Have you ever moved an under-the-counter microwave? Seems easy, doesn't it? Nope. It’s heavy as hell and awkward. It’s like there’s reverb in it. If you say or think, “That’s ok, I’ll get the microwave.” Don’t. That’s a pro tip. Also, never help a record collector move. Never. Another pro tip.
OK, Don Tinsley. Great power-pop song from the early to mid ‘70s? I put a question mark cuz I don’t really wanna delve too much into his story. Without looking, I assume this is a self-published, one-off single from the ‘70s, found by a Discog douche in a Lincoln, Nebraska thrift store in the winter of ’23. It went nowhere and he eventually followed his other passion…real estate.
Tinsley did record a single in the ‘70s but it was never published. It languished in a drawer until he (Tinsley) or, more like it, his “banged” niece sent the reel-to-reel to Numero Group or Earth Libraries, both song archeologist purveyor labels. Earth Libraries, a label or song collective or whatever they are, won the bidding war and put out the single. Tinsley proceeded to die once the single was released. At his funeral, it was rumored he died doing what he loved…real estate.
Great song. Listen
(Tinsley probably didn’t love real estate, and it’s possible a single was pressed in the ‘70s. Microwaves are heavy, though)
3. Anonymous Club by Courtney Barnett
The city hall heads were causing trouble, so I went upstairs and found our politics guy. He was the man who dealt with these types of problems. He had power. He was a player. I told him the city hall heads gave us tickets and impeded delivery. Immediately indignant, and aghast, he grabbed his coat from the back of his office chair and we marched 2 blocks to city hall. We found the heads who caused the problems and he told them to stop. I stood slightly behind him, ready to jump in or say “yeah,” but these weren’t physical guys. Nor was I. They stopped immediately. I was impressed.
On the way back, the upstairs politics guy told me he had a small part in the movie The Towering Inferno and wanted to be a priest -- even attended seminary --before being our politics guy. The seminary thing was oddly common with a specific subculture of the population at work. I looked at him and thought, “Ohh.” That’s all I had.
On the street, I looked back at city hall. Damaged in the earthquake, it sat empty for many years. Willie brought it back with a black dome. It probably cost extra but it was worth it. It’s the tallest dome on the “W” side of the Mississippi.
Before taking the elevator upstairs, the politics guy told me a story about the present-day young, hipster mayoral candidate. Walking into a room in city hall, the candidate was lying on his back on a sofa with the lights off. Light flooded the room from the hallway. The candidate looked up, squinted, and yelled, “Get the fuck out.” The politics guy intimated that the candidate had depression issues.
The spray-painters liked the mayoral candidate. He was one of them. He dabbled in art, Lo-fi indie and probably skateboarded to work. He didn’t win. The spray painters eventually got married, had one kid, and moved to the suburbs when the kid entered kindergarten. You know, for the schools. On select Saturday nights, they’d tag a dumpster on the side of a 7/11, while wearing a Wu-Tang shirt. They’d post it that night. I’m sure the candidate is out there too, still dabbling in collage and depressed. Aren't we all?
This song reminds me of lying face up on a sofa in a dark room in the middle of the day. Gravity heavy, mind wandering to my troubles, my troubles, my troubles…
4. Around the Corner by Sam Blasucci
Sam is in a band called Mapache. If you omit M from Mapache you get Apache. It’s a tribe and a well-sampled song.
Two rows back and a couple spaces over, a math student wore a leather jacket with a large Native American in full headdress painted on the back. This wasn’t abnormal at the time. He was large for the seat, stiff, and all in black. Not rocker black, insdustrial black. Shaved on the sides, his dyed black, stringy hair fell across his face. He constantly swiped it back. He'd do. It was a geometry class in community college. Why was I taking a geometry class at a community class. I have no idea.
We were looking for a singer. In the hallway after class, I introduced myself and asked him to try out for my band. We needed a singer and he looked cool. Had no idea if he could sing. He agreed. I gave him a demo of our original rock songs.
He came down to our fire-trap practice studio, a converted rug warehouse. As you walked the hallway to the last space in the basement, the year’s trendy alternative music bled from rooms behind closed doors. Musical taste seemed to change every three years, the normal length of a band.
I introduced him to the band like we were old friends. He took off his leather jacket, revealing the same tattoo on his bicep that he had on the back of his leather jacket. He grabbed the mic, barked out a few lyrics, and then awkwardness took over. He was too Nine Inch Nails and rusted metal drum banging for our post-modern southern rock. We went back to being co-students.
The next guy wore a wife-beeater with a chain wallet that hung below his knee. When we shook hands, he slid his hand up my forearm to my elbow and squeezed. It was like we were two Thors or in the final battle for middle earth. It freaked me out. He approached the mic, stopped, moved off the mic, and then attacked it again. But he never sang. He was our drummer’s friend so we let him deal with it.
The last guy was older and obviously a professional singer. Since trying to find a singer was turning out to be awkward, our guitarist met with the prospects before coming to the studio. The guitarist reported that the pro oldster singer had a commissioned oil painting of the cover of The Rolling Stones’ 1974 album It’s Only Rock-n-Roll in his living room. However, there was a twist. Upon further inspection of the painting, the pro oldster singer had painted himself with The Stones walking down the red carpeted stairs with adoring nymphs: Mick, Keith, Mick T, Bill, Charlie and Pro Oldster Singer. At the time, the painting was an object of ridicule and mockery, but, man, I’d pay a plenty quarter for the painting now. For the story alone.
I ended up singing. That’s how reluctant singers become reluctant singers.
I have trouble liking a Mapache song because of the name. It conjures wool ponchos and the phrase “festival ready.” Same with Soccer Mommy. I just can’t bring myself to mutter, “Hey, have you heard the new Soccer Mommy song” without feeling like a total tool. It’s me, not you, Mommy and Mapache. With Sam’s solo record, I can now listen without judgment. Thank you for thinking of me. Soccer Mommy? What about you? Throw me a bone.
Listen.
5. Jesus by The Velvet Underground
This song made me think differently about The Velvet Underground. Before hearing it,
The Velvets were polaroids, wigs, screen printing machines, long art films, factories, parties, and general Lower Eastside degeneracy. The way it should be. But maybe after not sleeping on a Saturday night, a few of them floated the idea of going to church on Sunday. Most of them and everyone around them attended church as a kid, right?
I can picture John Cale and Mo Tucker (definitely Mo) saying, “Yeah, we’ll go.” Nico probably hissed at this idea. And off they went, passing Coney Island where Lou mumbled, “Coney Island, Baby.” And when they returned from one of these outings, Lou wrote Jesus. Sounds feasible, right? I think so.
But what I love most about this song — what keeps my active mind intrigued — is a scenario where the band is backstage making the setlist for a show. Someone suggests sandwiching Jesus between I’m Waiting For My Man and Heroin, and everyone agrees it's a good idea. So, that night, after playing Jesus, Lou says, “The next one is called Heroin.” Jesus and Heroin. A man can wish.
