skateboarding and Zen

Six foot half-pipe over in Williamsburg,
Down the street from the East Bay,
At so-and-so’s house, south of the highway,
Just east of the golf course and resort.
I borrowed a helmet and some pads,
I was gonna drop in no doubt,
Asked my boy Jeff what I was supposed to do,
Slam the board, ride the transition.
I was too stupid to be scared,
The crew was all there—Harry, Ian, Kevin,
We had some girls in tow—
Angie was the only one I knew.
I set up, pushed the nose down,
Thought I slammed it hard enough,
I landed on my back on the flat,
Slammed so hard it knocked me out.
Half-dreaming, half-awake, confused—
Saw a gateway to another dimension,
Saw a galaxy of stars above my head,
Didn’t recognize my own name.
“You alright, you o.k.?” someone said,
“Yeah . . . well . . . I suppose so.”
Out of body out of mind,
Outside of space and time.
I gave it up, I walked away,
Years later rediscovered with my kids,
The board was still in my blood,
Wanted to ride fast and high.
Three-foot quarter pipe over in Holt,
The kids and I checking out the metal park,
Decided to drop-in, time to do or die,
Minutes pass and I stand on the lip.
Envisioning my last big slam,
But this time I’m gonna land,
I slam the board and start to cruise,
Slow-motion collapse as I hit the flat.
Fell face forward I thrust out my arms,
Wrists bear the brunt of my body weight,
Palms shredded, wrists numb, board shot,
Had to roll to avoid getting hit on the rebound.
Z, Nan and E all come running over,
Arms shooting pain from forearm to fingers,
I gotta drive them home, gotta shake this off,
Another failed drop-in to add to my collection.
Tried to find my courage numerous times,
Would stand in position for countless minutes,
The longer I waited, the less likely I would try,
Couldn’t trust myself, trust the board enough.
I’ve tackled school districts and city hall,
Went head-to-head with wannabe skins,
Refused to be intimidating by bullies,
Fought for myself and my family.
But couldn’t even bring myself to even try,
When it came to dropping in I just gave up,
Never wanted to let go and give it a shot,
Just knew I would just maim myself again.
I spent a lot of time in the bowl out of sight,
Taught myself how to kickturn backside,
Rolled in from the shallow to the deep,
Board would stall, I would turn, almost vertical.
So two days before the New Year,
Just outside of Lansing, skating all alone,
No one to see, no one to help,
Dropped in from five feet,
not hard enough, manualed,
Landed on my butt, tried again,
Nailed it, didn’t seem like much.
Managed a few more, before biting it,
Twisting my knee, pulled something-or-other,
Still limping around the day after,
Upset that I’m out of commission.
Snow’s due to fly at any moment,
I just want to keep progressing,
But now everything’s on hold,
Everything will have to be relearned.
Come spring-time in the Great Lakes,
I’ll have to face my demons once more,
Stare down the tranny, standing on the coping,
Knee-pain added to my list of fears.
Wife tells me to give it up,
Accept that I’m too old, too frail,
And do something less dangerous,
Time to act my age and take up golf.
She’s gotta be pulling my leg, what the hell,
No way I’m gonna golf as long as I can walk,
Gonna take up the challenge, drop into the bowl,
She’s just upset that I got hurt.
Could have hurt myself shoveling snow,
Moving furniture or doing yard work,
I’m getting older that I can’t deny,
But I’ll be more careful, can’t give up so fast.
I figured out all the ways it can go wrong,
Leaning too far back, too far forward,
Not balanced correctly, feet off the board,
I learn by doing, can’t just listen or watch.
There is no guarantee of staying injury-free,
Regardless of what I do, where I go,
This sport, this activity that you frown upon,
Connects me to myself, it sets me free.
There are no external rewards for what we do,
Don’t want to recapture my youth,
This is all brand new, need it to live,
Need a reason to stay on this treadmill.
Day-in day-out I work and stew,
Need an outlet, need a way to express,
Something beyond words, beyond concepts,
I joke about skateboarding and Zen, but it is true.
Walking through the gateless gate,
The essence of being, skating is about doing,
Not about thinking or dreaming,
A martial art of the highest caliber.
So my body betrays me, but that is the way,
This body will betray me regardless of what I do,
If it must fall apart, at least I can call the shots,
Doing what I want to do, until it works no longer.
Remember if you can how I was,
Before I went back on the board,
Nothing more than a living corpse,
Not really living, just waiting for death.
Nowadays I feel more content,
I feel somewhat connected,
To my kids, to my environment,
A simple toy with four wheels,
Has given me back my life,
And Pain is a small price to pay.

photo drop

Jean Luc Gagnon, Luc Gagnon, something something Gagnon . . .
from Quebec, dropping in on one them massive vert ramps . . .
just so you get a sense--o.k., so I only dropped into 5 feet, but it might as well be 10 feet-- it looks pretty high . . . actually, if I'm 5-foot-7 and three-quarters of an inch and the drop is another 5 feet, it is rougly 10 feet to the ground, "eye-level," right . . .
Mr. Gagnon, meanwhile is dropping into some 15 foot monster of a ramp.

tail drop

Dropping in is the penultimate allegory,
Seems so easy on video, seems so easy in theory,
Standing on the lip, might as well be skydiving,
With no parachute, nothing to catch me but concrete.
First dozen times I slam and I bash my wrists,
I run to the store and buy pads and guards,
Try to protect every inch of my body with plastic,
Slamming on concrete is certainly no picnic.
Standing on the lip looking down, wanting to cry,
Searching for my cojones, looking for the answer,
Trying to find my courage, but I just shudder,
Know its probably a try-and-do situation.
My body is ready but my mind is in revolt,
I reach for the nose, but mind tells body to bolt,
Just like every other obstacle in my life,
Too scared to try, too scared to fail.
The more I think the more I want to run,
How on earth am I gonna ride the wall,
Almost 90-degrees straight into free-fall,
There’s just no way this is gonna work.
Grabbed for the nose, slammed the front down,
Next thing I know I’m rolling on the flat,
Seemed so easy, seemed smooth as silk,
Skating at the park that Team Pain built.
This is alright almost kind of tame,
Why was I so scared, why was I so lame,
Didn’t even want to try, just wanted to run,
Too scared at the possibility of slamming again.
So I drop in a second time, then a third,
I couldn’t even imagine landing those a minute ago,
I have the park to myself since its still so cold,
I immediately consider dropping into the bowl.
But then I decide once more from five feet,
Just to make sure I got this dialed in,
But then my foot slips and my knee gets tweaked,
Skate gods decide that a taste of reality is what I need.
Standing on the lip, board out, trucks to coping,
Praying that I don’t slam, standing there just hoping,
Might as well be at the edge of doom,
The beginning of the end for mangadezi.
My mind tells me that this will end badly,
With me lying in the flat all bloodied,
Body broken, soul stained and thoughts muddied,
Unable to move or cry out due to the pain.
Mind tells you not to even try it,
But sometimes life needs to be lived,
It can’t be over-thought, so pray to your Lord
Grab that nose, grab your cojones and slam that board.
Mentally, logically it just doesn’t make sense,
Thinking, considering, only makes me more tense,
There is no substitute, I have to suck it up just drop,
Keep on dropping til I got this beotch on lock.

