Dennis Perrin's Blog, page 9

Remembering

Walked down my suburban street, looking for suspicious activity. The government warned about possible terror threats, and I believed them. The government wouldn't lie about something so dangerous. Especially on 9/11: Year 10. That would be callous. Manipulative. Our crusade can't afford such distractions. So I kept my eyes peeled.

Most homes complied with the patriotic code. Flags at half-staff. Star spangled ribbon magnets on SUVs and minivans. One home's front door was open. I saw two young kids watching the Twin Towers burn and collapse over and over again.

Good. They probably weren't born when Freedom fell under attack, so drilling those images into their tender minds is important. When they turn 18 and join the military, they'll know what they're avenging.

Then I came to the Trouble House. I never liked this place. I don't like the way they mow their lawn. I don't like their curtains. I don't like that boat in their driveway. They never use it. It just sits there.

Maybe they're waiting for a flood. Smart move, but they'll probably let the rest of us drown. Laugh between swigs of imported beer as we claw at the boat's basin. That's the kind of people they are. I haven't met or talked to them, so I could be wrong. But I rarely am, especially when it comes to national security.

Today they tipped their hand. Drunk on imported beer, contemptuous of Year 10, they flew their flag at full-staff. Old Glory riding high for all to see. The flag flapped confidently in the breeze, top of the pole as if it was top of the world. I was tempted to blame the flag, but reason intervened.

It wasn't the flag's fault. In its heart it knows it should be at half-staff, yet it couldn't help itself. Once a flag runs up a pole, instinct takes over. It must reach the top and flap away. Like a salmon trying to spawn while being eaten by a bear groggy from a conservationist's drug dart. That's nature.

No, the owners were to blame. I marched to their front door, knees high, arms waving. Rang the doorbell. The guy opened and stared at me.

"Yes?"

He wiped dark grease from his hands. What was he working on? It wasn't the boat. Never the boat. It was something else. Something with grease.

"Happy 9/11. May I have a word?"

He shrugged his shoulders. I guess in his world that meant yes. Or maybe it meant Get off my porch before I wipe grease on you. I gambled and bet it meant yes.

"Sir, do you know what today is?"

He smiled. "Sure. Sunday."

Oh, we were going to play that game. Okay, boat boy. Bring it.

"No sir. It's 9/11: Year 10."

"Of course. Yes. What a tragedy."

Clever. Very clever. But too clever. It's like he wanted to get caught.

"I noticed that your flag is at full-staff."

"Uh huh."

"Well, on 9/11, all flags must be at half-staff."

He seemed irked. His grease wiping intensified.

"I love my country. I love that flag. It flies at full-staff no matter what."

I braced for an attack. One thing I learned since 9/11 was to always be ready for an attack.

A moment or two passed. He was bluffing. Lucky for him. I got off my knees, pulled my shirt down from over my head and stopped sobbing.

"Look," he said, "I appreciate your concern. But this is my house. You fly your flag your way. I'll fly mine my way."

He closed the door.

I considered reporting him to Homeland Security, but they have enough potential terrorism to stop. This was strictly my move.

I pondered my alternatives. But pondering can lead to paralysis. That's another thing I learned from 9/11 -- don't think too much. At some point, action is required.

I found a chunk of broken concrete. Throw this through his front window and he'd learn that Freedom isn't free. Replacing that window would cost at least a few hundred bucks. But that lesson would be temporary. I needed to make a lasting statement.

I squeezed out most of the dump before he spotted me. Taking a shit on his boat showed that no one is safe. As he chased me down the street, I felt a surge of pride. Then I cut across the playground and jumped a fence, holding up my falling pants.

He never caught me. Destiny had something to with it, but hiding in a drainage ditch until dark helped too.

Excuse Please

For those who have chipped in, no need to read further. You've helped me stay afloat. Thank you. Now return to your crazy lives before I get mushy and start kissing on you.

For everyone else predisposed, any contribution to the effort is appreciated. I'm in rootless cosmopolitan mode. Living hotel room to hotel room. Cheap joints right out of Twin Peaks, but not Wild At Heart. I have a limit to certain David Lynch interiors. And if I see anyone who resembles Willem Dafoe, I'm sleeping in my car.

