history lesson

One of my favorite lines in a song comes from the Minutemen, a band you've probably never heard of. It goes something like this,
Punk Rock changed our lives
We'd drive down from Pedro
We were f-ing corndogs
We'd drink a pogo,
The Minutemen called themselves that due to the brevity of most of their songs . . . one minute was about average. They were founded and emerged out of the Los Angeles punk scene in the early eighties, alongside other bands such as Black Flag, Agent Orange, the Circle Jerks and Social Distortion. Their minimalistic style was stripped down to the bare essentials--a guitarist, a bass player and drums. The singer and guitarist, D. Boon, also handled their vocals as well, a big booming voice that leapt out of his oversized frame, while the bassist, Mike Watt
pogoed and jumped all over the stage in an epileptic frenzy of activity.
I'm sure you've heard at least one song by them, even if you don't realize it--
Jackass, the show and the movies, used their song "Corona" as their theme song. I was never a fan of Jackass, but that song has always been one of my favorites. Simple, direct, full of feeling, quintessential Minutemen in a quieter more introspective moment. On other songs, the band showed their jazz roots quite often, crazy improvisational jams book-ending jarring speed changes. Just a short
breather before they ripped into another full frontal assault. D. Boon's guitar had some distortion, but it was never the defining part of their sound. The assault was moreabout energy and lyrical ambition then it was about pure unadulterated noise.
I like to think that Punk Rock saved my life, but that might be overstating matters. Punk Rock did something for me that no other movement or philosophy has done before or since. It helped to open my eyes and open my mind, even if it was just for a short period of time. I slam danced (before they called it moshing) and drank, drove down to Detroit from Sterling Heights, and was I ever a corndog. But those were some of the best times of my life.
I think MTV and Rolling Stone Magazine were somewhat to blame--they had started the whole ball
rolling for me back in the eighth grade when I thirteen-years-old, late 1982 and early 1983. It started out pretty innocently with bands like U2 and INXS, with their fashion statements and swirling guitars, a far cry from the heavy metal bands that I was into like Black Sabbath, Judas Priest, Rush and Led
Zeppelin. It got worse and worse the next few years and I searched out bands and music and literature wherever I could.
Public television showed "Urgh! A Music War" which had a huge cross-section of early-eighties New Wave and Hardcore Punk bands and public radio out of Montreal, by the way of Windsor, Ontario showcased different bands and genres five nights a week. A song would catch my attention here or there, or a sound or a riff or a lyric stayed with me for days and weeks. I started asking around and kids would tell me to check with this dude or check with that dude, I heard that he's into Punk Rock.
I hit paydirt one day at lunch, while in the tenth grade, standing in the Oaza Polish Bakery and Deli on East Nine Mile Road when I met a tenth grader named Mike Webb. A football teammate with spiky hair and punkish wardrobe reffered me to him during a converstation about music in the locker room after practice one day. Mike Webb spent his summers in Los Angeles with his dad, and he had picked
up quite a few Punk fanzines and records and tapes while staying there. He also had this humungous skateboard which was popular with the kids out in Southern Cal, but had yet to make it this far east. KROQ in L.A. issued numerous fanzines in the early eighties and I borrowed as many as I could from Mike. The fanzines had a a do-it-yourself feel to them--pictures of the band and maybe a brief biography
with a graphic or song lyrics. The style was cut-and-paste, ala ransom note or underground dispatch from some subversive element of society. I borrowed whatever mixed tapes Mike had and I started buying Thrasher Skateboard Magazine as well, because of the music and fashion tie-ins. Mike had moved on from Punk Rock and was really into some band called Metallica by then, but they were a little too thrashy
for me.
The anger and the nihilism, but most of all the humor and intelligence that I discovered in Punk Rock drew me more into the scene. I had started listening to Minor Threat, the Misfits, the Butthole Surfers, Government Issue, Husker Du and MDC. New Wave was stuff that girls, i.e. potential girlfriends, listened to but I was all about the Hardcore Punk. I turned sixteen that next year and life changed
dramatically when I started working and driving.
My parents hard started spending weekends and vacations on the shores of Lake Huron, almost to the tip of Michigan's thumb. I went along with them because I didn't really have a choice, but suddenly I had a reason to stay home. I had to work, first at McDonald's, then later at thrift store that my cousin's best friend
managed. I started going to Punk shows that summer in Detroit--talking classmates, co-workers and anyone
else to go with me.
The very first show I went to was San Fransisco's MDC with a host of opening bands like Detroit's own Angry Red Planet and So-Cal's D.I. Five bands for seven dollars or something like that. In the formerly famous Greystone Theatre on the far west side of Detroit where Punks and New Wavers were milling about, squattting in spots and chatting as the wall of noise hit us. The smell of marijuana and clove cigarettes spiraling above us as we stood there with cans of Red White & Blue beer. They patted us down at the door and we stepped into near darkness and the drum beats so heavy you can feel it in your chest.
Standing at the edge of the slam pit as a new band starts and the crowd swells and starts spinning in a clockwise circle, bodies flying every which way and you have to shove them back into the pit just to save yourself. At some point time seemed to freeze and I caught my breathe before plunging into the fray, sweat soaked bodies spinning and swaying to the sound. The crowd spins by as I hit my stride, trying to ape the logo from the Circle Jerks, fists and elbows and knees pumping, every inch of my body thumping with the drums, the bass. Speed changes stop and start the flow, as we scan the scene for a split second, before the guitar crunch revs and whips us back into a whirlpool of bodies.
At some other point, I decide to jump on stage, the bouncers lumbering toward me in their heavy combat boots. I do a little dance under the hot lights and feel a thick meaty hand on my scrawny neck and they shove me back into the crowd. Hands fly up from the first few rows, catching me and guiding me slowly to the floor, this body this form just an illusion.
My shirt is soaked with sweat and I cut a slow path through the crowd, making my way back outside. I stand up against the building and let the cool night air dry me off, watching kids skateboard on Michigan Avenue. Thick fat wheels rolling on the concrete until they slam their tails and ollie up onto the sidewalk, seven-plys barking and fish shaped boards cut through the air. The bikers from the bar next door come out to check out us freaks, shaved heads and mohawks and everything in between.
For that one moment everything feels fine, feels like everything is as it should be. No hopes no fears, just being in the moment. I look onto the world with brand new eyes and nothing seems out of reach. I chat with some dudes and realize
they're the opening band, talk about music and God knows what, feel like I belong somewhere for the very first time.