knee twisted

Twisted my knee and now its throbbing,
It only hurts when I try to bend it,
Keep it straight and it feels just fine,
Want to go skating, but know that I can’t.
Dropping in, fifth try of the day,
Last three were smooth as silk,
But back foot fell off on the last,
Fell off and planted on the concrete.
Front foot stayed on the board,
Body kept going, moving forward,
Thought I was gonna do the splits,
Inside of back knee screamed in pain.
Splits might have been better in a way,
Knee hurts like hell, ruined my whole day,
Icing and elevating, anti-inflammatory popping,
Hard lesson learned, gotta keep feet on the board.
Padded from head to toe, but nothing helped,
Head was helmeted, elbows and knees padded,
Wrists were guarded, fat tongue over tops of feet,
But none could help the inside of my back knee.
When I played football, twenty-some years ago,
I hit a running back, a few yards behind the line,
He cut. I hit. Body went one way, knee the other,
Sickest feeling I ever had, knew I had hurt him.
He was screaming and crying as I picked myself up,
I played dirty, don’t misunderstand,
Harassed receivers the length of field,
Grabbed at facemasks and gouged at eyes.
But felt sick when I unloaded on him,
Super-quick little back was picking us apart,
Eight, ten years on every carry,
But in an instant I blew out his knee.
Foot came off the board and my foot planted,
Faster than thought, too fast too react,
Foot planted, knee strained, shooting pain,
Screamed FU@# for everyone to hear.
Waiting for some crutches, wife’s gonna s&*#,
Hope this goes away quick, need to get my fix,
Gonna skate til my knees give way,
Knees will be made of titanium some far-off day.
Gotta get that drop in dialed,
Keep these damn feet nailed to the deck,
Gonna ride that pool, hit that lip,
Time to live is now, gonna let it all rip.

rice harvest

Houses sitting on stilts five feet high,
Flooding during the monsoons,
Underneath, we kept our pigs and chickens penned,
And the cousins and I would play hide and seek.
Pigs were raised to be sold,
Chickens kept for their eggs and meat,
Vegetables grown in our garden,
Rice farmers, but we sold ours,
And bought the cheaper stuff to eat.
Small ladders from the ground to the house,
A sort of deck area and then inside,
One-room shacks, shared beds,
Cooking, eating, sleeping all in the same space.
Grandma’s house sat right next to uncle’s,
And uncle’s butted up against auntie’s,
Something like sixteen of us,
All living in the family compound.
Rainwater was collected in large clay pots,
Sunset meant bedtime, unless it was a holiday,
Or a festival, then generators lit our way.
Kerosene lamps for those special occasions,
Out in the rice fields, or hunting for beetles,
Insect delicacies, a taste learned during hardship,
Not an easy life, but life just the same.
Trips to the canal early every morning,
Collecting water for the day,
Life lived simply, close to the bone,
Rough as it was, this was my home.
Dirt roads led to the rice paddies,
Led to the town twenty-some miles away,
Where the Americans built an air base,
Used to bomb Hanoi and the Viet Cong.
We would take the truck-turned-taxi,
Called the Baht Bus, into the town,
Udon Thani--to see how the other half lived,
People with electricity, running water.
There also was a market in our village,
Owned by the second-richest man,
Run on generators and stocked with luxuries,
Coca-cola, canned milk, stuff most of us couldn’t buy.
I remember seeing my first American,
Some long-haired blonde, riding a motorbike,
Parked his ride and leaned up against a tree,
Watching the Rocket Festival in Nong Sai.
Not sure where he was from, maybe worked on the base,
I wondered if he was my dad, wondered if he knew my dad,
Wondered if all Americans looked like him.
The Rocket Festival, celebrated by Lao’s,
Don’t even know why, but everyone,
Young and old, took part,
But I remember staring at the American,
Paying little attention to the man-sized rockets,
Instead staring at the American man,
Standing there with hands in his pockets.
Lonely and unsure, often left alone,
Not sure where I belonged,
Different from everyone, so I was told,
Thought I was the same, part of the fold,
Your father is somewhere else,
Your mother is never here,
You don’t belong here, here with us.
A child doesn’t know, doesn’t understand,
What all of that means, what it entails,
He follows his elders, does whatever he’s told.
At harvest-time, I followed them to the fields,
We walked down dirt roads, some flooded,
Foot-bridges spanned the water,
No wider than I was at age four,
No time to be afraid, everyone loaded down.
Remnants and remains of older bridges,
Off in the distance, canals and streams,
Forever changing their course,
Taught a young child that all is impermanent.
Rice paddies as far as I could see,
At night we slept in the shelter,
Not much more than a pavilion,
A thatched roof with four posts.
During the day, we would play in the paddies,
Chasing after rats and staying out of the way,
This is what we did, this is how we lived.
Finally met my father, re-met mother,
I left with my brand new family,
Half way around the world to America.
Culture shock at every turn,
Only five years old, couldn’t speak English,
Didn’t understand their customs,
Still trying to make sense of it all.
Can’t help but feel that something’s missing,
Need to integrate what and who I’ve been,
Where and when and what I’ve seen,
Leaving little bits of myself everywhere,
But it’s all part of the big picture.

expound and confound

Now scattered and smashed,
Need to re-integrate and rediscover.
Our house sits on the top of a hill,
Basement floods during heavy rains,
Cat roams around the house not doing much.
Quarter-acre lot, big for the city,
Daughter and son out playing, singing a ditty,
So Lao of them, but they’ll never know,
Can’t blame them, they’re mostly Indian.
I never taught what little I thought I knew,
Truth is what seems true to you,
A little bit of this, a little bit of that,
I see their faces, see their cousins,
Indian and Lao and otherwise,
same exact sets of eyes,
Same optimism, same innocence.
If they only knew, only saw how I lived,
Not much different from their Mishomis,
Their grandfather, a little like their Nokomis.
“He has an old soul” someone once said-
about me-but no, I grew up the old way,
lived with my family, every single day,
shared meals and stories, free from the lies,
free from computers, free from the movies.
Our reality is what we saw everyday,
Films and music just reached the countryside,
Just as I was born and being raised,
But we were so backwards, we were the last,
The last to buy in to the lies, give up our past,
What I saw didn’t last for very long after,
We were still human and not mere numbers,
On someone’s chart or graph or marketing plan.
I feel at home with Indians because of this,
More than anything else, so many still understand,
That we are not what we own,
That there is more to life than gaining or buying,
And there are folks who don’t buy into the lying,
It is not confined to our race, or our place,
But many understand and see the fallacy,
Don’t give up the reality for the fantasy.
Life is in front of us and all around,
Bigger, better faster, isn’t always better,
So often we are rushed along by life,
But not the real—but the life that we have invented,
Forces that rush us head-long toward death.
I have lived and I have seen,
some how some way,
I must do something, say something,
My work is not complete, need to go home,
Need to complete the circle,
So many circles in my life,
So many beginnings and few endings,
I am Indian (Mohawk),
I am American,
I am Canadian,
I am Thai,
I am Lao,
I am European--Polish they claim,
But I still haven’t accepted,
That last bit is a bit too much.
A melting pot, but the distinctive flavors linger,
So what is next, what follows after,
Addicted to indigenous cultures,
Due to the interconnectedness of everything,
But we are on the cusp,
A little bit of this, a little bit of that,
Don’t want to give anything up.
Canadians like to say they are a cultural mosaic,
The distinctly different pieces remain,
To form a beautiful picture.
I am so many distinctly different pieces,
At times it is difficult to discern,
But the beginning, the start of my turn,
Is to accept those different parts of me.
The beginning of this journey starts anew,
So much I’ve ignored, so much thrown away,
But they are all me, comfortable or not,
Life doesn’t give it to us nice and neat,
Not everything can be easily defined.
I start with a vivid memory,
And becomes more and more so,
I can almost feel the sun on my skin,
Monsoon rain on my head,
Something awakens and expands,
Then I expound and confound even my self.
That is the start and we’ll see where we go,
Maybe to Thailand, then to Laos,
Back over to Ontario and over the ocean once more,
Until I figure this out, until this chapter is closed.

