I was sitting at work the other day, listening to Dinosaur Jr.’s Green Mind cd, and the student intern stopped by and picked up the case to check it out. He tells me Dinosaur Jr. is playing at a new local venue, just up the road from the state university. I inform him that he must be mistaken, no way, no how is Dinosaur Jr. playing in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the Midwest, a good decade after lead singer/guitarist/songwriter J. Mascis finally disbanded the group.
Never mind the fact that they had a reunion album/tour a year or so ago, no way were they going to be playing in my town. I guess they sold out the two shows they did down the road in Ann Arbor, at the legendary Blind Pig, but I thought the reunion was just a short-lived excursion. Another missed opportunity to catch one of my favorite hardcore/post-punk bands live in person.
Oh well, I never liked Ann Arbor all that much anyways.
I’ve been re-buying all my favorite cds from the mid-eighties to the mid-nineties lately—Husker Du, the Replacements, Sonic Youth, the Descendents, and Dinosaur Jr. among them. I just happened to be on a really big Dino kick of late—J.’s guitar playing and lyrics mirroring my mood on the eve of my fortieth birthday, I guess.
But then Tony, the student intern, comes back with a local rag that highlights musical and other happenings, and right there in black and white—Dinosaur Jr., playing TONIGHT. There was J. Mascis, long hair almost completely white, drummer Murph completely hair-free and bassist Lou Barlow (who went on to form Sebodoah and Folk Implosion), staring back at me.
I saw a few shows back in the day—Butthole Surfers, M.D.C., the Circle Jerks, etc.—saw some big name bands as well—Pink Floyd, Rush, Metallica, but never saw any of the bands that I was really passionate about. And all of a sudden, here was one of the biggies, just dropped into my lap unexpectedly.
And the worst part was that it was a week before payday, me totally penniless.
After some groveling, shouting and jumping around, my co-workers were nice enough to float some fundage. They probably were just trying to shut me up, but all the same, I was going to the show.
Now you have to understand that I never go anywhere by myself—not even the corner store or the gas station, not really sure why, but no one was interested in this band nor hanging out with me. Can’t say I blame them about the latter, but doesn’t anyone I know understand who these guys are?
In my mind, the whole alternative scene was built upon the blood and sweat of bands like Husker Du, Black Flag, the Replacements, the Pixies, Sonic Youth and Dinosaur Jr. Constant touring, limited airplay (other than on college radio stations), almost zero acknowledgement in the mainstream rock press, and limited commercial success were their reward—but bands like Nirvana, Green Day and what passes for punk these days, wouldn’t have happened if the Dinos and their contemporaries hadn’t paved the way for them.
I wanted to pay homage and give props to one of my heroes while I still could. Dinosaur Jr. could break up again tomorrow for all I know—and we all aren’t getting any younger. Maybe that’s what this whole thing is about with me, more than anything else. On the cusp of forty, all I think about are all the things I haven’t done and wish I had. I haven’t been published, haven’t even written that novel I had been planning, haven’t visited Thailand, haven’t pursued my master’s degree, and haven’t taken that cross-country trip . . . blah, blah, blah.
My list of things I wish I had done seems to get longer and longer everyday—but I can cross out seeing Dinosaur Jr. and can also cross out meeting J. Mascis. I met him and got to shake his hand, thanked him for all the great music and memories that he’s created for myself and others. Then I stood back and watched him play his Fender JazzMaster, in person, from less than ten feet away. I was alone, but surrounded by other admiring fans, bopping and grooving to familiar riffs rising above the sonic onslaught of the Marshall stack.
In the final analysis, what is there to say? I had a great time seeing a great band. It brought back good memories, but it also reminded me of how something so simple can bring me so much joy. J., Murph and Lou are all getting older—but so am I and everyone else, that’s kind of the way this whole life thing works.
Great music captures a moment or a feeling, and somehow one person conveys those feelings to someone else. Or someone can hear something and attach their own feelings and memories to a riff or a song. Either way, my ability to open myself to that experience had stagnated and seeing Dinosaur Jr awoke that feeling again. It feels good to be alive, albeit in an ever-changing (and ever-older) form.
I used to envy people like J. Mascis, but he’s probably got his own list of stuff he wishes he did, just from a different perspective. People like me live our lives inside our heads, maybe a little too much sometimes. If there is anything to envy, it’s the ability to put something out there to be judged and critiqued, without fear of how it affects your bottom line. Having the opportunity to do something you love and make a decent living from it seems like it would be a wonderful thing, but I’m sure it comes with its own baggage as well.
As a live band, Dinosaur Jr. hasn’t lost anything—J.’s guitar playing is phenomenal, Murph’s thudding drums shake you to the core and Lou’s bass playing—maybe the best I’ve ever seen. J. Mascis is a different person on stage, glasses off and hair tucked behind one ear, guitar at the ready and microphone in front of him. A couple of hundred people crowded in front of the stage, trying to get a glimpse of the band in action, many with cell phones and cameras in hand. The crowd was mostly in their twenties, but there were plenty of grey and bald heads bopping along to wave after wave of fuzzed out chordage.
J.’s vocals hide hesitatingly behind the wall of guitar noise and if you don’t know the words, you probably won’t understand a thing he’s saying, but then you probably wouldn’t be standing in the middle of a crowd of strangers listening to every nuanced chord progression, string bend, or arpeggio like it held the answers to life’s most vexing questions. As the band took the stage, Public Image Limited’s “Public Image” and Joy Division’s “Warsaw” set the tone and the timbre of the evening, dark figures adjusting the high hats and strapping on their guitars.
An hour and a half later, they whipped through an encore, playing “Freak Scene”, “I Feel the Pain of Everyone” and The Cure’s “Just like Heaven”. Confusion, angst, hope and love, all coiled around massive columns of sound and spinning away into the cold dark night. Note after note of songs old and new or freshly renewed by the time the crowd started spilling toward the exits, the band drenched in sweat, as they stood surveying the remains of their sonic carnage.
My ears were ringing as I walked to my car, and they would continue to do so for the next couple of days. The denseness of the sound followed me around wherever I went, normal everyday noises muffled. I really need to start wearing ear plugs to concerts (plenty in the crowd had them). If and when the opportunity arises again, hopefully I’ll be open to the experience. I’ll have to check out the internet to see if the Descendents or Sonic Youth are going to be playing somewhere in the state some time soon.