already too late

Feels like it’s already too late,
Missed all my chances,
Ran from my own fate,
Couldn’t wouldn’t cope,
Wished I was wished I had,
Now I stand upon regret,
Clinging to the only thing I know,
Self doubt and all that other crap,
Not wanting to voice my views,
Kept it all inside kept it all tucked away,
Too afraid to even try,
But it’s always screaming to get out,
Need to find a way need to find my voice,
Before it’s really too late,
Before I’m six feet under,
Or ashes scattered to the wind,
Never to be heard from again,
Wasted my entire life,
Wanting to be something,
But never daring to even try,
I keep shaving of all my hair,
So I don’t have to see the gray,
Trying to stave off tomorrow,
Always living in the what-ifs,
Wondering if I had what it takes,
What if I just started living,
Stopped waiting for something,
Stopped looking for someone,
And found my own way,
Stop hoping and praying,
To gods and ghosts I don’t trust,
Yell it out shout it out,
From the depths of my lungs,
Just to hear my self for once,
Just to feel alive while I still can,
Stop wishing for a different life,
Stop wasting away my short days,
Find out who and what and why,
While blood still flows through these veins,
Before I’ve grown angry and bitter,
At imagined foes and imagined affronts,
Before I start believing my own stories,
Of how I shoulda been coulda been,
When there is no one left to listen,
When everyone else has moved on,
Before I realize it’s never too late.

waking up in the middle of the night

Waking up in the middle of the night,
Head covered in sweat,
Sinus migraine roaring to the fore,
Stumbling out to the bathroom,
The smell of mold and neglect,
The sharp shock of the fluorescent light,
Boards creaking under my feet,
As the house and city sleep,
Bodies shifting under blankets,
Fidgeting and kicking in the night air,
Fighting off the weight of the day,
E quietly giggling at some imagined joke,
Some crazy shenanigans on the t.v.,
Deep asleep but kicking his blankets free,
Sweat box child emanating heat,
Running and kicking deep into the night,
Until the day light starts to trickle in,
Until the cardinals outside wake him,
When he whispers for them to shut up,
Then he gets up and goes to the bathroom,
Wanders off to see what’s on Nickelodeon,
I lie on my bed trying to hide from the light,
Shielding my eyes with a musty pillow,
Remembering the million things I need to do,
The things that take up all my time,
That wakes me up in the middle of the night,
That I run from every waking moment,
Only to be caught with my guard down,
Rotting me from the inside out,
Stealing precious moments,
Wondering when it will end,
Wishing for a way out,
Nightmares and day terrors,
Vicious circle spinning around.

