Under My Chair

There is that familiar whirl of tires on asphalt, the constant vibration of the vehicle as it rolls mile after mile across deserted streets and freeways in relative darkness. There was a familiar voice that was coming from under my seat. I couldn’t place it at first and then I suddenly realized it was the voice of Gramps, nearly unrecognizable because it has been years since I have heard him speak. I looked under my seat and there was no body just his voice, he was talking about the war again…that machine gun nest and the way he had to use his bayonet….I could see him running his finger across the scar on his head the very same scar that decades earlier earned him a Purple Heart. Then a bump…. and as my head bounced off of the window I was resting against I was shaken awake. It was just a dream in the head of someone who is obviously sleep deprived, dehydrated and malnourished. I tried eating something last night but as soon as it hit my tongue it tasted metallic so I spat it into a napkin and rested my head on the table and fell asleep with a voice once again coming from under my chair. He is babbling about scientist coming up with a device that can project my thoughts onto a movie screen and he is laughing at what those images are. He tells me people are going to be horrified at what really rolls around in my brain and makes mention of psychological committal. “They will chain you to a bed just like your mother” he hisses, “They will fill you with drugs and drive the thoughts out of your head until you have nothing but a white screen.” I tell him to shut the fuck up and call him by his first name which is drastically more comfortable then calling him dad.

I startle awake again to find people staring at me and I am hoping that someone didn’t attach a device to me and they were watching my thoughts on a plasma screen in full 1080i. Why will no one make eye contact with me I wonder? I pay my check for the food I never ate and wander back out into the night I dig through my pockets for items that aren’t there and never were. I walk in circles in the parking lot looking up at the black sky. Soon we load back up and I rest my head on the window again hoping that the stories of fox holes and artillery will start again from under my seat.

Last Night

There are so few people left in the world that truly impress me. I am cynical by nature, untrusting, and suspicious of most all that I meet on a daily basis. I suppose it is a defense mechanism I adopted as a kid, if you have read this blog for a while you will no doubt know what I am talking about. Last night I spotted some shenanigans just in the back of the pit. This is an area I typically can’t see, in all honesty if it’s a dark show and the lighting is good I can’t see past the first few rows. The rest of the crowd looks like a giant pulsating blob ebbing and flowing back and forth and side to side. A dangerous sea of humanity festoon in leather, spikes and hair that looks as though it could definitely “put your eye out.” Last night the lighting sucked and there were plenty of house lights on which gave me a decent view all the way to the back of the venue. I kept noticing a kid who looked to be a pre-teen doing a little surfing. He would surf for a bit and then he would be down only to surf again a few minutes later. He was having a blast laughing, throwing up the devil horns, and pumping his fists into the air….just generally having a time of the show. As the show went on he showed no signs of letting up and I noticed the same man and woman kept hurling him atop the crowd. The crowd was great, everyone seemed to be into the show, the pit churned, bodies flew and the music was our brand of angry…. just the way we wanted it to be.

We left the stage and instead of partaking in my usual ritual of drinking a gallon of water and catching my breath I bee lined to the back of the venue where I spotted the kid and the people that were providing the boost. They were laughing and throwing mad high fives to each other. I introduced my self and discovered that the kid was 12 and mom and dad were the ones throwing the kid up to surf. I was literally overcome with insane jealousy about the whole scene. A 12 year old taken to a show by his parents and allowed to have a good time with mom and dad right there next to him. The family was in fact mom, dad, 12 year old boy and a set of 14 year old twin daughters. Each of them soaked in sweat, out of breath and their clothing showed the standard disheveled appearance of spending a few hours in a pit. We chatted a bit and I found out this activity is a usual occurrence they go to shows all the time as a family and have been for years. There was softness in each of their eyes and the way they interacted with each other said to me this is a family that will never be broken by outsiders. In a world where generational gaps seem to be a bottomless chasm of ever widening distance this family has bridged the distance through their mutual love of music. While hurling your kid on top of a crowd of punk rockers will no doubt disqualify them from any parents of the year awards they garnered top honors in the Punk Rock Dad world. I said my thank you’s for showing up and hoped that they had a good time and gave the kid my skull cap. I spent the rest of the night replaying the scene in my head and wondering how I would have turned out as a person had my parents been like his?

What happens when your cooped up in a van.

I struggle with the title of Artist, I regard an artist in some kind of way someone who paints or draws pictures or in some other odd and fascinating way creates an item for all to look upon. I can look upon a sculpture, painting, or some other medium of visual space as being created by an artist. My journey into the art world or more specifically the music world started before I was even old enough to drive, riff after angry riff played out on the neck of a battered guitar amplified angrily through an amp. Machine gun fast snare rolls banged out on a worn snare sitting just above a mis-matched bass that was a treasured find at a yard sale. Somewhere in the bailing wire and electrical tape that held my musical instruments together I suppose some form of art was conceived. Not all that have heard the noise that is created by such a car wreck of instruments would even loosely define this as art….but what really IS art? Trying to convey this concept to my kids is an even larger torture for me. Society as a whole seems to stereotype where an artist is an artist and a musician is in a whole separate class. I can’t draw to save my life but I have the ability to string words together in such a way that seemingly makes some attempt at veiled sense. How can an 80 year old woman in a coffee shop consider you an artist and the very next day a 20 year old at the same coffee shop does not. The product is still the same is it not? I have heard it a million times “Art is in the eye of the beholder” shouldn’t art be in the eye of the creator? The beholder takes what they can from it, the creator has the ultimate say don’t they? I have followed the work of Thomas Pendelton for years even before A&E exploited him on the popular tattoo show. Again A&E is featuring Thomas on a second tattoo reality show but this time they are delving a little deeper into the creative person that he really is. QYW fund this video for me the other day and I am so drawn to it I cannot even adequately put it into words. To me the most compelling part of this video begins at about the 7:55 mark.

My Wife Can Kick Your Husbands Ass.

My wife just achieved a whole new level of bad-assery.  I mean my wife is a total bad ass as it is but Friday she went above normal bad-ass-ness.

 QYW since I have known her has always had a penchant for martial arts.  A pursuit of hers since childhood she hold numerous belts in many different disciplines.  Friday night she achieved something she has been pursuing for the better part of a decade.  On occasion I tag along with QYW to one of her sessions at the club she has belonged to for years.  It’s quite entertaining actually watching a woman who is five foot tall and 100 pounds toss grown men around and choke them into submission.  She is one of two women that belong to this club predominately made up of men.  Friday was supposed to be like any other day at the club, don the Gi, stretching, and then about an hour worth of pain and misery.  All standard stuff except for Friday the man that owns the club was in the states from Brasil (please note the use of an s instead of a z) this apparently is a huge deal.  He is pretty famous in “Traditional” Jiu-Jitsu circles most bow to him….I give him high fives when I see him.  Anyway….training starts and he is watching intently as bodies fly all over the room, people tap furiously on the mat so their opponent won’t render them unconscious, groaning, yelling, and shouts of pain.  I watch QYW trap some poor slob in a reverse triangle then moves in a flash of a long curly pony-tail to a Ezekiel choke she releases that and a few moment later has the guy in a modified Kimora. 