4.13.2009
3.19.2009
anticipation
Atop the rollercoaster just before the plunge,
On the lip of the quarterpipe just before you drop,
Waiting in the wings before you take the stage,
Walking down the hallway late again for class,
Toeing up to the starting line before the race,
All the same, the feeling still remains,
What am I waiting for, what churns my guts,
Butterflies feel like pterodactyls inside,
What’s the worse thing that could happen,
What is this fear, pumping through my veins,
Anticipation builds and feeds on itself,
Time and again, destroyed by false turmoil,
Nothing really there except what I’ve manufactured,
Round and round I go in ever-widening circles,
It’s all on the inside, nothing on the outside,
What’s left to save, what’s left that even matters,
Questions continue unabated, no easy answers,
Momentum builds, sweat pores from my armpits,
Fingers tingle and flesh becomes speckled,
Mind formations cloud my vision,
Breaths go shallow, and a trickle escapes,
Let it go, take that first step,
Cease the unknowing and find out,
Fail and correct, or hit the sweet spot,
Either/or, but at least it’s something concrete,
Fear of the what-ifs strangle and kill,
Just do, just go, just try, and just be,
Ego disappears, only the action remains,
Nothing left to ponder, nothing left to wonder,
No one to entertain pointless thoughts,
He’s streaking down the tracks,
Slamming board into the transition,
Strutting onto the stage,
Striding into the room,
Digging spikes into the asphalt.
On the lip of the quarterpipe just before you drop,
Waiting in the wings before you take the stage,
Walking down the hallway late again for class,
Toeing up to the starting line before the race,
All the same, the feeling still remains,
What am I waiting for, what churns my guts,
Butterflies feel like pterodactyls inside,
What’s the worse thing that could happen,
What is this fear, pumping through my veins,
Anticipation builds and feeds on itself,
Time and again, destroyed by false turmoil,
Nothing really there except what I’ve manufactured,
Round and round I go in ever-widening circles,
It’s all on the inside, nothing on the outside,
What’s left to save, what’s left that even matters,
Questions continue unabated, no easy answers,
Momentum builds, sweat pores from my armpits,
Fingers tingle and flesh becomes speckled,
Mind formations cloud my vision,
Breaths go shallow, and a trickle escapes,
Let it go, take that first step,
Cease the unknowing and find out,
Fail and correct, or hit the sweet spot,
Either/or, but at least it’s something concrete,
Fear of the what-ifs strangle and kill,
Just do, just go, just try, and just be,
Ego disappears, only the action remains,
Nothing left to ponder, nothing left to wonder,
No one to entertain pointless thoughts,
He’s streaking down the tracks,
Slamming board into the transition,
Strutting onto the stage,
Striding into the room,
Digging spikes into the asphalt.
3.13.2009
bop gun
(apologies to Parliament, George Clinton and Ice Cube)
Ready or not here I come, getting down just for the phunk of it
cold frozen morning, so sick of winter
longboard dreams, longboard wheels
longing for warm dry days, wishing for some big Sector 9's,
new day rising, spring just around the corner,
big phat wheels, sticking to the concrete,
gliding over the hubbas, catapault through the corners,
ready or not, knee deep, don't want no drama,
can imagine the sun on my skin, sweet on my bald head,
no place to go, nothing to do,
but just to find myself, find where i'm going,
getting down just for the phunk of it, getting down,
glide and push, trying to find the flow,
i'm gonna have some fun, handcuffs on yo mama,
swerving to miss some groms, swerving to miss some dude,
here's my chance to dance my way out of my constrictions,
ask the buffalo girl to go around the outside, one nation under a groove,
one nation on the board, one nation under the sun,
One nation and we're on the move, Get it on my good foot, good gawd
frantic sweat spills outta my skull, frantic chills shoot down my spine
a whole afternoon to undo the destruction of one winter
pressure's building, pressure's gonna blow
If you hear any noise, it's just me and the boys, Playin with our toys
skating with my kids, the very definition of bliss
Do not attempt to adjust your radio, There ain't nothin' wrong
hit the board, hit the crete, hit the bong,
dropping in, dropping out, falling out, falling down
Flashlight, red light, we don't like cops on the bike
no wrong no right, in this game of skate
do what feels good, ride till it feels tight
Hittin them dips, cd skips but I'm straight
As I bounce, rock, skate, now I'll toast to that
hit them hips, hit the half wall
throw in a boneless, watch me on the lip
watch me panic, watch me stall
So wide you can't get around it, So low you can't get under it, So high you can't get over it
gonna hit you with this bop gun, gonna hit me with this bop gun,
riding up and down, scraping skin as I go along,
Much more ba-e-ya-e-younce, Ice Cube comin' with the half ounce
sun up to sun down, don't let my fall down don't let me fall down,
Not Just Knee Deep, jeep fulla smog
take a deep breath, inhale exhale all there is
ride the long board, the new school and the old
Tear the roof of this mutha like we did last night, son
And hit you with the bop gun
ride on a piece of driftwood for all I care, slap some trucks on
grab onto your momma, let it all out let it go
One nation under a groove, Gettin down just for the funk of it
One nation and we're on the move, Nothin can stop us now
Ready or not here I come, getting down just for the phunk of it
cold frozen morning, so sick of winter
longboard dreams, longboard wheels
longing for warm dry days, wishing for some big Sector 9's,
new day rising, spring just around the corner,
big phat wheels, sticking to the concrete,
gliding over the hubbas, catapault through the corners,
ready or not, knee deep, don't want no drama,
can imagine the sun on my skin, sweet on my bald head,
no place to go, nothing to do,
but just to find myself, find where i'm going,
getting down just for the phunk of it, getting down,
glide and push, trying to find the flow,
i'm gonna have some fun, handcuffs on yo mama,
swerving to miss some groms, swerving to miss some dude,
here's my chance to dance my way out of my constrictions,
ask the buffalo girl to go around the outside, one nation under a groove,
one nation on the board, one nation under the sun,
One nation and we're on the move, Get it on my good foot, good gawd
frantic sweat spills outta my skull, frantic chills shoot down my spine
a whole afternoon to undo the destruction of one winter
pressure's building, pressure's gonna blow
If you hear any noise, it's just me and the boys, Playin with our toys
skating with my kids, the very definition of bliss
Do not attempt to adjust your radio, There ain't nothin' wrong
hit the board, hit the crete, hit the bong,
dropping in, dropping out, falling out, falling down
Flashlight, red light, we don't like cops on the bike
no wrong no right, in this game of skate
do what feels good, ride till it feels tight
Hittin them dips, cd skips but I'm straight
As I bounce, rock, skate, now I'll toast to that
hit them hips, hit the half wall
throw in a boneless, watch me on the lip
watch me panic, watch me stall
So wide you can't get around it, So low you can't get under it, So high you can't get over it
gonna hit you with this bop gun, gonna hit me with this bop gun,
riding up and down, scraping skin as I go along,
Much more ba-e-ya-e-younce, Ice Cube comin' with the half ounce
sun up to sun down, don't let my fall down don't let me fall down,
Not Just Knee Deep, jeep fulla smog
take a deep breath, inhale exhale all there is
ride the long board, the new school and the old
Tear the roof of this mutha like we did last night, son
And hit you with the bop gun
ride on a piece of driftwood for all I care, slap some trucks on
grab onto your momma, let it all out let it go
One nation under a groove, Gettin down just for the funk of it
One nation and we're on the move, Nothin can stop us now
mid-winter blues
My skateboards sit stacked on top of one another in the basement, thirsting for my attention, as I remain mired in the mid-winter doldrums. I finally found time to clean up from the last thaw, which now seems like a distant memory. A winter’s worth of ice and snow had melted within days and found its way between foundation cracks and bum rushed my over-worked sump pump to flood my basement floor.