7.14

I just got up from the table and walked out,
Didn’t say a word to anyone,
Didn’t even turn to look when my son yelled for me,
Just kept walking away from the Tim Horton’s,
Hungry and thirsty from the early morning swim,
Sick and tired of everything,
Sick and tired of the whining and bitching,
Disappearing into the apartment complex,
Then skirting the drainage ditch just beyond,
Walking through the tall weeds toward the soccer fields,
I hit the bike trail in full stride never once looking back.

Hatless and wearing a black shirt in 90 degree weather,
I was soon covered in sweat as I pounded down the asphalt,
Bikers and joggers eyeing me warily as they passed,
Apartments and offices soon gave way to open fields,
A small stream hid off to my right,
Down a steep heavily wooded bank,
I could hear bullfrogs proclaiming their supremacy,
I was running away again just like a child,
Maybe I should just keep running this time,
Just disappear into the haze and never return,
Just keep walking from town to town.

I never even wanted to go to MP,
Too much drama too much angst,
Just heard about a murder/suicide,
The murder was a case of mistaken identity,
The funeral for the rape/murder victim is tomorrow,
And I heard the neighbors found her in the yard,
Thinking it was a mannequin,
Rigor mortis distorting her form,
Her 79-year-old grandfather sent into shock,
Shockwaves rippling through the community,
And Little Man still AWOL since last week.

Life begins with so much promise for all of us,
Then fades away to emptiness right before our eyes,
All the things we thought we believed in,
Turns out to be nothing but half-truths and lies,
Myingan tells me Ivy, the victim, was just over at the house,
Early last week visiting his woman and their baby,
And now she is just a memory and nothing more,
Lying in her coffin like a mannequin once again,
Fresh out of chances and whatever else,
Just a crazy story for people to tell their kids,
About the haunted house over on Ojibway Dr.

Just give me the word and we’ll run away,
We’ll just hit the road and see where the wind takes us,
But I’ve got some baggage I need to bring along,
Just a couple of things to drag me down,
A little self-hate and self-doubt to keep me company,
A little something to help me kill the time,
As time kills me ever so slowly every moment,
Waiting for the final one when I breathe no more,
Cold lifeless body rotting away waiting to burn,
All the broken hearts I’ll leave behind,
All the promises I never intended to keep.

I will let you down just like everyone else,
I will hurt you given the chance,
There is nothing left inside this empty shell,
The breath of life wasted on me,
I would call but I don’t want to hear your voice,
It gives me hope when I know hope isn’t enough,
Makes me want when I know that it won’t help,
All the damage that I’ve done to myself,
Can’t be undone no matter what,
Just wasting away the days until I die,
All hope is gone, all hope is dead.

I’m all thought out with nothing left to say,
Spent five miles stewing about everything,
An hour plus along bikes trails and sidewalks,
Feet killing me in my 10-year-old Nikes,
Sun burnt head starting to burn,
I stumble into Aladdin’s to eat falafel,
The A/C hits me just through the door,
And I order more food than I’ll ever eat,
Double-fisting ice water and Mt. Dew,
Staring out the window at the parking lot,
Mind blank and quiet for the moment.

What is love what is life,
Just a mystery to me,
A part of the Great Mystery, Gitchii Manidoo,
Manitou: spirit/mystery, somehow becomes God,
What is it that we pray to then,
But the great unknown and unnamed,
Christians insisted upon a patriarchy,
Hierarchical authority amidst the void,
To control and cajole what we can’t grasp,
But it is sexless formless egoless void,
It is and it isn’t at the same time.

But why is my life as it is,
What choices have I made or refused to make,
How did I get to where I am,
Why do I choose to torture myself,
All good questions with few answers,
None of them easy or plain,
So I pound myself into the ground,
Annihilate my senses with drink and sweat,
And hope for a happy outcome somehow,
Despite the fact that I deserve nothing of the kind,
Spinning my wheels and wasting my time.

My mind gets unhinged in the night,
Phantom fears and worries pile up,
Otherwise I feel dead all of the time,
Another’s death brings me back to reality,
Reminds me of how close we all are,
To our final moments and final chances,
But none of this brings me any closer to you,
And none of that matters to anyone else,
But you’ve got your own issues as well,
None of which I can help you with,
So powerless I will remain.