 The grace at which she moves always intrigues me and at the end of each graceful and nearly fluid movement is pain for whoever happens to have the misfortune of pairing up with her.  I can tell you although she is tiny she is freakishly strong both mentally and physically.  The owner/famous dude/ Jiu-Jitsu god-man has taken particular interest in watching her as she moves from position to position escapes others and taps people out with relative ease.  She has held a high level belt for quite some time but the elusive Black Belt seems to be just out of her grasp.  The owner calls for a stop to the action about 50 minutes into the standard hour long session and the class circle around him to partake of his sage like wisdom.  He thanks everyone offers words of encouragement then he pulls out a black belt from inside of his Gi.  He calls QYW to the front and delicately removes her worn and battered Brown belt and ceremoniously ties the new Black Belt around her waist that has her name embroidered on it.  She is the first woman to be awarded the Black belt in this club and did so with much applause. 

 Quasi-Yuppie Wife, wife of one, mother of two….and a total bad ass!

…

You still cross my mind from time to time. And I mostly smile.
Still so set on finding out where we went wrong and why.
So I retrace our every step with an unsure pen,
Trying to figure out what my head thinks, but
My head just ain’t what it used to be.
And then again,
What’s the point anyway?

I remember you ascending all the stairs up to the
Balcony to see if you could see me—
Hidden quietly away. And
I remember the skin of your fingers,
The spot three quarters up I’d always touch when
I was out of things to say.
You held my hand, but you were too afraid to speak
You were too afraid to speak and I could never understand.
I remember when you leaned in quick to kiss me, and I swear, that
Not a single force on earth could stop the trembling of my hand.

And I remember how you smiled through the smoke
In a crowded little coffeehouse and laughed at all my jokes.
And I remember the way that you dressed and,
How we wasted all the best of us in alcohol and sweat and
I remember when I knew that you’d be leaving,
How I barely kept up breathing and I bet,
If I had to do it all again, I’d feel the same pain.

And I remember panicked circles in the terminal in tears.
How I wept to god in fits.
I’ve hated airports ever since.

It must be true what people say, that only time can heal the pain.
And every single day I feel it fade away, but—

I still remember how the distance tricked us, and
Lead us helpless by the wrist into a pit to be devoured.
I still remember how we held so strong to this,
Though we had never really settled on a way out.
I still remember the silence.
And how we’d always find a way to turn and run to our mistakes.
I still remember how it all came back together
Just to fall apart again.

My dear, I hear your voice in mine.

I’ve been alone here,
I’ve been afraid, my dear.
I’ve been at home here,
You’ve been away for years.
I’ve been alone.

I breathed your name into the air; I etched your name into me.
I felt my anger swelling; I swam into its sea.
I held your name inside my heart, but it got buried in my fear.
It tore the wiring of my brain; I did my best to keep it clear.
So, dear, no matter how we part, I hold you sweetly in my head.
And if I do not miss a part of you, a part of me is dead.
If I can’t love you as a lover, I will love you as a friend.
And I will lay a bed before you; keep you safe until the end.

Quasi-Yuppie Wife to English Glossary

I think I have eluded in the past to my wife’s accent.  If I have not let me fill you in, Quasi-Yuppie Wife talks with a thick Boston accent, more specifically South Boston. Although I lived a great deal of my life in Boston I am free from such an affliction.  Probably due to the fact I got moved around a lot as a kid and teen so no particular accent ever took hold.  On occasion QYW likes to get her party on and will, on those rare occasions, drink just a wee too much.  When this happens for some odd reason the accent actually gets thicker to the point I have to act as a “Southie” to English translator for all who want to talk to her.  One of these drunken QYW binges happened this past weekend where as usual I had to do the translations.  If you are ever face to face with the Quasi-Yuppie one and she has booze on her breath let me provide for you a brief tutorial for her gum flappin in case I am not around.  As a survival note for you,  never EVER under any circumstances denounce the likes of “Tha Sawks, Tha Brewins, or Tha Celts” you do and its your responsibility to defend yourself,  I cant be held responsible for what she will do to you.

 Ffffahk = Fuck

 Ahh fahgat mah cah kays on dah ash of mah cahh = I forgot my car keys on the dash of my car.

 Cahn ewe buhleve thaaat Bahney grahbed mahh ahhss on da wahhh ta tha pawduh room? = Can you believe that jerkoff grabbed my ass on the way to the bathroom?

Da Bohys puhled me ovah on Mahss Ave cahs I dint have mah blinkah ahhn! = The City Cops pulled me over because I didn’t use my turn signal.

Good Shit = Nice Person

 Bahstid = Bastard

 Lahst week we whent to ahh wicked rippah = Last week we went to a big party.

This Bahhh is wicked retahted = This bar is really lame.

 We live dawn dah blohk paaahst the tripah deckahs = we live down the street past the 3 story houses.

 Hahn = Hun or Honey

Meh ahn mah hon ahh gonna take ahh wahlk neah tha Chuck Rivah = Me and my husband are going to talk a walk on the Charles River.

Lohk at yuuu ahl decked fah tha night = You look nice.

Bublah = Normal people call them drinking fountains

Beah= Beer

Watah= Water

Hahd = Hard

Haw ahhh yahhh = How are you

Wihked Spooneh = something that is cool

 Had Likahh = Hard Liquor

Date Night With Dante

I have a lot of acquaintances in life, and very few actual friends.  There is a stark difference in my world between a friend and an acquaintance.  For friends I will drop anything and everything if they call for help or to simply hang out, friends don’t knock at my house they just walk right in.  To get to this point with me, the highly reclusive punk rocker, takes years upon years of  trust….and trust for me does not come easy.  I have one particular friend that we call “Mongo” its but one of the many odd nicknames you will hear called out when we form a crowd. 

 Mongo is a class act; hardworking, honest, quiet….the list goes on.  I was reminded of a story whilst chatting with someone of probably the most bizarre night out I have had, and to make the list of bizarreness in my life is quite a feat of pure awesomeness. 

 One day a few years ago Mongo was complaining that his shoes no longer fit, he thought his feet had grown.  After a trip to the store he discovered that indeed his feet did grow and additional 2 sizes, odd for someone who had just turned 30.  Mongo also noticed his hands seemed to grow as well, later confirmed when he could no longer get his leather work gloves to fit.  Weeks went by and they headaches started, followed by bloody noses, followed again by blurred vision and fatigue.  His appearance started to change as well, dark circles under his eyes and an almost ghost like complexion.  Confirmed by a melon scan he was diagnosed with a golf ball sized brain tumor.  This tumor had a 29 ½ syllable name which only those that had attended high dollar medical school classes could actually pronounce.  The tumor was in just a spot putting pressure on certain parts of the brain that makes shit grow, Mongo has yet to answer if his junk grew like his hands and feet did.  Mongo took to calling his tumor “Dante”, its easier to hate something when you attach human characteristics to it, it’s also easier to fear.  Time went on and Dante just had to go, so they took Mongo into surgery opened his skull from ear to ear and plucked Dante from his comfortable home.  Mongo had made a request to keep Dante which the hospital staff reluctantly agreed to. 

