Cheer

I got called into the Boss' office today. It was a good visit.

I was asked to give a little bit of background about myself and describe why I would be a good office supervisor (I have been supervising the office for two weeks already)...it was just a formality interview, I was told right away that my promotion would go into effect Monday.

I had been expecting it but it was good to finally hear it from On High. My job duties won't be different, I have been serving as supervisor already, the only real change will be in my paycheck...and better parking. And a key. And PC access. But mainly the paycheck. And a sense of pride- I set my sights on this particular job months ago and had all but given up when I was called and offered a lesser position. Now I have the job that I wanted in the first place.
Success!

Tomorrow The Twin will arrive and we'll visit relatives in town.

The Twin has been at Dad's (it feels strange calling it Dad's, it was always my grandmother's) house for a couple of days and the Twin has barely seen Dad. We guess he's holed away upstairs, drinking alone. Twin had a argument with him about Christmas- he wanted Dad to participate- but Dad declared that he wanted to stay at home, alone. Dad really hurts my brother - Twin drove 800 miles to visit and the first thing he had to do was clean the kitchen. Then an argument with Dad, followed by more cleaning. Dad would rather drink than see his son. It's beyond sad.

Dad has placed himself under a sort of Alcoholic House Arrest. He can leave the house enough to purchase booze and prepared foods, but leaving the house long enough to sober up is out of the question. By nightfall, he is invariably too drunk to walk, much less drive. He has chosen to live under a curfew of his own design.

I guess I should be sad or lonely or angry and maybe I am- a little- but mostly I'm happy and looking forward to seeing my brother again- and to my two radio shows this weekend- and to my 'new' job after that- it feels good to be looking forward again, period.

Have Happy Days!

Rabies on an Upswing

Do possums attack people? I sure as hell hope so.

****************************************************


Animism:

1.	the belief that natural objects, natural phenomena, and the universe itself possess souls.

2.	the belief that natural objects have souls that may exist apart from their material bodies.

3.	the doctrine that the soul is the principle of life and health.

4.	belief in spiritual beings or agencies.

Secular:

1.	of or pertaining to worldly things or to things that are not regarded as religious, spiritual, or sacred; temporal.

2.	not pertaining to or connected with religion.

I have combined these two disparate concepts into a unified whole, a belief system that works for me : Secular Animism.

Dude, you might say, that doesn't make any sense.

It doesn't have to make sense. That's where this comes in handy...

Faith:

1. Confident belief in the truth, value, or trustworthiness of a person, idea, or thing.
2. Belief that does not rest on logical proof or material evidence.

I suppose Secular Animism could be defined thusly:

1. the belief that natural objects, natural phenomena, and the universe itself exist.

This, I admit, is a pretty dull foundation for a religion. In fact, when you take animism and strip away all the parts about 'souls' and spirituality, you are essentially left with little more than science, which can be dreadfully academic. Science also requires proof, which tends to preclude faith.
Proof is also hard work, so we will exclude it and leave science to Dr. Moreau, Dr. Doom and their egg-headed ilk.

In lieu of proof, I proffer possum.


The New Breakfast Snob, March 23, 2008:

Claanad- The Hunter
Is there an award for reverb?

Alvin Lee- The Rapper
Ten Years After twenty years later.

Stranglers- Hallow to Our Men
From 'The Gospel According to the Men in Black'.

Damien Dempsey- Celtic Tiger
Greed. What is it good for?

Pentangle- Storyteller
Deep Purple- Hush
Savoy Brown- Poor Girl
Neil Young- Motorcycle Mama

Damien Dempsey- Colony
I sing the song of the colony
How many years and you're still not free
And your mother cries and you ask god why
Greed is the knife and the scars run deep
How many races with much reason to weep
And your children cry
And you ask god why

I look to the east, I look to the west
To the north and the south, and I'm not too impressed
Time after time
After crime after crime
They raped, robbed, pillaged, enslaved and murdered
Jesus Christ was their god and they done it in his name
So he could take the blame if it's not all a game
With bible in one hand and a sword in the other
They came to purify my land of my Gaelic Irish mothers
And fathers, and sisters and brothers
With our own ancient customs, laws, music, art
Way of life and culture
Tribal in structure
We had a civilisation
When they were still neanderthal nations
We suffer with the Native American, the Indian in Asia
Aboriginal Australia
The African people with their history so deep
And our children still weep and our lives are still cheap

You took what was not yours
Went against your own bible
You broke your own laws
Just to out do the rival
But did you ever apologize
For the hundreds and millions of lives
You destroyed and terrorised
Or have you never realized
Did you never feel shame
For what was done in your country's name
And find out who's to blame and why they were so inhumane
And still they teach you in your school
About those glorious days of rule
And how it's your destiny to be
Superior to me
But if you've any kind of mind
You'll see that all human kind
Are the children of this earth
And your hate for them will chew you up and spit you out

-Damien Dempsey

Whoa. Then I played a few choice snippets of Patti Smith...you know the ones.

Great Big Sea - End of the World
Well, I played 'Colony' and Patti Smith on Easter and lightning didn't strike me dead...but if it had...

John Prine- Please Don't Bury Me
I'm donating myself to science. Unless my cats eat me first.

Velvet Underground- Lonesome Cowboy Bill
Gentle Giant- As old as You're Young
Emerson, Lake & Palmer- Hoedown
Jethro Tull- Moths
Grace Slick & Paul Kantner- Earth Mother
Fiona Joyce- Cry Over You
Frank Zappa- St. Alfonzo's Pancake Breakfast Medley
Steve Hillage- Wait One Moment
Dude. Collect yourself into the Cosmic Power of the Great Healing Wave or something...Hillage is a fantastic guitarist but he would make a lousy secular animist.