Fresh snow now tumbles out of the sky, obscuring the concrete and the horizon.
Springtime holds bittersweet promise; I’ll be heading back on the board, for whatever it is worth. Another year older, more unfulfilled dreams to add to my arsenal, pocket full of regrets as I waste my days dreaming of tomorrow.
What potential lies with those seven-ply’s of maple? How much more can this body, these joints take? Just on the cusp of forty, but sometimes I feel so old. The board lies to me as I have done to so many others, including myself. She tells me I can harness the concrete, tells me that the bonds of gravity can be broken and tells me that I can recapture my lost youth.
What have I really lost, though? Being a has-been is not nearly as tragic as being a never-been. I have only given the absolute minimum required of her, just as I have with all my other loves. I feel like a fraud. A wannabe and a poser. Tallying another interesting story for no one to hear.
Lies to tell myself as the lights begin to dim. To make myself feel like I had lived a genuine life, even for just a moment. Just so I can pretend that I lived this life to the fullest and experienced the heights and depths of this finite existence.
I expect quick and easy gratification, easy categorization, and instant Nirvana without any true effort. But the truth is that the board does not lie and concrete hurts. One miscue, one lazy arrogant moment and bones are broken. Unmindful or preoccupied with useless nothings, I go tumbling down the bank. Slamming into the transition, wondering where it all went wrong.
I will make no more promises for now. I will ride that board when the spring finally comes along, some sweet long April morning in between the rains. I have nothing to prove to anyone else, just need to prove something to myself. Something remains unfinished between the board and me, some long forgotten oath after a sweat-drenched session or a bone-jarring slam.
Layers of skin left at the park, scars cut into my arms and knees, but I remain indebted. Some buried part of me screams for release and completion, anger and anguish beneath this sullen shell of a man. So much remains undone and unaccomplished.
Let me fly and float, cruise along the smoothness and teach me to cherish each pump and each breath. Open me to the sacred eternal now, open my smiling eyes and toothy grin, and unclench my face to the warm sun. One go round in this bag of skin, and still I wait, still I stand on the sidelines, watching and waiting, for who knows what.
There is only one moment, this moment, right now and here, and all our yesterdays and tomorrows collapsing into this razor’s edge of eternity. The living is bittersweet no matter what our individual stories are, so what choice is there but to be witnesses to this moment.
Brush the cobwebs from my trucks, spin the wheels and check the hardware,
endless summer in a single day. Brush the cobwebs from my mind; drag these old bones out onto the concrete park and let go, let go, free at last. Its time to skate boys, time to put all else aside, leaving the thinking to someone else, or another time or place.
Fresh snow now tumbles out of the sky, obscuring the concrete and the horizon.
Springtime holds bittersweet promise; I’ll be heading back on the board, for whatever it is worth. Another year older, more unfulfilled dreams to add to my arsenal, pocket full of regrets as I waste my days dreaming of tomorrow.
What potential lies with those seven-ply’s of maple? How much more can this body, these joints take? Just on the cusp of forty, but sometimes I feel so old. The board lies to me as I have done to so many others, including myself. She tells me I can harness the concrete, tells me that the bonds of gravity can be broken and tells me that I can recapture my lost youth.
What have I really lost, though? Being a has-been is not nearly as tragic as being a never-been. I have only given the absolute minimum required of her, just as I have with all my other loves. I feel like a fraud. A wannabe and a poser. Tallying another interesting story for no one to hear.
Lies to tell myself as the lights begin to dim. To make myself feel like I had lived a genuine life, even for just a moment. Just so I can pretend that I lived this life to the fullest and experienced the heights and depths of this finite existence.
I expect quick and easy gratification, easy categorization, and instant Nirvana without any true effort. But the truth is that the board does not lie and concrete hurts. One miscue, one lazy arrogant moment and bones are broken. Unmindful or preoccupied with useless nothings, I go tumbling down the bank. Slamming into the transition, wondering where it all went wrong.
I will make no more promises for now. I will ride that board when the spring finally comes along, some sweet long April morning in between the rains. I have nothing to prove to anyone else, just need to prove something to myself. Something remains unfinished between the board and me, some long forgotten oath after a sweat-drenched session or a bone-jarring slam.
Layers of skin left at the park, scars cut into my arms and knees, but I remain indebted. Some buried part of me screams for release and completion, anger and anguish beneath this sullen shell of a man. So much remains undone and unaccomplished.
Let me fly and float, cruise along the smoothness and teach me to cherish each pump and each breath. Open me to the sacred eternal now, open my smiling eyes and toothy grin, and unclench my face to the warm sun. One go round in this bag of skin, and still I wait, still I stand on the sidelines, watching and waiting, for who knows what.