Nothing else left to say,
Stuck in a holding pattern for some time,
The wanting and needing never goes away,
Know that you are buried deep inside me,
Just need to let the words flow,
Write down the bones and see what happens,
Need to learn to just let go,
But need to steer my life in some kind of way,
Stop hoping for things to turn out right,
Stop trying to waste away my days,
Before I convince myself that it is too late.

in the field

My grandmother’s house in Ban Nong Sai sat on stilts like all the other houses in that part of Thailand. They had been built like that due to the massive flooding that occurred during the monsoon season. You had to climb a ladder to get to an open deck area and there was just one large room where everyone slept and a covered area where they did all the cooking.
Grandma had these huge clay vats sitting outside the kitchen area which collected rain water for cooking and drinking, which was supplemented by daily trips down to the canal. I remember men in a huge diesel truck delivering two of these vats to grandma’s house when I was young. The guys and the truck must have been from the neighboring town of Udon Thani, as no one in our village even owned a car.
Converted Toyota trucks would pick passengers up several times a day to take them to Udon so they could go shopping or to movies or whatever. The truck beds were equipped with wooden seats on either side and a canopy overhead. A short ride on the “dollar bus” would take us from the Bronze Age into the twentieth century just like that. Udon Thani had such luxuries as electricity and running water which the villagers of Ban Nong Sai did not enjoy.
The cooking area was where the women would stay while they were in labor and they usually gave birth there as well. One of the family members would start the fire and they would keep it going throughout the labor. They even called it “sitting next to the fire” and supposedly the heat somehow helped speed up the process. My grandmother was the village midwife, so I guess I had seen her helping to birth all the kids a few years younger than me, including my sister.
My own birth was a little different, as all things about my life seem to be. My mother sat next to the fire for hours, starting sometime around noon. About dinner time, my mother was still having labor pains, but my hairy little head had yet to poke its way out into the world. She was having extreme cramping and decided at some point that she really needed to go to have a bowel movement. No one in Ban Nong Sai had a bathroom at that time, but each family had a designated area for people to relieve themselves.
My grandmother’s house was next to my aunt’s and uncle’s, all three of them in a little compound. There was a family garden for the three to share and beyond that was a shitfield as well. My mother made her way down the ladder and walked slowly, stopping often to catch her breath in between contractions. She finally made it to the field and squatted like she had done thousands of times before.
That’s when I decided to make my grand entrance into the world. When my head crowned, she had no choice but to keep pushing. So my mother, the daughter of the village midwife, sat in her family’s shitfield and gave birth to her first child by herself. I landed in the field, at my mother’s feet, covered with the ancient detritus of my family.
That’s how my mother explained my nickname, Hua Ki.
Shithead.
She only started calling me Tony sometime during my teens.
She explained to me that her people are very superstitious and that they give their children nicknames to confuse and ward off evil spirits. I guess that makes sense. My grandmother gave birth to twelve children and only five of them made it to adulthood.
But shithead?
I don’t recall my cousins having nicknames like that.
My mother has made the mistake of calling me by my nickname at Thai functions and you should see the looks I get. My people are ethnically Lao, from the northeastern part of Thailand and many of our customs are viewed as being a little odd by other Thais.

birth certif

My birth certificate lists my father’s name as “America.”
I’m not sure why.
Maybe my mother didn’t remember my father’s name.
Or maybe she didn’t believe him.
My father had left Thailand sometime before I was born and my mother tells me that she never told him that she was pregnant. So he went off to Spain or Iran or wherever Ford-Philco had sent him to install microwave dishes and various communications hardware. Ford-Philco was a government contractor but some of their funding and some of their jobs came straight from the CIA. Like the month my father spent in Vientienne, Laos, bugging the U.S. Embassy.
It seemed a little strange to him, but he was just following orders. Just living it up overseas while the Vietnam war raged two hundred miles to the east.
An Ex-Marine, Mohawk/Polish kid born and raised in Detroit living like a king in a huge bungalow just outside of the U.S. Air Force base in Udon Thani, Thailand.
That’s where my parents met, I guess. She was his housekeeper. Or so they say.
I’m not sure how they communicated when neither of them spoke the other’s language.
In my mother’s broken English, my father’s name would have sounded like “bad” and “good” combined.
“Bah-dee”
Good/bad?
She must have thought it was a joke. He’s bad at being good? He’s good at being bad?
So my mother listed “America” as my father’s name.
She listed my first name, Tony, phonetically in Thai. Not a real word but two sounds.
“Toe-Nee.”
She didn’t realize that it was a nickname for Anthony and for years, teachers and acquaintances would ask or assume that my first name was Anthony.
Nope. It’s just plain Tony.
I always wondered where she got the name from—I guess she knew a G.I. named Tony or something. She’s never given me a straight answer and my father always gets a little pissed when the subject comes up. Maybe it’s an ex-boyfriend or something.