Great song. The chorus is so delicate and bare. Lovely.
6. Beach Song by Busman's Holiday
They fit the bill: jolly, can talk Reign in Blood and Bocephus, are versed in Mountain Dew, Diet Coke, and Busch Lite, and are prone to taking off their shirts in public. They started in metal and then heard Pet Sounds and altered course.
7. Too Young To Burn by Sonny and the Sunsets
Sonny lives in the Sunset, I think. I have a friend who kinda knows him, runs in the same circles, and lives in the Sunset. Close enough? He must live there, right?
While driving today, I thought, “Hey, what’s up with Sonny?” I pulled over, took out my phone and checked. He’s still around, released an album a few years ago, and has a few songs with multiple million views. That's important. I was happy he was doing well. His heyday of famous friend taggers and that Girls guy is over, but it doesn’t mean you have to quit. Sonny writes songs. Good songs.
One day when I was west of the Sunset, which some people call the beach, I was walking my dog. My three-legger got around fine and he loved nipping at the waves. It was normal out -- cold, miserable, and rain-like fog, so people were sparse.
While the three-legger sniffed something dead, a dude approached wanting to talk. Dudes like this gravitate towards me. Maybe I'm a mark? Maybe they think I'm a peer?
In OP short-shorts, board Vans, and a t-shirt with a surf company on the front, he spoke a different language. His face was worn from being outside way too much. His hair stringy, blondish, and shoulder length. He looked like a guy who locals described as harmless. He spoke English in an insular vernacular that he assumed I spoke. He talked about waves and weather, interjecting heavy slang. He was confusion and amazement.
As he rambled in surfer dude slang, I nodded, squinted in confusion, and repeated the phrase “Uh-huh.” He implied that I was a surfer too, like him. I broke character and said, “I don’t surf.” He looked perplexed and said, “but…,” while pointing to my shoes. I was wearing low-top Vans too. I was dumbfounded, but I held my tongue. It was the 2010s. 5 out of 10 people in the world wore vans, and none of them surfed. Plus, I looked more like Will Farrell than the dudes in Babe Rainbow. The sun wasn’t my friend, and deep, cold water— the kind that lurked behind me — was not a good time. To him, I was a peer because of my shoes.
Chris Issacs lives in the Sunset too. That makes two.
Glad you’re doing well. Keep it up. Listen.
8. Go West by Liz Phair
Since the dryer broke, and I disassembled it, using a multimeter to diagnose the problem, it has gotten worse. The dryer is now in parts on the garage floor, and I’m pondering life without a dryer and taking spin-wet clothes to the laundromat to dry. That doesn’t sound appealing, and even if I try to convince myself that watching warm, spinning clothes is peaceful, it isn’t. It's fine until some crazy person in his underwear sits next to you and watches the clothes on his naked back dry. This will force you to buy a new dryer.
The multimeter was 10 bucks on Amazon. The YouTube gurus said I needed one, even if I had no idea how to use it. A red and black cable with a dial to volts, continuity, and resistance, words I could pronounce but not explain, fit perfectly in the palm of my hand like an iPhone with tentacles. There were Greek-like symbols around the dial to add to the confusion. It was read and technical. It was power.
After many videos, I eventually got the hang of it: attach the red and black probes to plug-like pins and wait for a sign: beep means it's good; IL on the screen means it’s bad. I wanted IL. I had no idea what it meant, but I knew enough that whatever it touched was the problem. All I got were beeps. Beeps! I needed an IL.
I removed more of the dryer and tested anything attached to a wire. Beep! I looked for burn marks and loose connections. Nothing. I went back to the YouTube gurus for guidance and they all said the problem was most likely the heater fuse. I started with the heater fuse and it beeped, but maybe — just maybe — my red and black cables were in the wrong receptacle or it was a false positive. I had no idea what I was doing and wanted this win bad, so I ordered three packs of fuses — one for the dryer, and two to die with. They only come in three packs. If you need one, hit me up.
Heater fuses look a bit like a surfboard for an 18” tall person. I opened the small, sealed drug baggie-like of three fuses, and easily screwed it into place. I haphazardly attached everything that needed attaching and dragged the beast across the garage, over the lip of the kitchen door, and pushed it into place next to the washing machine. A hand truck and a 220 extension cord would’ve been handy.
I started her up, the drum turning, and waited longer than normal to open the dryer door and check for heat. I opened the door, placed my arm inside, and nothing. Thinking it may need to warm up a bit since it’s been out of action, I close the door and try again. 5 minutes later, the same results. I unplugged the machine, dragged it over the lip to the garage and back to its place on the garage floor door. I glared at it.
That night I looked for dryers on Marketplace to drag out of a stranger’s garage into the back of a small SUV using physics. There are many, but this involves talking to strangers face-to-face and dealing with their perceived silent judgment. I'd much rather take my spin-wet clothes to the laundromat to dry. I can deal with a man in his underwear or someone hogging a folding table and clothes cart.
Liz Phair, a woman prone to making out with Marines in off-base bars, once sang:
“And I'm waiting for someone in the know
Like Pirner tells me on the radio
Says, "Take it from someone who's been there before.”
Go West, young man.”
I took her advice and asked someone who’d been there before. I asked multiple people and they all said it was the heater fuse -- and they were all wrong. All wrong.
9. Prisen Colinensinainciosol by Adriana Celentano
The scratch on the passenger side dash of my car forms a two-inch 3-sided parallelogram, the 4th wall open. It’s on the flat part that forms a triangle with the windshield, over the lip of the glove compartment.
This dash area is rarely touched, except for a moist rag to wipe away dust, and an occasional, carefree hitchhiker who puts their dirty feet on the dash and rolls down the window. I don't pick up hitchhikers, but if I did, they'd probably strike this position before knifing me in the belly.
The scratch was made from a loper, a device with a peculiar name that could be summed up as a saw on a long stick used to trim trees. Trimming trees is expensive work, so these saw-on-a-stick devices are handy for the cheap and DIYers.
Why I was traveling with a loper? I don’t know.
The loper extended from the hatch to the windshield, with the saw being in the back or front. My choice. I chose the front, suspending the saw in midair by resting the arm on the top of the passenger seat. It worked until it didn’t. A bump in the road caused it to slide down the shoulder of the bucket seat. The saw dug into the plastic dash in an instant leaving a deep scar.
To this day no one has asked about the scratch. When I sell the car, I will not pass on the origin of the scratch. If the car goes to junk and sits in a junkyard, no one will inquire about the scratch. I am the only person in the world who knows my dash was scratched by a loper.
This is nonsense and so is this song. Non-English speaking Italians singing in English. I don’t know why they did this. I might never know and that’s ok. Nonsense has its place and now claims a good song. Listen.
