So Beautiful, or So What

April 09, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Life, Stories, Tao Te Ching, Love, Brain Droppings

I’ve had several songs bouncing around in my head like a 1980’s pinball machine: long hair and leather jacket, 4:20 on the clock. Ping ping. Ping ping.

The clickers and clickety-clack of flippers, knocking that shiny reflective orb into the playfield.

Playing.

We all need a lot more playing. Taoists call it Wu Wei. It has a lot of different names. It could just be takin’ it easy. Easy riding. Chillax. Effortless living. The Way.

The Dude.

I was tasked today with having fun. Just doing whatever the fuck I wanted to that makes me happy, in the moment, so I did that. It has been a beautiful day. I choose to feel happy. I could have woke up miserable too, and I did cry—but I then said, no, today will be a good day. I choose happiness.

Speaking of dudes. I visited my dad yesterday. I’m getting over that Bird Flu (not sure yet but it hasn’t been a normal cold or flu or what have you; it’s been 10 days).. Novel viruses. Coughing up the stuff in my body that no longer serves me. I didn’t want to get him sick, so I waited to see him.

He’s supine in a bed, and he suffers being where he is at. He just wants to go home. I totally get it. We all just want to go home. Like Odysseus in The Odyssey. Back to Ithaca. The war’s over; I just wanna go home.

He’s had multiple strokes over the past several years and he also does everything in his power to hide this notion amongst other things, while also not doing the best job of that either. That’s okay by me.

I’m happy we got to the bottom of things yesterday. It was Scooby-Doo and the Gang, all piling into the Mystery Machine, to solve the case of why my Dad is the way he is.

What I really want, is to grow old with my Dad and for him to fight for his life. It’s a gift for all of us, especially—especially when we treat it that way, for what LIFE really is: sacred.

Sacred as the human breath. Voluntary and involuntary. The perfect way to calm down: controlled breath and meditation.

It’s the simplest forms of what all of us have, that will make this world a better place.

Say, (CBT) Cognitive Behavioral Therapy as a friend of mine, put it to me, over the phone. I mean, just talking in plain English to each other and being as honest as possible,

Breathing. That’s simple too.

There are all these simple answers to problems, right under our noses: our mouths.

Every action, was first a thought, before it is acted out.

Think about it.

Life is what we make of it; so beautiful, or so what (that was one of many songs pinging around this playfield of mine/mind).

My Dad (Part 2)

April 07, 2025 by Mike Vitale

No person can be defined by a singular or even several sets of occurrences, especially mistakes, within his/her/their life. I am of the opinion and mind that we are far too complicated to merely say: this person is evil or they are a waste of flesh and bone and blood.

It does humanity a huge disservice to think in such shallow water. We, in fact, are quite deep.

When the water is still, we see our own reflection, as a mirror. But, when the water is agitated: we do not.

My father can be a good man.

One day, he paid attention to me. When I was around 19 or 20 years old, he asked me if I wanted guitar lessons!

Hallelujah!

My heart sang for the first time in ages, having him ask me such beautiful words. He saw me! That is what gifts can be: an expression of seeing another person. Truly seeing who they are, and then gifting that individual something which furthers his/her/their pursuits in life.

I took guitar lessons from a man named Joe Dykes. He was a Berklee School of Music Graduate, and a brilliant guitar player.

I asked Joe to teach me how to read music, and he did. Aw, what a gift!

Dad, you are incredible. There are times you are like Babe Ruth: knocking it out of the park!

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

WHO IS MIKE VITALE?

I am a storyteller, songwriter, singer, music producer, traveling musician, Jungian dream analyst, all-around curious fellow (Spiritual, Mathematical Historical, Scientific), Taoist, and much much more, based out of Los Angeles, California. I’m constantly releasing new music, in all sorts of different genres. You can listen to me below, on Spotify:

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New Music Being Released Every Week

April 07, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Cover Song, Music, New Music

Hey! I just wanted to drop everyone a quick set of thoughts in regards to my plans for 2025. I have been attempting to release a new song to streaming services every week; this endeavor of mine began in February of this year. I don’t exactly know how long this will last. What I can say is that I adore creating music.

I would write out all of the songs that I will be releasing, but since there are so many, I would just be stoked if you pulled open your preferred streaming app from time to time and found something you like.

May this find you all in high spirits. Many blessings and positive vibes to you all!

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My Dad

April 05, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Life, Love, Stories

When I was twenty-two years old, my dad grabbed me by the throat, threw me over in a rocking chair and began to choke me to death—spittle showering my face, while he volleyed demonic and sweltering red-faced obscenities towards my shocked and gasping expression.

Meanwhile, my own mouth-gapped response, changed color to a ghostly white from a lack of oxygen.