som tum (papaya salad)

Isan, Isaan, Esarn, Isarn, Esan, Esaan,
All means the same thing, to Laos and Thais,
Means you’re from the northeast,
Is it Sanskrit, or is it Thai?
One of them, one of them languages,
Descendents of kings, former kingdoms,
Ancient ruins whisper stories long forgotten.
Growing up as I did on the outskirts,
On the cusp, out in the bush,
Not far from the Mekong,
Along the canals know as klongs,
Water-buffalo boy, knee high in the rice paddy.
Idyllic days, sun beating down from on high,
But we all called, spoke of ourselves as Thai.
Country bumpkins to the city folk,
We revealed ourselves whenever we spoke,
Sing-songy dialects, different customs,
Different foods, different looks.
Talked about being Lao, like it was long ago,
Something we no longer were,
But try as we might, we are still Lao.
Holidays and dress, language and food,
Treated as second-class, treated as lewd,
Easy to forget that Thai was forced upon us,
So long ago, but not very far away,
Across the river, after the kingdom’s fall,
Papaya salad with crabs and mudfish, eaten raw.
Thai-ification just like the Brits did to the Scots,
As the Romans did to the Brits,
As the Egyptians did to whoever . . .
Same old song and dance from time immemorial.
Looking at pictures of Laos, I see myself,
I see my family and the way that we lived,
Before electricity, technology changed everything,
Back when our family would farm and sing,
Dance, drink and live simply under the burning sun.
Now everything has changed and everyone is leaving,
The villages empty except for the elderly, left grieving,
Back then the temple was the center of life,
And everyone worked hard harvesting the rice.
Simple, simple life, pre-industrial, pre-technological,
But now they all watch American t.v.,
Talk on their cellphones and drive their cars,
Live in the cities and hang out at topless bars,
Not that any of that is bad,
But its different, just not the same.
And here I go again building further stress,
Didn’t mean to at the start, but I digress,
What struck me, what I wanted to share,
Was that I feel like it makes sense in a strange way,
The pictures of the Mekong, hills rising above the water,
Pictures of the children, reminds me of my daughter.
Had the same feeling in Mohawk Valley,
Staring at the river, hills rising above the water,
Felt like home, felt like I knew my place,
I felt akin to the land and the spirits of that place.
Had that same sensation pondering, thinking
About the Lao in Thailand, all 15 million or so,
Only six million living in Laos, kind of ironic.
I say Thai, but I mean Lao, Isaan,
That’s what I am, at least half anyway,
Isolated for so long, growing up in Motown,
Not likely to run into other Laos or Mohawks,
My culture, color was also an issue to others,
I’m just like you, I would say, which is true,
But being around others like me, somewhat,
Grew in importance over the years.
How many Lao-Mohawks are there in the world,
Not many I would guess, none that I have met,
But to know where it is you are from,
That isn’t something that I ever had,
So cheesy in a way, but it makes me glad,
To know that that is where we are from,
What we have done, where we have gone.
Where we all go next us up to us,
The future remains to be seen,
But I’m freed from my self-loathing,
Freed from the sense of being an outsider.
Freed from carrying my shame,
All along we were all the same.
Funny that Areeya once said,
“What minorities?
There are no minorities in Thailand.”
And I asked, “What do you think I am?”
I’m not Thai, I’m Lao—I’m Isaan.”
But I never really understood what that meant,
Never realized that the minority was so large,
My sense of shame, my own ignorance was to blame,
Turned my back on myself for far too long,
I am these things, but so much more.
If I ignore whatever part isn’t appealing,
What does that leave, what is left,
cannot have the good without the bad,
cannot ignore half or a part of life,
and yet somehow be whole.

manitoulin

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manitoulin_island

Let me tell you about the island—Manitoulin means, “dwelling place of the spirit” . . . it is the largest freshwater island in the world. There are numerous lakes within the island and there are even a couple of islands on those lakes. It was considered a sacred place to the “Three Fires Confederacy”—the Ojibwe, Odawa and Potawatomi. It is about 90 miles long and 35 miles at the widest—the island is hilly and the roads are winding so it would take you two-and-a-half hours to drive from one end to the other. There are seven reservations on the island, but my wife’s is unique because it is “unceded”. The Wikwemikong tribal chiefs walked away from treaty negotiations and never signed a treaty with the Canadian government.
The Three Fires peoples began repopulating the island around the time of the War of 1812, after the Battle of Falling Timbers and Pontiac’s Rebellion. Large portions of the Ohio Valley and Michigan were handed over because of the treaties signed during this period. The Indians left Michigan and relocated to Manitoulin, hoping to maintain their freedom and sovereignty. Most of the Odawa and Potawatomi tribes, whether living in Canada, Michigan or Kansas/Oklahoma (bands that were “relocated”), are actually related.
The reserve has always been a little different from other places that I’ve been to—they have been on the cutting edge with language, cultural, youth, and elder programs for years. Their tribal government has always been very progressive and has tried to hold to their traditional beliefs in everything they do.
I don’t agree with everything they do, of course, and the church has certainly had a strong influence on the its history, but overall its set a higher standard for other communities to follow. The Catholic Church finally gave in to the strong traditional vein in the community as has completely adopted native customs into its church services. The priest wears buckskin and eagle feathers and medicine wheels have been incorporated into the symbolism of the church.
As far as the present-day community—it’s like coming from a small town. But a small town that you can always go back to and that you will always have a connection to. Drugs, alcoholism, broken families, juvenile delinquency, and domestic abuse are all serious issues which they face, but their approach to these problems as a community gives hope to folks like me. They were one of the first communities that I know of that took a traditional, community-centered effort to combat these issues. Their rehabilitation center has been a model for reservations across Canada and the U.S.
The island itself is beautiful—I’ve met vacationers from all over the U.S. and Canada. Boating, fishing, golfing—all that good stuff is very popular with the summer residents and year-round residents. Typical northern Great Lakes foliage, but free of condominiums, fast-food joints (none are allowed on the island) and the usual, typical homogenization of our stores, restaurants, etc. . . .
I love the island, but I love the people—even with all the humanly problems they bring with them. The environment, community, native traditions all have an important place on this island. I hated leaving when we did, but we did so because our son was diagnosed with his kidney condition. And native kids growing up on the reservation is not always a good thing—not much better than growing up in the hood in Detroit. They would have been labeled and categorized just for the tint of their skin, the blood in their veins.
But when they go to the island, when I go to the island, I feel proud. These are the descendents of people who fought for their freedom alongside Chief Pontiac. When they lost that battle, they relocated themselves and their families to northern Lake Huron to continue living as their Creator had meant them to. They knew that staying in Michigan was not in their best interests and they left before their lands, which were never theirs to begin with, were carved up and divided for some pieces of paper and empty promises.
I love Manitoulin Island and I love Wikewemikong-what little I have seen, what little I have been able to experience first-hand. It is not perfect by any means, but a work in progress and one that I hold great hope for. I love my wife’s family because they always taught their children the importance of education and of upholding their Indian-ness and their traditions. I love the way I can go back to “Wiky” and they all remember me and are glad to see me. I love the way the clock slows down and I can see the stars clearly at night and the smiles of these great people all around me. I love that my children will always be able to say, “I am from Wikewemikong. I am from Manitoulin Island.”

