P.A. Kane's Blog, page 6

McDougal Chapter 2

Chapter2    I almost made it the whole five days without the old man finding out about my suspension. School didn’t have his pay by the minute flip phone number and we didn’t have a home phone, but because of a downpour, he got sent home from a roofing job and found me there instead of at school. This was Wednesday, the last day of my suspension. By that part of the week he was pretty much broke so he was only able to stay at the bar for a few beers and wasn’t soused yet. He did have a plan though, with a fresh twelve pack of Keystone Lights that he loaded in the fridge, because, ya know, besides getting shit faced, he was worried about his figure.     Initially he was mad about how I was scamming him, getting up in the morning and then pretending to go to school. But his anger momentarily faded, and believe me him not angry for even a moment is a victory, when I told him how I smacked that fucking moron gorilla McManus upside his head with my English book and how I accidently punched Mr. Pierson in the chin. Besides not being mad for a moment an even rarer thing occurred, he may have actually been proud of me, not only because I stood up for myself, but because I got a shot in at a teacher. But that quickly faded when I made the mistake of telling him how McManus’s friends got a hold of me and locked me up. This prompted him to want to show me how to escape such a situation, but it was fucking stupid since there was no way to recreate it with just one guy. Nevertheless, he had me lock him up with my arms under his and my chest up against his back. Going through a recent growth spurt not only was I pushing six feet, I was also getting kind of strong and he wasn’t really able to break free of my hold. Sensing he was getting pissed I loosened my grip and was immediately greeted by an elbow to the stomach.     All cocky he said, “That’s how ya fucking do it. Got it?”    I was really mad and clenching my teeth said, “Yeah, got it!”    He looked at me for a long moment, maybe considering the need for further fucking parenting. Maybe a headlock or a kick in the balls would be the right pedagogic fucking strategy or maybe his tiny white fucking trash brain was on overload trying to decide whether I really ‘got it’ or was being a smart ass. Life was tough when the prism through which you saw the world was limited to your angry resentments and a twelve pack of Keystone Lights.         How she ended up with him is beyond me. She was so pretty and nice and he’s such a total asshole. I’ve mostly had to piece the story together myself and best I can tell is they met when he was working on a construction crew with her illegal brothers here in Buffalo. Their town, Camp Perrin, in Haiti got wiped out by a storm in 2002 and they had a cousin or something here. Then, there was some kind of raid and Mickey O’Keefe in a unlikely moment of chivalry stepped up and married my mom, who was pregnant with me at the time, thwarting her imminent deportation. I know this because during these fights he would always say, “I should’ve let them send you back to Haiti with your worthless brothers.” And, of course, the fucking asshole has said some variation of that to me a million times. Things like: I should be living in a hut, shitting myself; I should have been earthquake food; Hurricane Matthew should have dumped my ass in the ocean. Good stuff like that.    When my dad wasn’t around in those early years we had good times. My mom, Cassandra, had a part time job as an aide at St. John’s preschool and I got to go to work with her. It was great: lots of kids, lots of things to do and lots of fun. Also, there was Mr. Nate, a bald headed black gentleman who ran the program and was so nice to both of us. Mr. Nate was always telling me things, teaching me special handshakes, reading to me and was just this cool guy. He said things to my mom that made her smile. I could tell she was trying not to smile, but couldn’t help herself. She was so beautiful when she was smiling and I wished Mr. Nate was my dad.     There were other good things too. The preschool was over by Caz Park and we would stop on the way home and feed the ducks at the creek, collect chestnuts, play at the jungle gym. We also went to my grandmas a lot, which I loved because she had cable and I could watch the Disney channel and Nickelodeon. They would sit in the kitchen and drink coffee or step outside for a smoke, mostly talking about the riddle that was my goddamn father. I remember my mom crying and my grandma shaking her head saying, “His father was the exact same way.” She was really good and sympathetic to my mom. Taught her, as best she could all things American and always had a positive thought as we were leaving for home to face the rampage that was my father. It was hard to believe my dad came from such a nice woman.    Also, hard to believe, considering the way he comes at me, as best I can remember he only hit her once. It was a rainy Friday and the danger in it being a rainy Friday was that besides being sent home from work early, it was also payday. That lethal combo meant he didn’t have to come home from the bar after just a few beers. And, that night, when he still wasn’t home at 8pm my mom wrapped up the pizza we had gotten from the corner joint, Leo’s and climbed into bed with me and we read Frog and Toad. Nobody would ever confuse me for a scholar, but thanks to that preschool and Mr. Nate, I’ve always loved books and was a good reader even then, So when my dad finally came home from the bar, he came into my room and being a dumb little fuck, I was like, “Daddy, want to hear me read Frog and Toad?”    The scent of a million beers filled my nose as he reached down and grabbed the book from my hands and threw it against the wall saying, “Where’s my food?”    My mom got up and must have given him a look or something because right away he was all, “Don’t give me those eyes bitch.”    With my pillow over my head I fell asleep to them, mostly my father, screaming at each other. Early the next morning my mom came into my room put on my coat and shoes and then started to walk me out to my dad’s running Ford Ranger. Holding her hand, we were halfway down the driveway when from behind my dad, smelling like a sewer, scooped me up and said, “Where the fuck are you going?”     “Away from here. Give me the boy,” she said leaping at him. And, as he fought her off with his free hand. I could see her eye was swollen and closed. Eventually, after she got a good chunk of his face with her nails, he set me down and grabbed her by the hair, but she broke free with a kick to his midsection and while he was momentarily doubled over cursing, she screamed and cried, “Come Jackson. Come.”    I was almost by him, but he got me by the collar and threw me on the ground. Screaming, “I’ll fucking kill you,” he set after her, but tripped giving her just enough space to get in the truck and pull away.    With my dad breathing heavily on the ground, a trickle of blood on his cheek she stopped a few houses down the street, got out of the truck crying and yelled, “I’ll be back for you my sweet boy. I’ll be back.”      My dad got to his feet and tried to chase her, but stumbled again and then vomited in the street as she drove away, never to come back.      After he cleaned up a bit we walked to my grandma’s in West Seneca. The whole way there he was cursing me and my mom and yelling at me to hurry up. When we got there he told her all kinds of lies about what happened and quickly tried to leave saying, “I gotta go find that rotten bitch.” My grandma was the only person in the world who could call him on all his bullshit, which she did telling him, “The only one rotten here is you Mickey. You did this, not her.”    