I will be doing. 

I am uploading this single to be digitally distributed, today, for an official release date on Friday May 26th 2023. You may pre-save my single on your favorite streaming service; I was told that it helps to secure a place on popular Spotify playlists. I would be honored to have you do that if you feel inclined. Do whatever feels good for you though. I’m not even sure that it doesn't anything meaningful aside from just reminding you when it comes out (which would be lovely). Here is a link pre-save:

https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/mikevitale/coyote

I am very proud of all the hard work that I put into this album and this song. I would like to do it justice by releasing it with as much authenticity and sincerity as possible. I create my music in this way—I plan to release it with an equal amount and measure of heart and sincerity.

My compass is the chills I get up and down my spine when I work on art. Losing track of time. Accidentally being late to things because I was having so much fun making something with all my being and soul. It's my inside poking out like the tag on the back collar of a T-shirt.

This song's inspiration came from touring the United States in 2021 after a long pandemic filled with isolation, self-reflection, and rumination. It was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life, having the opportunity to see the Rocky Mountains. To drive through the beautiful national park between Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Who knew that was there? Not me—that is, until I was balling my eyes out because of its beauty and depth. The endless stretches of desert between Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico, Utah, Texas...

We live in such a gorgeous and diverse country filled with beautiful people. I am grateful and on my hands and knees every day for the privilege of getting to do what I do. It's also incredibly difficult, exhausting, contentious, dynamic, emotional, introspective, risky—and the most rewarding thing I can think of doing with my life—yet still, a privilege. Without a doubt. May I strive to continuously stay within the good graces of Fortuna, Hotei, Ganesha, Jesus, Muhammad, The Way, Yahweh, My Inner Voice, and every other personification and archetype of human experience, story, and history that pertains to the spreading of positive creation in this world. I am a student. I have much to learn until the day I breathe my last breath.

I am a 44 year old man who is trying his best to leave this place a little better than how he found it. Even if all my efforts are akin to just vacuuming the floor, dusting and tidying the place up a bit before the next tenant stays the night in this AirBnB we call Mother Earth, I am confident I will never regret how hard I work. Ever. I will not be an old man sitting on the porch thinking, "what would my life had been like, had I actually applied myself where my heart and soul pointed?"

Instead, I am endlessly strolling. An old desert dog. Amongst sage brush, and bunch grass, and cactus and fog. Slender and gangling my bush tail sags, as I trot through the desert: the cliff face and crags.

You might here my faint howl, when the wind carries my song just right.

Chili in Fort Mill

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Fort Mill, South Carolina (while on my walk)

If there are reasonable amounts of chili to be consumed, I know nothing on the subject. It only occurred to me after 10pm rolled around and I felt a bit drowsy. I had worked up quite the appetite on my five hour drive between Woodstock, Georgia and Fort Mill, South Carolina, which is nestled slightly below the community of Charlotte, North Carolina—right along the border of the two states: this is where my aunt hangs her hat. My aunt Ruth. It’s around 8am at the moment, the next day. She has a lovely home and I’m thankful for her being kind enough to allow me a place to sleep, for the good company, and naturally, the enormous bowl of chili that greeted me, nearly the moment I arrived. I have been fairly religious about maintaining a ketogenic diet while on this tour—however—exceptions have been made in some sort of slightly freckled fashion on my clean bill of health in that dietary department, if one were to subscribe to such beliefs. The diet seems to work for me, however, I also enjoy chili, cowboy toast, and a few slices of pie from time to time.

There was probably a 17 year stretch where the two of us did not see each other, because she moved to the east coast, along with my younger cousin Ryan. On my first United States tour last year, they both came out to see me perform while I played in one of the bedroom communities surrounding Charlotte. I drove to North Carolina on two separate occasions last year. Once this year. Three times of visiting is a gift.

My house concert in Woodstock, Georgia. Thank you brother John for having me.