I had, moments before, locked him outside the house, after he chose to walk outside that beautiful French Double Door that my parents had chosen together in a custom home on Sweet Street—to fist fight his own son.

What on Earth could I have done to warrant him trying to murder me in a moment of unbridled rage?

I had told him to “Stop talking to my mother that way. She is your equal,” at the dinner table.

Moments before that, he had told my mom, ”Shut the fuck up, woman.” That is not an exaggeration or a misquotation. That is the way my dad would speak in private to my Mother, and to us Children.

I would often hear from complete strangers, growing up, how lovely of a person he was.

My thoughts would wander back to watching him as a child, try to murder a VCR with a butter knife in rage because it wasn’t doing whatever it was that he thought it should be doing.

Sometimes, I would think back to the day he hit and slammed my older brother against a wall and physically assaulted him. I was a young child with no musculature to help my older brother. My dad also kicked him out of the house as a minor at the tender age of Seventeen.

I would thank back to me dad breaking a wooden cutting board in two using it to spank me, or the welts and cuts on my body from a cowboy belt buckle, in which the buckle and leather were striking and hissing against my skin from a similar form of punishment.

Him throwing a radio across a room and smashing it against a wall simply because his favorite baseball team lost.

Him calling me a stupid asshole, when I proudly purchased my first electric guitar and amplifier with money I earned through my own hard work on a paper route, beginning when I was twelve years old. Yes, I started working for money when I was twelve. I’ve had a job ever since; sometimes even two or three of them at a time.

Him once again calling me a stupid asshole when I proudly answered a question he asked me regarding what I was going to do now that I graduated from California State University Fullerton on my own dime. My parents didn’t pay for my education. I did.

Him spending twenty years of his life asking me when I was going to get a real job, in my pursuit of doing music professionally.

Him loaning my own car out to my younger brother for six months after rebuilding the engine, while I made the car payments and insurance payments. He chose this piece-of-shit-used car for me, before I went away to college, and then made me pay for it. I didn’t argue. I just did as I was told. I walked to work for six months in Fullerton and continued working my ass off at the Home Depot.

Him spending hours at a time by himself in a car watching a mobile television plugged into the cigarette lighter, running the car battery dry, while on family camping trips to Santa Cruz.

Endless arrays of memories like these…

My mind would stop wandering, and I would snap back to the present moment with this stranger: I would just politely try to pull my cheeks up towards something that resembled a smile, when faced with people who were telling me what my dad was.

This is my dad:

He often speaks from a place of complete ignorance, while simultaneously being completely unaware that he is doing it.

One of my Aunts calls him a “little stinker” on occasion as if he is an innocent little kid, because she knew him when he was an innocent little kid.

If she means asshole—yes, I would agree, that is what he is. He’s an asshole. I tight wad of sphincter, that spouts waste and shit, and punishes punitively with little thought, self-reflection, empathy, or even sympathy.

If all this seems harsh to you: my sincere apologies. This is my life. This is what honesty looks like. We could all use a bit more of that.

These are the stories of my life.

Why do I tell them? So that people may know that they are not alone in the way they feel.

None of this is meant to hurt my father. Frankly, I told him that I am doing this. I have told him this to his face. He knows that I am doing it. I told him before I did it.

No, I am not exercising demons either. I did that years ago. I am a well-adjusted human through hard work and determination and effort and education and therapy and reading.

I am also a storyteller. That is what I do for a living. It is what I was put on Earth to do.

So, I will return to the original story:

My family is gathered around the dinner table. My mom often cooked all the meals. That was her responsibility.

While we were eating, my dad asked me what I learned that day attending College of the Sequoias. I was taking a two-year music theory course from Dr. Timothy Lynch. We were studying composition, music theory, ear training, and dictation. Dr. Lynch had me able to dictate simple music from a piano, to standard music notation, by listening to what he was playing on a piano. Something I never thought or dreamt I would be capable of doing in my life.

I answered my dad, and told him that we were analyzing a composition by a particular composer.

My dad stopped me, and corrected me on who the composer was who wrote the piece that I was talking about.

My dad was incorrect. I know this because I was just studying the composition that day. I was literally answering his question, and then he corrected me on something that I just was working on.

Rather than argue with him… I paused. I thought for a second, and said the following:

“Dad, why am I in school? Didn’t you send me to school to learn?”

He didn’t answer.

I continued, “This is what I learned today.”

He replied, “Well, you’re wrong.”

I said, “No, I am not.”

He volleys, “Yes you are. Michael. You know, I used to play trumpet. I know a lot about music. That piece was written by Tchaikovsky.”