Not only did I like seeing her dress him down, but watching him take it from her made me think inside that fucking asshole there possibly was a real human being— Severus Snape with bloodshot eyes and beer breath. Rebuked, he left there with a softer stance vowing to find my mother and make things right. But, of course, he never did and I stayed at my grandma’s until she had a severe stroke about a year ago, which was awful. We tried to move her in on Lockwood but the cost of aids and therapy was too much for hopelessly underemployed ill-tempered drunk and she had to go to the Erie County Home.     My grandma was really nice and was always there when the old man would come at me with his bullshit. Even now in her debilitated, infirm state she has this power over him that is fascinating and I never miss the weekly visit just to see him be sort of a normal fucking human. I love my grandma and appreciate all she did for me, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I had this thing about seeing him not be his normal horrific self.     One week it even spilled over to the ride home. Not only did he let me change the radio from the bullshit classic rock to the alternative station we also shared a few laughs over a confused resident at the Home who mistook my dad for some guy named Larry as we were walking out. Normally I would expect my dad to tell a guy like this to fuck off, but instead he went with it.    “Larry is that you?” said the guy    “Sticking his hand to shake the old man said, “Hey buddy, how you been?”    “Do you ever see Louise anymore?” the guy asked     “Yeah, just saw her a few weeks ago. She dropped a few pounds, looks great.”    They went back and forth about this Louise for a while and agreed to talk next week. We laughed and laughed about it driving down Rt. 20. and when we were all laughed out, but still smiling, I made the mistake of asking, “Why can’t we be like this more?”    “What?” he said as the smile drained from his face.    Immediately knowing my mistake I said, “Nevermind.”    “No, what?” he said, “Fucking, tell me.”    “Nevermind, it’s not important.” I said looking out the window.     Violently, he pulled the car to the side of the road, looked at me and asked, “Why can’t we be what?”     Anything I said here was going to be wrong, so raising my voice a little I just told him, “Why can’t we be like this... laughing and joking?”    The intensity on his face sharpened, his nostrils flared and his watery bloodshot eyes boiled with rage, but he didn’t say anything and after a moment he put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the country road. Stupidly, I thought, maybe I got to him and he was contemplating what I said, but then he reached across and nailed me with a backhand to the chest and said, “We can’t be like this because I gotta make you tough. The world is gonna kick your sorry ass so hard your fucking eyeballs will bleed. And, I gotta make you tough enough to survive it.”    He switched the radio back to the classic rock station and not only did I have to endure fucking Kashmir for the billionth time in my life, but I had to listen to him rant about how the world hates little niggers like me, who aren’t either white or black. “Trust me,” he said, “the whites don’t want you and neither do the blacks.”    Then he went into his usual bullshit about how I’m going to get screwed by the illegals keeping wages low, Obamacare, the gay agenda, lazy welfare recipients, liberal elites, Islamic terrorist and all the rest of that FOX News stuff he watches 24/7. I didn’t know about any of that shit, but I did know the only people who cared about the color of my skin and eyes were people his age. Kids of my generation were so past all the racial and gay stuff. I’m not saying they all liked me and I fit in, but they didn’t like or not like me because of my the color of skin and eyes.      Since I mostly grew up in my grandma’s white suburban neighborhood I guess I have caucasian affectations. I love street hockey, extreme biking, alternative music and I mostly necked with white girls. There were more people of color in my old man’s city neighborhood, but since moving here I didn’t really connect with anyone except my extreme biking friend PJ. Otherwise, I kept a pretty low profile, doing a couple of Pennysaver routes on the weekend and spending weeknights at the Dudley Library at the end my street trying to avoid the old man.      Though kids of my generation were beyond that race shit I must admit coming from the white schools of West Seneca to South Park High School where the races were evenly mixed, was kind of a big change. I got a fair shake in West Seneca, but it wasn’t lost on me that I was different because of both my skin color and my living arrangements with my grandma. In the suburbs the kids had a mom and a dad, sometimes they were together, sometimes they weren’t, but both were involved. I had a grandma and a fucking lunatic and that more than anything that made me feel different. Now at South Park, not only was my skin color more like the general population, but so was my fucked up living situation. And, instead feeling like the curious oddity that arrests your attention, at South Park I melted into the vast landscape of kids who were enduring fucked up situations just like me.     In a low impact way, I did alright with everyone at South Park, black, white and otherwise. At the beginning of the year I even spent some time with this black girl Shanice Johnson. She was really cute and very forward telling me, “I’ma get what I want.” I liked her and her moxie, but she lived several neighborhoods away and came in on the bus everyday, which only left us a little time to hang before and after school. I tried to take the bus to see her one Sunday afternoon, but because of shitty weekend service I either missed the transfer downtown or there wasn't one. After an hour of waiting on this phantom transfer bus I gave up and went home. When I tried to explain what happened she just said, “I need a motherfucker that don’t make excuses.” And that was the end of us.     I became friends with some black dudes in Ms. Webb’s study hall too: Dontrell, Zeke and Gordy. I was blasting some Bikini Kill so loud in my headphones Ms. Webb came over tapped me and told me to turn it down. But my head was buzzing from the volume and power of the music I couldn’t process the sound of her voice. I could see what she was saying but couldn’t hear her and must have had a confused look on my face because a moment later when I could hear again a second later Dontrell was saying, “Nirvana givin’im brain damage, Ms Webb. Call an ambulance.”    Everybody laughed and walking to our next class Gordy was like, “Man, that college boy shit.”    “How you listen to that Nirvana so loud?” Dontrell asked    “It was Bikini Kill not Nirvana,” I said    “Cuse us... Fucking Cobain,” Zeke piped in as in Kurt Cobain. And that name Fucking Cobain stuck.      Mostly I sit with Lexi at lunch these days, but if she isn’t around I sit with them and they Fucking Cobain me up and down. They listened to hip hop and I guess it was alright, but the beats didn’t do it for me, not like the power of Jack White’s or Sleater Kinney’s guitars. But it was this difference between us that made it possible for us to be friends in a limited way. Again, we had the issue of getting on buses going in the opposite directions, but me liking alternative music was hilarious to them and I really liked that they called me Fucking Cobain. It all led to good trash talk.    If only the differences between me and the old man and for that matter, fucking Talty McManus could bring us together. But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon especially with that moron gorilla McManus.   
     