There is only one moment, this moment, right now and here, and all our yesterdays and tomorrows collapsing into this razor’s edge of eternity. The living is bittersweet no matter what our individual stories are, so what choice is there but to be witnesses to this moment.
Brush the cobwebs from my trucks, spin the wheels and check the hardware,
endless summer in a single day. Brush the cobwebs from my mind; drag these old bones out onto the concrete park and let go, let go, free at last. Its time to skate boys, time to put all else aside, leaving the thinking to someone else, or another time or place.
sala
Parking lot semi-full as we pull in off the dirt road,
Red and gold rooftop glistens in the noonday sun,
Eagles and snakes atop the converted barn,
Now the main temple, represents heaven and earth,
Festival day at the Dhammasala, marking the monsoon season,
Half a world away, Buddhism amidst the cornfields.
Hustle and bustle over at the red pole barn,
As Thai cooks set up shop, temple boys run back and forth,
American boys born and bred, now immersed in Eastern orthodoxy,
Smiles on everyone’s face, Asian or otherwise,
The Dhamma does not discriminate, doesn’t care about race,
I walk past the monk’s residence to enjoy the view.
A gazebo off in the distance, trails disappear into trees,
A forest monastery in the heart of Michigan,
Fawn suckles from mom over in the high grass,
Meditation huts sit hidden back in the woods,
Up on high ground away from the stream,
Surrounded by silence and the shadows from the pines.
The stillness seeps into the subconscious,
Quieting thoughts and fears momentarily . . .
Red and gold rooftop glistens in the noonday sun,
Eagles and snakes atop the converted barn,
Now the main temple, represents heaven and earth,
Festival day at the Dhammasala, marking the monsoon season,
Half a world away, Buddhism amidst the cornfields.
Hustle and bustle over at the red pole barn,
As Thai cooks set up shop, temple boys run back and forth,
American boys born and bred, now immersed in Eastern orthodoxy,
Smiles on everyone’s face, Asian or otherwise,
The Dhamma does not discriminate, doesn’t care about race,
I walk past the monk’s residence to enjoy the view.
A gazebo off in the distance, trails disappear into trees,
A forest monastery in the heart of Michigan,
Fawn suckles from mom over in the high grass,
Meditation huts sit hidden back in the woods,
Up on high ground away from the stream,
Surrounded by silence and the shadows from the pines.
The stillness seeps into the subconscious,
Quieting thoughts and fears momentarily . . .
sump pump
Cold water rushing spinning spitting
I hear it dripping in dark corners
Covering up the tiles and the piles
Clothes and blankets water logged
Impeding the flow to the sump pump
Which gurgles and gasps and spits
Drain clogged by unknown unseen sludge
Cold clean water seeps through the pipes
Hear it drip and splash and flush
Through concrete walls falling on tiles
Somewhere in the dark wet earth
Before it pours into the pit
Before it seeps into the basement
Covering old toys and books
Extension cords and shoes
The cycle of wet and dry
Begins to rot the fibers
Blown into the air by the fan
Sick again sick again
World spins away in a deluge
Drenched and soaking choking
Powerless before nature’s might
Huddled in blankets through the cold dark night
Let me sleep let me sleep
Wake me when it is all fixed
Wake me when it is all done
Water-borne damage just too much
Where to even start where to begin
Just feel like giving up
Fighting to stay afloat
One more day one more chance
Somehow something might just turn out
I hear it dripping in dark corners
Covering up the tiles and the piles
Clothes and blankets water logged
Impeding the flow to the sump pump
Which gurgles and gasps and spits
Drain clogged by unknown unseen sludge
Cold clean water seeps through the pipes
Hear it drip and splash and flush
Through concrete walls falling on tiles
Somewhere in the dark wet earth
Before it pours into the pit
Before it seeps into the basement
Covering old toys and books
Extension cords and shoes
The cycle of wet and dry
Begins to rot the fibers
Blown into the air by the fan
Sick again sick again
World spins away in a deluge
Drenched and soaking choking
Powerless before nature’s might
Huddled in blankets through the cold dark night
Let me sleep let me sleep
Wake me when it is all fixed
Wake me when it is all done
Water-borne damage just too much
Where to even start where to begin
Just feel like giving up
Fighting to stay afloat
One more day one more chance
Somehow something might just turn out
12.22.2008
wants
I'm not sure what i really want, maybe that would be a good starting point,
huh? I want silly stuff overall, like sticky rice every day, along with sickly
sweet soda pop, something Thai or lao, just so I can have some small connection to thatforgotten part of myself. I'd like to write like Lester Bangs, or Hunter S. Thompson, or somebody like that, except I want to sound like me, except cooler, I wish the clutter was gone as well, but something about kids, don't think it's going to happen anytime soon, I want to stop wanting, but know deep down that I never will,,,
and i knew that way back when, Writing Down the Bones was given to me in high school by someone who saw my need,but i keep trying to run from it, some stoopid thing about self-worth and all that,but ignoring that part of myself doesn't make it go away, only makes it stronger, and Lester--he's the voice i hear in my head, have heard it since maybe 1980, when my cousin introduced me to "Creem" magazine--made in Detroit,way before I ever read Rolling Stone or Thrasher or Spin--
huh? I want silly stuff overall, like sticky rice every day, along with sickly
sweet soda pop, something Thai or lao, just so I can have some small connection to thatforgotten part of myself. I'd like to write like Lester Bangs, or Hunter S. Thompson, or somebody like that, except I want to sound like me, except cooler, I wish the clutter was gone as well, but something about kids, don't think it's going to happen anytime soon, I want to stop wanting, but know deep down that I never will,,,
and i knew that way back when, Writing Down the Bones was given to me in high school by someone who saw my need,but i keep trying to run from it, some stoopid thing about self-worth and all that,but ignoring that part of myself doesn't make it go away, only makes it stronger, and Lester--he's the voice i hear in my head, have heard it since maybe 1980, when my cousin introduced me to "Creem" magazine--made in Detroit,way before I ever read Rolling Stone or Thrasher or Spin--
snow day (kicked in the head)
By the time I woke up this morning, four or five inches of snow had already deposited itself all over the landscape. My wife tells me that they are expecting another inch an hour through noon, so I should run to the store before it gets any worse. I also need to go buy a shovel since the my little guy snapped the other one in half the other day. Apparently, E was trying to build a mountain in the yard, so he wouldn’t have to walk three whole blocks to the sledding hill.