Nouvelle Vouge- In A Manner of Speaking
Brian Eno -Mother Whale Eyeless
Altan- Eoghainin O Ragdain
Mr. Acker Bilk - Easter Parade

Roy Buchanan- I Won't Tell You No More Lies
Dude, that's a double negative. Perhaps that is why this song is an instrumental.

Pretty Things- God Give Me The Strength To Carry On
Amen, y'all.

Have a Happy Day, Holy or otherwise.

The Luck of the Irish

What could be luckier than having your death sentence commuted?
Back in ye olde days, if an Irishman on Death Row was lucky, he could avoid the gallows by taking advantage of the Crown's travel program known as 'transportation'; a practice which provided poor persons and criminals with wealthy landowners that they could work for in exotic locales such as Van Diemen's Land; Sydney; Georgia or Boston.

Irish women were also 'transported' . Lucky them.


----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Back in 1960, political pundits were asking this question: " Is America ready to elect an Irish Catholic to the office of President?"
We were, and John F. Kennedy moved into the White House.

Things didn't work out so well for JFK personally, but one thing is certain:
We are really lucky that George Bush wasn't President during the Cuban Missile Crisis.

There's a striking parallel between the question asked in 1960 and a certain question being raised during the current election season.
If we are lucky, the answer will be 'yes' and the parallels will end there.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

I played a great many songs on the radio this weekend. If you were lucky, you heard:

The New Breakfast Snob, 16 March, 2008

Snakefinger- 36-22-36
Alvin Lee- Education
Sharon Shannon-Blackbird
Jethro Tull- Cold Wind To Valhalla
Loreena McKinnett- Gates of Istanbul
Soft Boys- When I was a Boy
Alan Parsons- Hyper-Gamma Space
Jeff Beck-Freeway Jam
Moving Hearts- The Storm
Television- Prove It
Pretty Things- Pure Cold Stone
Iron Butterfly- Shady Lady
Claanad- Together We
XTC- Dear God
Steeleye Span- Lowlands of Holland
Fairport Convention- Tam Lin
Pogues-Sunny Side/Sayanora
Pentangle- Hunting Song
Claanad- Poison Glen
Maire Brennan- Against The Wind
Damien Dempsey- The Jar Song
One of my fellow DJs has started playing Dempsey! A convert! Take that, St. Pat!

The 12 Fl. Oz. Show, Monday 17 March

I play quite a bit of Irish and Celtic music on my own weekly show so I found it ironic that I was acting as guest DJ for an Americana show on St. Patrick's Day.
As a DJ, I tend to look at St. Patrick's Day the same way that an alcoholic looks at New Year's Eve- it's the one day that the rest of the world follows my lead...anyway, the playlist:

Les Paul and Chet Atkins- Somewhere Over The Rainbow
Little Feat- Oh Atlanta!
Tornados...OZ...Atlanta...nevermind.

Ken Nordine- Green
Papa John Creach- Enjoy
Mem Shannon- S.U.V
Johnny Cash- Personal Jesus
Marcy -The Gospel Express
Roy Clark- Steel Guitar Rag
Sandy Nelson -The Boss Beat
John Prine - Sweet Revenge
Sam Bush- Howlin' at the Moon
This song mentions Heaven and moon-howling...Christianity and Animism!
Holy 'Dual'ing Banjoes, Batman!

Steve Earle- Hillbilly Highway
Big Brother & Holding Co. - I'll Change Your Flat Tire, Merle
Granpa Jones & Friends- Pft, You Were Gone
This is from Hee Haw.
Bill Anderson- The Reverend Mr. Black
Ken Nordine- Yellow
Steve Earle & Del McCloury- Dixieland

Mitch H. Price- Shopping Mall Moan
Flaming Groovies- Jailbait
R. Crumb- Confessions of R.Crumb
Ten Years After-Baby Won't Let Me Rock and Roll ya?

X- Come Back To Me
Ken Nordine- Flesh
Les Paul & Chet Atkins- Lazy River
Mitch H. Price- Save me a Slice of That
Clarence 'Gatemouth' Brown & Roy Clark- Tobacco Road
Hot Tuna- Ode to Billy Dean
Steve Earle-Galway Girl
Factoid: Ireland and Scotland are two different places.

Mitch H. Price - Voodoo
Steve Earle & the Pogues -Token Drinking Song
Leo Kottke- Morning is a Long Way Home
Tony Trishka & Bela Fleck- John Hardy
Lucinda Williams- Concrete & Barbed Wire
Billy Pilgrim- Dominique
Roy Clark- Under the Double Eagle
Honest to Baal, Roy Clark is one awesome MFing guitarist. Clark's rendition of this John Phillip Sousa classic is nothing short of amazing.
Buck Owens and Roy Clark- Turkey in the Straw



Good Night and Good Luck.

Play Guitar and Wait

My twin brother gave me this 'inspirational' poster for X-Mas. He picked it up at a museum in Chicago.
It's the first inspirational poster that I didn't hate on sight. I loved it.

4 pm, Christmas evening. The food was ready.
The Twin had just finished setting the table, so I walked into the living room and announced that dinner was served, come on in and have a seat...it's a small Christmas, but there's a huge feast awaiting!

Instead of enthusiasm, my father and uncle displayed worry. Why worry? I've been cooking for thirty years and haven't killed anyone yet.

Oh.

My Grandmother was not feeling well. She was having difficulty breathing.

I leaned in closely so I could hear what she was saying.

Oh.