10. Never Really Been by Soul Asylum
It pains me that Soul Asylum is defined by their 90s hit Runaway Train. It’s their Jeremy. It’s what people know and how they’re judged. They made peace with it, and so should we.
For a brief period in the mid-to-late ‘80s, Soul Asylum was the best live band in America. They helped transition young suburban hardcore punks to mohair cardigan college rock longhair indie slackers. Soul Asylum's second record, Made to Be Broken, was the tool in this process.
Ellen gently shoved my shoulder. It was 6:30am. I grunted, still drunk from the night before. The weight and haze of a few hours of sleep were already present, begging for a few more hours of slumber. An early start was never an option. Why was she waking me?
“You guys need to get going. It’s snowing hard,” she whispered. I looked out the window and it was coming down. I jumped up, roused the others, and repeated the same words. “It’s snowing. We gotta go.” They gave me the same look I gave Ellen. "It's snowing. Get up. Let's go," I repeated. We slept in our clothes and showering -- let alone a meandering shower -- was never an option, so we were out the door in 5 minutes.
The previous night's party involved at least one member of Soul Asylum, The Replacements, and Husker Du. And a trained cat who feigned being shot when you pointed at her. The poor thing fell all night. We were in heaven. We left with talk of moving to Minneapolis. Drunk talk. Never talk.
It was a straight shot south down 35 to Iowa to 80, then a clear shot home. It was early November and 80 should be clear to the Sierra Nevada mountains. The snow was heavy at first, but we knew the farther south we got, the snow would dissipate and turn to rain.
Our heavy amps and guitars, and 6 cases of Shaefer beer, were under a loft in the back of our van. Cars were stranded from this first snowfall in the medium and side of the road, but we somehow avoided the same fate. This probably had something to do with the weight in the back.
All three of us were up front, glued to the going-on outside the windshield - two in the bucket seats and the third leaning between the two, knees on the wall-to-wall filthy, blue shag carpet. 3 sleeping bags were strewn in the back.
The snow turned to rain as we crossed into Iowa and we all relaxed -- two of us jumping in our sleeping bags and falling asleep immediately. The driver begrudging the first shift of driving.
We woke a few hours later and returned to our positions: 2 in the bucket, one in between.
We formulated a plan for the next 34 hours of traveling: Minneapolis to SF with only enough money for food and gas. No motels or stopping. 8-hour driving shifts. If we adhered to this schedule, we'd arrive in SF late the next evening. It was ambitious, but it’s what we did: Boredom, drink, play, get up, drive. We were good at it.
When we stopped for cheap food past Des Moines, two cases of beer in the back were removed from the loft and put in the cab. They were frosty ice cold from snow and cold weather. A new rule was made: the driver couldn’t drink but the passengers could. To avoid pulling over every half hour to pee, we OK'd peeing into an empty milk gallon container that we found in the trash at the last stop. We were solving problems.
We started the trip with four people. The 4th flew home the night before with some choice parting words: “You guys think you’re in Led Zeppelin.” We did. We drank often and a lot; read Hammer of the Gods to pass the time, and never turned down a clean bed in a stranger's room. Whereas Led Zeppelin traveled in a plane and played to 10s of thousands, we traveled in an old van and played to 1 to 150 people on a good night, and made zero to $150 per show. However, when we made $150, we splurged and got a room at the Motel 6. No shark shenanigans, though.
The 4th was right, though. Traveling 2000 miles with 6 cases of beer in the back was a terrible idea. And drinking those 6 cases across the country in 34 hours was a really, really bad idea. Zeppelin would've done it, yeah, but they had extra cash for lawyers. We didn't. We were full of bad decisions and bad ideas. Oddly, the consequences of these actions were never challenged, so we kept making them over and over. We did lose a band member though.
Somewhere near the border of Nebraska and Wyoming, where the rolling hills and quaint farmhouses give way to ranches and the rocky vastness of desolation, a new rule was made: the driver can drink if he keeps it cool. Yep, “if he keeps it cool.” Whatever that means.
We arrived in the early morning - drunk, hungover, hungry and half-human. We dumped the equipment and the remaining beers in our practice space and went home, or wherever someone agreed to let us stay.
Listen
11. Call Your Girlfriend by Robyn
Hello. You Fool. I Love You. Wanna Take a Joyride?
Mark McGrath is the poster boy for vulnerability. He puts himself out there where people like me can judge. I admire that. When he’s not singing Do It Again with Mike Love and Stamos, and pointing at Mike Love and whispering, “It’s Mike Love!” or ruling at Rock-n-Roll Jeopardy or even doing the I-hate-myself dance when going to commercial break, McGrath and his eraser head haircut finds a way to make a living and keeping himself out there. Go Mark!
I love McGrath for a good lie he told. He said he played Cha-Ka, a half-ass homeless monkey boy with a 1977 Barry Gibb hairdo, in the mid-70s TV Series Land of the Lost. It was a brilliant lie. Cha-Ka and McGrath are similar in age and Cha-ka is in costume, so why not liberty-right Cha-Ka and say you’re him. Sounds reasonable to me. Does anyone know who played CHa-Ka? Nope. Why not you? Yep.
If McGrath can do it, so can I. So, I padded my resume to include the bass player for Quiet Riot (11/09 - 12/01), singer of Spin Doctors (1/11 - 4/11), and semi-professional scuba diver. Credit is not given to McGrath, but he is the impetus and inspiration. The prayer and meditation.
There was no parking, as usual, so I put it at the bus stop. There were already two cars in the red zone, so why not three? The city tolerated it, as long as you moved it the next morning, which I never did. I always planned on moving it, but, you know?
Sometimes I got tickets, other times I didn’t. It didn’t matter, though, I didn’t pay for the tickets. Eventually, it would catch up to me and the city would impound my car. When I didn’t claim it, they’d send me a notice saying my car is now their car, and If I wanted it back, I was welcome to bid on it at auction. The car was usually cheaper than the tickets I owed, and even if it was, there was always a cheaper alternative out there. I would get a property release, and go down to the impound yard and get whatever was in the car, slightly sabotaging the car to get back at the city for being irresponsible. That showed them.
Oddly, the tickets died with the car, not the individual, so I’d either go carless or get another shitty car and repeat the process. These days the tickets follow the person and the car. They want their money.
It was the weekend. I was drunk. I traversed the three flights of stairs to our breezy Victorian flat. It was cold inside. It was always cold. There was always a window that didn’t close and nothing was flush or plumb, due to a century and a half of earthquakes and abuse, so the cold outside elements had easy access to our flat. Landlords told you to suck it up.
I pulled out a portable TV from my closet and plugged it in. Sitting on the floor in front of my bed, cross-legged, I spun the dial to MTV. It didn’t matter what was on, I watched. I was drunk and it was the weekend. And it was only a little after 2 am.