Book Signing: Talty's Tavern 10/29/16

Thanks to everyone who came to the book signing...

Just a reminder...BOOK SIGNING: THIS SATURDAY OCTOBER 29,...

Just a reminder...BOOK SIGNING: THIS SATURDAY OCTOBER 29, 2016... TALTY'S TAVERN 2056 SOUTH PARK (corner of SHEFFIELD) SO.BUFFALO, NY. 3-7pm...you can buy a book from me, bring a book or just come and hang out with us. Should be fun.
Written In The Stars: The Book Of Molly

McDougal

Chapter 1     McDougal had a blood disease or some pituitary dysfunction bullshit that made him a little sissy runt. He wasn’t the kind of sissy runt fuck that would cower and not fight when the bigger kids kicked him around, he just had that pituitary shit that made him little and weak. One spring day in the 9th grade when I was making my way through the transition hallway from the old building to the new building of South Park High School this red-headed moron gorilla 10th grader, Talty McManus kicked McDougal into me and the little shit got tangled in my legs causing both of us to fall and my books spilled all over the floor. Now, I didn’t really give a shit about that little runt fuck McDougal, people could kick him all they wanted as far as I was concerned, but as I lay there all twisted up with him, like always I got really mad, especially at the sound of that fucking moron gorilla McManus and his friends laughing while I was on the hallway floor with McDougal.     Once untangled, I scooped up my heavy Literature Today book, jumped to my feet and with both hands cracked McManus right upside his giant red moron head causing him to stumble back into the hallway wall. His friends grabbed me and locked me up and when McManus regained his equilibrium, he proceeded to bash the shit out of me until the shop teacher, Mr. Pierson came and broke it up, Still really mad and not giving a shit about consequences, the second I was released I threw a punch at McManus, which just grazed his jaw and eventually landed on the chin of a very angry Mr.Pierson. What did I care? Five days off... maybe I’d punch ten more of these fucking morons and slide right into summer vacation.    The four of us, the flame headed gorilla McManus, his two friends and myself were sent to the detention room. It was determined that McDougal was the victim in all of this and was sent along to class. Mr. Franklin the imposing security guard babysat us as we theoretically waited for our parents to pick us up. Over the next hour or so McManus’ friends were escorted out leaving just the two of us there separated by Mr. Franklin. I settled in with a Nick Hornby book I was reading knowing my dad, if they could even contact him, would tell school officials to fuck off, I was their problem from 0745-0245.    Sitting there, McManus would occasionally draw my attention from the Hornby book and mouth the words ‘I’m going to kill you!’ to which I responded with a sarcastic smirk and then some kisses blown in his direction from my hand. Constrained by the presence of Mr. Franklin, he was like a big dumb Irish Setter tied to a park car and taunting him was almost better than cracking that stupid fuck upside his moron head. When he was finally called to leave he shouted, “You’re dead Jackson!”    Yeah, whatever.    I left school later with a sense of liberation, five days’ worth, and decided to walk home rather than ride the bus. I almost missed McDougal leaning up against the green street light in front of Rite-Aid in his little puke green jacket calling out to me in his tiny voice, “Jackson...Jackson.”    But I just kept walking, fuck that little asshole. He didn’t get the message though and in a voice that was probably yelling for him said, “Thanks for helping me today.”    Normally, I would’ve just let this pass, but there were other kids around who may have heard him and I didn’t want anybody getting the impression that I was some kind of fucking good Samaritan. So I turned around, took five steps in the direction of McDougal and said, “Listen you little fuck, I could give a shit about who kicks you around, just don’t get kicked into me. Got it?” Then, to make sure he got it, I slapped him upside the head and the little fuck crumpled to the ground like a toothpick house folding in on itself.     Wincing in pain he got into a sitting position and looked up at me with his pathetic, tiny pain filled eyes and fucking got me, “McDougal, goddammit, get up, stop being such a little shit,” and I picked his meager little ass from the ground and started to brush him off and straighten him up.      “Get off of me,” he said trying to push me away     I stepped back and looked at him and was filled with...I don’t know what I was filled with, but I wanted to say something and when nothing came to me, I turned to leave.     I hadn’t taken a  two steps when McDougal’s tiny little voice called out to me, “Hey Jackson, you want go in the Rite Aid and steal some beer with me?”     Walking, I called back to him, “I just got a five-day vacation, I’m not about to spend it in fucking juvie.”    When I turned to leave he grabbed my hoodie sleeve and said, “I know you’re thinking there’s cameras everywhere in there, but I got a way around that shit, ” and he pulled an iPhone 7 from his jacket pocket.    Hearing McDougal curse was funny and funnier still was the difficulty he had holding iPhone 7, his little fingers straining to grip the device. But with dead seriousness, he said, “I can shut down the security cameras with this.”     Looking skeptically at him he walked to the front of the big plate glass windows that were covered with this week’s specials on foot powder, lawn chairs and feminine hygiene products.    “C’mere,” he said. “watch this,” and he punched some shit up on the phone and the lights blinked on and off in the store.    Impressed, I said, “Holy shit, McDougal, you’re some little Jimmy Neutron nerd fuck.”    “Jimmy Neutron?... what is this 2003?”    “Yeah, well, I was flipping the channels the other day… Wait a minute, fuck you McDougal,” I said and slapped him on the head, but light enough so he didn’t crumple to the ground like before.    He smiled up at me with teeth too big for his tiny mouth and like Elon Musk or something said, “Let’s do this.”     We stood there for like fifteen minutes waiting for all the foot traffic from school to pass and to make sure there were no customers in the store. During that time we also mapped out a plan: McDougal would go in first, draw the cashier to the back of the store where the pharmacy was located to look for some special kind non-existent vitamins and when they couldn’t find them he would suggest they enlist the the manager’s help. Once the manager was engaged he would jam the security cameras and then signal me by blinking the lights on and off. I would come in and lift the beer from the coolers on the side wall at the front of the store.     