So I went to her room to gather a few articles of clothing while my father fetched her cane and the Twin prepared her portable oxygen tank. The whole thing had the feeling of a drill
but it was not a drill; ten minutes later we were gathered in the waiting room of the local hospital's Emergency Room.

A nurse escorted my Gran, my father and myself into an examination room. The Twin and my uncle waited outside while the lady asked the requisite questions and took the obligatory measurements. On a scale of 1 to 10, my grandmother rated her pain a '12'. She's been sick for years, terribly ill at times but she has never exceeded a '10' before...could she please get some pain medicine? But her blood pressure was too low for that...she was wheeled into another room where the nurse started hooking her to tubes and machines .

My father and I were banished to the ER waiting room, where it was decided that we would take 'shifts' going back to the house to eat...the Twin and I would go second, so we sat in the ER and watched a CSI marathon on the TV. At first, I felt that an endless barrage of simulated autopsy footage was inappropriate fare for a hospital waiting room but after about forty minutes I was engrossed, wondering who murdered the Crazy Cat Lady.
I never found out, but it was a welcome distraction while we waited...our wait was interrupted by the nurse, who informed us that they were waiting on tests and the arrival of another doctor.
Nothing to do but wait some more...eventually it was our turn to go home and eat.

By this time it was after 7 pm and the food, which had been abandoned when we rushed to hospital, had gotten cold and dry and was about as appetizing as paste...we ate anyway, we would need our strength, we reasoned. It was likely to be a long night.

When we returned to hospital, we learned that they had decided to admit my Grandmother- no surprise, really. We were allowed to go back and see her; she had stabilized enough to be given a bit of morphine...the nurse kept up a steady stream of banal questions as she administered the drug- after a minute or so, our Gran's answers started getting fuzzy and her pain had gone down to a "six or the number like six". The dope was working.

Then she started to vomit.

The last time I saw someone vomit in a hospital, the person I saw was myself; I was observing from a vantage point several feet outside and above my body, which was entering a grande mal seizure.
It's not something I like to think about, so I usually don't- but all the sights, sounds and smells were the same.

I started gasping and my vision was flashing white, black, white...the next thing I knew I was in the hallway, being held by a family friend as I bawled my eyes out. After that- a long while after that- I was able to pull myself together and assist the lone nurse as she navigated the gurney down the corridor to the elevator and up to my Gran's new room, where she was placed on a real bed and further sedated. Finally, she was calm and quiet and there was nothing for us to do but return to the family house.

It was after midnight. Christmas was over.

What should we do with our gifts?

My father, amazingly, was the one who stepped up. We need to exchange the gifts, he said.
He was right. We needed to. We did.

So I got the poster above...and this t-shirt( below, front and back), which, as I told my brother, is the best T-shirt ever. The Twin knows how I feel about signal flow.


BACK:

My father gave me a 'Car Talk' CD of songs about car trouble (ha!), which is something that I can use for my radio shows and a book called Auto Repair for Dummies...I gave him my old set of PC speakers so that he could listen to me play the CD in hi-fi. In our family, there is not much stigma on the giving of 'hand-me-downs' as gifts, it makes sense to us...why throw away an item that works fine and then spend money on replacing it?


I also got a set of Pyrex cookware and a shower curtain, two things I can certainly use...I actually asked for the shower curtain- I've already been fixing my own meals and doing my own laundry for decades- if I were to actually go shopping for a shower curtain I am afraid I might be lurching into metro-sexuality, a leap I'm not prepared to make- so I asked my Gran for a 'sensible' curtain. She came through- solid blue, no frilly floral pattern crap. Right on!

Best of all, the Twin gave me a new compact audio mixer, a TAPCO (below). My old Behringer died months ago and I've been feeling bereft ever since...now I can re-create the signal flow diagram as illustrated on the world's greatest t-shirt, above.

My uncle had to work today, so we left home early this morning...there was very little traffic, the interstate highway is a strange place at 3 am...especially the day after Christmas.
Today, I slept later than I have for months- well into the afternoon.

The Twin remained at home, waiting...as of an hour ago, Gran was unchanged, still stable- we continue to wait.

At first, I felt guilty about hooking up my new mixer and playing guitar until my fingers hurt- I mean, my Gran is in ICU and I'm playing guitar...but then I looked at my new inspirational poster and I knew that I was doing the right thing.

Other than wait, there is nothing else to do.

Meme-Thing

It must be Christmas- I am doing a meme. Christmas makes me do crazy shit.

New Year's Resolution: No more memes...wait, that was last year's rez...and the previous year's as well...fuckity, it's for YDG and I'd do almost anything for YDG- including moving to Texas. Maybe.

Anyway:


Favorite X-mas Memory: Spending Christmas Night alone in the back of a Mexican restaurant in Eugene Oregon, where I was working as a transient busboy, circa 1990. I used my tips to purchase a 40-ounce bottle of Schlitz Malt Likker and a pair of Spider-Man comics .
This particular memory isn't mine, but it is my favorite.

Favorite X-mas Song- Rudy the Redneck Reindeer: In the early 90's I played in a punk/metal/space-rock band called Mister Sensitive...at one pre-Christmas gig, I dressed as Santa and was given a bottle of Tequila by my Lesbian Fan Club- I carried it on stage with me, Santa chugging fer the worm between songs- during a pukey, belching fit, the rest of the band started playing "Rudolph the Red-Nosed..."- after my belching subsided, I ad-libbed the lyrics...I am told I was brilliant. I barely remember it.

Favorite X-Mas Movie: This would be an untitled home movie I made with my Utah girlfriend, Natalie, back in the winter of 1985...it's in freaking Beta. Do you remember Beta tape?
I sure do.