It feels of fall here. It’s around 47 degrees outside at the moment. I have spent the better portion of the past several weeks in the lower south, where it still feels of summer water amusement parks, shorts, flip-flops, tank tops, koozies, BBQ, and the like. There were a few occasions of folding lawn chairs to enjoy an outdoor concert, or to dip one’s feet in the warm water of Gulf Coast. My bare feet now, are cold, as I write this. I am thinking about hunting for my socks in a moment, while I ruminate on the next several words to put in front of the other. The cold is not uninvited, unwarranted, or unwelcome to me. I can recall purchasing a jacket, mere weeks ago, while in Austin, Texas, waiting for any opportunity to wrap it around myself, should that opportunity had ever arisen in the first place; Austin had other plans, none of which involving jackets.

Apache Junction, Austin, Houston, Mobile, Panama City, the pan-handle, Leesburg, Dunedin, St. Petersburg: Fall almost seems to be a rumor in such places—maybe even a lie told to those with cold cold hearts. I have been reading about it in books—well, for the sake of accuracy—listening to it from narrated books. It has been a lot of driving, and a lot of listening.

Because no great story ever started with someone eating a salad.

I just devoured what could be one of my new favorite books of all time: “The Passenger” by Cormac McCarthy. This has revitalized my interest in his cornucopia of literature I have yet to read. So, after the two day consumption of this new book of his (it was recently released on October 25th 2022), I went back to the year 1992, and started to read his classic “All the Pretty Horses.” There is much talk of Fall, Winter, snow, and the many traits that are cold weather in there—so I know it exists; well, from his literature—and my cold feet. More importantly: Cormac McCarthy is a national treasure. Someone give the man a Nobel Prize. He deserves a monkey trophy. His writing is beautiful. His story telling is exquisite. His conversations are organic and deep and unbelievable, yet within the realm of possibility. I can’t stop thinking about what he writes, for days on end after consumption.

I have decided to take a long stroll around the neighborhood—if just to walk off the copious amounts of chili and pie—and, perhaps to garner a remedy for cold feet. Excuse me for a moment.

This wouldn’t have been an issue yesterday in Woodstock, Georgia. However, there is news of a hurricane in Florida; yet another, above and beyond that of which was previous and has since disappeared with a wake of destruction: Ian was its name, if memory serves me correctly.

No, this yet still, a new hurricane, the one that is brewing over the entirety of Florida at the moment, is a Category 1. It has a name from what I understand, as well: Nicole. I hope Nicole is a lady of easy demur, and that she smiles with only light tears over the coastline. Her breathiness could be to a minimum, however, reports are suggesting otherwise. No matter: I cross my fingers for those who are in its headlights as it drives up the interstate, along with myself. There is no doubt that the cold storm I am feeling on my feet, are a result of Nicole’s currents. May the weather buy a vowel using Wheel of Fortune rules, and give us all the sweet currant of fruitfulness, rather than the rags of battered sails, as we both traverse together.

Some of my extended family in Mobile, Alabama

And yet, only the day before my arrival in Woodstock, Georgia, I found myself in Mobile, Alabama—along the Gulf Coast. I could have sworn that it was swimming weather, sure as it was, also a day for Church for the residents of the area. Even the Flora-bama had a service, flanked as it may be, by the endless shelves of alcohol, to be dispersed shortly after service had concluded (maybe even during for all I know). Speaking of church services held in a bar, and subjects that straddle the line of propriety. The Flora-bama: it straddles the line of the Florida and Alabama border, right along a coastline, freckled with high-rise resorts and the whitest of fine demolished sand one will ever have the privilege to crawl between their toes while walking the beaches of a red neck riviera. I found residents apologizing to me about a place I had yet to visit, and others continued such a trend, well after I had visited the place. I rather liked the joint. There where multiple stages for music, and quite the well-spring of libations to socially lubricate even the most rusted jointed gates of good times to be had. The remnants of feminine approval to musicians world wide, hanging from clothes lines above one of the audience congregations adjacent the stage: enough bras and varieties of which to fill a department store inventory.

Me at the Flora-bama on the Florida/Alabama border.

There was a 1.9 billion dollar jackpot for Lotto, and line of folks standing in line to buy tickets at the Florida/Alabama border. Alcohol and Lotto, given equal billing on the sign outside of the establishment. A line of Alabama residents, buying tickets, as the Lotto is not a legal privilege in their state. Loop holes. Good on them.