Anyway, thanks in advance. I have a few copies of my books I can sign and mail in return. Or I can give you a walk-on role in my newest effort. It's a period piece. When pants, lapels, and neckties widened. When Johnny Carson and Buddy Hackett grew their hair. Let PayPal be your time machine. I'll try to keep you away from family gatherings.

Killing Fields Forever

"I love this country. I hate it. I get angry at it. I feel close to it. I'm charmed by it. I'm repelled by it."
Norman Mailer

"The one generalization which is true about America is that everything is true about it. It's impossible to say anything that isn't true, good or bad. Our enemies are right. Our friends are right."
Orson Welles

"I love America with a passion. But this is a dark, screwed-up place, and anyone who doesn't think so is criminally insane or retarded . . . America was never innocent."
James Ellroy

ESPN lit the first fire. Makes sense. Corporate sports are spectacle. Part of the spectacle is to sell obedience. To our betters. To the state. To the flag. The tenth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks encompasses this and more. Not that a heavy pitch is needed. Show the Towers crumbling and Americans are sold. Again and again.

ESPN has been running stories about sports as a healing balm. Discussions about its importance. Corporate diversion as medicine show. There's an element of truth to it. The best propaganda uses obvious truths. People crave inclusion. Desire love. Want to be on winning teams. The shock of 9/11 fed this need. Deepened it. Bent it in ways that remain evident.

Celebrations over Bin Laden's murder showed how bent many Americans remain since 9/11. If anything, we're uglier. Pettier. More desperate to prove our righteousness.

Killing Bin Laden had little to do with justice or revenge. It was about American primacy. The idea that a Muslim in a cave fucked with us rankled millions. What God-driven kick-ass nation tolerates this? That Bin Laden was wasting away meant nothing. We had to smear his blood on our foreheads to feel whole again.

But that was a false feeling. A nationalist crank high. Bin Laden's death didn't improve American reality. It was a media event. A state sacrifice. Watching people dance in the streets must have warmed our owners' hearts. Any release of popular hatred not aimed at them is a plus.

As horrific as 9/11 was, the class war that followed is much worse. Our owners don't need to fly planes into buildings to destroy lives. Just drain local economies and let them die. Physical, emotional, and psychic wreckage surround us. It's piling up. There are protests here and there, but nothing serious. Nothing that cuts into the fabric.

Poor people in a depressed area applauded a president who days before further strengthened corporate rule. Obama's re-election stunt in Detroit shows he'll face little populist resistance. Only those devoted to increased corporate power wish to see him go.

To say we are twisted is polite. We are fucked in the head. It's remarkable that our skulls aren't exploding.

Years ago I was asked what I thought of 9/11. Instant mass murder. Terror. Insanity. Sacrifice. Sadness. The obvious impressions. Then I said I was surprised it didn't happen earlier. We were long overdue for violent retaliation.

My questioner balked at this. America "deserved" to be attacked? No -- it was a simple matter of physics. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. All the violence we've unleashed on the world was bound to come back to us. It was only a matter of time.

The crucial difference is that our better victims wouldn't think of such a thing. The Vietnamese and the Nicaraguans had plenty of justifications for attacking American turf. But they didn't. No car bombs. No hijacked planes. No burning, collapsing skyscrapers. It took clerical fascists to do that. Cousins of our "freedom fighting" friends from once upon a time. It's said that water seeks its own level. Blood is certainly no different.

Maybe Mohamed Atta and company didn't care about the attacks beyond their perceived martyrdom. But they pushed an American button that led to a decade of violence, torture, lies, corruption, theft, and numerous war crimes.

Our reaction proved them largely right about our hypocrisy. Our concern only for American lives. Like them, we seek religious meaning in massive suffering. The Twin Towers have become the national crucifix. A symbol of pretend innocence. A marker for future crusades.

The 9/11 terrorists fueled the needs of American sensation. A lasting contribution to our vocabulary. An indelible piece of our collective identity. Without them, there is no current us. That's the true legacy of that awful day.

Leisurely Check Out Time

Looking at the bank I once cleaned. Three stories. Five nights a week for six months. A solo gig.



Banks are among the worst places to clean. Bathrooms especially. It's amazing how awful they can be. Piss on the floor. Shit smeared on the seat. Used toilet paper crammed in trash bins. Bloody tampons spilling out of dispensers. Soiled diapers. People on bank business really let it go. Maybe it's payback. Maybe they don't care.