Favorite X-Mas Ornament: Played a featured role in the aforementioned movie.

What are your X-mas Plans?: I don't have a job or any money to buy gifts, so I plan on fixing a really good home-cooked meal with all the trimmings and feeding my small family until they expand...this all depends on my grandmother's health. She may be in the hospital on Christmas, which will change all of our plans.

If I can have one gift, it would be to have my Granma at home on the 25th.

To all my Blogpals: Happy Everything to Everyone!


........................................................

Next: Who Knows? Life is Nuts.

Let Me Show You Around

I am beginning to think that I'll never have a paying job again. I send at least 20 electronic applications/faxes/emails every single week and I usually get no response whatsoever. When I do get a reply, it's always discouraging.

I have a few observations and complaints:

-Some companies still send letters of rejection- "thank you, but we have found our candidate elsewhere, etc"...I have quite a collection of these. It wouldn't be such a big deal except for the fact that some of these jobs are still posted and listed as open- sometimes repeatedly, for weeks.
I have even seen my old job posted twice...I considered applying for it, but they have cut the pay and added a background check to the job criteria. Oh yeah, I forgot-I'm unemployed because they fired me for no cause...I'm sure they want me back. Riiiight.

- On the positive side, so to speak, I don't have to worry about drug tests. By the time my potential employers look at my Federal arrest record and my dismal credit rating, they don't seem willing to waste money sending me to LabCorp. I haven't peed in a cup since I was on Federal probation, which ended in 2003.

-When I compare my rejection letters to the jobs that are still posted, I find that there are quite a few offices in Richmond that would rather have an empty desk than hire me...these are jobs that I am wholly qualified for, yet I am never called- I simply get a 'sorry letter'. I have good work and personal references, but none of them have received any calls about me.
I find that odd.

-Every week , I call my old temp agencies for assignments- they almost always have some sort of file clerk position posted...until I give my name.
After I give my name , those file clerk positions become filled.
In their lieu, I am offered 'production' (warehouse) work that involves repetitive heavy lifting, something that I haven't been able to do since my surgical mishaps of two years ago.
The agencies know I can't do the work, but they offer me the jobs anyway. Why?

- Following a job interview, I used to be able to ascertain- with near 100% accuracy-whether or not I was going to be hired. I had a great instinct for 'nailed it/failed it' moments.
For 25 years this was true.
Not any more.
I've had couple interviews recently where I felt like I totally nailed it- one was at the Public Library, a job for which I am a perfect match...the interview was very friendly, almost jovial- I had mutual friends with my interview team, nice banter ensued, I was taken around and introduced to the people that I was to work with...I was in like Flynn, thought I.
Wrong.
I didn't get hired. Instead, I got a letter for my collection.

My most recent interview wasn't as optimistic. It was at the Science Museum, an old train station converted into a children's museum, complete with IMAX dome and all...a pretty cool place, really.
In 6th grade, I attended a 'nerds' program there, where I was taught how to care for tropical fish- I liked it, it was one of the very few positive school experiences I had as a kid. There are certainly worse places to work.
The job, I thought, was for a seasonal ticket-taker at the box- office. Not the most prestige in the world, but better than a lot of jobs...better than no job. Perhaps it would lead to something better...

During the interview, it was quickly established that I could run a cash register and that I could use Excel without fucking up...now for the job description.
It wasn't what I thought.

The Museum, it turns out, has recently opened a roller-skating rink.
An outdoor rink.
The surface of this rink needs to maintained on a daily basis...do you see where this is heading?
Each morning, I would come in , dump a 50 gallon barrel of chemical sludge on the surface and manually wipe it down- a sort of human Zamboni.
Then I would sell tickets and dispense skates etc.

One of my interviewers was describing the giant mop-like device they had improvised to use for the polishing process...it was quite laborious...was I able to lift 50+ lbs?

"Yes", I lied.
I am so desperate that I am willing to tell lies that could seriously jeopardize my health- I am willing to do this for $8.80 an hour.
Or at least I thought I was.

I was trying to tell them that, "yes, I am available right away"...but my voice sounded weird. Broken.
I'm a DJ, I can usually control my voice- but it was cracking and I was powerless to stop it. I was likewise helpless to stop the tears that were welling up in my eyes as I thought about my future as a polisher of roller-rinks.
I feigned a sneeze. Maybe I could fool them into believing that I had a cold and cover the truth; the truth being that the thought of spending my winter mornings polishing a skating rink makes me question my will to live.

"Ah-choo", I exclaimed, fooling no one.

I didn't get the job.

Shot Across the Bough

*ding-a-ling* ding-a-ling*

I awoke to the sound of bells. At first, I dreamily thought of ice cream trucks; in my sleepy mind it seemed perfectly reasonable that an ice cream van would be making the rounds at 8 AM- the only question was: could I get dressed in time to catch it?

But my head cleared and I realized I wasn't hearing Good Humor, I was hearing Jingle Bells. And Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. And Winter Wonderland.

Across the street, the hospital had erected a small Christmas display- nothing ostentatious, just a few fake trees and some lights- but this year they had added an audio element- a loudspeaker blaring a handful of X-Mas Muzak songs in an endless cycle.
The brick wall of the hospital acted as an amplifier- the sound reflected off the wall and echoed back directly into my apartment- I like to read and write in silence- so those activities were proscribed...maybe some TV?
It was unseasonably warm outside and I had the window open, which allowed fresh air and stale music to enter- at one point, I couldn't hear the news announcer because 'Winter Wonderland' was drowning her out.