It was all set, but as he was about to go through the front doors I became anxious and unlike at school, thought about the consequences, “McDougal, you sure you can do all that?”    Looking straight at me he twitched his fingers on the screen of the phone and the overheads fluttered for a few seconds like a strobe light. Impressive as that was I still wasn’t completely sold and asked, “What if they won’t go to the back of the store with you?”     McDougal gave me a big eye roll and then walked over to me, got up on his toes and slapped me upside my head and with a big smile said, “Normal people feel sorry for me and want to help me. They’ll do whatever I ask, trust me.” Walking away he said, “Make sure you get tall boys.”    And, you know what, that little hobbit motherfucker was right, it worked like a charm. The lights flicked, I went in and could see the back of cashier head and the manager moving to the rear of the store where the closed off and busy pharmacists were engaged in their work, leaving the front of the store wide open. It was almost too easy. Besides a six of Rolling Rock tall boys, I grabbed some Fritos, Tortilla chips and a tin of Altoids. Out on the street cars whizzed by, but luckily there was no foot traffic and with a cool urgency made my way to the side of the building,     On the side of the building I dispatched the Rolling Rocks from their plastic rings and barely was able to jam them in my backpack and waited on McDougal. I had a momentary thought of ditching him, but I don’t know, the little fuck had gotten to me or something. Instead, I got my flip phone out and sent a text to Lexi, that said, ‘Meeet mee.’ The extra e’s were code for her to meet me behind the closed down Fiberglass Plant that was next to Okell Field.      Okell Field butted up against the back of Rite-Aid and South Park on one side and the closed down plant on the other side. Playing softball during gym class one day while looking for a foul ball in the shrub that grew along the six-foot-tall fence separating the field from the plant, I noticed an opening in the fencing. This led to a small space between the back of the Fiberglass Plant and a stockade fence that ran along the perimeter of the property and out beyond the weedy uninhabited parking lot. There were houses on the other side of the stockade fence, but they were far enough away that as long as you weren’t crazy or there wasn’t a softball game going you could hang there in relative peace and fucking tranquility. You could even enjoy a fire in the steel drum that was there while relaxing on some plastic milk crates I nipped from the 7-Eleven. I called it The Spot and sometimes I went back there with a few X-games biking dudes, but mostly I brought girls to neck with back there. Lately, it had been Lexi.    I was growing anxious waiting on McDougal, but eventually he showed with a big grin on his face asking, “Did you get the tall boys?”    “Hell yes, and these too,” I said and holding up the chips,     I turned and at a moderate pace walked along the side of the Rite-Aid and headed to The Spot. McDougal quickly fell behind and my appeals for the little fuck to hurry up were useless. Even at a moderate pace the kid couldn’t keep up. Why, we needed to move fast, I didn’t know. Adrenalin, I guess. But we fell into a pace that was good for McDougal, talking with great excitement at how easy the whole thing had been.    Going against a stiff April breeze with angry dark clouds looming down on us we crossed the field, which was spongy in spots from the spring rains, negotiated the fence and sat down on the milk crates. Facing each other. I set my backpack between us, unzipped it and pulled out two tall boys. Handing one to McDougal, which he had trouble gripping I asked,, “Why tallboys?”    “I don’t know, they look cool.”    With the beers in our hands we both hesitated till McDougal asked, “You ever drink before?”    “Sips… you?”    “Yeah...sips.”    “Let’s go,” I said and we lightly tapped cans. We both took a slug and I could see McDougal’s face and feel my face wince in pain at the taste of the beer.    After talking about my suspension and how I was going to try to keep it from my old man we both took another cautious drink. The bitterness of a the beer lessened a bit and would continue do so with each new sip.     “I know your old man,” McDougal said out of the blue.    “Poor fucking you, how?”    “Black Dogs. Talty’s. Sometimes when I spend the weekends with my Dad he drags me to all those joints up and down the Avenue.”    “They don’t give him shit bringing you around?” I asked    “Nah, but I don’t go so much anymore, not since the accident.” he said casually.    “What accident?”    “Not really an accident, I was driving my dad home from the bar and cut the wheel too hard and scraped the back end of a Chevy Cruze on my dad’s street,” he said.    “You cut the wheel too hard?... McDougal, you’re eleven years old and three fucking feet tall, you can’t drive.”    “Hey, I’m fourteen and 4’ 8,” and I can drive,” he protested      “Jesus Christ, three hits on that beer and out comes the bullshit. You should put it down right now, this drinking thing is not going to work out for you,” I said laughing.    “No, really,” he said still protesting. “My dad is kind of a drunk and a goof and after he got a DWI he taught me to drive so he wouldn’t get another one.”    “Yeah, well my dad is a drunk too and all he taught me was how to shut the fuck up and block punches. So, just quit it, McDougal.”    “Seriously, we would pull the seat way up and I would sit on some old phone books so I could see over the dashboard and we tied a coffee can to my foot so I could reach the pedals and then we practiced in the mall parking lot. I was pretty good. I probably got him home twenty times before I sideswiped that Cruze.”    While I’m not all that smart in a school way, I am pretty smart in the street way and as that little puke sat there with his dumb fucking Harry Potter haircut and his tiny eyes fat with excitement I believed the little fucker. The only thing I thought to ask was, “What’s a phone book?”    As he explained that a phone book was a big thick directory of phone numbers that came out every year before the internet was invented, pretty Lexi made her way through the fence opening and sat down next to me, nodded at McDougal and said, “Where’d you get the beer?”    “Rite Aid,” I said. “It was a big heist,” then I pulled the tab on a beer for her and explained the day’s events.     When I was done she looked at McDougal and said, “I know you, Mr. Fundalinski’s art class. He lets you use the Bluetooth, right?”    “Yeah,” McDougal said, “I have sensitive ears and he lets me listen through this.” and he pulled a mini Bose Bluetooth speaker from his backpack.     Looking at me she said, “You should hear the crazy shit he listens to.”    