dream state

digging and digging, scratching and scratching,
getting nowhere, going in circles throughout the night,
finally give up and roll over on my side,
hours later I wake up shivering, throat on fire,
the alarm clock mocking me from the dresser,
I latch onto sleep, hoping for rest and meaning,
lost in my mind, minutes drag by slow as lifetimes,
eyes open again, alarm clock’s red glow omnipresent,
all sense out the window, mired in the moment,
jungle vines and tree roots reaching for me,
had always thought that the mind was simple,
making sense out of the complicated external,
but I feel and see that the opposite is true,
the natural world simple and plain,
mad rush of thought and feeling,
dragging us back into the primordial ooze,
how did we ever make it out,
how did we ever conquer ourselves enough,
to build and create despite our worse selves,
that unknown and unexplored territory,
pushing us pulling us every which way,
usurping and destroying out of sight,
at odds with the everyday rational mind,
our shadow selves hold the real power,
decides what we do and who we are,
and so many of us so out of touch,
blind to our own desires and justifications,
scratching an itch that won’t go away,
digging and digging ourselves deeper and deeper,
in ever widening circles every day every night,
wasting away lifetimes minute by minute.

somuchdrama

walter&freda yelln at each other last week, now they got an investigation goin on,
don't know who started all that but everyone heard freda being a beotch,
telling Walter to stop doing something, then told him "its none of your bidness"
when he axed why, then yelln telln him that he "was out of place" out of line or something,
right in front of the newbies, for everyone to hear, so i don't think they'll get their insubordination,
think they're super might get bit in the end, stirring the pot over nothing,
then jules starts cryn in the middle of all that when she saw walter took her Birthday off,
after all he's got the seniority but that only counts when its in her favor,
went blubbering on about turning 40 and blah blah blah after and over the top,
axed her bout what just happended, thought someone died or something,
axed her bout the incident, wadjya hear, wadjya see, boy that was kwazy,
but she kept talkn bout walter, talkn bout her birthday spent by herself,
just her and her dogs, like a cat lady with canines, like that was more important,
can't take the time to worry bout somebody else gettn suspended or fired or whatever,
then suddenly Freda’s gone for a week without warning, just like that outta the blue,
and walter sits there playn on his Iphone, trying to log into something or other,
15 warrants waiting in the queque, all way past two hours, just killing time,
just handing the ammo over to the fella on the left or right, big target on his back,
but everything always stays the same, no need to quicken the pace,
need to do like leta and ‘little B’ lookin busy for all to see,

tripping down memory lane

Tripping down memory lane,
Thumbing through an old musty yearbook,
Almost twenty five years old,
Suddenly wanting to remember,
Suddenly interested because of some goofy dream,
Sitting and talking to a ghost from my past,
Needed to know what she wanted me to see,
The old feelings come roaring back,
Remembering things long since suppressed,
Reminded of my mercurial self,
So full of promise with endless tomorrows,
Somehow walked away from everything,
Burnt those bridges so long ago,
Missed so many chances just out of spite,
Angry and bitter at imagined slights.
Memories frozen in time,
Just a snapshot out of the blue,
I remember the faces and the places,
The ancient hallways of my youth,
Bustling with angst-ridden teens,
Searching for their place and meaning,
The old hurts and wrongs come rushing back,
School boy crushes and long buried feelings,
Long days of wishing I were somewhere else,
Just killing time until I could fly free,
Dreaming of all the things beyond our little school,
But now I find myself wishing I had stayed,
Wishing I had lived a little bit more,
Wishing I had done something else,
Wasting away the present with regret.

summer rains

the summer rains never came,
the river lay languid beside the trail,
dried up and discarded,
like the rotting deer off in the woods,
antlers pointing heavenward,
as the hide slowly falls away,
a little bit more each and every day,
felled by the hand of fate,
after dodging arrows and bullets,
trains, trucks and cars,
only to collapse in cool solitude,
I stop on the bridge to stare at the river,
reduced to a stream under the wood slats,
trash piles at the bend off to my left,
old tires, a chair, part of a mattress,
the detritus of a university town,
as runners and bikers pound past,
the bridge echoing their footfalls to the treetops,
and I roll away in relative silence,
everyone plugging away the world with their Ipods,
just a nod or a glance my way but not a word,
as I roll under railroad trestles,
then finally squeeze beneath the highway,
twenty-five foot concrete pylons holding traffic aloft,
semis and commuters rushing by without a second look,
I ride past the sewage treatment plant,
the smell of rotting something fills the air,
as a fisherman pulls a sickly red salmon to shore,
the water a little bit deeper thanks to the plant,
water bubbling out of an underwater pipe,
just as I catch up with the women’s basketball team,
all wearing matching tops and bottoms,
some towering over me as I slip past,
the six-foot-nine center looks bigger in person,
her sculpted legs glistening with sweat,
the picture of physical perfection,
in an otherwise barren landscape.