After an hour of watching Close Caption TV, I walked across the street to the hospital, where I asked the receptionist if there was someone that I could speak to regarding the loudspeaker outside.
She didn't know, but she did answer two of my questions.

-The music would only play between 8 AM and 9 PM. This meant I would only have to hear Frosty the Snowman 37 times per day.

- It would only be played until X-mas. X-Mas was 29 days away, which meant I'd only have to hear Frosty 1,073 times over the next four weeks...I felt prematurely waterboarded.

The lady helpfully took my name and number and assured me that someone would call me, but they never did. I called a few hours later, the same lady answered the phone, which lead me to voice mail limbo. Eventually, I abandoned my home for the evening;Rudolph and Frosty had won.
I retreated from Retreat Hospital, defeated and distraught.
For the moment.

That night, I was explaining the situation to a friend. She suggested I call the ACLU.
Huh? Why?
Because it's a X-Mas display on public property...yadda, yadda...maybe I could call City Hall.
City Hall?

My friend missed the point. It could be a Nativity Scene, a giant Buddha or Madonna* on a fucking cross- that wouldn't bother me- it's the constant noise that was driving me mad; I felt like the killer in Poe's Tell-Tale Heart, except without the murder.
Make it stop. Make it stop.
The thought of having to endure it for another 28 days was unbearable. Unfortunately, I had to return home at some point...maybe tomorrow I could talk to someone 'in charge'.

The next morning it started again. I asked a different Desk Lady about the Muzak speakers. She said Security was in charge of the display.
Great! There's a Security Guard right here- I'll ask him if he can turn the Muzak box off.
He didn't know how. I wanted to call him an idiot but he had a gun, so I politely asked if there is someone who might know.

At 9 pm a man will come and turn it off.
Oh.

There are 31 Frosties between now and 9pm.
31 Rudolphs.
By 9 PM Winter Wonderland will have played 31 times, yet it will have snowed not a single flake. It is 60 degrees outside.
There may be several hundred playings of Wonderland until we see snowfall here- if we ever do. It doesn't matter, I'll have gone mad by that time. The X-Mas siege is only in it's second day and I'm already near the edge. I doubt that I'll last a week.

So I walked outside and stood underneath the deck. Directly over my head the loudspeaker blared the melody of Frosty the Snowman, # 41 in a series of 1,073- it wouldn't be impossible to climb up there, I thought, but there are cameras, guards, lots of traffic etc...I may be an anarchist but that doesn't mean I enjoy going to jail.


I ruled out the climbing option. I had a better idea. Loudspeakers, just like lights, use electricity.
I saw two cords plugged into an outdoor outlet on one of the deck's columns. I unplugged the one that wasn't blinking.

Ah.

I walked out to the sidewalk and looked up. The trees were glowing in golden silence.



--------------------------------------

(*As long as she isn't singing)

A Holiday of Now

I promised myself that I would never talk to my father again.

Then why is the phone in my hand? I said I was going to erase his number, yet it's ringing and I'm holding it.

It doesn't matter. My father is always drunk, so he never answers his phone. I'll leave a message and he won't reply. That is the way it is with us.

Or it was. Before I stopped talking to him.

Why am I doing this?

And why does Dad answer the phone? He never does that.
Is it because he is sober?
He is, I can tell.

So there's this fake holiday to break the ice and maybe for one second I stop hating Hallmark for inflicting these landmine holidays on us.
One second.

Happy Father's Day.

He sounds genuinely surprised to hear from me, but we do need to talk. It's a bit urgent.

My father tells me that I need to be prepared, that his mother probably won't ever leave the convalescent facility she is in...she is gravely ill.
He wants me to know that it is serious.
Really serious.

I have been anticipating this conversation for months. Dreading it.

See, I know his mother is sick. I know all the details. I have been visiting and calling her for the last two months.
My dad, on the other hand, was missing on a multi-week bender, so he didn't find out how bad it was until he came home and slept it off...which took him days. My twin brother flew in from Chicago to help sort him out. It's a miracle that booze hasn't killed our dad.
Anyway, if Dad hadn't been lost in a drunken stupor, he wouldn't be so surprised to learn that his mother can't take care of herself anymore.
Taking care of her was his job, but he won't even take care of himself.
I use him as a model on how not to live my life.

These are things I thought I was going to say to him if we ever spoke again.

But I don't say any of those things. For a moment they slip my mind.

I ask him how he is. I already know, but it's important that he knows I'm asking because I care.
Now.
Yesterday, I didn't care. Tomorrow I may not.
So it is very important that I ask him now.
It's for my sake as much as his.
I care now.

He is OK, he says. It is a lie, but a forgivable one.

My father is very close to breaking as he tells me what I already know.
Yes, I agree, we need to be ready for the worst.

Any day.
Oh, yes, there's always the false alarms...keep hope alive.
Remember last fall? Haha. Boy, were we scared!

We laugh at some of the close calls and false alerts of the past. None of it was funny then, but some of it is now.

And now is where my father is.

So we talk about now.

I know where he was , I know where he is, but I know better than to ask about where he will be. I don't ask for or make any more promises.
His promise to stay sober mean less to him than my promise to disown him means to me and I've already broken mine.
It's only a matter of time before he breaks his.
I know that.
He knows it too.

But he is here now, and for now, we are speaking again.

Holidays Pt. 1

It's New Year's Eve. I'm at a party where I've been filling in at bass with some band I barely know. It's been a great gig so far, I'm drunk and high but it's before the dark years.
I'm enjoying myself.

I'm outside as the world lurches from December into January, year following increasingly blurry year; the sharp winter air feels good on my face, the smoke, noise, drink and assorted dopes have made me feel a little blended and winded. Blent.
I look up and see twin moons until I close one eye.
Whew.