Dante’s new home was in a class jar floating around some yellowish liquid.  The recovery was long and included months of painful headaches and lots of bed rest.  All of us took turns spending the night as his house we would cross paths in the hallway to his room and give report on how Mongo had been doing.  This is where we started saying bad things to Dante who had taken residence on the mantle in Mongos living room.  You would open the door, say Hi to Dante, and flip him off tell him to go fuck himself along with a host of other nasty insults.  Eventually Mongo got back to his old self and recommended we take Dante out for a night on the town.  We all where down with this in a big way.  It offered us all an opportunity to celebrate Mongo and his recovery and if you are ever given the chance to celebrate something with us, you should jump at the chance. 

We did it up big, a limousine was rented and had nearly every Champaign Room in every strip club in the city booked.  Dante was dressed well for the evening; he had a bowtie wrapped around his glass jar.  We made our way from club to club drinking and acting like fools we, we even bought Dante a few lap dances.  Dante joined the ladies on stage a time or two and while it was never captured on film there was talk of Dante and his antics on the stripper pole.  While we laughed and carried on and essentially made a good time of Dante that evening it was most assuredly about Mongo and how happy we were we didn’t have to say goodbye to yet another friend.

Only some days

There are those days that I feel I have absolutely nothing to say.  I don’t speak I barely utter a audible sound.  On those particular days, like today, I merely allow music to wash over me scrubbing away at my soul.

Exibit A:

Everybody saying we gotta take a chance
And telling me what the hell went wrong
We only listen to the words that we sing
Now a million are singing along

(Last one)
We got it right, you got wrong,
Were still around (Last one to die)
Were going up, youre going down
Were still around (Last one to die)

The ones that counted us out
Regret that they packed the fight
We sit on top of the world
And were proving it every night

(Last one)
We got it right, you got wrong,
Were still around (Last one to die)
Were going up, youre going down
Were still around (Last one to die)

Thru the storm and the gigs
And the good and the bad
There aint no doubt
We knew from the very first show, what it was all about

(Last one)
We got it right, you got wrong,
Were still around (Last one to die)
Were going up, youre going down
Were still around (Last one to die)

(Last one to die)
(Last one to die)
(Come on)
(Come on)
(Come on)
(Last one to die)
(Come on)
(Come on)
(Come on)

Crazy Social Experiments

For a few days I have felt uncomfortably restricted, almost suffocated.  I have spent many months away from home and the grind of constant travel that eventually comes to a halt always screws with my brain.  My body says stop….my brain says we need to keep moving along at a running clip.  I wandered around the house yesterday looking for something to do when I just decided to take a walk…destination, no clue.  I wandered around for a while looking at the familiar spots and geographical markers of my neighborhood and city.  The tree that has an odd bend to it, the broken down fence at the end of the block, the alley that even during the daylight looks scary and dark.  I found myself headed to a local coffee shop and suddenly my throat told me that I need a green tea with honey.  So I obliged and opened the door of that familiar spot and stepped foot inside.

 

I didn’t plan on taking my earphones off; I enjoy them as a sort of a social prophylactic.   No one will be tempted to talk to you if they think you won’t hear them. I get my cup and sit so I can see out the front window.  I glace around the room every once in a while and wonder if anyone thinks they are on a game show or some sort of twisted social experiment.  Take someone who obviously does not belong and throw him in with a group of people from a different social standing.  I reflect back on the many weeks away and how I was completely and at all times surrounded by those people who I have so very much in common with.  I think how I can spot those who don’t belong in the crowd, how their seemingly “normal” clothing and hair makes them stand out.  It’s like my life exists in two drastically different worlds and I am stuck somewhere in the middle.  So I sit and I dabble in the normal world filled with talk of Hedge funds and little Timmy’s tuition when all I want to do is solely exist in the world of amplifiers and sweat soaked  bodies crushed into each other.

“Wheels”

It’s odd really, when you transition from “I have a friend” to “I had a friend” not the loss of a friend due to a falling out over which college has the better bocce ball team. I am talking of the “I had a friend” and that friend is now no longer on this plane of existence a.k.a. dead. I have had to make a transition recently upon the loss of a friend, check that, the loss of a GREAT friend. This dude was the raddest thing on 4 wheels, yeah I said 4 wheels. He was 29 and suffered from Duchene’s Muscular Dystrophy actually he was afflicted with it; he didn’t suffer anything in life. He had an infectious smile, and a razor sharp wit about him but most of all he possessed a spirit the likes of which I will never see again in my lifetime. The entire neighborhood knew him, the entire neighborhood loved him and I was happy to call him a friend.

I got the call at about 3 in the morning when I was in a city, in a country, in a time zone far away from my little neighborhood. The connection sucked ass and Quasi-Yuppie Wife was trying to tell me the news. I didn’t want to hear it, I was hoping the static in the line had distorted her voice to the point I heard something that simply was not true. It was all too true, it was real, I wanted to crawl under my bed and scream, I wanted cry, and I wanted to smash my forehead into someone’s face. I chose however to take a walk down those winding and vacant rainy streets.

I can remember the exact moment I met him, when I was struggling under the strain of heavy boxes as we moved into our new house. He rolled up and said a simple hello I reached out to shake his hand and he labored just to get his hand off of the arm rest of his wheelchair. He shook it as hard as he could…then we got into an argument. We argued over his t-shirt, he was wearing a shirt that had some cheesy 80’s hair band on it. I ripped on him for it. He ripped back, back and forth back and forth until Quasi-Yuppie Wife appeared on the front steps to quiet us down. I would sit on the steps in front of my house and he would park his chair on the sidewalk and we would talk and chat and basically act like idiots. He told me once he had lived 10 years past the average live expectancy of some one with this disease. I told him I am glad he did because if he died 10 years ago I would have never had the chance to meet him.

I am not too proud to admit that lost in those city streets I cried and I laughed. I laughed at all of his one liners and quick comebacks. I cried because I felt like I had betrayed him by not being there for him when he was close to the end. He slipped away peacefully, with his parents and sister holding his hands. Confined to that chair he lived more than most able bodied people could ever dream.

 

Farwell “Wheels” …..we hardly knew ya.

Danger!!! Danger!!! Alert!!!! Whoooop Whooooop Whooooop!!!!

The entire Eastern Seaboard is here and now put on notice and alert.  Uncle Gunny is going to step foot back on American soil on Friday….hide your virgins, batten down the hatches, convert all of your large bills to singles, and put an extra coat of wax on the stripper poles.  This could get ugly….in a good way.