This bank's bathrooms were pretty bad. The employee break room as well. Garbage shoved into overflowing cans. Soda and coffee splashed on the wall. Half-eaten fast food on the floor and counters. I usually started here. Get the worst out of the way. Cleaning this night after night coarsened me. I hated people I never met. I had yet to develop empathy for those just as trapped as me.



The tellers' area was a sea of crumpled paper. Their trash cans also spilled over. I had to segregate official garbage from crusty wrappers. Customer account numbers and balance statements went in a locked dumpster. A co-worker at another bank was fired for not doing this. Part of me pined for dismissal. But I had to help feed my kids. So I dutifully segregated.



It's night. The bank's lights are on. A lone pick up truck near the side entrance. Some poor soul is in there cleaning. A asshole perhaps. A drunk. A pill head. I've worked with them all. Some probably saw me as an asshole. Fair enough. But I never worked fucked up. I wanted to finish the job as quickly as possible. Once done, I'd take a few swigs from a pint. Sit on my car hood. Stare at the building like I'm staring at it now.



I'm tempted to walk over and peek inside. Just thinking about that place saddens me. My fingers stiff from years of mop handles and hauling trash. My arms bigger but sore every morning. Knees worn. My body reminds me what cleaning did to it. It has no interest in looking back. I lower the hotel room's shade. Pour myself a drink. Sit in the dark. Ponder what's next.



I haven't performed since March. Spent the summer writing. Digging, clawing, scratching it out. I'm not as far as I'd hoped. Some really good stuff. Fresh patterns of remembrance. But short of my stated goal. So the work continues. Wherever I happen to crash. Whenever I have the fuel to face myself.



I'd like to get back on stage soon. Just to riff. No bits or routines. A general premise then zoom. Off to the races.



A year of stage diving freed me. The tightness felt when I first returned gone. I'm even nostalgic for the Village Lantern. But only with Ray Combs as emcee. Ray's room crackled with various energies. It was never boring. Offensive, tasteless, amateurish, yes. But always interesting. Those were wild nights.



Louis C.K. recently honored the Lantern. He featured it on his excellent FX show. Louie set the Lantern in deepest Brooklyn. His caustic friend, played by Doug Stanhope, drags Louie to where the "real" comics play.



That the Lantern is around the corner from the Comedy Cellar, Louie's home base, didn't diminish the segment. He accurately captured the Lantern's mood. Stray laughs. Loose deliveries. Scattered people murmuring throughout. It took me back to this Lantern set.







As I've said, this was a breakthrough for me. Save for the opening lines, everything was improvised. It was a rainy night. Small crowd. Every comic struggled. Even Ray. For some reason, I felt comfortable. I was in the flow. The ending joke surprised me. I have no idea where it came from. That's the beauty of improvisation -- a measure of your frantic mind. Well, mine anyway.

Even Numbers

Twelfth Night canceled the rest of its run. One of its cast members was killed.



Henry phoned with the news. His cast mate Danny was driving in a storm. Had little road experience. Lost control and crashed. Dead at 17.



Henry was somber but stoic. He's never known someone who's died. And this kid was only two years older. He asked about how I've handled death.



Death's been around since my sister died in 1963. My best friend was killed by a drunk teen driver. Another friend was killed by a kid fucking around with a loaded handgun. My stepbrother's wife was murdered while pumping gas. There are the older relatives, of course. Grandparents. My Uncle Don. O'Donoghue's death stung me. Live and watch them peel away.



He asked about near-death experiences. I've only had one. Maybe one and a half. The semi-truck that nearly ripped me in two counts, I guess.



Henry was referring to the shotgun story. I was 20. At a wild party. A drunk acquaintance pulled me in his bedroom to see his new 12 gauge. He loaded it, laughing. Pointed it at my head. Said he was gonna kill me. Laughed some more. "Watch where you're waving that thing," I said.



I pushed the barrel aside. The gun fired. My left ear fuzzed out. I dropped to the floor. Bedroom window shattered. Neighbors yelled. Guys from the front room rushed in. One with a .38 drawn. I touched my face. Still intact. Intense ringing in my ear. The guy rolled on his bed. Rebel yelled. Smiled.



Henry laughs when I share this. Wonders why I hung out with such people. It was a long time ago, I say. Some of them went to prison. One guy I knew back then died about a year ago. Drug deal argument. Shotgun blast to his chest. I wasn't as friendly with him. He had cold crazy eyes. When told of his death, it made sense. Certain fates are inescapable.



