Mike Vitale

DESERT DOGS: A New Album by Me

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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.

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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April 05, 2025 /Mike Vitale
My Dad, My Mother, Mother, Father, Mom, Dad, Marriange, Marriage, Chidlren, Love, Compassion, love is the answer, Love is Everything, Stories from my life, Rage, Anger, Violence, Physical Abure, Mental Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Parental Abuse, Spousal Abuse, Spouse, Husband, Fear, Sadness, Suffering, Domestic Violence, History, Generational Value Systems, Mutual respect, Respect for Elders, Elders, respect, Mommy, Daddy, College of the Sequoias, Visalia, Timothy Lynch, Dr. Timothy Lynch, Family, Family Dinner Discussions, Family Dinner around a table, Demons, The Shadow, Jungian Psychology, Analytical Pyschology, Sympathy, Empathy, Little Stinker, Asshole, Innocent Little Kid, Strangers, Education, Awareness, Family Vacations, Family Dynamics, Stupid Asshole, Spanking for Punishment, Spanking with a belt, Spanking with a paddle, Physical Assault, Passive Aggressive Behavior, Shut the fuck up woman, Stop talking to my mother that way, French Double Door, Choking, Physical Aggression, Asphyxiation
Life, Love, Stories
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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.

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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March 30, 2025 /Mike Vitale
Graceland, Paul Simon, Paul Simon Cover, Cover, Acoustic Cover, #music, Acoustic, Americana, Folk, Folk Music, Singer-Songwriter, Singer, Indie, Indie Artist, 80's, 80's Music, Acoustic Music, Acoustic Mike Vitale, Live in 2025, Acoustic Guitar, Acoustic Songs, Relaxing Music, Soothing Sounds, Cover Song, Covers, Rory Cloud, Monad, Dreams, Carl Jung, Carl Gustav Jung, Dream, Drea, Dream Life, House of Blues, Analysis, Dream Analysis, Jungian Psychology
Good Music, Music, New Music, Love, Stories, Life, Dreams, Cover Song
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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.

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:

SOCIAL MEDIA

UPCOMING TOUR DATES

INSIDE my HEAD RSS
March 24, 2025 /Mike Vitale
Photography, Synchronicity, Carl Jung, Carl Gustav Jung, Jungian Psychology, Synchronistic Events, Neighbors, Friends, Friendship, Friend, Acausal Events
Stories, Love, Life
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