The Trunk….OR…..Sleepless, Hungover, and Slightly Depressed.

It was like that string of lyrics you get stuck in your head from that song you hated when you were a teen.  I would walk across the dim and dusty attic and before me I would find the same trunk I always did.  Old and dusty, rusted latches, and squeaky hinges much too big for any one man to move or carry.  I would follow the same routine….flip the latches and lift the heavy lid.  I always found the same thing inside of that old truck or I should say I always found the same nothingness in that trunk.  Ashes and dust was all the trunk contained, it could have held pictures or old newspaper clippings but all that was left was ashes and dust.  I always held on to the hope that one night I would close my eyes and in my dream when I opened the trunk I would find some tangible items inside.  Pictures and gifts, family heirlooms and items I could pass on to my children, it never happened.  It took me months to figure out that that trunk was representative of my family and me, an empty trunk…barren and empty of no particular use to any one.

 

It contained no items that could be mistaken for a treasure or for something with an intrinsic value that would be fought about and debated when it came time to read ones last will and testament.  There where no family treasures, no scrapbooks bearing advice or family history no pictures of stark faced ancestors wearing clothes appropriate for the period.  It was not the tangible items I was looking for it was the untouchable and indescribable items I searched for the hardest.  It could have been an old baseball mitt and attached to it where the memories of a thousand thrown baseballs in the front yard.  It could have been the family portrait taken on the shore of a lake during a massive family gathering where I watched uncles look over the engine compartment of a new car.  I always hoped I would find pictures of my mom with a 70’s era hairstyle smartly dressed with an apron pulling tasty confections out of the oven.  It also could have been pictures of dad wearing a bad suit quickly walking up the drive after a long day in the office so that he could greet the family he so desperately missed since he saw them that morning.  Of course all of these scenes come with memories…..memories that in my life do not exist.

 

“Hun” she said in her near whisper of a voice, Pink Daughter wants to talk to you.  Given the time zone difference it was just after 11 at the Punk Rock Dad compound.  Just after 11 in the house I desperately miss, just after 11 for the three people I make memories with.  We chatted for a while about the vacation we are going to take in the summer until she finally admitted she was too sleepy to talk any longer said her “I love yous” and handed the phone back to my wife.  We are going to go to Northern Michigan this summer to add yet another picture and bucketful of memories we keep adding to the new trunk in that attic.  The trunk with the shiny new latches and is full of pictures and mementos of our lives.

The Man In The Box

For about the hour I have been staring at a blank Word document, the little cursor blinking at me…taunting me.  I can almost hear the cursor in the voice of a schoolyard bully “Nah nah nah nah nah nah you can’t write me” how I hate that little blinking bastard.  The truth is I am a complete blank, I admit it.  I have been a blank for about a week and a half now.  I get like this sometimes; it’s a combination of too many miles, too much coffee and too little sleep.  Faces all start to run together and then they start to look the same sitting atop different shaped bodies.  I can see the outlines of the faces but all the defining characteristics of them seem to be lost in the journey from my eyes that view them and my brain that processes them.  A few days ago I could have sworn I saw a dead friend of mine walking through a crowd.  I craned my neck, got up on my tip toes darted my head from side to side to get a better angle.  I started walking over to him and he turned and faced me, I couldn’t process whether it was him or not.  The silhouette of his body looked the same but the face was lost on me. 

 

Suddenly I realized that the way he died left absolutely no doubt that he was indeed dead and my fingertip hold on reality might have finally escaped my clutches.  It was a closed casket, his remains too unrecognizable, too gruesome to be looked upon by the masses that came to pay their final respects.  Suddenly…poof….he was just gone; somehow he had been transformed into a dark wooden coffin.  A man who only days before was made up of flesh and bones had magically and mysteriously morphed into wood and brass.  It was almost too much to try to take in, people milling about in the room looking at the wooden box trying to attach some human attributes to it.  There is no parallel that can be drawn from a man to a wooden box at least not that I have ever heard.  So we stumbled around that room much like I stumbled around the room these 12 years later when I thought I saw him.  Foggy, incoherent and hoping that somehow reality has not fully slipped away.

So Long…..

It wasn’t in the biggest city in the world but we each owned a piece of it. Each person that stepped into that place left blood, sweat and tears on its floor or on its stage.   It was in the basement of a “Taxpayer” each and every time I stood in that basement it was a throwback to the days of playing those seedy and dank clubs and bars.  It was loud, it smelled, and you could barely get 200 punks into it.  This venue instantly became one of my favorites.  From the general feel of it to the husband and wife owners the place always had a special place in my heart.  Tour schedules would hinge on the date this venue had available because more importantly than having national and well known acts grace the stage the local acts would always get the prime slots.  You knew walking in you were not going to be the headliner, you opened for a local act.  Some bands couldn’t acquiesce their position as a headliner to a small local act so they never returned to the club.  There were the bands that saw the future, and the future of our music was the small local bands and gladly and willingly gave up the headliner slots.  That is just a hint of what “Punk” surely is or should be….helping the movement and scene survive just a little longer in this culture of over synthesized and over dramatized teen sensations. 

 

This place had no backstage, no dressing room, no parking…. you checked egos and titles at the door and got down to the business of playing MUSIC.  There was no air conditioning and in the summer it’s all you could do to stay hydrated and conscious until the end of your set. In the summer months it felt like you were walking into a sauna as you descended the stairs from the street.   The ceiling was so low over the stage you only had to do it once but jumping around got you a painful reminder of why you shouldn’t jump.  There was no bar, no concession stand, and one toilet hidden being a flimsy door in the back of the room.  You didn’t come here to be seen you came here to see friends and hear hours of music packed between the bare brick walls like sardines.  After your set you would help the next band carry their equipment down the stairs and set up on the stage and they would help you carry your stuff up the stars and out of the way.  The winter was no better, there was just enough heat to keep the sprinkler pipes from freezing but the heat from the bodies mashed together heated the place up fast.  You could look next to the sound booth next to the bathroom and see a pile of hundreds of spiked leather jackets and hoodies.  There was no sign, no marquee a non-descript door with the address on it was all that let you know you were there. 

 

It was as stripped down and dirty as you could get.  From the first note of the night to the last the place was an explosion of bodies flying in all directions from side to side and from the stage to the back of the room the place was a giant pit.  There were no bystanders, only participants. A lot of today’s current popular acts owe much of their success to this small basement club.  It’s the place you borrowed a handful of guitar picks, or drum sticks, or money for food after the show.  You never had to book a hotel in that town you either crashed at the owner’s house or one of the local acts would get you a couch or a section of floor to sleep on.  This place was the place you looked forward to playing to hell with the large venues and festivals.  There was no single sub-set of punks that hung out there you had Oi guys and Oi girls, Skins, hardcore, Ska Kids and rude Boys every one mixed in no one gave a shit. 