It was a jackpot, having the opportunity to play for my friends and family in Mobile, the night before. Playing music I wrote, for cousins I didn’t know that I had, save for the past several years. My cousin Mia, is a musician herself and is very supportive of all my musical whimsies and storytelling tendencies. I love my family dearly, and between you and I: my family is not as close as we used to be. I wish it were not the case. I have tried to make it not the case, through choice phone calls to an aunt, voicing my concerns that we are not getting any younger, and are only becoming more comfortable in our own bubbles of social interaction. This rings true of not only my immediate family, but also of my extended family, much to my chagrin.

The Frog Pond. A house concert venue outside of Mobile, AL.

Were I man of more means, perhaps I could invite them all over to my place for dinner. I am hesitant to think that they would make the trek to Los Angeles, albeit being 4 hours away from my home town of Visalia. My younger brother and I both live here in southern California. My mom refused to make the journey to visit for Thanksgiving. I spoke to her yesterday, and she is open to being picked up by my brother and driven to southern California to stay with him for a week, before the Christmas holiday, something that excites me a great deal (she hasn’t been here to visit me since I moved to southern California to go to college in 2002, and when I graduated from college).

Perhaps the key to this discussion between family, is to truly try to understand the schism between all of us—or that we were never really that close to begin with… I am uncertain. I do know that the cost of being close, is our time and our energy. While I may not be very rich, I do have time and energy to provide to anything that fills my heart with joy.

I am not here to complain either, or to point fingers. I take responsibility for myself, and also wish to make as much effort as possible towards accomplishing whatever I can. I am not afraid to work hard. I am not fearful of being the first to reach out. I do that often, whether it is in friendship or insofar as family is concerned. It does get a little tiresome feeling like no one meets me halfway, but I suppose that is relative—if not also my responsibility to recognize when I am overexerting effort on the wrong people, or that my love is not being put in good places.

Parallel lives. It was something that someone said to me once when I apologized for not reaching out more often. He simply said: no worries my friend; parallel lives.

I can dig that also.

There are numerous ways to look at life. I do my best to choose the methods that feel good, and do not create suffering, where it is unnecessary in the first place. Believe you me: we create our own suffering.

Perhaps we should simply be thankful to be greeted by a bowl of chili and to hug our aunt and our cousin when we can. Be thankful when our mother comes to visit. Be thankful when we discover we have cousins we never knew about. Try our best to get to know our family—and be accepting of parallel lives as well.

I am not a perfect specimen. But then again, neither is anyone else around me, either.

Upcoming Show Dates

$1,016 to the Wind & Suddenly in Charleston

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Charleston, South Carolina

Life changes in a heartbeat. On the flip of a dime. At the whim of my next lousy and trite analogy. Point that moist finger to the sky to gauge the course of the current. It only takes a single moment for opportunities to shift—for the wind to lift contents from my own hands—one’s hat and his right-handed grip on a deposit envelope—the lending towards quick decisions.

Then there’s the loss of a nearly $800 show guarantee because my car retreated into “limp mode” on a foreign Interstate freeway in the middle of Florida. Perhaps it was a problem with the transmission? Perhaps it was the car’s computer acting in self-preservation? Who’s to say these days? Not even the Honda dealership knew for certain, and they created the thing. What they did know is that the car wouldn’t move, because they couldn’t mobilize the now over-glorified-four-wheeled art piece of plastic, metal, and glass into their workspace. I ascertained that symptom as well, while driving on Interstate 75; I was in cruise control—and when I removed my chariot of fire from cruise control, the gas pedal reprioritized itself to a device meant solely to rev an engine that was not in gear. I watched the R.P.M.’s roar across a dial as if I was a little further northeast—in Daytona. Alas, I was one hour and thirty minutes shy of my house concert in Dunedin, Florida—and I never made it there to play. A nice slow goodbye wave to currency, but more importantly, to all the people who were kind enough to be there to see me.