I replied, “No Dad. You are wrong. That is not even remotely close to the correct time period of music that we are discussing. I am talking about J.S. Bach. We are learning to compose in the style of Bach and the rules he used to compose music, such as no parallel fifths or octaves and using Augmented Sixths: Italian, French, and German Sixths. Please don’t argue with me about this dad. I’m just answering your question.”

My dad, replies “Well, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

At this point, my mom interjects: “Jim, please stop.”

My dad says: “Shut the fuck up, woman.”

Me: “ Don’t talk to my mom that way. She is your equal.”

My dad stands up and kicks his chair away from him: “ You wanna take this outside?”

My reply, “Yeah, let’s take this outside.”

He rushes with enthusiasm towards the backdoor. A beautiful French Door set, that is the entrance to a gorgeous backyard that my mom maintained and created with love.

He pulls the door open violently and takes his stance outside to beat the shit out of me.

I slowly close the door on him, and lock it, and shake my head at him.

He begins to violently beat on the door.

My mom starts begging me to open the door.

I refuse.

My dad’s anger and rage and hatred swells. He beats violently against that door and shouts like the animal he is.

My mom, pleas to me: “Michael, if you don’t open that door, he’s going to break it.”

I unlock the door and take a seat in the rocking chair to receive my punishment.

My dad thrusts open the door, grabs me by the throat, throws me to the ground, and begins to choke me to death.

That is a part of my dad that none of those strangers ever knew. That is a part of my dad that you didn’t know. Now you do.

I love him. I forgive him. He has made me who I am today, and I am grateful for that. I fall on my knees in gratitude to him for making me who I am.

I am proud of me.

This story is called My Dad. Thank you Dad. Thank you. Thank you.

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Graceland and a Dream of Mine, Analyzed

March 30, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Good Music, Music, New Music, Love, Stories, Life, Dreams, Cover Song

I had a dream a few years back where I was at The House of Blues. It looked a bit like the one I used to perform at in Anaheim, California. Near Disneyland. But certainly not identical.

Paul Simon was in that dream. I was sitting at a table with him and two other musically inclined gentlemen. You might call us skeezy musicians: I lean towards storyteller, with a pension towards taking liberties.

I needed to use the restroom. I got up from the table and headed towards a set of binary doors, one to the left, and one to the right.

I took the door to the right, and was immediately greeted by a person trying to squeeze by me with a backpack brimming with who knows what. I don’t even know—and I’m the one slow cooking this chili con carne of a dream.

Ironically, he was exiting, just as I was entering. It was an awkward exchange between a doorway.

What I found on the other side of that doorway was a bustling kitchen of people—chefs and other assorted folks working in tandem.

I appreciated seeing this for a moment, but also didn’t find the bathroom.

I head back to the table I was sitting at with Paul Simon. He wasn’t alone either. There was a drummer I knew from living in Long Beach, as well as the bass player from the band Weezer, that left the group after the success of their first album. Matt Sharp.

I make some sort of snide crack about the restroom being cursed and that I couldn’t find it to begin with.

Paul replied, we all feel that way from time to time.

Everyone chuckles.

The drummer and bass player and Paul all have a short chat of sorts, before the bass player and drummer politely bid fair-well and leave.

I once again feel the urgency of the restroom—and as I rise, Paul showers me with kind compliment and I reply the pleasure being mine.

And as I stand, I notice that Paul is sitting on my coat.

As much as I would love to think that image in my dream was Paul Simon—all of those people are me.

We find Grace on the inside, in a house of blues. Not always what we anticipate either—especially when trying to get there urgently.

It’s not as hard as you think to analyze a dream. It’s all symbolic. Metaphors. The cast of my craft and poets alike.

I found grace hearing what my friend Rory sent me today. It was his second guitar part for this arrangement.

Wow, music is magic and casting spells—and dreams? They are wild. Primal. Older than your language. When symbols ruled for communication in a young monad’s dream.

This is Graceland by Paul Simon.

It’ll be available on all the streaming services April 11th.

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Home Life

March 27, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Good Music, Dreams, Cover Song, Brain Droppings, Life, Love, Music, Stories, Tao Te Ching

This song took on a special meaning for me recently. It was my favorite song on an album called “Heavier Things,” by John Mayer. The song is called Home Life.

The chorus of the song, he speaks of wanting to live in the Center of a Circle: that is a Monad.

He also speaks of wanting to live on the side of a square: that is referring to the Golden Ratio and φ. You will see this if you look at the Symbol of a golden ratio which has been used for years by both artists and mathematicians. It is the mathematical ratio for an infinite spiral, arrived at my the Fibonacci Sequence and The Ratio, Phi. It is an infinite set of numbers, like Pi, which deals with circles, and leads back to the Monad.

Both are symbols: The Monad and The Golden Ratio. John may have done this on purpose. He may have done it unconsciously as well. I would like to ask him myself in person one day.