 

I just got a call the other day that this club is no more or will be no more after next week.  One can’t help but think that perhaps what all of the Punk naysayers have said for years might be true…..  “Punk is Dead.” Well in my opinion punk is not dead but its aint quite as alive as it used to be.

Voices In My Head

I don’t exactly remember the week or the day or the minute or the second I did it, I just remember I did.  The voices in my head were bargaining with each other, like two guys sitting across the table, it was a real game of give and take. One of the voices was the new father version of me, the other the 12 year old boy version of me.  The 12 year old version of me had stitches above a swollen eye and his face was swollen and bruised.

 

 “I will never lay a hand on them” I said to the 12 year old. 

 

“Why wouldn’t you that’s the way we were raised?” the 12 year old replied. 

 

“Because it stops right here right now, the past is the past….. to hell with it!”  I angrily responded to the 12 year old.

 

 “But how will this child and any future children you may have learn respect, you honestly expect them to learn unless you teach them through punching and kicking?”  He is naïve, this 12 year old boy. 

 

The new father version of me wanted to grab him and hug him but realized he was too closed off, too bitter and too angry to allow such a thing.

 

 “Just because our dad did it and his father before him does not mean we have to follow the same path in life.” 

 

The 12 year old leaned into the table with a sneer and the new father grabbed his wrist first then his collar and drew him nose to nose.  “It has to stop with us; it has to stop because each generation is worse than the last! I need you and you need me, I need you to remind me what it was like to be 12 again.  I know you don’t trust me because I am an adult but I need you.”

 

“Fine, but I am going to always be there like it or not I am going to scream at you and I am going annoy you.  I am going to remind you everyday of each and every scar we have and why they are there.”

 

“Deal” the new father said to the boy.  The two got up from the table and shook hands.

The Creeepy Bastards That Haunt Late Night Television

I consider myself a bit of an expert on late night television….no not like Jay Leno late night television I am talking the shit that’s on 2am and beyond.  There are an alarming amount of television “evangelists” on that late which leads me to believe they are after me and people like me.  Quietly stalking the inebriated and sleep deprived like circling carrion of the airwaves and cable boxes.  Here they are kind readers the freakiest and scariest bastards of late night television:

 

 Jack Van Impe:  I have passed by Jack for decades on late night and the scary part this guy has not aged…..EVER!  He has a real Dick Clark thing going on, it’s either that or he and Rexella (his wife) are simply animatronic androids like at Chuck E. Cheese.  This cat has been preaching the end of the world for quite some time he reeks of failed doomsday prognosticator.

 

Joel Osteen:  This guy is like the Sam Walton of Christianity.  If there is ever a court case against organized religion Osteen would be “Exibit A” somehow he has made something that was only previously quasi corporate into full blown 7-11 style worship.  This coupled with the fact he has what I refer to as “The Jonestown Gaze” this dude scares me, well that and the fact he can fill an arena with fellow “Jonestown Gazers.”  I am waiting for the announcement that “Joel Town” is in operation and thay are buying stock in Kool-Aid.

 

Benny Hinn:  He does not scare me as much as he CRACKS ME THE FUCK UP!  I love it when this dude tears off the coat and starts slaying people with it.  There is a familiar gaze in the eyes of his constituents as well.  A year ago I called his 1-800 number because they were giving away little prayer vials full of Holy water…..still have not received it.  Benny if your reading this cough it up already you creepy bastard!

Here She Is Folks….Quasi-Yuppie Wife

“You want me to do what? Why?  I would really rather not!”  These were all the phrases that leapt forth from my mouth upon being asked to write for this crazy little site and for my mostly, if not completely, insane husband.  I asked for clarification, “Well what the F am I supposed to write?”  “Your choice” is all I got as far as direction, he is vague like that, he even threw down the dreaded “triple dog dare.”  I remember thinking “Shit, it’s either write something or suffer weeks of relentless teasing.” 

 

Not In A Million Years, if somehow when I was 15 years old and still full of girly ambitions you could have shown me in a crystal ball what my life would look like now “Not in a million years” would have been my retort.

 

I was just naive enough to still believe that one day Prince Charming would gallop up to my front door and whisk me away to a life of Champaign parties and ball gowns.  Little did I know he would show up not on a horse but on foot one day in the middle of the school year, seemingly a lifetime ago, in a creative writing class.  No books, no pencils, a black eye and cut up knuckles.  There was a certain edge to him, a look in his eye, and a way he didn’t look at you he looked through you.  There were whispers about where he came from and why he was in that small school.  There were rumors of assaults and fighting numerous suspensions and expulsions from other schools.  He was quiet and solitary but on occasion you could catch a glimpse of a gorgeous smile and those eyes….Jesus those eyes.  Yes, there was that night where we were transported not by carriage but by a disgusting van to the movies and still I was naïve.  I was naïve in my thinking that people would take just five seconds to talk to him, to look beyond the hair and the clothing. 

 

The whispers continued Priests were employed to talk to me; their assignment was to try to change my mind.  “You are getting caught up in someone who is a lost cause.” Our families scoffed and scorned, he is from the wrong side of the tracks and I am from a family of influence and pretentious riches.  Each of us judged unjustly on circumstance and stations in life that were well out of our control.  In peoples very shallow and calloused minds I was too good for him and he was too crazed and troubled for me.  I started to achieve an audacity that would allow me to tell people what I really thought of them and how they viewed us.  I can tell you from experience that Priests and Teachers do not take kindly to a 17 year old girl telling them to “go fuck yourself” in response to a proclamation like “you are making such a mistake.”  I felt that deep down our relationship and the future of it was worth ruffling a few feathers. 

 

So my time came to finally wear a gown and attend a party where Champaign would be served and there were many who did not attend still under the assumption that I, and we, were making a mistake.  Hushed whispers of a future splitting material goods and I was far too young to be a divorcee.  They said the path we had chosen would certainly end up in ruin, the glistening newness of our relationship would quickly fade and in its stead would be a mottled memory.  We sit and laugh at them these 14 years later, the ones who still think we are heading to certain ruin.  We have faced uncertainty together, faced the firing squads of life hand in hand, and at every turn we raise to them our middle fingers.  I will echo the sentiment that we do not have a Dr. Phil approved marriage we have the one that we built, from the ground up with sweat and tears.  Ask me if I would change any one thing in my life and I will tell you “Not in a million years!”

Mailbox Anarchy

I remember the call….from the Real Estate agent.  “I have found you the perfect house.”  Hours later we were standing in that “Perfect House” looking, walking, talking, plotting and scheming.   We could put this here and that there.  We had already moved in mentally,  judging from our plans on how we were going to layout the rooms.  Quasi-Yuppie wife was due in a month we had to expand our square footage.  The agent was running down the list of “Pros” the house had to offer, one of them oddly was we were in a “Postal Walking Route.”  To put it simply the mailman slung a large bag over his shoulder and walked the route like in Leave it to Beaver times.  I remember dismissing this as “stupid.”  I really could give a shit how the mail gets to my house, just as long as it gets there. 