The weather was pretty bad, I think I drove to the store at the height of the storm—visibility was about an eighth of a mile and the snow plows hadn’t come through yet. Added to the mess was the fact that my wipers and tires are all shot, so I was fishtailing every which way, so I no idea where I was going. I had to guess at where to turn—couldn’t really see the streets or driveways all that well, but everything still seemed to work out.
Z-man and I stopped off at the Asian food mart to grab some goodies and there was only one other car in the parking lot, which was pretty treacherous to begin with. I bought my usual—Vietnamese rice noodle soup-which tastes exactly like Thai rice noodle soup-and fixings (meatballs, holy basil) for perhaps the second or third greatest meal ever invented. The best is and will always be a traditional Lao offering of sticky rice, laab (a ground meat dish mixed with various spices), papaya salad and fried chicken.
We feasted after we zigzagged home through the unplowed streets, laughing at one of the neighbors who missed his driveway completely and ditched his minivan. Little E even ate with us—surprising since he’s usually a mac and cheese kind of guy. The boys and I went and cleared the driveway and the patio behind the house after our repast. Actually, it was just me and Z--E was busy rolling around in the snow and playing with his Tonka trucks.
Z and I recruited Bess to come out and play football with us once we were done, an idea that seemed really good at the time, but proved to be anything but after further reflection. For one thing, the snow was so deep that it was over the tops of my boots and it kept funneling in and soaking my socks. The other thing is Z ended up stepping on my face, he had beat me to the corner and managed to slip out of my arms as I was trying to wrap him up. I was falling and flailing after his legs when his foot shot down, searching for terra firma, but instead it found the bottom half of my face.
It felt like someone punched my right in the mouth, which makes sense I guess. The funny thing is that it didn’t feel like a kick to the head, which it was in a way, but painful all the same. Good old smash mouth football in six inches of snow. The bonus part was that I got to keep all of my teeth; my parents spent way too much money for me to be coughing up teeth over a little backyard football game.
We had even more family fun when I tried leaving for work, both lips fat from their recent meeting with the sole of Z’s Asics and a bruise forming on the chin. I shot out into the street from our freshly cleared driveway only to get stuck as soon as I had reversed. I would give the car some gas and lurch forward, only to get stuck a few feet further up. I kept this up for about 10 minutes, managing to get a half a block down the street.
I ran back to the house, cigarette dangling from my mouth, and had Z, Bess and my wife throw on their winter gear to help push the car. I don’t know if the front-wheel drive or the weight of the Saturn was the culprit, but we basically pushed that thing for three blocks. My Olds Cutlass would have lumbered through all that snow without much trouble, but my plastic excuse of a car could barely make it five feet at a time.
The main streets weren’t that bad compared to my street, but driving was still no picnic. I passed three accidents on Michigan Ave. and it seemed like most of the driveways going into stores or gas stations were still clotted with snow flung from the plows. City streets were worse than the suburbs, but that’s pretty much expected by now, and everyone was going below the speed limit, a rarity in these parts.
I’m not sure how much snow actually fell, my guess would be seven to eight inches, guessing by the high top fade made of snow atop one of my coworker’s cars. He’s one of those people who only clear off the windows and hood, leaving a pile on top of the passenger area and the trunk. I always thought that looked kind of funny, and it’s a bear if you’re driving behind a car like that when the snow decides to take a suicide jump at your windshield just for kicks.
All in all, not a bad snow day for the kids, I suppose. My daughter and I even played guitar for a minute, I was showing her the chords to the Ramones’ “I Just Want To Have Something To Do” and “I Believe In Miracles.” I tuned my top E string down to D, so we-she-I can hit the power chords easier. One finger on one fret, three strings is all you need. I could use a better amplifier or even a better guitar to truly hear the notes, but we’re still working on that. It’s only taken me-us-we eleven months to get that far, but I think its going well, that geetar crunch makes most of the other stuff seem not so important.
I hope my kids will look back at some of these experiences and get a chuckle out of it. How many times do you get to push a car three blocks through the snow, or get to splurge on a Thai/Vietnamese meal, or step on your father’s face playing football, or figure out a guitar riff? For all my whining and complaining, I like my life, really enjoy the moments with the kids. I hope they do too, I’m sure they’d let me know if they didn’t, or at least hope that they would let me know. It’s better than a kick in the head, I suppose, but even that doesn’t have to be a bad thing either.
The weather was pretty bad, I think I drove to the store at the height of the storm—visibility was about an eighth of a mile and the snow plows hadn’t come through yet. Added to the mess was the fact that my wipers and tires are all shot, so I was fishtailing every which way, so I no idea where I was going. I had to guess at where to turn—couldn’t really see the streets or driveways all that well, but everything still seemed to work out.
Z-man and I stopped off at the Asian food mart to grab some goodies and there was only one other car in the parking lot, which was pretty treacherous to begin with. I bought my usual—Vietnamese rice noodle soup-which tastes exactly like Thai rice noodle soup-and fixings (meatballs, holy basil) for perhaps the second or third greatest meal ever invented. The best is and will always be a traditional Lao offering of sticky rice, laab (a ground meat dish mixed with various spices), papaya salad and fried chicken.
We feasted after we zigzagged home through the unplowed streets, laughing at one of the neighbors who missed his driveway completely and ditched his minivan. Little E even ate with us—surprising since he’s usually a mac and cheese kind of guy. The boys and I went and cleared the driveway and the patio behind the house after our repast. Actually, it was just me and Z--E was busy rolling around in the snow and playing with his Tonka trucks.
Z and I recruited Bess to come out and play football with us once we were done, an idea that seemed really good at the time, but proved to be anything but after further reflection. For one thing, the snow was so deep that it was over the tops of my boots and it kept funneling in and soaking my socks. The other thing is Z ended up stepping on my face, he had beat me to the corner and managed to slip out of my arms as I was trying to wrap him up. I was falling and flailing after his legs when his foot shot down, searching for terra firma, but instead it found the bottom half of my face.