A tour bus in the middle of the desert. A sports car quickly approached, a dust chemtrail dragging behind. A dude with a white Rickenbacker and chipmunk hair, and a woman in harlequin pants, ruffled shirt, conquistador bolero leather jacket, and sporting a power-butch haircut exit the tour bus, and off they go on a joyride. Perched on the top of the sports car, they fly over the desert, down train tracks, and over urban cities. They kick, punch the air and recklessly play the guitar. They’re on a joyride. I watched casually until the end, and judged their attire as “European.”
As they made their way back to the desert, they stood on the roof of the sportscar and danced and gesticulated. The chipmunk-haired guy recklessly swung, twisted, and punched his guitar in the air. At 4.06 in the video, the woman dressed like a bullfighter, Roxette, raised both hands above her shoulders, hands balled, and violently thrust her elbows downward while screaming Rox-ette. This got my attention.
There was no rewinding the video and a good chance that I’d never see this video again. Agape, I looked around for a collaboration. Did she just scream Rox-ette, the name of her band?
A few months later I walked down mid-market, past the Strand rep theatre, the Cinema strip club that cabbies called the Skinema, and the endless shops selling matching pants and shirts. I knocked on an indiscreet metal door. The door swung open and my friend Chris nodded. I followed him down a painted black hallway to the floor. He said he had to get back to soundcheck. I nodded, stood in the middle of the empty floor, and watched Roxette, the band, get sound.
As the incessant sound of a consistent snare crack flooded the main speakers, slightly changing tone with every hit, the musicians on stage fiddled with their pedals and amps. Generally, they looked disconnected and tired — separate but a group. It was soundcheck, a necessary evil. My friend asked if they wanted to do a song. They ran through Joyride.
Expecting video enthusiasm, I got none. Heads down, looking back at their amps and fiddling with their effects, Roxette sang an uninspired verse and that was it. They finished and my friend said he was good, and asked them if they wanted to run through another song. Sometimes soundchecks are used to learn new songs. The whole band shook their heads no and shuffled off the stage in a mid-tour haze.
I walked back to the sound booth and thanked Chris.
He asked, “I can put you on the list tonight if you wanna go?"
I replied, “Nah, I’m good. Thanks, though."
He inquired, “Why did you want to see their soundcheck?”
I shrugged and told him, “Dude, you know me.”
He nodded. That was enough of an answer.
I walked back through the dark hallway and out into the dirty sidewalk of 6th and Mission. As I walked home, the employees at the matching pants and shirts for men stores were out front dressed in matching outfits, barking at passersby like they were in the carnival.
A decade later, I started a rumor that Roxette was Robyn's mother. Like McGrath and Cha-Ka, it made sense. Like all my other shenanigans and games, it didn’t take hold. You never know, though.
12. Fireflies by Devendra Banhart
Devendra Banhard stood in a doorway at 6th and Market avoiding the rain. His presence was of a man lurking in a doorway. He almost stood motionless. 2 stories above him was a hipster gallery that catered to taggers, spray painters, skateboarders, and the stalwarts of the Mission School art scene. I walked past. He looked like he had just got back from guru school in India.
I quickly assumed he was there to see Chris Johanson. Weirdo to weirdo. Both of them shared the trait. I had run into Chris the week before at another like-minded gallery. As I was looking through the gallery book, he sauntered up behind me and said, “Good afternoon, sir.” He said it like a planter from Charleston in 1859, ascot firmly knotted at the neck. He shuffled away to refill his pipe with tobacco.
A friend of mine posted a photo of her daughter wearing a floral, batik vest, the kind that was paired with mom jeans in the 80s/90s. Much reviled and mocked, she appropriated the look and made it cool. Granted, she was 15 or so, privileged, and already had the hipster youth uniform of high bangs, piercings, and festival-ready makeup. Regardless, I love it when young people reach back and reinvent hegemonic/reimagined straight fashion trends of the past. Think Members Only jackets and Cosby sweaters. It sometimes works in reverse — straight fashion pulling from the subculture fashion of the past. Think spiked hair and boho.
I first heard Fireflies by Devendra Banhart on YouTube. My algorithm decided I needed some culture and suggested the song. I listened and enjoyed the lazy video with the soothing song. I dialed up Spotify, found the song, and listened a few more times. I really liked it. Listened a few more times and thought, “Hey, what the hell. This song sounds exactly like a Foreigner ballad. The same Foreigner, along with Journey, Styx, and REO, were in a genre that me and my childhood friends referred to as pussy rock. I once almost threw down with a friend who put a Foreigner tape into my boom-box when I was out of the room. You didn’t pull this shit with a man’s boom-box. I threatened to throw the boom-box away.
Boom-box days are long gone, so I whispered a positive affirmation and accepted the song. It really helped that fellow weirdo Cate Le Bon produced the record, and Devandra wore a gifted dress from Cate throughout the recording of the record, and that they only communicated with head nods, gestures, and flags. This made it safe. Foreigner-safe sans the shame and guilt.
If Foreigner released this song in 2024, I would’ve hated it. Devendra released it in 2024 and I really liked it. Why is that? Context matters, I guess.
Hello. You Fool. I Love You. Wanna Take a Joyride?
Mark McGrath is the poster boy for vulnerability. He puts himself out there where people like me can judge. I admire that. When he’s not singing Do It Again with Mike Love and Stamos, and pointing at Mike Love and whispering, “It’s Mike Love!” or ruling at Rock-n-Roll Jeopardy or even doing the I-hate-myself dance when going to commercial break, McGrath and his eraser head haircut finds a way to make a living and keeping himself out there. Go Mark!
I love McGrath for a good lie he told. He said he played Cha-Ka, a half-ass homeless monkey boy with a 1977 Barry Gibb hairdo, in the mid-70s TV Series Land of the Lost. It was a brilliant lie. Cha-Ka and McGrath are similar in age and Cha-ka is in costume, so why not liberty-right Cha-Ka and say you’re him. Sounds reasonable to me. Does anyone know who played CHa-Ka? Nope. Why not you? Yep.
If McGrath can do it, so can I. So, I padded my resume to include the bass player for Quiet Riot (11/09 - 12/01), singer of Spin Doctors (1/11 - 4/11), and semi-professional scuba diver. Credit is not given to McGrath, but he is the impetus and inspiration. The prayer and meditation.
There was no parking, as usual, so I put it at the bus stop. There were already two cars in the red zone, so why not three? The city tolerated it, as long as you moved it the next morning, which I never did. I always planned on moving it, but, you know?
Sometimes I got tickets, other times I didn’t. It didn’t matter, though, I didn’t pay for the tickets. Eventually, it would catch up to me and the city would impound my car. When I didn’t claim it, they’d send me a notice saying my car is now their car, and If I wanted it back, I was welcome to bid on it at auction. The car was usually cheaper than the tickets I owed, and even if it was, there was always a cheaper alternative out there. I would get a property release, and go down to the impound yard and get whatever was in the car, slightly sabotaging the car to get back at the city for being irresponsible. That showed them.