cool/uncool

my folks moved cross-state right after I graduated from high school (1987)-- I hooked up with a whole new skate crew right away and skated with them guys everyday. They were all three or four years younger than me, but I was all about having fun. I also shared my love of the Punk Rock with the youngsters--
I started college in the fall, but I would hang with the the guys whenever I was back in town-- Christmas break, summer breaks, etc . . . for the next three or four years.
It was interesting to see kids drift away from skating for all kinds of different reasons--work, school, girlfriends. I stopped soon after myself got too busy with work and family, etc . . .
The one that pist me off was Scotty becoming a jock and totally turning his back on all his boys. Suddenly all the people he was hanging with thought skateboarding wasn't cool anymore, so he followed suit and ended up harassing his old friends for doing what they loved.
I told him--dude, you're living in some podunk town in the middle of nowhere and you think you're the shite cuz all of a sudden you're some hot-shot football star or some krap? You go to a Class D (smallest division) high school. You'd be lucky to make the third string at the school I went to . . . big fish in a small pond don't mean shite . . .
I played football, ran track, alla that . . . but I'd wear my punk rock t-shirts proudly and did want I wanted to do.
"Why's that guy wearing a varsity jacket AND a punk rock shirt? Is he a jock that's punk, or a punk that's a jock?"
How about me just being me? Skating helped define me-- sports was just something I did for fun . . . maybe that was the difference.

limping off

Where exactly did it all go wrong,
Carving into the corner, but suddenly stalling,
Did I try to try to hang on for too long,
Instead of carving, flipped through the air falling.
I had dropped in on the bank, went up the box,
Down the other side, onto the flat just cruising,
Checking myself after, I saw blood on my socks,
Checked my elbow my knee, saw both bruising.
I had rolled slowly over the flat, perhaps too slow,
But then I pumped and floated into the corner,
Riding goofy-foot, front-side carve to body blow,
Foot-slipped, board stalled, the latter or the former?
Which to blame- me, the board, or all the above,
Body twisted and spun, landed on my left side,
No pads except hands were Triple-8 anti-gloved,
Landing on the left, the laws of physics defied.
Spun me like a top, was I too low, too high,
Not at all like the dozen or so previous runs,
Scraped my hip, pulled something in my thigh,
Shot my fish board right at some young guns.
“You alright?”, “You o.k.?”, ask members of the crew,
“Yep, sure, no problem.” I lie as I dust myself off,
Old man me, looking all grim in front of the new school,
Trying to be tough, not wanting them to think I’m soft.
I chase down my board, walk back up the bank,
Roll right back in, hit the same exact spot,
My groin muscle screamed, my heart sank,
I can deal with some pain, but not a lot.
After a few more runs, I hang it up for the day,
Slamming sucks, but I really shouldn’t complain,
Pain reminds you that you’re alive, so they say,
I’m just glad to be skating, glad there’s no rain.
Can’t think of a better way to spend Christmas Eve,
On my lunch break, while working a sixteen,
Blood soaking through my shirt, I pull up the sleeve,
Happily limping off, til the next time I fiend.

babygirl @ redlake pow wow

flip a switch

You expect me to just flip a switch,
Turn it on turn it off, fill the niche,
I’m only human, only a man,
Doing what I do, doing what I can.
I don’t expect you to see through my eyes,
Somehow, some way, you gotta sympathize,
Understand that I am a man, first and foremost,
I’m not too proud, I’m not trying to boast.
Living this life, stumbling along,
Singing the same old stupid song,
I know I gotta step up, gotta represent,
Seems like I don’t even make a dent.
My children have grown up in a different world,
Cold-war, Vietnam, flags unfurled,
All just distant dreams, heard second-hand,
So unreal to them, they just don’t understand.
Instant messaging, You-Tube, on-line gaming,
War in Iraq, shooting bombs without aiming,
IED’s, 9-11, don’t know that I’d trade,
With all they’ve lived through, I’d be dazed.
Our lives were harder but less complicated,
Mom and dad hitting the booze, eyes dilated,
Dad hitting me, but everything was clear-cut,
Couldn’t blame someone else, no ifs-ands-or-buts.
The fault was mine or yours, life just sucked,
No psycho-babble, we were just fuct,
Drunks and losers and people were plain crazy,
Now there’s an excuse for everything, even the lazy.

xmas, babyfaced and wu-tang

dude . . . i wrote this long thing about Christmastime and the solstice celebrations of pagans, etc . . . then I accidentally hit escape and deleted everything . . . oops
my wife and I decided not to celebrate Christmas before we had any children-- I'm Mohawk and Thai and she's Ojibwe/Odawa/Potawatomi so it just made sense to us . . . our tribes have had a strong Christian influence since the 17th century--missions were established on both our reservations back in the late 1600's-- but the church itself has been responsible for some awful things--boarding schools, loss of language/culture, etc . . .
so for our family it's not something that we observe, but we try to teach our children the origin of Christmas, or any other major holiday, and it's importance to the religion and culture at large.
it hasn't always been easy-- "waddya mean we don't do Christmas?! all my classmates and friends do Chrismas!!", but i think making an informed decision about these things is the only way to go.
I'm not telling them they can't choose to celebrate Christmas or Hannukah or whatever when they have their own families, just do it for the right reasons and understand where the custom comes from.

the chillens will aks me how long i been skating and i tell them a coupla months--meaning since i started up again--but they get a funny look on their face--hehehe
"oh, since about July or so . . . how long you been skating?"
most of them don't realize how old I am, though-- I got a babyface . . .

[Inspector Deck]from the Wu-Tang Clan
I smoke on the mic like smokin Joe Frazier
The hell raiser, raisin hell with the flavor
Terrorize the jam like troops in Pakistan
Swingin through your town like your neighborhood Spiderman
So uhh, tic toc and keep tickin
While I get ya flippin off the shit I'm kickin
The Lone Ranger, code red, danger!
Deep in the dark with the art to rip charts apart
The vandal, too hot to handle
Ya battle, you're sayin Goodbye like Tevin Campbell
Roughneck, Inspector Deck's on the set
The rebel, I make more noise than heavy metal

jingoism

I grew up in Detroit in the 80’s, when the Big Three were getting their butts kicked by the likes of Toyota and Honda. A half-Asian kid growing up in an anti-Japanese atmosphere was not a lot of fun. A lot of my classmates’ parents were getting laid-off from the auto companies and their suppliers. I’ve seen jingoistic b.s. first-hand.
This isn’t what Mike is talking about—he’s making an informed choice, when possible. I respect that. We as consumers can choose where our money goes, to a certain extent. I’ll spend my money at my friend’s skateshop because I know he’s giving me a deal and that HE’s getting the money—not some fat-cat sitting in his half-million dollar home feeding off someone else’s hard work.
I refuse to shop at Walmart because of the way they treat their employees. Shopping next door instead, I know I’m spending more money, but at least they’re taking care of their people. The Waltons meanwhile, have four billionaires in the family, while the state takes care of their employees.
We can’t change the fact that textiles are made in Thailand and China—the industry has limited our choices because this is what is most profitable to them. But I can choose to give my money to some mom-and-pop operation instead of some big-box retailer. And if OMA has a hook-up with a stateside board maker or screen printing operation—I’d rather give them my money. If I had money, that is . . . but when it comes time to purchase the next board or tee—it definitely matters to me.
And if I happen to know someone--even though it is only from the web--I’d rather purchase products from them. If Jonno’s got the hook-up as far as bags—I’ll buy it from him. Maybe it’s a throwback to the way things used to be—you purchase your goods from your friends and neighbors. These days we usually buy our stuff from some nameless drone at some big-box retailer.
We’re building our own little on-line village here, mon—maybe I’m the village idiot, but at least this idiot knows where his money is going.