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Friends

March 24, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Stories, Love, Life

Yesterday was magic. I assure you. If you were me, you wouldn’t be able to put it into words either. You would just give it a try though.

I experienced Synchronicity. I met a man named Mar holding a very small copy of a few Bible verses, standing by his rod iron white gate. I’ve passed his house, thousands of times on morning walks or runs or any sort of locomotion, really.

Mar is an older Filipino man and delightful and was praying to skies for a friend, as I was talking to one, pretend. I ceased talking to my pretend friend for a block, and thought it would be nice to make a new one. Then I saw Mar.

I smiled and said good morning to him. He was glowing! So was I. We were effervescent, like a cauldron or a soda pop.

We talked for about 45 minutes, and he invited me inside to sit and chat. I gave him my number on the back of an envelope and I shared with him one of a million favorite books that I thought he might like, “The Alchemist” by Paulo Coelho.

It’s not the first time I’ve ever experienced something like Synchronicity, but—I find people curling their face in interesting knots and not’s like an anti-effervescent stroke of magic, when I start telling the story of such things.

I love making friends. Often, I just don’t feel like I have the time, being suffocated by ambitions or the real world. What does that even mean?

You touch a table—yet do not touch the table. You may even say, you are the table too. No, that’s not a joke. That’s Quantum Physics.

You are surrounded by the gift of magic and so am I. Please don’t take it for granted.

As I arrived back at my bungalow, my best friend Josh invited me to a photo club meetup in Chinatown, and suddenly I am surrounded by brilliant Scientists, and Celebrity Photographers, and Economists, gathering to do something they love. I made all sorts of new friends and my heart is full. I toyed with Vintage Cameras and resolved to the ease of an iPhone. I took pictures of people taking picture! Who does that (me).

I assure you, the world is what you make of it. Literally.

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Playing Vine in Long Beach on Sunday April 6th

March 20, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Life, Live Show, Music

This is my friend Taylor.

In thinking about it, I’ve cried a whole bunch in front of her over the years. Probably enough so to make any reasonable person uncomfortable.

Life can be hard sometimes.

But it’s the friends in life that pick us up and dust us off, and send us back into the world to try again. That’s persistence. It brings us to success, eventually. Always. I believe that.

I’m stoked to be sharing a spot with her to play some music at @vine_lb in Long Beach on Sunday April 6th. It’s a free show, and I’d be happy to have you there as well, dear reader. Deeply.

4pm - Me

5pm - Taylor Crawford

6pm - Rod Harrison

May we all be so lucky to have friends like you.

And I can’t emphasize this enough, Taylor: it was really hard for me to miss your wedding day (I’m so sorry), because nothing makes me happier than seeing my friends happy.

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Want and the Stories of Mike and Julie | My Neighbors

March 14, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Music, New Music, Love

On an economic level, I share more in common with an individual who is homeless than I do with that of a person who is upper middle class or upper class.

I am a professional musician trying to make a living on the music I write. I am lower class.

The first song I ever wrote was about a young girl in Visalia who tried to commit suicide off of the side of a highway overpass, into oncoming traffic on the 198 freeway. She survived. I only showed this song to one friend: Elizabeth Rosenberg. I was around 20 years old at the time.

This song above, is so many years far removed from that first song. I am going to be 46 years old in April.

This song is not just about homelessness; it is about recognizing the value of each other. It is about recognizing that which makes us similar, instead of focusing on that which makes us different.

I talk to people. Sometimes it's on my own time. Sometimes it's on theirs. I had four or five people call me on the phone the other day and I talked to everyone, and showed my love by listening and being engaged, being present, and enjoying their company for as long as I could, before needing to get back to work.

This includes friends I have made who are homeless.

Rather than share the lyrics of this song, I will share their stories as best as I know.

MIKE

I met Mike when I first moved to Eagle Rock in Los Angeles. Mike has been homeless for approximately 40 years. He grew up in Chicago. Sometimes, I would bring a cup of coffee from my house to him, and we would sit and talk about his life. He left Chicago in his late teens out of fear. He said he witnessed something that he shouldn't have, and left Chicago because there was a person trying to eliminate him as a witness.

I listened. His story—it's hard to know whether there is reality to it or not. What I could do though, is ask him if he had family in Chicago who would take his call. He said yes. I asked if he knew their number. He said yes. So, I offered him my phone, and encouraged him to reach out. I also said, that whoever wanted him dead, has long forgotten about him and that his family would most certainly be happy to hear his voice. He refused.

One day as I was passing by, he said hi to me, and said, "hey you're a musician right?" I said yes. He told me that he always wanted to learn guitar. I told him, that I would be happy to gift him a guitar and teach him how to play. All that he needed to do was to show up at 11am in front of the mini mart by my house, and I would bring materials to teach him. He didn't show up and that's okay.