Lexi had the prettiest blue eyes and the softest lips that were eternally glistening with strawberry supreme lip gloss. I had necked with a bunch of girls and even felt up a few and none of them had the technique down like Lexi. Those other girls would slobber all over your face, but Lexi kept it nice and tight and clean. Like me, she was a little messed up and didn’t do so well in school but she could kiss and she liked good music. None of that Twenty-One Pilots ot Imagine Dragons bullshit, she liked good stuff—Silversun Pickups and Modest Mouse.     Taking her first wincing sip she pulled a pack of menthol Seneca Joe’s from her jean jacket and said, “You got beer, I got these.”     Surprised, I said, “I didn’t know you smoked,”     “I don’t, but my mom was being a total asshole this morning so I stole them. It was her last pack. Now she’s going to have to drop a ten on Newport’s at 7-Eleven to tide her over till she can get to the reservation. Got a light?”    None of us had a light but we all took one and pretended to smoke. As the beer started to kick in McDougal punched up some shit through Google Play on his phone called Foxygen and then some Bon Iver. After that he went old school with the Boy With The Arab Strap by Belle and Sebastian. Lexi loved that song and got up and started to dance with McDougal. I guess these tunes were okay in a genderless college radio type of way and at first it was funny watching McDougal dance with Lexi. After a little awkwardness McDougal found some semblance of rhythm and I could see the way he was smiling at Lexi, he was falling for her and it made me mad. I kind of knew it was stupid to be mad and was going get up and butt in, but instead, I took his phone and dialed up some Slack Motherfucker by Superchunk. They continued to dance but the Superchunk tune was a really up, fist waving high energy song that made you want to bounce around on your toes. Finishing my first beer and feeling a little drunk I even got up and bounced around. I followed that with some motherfucking Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Spread Your Love and McDougal hearing the first heavy notes was like, “Oh yeah, I like this.”    Standing there, he fixed the unlit cigarette to his lips and started to play air guitar. Lexi took out her aviators and wrapped them over his ears. They were too big for his tiny head and he looked like a bug, a bug with a menthol hanging from his mouth playing air guitar. Lexi sat down next to me, took my hand and put her head on my shoulder. I felt stupid for getting mad while she danced with McDougal and was about to descend into the pit of self-recrimination, but it was so funny watching that little runt fuck McDougal sway and bend and do leg kicks like some badass rock star I thankfully didn’t go there.    When he was done he sat down to our applause as we chanted “McDougal, McDougal, McDougal.” We opened the Fritos as he asked questions and searched Google Play for more BRMC.    “I found them on Pandora like last year. Their sound isn’t as heavy these days, but they’re still really good,” I said.     We listened to some more BMRC, while we ate the chips and talked about music. McDougal slurring a little said he heard a lot of new music on the satellite radio station XMU and with a bit of cockiness added, “I knew about Lana Del Rey when I was seven-years old.”    “I love Lana Del Rey. She’s like a rainy afternoon, Lexi said.    “Eh,”I chimed in, “she’s okay. I mean, she’s pretty funny when she talks about fucking her way to the top, but all her songs go at the same pace, never up or down. They just drone.”    Then in a moment of panic McDougal said, “I forgot to text my mom,” and stopped the music and started to tap furiously at his phone with his thumbs.     I took this opportunity to lean in and kiss Lexi. Even with the beer and Fritos she was a delicious freak of nature with her shiny strawberry lips.    Still kissing Lexi a minute later McDougal said, “Yeah, don’t worry about me, just kiss away there while my mom has every cop in South Buffalo out looking for me.”    “School’s only been out for an hour.”    “Yeah, but she’s scared of stuff I have all these medications. She worries,” d .    “What’d you tell her,” Lexi asked.    “Knight’s Blade Gaming,” he said while he looked up something on his phone.    “What’s that?” I asked.     “It’s miniature tabletop gaming. Forget that, check this out,” he said finding what he was looking for on his phone. “This is Mitski, she’s my favorite.”    And from the mini Bose poured a voice with that rainy afternoon vibe similar to Lana Del Rey’s, backed though by a broader range of instrumentation that included some ass kicking guitar. The arrangements and Mitski’s voice also had more range, ticking methodically upward from despondency to resourcefulness to onslaught. It was really good shit and you could see   McDougal totally lose himself in it. We all had stuff we got lost in, but there against the gloom of the closed down plant, under a lousy grey sky, McDougal brought it to another level when Your Best American Girl started to play. Sitting there, he began to sway to her moody voice over a slowly picked acoustic guitar and then as the song gained momentum with the addition of bass, drums and a bed of buzzing atmospherics the swaying turned to gentle rocking and you could see in his methodic movements how the music permeated every molecule of his being. Then, as the momentum of the song reached its breaking point, there was an explosion of electric guitars and Mitski’s voice went from moody and vulnerable to a towering sort of muscular righteous. Jumping to his feet with a sudden burst of energy, McDougal threw open his arms like some sort of miniature Jesus on the cross and with his head bent upward to the sky and closed eyes he radiated on the spot. And, with each change in the music his little body convulsed and contorted while violently opening and closing his arms. It was a fascinating to watch him become more than lost in the music, the music was of him and he was of it, and it transported him to some higher dimension where he looked like a motherfucking true believer willing himself to God. It was spectacular and when the song ended like a fading electrical storm, I turned to  Lexi and her blown away face was all the confirmation needed as to what we just witnessed.    McDougal, slowly lowered himself back into sitting position on the crate and said, “Wow, I’m really drunk.”     But he wasn’t drunk, at least not from the tall boy. Neither were Lexi or I as we finished our beers. We decided to call it a day and after stashing the remaining two tall boys deep in the shrub along the fence and loading up on Altoids we walked home in relative silence. McDougal turned off at West Woodside and I walked Lexi to her house on Tift St. As I made my way back to Lockwood, where I lived, it started to rain a bit and even though I had to come up with a way to keep my five-days off from my dad, I couldn’t get little fucking McDougal and all that had happened today off of my mind. I mean, what the fuck was that