It felt like someone punched my right in the mouth, which makes sense I guess. The funny thing is that it didn’t feel like a kick to the head, which it was in a way, but painful all the same. Good old smash mouth football in six inches of snow. The bonus part was that I got to keep all of my teeth; my parents spent way too much money for me to be coughing up teeth over a little backyard football game.
We had even more family fun when I tried leaving for work, both lips fat from their recent meeting with the sole of Z’s Asics and a bruise forming on the chin. I shot out into the street from our freshly cleared driveway only to get stuck as soon as I had reversed. I would give the car some gas and lurch forward, only to get stuck a few feet further up. I kept this up for about 10 minutes, managing to get a half a block down the street.
I ran back to the house, cigarette dangling from my mouth, and had Z, Bess and my wife throw on their winter gear to help push the car. I don’t know if the front-wheel drive or the weight of the Saturn was the culprit, but we basically pushed that thing for three blocks. My Olds Cutlass would have lumbered through all that snow without much trouble, but my plastic excuse of a car could barely make it five feet at a time.
The main streets weren’t that bad compared to my street, but driving was still no picnic. I passed three accidents on Michigan Ave. and it seemed like most of the driveways going into stores or gas stations were still clotted with snow flung from the plows. City streets were worse than the suburbs, but that’s pretty much expected by now, and everyone was going below the speed limit, a rarity in these parts.
I’m not sure how much snow actually fell, my guess would be seven to eight inches, guessing by the high top fade made of snow atop one of my coworker’s cars. He’s one of those people who only clear off the windows and hood, leaving a pile on top of the passenger area and the trunk. I always thought that looked kind of funny, and it’s a bear if you’re driving behind a car like that when the snow decides to take a suicide jump at your windshield just for kicks.
All in all, not a bad snow day for the kids, I suppose. My daughter and I even played guitar for a minute, I was showing her the chords to the Ramones’ “I Just Want To Have Something To Do” and “I Believe In Miracles.” I tuned my top E string down to D, so we-she-I can hit the power chords easier. One finger on one fret, three strings is all you need. I could use a better amplifier or even a better guitar to truly hear the notes, but we’re still working on that. It’s only taken me-us-we eleven months to get that far, but I think its going well, that geetar crunch makes most of the other stuff seem not so important.
I hope my kids will look back at some of these experiences and get a chuckle out of it. How many times do you get to push a car three blocks through the snow, or get to splurge on a Thai/Vietnamese meal, or step on your father’s face playing football, or figure out a guitar riff? For all my whining and complaining, I like my life, really enjoy the moments with the kids. I hope they do too, I’m sure they’d let me know if they didn’t, or at least hope that they would let me know. It’s better than a kick in the head, I suppose, but even that doesn’t have to be a bad thing either.
12.08.2008
blood memory
The sound hits me as I walk down the hallway, the thump thump thump of the drum, eight drumsticks smacking over the taught leather, wrapped around a cedar body. I feel the drumbeats in my chest, keeping time with my heartbeat, calling me into the large ballroom, past the low-slung couches and the carpeted lounge.
Curious students turn toward the large double doors, trying to determine what the sound means, but it calls to me, and my steps quicken on the polished faux-marble floor. Looking into the room, I see a group of people huddled around the drum, others mingling around the rows of maroon covered chairs facing the podium. The sound pulls me through the doors, toward the drum, voices now sing in unison, as one lone falsetto breaks through and rises above the rest. Unintelligible vocables fill the air, heyas and other phrases, so full of meaning despite the fact that I can’t translate any of it.
Blood memory rushes forward, the sound envelopes and surrounds me, welcomes me home. One lone singer hits the animal skin with hard even honor beats, thud thud thud, like exclamation points, stressing the importance of the moment while the others keep time lightly.
I find my friend sitting in the front row, microphone and recorder in hand, but I have no words for her, just a look, face flushed and happily anxious for what comes next. I see some familiar faces from years past, go and reintroduce myself, get some of the background info for my article as the crowd, all of whom were standing, begins to fill up the chairs.
The students make a few announcements, take care of some housekeeping issues, welcome their esteemed speakers, etc . . . then ‘she’ walks up to the podium. Jet-black hair pulled back, easy confidence all over her face, black t-shirt and jeans, smitten from the very first. “Who is that?” Familiar refrain whenever caught off guard, intrigued, curious, frightened.
When everything has been said, the story of the first Thanksgiving, what it means to American Indian peoples, all things I had read or heard before, but never so vibrantly, I tell my friend to interview the mystery girl, but she freezes, says she can’t. I take her recorder and microphone, corner mystery girl, and ask to interview her, afraid that my article is quickly slipping away.
I throw the usual questions—who, what, why, when—visualizing my inverted pyramid in my mind, piecing together the article in my mind. The easy laughter, the confidence again, can’t take my eyes off of her, I nod when I think it appropriate, but I’m not listening to the words so much as listen to her body.
Smitten, flushed, love or longing, whatever it is, on first sight. Not that I’m a believer, but there it is, and was, but something stronger than sense pulled to me. Maybe the future was calling to me, my children, the binojiinhs, but I stammered my thanks and ran the other way. The article wrestled with me throughout the night, but I finally spit it out, wrote it all down on my old electric typewriter, quoting from the tape and listening to the drum songs repeatedly.
We’d meet again the next fall, and that time I was unable to escape, a cold September night when I surrendered to fate. Not that I regret any of it, but I was busy trying to become something else, trying to chase the middle class dream, when she awakened something else within me.
The blood memory, the call of past and the future simultaneously, learning more about my own culture and my self than I had ever hoped to before. My father’s family embraced assimilation and left their past firmly in the past, but my wife’s family lived their lives differently. They were on the front lines fighting for sovereignty and rights—religious, cultural, spiritual, political and otherwise. Things that some Indians now take for granted, things that they take as something that is owed to them.
The circle felt complete, felt as if I finally found where I belonged, but this kind of growth never comes easily. The outside person was never the point, the surface reality nothing but a front, the inner work much harder but far more long lasting. My beliefs have to be based on the experiential; just taking something that I had read or heard isn’t good enough.