One day I passed by him in front of that same mini mart, and he was excited to be the recipient of 12 brand new pairs of socks. He asked if I needed any socks, and offered me a few pair of socks. I told him that I have plenty of socks, and that I would feel better about it, if he kept them and used them for himself.

I haven't seen Mike in a few years, but I love him.

JULIE

I don't know Julie nearly as well. She has her good days, and she has her bad days. She is schizophrenic. She has not told me that, but I am fairly certain this is the case.

She often speaks to people I can not see, but not always consistently. Sometimes she is more lucid than on other occasions.

She screams in terror at 4am in the morning at invisible entities that I do not see. However, she is terrified of them. Genuinely terrified. I will hear her banging on road signs, screaming for these entities to leave her alone. Begging them at times. Ordering them on other occasions, with words of authority and conviction and profanity.

I have gone out to check on her in the early hours of the morning, to make sure she is okay, when I can hear her pleas and banging to be left alone. It is on those occasions that she has shared with me that one of the entities is covered in blood and repeatedly tries to molest her.

She does not remember my name, and I don't mind. She often does not make eye contact with me. Sometimes she does.

She has upset my neighbors on a few occasions using our shared garden house for the yard to clean her clothes. I found her doing this once, and merely asked that she would approach me beforehand, before using the hose.

----------

I do what I do, because it makes me happy. It is humble work. I have traveled all over the United States sharing my stories and the stories of others, with people, such as yourselves. I have met many of you and connected with many of you, from this pursuit.

I am incapable of fixing the issue of homeless by myself. I need help. I need your help. We elevate each other. That is what we do. That is what we can do. Like anything, it starts at a thought—but manifests to reality by action.

I manifest my life. You do too. It is not our responsibility to judge what is impossible or possible. It is our purpose to pursue what makes us happy and to attempt to elevate each other.

I have spent my lifetime devoting myself to story and song. I know I am good at it. I have watched myself win over entire rooms full of people that did not show up to see me play, and I have done this in rooms all over the country.

This is just a song. It does not change anything, immediately. I hesitate to sell this one. I would prefer for people just to listen, as I have listened to the stories of Mike and Julie, and countless other friends.

It can easily be ignored as well. The choice is yours. It always has been.

It is available to stream on all the streaming services, as of now:

https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/mikevitale/want-live-in-2025

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And It Stoned Me

March 07, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Music, New Music

I first heard this song from two girls I had an early morning class with in high school. They were smoking a joint in their parked car, as I was passing by, minding my own business.

They invited me in, and this was the song they were listening to.

In other news, my cat is just chillin' right under my headstock—the whole song. Her name is Qi'ra. Feel free to say hi!

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Simple

March 02, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Love, Music, Life

Simple

Words and Music by Me

I know that I am simple

Perhaps the butt of jokes

The swishing tails of bovine

Two by two in yoke

Pulling the plow is good

I’m happy to be of use

I wasn’t always docile

A call to help refused

If you look into my eyes

You may see they’re soft

You may see into my heart

As I’m drinking from the trough

My sharp edges dull

In head and horn alike

How may I be of service

To the people in this life?

I know that I am simple

It was here I found my mirth

The light of sun was clouded

By earthly things and worth

To sew the seeds in Spring

To harvest in the Fall

To laugh when things are funny

To answer when people call

If you look into my eyes

You may see they’re soft

You may see into my heart

As I’m drinking from the trough

My sharp edges dull

In head and horn alike

How may I be of service

To the people in this life?

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Our Own Personal Rainbow

February 27, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Brain Droppings, Life, Love

A rainbow. It requires three ingredients: moisture, sunlight, and consciousness. The latter. That is what I wish to speak about.

You may be familiar with the thought experiment “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”

The rainbow is refracted light. However, it requires us to be seen. It requires an observer to be noticed in the fashion which I describe.

Scientifically, sunlight is being refracted through rain drops or mist or other such moisture, however, it is the observer who creates the rainbow. Without us observing it, there is no rainbow: there is just rain, and sunlight.

And, when you and I are standing next to each other, admiring that beautiful arc of color in sky, we do not see the same rainbow. It will be unique for either of us, depending on the location at which we are standing, relative to that phenomenon that appears to us in the sky.

A beautiful ghostly image, that disappears the moment we stop paying attention to it, or when the sun is obscured, or when it stops precipitating: whichever of those three come first.

Our own personal rainbow—and this notion, when understood, applies to much more than rainbows. 🌈

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Good Morning

February 26, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Life, Love

I try my best to go on these morning walks.