We move in and true to her word the mailman would appear at our doorstep and put the mail in the little box next to the front door.  Years pass and we discover we like that the mailman walks up and down the street.  His name is James and he is all about the “Hi, Howyadoings” hes friendly and always takes the time to shout out greetings appropriate to the season.  Quasi-Yuppie wife is quick with the bottled water on the hot days and coffee on the cold ones.  We love James, James rocks! 

A few weeks ago we notice James is no longer walking the route.  We assume he took a vacation and even jokingly teased he is probably sipping umbrella drinks in a tropical setting.  The mailman walking the route in his stead is a Class “A” ASSWIPE.  He is rude and when you say hello to him he gives you a pissed off look.  So I meet him at the door the other day and ask where our beloved James is?  He responds that “He is off, he hurt his back really bad and most likely will never return to this route.”  He also throws in a quip about how “walking routs are bullshit and we need to put a box on the street so he can drive the route.”  I call him a “pussy.”

Last Friday we get a letter from the post office in our box and it says something like “Make sure your walkways are free from snow and ice…blah blah blah …if you don’t your mail will not be delivered….more blah blah blah”.   Now James never complained, James walked the route in blinding blizzards, hurricane force winds, and monsoon style downpours and still made quick with the waves and “Howyadoings.”

I take the letter and write this on it and tape it to the front of the box:

Dear Postal Dude,

Apparently the whole “Rain, snow, sleet, dark of night thing is total bullshit huh?  Personally I think you should quit being a pussy and deliver the fucking mail.”

I wait until he is standing on the step and I can see he is reading it and I can see by his expression he does not like it.  I knock on the window next to the front door.  He looks up and I flip him off…..he stomps off.

James if you are reading this and I highly doubt you are…please come back.

In Case of Sudden Ninja Attack….

Years ago when Race-Car son was in speech therapy we were told he had an engineers mind.  The kind of mind that analyzes everything compartmentalizes items and sorts them out into some kind of order. 

 

Last night at dinner he said we need a plan….a plan in case we are ever attacked by Ninjas.  I have a sword that is neatly tucked away in the back of my closet and yes it is what you could call a Ninja sword, I won in at a charity event.  I have little or no use for a sword personally but Race-Car….that’s a different story.  Because really how cool is a sword when your five years old?  Anywho, he decided that if we are ever suddenly attacked by a band of Ninjas it would be my responsibility to grab the sword and dispatch the ninjas as they funnel down our hallway.  I asked Race-Car what we are going to do with the bodies when we are finished.  His answer was to “make Piñatas out of their bodies.”

 

It may not be the best plan ever but at least we have a plan should we ever need it.

An Awesome Waste of Time!

I have recently discovered an awesome new time waster….YOUTUBE.  I mean where else can you find endless videos of backyard fighting or that rad clip from a Black Flag concert from 84?  Anywho, Quasi-Yuppie wife found me a series of letters like the one below…and they have nearly caused me to wet my pants.

 

A Hungover Award

So JESS hands me out an award, nearly daring me to say the word Fabulous on this site…there I said it.  She also bestowed uponst me some kind of rules.  Has she no idea how I feel about rules?  Anywho, I thought the award needed a little something so I changed it from this:

  

to this:

 

So for those of you I pass it on to you get the choice of what award style you want to take to your site with you.

THE RULES (gag)

1. You have to pass it on to 5 other fabulous blogs in a post.

2. You have to list 5 of your fabulous addictions in the post.

3. You must copy and paste the rules and the instructions below in the post.

Instructions: On your post of receiving this award, make sure you include the person that gave you the award and link it back to them. When you post your five winners, make sure you link them as well. To add the award to your post, simply right-click, save image, then “add image” it in your post as a picture so your winners can save it as well. To add it to your sidebar, add the “picture” gidget. Also, don’t forget to let your winners know they won an award from you by emailing them or leaving a comment on their blog.

Here Be Mine:

Sex:  Yeah I am 100% a sex addict cant help it…have you seen my wife?  Sweet mary mother of god!

Music:  Can I get a show of hands, how many people do you know that can fill a 120g Ipod and still struggle with the fact there is a lot more music they want on it.  Well now you do, hello I am Punk Rock Dad.  We are not even going to talk about Vinyl, and cassettes.

Coffee:  yeah I drink it, not by the cup but by the pot wanna fight about it?

Instruments:  Guitars, Drums, Amps, I have too fucking many and no I am not getting rid of any of them.

Email:  I am not so much addicted to it as I am a slave to it, I check it all the time because if I dont the inbox quickly grows out of control.

 

Now for my five: 

Dagoddess: if she is feeling up to it that is?

Ms. Partly Cloudy: Becasue she fucking hates the mall.

Muskrat: Cause I am convinced one day I will have to use his lawering skilz. 

Jessie: Cause we need to be on Rittalin.

C2+3: Cause I really am curious what her addictions may be.  And no you cant say cleaning!

 

The Neighbor

When it comes to art of being neighborly I pretty much get a big fat F.  We had a couple of run-ins with neighbors when we first moved into our house and since that day my interactions with them have been simple “Hey how ya doins” shouted across driveways and backyard fences or requests by my wife to have one sign her boob.  I think to be honest we confuse them or even scare them a little.  The parade of characters seen entering and exiting our house would confuse anyone.

 

I was sitting at home yesterday morning running through some chords on the guitar and I heard a knock on the front door.  I open it and find my Bagpiping neighbor standing there. 

 

Bagpiping Neighbor:  “You wouldnt happen to have a metronome would ya?”

Punk Rock Dad:  “Yeah I have a couple, need one?”

BN: “Yeah I have a student coming over in a few hours and I left mine in my bag in my wife’s car”

PRD:  “Well come on in I’ll get you setup”

BN:  (wrinkles eyebrows)

PRD:  “Jesus just come in we don’t bite!”

 

I lead him into the family room which has been converted into the music room, racks of guitars, stacks of amps, a full drum kit and show posters plastered over every possible inch of wall space.  I start to open up the small cabinet with Pink Daughters musical stuff in it.

 

BN: “Wow quite the room you got going here!”

PRD:  “Yeah it’s a work in progress”

BN:  “I have one that’s similar”

PRD: “Huh?  You have a room filled with guitars and drums?”

BN: “Well no, not exactly it’s filled with my music stuff.”

PRD:  “Oh, like bagpiping stuff?”

BN: “Yup”

PRD: “Sweet!”

BN:  “How long have you been playing?”

PRD:  “Jesus, since I was just barely a teen. And you?”

BN: “Since I was seven.”

PRD: “Whaaat, you been playing the bagpipes since you were seven?”

BN: “Yup”

PRD: “WOW! Well I guess its not that odd Pink Daughter has been playing the violin since she was seven.”

BN: “Is that hers?” (As he points to the stand with a violin)

PRD: “No, That one is my wife’s.”