Oddly, the tickets died with the car, not the individual, so I’d either go carless or get another shitty car and repeat the process. These days the tickets follow the person and the car. They want their money.
It was the weekend. I was drunk. I traversed the three flights of stairs to our breezy Victorian flat. It was cold inside. It was always cold. There was always a window that didn’t close and nothing was flush or plumb, due to a century and a half of earthquakes and abuse, so the cold outside elements had easy access to our flat. Landlords told you to suck it up.
I pulled out a portable TV from my closet and plugged it in. Sitting on the floor in front of my bed, cross-legged, I spun the dial to MTV. It didn’t matter what was on, I watched. I was drunk and it was the weekend. And it was only a little after 2 am.
A tour bus in the middle of the desert. A sports car quickly approached, a dust chemtrail dragging behind. A dude with a white Rickenbacker and chipmunk hair, and a woman in harlequin pants, ruffled shirt, conquistador bolero leather jacket, and sporting a power-butch haircut exit the tour bus, and off they go on a joyride. Perched on the top of the sports car, they fly over the desert, down train tracks, and over urban cities. They kick, punch the air and recklessly play the guitar. They’re on a joyride. I watched casually until the end, and judged their attire as “European.”
As they made their way back to the desert, they stood on the roof of the sportscar and danced and gesticulated. The chipmunk-haired guy recklessly swung, twisted, and punched his guitar in the air. At 4.06 in the video, the woman dressed like a bullfighter, Roxette, raised both hands above her shoulders, hands balled, and violently thrust her elbows downward while screaming Rox-ette. This got my attention.
There was no rewinding the video and a good chance that I’d never see this video again. Agape, I looked around for a collaboration. Did she just scream Rox-ette, the name of her band?
A few months later I walked down mid-market, past the Strand rep theatre, the Cinema strip club that cabbies called the Skinema, and the endless shops selling matching pants and shirts. I knocked on an indiscreet metal door. The door swung open and my friend Chris nodded. I followed him down a painted black hallway to the floor. He said he had to get back to soundcheck. I nodded, stood in the middle of the empty floor, and watched Roxette, the band, get sound.
As the incessant sound of a consistent snare crack flooded the main speakers, slightly changing tone with every hit, the musicians on stage fiddled with their pedals and amps. Generally, they looked disconnected and tired — separate but a group. It was soundcheck, a necessary evil. My friend asked if they wanted to do a song. They ran through Joyride.
Expecting video enthusiasm, I got none. Heads down, looking back at their amps and fiddling with their effects, Roxette sang an uninspired verse and that was it. They finished and my friend said he was good, and asked them if they wanted to run through another song. Sometimes soundchecks are used to learn new songs. The whole band shook their heads no and shuffled off the stage in a mid-tour haze.
I walked back to the sound booth and thanked Chris.
He asked, “I can put you on the list tonight if you wanna go?"
I replied, “Nah, I’m good. Thanks, though."
He inquired, “Why did you want to see their soundcheck?”
I shrugged and told him, “Dude, you know me.”
He nodded. That was enough of an answer.
I walked back through the dark hallway and out into the dirty sidewalk of 6th and Mission. As I walked home, the employees at the matching pants and shirts for men stores were out front dressed in matching outfits, barking at passersby like they were in the carnival.
A decade later, I started a rumor that Roxette was Robyn's mother. Like McGrath and Cha-Ka, it made sense. Like all my other shenanigans and games, it didn’t take hold. You never know, though.
12. Fireflies by Devendra Banhart
Devendra Banhard stood in a doorway at 6th and Market avoiding the rain. His presence was of a man lurking in a doorway. He almost stood motionless. 2 stories above him was a hipster gallery that catered to taggers, spray painters, skateboarders, and the stalwarts of the Mission School art scene. I walked past. He looked like he had just got back from guru school in India.
I quickly assumed he was there to see Chris Johanson. Weirdo to weirdo. Both of them shared the trait. I had run into Chris the week before at another like-minded gallery. As I was looking through the gallery book, he sauntered up behind me and said, “Good afternoon, sir.” He said it like a planter from Charleston in 1859, ascot firmly knotted at the neck. He shuffled away to refill his pipe with tobacco.
A friend of mine posted a photo of her daughter wearing a floral, batik vest, the kind that was paired with mom jeans in the 80s/90s. Much reviled and mocked, she appropriated the look and made it cool. Granted, she was 15 or so, privileged, and already had the hipster youth uniform of high bangs, piercings, and festival-ready makeup. Regardless, I love it when young people reach back and reinvent hegemonic/reimagined straight fashion trends of the past. Think Members Only jackets and Cosby sweaters. It sometimes works in reverse — straight fashion pulling from the subculture fashion of the past. Think spiked hair and boho.
I first heard Fireflies by Devendra Banhart on YouTube. My algorithm decided I needed some culture and suggested the song. I listened and enjoyed the lazy video with the soothing song. I dialed up Spotify, found the song, and listened a few more times. I really liked it. Listened a few more times and thought, “Hey, what the hell. This song sounds exactly like a Foreigner ballad. The same Foreigner, along with Journey, Styx, and REO, were in a genre that me and my childhood friends referred to as pussy rock. I once almost threw down with a friend who put a Foreigner tape into my boom-box when I was out of the room. You didn’t pull this shit with a man’s boom-box. I threatened to throw the boom-box away.
Boom-box days are long gone, so I whispered a positive affirmation and accepted the song. It really helped that fellow weirdo Cate Le Bon produced the record, and Devandra wore a gifted dress from Cate throughout the recording of the record, and that they only communicated with head nods, gestures, and flags. This made it safe. Foreigner-safe sans the shame and guilt.
If Foreigner released this song in 2024, I would’ve hated it. Devendra released it in 2024 and I really liked it. Why is that? Context matters, I guess.
13. Seeful Lilac by Black Moth Super Rainbow
14. Girl Don't Go Away Mad by Motley Crue
Celebrities should be banned from starting book clubs. I don’t wanna hear about Reese’s book club or Oprah’s or Mindy’s book club. We get it. You read. Lots of people do, but I suspect the spark for the club was from an MBA who used words like diversify and grow your audience.
You can’t monetize everything. Yes, you may have been an ugly, bookish kid, but now you’re at the height of former ugly, boyish people who have the means to go higher by surgery. So please, let the book clubs, tequila, and makeup brands come from ordinary people. People who grow agave, work at Barnes and Noble, and give makeup tutorials online. You can have energy drinks. Deal? Let us have some fuckin’ cake!
