PASADENA KNIFE SHOW, THE MIKE VAGNINO MID-TECH FOLDER

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NOISE

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           I wear ear plugs when I go to bed. There are days, too, when I would like to plug up my ears. My ears are assaulted by sounds. Sounds I do not like and do not want to hear. I have sensitive ears. Hearing is my most highly developed sense and I listen to everything. Years ago, I had my hearing tested, for a job that had no bearing on hearing, but they tested my hearing anyway and the attendant noted, impressively, that I 'can hear flies walking on walls.' I have never actually heard flies walking on walls, but I hear rats in the attic sometimes and I bang the ceiling with an old golf club and that usually scares rodents. Cindy Greer licked my ear one night and I knew she knew things I didn't know about ears and licking but I let her go and regretted it after she was gone. I don't remember if I licked her ears, but she did nice things to mine. The sound was kind of delicious and sexy and after that I never wanted to get my ear pierced or wear an ...
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           Let’s call him Mario.  He’s the bartender at this classic on Hollywood Boulevard, between Highland and Las Palmas.  You’ve been there.  The Maitre ‘d, Manuel, had ushered me into the empty bar around 11:45 AM, and while outside the sun blazed with mid-spring spring heat, inside seemed frozen in time.       Mario was setting up the bar and had bottles of wine, some opened, some uncorked, cork trays full of highball glasses, wine glasses, Pilsner glasses, tumblers, large jars of green olives, stainless steel containers of white onions—the little kind used in gimlets or martinis if you like them that way—slices of lemon peel, lime, candied cherries, all across the bar, so much that the waiter who came by shoved clear a corner so I could sit.  Mario brought me a Heineken and a glass dripping with shaved ice.  Billie Holliday singing ‘It Had To Be You’, notes hanging around the wallpap...
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With a vibe I'd recalled from some Zen retreat, maybe a restaurant in Big Sur, it stands around the corner from where I live and buy gas and get Starbucks and I'd been by it for twenty years, wondering what it was, this white structure with the wide-terraced entrance.  Sandwiched between a mid-modern apartment complex and a day care center, it's a doctor's office, and I was in it today, referred from the medical center that had diagnosed my bumpy-head, red-blotched burning scalp and forehead as shingles, a nerve inflammation caused by a virus that crawls up nerves from it's dormant hiding place in the spinal column and fires up tingly sensations and more.  Not serious, unless it gets near the eyes.  Where mine is.  And that's where it gets interesting. Ophthalmologists, they work here.  They examine eyes and perform surgeries and help people, in this quiet sanctuary with a lure that I couldn't identify but could vaguely feel. When the doctor came in to check...
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