The Slow Train...

The Slow Train…     I always thought Bob Dylan’s Christian period in the late 70’s, early 80’s was a bit of a ruse. Forever maximizing the mystery trend while being the permanent proprietor of the next cool thing I assumed the calculus went something like: Guthrie folk...protest song… electric…dropped out…Wailing Wall when John, Paul, George and Ringo went Eastern… a couple of suspect albums to reduce the heat…the greatest break-up record of all time…all that heat again…next thing?...hmm…Christian?  No, they wouldn’t or maybe…hmmm? Hence, the birth of Slow Train Coming.     To me it seemed pretty unlikely that a guy as smart as Dylan and as Jewish and forty years old could fall for Jesus. There had to be an angle…right? But, tooling around the other day in my work truck in the brilliant crisp sixty-degree sun, Gotta Serve Somebody found its way into the rotation on my iPod and I fell right in line with its modest proselytizing funk. I didn’t pull over at The Church of St. Casmir’s to make a devotional, but the song did make me feel vast and expansive and reminded me there are things in this life bigger than the wants and needs of my ego; things that might not benefit me personally, but still require my attention and service. I also felt a little silly questioning Dylan’s sincerity, considering how the song drew me in and hooked me—what did it matter if he was sincere?     Next I did what I almost never do anymore; I clicked out of shuffle mode and listened to the rest of the album. It was a lovely, inspiring forty-minutes that filled me with the spirit of Christ for the remainder of the afternoon in spite of the fact that I am a lapsed Catholic and don’t identify as a Christian anymore. I still have a deep and abiding love for Jesus, but the man-made institutions that assert authority over Christ—not for me.     During this Christian period Dylan received instruction at the Vineyard Fellowship in California, which is known for its apocalyptic teachings. And according to the reviews, the songs on Slow Train Coming reflect this apocalyptic view, but it’s all but lost on me. Though I stayed at Catholicism long enough to be Confirmed my understanding of the New Testament is almost child-like. I know all the stories, parables and metaphors and have attempted on several occasions to read the Book of Revelation, but it was impossible for me to even process, let alone understand— talk about a book that could use a little updating and editing. So, my understanding is comprised of a few basic concepts I latched onto as a kid: do unto others as you would have them do unto you; love your enemy; care for the least among us and the metaphor about it being easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into heaven.

