Mike Vitale

2024 was the best year yet.

I spent the majority of it, playing music for people all over the country in garages and living rooms, and venues, and outdoor amphitheaters and you name it. I turned 45 this year, and while I am not exactly playing the places I imagined when I was in my early 20’s, I am happy to renegotiate whatever it is I think I need in favor of the overwhelming feeling that I am on the correct path. There is no substitute for the later.

That path I was mentioning, seems to wind and meander and do a whole lot of sprawling. Good. When has an easy task ever been appreciated?

So what now?

I find room for improvement all the time. I f**k up, in a myriad of ways—almost never intentionally. Everyone does; it’s part of the human experience. So we learn grace. This has been the most challenging task of my existence. How about you?

We learn to lose our fear. Or better yet, to be afraid and to do it any way. That’s courage.

Hopefully, we learn to not care what others people think of us, especially within the realm of art. It feels INCREDIBLE to create. I have spent twenty plus years doing it and I f**king love making things. Expletive expletive.

Destroying. That is easy. Anyone can do that.

Creating is the essence of our being. It is what makes us special and beautiful and valuable.

These words come from a man who knows a little bit about nothing. There is no wisdom to be found here besides aspirations and dreams. Please have those. For the betterment of all humanity.

I love to see people electric. To be on fire. To want to will something into existence.

Be that in 2025. You can laugh at me willing mine into existence as well. I don’t mind at all. You can cheer me on too. In my opinion, that is way more constructive endeavor. I’m a grain of sand though, and so are you.

A quote I admire:

“wisdom is knowing I am nothing, love is knowing I am everything, and between the two my life moves.”

- Nisargadatta Maharaji

I have that on my fridge, to remind me. I have now for six years. Happy New Year ♥️ . In the words of Paul Simon, “Life is what me make of it; so beautiful or so what.” Cheers 🥂 to #2025

It turns out that there were a few gifts under that there tree. Namely, picking up a few gigs this week. Thankful.

Playing tonight (Tuesday Dec 17th) at the Aviara Resort in Carlsbad and I have what I think is a private event in Long Beach this Friday. It might be open to the public to attend, but I’m not sure. I’ll check.

This picture could be a motivational poster in a business office.

Somethings about paths diverging around bends or some other horses**t.

What I really wanna talk about is boogers. Sometimes, after a cold, you get these little crusty things around the edge of the nostrils and it is oh so satisfying to pick those away.

Yeah.

There’s some s**t around that bend. Don’t pick your nose, unless you want boogers on your phone.

I am live streaming on Youtube today (Sunday Dec 15th) starting at 11am PST.

It would be lovely to have you there if you feel like hanging! The honor would be mine.

I’ll put a link down in my comments to find me on Youtube if you’re interested, and there is a section of that page devoted to the Live Streams, including a “Live Now” section for one that I am actively broadcasting.

Bronco II
by Michael Patrick Vitale
Published July 21st 2022

I remember. You remember too. That one time. The memory you might be embarrassed by. The memory that could very well make you smile—if not blush as well, in the fraught of youthful naïveté—there might be a bit of shame mixed in there as well. A concoction of emotions that could very well string a few tears down a cheek, while recollecting—however, I do not think this is the intention of the memory. If anything, it was a deep lesson in a well of wisdom through mistakes hopefully never made again. I only had a few bruises—a few scratches on my back, and arms, and torso. I walked away with my life. I should be grateful. I should be on my hands and knees.

And I was that night, as I crawled from the indiscernible mangled confines of the cracked and destroyed windshield of a Bronco II that was totaled in the shape of a taco, along the side of a rural country road on the outskirts of my hometown of Visalia, California. I was just a kid. A kid who thought he knew it all, yet also had some small inkling that he was a fool—especially while on his hands in knees, crawling, in utter shock, through shattered glass, and dusty horizon of loose dirt sent arial by the bouncing spin, side-over-side of this Bronco II into an old oak tree, going Lord knows how fast. It made contact with that tree, so far up, it makes my stomach churn. The tree bark scrapped off, where the truck slid down the side of its wise and old trunk. It stood proudly, in the face of the ignorance of youth.