When I first saw Motley Crue’s Girl, Don’t Go Away Mad video, I felt unsettled. I didn’t know why but something was adrift. It had the same Crue video tropes: throwing a telephone in anger, a warehouse, random skateboarder, bro hugging and smiles, hookers, multiple people giving money to a homeless guy, a woman with a broken heel who probably just got off a bud from Kansas, a convertible, playing pool, motorcycles and Tommy Lee pointing at the camera, giving lots of cheerio lips and playing a bass drum the size of an above ground pool. It wasn’t this. I was used to this. It was comforting. What threatened me was the dress of Tommy Lee and Nikki Sixx. Both wore Docs, cuffed jeans, and the sides of their heads were shaved. This was cutting into my scene and I didn’t like it. They were at the top of the food chain of hair metal and didn’t need to broaden their audience with this alternative rock number. People wanna hear the Crue play Shout at the Devil and Live Wire, not this express-your-feelings rock. And definitely not Nikki and Tommy looking like they’re seeing Nine Inch Nails at the Whiskey.
This would be the Crue’s last top 20 single. A new decade was on the horizon. Old Crue fans were getting married and moving to the suburbs, and Nirvana and Seattle bands were on their heels, ready to take over. All of the above is fodder for the demise of hair metal. I felt hair metal died the minute Tommy and Nikki sheered off the hair on the sides of their heads. Add that.
15. 99 Luftbalons by Nena
Two helium balloons floated to the sky from the middle of a crowded Food Lion parking lot. One red, one white, colored ribbon dangling from the rubber knot.
They initially stayed together, rising at a metered, predictable pace, and then veered off in a v-pattern. The red on the left, white on the right.
I watched from the adjacent, near-empty, Tractor Supply Co. parking lot. I’d come from the Food Lion parking lot, groceries in the back. It was too crowded for car-sitting. The nearing holiday brought out people buying heavy cream and cranberry sauce. I bought potatoes, 4 red peppers, and 2 green peppers.
Perpendicular to the Food Lion parking lot, the new spot was spacious and uncrowded — a good place to get some thinking done. A good place to receive what-is-that-guy-doing vibes from strangers.
There should've been a reaction to the release of the balloons — a child’s scream and a mother’s comforting or frustrated words. Nothing. No indication why two balloons rose from the middle of a crowded parking lot.
I watched intently as the balloons chose their own unique paths. Despite existing in the same meteorological space, and launching from the same concrete pad, their trajectories differed. No two balloons are alike.
After a while, the white balloon’s rise appeared to level off, happily bobbing over an implied atmosphere. It crossed under the red balloon's vertical ascension, and their stories became divergent
I followed both closely until they reached a chasm where my eyes toggled to one and the other. In the pale, blue sky, stamped with cirrus clouds, the end was near.
I watched intently, leaning forward in the passenger seat of my parked car, head tilted 45 degrees and perched close to the top of the steering wheel. Their movements slowed and steadied. The red balloon became pink, then salmon, and then disappeared. The white balloon glowed like a far-off star or planet. Against the blue backdrop, it was seen. And then it was gone. I searched the sky for both but the beauty and lightness were gone.
16. Winter Astral by Beverly Glenn-Copeland
A grey fog covers the earth like a steel dome covering a turkey at a buffet. Trees hang limp, projecting a tired frown. Weeds grow in the cracks. It’s time to go. The world is nearing the end.
The internet is gone and only AM radio exists. I'm the 10th caller and win a seat on the first spaceship leaving Earth. I’m given a light blue jumpsuit with a patch on the right breast. Me and 10 other winners are driven in an extended van to an airfield. Airships dot the field like colored circles on a Twister mat. The airships are flying saucers. We’re the first.
Military officers, politicians, and scientists line the path to the saucer. They salute. They nod. Some hold their hands to their hearts. Some cry. We ascend the gangway and pause at the entrance. We wave, smiles beaming. Over the loudspeakers, Winter Astral plays. A theme song for leaving Mother Earth. An anthem for our new world. Goodbye.
Listen.
17. Bein’ Green by Kermit the Frog
Canadians have one thing in common, they all have a moose story. If they don’t, they’re not real Canadians.
Los Angelinos (LA) are similar except they all have the best advice on getting from point A to point B on the freeways and properly navigating Disneyland. Most of their expertise relies on starting times. Add the Lakers and Dodgers, and their love of The Smiths, and you’re a real Angelino.
I’m in the lower 48s with a Canadian. We’re near the northern border and rely on him to navigate the cultural complexities. He’s glad to do it. He tells us his moose story and takes the lead.
We flew into a small airport with doctors and lawyers a few hours earlier. In this scenario, the doctors and lawyers are normal people flying coach. The multimillionaires and a few billionaires flew private. Their jets lined up on the tarmac for all to view and inspire.
A long van waited in the front. We got in and sat together on a bench seat in the back, observing the class totem pole. We kept our guitars and stacked them vertically next to the window. These props will inevitably lead to a statement from one of the passengers: “I play a little guitar too.” Nothing beats, “My old lady plays a little guitar,” from a drunk man in a jean suit.
The guide led us to our own rooms. We were used to bunking together so this was met with bridled glee. The guide informed us that this ranch was the best in Montana, and owned by a person who also owns a sports team, and other household names. We replied, “OK.” He also said to walk in pairs or threes because of the moose and grizzly bears. This was met with a disquieted OK.
After settling, we put on our maroon suits and walked to the lodge with our guitars. It was dusk and we played in a few hours. Everything was rented so we’d need time to figure out the new configurations.
The folksy-chic lodge did its best to disguise its elegance with lots of wood. Downplaying this, downplaying that, but knowing it was the most expensive lodge in the state. It didn’t need to show off. The bragging rights being how much it costs.
The small stage was already set up. We inspected the provided backline, always happy not to load heavy equipment in and out. We hid our guitars in the back behind the amps and sat at a cocktail table in front of the stage. This was our venue for tonight. A small bar with 5 stools and a handful of tables and chairs. They guys ordered drinks and I had a Coke. The Canadian reminded us to tip well since the drinks were free. He was in the same biz as the bar, and considered tipping “club courtesy.” We obliged.
With a few hours to kill, we walked around the lodge. Outside were bears and moose, so we stayed inside. Other guests milled about - friends, peers, and colleagues of the billionaire birthday boy. Billionaires, millionaires, doctors, lawyers, and us.
In a great room, a boastful fireplace extended to the ceiling, as wide as tall. The Canadian stepped onto the hearth and demonstrated how big a moose he encountered on a desolate road outside Alberta. He stood on his toes, his arm reaching to the sky.
“The moose was 8 feet tall?” I dubiously replied.
“Yeah,” he indignantly said.
He was the expert. He was Canadian. I deferred.
As the night dragged on, and the free alcohol with liberal tips poured, the story grew taller as he drew drunker. At the night's end, we returned to the great room, and the 8-foot moose was now a small dinosaur. Canadian or not, this was bullshit. My drink switched from Coke to Diet Coke, not gin and tonic to whiskey shots, so I felt I had a leg-up on this embellished Canadian.