Sometimes I just think. Sometimes I listen to music. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I listen to podcasts and audio books or whatever else seems nourishing.

This morning I was listening to an idea that John Archibald Wheeler, theoretical physicist, had in regard to The Universe.

Him and several other Physicists saw that we are active participants in what we perceive as reality. The Universe is dreaming us up, just as we are dreaming up our own existence by everything we say, think, touch, and feel.

I like this idea. It is the basis of Quantum Theories and the computers being built right now with qubits. Possibilities. Infinite possibilities. A cloud of possibilities with one manifestation at the present moment, determined by the duality of these two dreamers, dreaming at the same time with each other.

But in real world terms, it can be as simple as saying good morning to the person you pass by on a morning walk, or as complicated as believing you can make a difference in this world. You do regardless.

Think about it. And Good Morning by the way.

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A Coyote

February 24, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Music, New Music

If this song were a cocktail, it might take you somewhere—and it would also be crafted from some fine ingredients.

One Mark Twain—specifically "Roughing It". One tablespoon of Eddy Arnold The Cattle Call. A dash of nostalgia. Several shakes traveling out and about's, to and fro, hither and thither.

A pandemic. I forgot about that too.

Other stuff.

Sip it though.

I would write out the lyrics, but that would negate all the time spent inserting the lyrics above. You're going to have to experience it in real time—not at the speed of read.

Not at all is also an option (that being my least favorite).

Any hoo.

xoxo

Available to stream everywhere:

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

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

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I’m sorry, I don’t believe in sentences.

February 23, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Tao Te Ching, Love, Life, Brain Droppings

I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine, however, I can’t—for two-fold reason: he’s dead—and I never knew him in-person.

I found him on a book shelf in Portland on accident.

He is just my speed though, with titles to books, such as “What is the name of this book?” and “The Tao is Silent.”

His name is Raymond M. Smullyan. He strikes me as a ball of creativity, never destined to be at rest on a flat surface. He could tip the world even in his absence. A mind that’s always moving something, if not me and my sense of humor.

If that’s not magic, I don’t know what is. He could do that too: magic I mean. Illusions.

He was an advanced mathematician. Polyglot. Loved puzzles, to the point of being a Logician. And to boot, he was a musician.

He’s over my head. Sometimes he’s in my head, and I’m like “get out of my head” but without the quotation marks because that was in my head.

I’m trying to say that I like him and I’m happy he took the time to share his thoughts with others, such as myself. Maybe you might enjoy him too.

I leave you with his thoughts:

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe in sentences.”

And

“I have free will, but not of my own choice. I have never freely chosen to have free will. I have to have free will, whether I like it or not!”

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The Incredible Shrinking Brain

February 22, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Music, New Music

Humans have a stellar track record of being both absent and horrid to one another. We take advantage of those with less. We treat others as inferiors. Hurt people, they hurt people.

We criticize the intelligence of those who disagree with our own notions of what it is to be human, alive, and unique. We incite. We cross boundaries.

Discrimination, which then leads to Reverse-Discrimination.

Slavery. Coal Mines. Company Stores. We use. We exploit natural resources, and people alike.

Bigoted. Arrogant. Prejudice.

Angry.

Creed.

Creed is unique from religious belief. It is the public and outspoken form of religious belief. Often times, also crossing boundaries. Inciting war.

For such a young species, we know so little in the broader scheme of existence—and we exercise our limited knowledge with certainty, regardless.

We need humility. What I know is dwarfed by that which I don't know.

What am I advocating for?

For each and every one of us to be present and in the moment as often as possible, and in order to achieve that, we all must know ourselves, and in order to know ourselves, we must work inward from our Ego, to our true Self. Carl Gustav Jung called it Individuation. Taoists call it, The Way. I call it a lifetime of work and effort to be the best version of myself. Authentic, confident, positive, receptive, patient, open-minded, and kind. That starts with you and me and everyone on an individual basis, and there is no mastery. There is just trying to be present.

"Anger and hatred are caustic to the vessel in which it's stored, far more than to anything on which it's poured."

If you don't know why you are so angry and why you hate—you can know. It is a matter of truly searching the inner world of you. I have done so myself, and I have spent tremendous amounts of time by myself, exercising these very notions, and writing these very songs.

That is why the first verse of this tune is a criticism of me. I will start with me. The rest of the song is about society, for which I am a part of too.

I am pointing out an issue I see in society and me. I am also providing a solution, as well as a song to shake your ass to.

I find happiness in making art and connecting with people and telling stories and traveling the country. Writing these songs. They are an inner journey. Those who create, know what I mean. It is profound. I want and wish for all people to experience what I have in my lifetimes as a creator.

I care about us. I care about you. I care about how we treat each other, and how we mistreat each other. Most importantly, I want to see change in my lifetime.