reunion of sorts

My 20 year high school reunion is coming up . . .
I've got mixed feelings about the whole thing . . .
Anyone got any stories/thoughts they'd like to share?
I kind of want to go and see some old friends, but . . .
20-years seems real daunting for some reason . . .
the 10-year was an easy one to blow off . . .
now it's like--dang . . . i didn't do any of the things i thought i would,
blah blah blah . . .
yeah all probably right--bad idea--who am i kidding?
i'd just be going to try to get phone numbers for ex's and almost ex's. . .
I'm looking for my future ex-wife . . .
the current one might not be too happy about that huh?
the thing about High School . . . I don't regret the things I did, I only regret the things I didn't do . . .
IF'N youz know what I mean :wink: :wink: :nudge: :nudge:
My son graduates in 2010 and my daughter 2013.
The baby is still in preschool so that would be . . .
(rusty wheels turning betwixt and between mine ears)
. . . 2020!!
that seemed so far off in the distant future,
back in the day . . .
Yeah, scrooge it, who needs a stinkn reunion anyways . . .
one of the few people i kept in touch with moved out to Montana fifteen years ago-- i think he's in Missoula, too--is that where Montana State is? Homeboy and i skated together, hung together through H/S and college--
he put down the board, but now he's all into hiking, rock-climbing, snowboarding, marathons . . . blame it on the mountain air I guess, but we still chat and email even though we haven't seen one another for all that time . . .
reunions always bring up a lot of emotions and what-ifs . . .
i dunno, maybe i'll wait until the 25th-- most of us will be on our 2nd or 3rd divorces by then, right?

concave boarded bliss

Click-clack click-clack go the wheels on the cracks,
Riding my board down the sidewalk to be exact,
Tripping zipping in and out of traffic north of campus,
Four-wheels, silver trucks, concave boarded bliss.
Nothing to do, nowhere to be, me just being me,
Never realized, never knew that I could feel so free,
Cruising along, listening to music on my headphones,
Passing college kids and all sorts of worker drones.
Businessman, military recruiter, little kids on scooters,
Not stuck at work, stuck on the phone, staring at a computer,
Looking around, looking about, looking for cops,
So I can duck and dodge, jump off the board into a shop.
“No skateboarding” say all the signs,
but I don’t care, skateboarding is not a crime,
skating should not be confined to the skatepark,
skating at our park means that you’re done once its dark.
I don’t care, I grab my board and cruise along,
no one’s gonna take that away, gonna tell me it’s wrong.
Groms act like its some kinda lark to go street skating,
After the sun has set, they stand around debating.
Whether or not to cruise downtown they collectively wonder,
But what is skateboarding, when not allowed to explore and blunder,
The park closes, the season ends, but the stoke lives within,
Find a parking ramp, skate some curbs, keep your eyes open.
Click-clack click-clack go the wheels on the cracks,
I’m skating wherever my board takes me, thats a fact,
Click-clack click-clack say the wheels of urethane,
I’m doing what I’m doing to help me stay sane.

back and forth

Nothing too spectacular, nothing of note,
But for me it’s everything, for me it’s all about hope,
Looking back over these last twenty years,
Lots of life, lots of love and plenty of tears.
Going back and forth, thinking about my past,
Thinking about life right now, still moving too fast.
What would I have done, what could I have done,
Given what I know now, if I could go back just once?
What is it I really want, if I could have anything at all,
My tastes have always been simple, not much to mull,
We are trapped in this place all victims of space and time,
I keep tripping, falling—living as if I were blind.
Time has come, the time is now, must stand up,
Sick of the stumbling, tired of feeling so corrupt,
Tired of blaming everyone else for what I have wrought,
Need to stop seeking, stop trying to find fault.
Again and again, stuck in a vicious cycle,
Trying to be strong, holding on to what’s vital,
Looking toward tomorrow with hope and faith,
Trying to raise my children free of pain, free of heartache.
Looking back in time, something I do quite too often,
Gonna focus on the now, gonna put the paper to the pen,
Write to release my demons, then go on with my life,
Not looking back anymore, free myself of that strife.

skate of mind

I Went to the skatepark at lunch—nice sunny day here, even though it’s a little chilly. Couple of other guys showed up and skated around for awhile, plus the hot skater girl (HSG). The following is actually about four or five different conversations, condensed for your reading pleasure. M is me, of course.

HSG: Dude, what’s up?
M: Not much, what’s up with you?
HSG: This is crazy man, skating in December!
M: Yeah, this is kind of nice.
HSG: You go to State U.?
M: Um, like twelve years ago . . .
HSG: Oh sweet! What are you still doing in Collegetown?
M: Living, raising my kids.
HSG: What was your major, dude?
M: Journalism.
HSG: Cool—who do you write for?
M: I write for myself—my job has nothing to do with my major. I leech off the state.
HSG: That’s awesome, man. My brother used to be in the Marine Corps, government jobs are cool.
M: Yeah, sure.
HSG: State U. has so many good skaters, man. They should have their own skate team. There’s a whole crew of skaters over at those dorms down the road there and they just rip the shite outta this park.
M: Varsity Skateboarding? I’d be done for that.
HSG: I love this park, man, its good really good flow. It’s just a killer park.
M: Wish it had lights.
HSG: That would be sweet. The city probably doesn’t want to pay for it, though.
M: It’s the perfect spot for it, though—no neighbors at all, it’s not like it would bug anyone.
HSG: Yeah, but they spend the money to light the stupid tennis court and baseball diamond.
M: And the empty parking lots.
HSG: Yeah, that too.
M: You ever get that rail grind figured out? When was it that we skated together, August?
HSG: No, not yet, still can’t get the landing. My ollies are high enough, but I just can’t seem to stay on the rail. Don’t remember when that was, it was a heck of a lot warmer, though whenever it was.
M: I almost got that board slide down.
HSG: Figures. I try a million times and you come over and get it after ten tries.
M: Total fluke. I still can’t kick-flip.
HSG: Not with that big boat you’re riding, what is that, like ten inches?
M: Nine-and-a-half at the widest. I like the crazy concave.
HSG: Looks like it would be fun to ride, not sure if I could handle something so big.
M: Is that your skate key laying over there?
HSG: Skate-wha . . . ?
M: Skate key.
HSG: Key?
M: You know, skate tool.
HSG: Oh, tool-no I didn’t bring a tool with me. You want it?
M: I got like three of them now. One for each of the skaters in my family, which is cool. We gotta generational thing going on here. Different times, different terms. We used to always call it a key.
HSG: I hope my kids skate—when I have kids, you know? I mean they can play football or whatever, but they gotta skate too.
M: Yep, that’s the way to do it. Where you from?
HSG: Brighton Hill.
M: So you snowboard then?
HSG: Oh yeah. My folks live within site of the ski resort. It used to suck waking up on a snowy morning knowing you had to wait until after school to go shred.
M: Isn’t there an indoor joint across from the high school?
HSG: Yeah—the Lighthouse—it’s alright. Back in the day it used to be this underground kind of set-up in the parking lot, but then they put it inside this building and started charging money and everything went to shite. All the good skaters left town it seems.
M: It’s not worth skating?
HSG: Well . . . it’s mostly vert, dude. They got this half-pipe to spine thingy and then a bunch of quarters. They do have a sweet mini though, if you like skating minis.
M: How the heck do you get so high up on your carves?
HSG: Well dude, I just really hit that box thing in the middle really hard like, and then when I hit the wall I just kinda push my ankles up as high as I can.
M: Push your ankles up? Waddya mean?
HSG: I can usually grind on the top there, but my shoes are all janky cuz I need new shoes, but I could probably grind on the top right now if it weren’t for the shoes.
M: Do you pump right before the wall or what?
HSG: Dude, you just gotta go for it, man—just kick those ankles up that wall and let it rip. You’re goofy foot right? Hit it from the right side there but make sure you take it wide—and just go for it.
M: Your lines seem way tighter than mine—you hit the wall a good twelve inches further in than me. Am I losing height because I’m going too wide? You’re almost to the lip and I’m a foot or so shy of it.
HSG: I dunno, maybe. You really just gotta feel it out. You need more speed for one thing. I love this roundwall, though, you can’t find many of these anywhere. On a good day I can grind the lip and do an axle stall and drop back in.
M: That’s all I’m asking for—just want to grind the lip . . .
HSG: You’ll get there, just keep hitting the wall and keep working on getting higher and higher.
M: Lunchtime’s over—gotta jet—see you around.
HSG: Yeah, take it easy—maybe I’ll see you at Brighton Hill.
M: Yeah, look for me—I’ll be the guy tumbling down the hill.
HSG: (Smiles)
M: (Waves as he wanders off to his car)