The Animal Kingdom at Disney World Resorts

One might realize he has no road-side assistance, although he could have sworn he did. This insurance was procured during the pandemic, so it also doesn’t surprise me that I was caught with my pants down—or that my hat was lifted suddenly away by a hurricane current. One might watch $1016 be carried off in a mighty gust of wind, flopping and dancing towards the wide and hungry mouth of massive storm drains in a Houston metropolis skyscraper complex.

I was in Houston looking for a credit union co-op ATM that takes large cash deposits. The goal was to eliminate all the worry having such large amounts of cash on my person. Ironically, it was the witches brew within a cauldron of chaos that led to the contents of a deposit envelope being thrust into the open gust of a mighty breeze funneled through the endless span of tall buildings peppered about downtown Houston. I watched in shock and horror as the countless amounts of money did tiny somersaults, or sailed like a vessel, dancing macabre in the currents of air, free from their neatly ordered and cramped deposit envelope. Scattered to the wind as the old saying goes—and I was in hot pursuit, as the contents of that envelope were nearly all that I had to my name at that very moment. While there may have been curse words I didn’t have the chance to get to, I’m fairly certain none were emitted from my vocabulary in those moments, that became an hour of hunting for money I had, and then lost.

Savannah, Georgia River Walk

That is, besides the precarious stack of belongings packed into a 2015 Honda Civic—ordered in some half-hazard manner like Tetris blocks, so that the affects of my business, a touring songwriter, may all neatly fit within the confines of such a small space.

At the moment, I imagine my car, and its contents are ten feet off the ground on a hydraulic lift in a Honda dealership, while the good people of Leesburg, Florida try to ascertain its dilemma as a now stationary and non-moving vehicle (this assertion, point-in-fact, was incorrect, I regrettably inform you, dear reader—I was hopeful as I wrote those words—now, I am simply smiling and pragmatic from a coffee shop in South Carolina).

I wrote those non-parenthetical words, pockmarked as they are, within a Microtel not far from the dealership. It’s not a fancy place. I can’t afford fancy. It does however, have Internet, A/C, power, a warm bed, and enough niceties like continental breakfasts and fresh towels, that one should never complain. I deeply and truly, try not to complain.

I, in the past, have found myself complaining. Perhaps we all do from time to time. I don’t want to be that person any longer. I try not to be that person. I fail sometimes at being that person. I also, recognize, that there is nothing wrong with complaining in some reduced capacity. We, like a steam engine, need some sort of release for the welling of emotional burden percolating and brewing in its fleshy tank—albeit, a steam engine with no destination, is just wasting its steam and its reservoir of momentum.

Savannah, Georgia River Walk

My decisions have brought me to this point. There are also, perhaps machinations within the seemingly mechanical? Or perhaps I the writer and you the reader, subscribe to freewill. Things are bound to occur and do happen. Am I the type of person who feels he can control the wills of people or the outcomes of seemingly chaotic events? That is never a possibility insofar as I can tell. This thought was echoed by a gentlemen sitting on a curb, near a minimart gas station, in Leesburg, Florida, asking for me to buy him a few Swisher Sweets to roll a blunt. We talked for quite some time.

Does my fear of the unknown cause me to feel anxiety within uncomfortable situations, or is it the compulsion to control that causes me to cry when things get hard—realizing that I have no control over the current outcome of a verdict-less existence? Maybe yes, and maybe no. Consistency in action would seem to provide answers. Truth for all of us, is also moot and plural. What I can say is that I do the best I can with what I have available to me.

Anymore, difficult situations for me are treated the same as me walking a path. I put one foot in front of the other. I am putting on my jacket, one sleeve at a time. I have countless fragments of problems that arise from one problem, so I deal with each problem, one at a time, until they are accounted for.

I try to picture myself lucky. Perhaps in a manner that is not yet completely evident to my flimsy understanding of reality, The Universe, it’s concoctions, or better yet, my own for that matter.

It is also easy to say things such as, it is God’s path for me—and perhaps that is true as well? However, I move under my own will—just as the wind does, if not with my own unique purpose. Who is to say precisely that wind moves with what particular purpose? No sooner do I say that, than someone reading this mouths the words of what that purpose might be.