Like the Canadian, a billionaire would confess a similar yarn. He was from Menlo Park. He would tell me that he gave 10 percent of his salary to charity. At the end of the night, this number changed to 90 percent and involved leaning on my shoulder and slurring words into my naked ear. Billionaire or not, we’re all equal at the end of a drunken night, except one is driven home, and the other either drives drunk or calls an Uber. Life resets in the morning.
We returned to the bar and found three empty stools together. The room was lively and filling up. People at the top of their looks milled about — friends, colleagues, and peers of the billionaire.
The bartender asked if we were a flight crew of one of the guests. We looked at each other — matching suits, age-appropriate profession — and succinctly summed up our expressions with: “Huh?”
He replied, “Some of our guests bring their flight crew.”
There was no response to that. We had no experience with this kind of wealth.
A few minutes before playing, a guest already in late-night form, asked if we knew Being Green by Kermit the Frog. I said, “Yes, I know it. Great song.” I refrained from telling her that it was the greatest song ever written about tolerance. Getting older is saying less, to the benefit of the receiver. No one cares.
“Do you play the jazz chords version?” she said.
She was testing me. I reminded myself that I was the help. This whole thing was a one-time privilege, a one-off of how the other half lived.
With a metered tone, I replied, “No, we play it like it was recorded.”
“Can you play it in D flat?” she continued.
Privilege or not, she was testing my nerves. God forbid some idiot redid the song in fancy jazz chords. It was Kermit the Frog. Kermie. Kermie would want us to play it the right way — the original chords and key. Don’t fuck with Kermit.
“No.” I let the word hang like smelly fish. Her only play was, “Please?" And she wasn’t gonna do that.
Listen
18. Lazy Line Painter Jane by Belle and Sebastian
I was having trouble with adult acne so I had my people refer a dermatologist. My experiences with dermatologists weren’t great, and finding one wasn’t easy, their reviews full of breast augmentation, liposuction, and tucks. Most didn’t want to deal with the rash and fucked up adult acne face. I don’t blame them. Dermatologists now look like the people they augment. I guess that’s good. It’s better than adult acne.
On the day of the appointment, I was led into an observation room. I sat in a hard plastic chair next to the observation chair - the one that looks like a chaise with rubbery upholstery, and is the preferred chair of dentists.
The dermatologist walked in looking very Haim-ish. The HAIM sister that makes the funny faces. Behind her was a younger woman - a medical stenographer — who appeared to document the whole experience. She leaned against the counter in front of a jar of cotton balls. She nodded when I said hello. I nodded back.
Haim-ish wore an oversized smock that zipped in the front. It looked very high fashion. I assumed this because she was a dermatologist and, according to my general practitioner, they made bank. I once clocked a dermatologist spending 48 seconds with me. In and out. I was impressed.
Upon further look, the smock was some sort of surgery coverall, albeit a very fancy surgery coverall. It's not something you get at a medical supply store. She must’ve just finished a chin tuck on a woman who said, “Give me the Mar-A-Lago.” The stenographer probably met her in the hall and handed her my chart. She looked down, took a deep breath, and thought, great, the rash and roeicia crowd.
She casually hopped up on the observation chaise, leaned back pulling her knees to her chest, and turned her head 90 degrees to look at me. We were almost parallel. She unzipped her smock and sighed. She was young, very casual, and didn’t have a southern accent. I questioned her motivation.
Like all dermatologists, she intently looked at my face, avoiding eye contact. With no other place to look, I stared back, focusing on her forehead. Two can play this game.
“Roeicia,” she said.
“Roeicia?” I countered.
“Yeah, Roeicia,” she said.
I looked at the stenographer and she nodded.
I nodded back.
I thought, the heartbreak of Roeicia.
And like that, she youthfully jumped off the chaise, and left in a flurry, her unzipped smock now flowing like a cape.
I nodded at the stenographer.
She nodded back.
19. Courtyard by Bobby Gentry
When we bought a house, I looked at the lawn and the back deck and felt glee. Maybe not glee, but I envisioned eating dinner on the deck to the backdrop of the freeway hum. I never really thought about cutting the lawn or maintaining the backyard. I should’ve.
After a few years of homeownership, moles ruined the lawn and the deck was a splinter factory. I did my best but I wasn’t built for this type of domesticity. I kept just above the derelict point, to stave off an angry anonymous letter from a neighbor, or, god forbid, a knock on the door who someone wanted to talk rationally about bringing down the neighborhood. My fantastical response was always, “The grow house down the street is worse.” It was my version of “I know you are but what am I.” Letter writers and door-knockers wouldn’t mess with the grow house. I’m an easier mark.
My landscaping and maintenance skills will be tolerated as long as the grow house down the block doesn’t get busted.
Unfortunately, I’m stuck with the house. If I had known my distaste for domestic activities, I would've bought a house on a hill with no lawn, just a deck overlooking the suckers with green lawns. The unkempt, dry grass below the deck would run wild. Come Spring, I'd borrow a goat to eat away the brush. I'd be responsible -- a responsible homeowner without a lawn. None of this would happen.
The last song on Bobby Gentry’s second record, The Delta Sweets, is Courtyard. A peculiar song about wanting her old man (her words…probably) to build her a courtyard. Yes, a courtyard. Have you ever heard anyone say, “I think a courtyard would be perfect there,” pointing to a patch of dirt and weeds in the back of a house. No, people want a bathroom or kitchen remodel, an extra room off the garage, or a landscaped backyard. No one has ever said, “I want a courtyard.” And if they did, your response would be, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
This song eluded me in my youth and has no nostalgic worth. If it did, I wouldn’t be critical of the lyrical content. I would accept it and convince myself that homeowners love courtyards.
With the internet came a boatload of songs. This was one of them. Gentry has hipster credentials so it behooved me to sit down and listen to the whole record in one sitting -- as an adult. Doing so would be social currency at some point. I did and then I went out that night and conveniently brought up the record to friends, and we discussed Bobby Gentry and her discography, failing to admit the only song we knew from her was “Ode to Billie Joe.” It didn’t matter, as long as we knew the singer and the record. The rest was bullshit.
Courtyard is the last song on The Delta Sweete. It’s a sparse, exposed song with the vocals pushed to the edge of the speakers. It kinda feels like she’s in the room with you. The vulnerability grabs you. However, the lyrical content was in direct contrast to the swampy song. I listen to it over and over, intrigued, yet kinda judgy. At this point in my life, I lived in a vacuum so asking someone what they thought about this song wasn’t possible. Like The Hammond Song from The Roches, I was conflicted. Is it really good or kinda bad? I don’t know.