Henry's youth isn't as chaotic as mine. I've helped ensure that. He'll face the harshness of life with better balance. Or so I hope.



Henry attended a memorial service last night with his mother. Nan explains further.

Bodies Obtained

Stroll through the cheap wine aisle. Stare at cheaper refrigerated brands. Where's Cold Duck? Boone's Farm? Paul Masson? Orson Welles drunkenly endorsed Paul Masson. Genius reduced to wino shill. Showbiz and the second law of thermodynamics share many features. For Welles, cheap wine lubricated the process.



Feels like a large truck rolling in. A semi in the store. Bottles rattle. Walls shake. The floor rises like a wave. I'm jarred but keep my balance. The aisle lights go out. A few bottles fall and break. Some mild shaking then quiet.



Everyone looks at each other. Two women race down the aisle toward the exit. A security guard runs by. Store managers appear shocked. A few people joke about earthquakes. They don't think this is one. How can Washington DC have an earthquake? Must be something else. Terrorist attack? All are left guessing.



I've never been in an earthquake. But what else could this be? Cashiers offer shaky smiles. No one really knows how to act. It's almost like a Matrix program. I move past people frozen in place. Go outside. The sidewalk's jammed.



I'm near the federal government's epicenter. State buildings everywhere. Evacuation was swift. I cut through the throng. Everybody's trying to get a cell signal. Nothing. Their toys are useless. A lovely sight. They keep trying. Still nothing. Confused expressions. The beauty deepens.



Walk back to the neighborhood where I'm staying. Cars blast news stations. Pedestrians compare notes. An old brownstone lost some bricks. The only damage I see. The neighborhood appears unscathed. But people there are rattled.



One guy rails about the End Times. A father holds tight his baby girl. A young Black man in a white tank top yells, "I'm at peace! But I'm a freak!" Several older women pray. Worried looks all around.



The quake ripple wasn't that bad. Unexpected, but not earth shattering. There's no Potomac tsunami. No rubble. No fire in the streets. It doesn't take much to frighten Americans. Those with no political or economic power seem more vulnerable to fear.



There's a certain DC vibe that I've yet to fully discern. A weird tangible mix. Living in the shadow of the Capitol Building reinforces class divisions. Imperial reality is in your face.



Here come the sirens. Cops. Ambulances. Dark vans with flashing lights. Every form of authority thrust into action. Where they're going I don't know. Whom they're saving is a mystery.



I go upstairs to the apartment. A few knick knacks on the floor. Nothing serious. Gas and electricity fine. Fix a drink, go online. Everyone's talking earthquake. Libya's there too, but a secondary concern. America comes first. We always come first.

Beyond This Road

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Standing in the bagel shop line. I'm rumpled, groggy. Wearing a borrowed porkpie hat. Shades. Wrinkled t-shirt. Jeans. No briefs.



Feeling anxious. Life again in flux. At my age. Fuck.



The bagel makers look tired. Everybody does. In this part of the country, smiles are rare. The economy reeks. We go through the motions. Making bagels. Hauling trash. Fixing rusting cars. Keep busy. Appear engaged. Hope you don't lose what's left.



Approach the counter. Place my order. 10,000 Maniacs fall from the ceiling speakers. Like The Weather. Haven't heard this song in eras. I'm back at 70th and York. Leeching off an old Indy friend. Making $50 a week from an East Village paper. Mac and cheese and Miller Lite for dinner.



I was lost in a sociopath's fog. My brains and humor kept a roof overhead. Any dumber or slower and I'd have been on a grate.



An anxious time. Natalie Merchant eased some weight. Bobbed hair. Expansive features. Alluring dresses. Hippie abandon. I saw the Maniacs at The Ritz. August 7, 1987. Close enough to see Merchant breathe. She possessed me. I ignored my date. An older woman. She was pissed. I didn't care. Obnoxious but honest.



Fantasies about Merchant. I could make her laugh. I could play to her liberal politics. I would fuck her sweetly for hours. Watching her dance across the stage, it all seemed possible. The fog was that thick. Amazing that I got laid in the real world.



I was living vine-to-vine. Soon I would slip and crash. 10,000 Maniacs were part of my soundtrack. Hearing them again brings back that time.



Rush of blood to my face steams my shades. Tears fall. A crying crumpled mess. No one notices. There are sadder people than me.