BN: “Quite the musical family you got going on over here, I never knew. You wanna come over and see my music room?”

PRD:  “I would love to!”

 

We head over to his house and we walk into a virtual shrine to all things bagpiping.  There are pictures everywhere, of him playing and competing.  Pictures of him in bands, pictures of him playing solo, pictures of him and his wife playing on cliffs in what looks to be foreign lands.  There are shelves lined with mementos and trophies, faded black and white photos of other people playing.  There are flags from Scotland and Ireland hanging from the wall and an impressive collection of bagpipes stored neatly in their cases. 

 

I start to look at the framed pics on the wall and I see a lot of a younger version of him standing next to the same guy. 

 

PRD: “Is this your dad?”

BN:  “No, it’s my Grandfather.”

PRD: “Cool, is he still alive?”

BN: “No he passed away about 6 years ago.”

PRD:  “Yeah mine to.”

BN: “Did you know that bagpipe music was the original form of Punk?”

PRD:  “Huh?”

BN:  “Seriously, the instruments, the music, the playing was outlawed at one time.  It’s the original form of rebel music.”

PRD: “Well I knew that but I never thought of it that way.”

BN: “Totally true. You want some coffee?”

PRD: “Yeah sure, why not”

 

 

We spent the next half hour talking about music and traveling and generally finding out we have much more in common than I would have ever thought. We have this great bond of music and the pursuit and passion of it.   He admitted to me that my family, my house and our friends quite frankly scare the hell out of his wife.  I invited them over today for coffee and chit chat, and when the invitation was offered he simply said “I would like that very much, we will be there.”  I am quite ashamed of myself that a mere 20 feet away from the south wall of my house was a couple that speaks the same language as we do, we may speak different dialects but the common language of music accepts all.

Relationships and Strip Bars

My wife and I are good friends with another couple, and as much as I don’t like being friends with other couples somehow they snuck in.  Now we are facing the dreaded split not my wife and I but this other couple.  It’s over and not in a good way so now we are forced to make decisions because as much as you want there to be, as much as you think there should be, and as much as you hope there is….neutrality does not exist in situations like this.  Enough of that shit though on to the real point of the story.

 

Some friends and I kidnapped this poor sniveling soul and did the only thing we know to do given the circumstances….we went to a strip bar.  I think it’s in the official volume of “Man Law” that when one of your fellow men finds himself among the wreckage of a relationship you extricate him from the carnage get him blind drunk and purchase as many lap dances as budgets and bank accounts permit.  So we did and had a great time of it because whether or not the dudes you know will admit it…its fun for all involved parties. 

 

Now I am not going to regale you with all of the juicy details of the evening but I will tell you perhaps a law or two could have been broken and certainly some of those annoyingly intrusive 150 year old “Common Laws” were shattered. 

A Rare Peek…

I will now offer a limited peek into the bedroom of Punk Rock Dad. 

 

Bedroom at 2:47am.

 

I have been awake since about 1:00am after going to bed at about 12:15am.  My mind is racing from one insignificant topic to the next and somehow I become fixated on Interstate 75 or I-75 as it is called.  I am propped up against the headboard almost sitting and I take a break from my racing thoughts to listen to Quasi-Yuppie wife’s rhythmic breathing. 

 

I give her a nudge “Babe, you awake?”

 

No response

I nudge a little more aggressively “Babe, you awake?”

 

QYW “What!”  (very irritated I may add)

PRD “You awake?”

QYW “That was a stupid question”

PRD “Well are you or aren’t you?

QYW “I am now goddamnit!”

PRD “Cool, I was just thinking”

QYW (Lets out a very irritated deep breath) “About What?”

PRD “Remember that time we were in Georgia and we stayed at that really shitty motel?”

QYW “Which time?”

PRD “Which time?”

QYW “Yeah which time we have done that a few times”

PRD “We have?”

QYW “Jesus Christ would you get to the point!”

PRD “Anyway, remember the one that had that coin operated vibrating bed?”

QYW “Jesus”

PRD “Well do you or don’t you?”

QYW “Of course I remember the place smelled like piss”

PRD “I don’t remember it smelling like piss”

QYW “For the love of god will you get to the point!”

PRD “Right….My point is do you think the world would be a better or worse place if everyone had a coin operated vibrating bed?”

QYW “Are you shitting me, you woke me up for this?”

PRD “Yeah”

QYW “You need serious help, I am going to sleep”

PRD “Ok we will talk more about this in the morning”

“FUCK CANCER!”

I’m pretty sure if cancer was a person me and my boys would make sure the body was never found.  We would take cancer out for some drinks, get him nice and drunk then drive him out to the woods and put two in the back of his skull. This only after we throw a real nice beating to him.   However he is kind of a pussy in the fact he sneaks up on people and does what he does, and I for one am weary of his antics.

 

It seems that in the last month there has been a virtual assault on our family and when I say family I am talking about the friends that I consider family.  We are surrounded, we are cut off we are getting attacked from so many directions that’s its madness.  The wife and I were running down the list last night of those we know that have had cancer or currently battling the dreaded and feared “Big C.” The list is too fucking long; the list of those whom cancer has taken from us is even longer.   Right now we have 3 friends in some form of treatment whether it is chemo or radiation they are all struggling.  What makes it more of a kick in the balls is that two of the people dealing with this right now are under the age of 30.  “Did I read that right…under the age of 30?”  Yeah you read it right, the other is my own dear friend “The Rev.” 

 

So now we are running the battle flags up the standards again, flags that are torn and tattered from years of war in which we have won a few but we have also lost.  We have to once again take our positions on the embattlements, we are digging in our heels and our familiar battle cries of “FUCK CANCER” will ring loudly through hospital halls.

Gramps The Boxer

Gramps always looked like a giant to me, a very tall and quiet giant.  For televised fights he would sit in the same chair every night; as kids we would all crowd into every available piece of floor space.  His news papers and glasses sat neatly on the table beside him, the picture of St. Mary on the wall above his head.  Same tan pants as always, he must have had fifty pairs of them, same style of button up shirt.  He would sit on the edge of his chair from the introductions until the final bell rang.  “That’s how you jab, look how he faked right and jabbed left, look at the way he rolls his shoulder just before he crosses right, he’s cut bad but he can pull it off, look at him cut off the ring!” It was the only time he would ever seem excited about anything, normally he was reserved. 

Between fights he would tell us about the war, and living in Alaska, or the fights he fought. The years had not been kind to him, the wrinkled face, coarse hands and crooked nose.  We would get to look at the old brown leather boxing gloves that hung in his room next to the statue of Christ with outstretched arms, but we weren’t allowed to touch them.  He walked with a familiar slouch that said he had worked in a factory too long, had fought in the Army too long, and fought in rings too long.  His eyes would transfix on the television for each match, he would get an odd smirk on his face whenever the ref would start a 10 count.  You could see he would kill to have just one more chance in a ring.  To lace up his gloves, lace up his shoes, wipe the blood away from his nose and drive his opponent into the corner.  His chances had all passed, and to each of us he would offer advice on how to plant your feet to throw a straight right or how to lean just so to make your hips carry the bulk of your power.  This was his gift, his legacy, the one way he could be around a ring again to feel the excitement of lacing up the gloves.