I was in the backseat. I didn’t have a seatbelt on. I was drunk. My friends were both intoxicated too. Coincidentally, both of those factors saved my life: being drunk, and having no seatbelt on. As the Bronco flipped side-over-side, I could feel myself bouncing from ceiling to seat, ceiling to seat, ceiling to seat… and I remained loose and an unconstricted bag of fleshy blood and water, from the alcohol, as if my friend did not just flip his car, swerving wildly and out of control, down this rural road that led away from his house—in pursuit of a pack of ci******es no less. We were all out of ci******es. We wanted ci******es; we wanted to suck on the teat of ni****ne like a bunch of stupid f**king infants.

My two friends who occupied the front seats, driving and as co-pilot—they had just dropped acid before we left. I opted out on that adventure on this occasion. I had done enough acid and mushrooms at that time in my life, albeit, in the humble pursuit of awareness in the spiritual. I did not require a spiritual journey that night. I had one well-enough without the assistance of psychedelics. That spiritual journey began with me rhythmically bouncing from seat to ceiling, for what seemed like an eternity. No seat belt. I survived.

We all survived. We all crawled out of the windshield, calling out for one another. Disoriented. Coughing from the dirt and debris. We all groggily walked back to his rural house, surrounded by orchards and farm land, to the driver’s parents’ house. They were out of town. We took advantage of this fact by sharing a fifth of Jack Daniels, and our thoughts and good company with one another, if I remember correctly. We might have smoked a few joints too. Loosened up our attitude. Became the warm campfire of friendship, providing heat for one another.

We got back to his house, and examined ourselves in the mirror of his lower bathroom in the downstairs quarter of his huge country house. I was in shock. My friends were in shock as well. There was some laughing and jubilee in the realization that we survived, with few things to remind us, aside from the damages inflicted on our persons. We showed each other these bruises and scratches. There was laughing involved, yer—but we were all in shock—and that shock makes it difficult for me to remember much after this examination in the mirror of a downstairs bathroom.

What I do remember is being upstairs in his bedroom, trying to fall asleep on his cushioned bamboo chair, contorted into the shape of a question mark, listening to my two friends on acid, as they concocted a story to tell my friends’ parents. To explain how things came to pass. To explain how three youths nearly died that night, by the hand of their own ignorance—while also omitting those pertinent facts, in favor of some judicious half-truths and lies—if not to both help me, but to also help themselves. I slowly began to sober up, and become annoyed by the chatter of their acid-peaked thoughts, and to feel the full and fool weight of my own decisions—and to forgo my fingers, for counting the many blessings that appendages would never account for, because I will never have enough of them.

I remember waking up at one point, and seeing my friend through my drowsy and sleep starved eyes; he was languidly and contemplatively staring out the window, as his Bronco II was lifted onto a flatbed truck—it was during the sunrise of the next day. The light of the new day reflected across his face. I think his mind was also, where my mind was, while I tried to sleep. What have I done?

Empty Circle (an acoustic album) is now available to stream everywhere.

This is an album that I originally released back in 2018, and made solely available for purchase on Bandcamp, BUT it is now available to stream everywhere you stream music.

There are 11 cuts on this record, either recorded as an acoustic duo with my buddy Tommy Bremer, recorded solo acoustic, or with me playing lead and rhythm guitar as well.

I plan on releasing a lot more acoustic renditions of songs in 2025 for streaming release, so expect this to be the first of many recordings.

Track Listing:

Time Machine
In the Middle of You
Running Away From Home
Gone
Empty Circle
Infinite Jest
Fool For You
Mark Twain
A Man That Can Last
Human
Puppy Love

Mixed and Mastered by Ryan Lipman

Thank you for being in my constellation and affording me the opportunity to be in yours. Happy Holidays.

I’ll put a link down in the comments to listen on your favorite streaming service.

Back in 2018, I released an acoustic album called EMPTY CIRCLE. If I remember correctly, it was briefly on streaming services, before I took it down and made it only available as a purchasable album on Bandcamp.

I mention this because I reuploaded the album and it is available on all streaming services starting tomorrow Friday Dec 13th at midnight.