That evening program in November of 1990 seems a lifetime away, in some ways it was several lifetimes ago for me, but it was the start of my real life. The things that I have done and the places that I have gone since then all started with the drumbeat and the sight of my wife. There are still many things that still need to be done, still other experiences to be had, and sometimes I forget why I started this journey to begin with, but moments of absolute clarity are precious.
The song that the drum was singing that night was the American Indian Movement song—composed by members during their standoff with the U.S. Army at the Wounded Knee compound in South Dakota in the early seventies. It’s a call for pan-Indian solidarity in the face of outside political and cultural pressure from the government and other outside forces.
My focus isn’t that universal these days, more time and energy is devoted to familial issues, but that is as it should be. My two teenagers are almost ready to go out into the world and I need to teach them who and what they are. Rooted in the past, but living in the present, planning for the future. My little one still has years of hanging out with mom and dad before he faces the same thing.
My children come from a long line of strong people—Webkamigad, who fled northern Michigan and canoed to Manitoulin Island (the dwelling place of the Spirit)—Pamptopee, who escaped the U.S. Army and forced relocation to Nebraska, then walked back to Michigan—Tyendinaga, colonel in the British Army and leader of the Mohawks during the Revolutionary War and their forced relocation to Ontario afterward.
We survived despite the government’s attempts to annihilate and later, assimilate us. This isn’t about bitterness—this is about strength of character, strength of belief, strength of culture. These are their ancestors and they should be proud of where they came from, have faith in where they are going. Their hard-fought sacrifices and victories should not be forgotten, it makes us who we are as a people.
I spent most of my youth knowing next to nothing about my own culture or history. I only saw Indians on old fifties movies or shows and we were either the enemy or a superfluous sidekick. My image of who I was provided to me by the ancestors of those who usurped and displaced us.
The blood memory does not forget—Americans measure things in centuries, but we measure time in millennia. The first European is believed to have reached the Great Lakes some four hundred years ago, but the bones and artifacts of our people litter this area and have done so for over ten thousand years.
Curious students turn toward the large double doors, trying to determine what the sound means, but it calls to me, and my steps quicken on the polished faux-marble floor. Looking into the room, I see a group of people huddled around the drum, others mingling around the rows of maroon covered chairs facing the podium. The sound pulls me through the doors, toward the drum, voices now sing in unison, as one lone falsetto breaks through and rises above the rest. Unintelligible vocables fill the air, heyas and other phrases, so full of meaning despite the fact that I can’t translate any of it.
Blood memory rushes forward, the sound envelopes and surrounds me, welcomes me home. One lone singer hits the animal skin with hard even honor beats, thud thud thud, like exclamation points, stressing the importance of the moment while the others keep time lightly.
I find my friend sitting in the front row, microphone and recorder in hand, but I have no words for her, just a look, face flushed and happily anxious for what comes next. I see some familiar faces from years past, go and reintroduce myself, get some of the background info for my article as the crowd, all of whom were standing, begins to fill up the chairs.
The students make a few announcements, take care of some housekeeping issues, welcome their esteemed speakers, etc . . . then ‘she’ walks up to the podium. Jet-black hair pulled back, easy confidence all over her face, black t-shirt and jeans, smitten from the very first. “Who is that?” Familiar refrain whenever caught off guard, intrigued, curious, frightened.
When everything has been said, the story of the first Thanksgiving, what it means to American Indian peoples, all things I had read or heard before, but never so vibrantly, I tell my friend to interview the mystery girl, but she freezes, says she can’t. I take her recorder and microphone, corner mystery girl, and ask to interview her, afraid that my article is quickly slipping away.
I throw the usual questions—who, what, why, when—visualizing my inverted pyramid in my mind, piecing together the article in my mind. The easy laughter, the confidence again, can’t take my eyes off of her, I nod when I think it appropriate, but I’m not listening to the words so much as listen to her body.
Smitten, flushed, love or longing, whatever it is, on first sight. Not that I’m a believer, but there it is, and was, but something stronger than sense pulled to me. Maybe the future was calling to me, my children, the binojiinhs, but I stammered my thanks and ran the other way. The article wrestled with me throughout the night, but I finally spit it out, wrote it all down on my old electric typewriter, quoting from the tape and listening to the drum songs repeatedly.
We’d meet again the next fall, and that time I was unable to escape, a cold September night when I surrendered to fate. Not that I regret any of it, but I was busy trying to become something else, trying to chase the middle class dream, when she awakened something else within me.
The blood memory, the call of past and the future simultaneously, learning more about my own culture and my self than I had ever hoped to before. My father’s family embraced assimilation and left their past firmly in the past, but my wife’s family lived their lives differently. They were on the front lines fighting for sovereignty and rights—religious, cultural, spiritual, political and otherwise. Things that some Indians now take for granted, things that they take as something that is owed to them.
The circle felt complete, felt as if I finally found where I belonged, but this kind of growth never comes easily. The outside person was never the point, the surface reality nothing but a front, the inner work much harder but far more long lasting. My beliefs have to be based on the experiential; just taking something that I had read or heard isn’t good enough.
That evening program in November of 1990 seems a lifetime away, in some ways it was several lifetimes ago for me, but it was the start of my real life. The things that I have done and the places that I have gone since then all started with the drumbeat and the sight of my wife. There are still many things that still need to be done, still other experiences to be had, and sometimes I forget why I started this journey to begin with, but moments of absolute clarity are precious.
The song that the drum was singing that night was the American Indian Movement song—composed by members during their standoff with the U.S. Army at the Wounded Knee compound in South Dakota in the early seventies. It’s a call for pan-Indian solidarity in the face of outside political and cultural pressure from the government and other outside forces.
My focus isn’t that universal these days, more time and energy is devoted to familial issues, but that is as it should be. My two teenagers are almost ready to go out into the world and I need to teach them who and what they are. Rooted in the past, but living in the present, planning for the future. My little one still has years of hanging out with mom and dad before he faces the same thing.
My children come from a long line of strong people—Webkamigad, who fled northern Michigan and canoed to Manitoulin Island (the dwelling place of the Spirit)—Pamptopee, who escaped the U.S. Army and forced relocation to Nebraska, then walked back to Michigan—Tyendinaga, colonel in the British Army and leader of the Mohawks during the Revolutionary War and their forced relocation to Ontario afterward.