What is the change? People that are happy.

You don't find happiness or God or Self in material goods and wealth. Jesus actually preached that very notion as well, and I agree (and I'm not Christian). You find happiness within, by searching for it and listening to your inner voice. That in itself is a journey and I wish you well traveler.

Happiness is also fleeting and is never constant. It must be that way or else you would have nothing to compare it against.

When you find happiness, the light and true purpose inside of you: you are present often, and you radiate this for all to see.

I found a great deal of happiness on the road the past few years. It made the release of singles, difficult however. Tonight, I am trying again, because it makes me happy. Thank you for listening and reading. I am thankful.

released September 13th 2024

Vocals, Rhythm Electric Guitar, Synthesizers, Moog Mini, Fender Rhodes Piano, Mellotron: Mike Vitale

Drums: Tamir Barzilay

Bass: Paul Jones

Electric Guitar: Molly Miller

Produced by Mike Vitale

Engineered by Mike Vitale, Tamir Barzilay, Paul Jones, and Molly Miller

Mixed by Ryan Lipman

Mastered by Mark Alan Miller

You can listen to this on your favorite streaming service, by following this link:

https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/mikevitale/the-incredible-shrinking-brain

Patreon:

https://www.patreon.com/mikevitalemusic

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The Curious Case of Phineas Gage and His Brain

February 20, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Music, New Music

Phineas Gage was a demolition foreman for the Rutland and Burlington Railroad in the year 1847.

His job was to blow things up—specifically, that which was in the way of building a pair of railroad tracks. This could be all sorts of things. Mountainside, Felsenmeer, Stone, Boulders, and so forth.

But in those days, when you wanted to blow things up, you didn't have dynamite, because it hadn't been invented yet.

Nitroglycerine, which led to dynamite, was still about 25 years away.

So, when you needed to get rid of what was in front of you, one would drill enormously deep holes in the above mentioned, fill it with gunpowder, run a fuse, pack the remainder of the hole with sand to buffer the charge, light the fuse, and then run like hell.

This was Phineas' job... that is, until one day, he forgot to do one of these ingredients—and that's where this song comes in.

This is called The Curious Case of Phineas Gage and His Brain. Most medical students are familiar with this story. However, since I never studied medicine or psychology in college, I have Conan O'Brien and Bill Hader to thank for this story. Thank you both. I had a great time writing this.

The Curious Case of Phineas Gage and his Brain

words and music by Michael Patrick Vitale

Phineas Gage cleared the felsenmeer and stone to level the ground

He was a detonation foreman for the

Rutland and Burlington Railway, westbound

He drilled holes deep into mounds of boulders and stone and rocky terrain

Before he filled them up with gun powder, fuse, and sand to buffer the charge and keep it contained

And in all those years of such a dangerous profession

I wonder if it ever crossed his mind to exercise discretion

he’d just tamp down the goods with a rod, ingredients primed

But he forgot to buffer the charge with sand this time

Phineas

Oh Phineas

Oh what have you done?

That one meter iron rod

Shot out like a gun

And Lord knows you ducked your head

To get out of its way

But almost only counts

In horseshoes and hand grenades

Phineas

Oh Phineas

How are you still standing?

You’re a miracle of science

You defy understanding

Because Phineas my friend

You’ve got a great big hole in your head

Phineas looks around with a “what’s a matter” wrinkled brow

As his eyes dart around in his head

And his growing audience responds that the brain matter from your head

Is strewn about and I don’t know: you’re not dead

Workers and foreman shout for a physician

And while it seems unique for Phineas to be in such a position

It’s recommended that he take the rest of the day off on account

That his insides are outside and that alone seems like a lot to surmount

Phineas

Oh Phineas

Oh what have you done?

That one meter iron rod

Shot out like a gun

And Lord knows you ducked your head

To get out of its way

But almost only counts

In horseshoes and hand grenades

Oh Phineas

How are you still standing?

You’re a miracle of science

You defy understanding

Because Phineas my friend

You’ve got a great big hole in your head

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Rare Bird and the Roman Genius

February 18, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Music, New Music

I wrote the vast majority of this song while I was touring last year. I was in Portland, Oregon at the time, staying at my friend David Greco's house. David is a singer-songwriter himself. A very talented one.

I met him in Los Angeles, at a songwriter night when I first moved to LA. He was living in Los Angeles, at that time, but was originally from Portland and moved back there with his wife, shortly after we met.

Him and his wife are incredibly kind and fun and smart and artistic. Both of them read incessantly and their house is just covered in book shelves and literature of all varieties. A television is nowhere to be seen.

I had made a trip to Powell's Book Store a bit earlier that morning (which a marvel of a place in Portland) and came back to their place to take a crack at writing.