We don’t see the wind. We see it act itself out in the nature of that it pushes about: $1016 for example. I watched it sail and scatter and disperse itself into an economy of pavement, sidewalk, grass, flower gardens, parked cars, and moving traffic. I can feel the wind. However, I can’t see it, aside from what it motivates to move.

Charleston, South Carolina

I can’t see the future either.

I can be hopeful though. I can try not to worry.

My car payment went from being $338—to $580, now, with a used vehicle that I drove off the lot of a Honda dealership. I am in South Carolina at my friend Jasmine’s place in Charleston.

I was telling her about a dream I had, shortly after this debacle:

It had to do with deodorant. I was searching for deodorant, and I found it. I swiped copious amounts of it under my armpits. I can’t remember precisely, whether I felt relief over its application to my person. However, my dear friend Josh, appeared in my dream next, telling me “You see? It’s too much.” On his hand, was a copious spread of deodorant, in a rich-red-colored hue, that he was exemplifying his statement with.

House Concert in St. Petersburg, Florida

Perhaps my unconscious mind was trying to express something to me. Maybe the car is too much? I had little choice in the matter though, and little time to work within. I was hemorrhaging money. I had already lost $800 in donations, and who knows how much in merchandise sales, from my car breaking down the night before. My hotel room that night costed $115, and the tow to Leesburg was $167. I had yet another house show to get to in St. Petersburg, Florida, two hours away from Leesburg and its Honda dealership. There was money to be made and one month of touring still ahead of me. I acted in the best capacity I could, with what little time and option I had before me.

We wear deodorant trying to cover up the natural fragrance of our person and its perspiration—perhaps because we worry as to how our body odor would come across to others. Worry is the optimal word. Perhaps I am full of worry. As I write these words, I feel calm and collected.

I don’t feel worry or anxiety at the moment. This may change later as my responsibilities, my fiscal obligations, rear their burden more closely in my face.

I have a beautiful new-to-me car. I suddenly care about its shiny nature. It being clean all the time. It’s interior.

I also care whether I am living outside my means.

Oddly enough, my friend Taylor told me, as I was purchasing the car that just took a dump on me: “The Universe doesn’t throw anything at you that you can’t handle.”

And so I put one foot in front of the other, and then another, and then another.

Janice and I in Panama City, Florida. She was kind enough to host me and have me pay her backyard the night before my car broke down.

It’s starting to get a bit chilly from the wind outside, rustling the leaves and the trees. I put on my jacket, one sleeve at a time, and continue my journey forward into the unknown.

Perhaps my dreams are like that breeze. As I sleep at night, I collect my unconscious mind’s observations. It is always there: watching and observing. Perhaps it has insight into my behavior. After all, it is me, and I am it.

But perhaps most of all, it is like the wind. You can’t see the wind without its interaction with the world around us, and likewise, we can’t see our unconscious mind, without its interaction with the world within us.

I only lost $22 to the wind, out of $1,016 being carried off by it. I found all the rest of it.

I lost my old car to who knows what, but it was replaced by yet another.

I am trying my best not to worry, and to just be. To smile. To have gratitude. To appreciate the wealth of everyone around me, both friend and stranger alike. I work to not have any strangers in my life. I fail at that sometimes as well.

I’m in Charleston, South Carolina at the moment. I am writing this now, from Jasmine’s dining room table. She’ll be moving with her husband to Ireland, shortly. This opportunity may never happen again. I stare outside, through her dining room window at the leaves on all the tall trees, moving with the breeze. Tears roll down my face as I write this.

It’s a good life, and Bob Marley was probably right.

Don’t worry about a thing… because every little thing, is gonna be alright.

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Austin, Texas

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S. Congress in Austin, Texas

Austin. Austin City Limits. Being within Austin City limits—literally, not so much the hit musical phenomena that encompasses and personifies the great city in which I speak. It’s magic. The city is pure spectral spectacle.

I would live here. I have a feeling I will live here.

Growing up playing music, I was entranced by stories of Stevie Ray Vaughan, and his brother Jimmie. Willie Nelson. Johnny Winter.