     Beyond this, I was informed by homilies at mass, CCD classes and most powerfully by the visual aspects of our church, Holy Family—the stone monolith on the corner of Tift & South Park in South Buffalo. During mass I would often be lost in the dome mural above the altar depicting God mightily over a golden background all bearded and white haired flanked by four angels sitting above Jesus on the cross. Below Jesus were the twelve apostles with contemplative expressions on their faces that I guess were supposed to match their personalities. Most arresting was the brutally graphic spikes in Jesus’ hands and feet and the stab wound to his heart, which so forcefully portrayed the violence of our humanity and his sacrifice. Holy Family also contained an abundance of stained glass, pillars, vaulted ceilings, the Stations of the Cross and Catholic girls in tight sweaters—the less scary religious imagery that eventually captured all of my attention.        And, despite the scary apocalyptic underpinnings of the Slow Train, that I guess were there all I heard was the same infinite truths of love, light and sacrifice that I always associate with Jesus. After being hooked with Gotta Serve Somebody I was drawn in by Precious Angel, which features, as the entire album does, the Sultans of Swing guitar intonations of Mark Knopfler and the stirring Muscle Shoal Horns. An amalgamation of rock and gospel stitched together by famed R& B Producer Jerry Wexler (Aretha Franklin, Wilson Pickett) Precious Angel is an inspirational plea of a fallible man for the light and understanding of God, ascending to the heavens with promise and hope:
                          Shine your light, shine your light on me                          Ya know I just couldn’t make it by myself                          I’m a little too blind to see…
     Next comes a nice expression of devotion in the ballad, I Believe In You. Aside from the annoying Christian habit of proclaiming persecution for belief in Christ, it feels heartfelt, earnest and is inspiring. I feel this even though the church would consider me one of little faith, humbly choosing to lean on my own life experiences rather than doctrines and institutions riddled with endless contradictions and a history of corruption. To me it seems all too obvious that whatever comes in this life for the most part is the result of one’s willful effort and the notion of a mighty man in the sky that will grant you eternal life by merely stating your belief in him and conversely will damn you in the fiery pit of hell if you question his existence is highly implausible. And, isn’t it kind of insulting to think the Creator, the force responsible for those girls in tight sweaters, sunsets, the sound of children laughing would come up with such a lame-ass test? Or maybe it’s all a crock of shit made up by some institution of man to instill fear and keep the flock behaving properly? Still, when you break it down and get at the essence of what Dylan is saying I am filled up with the righteous loving example of Jesus and this song.    Following that is the title track Slow Train, which prophesizes a bit of Old Testament judgment and reckoning to those whose faith has weakened:
                            Man’s ego is inflated, his laws are outdated, they don’t apply no more                            You can’t rely no more to be standin’ around waitin'                            In the home of the brave                            Jefferson turnin’ over in his grave                            Fools glorifying themselves, trying to manipulate Satan                            And there’s a slow, slow train comin’ up around the bend…
     Dylan takes up my cause on the rocking Gonna Change My Way of Thinking advocating a fresh point of view, the only problem is I feel Christianity's accusing finger pointed at me like I'm unworthy, but I can still work with it, reflecting on what I can do to be more like Jesus. In a couple more bits of modest funk Do Right To Me Baby (Do Unto Others) vamps cleverly on the Golden Rule and When You Gonna Wake Up flirts with a bit of fire and brimstone while asking when your personal change will occur. Man Gave Names to All The Animals has a nice bounce to it, but the Book of Genesis content seems of time past as the evidence for evolution, among all but those on the fringes, grows more air tight by the day.     The record closes with When He Returns, which features Dylan accompanied by a piano giving perhaps the strongest vocal performance of his career. The apocalyptic nature of the song, which posits that there will be no peace, no end to war until He returns doesn’t take away any of its power and inspiration for me. Again, to me it seems implausible, that the man in the sky who grants eternal life will also come down to earth and will solve all of our problems (Revelation says in a war where all but a tiny fraction of the earth’s population will be killed). So when Dylan says:                                          Surrender your crown on this blood-stained ground, take off your mask                             He sees your deeds, He knows your needs even before you ask                             How long can you falsify and deny what is real?                             How long can you hate yourself for the weakness you conceal?                             Of every earthly plan that be known to man, He is unconcerned                             He’s got plans of His own to set up His throne                             When He returns…
I can’t buy it. It rings hollow. But on the whole the song still works for me and is quite powerful. With all due respect and humility it seems more logical to me that rather than counting on Jesus to return and set things right, man should bear responsibility for the problems created by man. Perhaps that is our purpose here, to end the wars, pestilence, suffering and greed and then and only then we will win eternal life. And, of course the example set by Jesus can be the light to guide us…Shine your light on me.     On the whole I guess I technically disagree with many of the ideas Slow Train Coming, yet I feel close to these songs, they fill me up and make me feel hopeful. This, I think, is the product of my religious education or lack of one and twisting the songs to fit my point of view. But, it’s  more than just making the songs align with my world view or being a fan of music. Dylan explains it perfectly to David Gates of Newsweek in 1997: Here's the thing with me and the religious thing. This is the flat-out truth: I find the religiosity and philosophy in the music. I don't find it anywhere else. Songs like "Let Me Rest on a Peaceful Mountain" or "I Saw the Light"—that's my religion. I don't adhere to rabbis, preachers, evangelists, all of that. I've learned more from the songs than I've learned from any of this kind of entity. The songs are my lexicon. I believe the song.     That feels right—an omniscient being without limitation that can be in parables, murals, the tight sweaters of girls and in songs, especially songs. 

A Musical Guide to: McDougal...

McDougal's Tune; Mitski...

Jackson's Tune: BMRC

Authors'Tune:TR

McDougal...