unapologetically unscientific

So Tracey emails me out of the blue and asks me to sit down with her and teach her what I know about our CitiStreet/401k thing-- asks me if I got a WHOLE DAY to sit down with her.
I'm like; dude . . . its December at tether--that means I'm practically living at work. And a whole day? for what? I can tell you what I know in about 10 minutes. Anyways, so I just wrote her this thing and sent it to her-- thought that should take care of it--I think she's a little miffed.
I don't really wanna sit down with nobody for a whole day, let alone a few hours unless 1) I'm getting paid for it or 2) beer and football is involved. Think I'm heartless? Out of line? Check out what I sent her:

I track the performance of the twenty funds that are available to us through the 401k program on a quarter-by-quarter basis. I don’t think that moving them around any more than that is beneficial as it doesn’t allow you to fully capitalize on any gains.
The table that is available through CitiStreet shows fund performance for the Calendar Year, the Prior Quarter, Previous 1 Year, Previous 3 Years and Previous 5 Years. I score those five categories equally, which obviously gives greater weight to a strong quarter and a strong calendar year. Also gauging the Previous Years 1, 3 and 5 gives balance to the overall picture—a fund could have had a tremendous year, but could have been an under-performer in previous years.
The system I use is based on prior performance, which brings some inherent risk. I am assuming that the market will remain in more or less the same situation and that the trends will continue. A sudden economic downturn or catastrophic event can adversely impact your investments, but again that is part of the risk factor.
Another consideration is the volatility of the specific funds themselves. The last three funds listed are all foreign market funds—they have all been performing well. If the market in Europe or Asia suddenly takes a turn for the worst, this will have a large and immediate impact on your holdings.
The same is true for tech-heavy funds like Dodge & Cox and SSga Russell 2000—they have a large number of stocks in the technological sector and if there is a downturn can reduce your holdings in a short amount of time. Sal and I both invested in SSga Emerging Markets (a foreign fund) and Dodge & Cox (the tech fund) and saw large losses at the beginning of the year. I lost nearly $3,000 in one month—but since then, both sectors have rebounded and I’ve made up all of those losses.
You can look at the Prospectus for all the funds available and they will tell you specifically what stocks make up the fund. Funds are a collection of stocks that we invest in to try to take advantage of the market and limit our exposure to losses. You can choose to open a SMA-Self Managed Account where you can invest directly stock-by-stock. There are thousands of choices and as was seen in the Enron case—if you put all your eggs into one basket, it can have tragic consequences.
The list of funds that I sent as an attachment starts off with nine offerings from SSga—this is Citistreet’s very own stock funds. The first three are considered “stable” funds—your exposure to loss and gain is relatively limited. These are safe funds that generally pay back between 2-5 % per year. The SSga Bond Market Index is strictly a bond fund, not a stock fund, but is very popular with folks who don’t like to put their money into the far riskier (but more profitable) stock market.
The next two are very important—the SSga S&P 500 and the SSga S&P MidCap Index. S&P stands for Standard & Poor—the S&P 500 is one of the major stock indicators used in the industry, the other being the Dow Jones Industrials. It is an accepted fact that the S&P 500 and Dow Jones Industrials are excellent indicators of the stock market as a whole and they include stocks from all segments—industrial, medical, technological, agricultural, etc. . . .
The S&P 500 and the DJI have an average gain of 7% per year every year since the 1920’s. So for the last 85 years the stock market has averaged gains of 7% every year—through the Great Depression, the Second World War, economic downturns in the 70’s and 80’s. The market is at an all time high right now—it just recently went over the milestone of 10,000 for the first time in history.
The SSga S&P MidCap Index tracks mid-sized companies and is also another popular choice with investors. Some feel that the traditional large companies and their funds (Large Caps) are too volatile and that mid and small-caps are a better value. The next twelve funds listed by CitiStreet are a combination of all the preceding—large, medium and small. The notable exceptions are Dodge & Cox and the SSga Russell 2000, which are both tech-heavy stocks. They do also carry considerable Industrial stocks as well, but are often referred to as tech stocks.
For my purposes, I like the 7% year-in-year out performance of the S&P 500 and the S&P MidCap. I carry around one-third of my total holdings in these two funds. If the stocks have a good day, week, month—I know that these holdings did the same as the market overall. Of course, the opposite is true, but I like the security of 7% yearly increases—although other people will insist on getting one of the stable funds (the first three listed) or something like the SSga Conservative Asset Allocation or Western Asset Core Bond FI. Both these are stable, bond heavy funds—low risk, as close to a “guaranteed” return as you can get, but not a lot of big increases either.
At the bottom of the list you will see the opposite extreme—the foreign stock funds. These are the Templeton Foreign A, American Funds Europacific Gr and SSga Emerging Markets. These scored out as my numbers four, three and one overall stock funds—but I only carry one of them. These are very very volatile and can turn on you in a heartbeat. Overall they’ve been doing wonderfully the last few years but I’m wary of putting too much money into just one sector. You can expect big increases and big losses in any of these funds.
So having said all that—this is what I am currently invested in:
SSga S&P 500 15%
SSga S&P MidCap 15%
SSga Russell 2000 15%
STI Classic SmallCap 15%
Columbia Acorn 15%
SSga Emerging Markets 15%
American Funds EuroPacific Gr 10%
You can go in and run a statement anytime on the CitiStreet site, to track the performance of your portfolio. You can look at any specified period—monthly, quarterly yearly.
That’s 100% in stocks—no bond investments at all. For the year-to-date I have had an increase of about 12.46%, which is more than the market (7%) but not spectacular either.
Also—have you signed up for the Financial Engines at CitiStreet? That is an excellent resource—it gives you the breakdown of all the stocks and even gives you tips on investing. It is a free service—you can access it from the CitiStreet site—from there, in the upper left hand corner you’ll see Select An Option. Open the drop down box and click onto CitiStreet Advisor Service--
My recommendations:
SSga S&P 500 25%
SSga S&P MidCap 20%
Columbia Acorn 15%
SSga Russell 2000 15%
Emerging Markets 15%
Western Asset Core 10%