These days, you can find murals and statues that celebrate the music of Stevie Ray Vaughan. He died young, but he made a lasting impression on his adopted home of Austin, Texas—who lifted him on their shoulders in celebration of his music and his passion for the blues.

An acquaintance of mine in Long Beach (another musician), once shit all over the name Stevie Ray Vaughan, saying that he couldn’t stand that white horse shit that passes as blues. It bummed me out hearing him rant on a guy whom he never met… nor have I for that matter—however, I carry his spirit in reverence, much as I do Eric Clapton as well, for they helped to introduce me to wide variety of African American talent that contributed to years of truly authentic American Culture and American History. Yes, they were white: but, they loved black music and carried it in the deepest reverence and respect, which showed in their craft. Furthermore, they brought black music to me, a kid in Visalia, CA, who passionately researched who Stevie Ray Vaughan’s influences were, and then listened to them, hearing all the riffs he lifted from their repertoire: Albert King for example. You can listen to Albert King and hear his inarguable influence on the playing of Stevie’s.

Then again, what does a guy in Long Beach, CA know about Austin, Texas? What do I know about Austin, Texas for that matter? Nothing. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I keep coming back. I keep returning because the place is pure imagination and sorcery on my senses.

There are more music venues here than I have ever seen in my entire life. There is talent of such a caliber, that it constantly has me questioning not only my own merit as a musician, but also my sanity in continuing to create music as a songwriter—that is until I meet said musicians after they have proceeded in tearing my face of with their talent, and politely handing my facial features back to me at the end of the night: feeling their genuine sense of connection and intolerance for being overly vain insofar as it is concerned with themselves—their curiosity of my own music, their kindness in listening to it, and in showering me with compliments.

I was connected with a local musician and guitar player in the area named Phil Hurley. He is a Los Angeles transplant as well, who has been living in Austin Texas now for around 14 years. He has lived all over the place. He has played guitar for countless people of merit and distinction, and has operated within bands and musical acts who were signed to major labels, from an early age. We became quick friends and I am astounded by his talent and generosity.

He was kind enough to make time to meet with me, and to show me around a bit, to take me to some of the coolest hangs in town such as Donn’s Depot on a Monday night. There is a weekly residency that has been happening at this old venue, constructed from the remnants of 5 old train cars, nestled politely and sheltered within the entrance of tall tall buildings and sky scrapers. Chris Gage has been playing piano and singing there on Monday nights for nearly 27 years. Phil brought me down to Donn’s Depot, and shared me with the all of the wonderful folks who are a community. They haunt that establishment every week, and listen, in deep love, of what Chris Gage provides as a musician and pianist.

As we walked around these 5 train cars, everyone greeted Phil Hurley, as he was acquainted to nearly every individual in that place. Chris Gage recorded and produced his latest record, which is available to listen to right now on all the streaming services. Phil and Chris quickly began catching up with one another on one of Chris’ breaks from playing, and Phil asked if we both could come up and play a few songs, to which Chris was beyond receptive.


I met more beautiful and wonderful people in Donn’s Depot in one night, then can possibly be expressed in words—or good intentions for that matter. There are good people here in Austin, and Donn’s Depot is just a small subset of the greater whole that is this beautiful city. Don Emmons for example. A photographer and gentleman, and scholar. Or, the videographer Jay Curlee, who was a Hawaiian transplant—him and his wife both, who have been living in Austin now for 7 years. Don Emmons came from New Jersey, if memory serves me correctly (we were having drinks—quite a few of them).

Performing with Chris Gage at Donn’s Depot in October of 2022. Photo courtesy of the winker with an eye, Don Emmons.

A place is always the people who live there. Austin is exceptionally lovely.

Truth be told: most places I have the privilege to visit in order to play music, are exquisite and lovely—because they are full of good people who let a ragamuffin such as myself, stay and play some tunes he wrote about life. They listen to my stories. I am the luckiest man alive—and my brood (artists and musicians most specifically) are thankful for the love, gratitude, kindness, and open hearts being displayed by individuals who understand that we just travel around trying to spread some love. Sure, now and then, we all get a little lost sometimes—but love is most certainly the answer to nearly every quandary asked… and gratitude is the doorway to happiness… and happiness is work. It does not come easy to us. We work for it and we work at it.