We survived despite the government’s attempts to annihilate and later, assimilate us. This isn’t about bitterness—this is about strength of character, strength of belief, strength of culture. These are their ancestors and they should be proud of where they came from, have faith in where they are going. Their hard-fought sacrifices and victories should not be forgotten, it makes us who we are as a people.
I spent most of my youth knowing next to nothing about my own culture or history. I only saw Indians on old fifties movies or shows and we were either the enemy or a superfluous sidekick. My image of who I was provided to me by the ancestors of those who usurped and displaced us.
The blood memory does not forget—Americans measure things in centuries, but we measure time in millennia. The first European is believed to have reached the Great Lakes some four hundred years ago, but the bones and artifacts of our people litter this area and have done so for over ten thousand years.
12.06.2008
the edge
I’ve been to the edge several times, the first was right around my twentieth birthday.
I was shattered—everything that I had ever believed in or thought was true had turned out to be a lie.
My life was a lie. Life was a lie. No God, no truth, no reason, no hope.
Taking any action was out of the question. It would have meant that it did matter to me. And nothing mattered to me at that place and time.
So I did nothing for awhile, hoping to die but not wanting to do so by my own hand. I slept a lot, but sleep was fitful at best. I barely ate and only did when I was beyond hungry. I pulled a whole baked chicken out of the trash one night at the boarding house I was staying at—I’m not at all sure why someone had thrown it away, but I could smell it and I dug through the trash and stood and ate it there in the dimly lit basement kitchen.
I think was living on ramen, Faygo and Hostess snacks for a week or so, until I noticed a sign in the window at BB’s saying they were hiring dishwashers. I had been washing dishes at the dorm before they kicked me out and fired me at the same time. I was dirty and felt like a loser, I could barely look anyone in the eye, so was surprised when BT hired me for the job on the spot. Maybe he felt sorry for me, maybe I was just sober enough, either way it meant a free meal at least once a day.
A strange thing happened when I starting working at BB’s—I stopped talking, or never really started. I didn’t have anything to say, so I said close to nothing for the first month. BB’s was populated with a mostly bohemian crowd, most of whom were a little older than me. Sarcasm was a skill that they all possessed and practiced on each other with gusto. I didn’t participate and barely acknowledged their existence—I soon became the butt of their jokes and jibes, but I still ignored them.
The biggest thing was that I felt everything was pointless—I just showed up and did the dishes because I wanted to eat. Effort of any kind was really useless, since life itself was meaningless, a series of happy accidents that somehow spit us all out into the universe. Desiring, wanting, achieving—it was all pointless, so I didn’t even try. Some of the things that went on in the kitchen were hilarious so I couldn’t help but smile or laugh, but for the most part I was stuck in my own head, closed off to the outside.
I was reading a lot of mystical Buddhist literature at the time, each new book held the possibility of answers to the big questions, offered a possible way out of my conundrum. The hallucinogenics didn’t help, however, especially when I was at work. I finally gave up on all of it, writing all of it off as “brain candy,” amusing but ultimately pointless. Like a dog chasing its tail, until it finally realizes that the tail is his own, I took the deep esoteric teachings as a kind of joke—the answer was simply, “Live!”
So I started living, a little bit at a time, but I couldn’t live for myself, so I started living for Janette Griffith. It was a cop out in a way, but I wanted what she had—good grades, a good family and a sense of purpose that was missing in my own life. I wish I hadn’t latched onto Janette—it wasn’t fair to her and wasn’t beneficial to me either. My happiness became dependent upon her, or co-dependent really. Instead of forging my own path, growing and learning, I had created a new cocoon.
I was shattered—everything that I had ever believed in or thought was true had turned out to be a lie.
My life was a lie. Life was a lie. No God, no truth, no reason, no hope.
Taking any action was out of the question. It would have meant that it did matter to me. And nothing mattered to me at that place and time.
So I did nothing for awhile, hoping to die but not wanting to do so by my own hand. I slept a lot, but sleep was fitful at best. I barely ate and only did when I was beyond hungry. I pulled a whole baked chicken out of the trash one night at the boarding house I was staying at—I’m not at all sure why someone had thrown it away, but I could smell it and I dug through the trash and stood and ate it there in the dimly lit basement kitchen.
I think was living on ramen, Faygo and Hostess snacks for a week or so, until I noticed a sign in the window at BB’s saying they were hiring dishwashers. I had been washing dishes at the dorm before they kicked me out and fired me at the same time. I was dirty and felt like a loser, I could barely look anyone in the eye, so was surprised when BT hired me for the job on the spot. Maybe he felt sorry for me, maybe I was just sober enough, either way it meant a free meal at least once a day.
A strange thing happened when I starting working at BB’s—I stopped talking, or never really started. I didn’t have anything to say, so I said close to nothing for the first month. BB’s was populated with a mostly bohemian crowd, most of whom were a little older than me. Sarcasm was a skill that they all possessed and practiced on each other with gusto. I didn’t participate and barely acknowledged their existence—I soon became the butt of their jokes and jibes, but I still ignored them.
The biggest thing was that I felt everything was pointless—I just showed up and did the dishes because I wanted to eat. Effort of any kind was really useless, since life itself was meaningless, a series of happy accidents that somehow spit us all out into the universe. Desiring, wanting, achieving—it was all pointless, so I didn’t even try. Some of the things that went on in the kitchen were hilarious so I couldn’t help but smile or laugh, but for the most part I was stuck in my own head, closed off to the outside.
I was reading a lot of mystical Buddhist literature at the time, each new book held the possibility of answers to the big questions, offered a possible way out of my conundrum. The hallucinogenics didn’t help, however, especially when I was at work. I finally gave up on all of it, writing all of it off as “brain candy,” amusing but ultimately pointless. Like a dog chasing its tail, until it finally realizes that the tail is his own, I took the deep esoteric teachings as a kind of joke—the answer was simply, “Live!”
So I started living, a little bit at a time, but I couldn’t live for myself, so I started living for Janette Griffith. It was a cop out in a way, but I wanted what she had—good grades, a good family and a sense of purpose that was missing in my own life. I wish I hadn’t latched onto Janette—it wasn’t fair to her and wasn’t beneficial to me either. My happiness became dependent upon her, or co-dependent really. Instead of forging my own path, growing and learning, I had created a new cocoon.
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