discards and cast-offs

Rolled up to the ghetto gas station,
Two inches of bullet-proof Plexiglas,
Separates the clerk from folks like me.
Single cigarettes and cigarillos fly out,
Almost as quickly as 40’s and bags of chips,
Little Debbie’s, zig-zags and malt liquor.
Haven’t seen any working girls there recently,
Think they relocated to the other side of town,
But the drunks still panhandle outside the store.
I load up on coffee, Mt. Dew and gum,
A couple of ginseng energy pills to get me through,
And I stumble back out to my rusty VW.
On the grass behind the store I spy two trucks,
Sticking up skyward like a pair of insect legs,
Flipped onto its back unable to turn itself rightside up.
Who left their skateboard just lying around,
Left on the ground to rot or be stolen by whoever?
I walk over to the board to check it out,
Not the greatest of neighborhoods, not anymore,
River Drive—another has-been neighborhood.
Large two-story homes line the street,
But now they’ve been divvied up and dissected,
Into so many separate apartments by neglectful landlords.
The board is smashed in the front and back,
Spiderman design is still visible but faded,
I figure its a Toys-R-Us special, cheap trucks and all.
The wheels barely spin as I inspect the remains,
There was a time when I would have still taken it,
I remember pillaging trash dumpsters with my buds.
In one of those I found an old beat-up Nash,
Many years removed from its prime but I rode it away,
A replacement for my plastic banana board that was long gone.
I couldn’t afford anything else so I skated on that thing,
Until I bought a Powell-Peralta several years later,
With money I saved up from working at McDonalds.
In the back window of my VW I made a shrine,
My fish board and my son’s popsicle stick,
Stand at the ready, flanked by our helmets.
If and when the car dies, I’ll just hop on and go,
Push myself to the nearest bus stop or keep pushing,
The seven or so miles back to my house.
Not sure why I just don’t ride right now,
Even if just to take the bus for most of the route,
Nothing wrong with a little exercise.
The sidewalk look welcoming as I drive along,
Two blocks down and back to work,
I should have just skated there and back.
When you’re young and poor you just make do,
Work with what you got or what you find,
Older and not at all wiser, we waste and spend.
I choose the easier route and drive my car,
Even though it spits oil all over the place,
Driveway looks like the beach after the Valdez hit.
Half-expecting to have to clean off the cat,
And all the neighborhood bluejays and cardinals,
Save them from an oily death thanks to me.
So easy not to think not to consider the impact,
To just go along and not take responsibility,
Taking the route that everyone else does.
I wonder how much it would cost to mail,
A board half-way across the world to Thailand,
To my cousin’s children who have never been spoiled?
Never had the opportunity to overspend and abuse,
Take this life and land for granted,
Earned far less than what their labor is worth?
The developing world is far from ideal,
Corners are cut and laws evaded,
But what if I plant a seed right now?
What will grow and develop over time?
Broken board and busted trucks,
Can be replaced but not life—mine, theirs, ours.
This planet that I use and abuse,
Bangkok streets flooded with cars and taxis,
City sewers full of sludge emptied into the rivers.
This is a small thing I’m talking about,
Used discarded trucks and wheels,
Decks that have seen better days.
My trash and toss offs could be someone else’s treasure,
Used Etnies and Vans, Levis and cargo pants,
These could open the door and pave the way.
Jonno tells me about the Asian X Games,
Talks about the huge park in Kuala Lumpur,
Millions of third world kids looking for something new.
Brazilians have shown that they can shred,
Just as well as their North American cousins,
So why not Thais and Nigerians as well?
Sports have brought the world closer together,
A shared interest a shared love,
Skateboarding can be that bridge also.
Maybe moreso than any other sport,
Non-competitive in nature—about pushing one’s own self,
About exploring and exploding the boundaries.
Early morning trip to the ghetto gas station,
Got me thinking and scheming in a new direction,
Not at all what I had expected at the start.
Our culture and our products sell around the world,
Marlboro, Budweiser, Levis and mass production,
So why not help push, kick skateboarding to them as well?
Not from a corporate perspective but grassroots,
Get the youth involved and let it grow,
Give them a taste of what real freedom is about.
Remind myself what freedom is all about,
Stop taking this life this planet for granted,
Stop living day-to-day looking for another fix.
How can they hate us once they realize,
That they are us and we are they,
That to hate us is to hate themselves.
That we are all in this together,
To fix what we can we must work as one,
To carry on and carry forward pushing and kicking.

untitled

Driving home past the skatepark,
I see half a dozen skaters flippy trickin,
Hanging out on the deck.
40-some degrees today with sunshine,
a far cry from temps in the teens,
windchill in the single digits.
Snow is still on the ground,
Portions of the park are unskateable,
But the boy and I grab our boards and give it a try.
The concrete is fairly dry in spots,
Surprising because of the day’s melt-off,
But pleasantly so just the same.
Two of my favorite corners are snow-encrusted,
So we mess about on the banks,
Trying to carve on the roundwall instead.
The boy is hesitant doesn’t even want to try,
He’s walking around on the snow,
On the muddy frozen ground yawning.
Slowly and gently I talk him through the process,
I even ask another little grom for advice,
And he starts to carve little by little.
A quarter of the way then he bails,
Half-way there nose too high he bails,
Three-quarters of the way still too high he bails.
I have to translate from goofy to regular,
You gotta do the opposite of what I do,
Sounds funny but that’s what he’s gotta do.
My daughter and I are goofy foot,
Always trying to explain to him in regular,
Front-side back-side fakie is the opposite for you.
We take our turns waiting for the others,
Tight-pants wearing flippy trickers on popsicles,
To clear before we hit the roundwall.
Every now and again they hit the roundwall,
But they clear it ollie-ing over the top,
Never once carving that precious wall.
The boy finally relaxes and starts to have fun,
That’s all I wanted--wasn’t expecting him to grind the top,
Wasn’t expecting him to ollie and flippy-trick the wall.
But that’s my boy--sometimes too much like me,
Hiding from life/hiding from himself,
“Just ride the wall,” I say, but he over-thinks it.
I’ll explain it to him so he understands the concept,
Its all about physics—inertia, gravity, right up his alley,
But then it’s about practice and experiencing it for yourself.
So much like martial arts in that way,
And after you’ve mastered the move,
It has to become second-nature, instinctual, beyond thought.
I don’t expect him to simply drop-in,
Don’t expect him to do a trick with no practice,
He seems to think I expect too much.
I think he expects too little from himself,
Given enough time and practice and patience,
He will surprise himself and go beyond his expectations.
Understand the concept/practice the mechanics,
Learn from doing/sometimes by failing,
And then let her rip, son—hold on and see where you go.
December afternoon two weeks shy of winter,
Skatepark full of shredders searching for their stoke,
Ignoring the snow-covered landscape and looks of passers-by.
Dry concrete beckons us out of our wintery slumber,
Sunny warm day translates to packed skatepark,
Regardless of the season regardless of the calendar.