A deep and special thanks to my friend Scott Spencer. He is an Austin native. I met him through my brother from another mother, Frank Reina. Both of these gentlemen are Texas natives. Scott, has shown me more kindness and support than I could ever hope to repay to an individual in a lifetime. Nonetheless, I hope to one day. I suppose the first step in that endeavor would be success at what I am trying to achieve. I will focus on that notion with all my might—and swing back to previous when I have more to offer this world than the love in my heart, the songs that I write, and the stories I tell. In the meanwhile, may those suffice my friend.

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Come see me live on my 2022 FALL TOUR around the UNITED STATES

Santa Fe, New Mexico | Santa Fe Brewing Co. & Desert Dogs Brewery

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When in Rome—or Santa Fe, New Mexico for that matter. I had the pleasure of visiting with my friends Brenda and Dave here in Eldorado Santa Fe, New Mexico for the past several days, while playing a few shows at the local breweries Santa Fe Brewing Co. and Desert Dogs Brewery—the later of which shares the title of my newest album, being released July 11th 2023.

I met both Brenda and Dave while living in Long Beach, CA. They recently relocated here to Santa Fe, New Mexico after having visited here on several occasions. They have been making their dream home in a rural suburb of the greater Santa Fe area, nestled within the rolling hills of high desert, 7,000 feet above sea level. A future full of four seasons: sunshine, snow, the color of leaves changing—an atmosphere somewhat far removed from the daily life of those from Southern California. It’s own unique history and culture.

Red and Green Sauce, lovingly referred to as Christmas style Pozole. A spicy and delightful soup: pork, verde, hominy; a side of finely shredded cabbage, cilantro, diced red onions, and tortilla chips.. A perfect dish for cold, rainy, and dreary weather, which apparently swooped in with me, as I visited Santa Fe for my first (and hopefully not my last). Local residents assured me that the amount of rain they were experiencing currently was very much out of the ordinary, however, to me, a visitor, it felt nice and complimented my soup, my desire to wear a poncho, and my brand new hat.

Brenda and I shopped in the downtown area in which I found that perfect hat and poncho, almost immediately. It was a mission that I chose to accept, arbitrarily, as if it were necessary—and for all intensive purposes as far as I was concerned: it was.

Insofar as the gigs were concerned: bars are always hard. People are not necessarily there to see me specifically, so it’s an effort to find new ears and minds that enjoy what I do: to find new friends and to connect with them in a capacity in which we will see each other again in the future, whether that be through a mailing list or through a social networking service. This might mean that I need to warm people up with a few familiar covers, before politely asking if I might play a few of my own songs. I find that this works nicely. I also find the conversations after my set to be the most important part: this is when we have the opportunity to connect on a level that is meaningful.

I am up for the challenge and I welcome the opportunity for friendship. I am so immensely thankful for anyone who finds anything to like in my music.

I play Desert Dogs Brewery this evening from 8:30pm to 11:30pm.

Perhaps in some ways, I am a burro with a load of wood, waiting in the alley. In other ways, ways which are far more abundant: I am a free spirit, traveling where he pleases, making friends along the way, and enjoying every damn minute of it. I have been ruminating on the idea of purchasing an RV and getting rid of my apartment in Los Angeles. I am thinking about touring year round, seeing as much of the United States as possible and to play as many places as I possibly can. It sounds like a spicy proposition. It sounds like the life of a steamboat pilot, who as Mark Twain pointed out, were the freest people on the planet. I like being free. I like rowing my boat gently down the stream.

Merrily, merrily, merrily…

- Mike

PS

I met Brenda at 4th Street Vine in Long Beach, CA. She is a lovely lovely human being and I am thankful to know you. Congratulations to you and Dave on your dream home. May the blessing you desire be found in your new home. It’s a gorgeous and stunning place to live and I am so thankful to have had you open your home to me for a few days and to offer me the comforts of your place and your company in the future. My heart is full of gratitude.

Come see me live in the United States while I play out in October and November of 2022