    McDougal had a blood disease or some pituitary dysfunction bullshit that made him a little sissy runt. He wasn’t the kind of sissy runt fuck that would cower and not fight back when the bigger kids kicked him around, he just had that pituitary shit that made him weak. He had heart, but no juice and one day in the 8th grade when I was making my way through the transition hallway from the old building to the new building of PS #29 this red-headed moron gorilla, Talty McManus kicked McDougal into me. The little shit to get tangled in my legs causing both of us to fall and my books spilled all over the floor. Now, I didn’t really give a shit about that little runt fuck McDougal, people could kick him all they wanted as far as I was concerned, but as I lay there in the transition hallway all twisted up with him, I got really mad, and I always get really mad, hearing that fucking gorilla moron McManus and his two friends laughing while I was twisted up with McDougal on the floor.     Once untangled, I scooped up my heavy Literature Today book, jumped to my feet and with  both hands cracked McManus right upside his giant red moron head causing him to stumble back into the hallway wall. From there his friends grabbed me, locked me up and when McManus regained his equilibrium, he proceeded to bash the shit out of me, with a barrage of lefts and rights to my body and head until the shop teacher, Mr. Pierson came and broke it up, Still really mad, and not concerned with consequences, the second I was released I threw a punch at McManus, which just grazed his jaw and eventually landed on the chin of a very angry Mr.Pierson. What did I fucking care? A five day vacation, maybe I’d punch twenty of these morons and take the rest of the semester off.     The four of us, the flame headed gorilla McManus, his two friends and me were sent to the detention room. It was determined that McDougal was the victim in all of this and was sent along to class. Mr. Franklin the imposing security guard babysat us as we theoretically waited for our parents to pick us up. Over the next hour or so McManus’ friends were escorted out leaving just the two of us there seperated by Mr. Franklin. I settled in with the Nick Hornby book I was reading knowing my dad, if they could even contact him, would  tell school officials to fuck off, explaining I was their problem from 0745-0245.     Sitting there, McManus would occasionally draw my attention from the Hornby book and mouth the words ‘I’m going to kill you!’ to which I responded with a sarcastic smirk and then some kisses blown in his direction from my hand. Constrained by the presence of Mr. Franklin,  taunting him was almost better than cracking that stupid fuck upside his moron head. When he was finally called to leave he shouted, “You’re dead Jackson!”     Yeah, whatever.     I left school later with a sense of liberation, five days worth, and I almost missed McDougal leaning up against the steel green street light in front of Rite-Aid in his little puke green jacket calling out to me in his tiny voice,“Jackson...Jackson.”     But I just kept walking, fuck that little asshole. He didn’t get the message though and in a voice that was probably yelling for him said, “Thanks for helping me out at school today.”     Normally, I would’ve just let this pass, but there were other kids around who may have heard him and I didn’t want anybody getting the wrong impression that I was some kind of fucking good samaritan, there to help any of them. So I turned around, took five steps in the direction of McDougal and said, “Listen you little fuck, that moron McManus threw you at me like you were a rock or something. I wasn’t fucking helping you. Got it?”     To make sure he got it, I slapped him upside the head and he crumpled to the ground like a building made of feathers folding in on itself.     Sitting upright wincing there on the ground in pain that little fuck got me, “McDougal, goddammit, get up, stop being such a…” and I picked his airy little ass from the ground and started to brush him off and straighten him.     When I was done he looked me in the eye and then pointed toward the Rite Aid and said, “You want go in there and steal some beer with me?”

A Response To T Bone's Americana Address: Part1

   A couple of thoughts on T Bone Burnett's well considered keynote address at Americana Fest from this past weekend. Burnett the winner of a Grammy and an Oscar, as well as having a mile long list of production credits that range from John Mellencamp to Diana  Krall. To say the least, Burnett is a serious artist and in his address he makes the case for the sanctified role of artists in shaping and pushing societal innovation throughout history, with examples to prove it like Jules Vern putting a man on the moon a hundred years before it actually happened.  However, he feels today’s artist is in jeopardy due to the shifting technological landscape which has so upended the  music industry's business model, directly affecting his bottom line. On the encroachment of technology, he recommends a book: The Technological Society by Jacques Ellul, and goes on to say:


John Wilkinson, the translator, in his 1964 introduction, describes the book this way- “The Technological Society is a description of the way in which an autonomous technology is in the process of taking over the traditional values of every society without exception, subverting and surpassing those values to produce at last a monolithic world culture in which all technological difference and variety is mere appearance.” This is the core of the dead serious challenge we face.
I really disagree with this, especially the part where he says there’s going to be one monolithic world culture with differences only in appearance, which is something akin to the right wing’s never ending fear mongering about Washington taking orders from the UN. I think as Americans, with all our adventurism and the push back we received trying to instill our economic and political values around the world, especially over these last years in the Middle East, we should understand there isn’t much appetite for a monolithic one world culture. People want to remain autonomous and keep their unique values and heritage from France to the Ukraine, from Canada to Calcutta. That doesn’t mean that it isn’t in our interest to work together with the rest of the world to solve issues of climate, extreme poverty, displacement of people and a litany of other issues, all of which can be bolstered by technological improvements in communication, medicine and food production. No doubt technology can have vast unintended consequences like suburban sprawl, but if managed properly we can use it to solve problems without jeopardizing our individuality.
Next he goes on to complain about the military origins of our technology:Parenthetically, we have to remember that all this technology we use has been developed by the war machine- Turing was breaking codes for the spies, Oppenheimer was theorising and realising weapons. Many of the tools we use in the studio for recording- microphones and limiters and equalizers and all that- were developed for the military. It is our privilege to beat those swords into plowshares. 
While I really love that last line: It is our privilege to beat those swords into plowshares, I am rather unmoved by this argument. We need to face up to the fact we are a warring people. I wish it weren’t so, but we as a society have collectively decided that we value the ability to make war above almost anything else. Save your patronizing 9/11, terrorism and Putin speeches, that’s not the point. The point is we invest one-third of our resources into the military. That’s indisputable. And from this investment, besides missile systems, nuclear subs and all the rest we get microphones, computers and the internet, which begs the question: What difference does it make where these innovations, that have so enriched our lives, originated? Is the internet any less valuable or fun because it came from the military? Sure I would love every climate scientist, the CDC and computer engineer to have the resources we pour into the military, but that’s not our reality, it’s not what we value and thus, a moot, irrelevant point. 

How To Be A Hack Writer Like Me...

Since this is going to be blog about writing, to get us going I thought I'd put up a couple/ three essays in written and video form about my process that will inspire you to be a hack author, just like me...Take notes there will be a quiz.

Getting Going

Coming soon...Content

Coming soon...Content