letter to my brother

Thirty years come tomorrow,
We always say “December 7th, 1976—a day that will live in infamy”
Just joking but the day is memorable just the same.
I remember a December snowstorm, Dad putting the suitcase in the car,
I think he was still driving the Firebird.
Or did he already sell it to Rusty’s buddy?
No, Firebird—red with a firebird logo on the hood,
Dad had to sell it to get a more family-friendly ride,
And also to take over grandpa’s car payments.
Grandpa died the fall after you were born,
Dad refused to let the loan company take the Buick,
Orange with tan tonneau ugly thing but grandpa’s.
Rusty would end up buying that car from dad,
When he opted for a K-Car station wagon,
Color wasn’t much better but new is new.
Uncle D picked me up at the hospital,
Then it was South Macomb now its St. John’s,
Twelve mile and Hoover.
I spent that snowy December night at Uncle D’s,
At their big house on Glenwood,
Just south of 7 Mile, just east of Hayes.
That big old house was our second home,
I can remember the summers spent there,
Family functions playing stick ball in the alley.
Dumpster –diving for treasures in that same alley,
Football games against the Jewish kids down the block,
Baseball games at Columbus Junior High’s gravel field.
Grandpa’s old brown rusted Dodge Duster parked out front,
Bri would end up painting that thing a shite brown,
With a paint roller, still trying to figure out why.
Bri and Matty busted out WWII model airplanes,
We stayed up all night waiting for you to make your entry,
Not sure where they got those but I ended up with them all.
Bri gave me that thick blue book you always saw me reading,
A history of WWII in photos and text,
Thirty years after the fact, in 1976.
It seemed like it was lifetimes removed from 1946 . . .
Long before any of us were born,
But now it’s been thirty years that you’ve been alive.
Seems like just yesterday or the day before that,
Doesn’t seem all that long ago to me at all,
Grandpa has passed, Rusty is gone, Rusty’s son is gone,
Uncles D and T both are now gone,
Several of the great-uncles have walked on as well.
They were war veterans fighting and surviving in the Pacific,
They were young men younger than either of us are now,
And they’ve lived through so much over these last 60 years.
Cultural, social upheavals and the loss of so many loved ones,
Thirty years from now, will you and I look back on our lives,
And feel proud of our accomplishments, proud of our progeny?
I never talked to the uncles about their lives, their experiences,
Never thanked them for their service to their country, community, family.
Our lives have been relatively quiet by comparison,
Our struggles have been largely personal or familial,
We’re post-war babies dealing with the more mundane.
Amer(Indian)-Asian kids trying to deal with the aftermath,
Of a war we were never part of or really understood,
We didn’t choose to be born when and where we were.
You and I understand that it is really all the same,
We never saw clear-cut distinctions between race and class,
Outsiders from the day that we were born,
But we represent something new and perhaps scary.
The same human family the same thoughts and feelings,
We are all survivors, all six billion plus on this planet,
All part of the divine creation, eyes and ears and senses,
All five, six senses of the creation, all of us, all of the time.
Someone asked me “where is the Internet?”
It almost sounds like a Zen koan for the 21st century,
The Net is everywhere, it is the totality of all these connections,
Throughout the world—the backbones, servers and specific ports.
We can choose to take the long view or the short view,
Depending on what you are looking for, Depending on what you hope to find.
The short view is that our father was born and raised in Detroit,
The son of parents who were Mohawk/Polish,
(still not sure about the whole Polish connection . . .),
Father who was from Tyendinaga, Grandfather from Akwesasne,
Descendents of the original Tyendinaga, Veterans of the French and Indian Wars,
The Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, The First World War, The Second World War,
By-products of the Vietnam War.
Our mother was born Isaan in northeastern Thailand,
Ethnically Lao but born/raised in Thailand,
Some one trekked across the Mekong River at some point,
Did they precede the Thai tribes in the region?
Were they pushed into the area by the Mongol Hordes?
Were they part of the Mon-Khmer empires?
The long view is that you and I and everyone shares,
Is part of the history of the entire human race,
That the only true boundaries are the ones we erect,
That we are all manifestations of the godhead.
We have our physical, mental limitations of course,
But we are much more than what we allow ourselves to be,
It makes us no better or no worse than anyone else,
The lowliest of sinners, the saintliest of the saints.
I have expressed a desire to be more positive,
To be and do good in a universe that allows for whatever,
Morally what I do to others I ultimately do to mySelf.
So that is my intention, my stand, what I hope to achieve,
I love my family as well you know, perhaps there are things that I do not like,
But I cannot dwell on things I cannot change.
I am proud and grateful for my birth and my family,
For my grandfathers, grandmothers, great-aunts and uncles,
Proud and happy that you are my brother.
My little baby-brother Jay-way that paved the way
For me to become a good father to my own children,
That taught me to love and care for something beyond mySelf.
My every day struggles remain the same,
Putting up with the co-workers, dealing with the monotony of work,
Cleaning the house, doing the dishes, doing the laundry, changing the cat litter.
At these times it is easier to be the thing that you are doing,
It’s not Tony or Jay cleaning the house, Cleaning the house is all there is,
To put your Self into the mix is to muddy it.
And there are other times that insist on your absolute presence,
Being with those that you love, speaking honestly
And openly about things of great importance to you.
Choose your own path brother, go boldly into the tomorrow that you wish to live,
Be your own guide and mentor.
Live and love each and everyday, for in the end what do we have,
What can we accomplish on this plane of existence?
To live and to experience the freshness of each new day,
To embrace the good with the bad and to persevere,
Despite all our problems, despite ourSelves.
Do not hate or regret those things in life that give you pause,
These things are destructive to you and to others,
State your case and let them go, and go on living and learning and growing.
Thirty years you have been my brother,
Thirty more and thirty after that I look forward to,
We are free to be what we want to be, the only thing holding us back is us,
The long view and the short view, both have their place.
Life is full of paradox and pain, happiness and joy,
I hope the rest of your days are filled with a little of everything,
I hope that you find what it is that you seek.
To live, to love, to be happy-
Those are the only things we can hope to achieve.
All else is just illusion, all else is meaningless.
Happy thirtieth birthday, my brother,
Treat yourSelf well on this day,
The day we welcomed you into this world,
Oh so long oh so soon ago,
Welcome to your world.

answer the question

I keep getting these chain-emails from my co-workers, not really sure why. They all know I'm not Christian, but they're always asking me to pray for them or somebody or don't break the chain or it'll give me bad luck . . . the really funny ones are the type that use some quote about karma or the ones that try to use pseudo-Buddhist philosphy. I got one that supposedly originated with the Dalai Lama about good fortune and all this other nonsense--I usually just delete them without responding-- but I filled one out, just for fun---

Answer the questions and forward to your friends AND the person who sent it to you! Just copy and paste into a new email, delete the original posters answers and add in your answers!

1. Egg Nog or Hot Chocolate? a little bit of Nog with my RUM

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree? He out sources to sweatshops throughout SouthEast Asia. Mostly underage children do all the work-- the elves unionized and got fired.

3. Colored lights on tree/house or white? Purple skulls still hanging from Halloween.

4. Do you hang mistletoe? Nope.

5. When do you put up your decorations? Halloween decorations, pretty much year-round.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish? Thai food.

7. Favorite Holiday memory? My older cousins ganged up on me at the family get-together, smacked me around a bit and I hit my head-- my old man grabbed me and threw me up against the wall and then dragged me out to the car, where I sat for an hour and a half in a freezing cold car in a bad part of Detroit while mom and dad got stinking drunk.

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa? My parents were pretty half-a$$ed about the whole thing since mom was Buddhist and dad was agnostic, so never really bought into that lie.

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? No. We don't do Christmas.

10. How do you decorate your Christmas tree? Trees are a Celtic/Druid symbol and I'm not Celtic/Druid so I don't do the tree thang. Of course, the Roman Emperor Constantine took the Festival of Saturnalia and transformed it into the Christmas celebration while incorporating the formerly underground church into said empire.

11. Snow! Love it or Dread it? Hate the krrrap, but the kids and I got snow skates (bigger than a skateboard, smaller than a snowboard, no bindings) so we're looking forward to the first big snow. Maybe we'll make a snow half-pipe in the yard if we get enough this winter.

12. Can you ice skate? Not very well. My 4-year-old is supposed to start skating lessons, but says he doesn't want to because "the ice is too slippery."

13. Do you remember your favorite gift? The one year where my old man passed out early in the evening cuz he was too drunk. He didn't smack me or my mom around that year--at least not til he sobered up.

14. What's the most important thing about the Holidays for you? Overtime.

15. What is your favorite Holiday Dessert? Whatever's cool with me.

16. What is your favorite holiday tradition? I used to run away when I was younger, now I just do a lot of overtime--kinda the same thing isn't it?

17. What tops your tree? We gots no stinkin tree . . .

18. Which do you prefer giving or receiving? Depends what we're talking about here . . . kind of a kinky question, ennit?

19. What is your favorite Christmas Song? "Father Christmas" by the Kinks: "Father Christmas, give us your money, we don't have time for your stupid toys . . . we'll beat you up if you don't hand it over . . ."

20. Candy Canes! Bah humbug . . .