Better sit down a bit, we still have a second set to play. The drummer and guitarist were well-rehearsed; the guitarist would call out the chords of the song , the drummer would click four and away we'd go. Great crowd, great gig, great party, great jams.


I'm getting my stars back in focus when I feel someone playfully punch my arm.

"Hey! Hellloooo..."

It's the curly-haired brunette I was eying as we played...I had said hello to her earlier but that was about it.We had to play before we could say much else but I had been watching her watching me.
Her nose was too large, her hair was a little unkempt, she didn't wear any make up and her wool sweater was practical but not sexy.
I was hooked at first sight.
I tell her I'm happy to see she tracked me down.

"You were great. I thought John played bass for them but they sound better with you."

"Thanks." I explained that I was just filling in but I had this other band and she should come see us...somewhere along the line I salvaged enough decorum to introduce myself by name.

"I'm Agape", she said.

"Damn. I was hoping for Eros."

"No, I mean that's my name. Agape."

"Of course it is." And it is.

Agape is half-Danish half-Texan and has the strangest, most compelling accent I have ever heard. She tells me about her recent stint in the Peace Corps and how strange it is to be back in the world of excess.
As she speaks, I can see the rounded bubbles of her words floating towards me and I delicately inhale each one, rolling it to and fro in my own mouth and releasing it back to her...soon we are speaking as one , breathing in unison.
We share a breath that seems like hours and during that breath something was exchanged, an unspoken need was filled. Something was found.

The second set was a blast and I made sure I had Agape's number before we packed up.

It would be the last time I enjoyed New Years Eve.

--------

It's July 4th and it's raining. Agape and I have been visiting friends of hers outside of town and we decide to stop at a local pub on the way home and have a couple drinks.

"Oooh, let's step outside and smoke one of those joints Dave gave us."

"Cool."

I thought she meant to smoke in her car, but instead she wanted to climb up the hill behind the bar and see if anyone was firing rockets. I grabbed an umbrella.

The rain had largely drizzled out by then, but it felt good to huddle together under the umbrella sharing a joint and watching the fairly steady stream of consumer-grade fireworks streak and fizz upwards from the city below.

BAM! BAM!

Agape presses against me, she knows the difference between the report of a firecracker and that of a handgun. This is a handgun and it is close.

On the path a dozen or so yards below us a young black gangbanger is firing a pistol into the air. Six shots into the wet sky. Seven?
Agape tells me she wishes she brought a steel umbrella.

The kid looks up and sees us just as I'm hitting on the joint. We stare at each other. I hand the joint to Agape and ask her to hold it. She is trembling and drops it on the wet stones.

The kid stashes the gun in a jacket that's far too bulky for a summer night. He walks directly across and up the hill to us. I take a quick inventory... twenty bucks, a debit card, a few joints. Not much to get shot over.

"What's up?"

"C'n I hit that, man?" He pinches his fingers near his lips in the universal "toke" gesture.

"Oh. Hell, yeah." I light a fresh joint, the adrenaline settling a bit. The kid introduces himself.
His name is Life.
Life, meet Agape.
Life apologizes, says he's sorry if he scared us, but it's the 4th of July. He informs us that "half the niggers in the 'hood be shooting cos' the cops don't come" on the 4th. It's like New Year's, he says.
Sure enough , there's quite a few gunshots mixed in with the bottle rockets. Life says he likes to shoot down here because the bullets land in the river. I doubt the accuracy of this ballistic assumption but I don't voice this opinion.
We finish the joint.
Life gets me to fumble through a three-stage prison-style handshake. My white clumsiness makes him laugh.

"Happy Fourth, man."

"Happy Fourth."

It would be the last time I enjoyed the Fourth of July.

Great Gift Ideas

( New Note: This post is from last year and the year before and probably next year too...)


Christ, is it almost St. Valentine's day already? What a useless holiday. If you're in a happy relationship, you should be doing nice stuff for each other every fuckin' day without being forced to prove your affection by dropping Hallmark cards, chocolates and flowers on your lover's doorstep like a cat dragging home a dead mole to please the human.
Do any of you even know what Valentine's Day is about? Don't believe all that Catholic Claptrap about Romans and imprisoned martyrs and whatnot. As usual, count on the crackerjack Camelsback research staff for the real stories behind our false holidays.
Way back in ancient times, the evil American Sun Kings and Queens of Temperance declared that the rabble should sober up. This didn't sit well with the rabble, who quickly defected to more 'spirited' personality cults, led by charismatics like St. Bugs (Moran) and the legendary St. Alphonse (Capone). In the course of establishing the only religion honest enough to call itself Organized Crime, the two beatific bootleggers became fierce, bitter and violent rivals for the lucrative tithing of the parched and desperately sober masses.

Like any viable religion, Organized Crime soon sparked more than it's share of competition, internal conflict, warfare and corruption; and so, on Feb. 14, 1929, missionaries from the Capone Church, aided by Centurions on loan from the Chicago Police Legion , decided that the Bugs Boys needed some competition-stifling Reformation. They took a half-dozen or so Moran followers into a garage on Clark Street and nailed them to the wall with hundreds of .45 caliber Theses. We celebrate the gruesome deaths of these pioneering Mafia martyrs with roses and candlelight dinners. This makes poetic sense if your love life resembles mine; for your sake I hope that it doesn't.
If it does, I'm truly sorry. Maybe it'd help if I offered some priceless gift alternatives. By priceless, I mean worthless. Buy them for yourself, it's the only attention you'll get on the 14th. And no refunds.