I will be releasing more solo acoustic material in 2025 in addition to full band material too. My next full band single comes out on Jan 3rd 2025 and it’s called I HAD A DREAM WITH SHARP TEETH.

With this being said:

Are there any songs that I have written that you would like to see me release acoustic versions of to streaming services? I am very much open to seeing what might be appealing to you. Leave a comment below if you fancy anything in particular.

I wish that you could see this, and that you would let me know that you do. It feels nice to be seen by people.

I’ve had times in my life where I feel like a wallflower—or that I am not seen by people. Really seen. Not what they project upon me. Not what they hate in themselves.

Me.

Maybe you have felt that way too. It’s not the best feeling in the world.

At any rate. I will say, that I enjoyed the time that people saw my posts on here in more ubandance.

This is now though, and now people that were curious about me or even a fan of me and my music and whatever else I make, don’t see much of anything.

There is an algorithm between you and I.

I didn’t ask for that algorithm, so it wasn’t invited to this party as far as I am concerned.

Considering it has no feelings, or thoughts on the matter, I thought I would reach out to you directly, to say hi, instead.

While I do not know the complete ins and outs of the access windows this algorithm is creating, I can, being a simple person, say that since I do in fact have feelings and thoughts on the matter of algorithms, that it would be nice to be seen, and to see you again on posts such as this.

Should you have any interest in seeing more of my creations in your feed, you would simply need to start by engagaing with this post. That can be as simple as a 👍🏼 and a comment saying “hi”. However, I am not going to lie: brownie points for creativity, especially in the comments.

I have a feeling that the written posts, pictures, and reels seen in your feed, all have their own unique algorithm window, so you would then need to like whatever of mine you are interested in seeing more of, as it passes through the feed. It may work from visiting my profile too.

At any rate: consider this my smoke signal to you. I deeply and truly miss your company on this camping trip we call life. I hope to reach your eyes, and minds, and ears, and hearts again, one day. It was a privilege while it lasted.

xoxoxoxoxo

mike

I In Genus
by Me

Who put the I in Genus?
Would it be best not to admit?
Living within the lines
Of Samuel Langhorne’s wit

“Thousands of geniuses live and die
Completely undiscovered
Either by themselves
Or the company of others”

Counterfeit’s a worry
And people can be cruel
Yet ingenious enjoy the act of creation
Alone in one’s room

What I can admit
Faintly whispered if I try
When I have made like the maker
I know, because I cry

Photo: “Astronomer by Candlelight” by Gerrit Dou 1613-1679 (in display at the J Paul Getty Museum).

If A Picture
by me

good job iPhone Ansel Adams
you just screwed up his motif
all that you had to use was black and white
but no, you thought color was more unique

so you put upon a cumulus toque
goad the sun towards a wane
seek to whip an egg’s runny slip
across sapphire
orange sherbet and meringue

I had a thousand words here somewhere
(pat pat pat)
perhaps I left them in my Winter coat
…
better yet, I must have said them
in some colorful five by four connote

For any friends in the Carlsbad area, I’m so stoked to be playing a few sets tonight (Dec 7th) at the Pacific Point in the Park Hyatt Aviara Resort from 6pm to 9pm. Hope everyone is having a wonderful Saturday!

When I was a junior in college, I read 1984 by George Orwell. It frightened me. I remember the terror I felt when the protagonist was spoken to directly from a device on his wall, in his own home, by the gov’t surveying him and letting him know, yes, you were being watched.

I offer this merely as food for thought. Not to invoke conspiracy and so forth. In truth, as you would see if you watch the video below: it is already happening, around the world. Your phone can work two ways.

This is just real concern we should have for things we use on a daily basis, that can easily become (and is already leaning towards) a highly plausible outcome. We can let 1984 happen if we do not pay attention. This is some well done research on the growing use of cell phones as a surveillence device:

A Spy in Your Pocket? Ronan Farrow Exposes Secrets of High-Tech Spyware in New Film "Surveilled" Support our work: https://democracynow.org/donate/sm-desc-ytWe look at the world of high-tech surveillance with Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Ronan Farro...