Running lines with my son. Nan got him in a local production of Twelfth Night. He has a small part. Four scenes, decent dialogue. He works hard on his lines. A 15-year-old in a cast of adults. His first play is Shakespeare's. I never had those guts.



Nan and I attend dress rehearsal. An outdoor theater in a park. Mosquito heavy. The director sets the play in the late-60's. A Jimi. A Janis. A Wavy Gravy. Godspell goes Bard. If Orson Welles set Julius Caesar in fascist Europe, why not a flower power Twelfth Night? Shakespeare goes with anything.



The staging seems chaotic. Some scene transitions lag. Cues are missed. Several actors mumble lines. People on cells speak louder.



The talent is all over the place. Several have no business being on stage. A few shine. Show passion. They understand their roles. Delightful to watch. But overall, a very mixed bag.



Henry's a touch stiff at first. Then he warms to the moment. Nan and I drilled him on the need to project. Especially on an outdoor stage.



He remembers. Voice bounces off the bandshell out to the benches. His timing is pretty good. There's work to be done, edges sanded. But he's a kid. He has all the time his father once had. Already he's an improvement.

Nietzsche's Abyss

Apparently, Rick Perry has been elected president. He's gutting the Constitution. Giving kickbacks to his fat cat backers. Forcing Jewish and Muslim children to pray to Jesus. Planning new wars. Turning us into a miserable global joke. He's worse than Bush. Vice President Bachmann is an added slander upon our good name.



How can Americans be so stupid -- again? Didn't they learn their lesson?



This is based on my Facebook and Twitter feeds. Perry's announcement has made liberal friends and acquaintances lose their minds. I haven't seen such frenzy since my Nader days. That the election is a year away means nothing. That anything can happen means even less. No: Perry's gonna get the nomination; and because Americans are backward and racist, he'll probably win and re-establish the Dark Ages.



Why? WHY!



Amid this fury, Barack Obama is still in office, serving our owners, tightening our noose. No liberal tumult for him. And that's how it should be, given this system. Keep the partisans in their separate cages. Let them demonize each other while elites steal from all.



The class war from above is so obscenely blatant that Warren Buffett calls for taxing the rich. He's clearly embarrassed by the spectacle. But Buffett's call will go unheeded. His peers are in no mood to sacrifice. Their political wings keep the money flowing upward. Who surrenders in a war that they're winning?



Liberal groups bemoan the class war, but do little to oppose it. For one thing, they're not opposed to capitalism -- though what we're enduring is beyond supply-and-demand definitions. Modern capital has its own language, its own currency, its own country. Liberal commentary rarely touches on this. They believe that modern capital can be bent in a progressive direction. By who or how is fuzzy. But it can be done. First, we need to elect better Democrats; and then etc. etc.



The main reason why liberals aren't engaging the class war is because they'd have to oppose Obama. Openly. Radically. And we know that's not going to happen. Liberal hysteria over Perry and Bachmann proves that. Liberals have waited for the GOP circus to commence so they can finally erupt. Based on feeds and links I've read, they've been suppressing a lot.



Remember how progressives were going to hold Obama's feet to the fire? How they were going to apply populist pressure? We now see where that energy went -- into a holding account marked Summer 2011. And it wasn't being saved for Obama. The recent effort by liberal scribes to rescue and polish Hubert Humphrey's reputation shows where many progressive heads are at. They want to serve their betters. They want to be led. For all of his "mistakes" (forced upon him by Republicans who hate America), Obama remains their preferred shepherd.



Radicals like Alexander Cockburn think that a GOP victory in '12 might reignite social justice/antiwar activism. To some degree, sure. But Obama's presidency exposed how hollow the "antiwar" movement was during the Bush/Cheney years. Swayed by Obama's focus group-tested sermons, large numbers of protesters fell mute. They believed again in the system. Extension of Bush's policies by Obama failed to erode their HOPE. In many ways, it was strengthened.



Opposition to a Perry or Romney administration would be at best tactical. Liberals would be in a four-year holding pattern until they could support the Next Savior. President Franken? Why not? A comedian president would be a perfect fit. A looted and crumbling infrastructure should have a laughtrack, if only to muffle the cries of the screwed.

Random Acts Of Meaningless Violence

Like so much else in southeastern Michigan, Borders Books is closing. Bargain placards promise big savings. Half the shelves are empty. What's left has been reshuffled and scattered. People pick at the bones, smiling. The place has a Target/Walmart vibe. All this effort put into words seemingly wasted.