Gramps, The Great Escape Artist

Remember the days when seatbelts and child seats were a mere suggestion?  When you could lie on the ledge of a car underneath the back window and stare at the sky above.  I saw a lot of famous buildings, bridges and city skylines from that vantage point.  Gramps had a slightly bizarre obsession with disco at the time and at that particular time it was well beyond the freshness date of the disco era.  He loved it all the same though and it used to crack us up.  He knew all the songs and that giant lumbering Linkin would pump out the tunes as loud as it could.  Perched up on that ledge I would always recognize the buildings in Brooklyn and how close we were to his house just by looking at the tops of the buildings and how they seemed to sway against the backdrop of the clouds.  My heart would start to skip because I knew there it was safe.  I knew it meant cousins and stickball and running up and down the street until he would appear on the stairs and wave us in for the night.  Instead of slowly wandering back to the house we would sprint because in his house no one was going to lay a finger on us.

 

For my brother and me it was an escape from the reality of our lives.  It happened all the time, he would take us to the hospital or the doctor for mending and then he would plot the escape.  Sometimes it was for days and the really good ones were the escapes that lasted weeks or even months.  We had our own beds at his house and in those beds there was comfort in the fact we were safe.  We were allowed to be loud in his house which was a good release given the fact at our house silence was the key; you never wanted to draw attention to yourself.  At his house we could yell and scream have wrestling matches and just act like goofy kids.  We would sit on his lap and watch the news and the boxing matches, one of us on each side.   Each of us with one of those arms securely wrapped around us. 

 

Invariably the “Staties” or the city cops would order our return to which he would argue, plead our case and postpone it as long as he could.  My greatest regret in life is that he passed before either of my kids had the opportunity to really know him.  In contrast one of my greatest victories in life is the pictures of each of my kids in those very same arms and the pride I saw in his eyes when he was holding them.

Counting Sheep

Sleep is truly a wondrous thing.  So I sent an email the other day, the day after the “Demons and Angels” post…it said something to the effect of “I cant remember the last time I slept as good as I did last night….Blogging as an alternate form of Therapy, it needs further study.”  This was the day after I sent the same person an email telling them that I felt sick to my stomach for putting that post up.

 

It seems the initial discomfort of posting it was washed away by the fact I logged a solid 9 hours of uninterrupted sleep.  Not just one night of sound sleep but two nights in a row folks.  I still feel like I sliced open my chest and posted it but another night of solid sleep will probably make that go away as well.

Demons and Angels.

It was pitch black and I sat on the edge of the bed, feet planted on the side rail.  I have a fear when I wake up in the middle of the night, when I am still somewhere between a dream and awake.  My fear is there is no floor that the darkness of the floor is a giant vast abyss ready to swallow me up for all of eternity.  So I sit and I shake and I try to chase the demons from behind my eyelids, I try not to blink for when I do there they are waiting for me inside my own head. 

 

I could see the chair leg and it was hard to focus there was something in my eye it was a dark fluid and it burned.  I realized I was on the floor looking under the table.  My right arm was under me as I struggled to roll over it wouldn’t work, and that’s when the pain shot up through my shoulder. I pulled my self to my knees and my arm still wouldn’t work, it just hung there and it felt very heavy.  I crawled out the door onto the back porch when I noticed blood was pouring off of my head it reminded me of a slow running faucet.  I sat back on my legs and stared at the pool forming between my knees.  It had an odd glow; it was catching the reflection of the light just right. I felt sick to my stomach that the puddle kept growing.  I heard crunching footsteps in the leaves and I could hear gasping and cursing.  Two monstrous arms swallowed me up and lifted me “Jesus Christ I got you boyo!”  He had me tucked into his chest and he was running through the yards.  He laid me across the back seat and he clamored to get into the front.  He reached back and held his hand on my head. I was staring at the back of the seat and I can remember thinking “What an odd place for an ashtray?”

 

The room was a flurry of activity and I just stared at the lights.  I had a metallic taste in my mouth and my head was spinning.  I glanced over and saw him standing in the corner shirt and hands covered in blood.  He looked mad and when he saw me looking at him he smirked and gave me a wink.  One of the nurses asked him “Are you the father” he looked at her with contempt and hissed “No, I am his grandfather!”  They were wrapping my arm in a cast from my wrist to my shoulder and trying to makes jokes about how I could have all of my friends sign it.  “It’s called a spiral fracture” he explained.  I now know about the only way to get one is when someone grabs your arm and uses your body like a bullwhip.  I got off light, one cast and about 20 stitches….I was eight…..Demons and Angels.

 

Its here I wake up most of the time, and I find my body shaking out of control.  Its right before the fist lands or right before the boot makes contact with my face.  It’s that millisecond before the laceration or the broken bone.  The sickening crunch of a broken tooth or the last second of consciousness with a hand wrapped around my throat.  Knees brought up to my chest shaking and quivering arms wrapped around them.  A grown man afraid to reach his foot out to the floor.  Then it happens….the hand that reaches out from absolute darkness and lands on my back.  She pulls herself up behind me and she presses her body against mine.  Her arms wrapped around me I can feel her breathing on my neck….Demons and Angels.

 

Demons and Angels, we talked about it over lunch.  She has a way of putting things into context for me.  When I am foggy and incapable of framing words properly…she cuts me off in the middle of the story…”demons and angles” she almost whispers it.  She knew exactly what I was talking about … I just couldn’t get the words out.  “I fucking hate October and now it’s bleeding over into November.”

Excercise Your Right To Vote?

“Exercise Your Right to Vote” I saw this on a sign the other day and it made me laugh.  I figured if my “Right to Vote” was like me it would rather be in a bar at 11am drinking the day away….instead of you know, exercising. 

 

Mostly I am happy as hell that tomorrow is almost here, and then the world can be rid of those annoying signs all over the place. 

 

So tomorrow me and my right to vote will be standing in line which will be the closest we will be getting to exercising.  I actually prefer to stand in the line gives me an opportunity to let the senior citizen crowd that they indeed do not rule the voting universe and that people that not only look like me but believe the same things as me also are able to cast a vote as well.  Want to have some fun?  Dress up all “Punk” and go stand in line.  It drives the AARP crowd insane or try these fun Poll Activities.

 

-Listen to your Ipod and rock out hard with an air guitar

- Stand in line backwards

-Bring and read a book about one of the following topics Mass Murders, The Occult, Communism, Fascism, or “Politics for Dummies”

-High five people who just got finished voting

-Go with a group of friends and insist they call you by the name and office of one of the local candidates.

 

 

Happy Voting