As I sat at their kitchen table, writing: either one of them might stop for a second as they passed by to ask how the song was coming along, might stop to listen if invited.

Earlier on we had been talking about books either of us were reading and she keenly noticed that the title from the book she was reading had ended up in my chorus.

"We are remarkable brightness of creature".

I'm a sponge—or maybe that is the wrong way of looking at it. Perhaps I'm like a collage. If one were in mean spirits: perhaps I paint by numbers.

When I showed it to David, he said that it reminded him of Rufus Wainwright. I can see that. I love Rufus and his music. I used to listen to his first two albums a lot, many years ago. He was working with all the music producers I loved: Pierre Marchant for "Poses" and Jon Brion for his self-titled. I hadn't listened to Rufus for probably—15 years or so. Yet, I would say that is a very viable explanation to where I could have listened to much music reminiscent of Judy Garland and all the amazing songwriters of her generation. Beyond compare. Masters of the craft.

Even as the writer, I have no idea where this stuff comes from precisely, in terms of an origin, aside from the most obvious explanation of non-executive functionality to the human psyche.

I don't try to sound like anyone but me. I just write. I hadn't been listening to any music that sounded anything like what I was writing here in the moment. It is like that for every song that I write. My brain tends to do the opposite of whatever I am currently taking in.

It's like magic. It feels like the song comes from somewhere special that is deep, dark, and mysterious. A little dangerous, but also sacred.

The Unconscious. The subconscious. Whichever you prefer. It's not conscious. That's the point.

The older I get, the more I want everything that I make, to come from this place. Perhaps they all do. I'm not certain.

More importantly, I want everyone to make something special, even if it is just special to themselves. I feel the most alive when I am creating, I want everyone to experience that feeling. It feels—incredible. Rare.

We all are incredible and rare. It can be said without a doubt, that we are all part of the same genus. However, it's the subjective nature of our being, that puts the I in that word.

Genius.

It comes from Latin. The Romans believed that there was a guiding spirit that accompanies you from birth to death. They called this spirit Genius. This spirit would help you to be the best version of yourself, to create, and to guide you on your path until the moment you left this mortal coil.

By the 15th century Middle English, it meant traits that define you as a person.

By the 17th century—it meant someone that is exceptional.

I don't mention any of this because I think I'm exceptional.

I saw exceptional last night. They were on stage together, being themselves.

I wish I would have filmed them on camera. It always seems to spoil the moment though, and my enjoyment of it—so I just took it in, instead.

I moved to Los Angeles, to bear witness to that. It is the sort of place that can quickly remind you that there are exceptional people in the world. To remind that there are pinnacles to achieve yet still, far beyond what is currently on hand.

I'm the most interested in the origin of the word genius. I'm interested in the folklore of its origin. This spirit. The Genius the Romans believed in. A mediator between God and Self.

I'm also interested in the notion of Genus and Genius being separated by one small vowel, that also just happens to represent our own inherent uniqueness.

Regardless of all this nonsense that I spout about—Rare Bird is a celebration of the unlocking of a door that resides within every human. Behind that door, there is adventure, dragons, a journey, a purpose, and long forgotten events, amongst so much else that is ripe with mystery. Perhaps I visit this space much like I do Portland and my friends there. A constellation, inside and outside of my being.

It's also, just a bunch of words over some music. I listened to 50 seconds of it, and it sounds nice. It's a lot of things to a lot of people. Nothing to no one. Maybe everything between too.

It's time for a walk. Thanks for reading me.

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Fake Plastic Trees - Radiohead

February 10, 2025 by Mike Vitale in New Music, Music

Authenticity. We crave it so much.

We are sold the opposite. Not just in products, or on a television screen, or in a movie theater, or in a grocery store, or on a social media site by an influencer.

We are complicated creatures. Simultaneously wanting nothing shorts of perfection, while so desperately thinking that we need some sort of approval or validation—but it's just really love. That's all we want. Just to be loved for who we are. Nothing needs to be changed.

I was live streaming the other day and someone requested this song. I had forgotten how incredible this piece of music is. It made well up in tears listening back to it.

Mics Used:

Shure SM7 - Vocals

Audio Technica AT4033 - Guitar

Guitar:

Martin D-3R

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Graceland by Paul Simon

February 10, 2025 by Mike Vitale in Music, New Music

The first time I ever listened to this album was on my very first tour.

Not a fancy tour. It was a tour out of my car.

My girlfriend at the time, burnt it onto a CD for me to listen to.

One of several: tours, and several CD’s to listen to. I love this song a lot. I love this whole album. Thanks Katie.

Mics Used:

Shure SM7 - Vocals

Audio Technica AT4033 - Guitar

Guitar: Martin D3R