The books appear sad to me. Even writers I don't like get my sympathy. Borders was a chain which in headier times I deplored. But to see it collapse like this is depressing.



Borders began in Ann Arbor, so it's fitting that it end here. Just after we moved here, I gave a reading for American Fan at the downtown store. Fan garnered good reviews, a nice mention from Robert Lipsyte in the New York Times, and a stirring endorsement from a local critic. My mixed feelings about Fan didn't matter. My publisher's indifference to Fan did, but I was able to squeeze out a couple of readings and radio interviews before the Murdoch hammer fell.



The Borders reading was sparsely attended. No one knew who I was nor cared. A few people strolled in as I performed the better passages. One guy identified himself as a Cubs fan. He took issue with something I said about Wrigley Field rituals (yes, I got heckled at a book reading). He was a living example of what I wrote about. I don't think he saw himself that way. He seemed too earnest. That was over a decade ago, and the Cubs still haven't won or gone to a World Series. Hope he's holding up.



Standing in the spot where I read. It's nearly empty. They're selling the bookcases too. Hell, you could rip up pieces of carpet and haggle a decent price for them. I walk back to my apartment. Cross the main campus. More and more kids. The old, ivy-covered buildings are as lost in time as me. Their presence makes you think of leather-bound books. Hushed reading rooms. Dusty sunlight on long oak tables. Some of that remains, but it's increasingly archaic.



Soon everything will be stored on discs, apps, blitts and blurds. Like on Star Trek. Not so bad, I suppose. Once holodeck technology is perfected, books will be finished. Who'll want to read when you can be a book's character?



I'd try Gore Vidal's Lincoln. Surely a man so revered and cited had numerous flaws and blind spots. What better way to learn this than by playing Vidal's revisionist Abe? I might change the program near the end. Have Lincoln fight John Wilkes Booth. He'd still die, but my version at least gives Lincoln a chance. Plus it's more exciting. The quick bullet to the head is so Sopranos.

Status Report

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Girls are streaming back to campus. You can't miss that living on sorority row. They're well dressed with the requisite toys. Mostly white and no doubt pampered. Michigan's not a cheap school to attend. A few across the street sun themselves in the afternoon. Tiny bikinis over young tight skin. I watch them now and then. But that's all. I have yet to reach Old Perv status. I'm saving that for my golden years.



This is my last week of sublet living. I've been in this apartment since February. Its tenant returns from Paris to teach these pampered kids. I have yet to find a suitable replacement. It's amazing what people try to rent to you. Many landlords seem whacked out. Property relations aren't terribly cordial. A few nice people, but the rest on edge.



One woman demanded to know all about me. I had to pass some morality test. I said I was a writer. She paused, then promised to phone back. She did but lied, saying that she just remembered renting the place to someone else. While I'd like to think it was my admission that sunk me, I'm sure it was my humor. Certain people you don't joke with. She was one.



Looks like I'll return to hotel living. Probably the same place I stayed when my marriage broke apart. A dive, but habitable and cheap. I don't need much. I've been through so many bouts with poverty that a survival sense kicks in. I can stretch pretty much anything -- clothes, food, booze, assorted sundries. I still have notebooks to fill, and low life gives me time to do that. I occasionally go crazy, stalk my space cackling, crying, shaking. Isolation bends the mind. God knows what I'll see when it breaks.



The English riots are a savage dream, at least from this distance. Blessedly, Americans are too disconnected to riot. An atomized mass tearing up the streets would be a nightmare. With no real populist movement to give resistance shape, we are left with individuals lost in chaos.



I saw a glimpse of this during the 2003 blackout. Drivers arguing in the absence of traffic lights. People fighting over bags of ice at gas stations. Several neighbors walled themselves off, refusing to pool limited resources. My next door neighbor threw a blackout party in his carport. A few of us attended. We drank beer and watched a preseason NFL game on a small TV hooked to his Jeep's battery. A nice reminder that not everyone is frightened.



As always, my PayPal guitar case is open to donations. I'll continue to post whatever crosses my mind, in between writing jags on the book. Confessionals, satire, reviews, prose poems, bizarro configurations -- I give you all I have. You may not want it, but I'm giving it anyway. I'm just that kind of guy.