THE CAMELSBACK SAINT VALENTINE'S DAY MASSACRE CATALOG FOR THE UNLOVED AND DEPRESSED:

EMOTIONAL TRAIN WRECK

No lights. No tunnel. Just derailment, gravity and inertia. You probably thought that you'd never need to wear a parachute on a train. You thought wrong.

A real bargain for only 76 cents!

EXPRESSIONS OF UNREQUITED LOVE

This could be that letter you wish that you'd torn up when you had the chance. Maybe it's that necklace you knew that she'd love-the one you purchased the day before she told you she wasn't looking for a relationship. Perhaps it's three weeks of unreturned phone calls. It might be a horribly embarrassing love poem or song that fell into the wrong hands.

Two lousy bucks.This item knows no limits , so don't be such a cheap-ass.

A LIFETIME TOGETHER

Well, you got what you wanted. Too bad it turned out to suck, but hey, there were some good times, weren't there? Weren't there? Live the same miserable day over and over for the rest of your pointless life while you brood about the way it could have been. Even your children will pity you.

If you have to ask, you can't afford it.

LONELY ALCOHOLIC MELANCHOLIA

He doesn't deserve you. Take another shot.

Buy yourself something nice. No one else will.

ENDLESS SEARCH FOR LOVE

Remember how your friends used to tell you that there was someone for everyone , and someday, somebody special will see you for the irresistibly sweet, kind and golden soul that you are?These days, they don't call you very often since they all got married and had kids. If they did , you'd call them liars.

Maybe throwing your money away will make you feel better.

BUY NOW!! TIME'S RUNNING OUT!

.

Fuck Doll Ruins Holiday

"Mommy, my doll told me to fuck off!"

The hysteria is exceeded only by the idiocy...

Click the link below this story for the video. It's workplace safe- they actually bleeped the alleged naughty word out.

Can you f*cking believe this sh*t?



There's also a link to a story about a dog whose fur pays homage to the Crucifixion...the owner, who is obviously a lunatic (check out what the dog is forced to wear if you need proof) , is treated as credible by the 'newsteam investigators' , who are neither credible nor sane.

The doggie story may be slightly more deranged than than the doll story... but it's close.

Things Being Relative

"Hi!"

"Hey!"

*hug*

"How was your christmas?"

"S'ok, I s'pose. You?"

"It was awesome. Totally rocked!"

"Eh? Whatcha do?"

"I didn't see my mother-in -law for 24 hours."

"How's that?"

"I pulled a double at the veterinary clinic and spent the entire day watching animals suffer and die."

"Are you serious? You love animals...that sounds horrible."

"No, it was better than being home. I'd rather be stabbed in the eye with a stick than spend five minutes with her."

" Wow..."

"Wow... what?"

"I should stop complaining so much."

Christmas Past

Once upon a time , I had a girlfriend whose kitchen sink had a very unpleasant personality. The first time I used it , the annoying water-filter her ex-husband had put on the faucet leaked, squirting water into my eye.
Then the pipes started squealing; a painfully loud, high-pitched scream, a banshee wail capable of shattering wineglasses fifty feet away. Fortunately, we mostly drank straight from the bottle at that time, but it was a truly horrible sound nonetheless.
(Years later, I realized that the plumbing was warning me to get out, run as far away from this place and this person as I could get. I paid it no heed.)
I stood, dumbfounded, twisting this knob, then that knob, wiggling the filter- nothing helped. I couldn't even get the water to stop.
So I did the manly thing:
I yelled, "Nancy! Help! I broke your sink and now it's attacking me!"

So Nancy ran in to save me.
"The trick" , she explained, "is to push it past the point that it screams".
She demonstrated by first turning the spigot full-on (the screaming stopped), then deftly cranking both knobs to 'off', which brought my watery disaster to an end.

'Push it past the point that it screams'?, I thought that could apply to a lot of things, especially when it involves Nancy. It would also make a great song lyric.

"Woman!", I bellowed, " bring me my guitar, post-haste! The Muse has brought me a gift and I must have my instrument now! Chop-chop!"

(Actually I said, " Honey, do you mind if I play your guitar in the basement after I finish the dishes?-I'll keep it quiet- do you have a pen and paper I can use?";but that sort of first-person milquetoast wimpiness is not fun to write about, even if it is true)

So I'm in her basement , trying to incorporate the line "push it past the point that it screams" into a heartfelt love song that I could present to Nancy on Christmas; which was only a few days away. I was using one of those cheap-ass acoustic guitars that comes in a K-Mart beginner's kit- the kind that cannot be properly tuned, ever. It didn't matter to me. It was the holiday season and I was in love with the most beautiful woman on the planet. She had these eyes...so deep I could swim in them forever and never come back- why would I want to return?
I saw so much in those eyes, so many things that I'd given up all hope of ever seeing...this was going to be the best Christmas ever- the first holiday I'd ever spent with a 'special someone' in my whole pathetic, loveless life.

"Holy Fucking Shit!" , screamed the most beautiful woman on the planet, "get your goddamn shirt and shoes on- my Dad's coming up the driveway!"

I wondered to myself what the big deal was- after all Nancy had been divorced for almost a year, right? It's perfectly decent for her to be seeing a new man, right? Right?

She ran downstairs, her lovely green eyes bulging almost comically. I would have laughed, but she was so obviously freaked it started to worry me.
"Listen", she began briefing me, " you and I went to Blankity-blank High School. Our homeroom teacher was Mrs. X. You are a friend of Joannie Z, and just dropped in to say hello, and now you are leaving to go see her. This is what you are going to tell my father."

Knock. Knock.

"Hi, Sweetie", said her dad, knocking snow off his boots, "I came by to help put up your lights since Darren is away."

Away? I thought his divorced ass was living on a sofa-bed in Daytona Beach. This was getting weird.

"Hi Daddy- do you remember Allan X? We had homeroom together back in '82 and he's trying to find Joannie Z. " Damn. I have forgotten my lines.

We shook hands.
His mouth said "hello."
His eyes said: "I know that you are fucking my daughter. She does this sort of thing all the time and I pretend I don't know it because it's easier that way."

Nancy's father had very sad eyes.

"Nice meeting you, sir", I said, "it was great seeing you again, Nancy", I added,making the lie even worse. She gave me one of those awkward arms-only hugs where the hugger makes certain that their body never touches the huggee. It's the sort of hug you'd give a leper, after which you'd be inclined to burn your clothing and bathe in Listerine.

When I got to my car, I noticed it had a light dusting of last night's snow on it. There were no tire tracks in the fresh powder. You didn't need to be Colombo to tell that my car had been there overnight.

Nancy called me at work the next day.

"I love you, but I can't see you anymore. Please don't call the house."

So I closed the door to my office and cried for awhile. Then I went home early and got drunk alone. I didn't know it at the time, but this was to become a personal holiday tradition.

Every Christmas , I think about Nancy, and the way she made me feel when we were together; thinking that finally I had found someone that made me happy, and ,most importantly, someone that I could make happy, just by being there. I think that's as close to love as I've ever been, and it turned out to be a lie.

Despite their wondrous beauty, it's not Nancy's eyes I see when I remember her.

I see her father and his sad, sad eyes.

Check Out My Humility

I deserve medals for all the wonderful things I do.
Large gold medallions with bold and inspirational messages such as "I'm #1!" and "I Rock!" inscribed upon them, or perhaps just bearing my name spelled out in precious gemstones.
Diamonds would be ostentatious, emeralds are better.

I should also be presented with a likewise bejewelled golden crown in honor of My humility. I don't like to brag about My unsurpassed humility, so I'd like a flashy and expensive bauble to do it for me.
I'm very proud of how humble I am, but I don't feel comfortable boasting about it. It's undignified, even if it is justifiable.

But all that's not enough-not nearly. My Birthday should be a national holiday. Anyone who doesn't want to celebrate My birth will be given the option of celebrating My twin brother's birthday instead.
I don't like to work on My birthday, so why should I expect anyone else to?
By law, this would be a paid holiday.
Mark your calenders.
Let's get some laws passed, people.

Also, immediately upon the event of My passing, a life-size statue of Myself should be placed at the entrance to all buildings public and private; done so in order that the sad and lonely persons who never once had opportunity to bask in the awesome radiance of Me, can (at the very least) console themselves by crying upon the unwavering stone shoulder of My graven image.

They can rub my granite belly and wonder why life is so unfair.

There's Always Next Year

If I buy my gift wrapping paper today I will save a dollar.

The cost of a Saturday newpaper is a mere 75 cents, while a Sunday fishwrap costs $1.75; it used to be worth the extra buck just because the colorful Sunday Funnies made such excellent gift-wrap but the comics section is so small these days that it's virtually useless as wrapping.

I miss that double sized-funny papers section.

When using 'newswrapper' today, care must be taken to avoid using headlines like " Car Bomb Kills 38" when wrapping gifts , especially on those presents that are intended for persons with delicate sensibilities.

This is harder than it sounds.

Ah...I'm kidding. I'm not using newspaper to wrap gifts this year.

I have none to wrap.

The things that I have to offer on Christmas are the same things that I have to offer on the 364 other days of the year- not much to offer at all, really, not that it stops me from trying.
Here.
Take this.
What's that?
A flimsy box of jagged, bloody shards , the prettiest scars left by the deepest cuts from the dullest blades , gaily decorated with the headlines of yesterday's murders.

With bells and ribbons.

Who wants that?

Put that box under the tree , toss the rope over the lowest stout branch.

Giddeyap.

Dents

This morning I went to the station to drop off some CD's. A friend of mine was in the office doing the paperwork for his show.

"Hey, howzit goin'?"

"Ok, I s'pose. Just droppin' these spots off...recorded them last night, they'll be on the shelf..."

"Allan?"

"Yes?"

"What's wrong with your head?"

"GODDAMN IT! I am sick,sick,sick,of that question! There is abso-lute-lee nothing wrong with my head at all and maybe if you people stopped pointing out how troubled I am , then maybe I'd stop pouring gasoline on dead ashes and expecting a motherfucking Phoenix!
Maybe I don't want to deal with certain shit because I don't have to deal with it- it's pointless and it's fucking stupid and it's too late anyway - what the fuck is wrong with my head?
Who fucking cares what's wrong with my head?
What the fuck is wrong with you that you have to ask me that?"

My friend looks at me. I'm startled by his lack of alarm. He shrugs.


"Um. Well, if you say so...I was asking about the dents."

"The dents?"

"The dents in your head. Do they hurt?"

I walk down the hall and examine my bald head in the bathroom mirror.
Sure enough, there's a series of rounded dents crossing the top of my shiny dome, ear to ear.
Oh.
Earlier, I had my clunky old studio headphones on for hours- the padding is shot and they are too small for me anyway, so the metal connecting band has left dents in my scalp. It looks like the treadmarks left by a tank or bulldozer.
Ooops.

I walk back to the office, apologize to my friend:

"So...um...sorry 'bout that. I didn't know I had dents in my head."

He looks up and smiles.

"It's ok. I hate christmas too."