The song would end and I’d play it again. And again. I was intrigued but equally appalled. Why would you ask your old man to build you a courtyard? A courtyard is a metal lattice gate with creeping feral ivy and marbled hardscaping leading to a round fountain bordered by cement benches, framed by perfectly pruned trees. It is somewhere you walk up and back, or sit on a cement bench and read or write in a clothbound journal. It is somewhere you get married if you don’t have cash for the VFW hall. No one wants a courtyard. And I guarantee you that no contractor in America specializes in house courtyards. None.
So, the song is bullshit. As I listened and listened, admonishing myself with every play, I made peace with the song and album and formulated a story of pure speculation and conjecture to make sense of the song. That’s what humans do.
The last song on the last recorded album by The Beatles is The End. The song's last line is the love you take is equal to the love you make. Not a bad way to go out. Prescient.
Like The End, Courtyard is the last song on The Delta Sweete album. At the time and, uh, presently, I knew very little about Bobby Gentry. Without peaking at Wikipedia, she left the music business in the early ‘70s, moved to Tennessee or Florida, and now lives in obscurity. That’s it. That’s enough information for most people — me included. So, I figured the song out. This must be the last song she ever recorded because she was out of song ideas. Makes sense. As far as I know, in the history of recorded music, only one person has written a song about a courtyard...and her name is Bobby Gentry. Am I wrong? I don’t think so.
There you have it. Bobby hated the music business and wanted to split to Tennessee but she had one more record to make in a 7 record contract. She was out of ideas and came up with Courtyard to appease the A&R dick who was on her ass to finish the record. So, Courtyard is a fuck you song to the record industry or a song that was made under duress.
None of this is true. The Delta Sweete was her second record. It was recorded in 1968. She would make 5 more records before leaving the biz in 1972. Watcha gonna do? Still, come on, courtyard?
20. Bad Blood by Elton John and Neil Sedaka
After rudimentary instruction on small wooden percussive instruments stored in a blue bin in the corner of the classroom, we sang. We loved this part, and so did our teacher. We took out our music books and looked for the songs with swear words. Our fingers always fell on Bad, Bad Leroy Brown by Jim Croce.
The teacher wheeled the piano to the front of the class and placed it perpendicular to the smiling students, like Jerry Lee or KC and the Sunshine Band. Craning his neck at 90 degrees, he looked at us in anticipation and started the song. We dutifully sang, anticipating the chorus. As it approached, the teacher smiled and we grew animated. “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown. Baddest man in the whole DAMN town.” We shouted damn and our teacher accented the note on the piano while placing his fingers over his mouth, feigning surprise. We screamed and laughed, repeating the same excitement every chorus. It was special.
After a day of recording, I imagine the Bad Blood boys went for cocktails in West Hollywood. While discussing the day, they all felt like the song needed something -- something to make it unique. That something was a flute. They made a few calls and a flutist named Jaco was booked for the next day’s session. Jaco would add flourishes to the song.
Jaco arrived barefoot with a Guatemalan poncho, carrying his flute like a baton. He looked like he slept in the bushes next to the studio. In the studio, he asked for direction. Neil and Elton looked at each other and shrugged: “Just play whatever you want. Play through the whole song, Darling. We’ll edit it in post.” Bernie was on a pay phone to his coke dealer.
They never edited it. The flute slithered through the whole song like a snake, biting listeners who questioned it and passing over flute enthusiasts. Just when you thought it was over, it kept going. Never stopping. Never.
Sometimes the worst songs are also the best. I would've forgotten this song, if not for the flute and the enjoyment it brought to my daydreams.
It’s a DAMN ____ song.
Insectkind by Danbert Nobacon (Not on Spotify)
The palmetto bug makes up for this area's lack of insect diversity. A steroidal cockroach prone to rolling on its back and playing dead or alive, it lurks in the cracks and corners and warrants some kind of pest control or bug man.
Instead of the guys who show up in a Sprinter van with a witty name on the side, our bug man shows up in an older sedan, dressed in a wife-beater and carrying an industrial-size bug urn on his back. He reminds me of neighbors of my youth named Joseph, John, and Paul. Dudes that grew up to wear wife-beaters.
He starts outside and then moves indoors and sprays where doors are open. The only closed door is my mother’s. It needs to be closed at all times. He asks about the bugs, and I say, “A few but not many.” He looks concerned, and I always debate whether to console him. It’s not you, it’s the bugs.
Year two is coming up. 2 years since I moved from an apartment behind a Super Cuts, 4 years since the divorce, and 10 years since I had a real job. I swapped one coast for the other, landing in an area of the South that’s hard to describe: mostly older transplants from the northeast moving for better weather and possibly politics. No accents except when you drive 10 miles inland. This is my new home.
A call was the impetus for the move. It came from a neighbor. My mother fell, crapped herself, and needed help. I boarded a flight the next evening, and never returned, vacating my apartment the next month from afar. I was the only one in a precarious living situation and life that could move in an hour. It was my job.
I took up residence in a spare bedroom decorated with art and furniture from childhood. A foggy, water-breached window looked out to my mother’s subdivision: one hundred identical-looking cheap houses with minimal landscaping, if any. My mother and father were the first to buy in the subdivision. OG subdivision homeowners.
My first 6 months in the house were filled with home repairs and constant cleaning. What I couldn’t repair, YouTube taught me. I learned about heavy-ass ballast for fluorescent lights (why would you have something so heavy looming over you? And why are there fluorescent lights?), repairing laminate floor panels, and all sorts of plumbing and electrical issues. My crowning achievement, though, was fixing the dryer and microwave. It involved a multimeter, motherboards, and colored wires. When I plugged them in and they worked, it may have been the 2nd best day in my life. However, It left me delusional, thinking I might work as a handyman for extra cash. Unfortunately, my adopted city has 7,000 inhabitants, and 10,000 are in the business of handyman services or HVAC. And none of them are YouTube handymen.
The first six months were filled with frustration and endless tasks, but they were also fulfilling. I cooked elaborate meals, had the longest to-do list, and, at the end of the day, felt fulfilled for addressing most of the list. I had a purpose. I was taking care of my elderly mother. Purpose was something that eluded me for my whole life. It felt good, even if I was culturally and physically removed from my past life.
With repairs and cleaning finished, purpose vacated and the old feelings from my past life returned. Watcha gonna do?
The bug man arrives once a month at 9 a.m., which isn't early, but it's early enough that I need to set an alarm. My mother stresses about the appointment many weeks out. When is he coming?
He did the neighbor’s house and then ours. In the warm months, I wait for him in the garage, sitting in a rocking chair I gave my mother 30 years ago, and watch him through the garage window. When he finished with the neighbor’s, I followed him as he walked across the street, and acted surprised when he appeared at the open garage door: “Oh, hey!”
He’d do his thing and be gone in 10 minutes. I liked that. Our only interactions were, “Hello” and “See ya next month.” I could get used to these terse interactions. Like my mom, I think about appointments and would rather avoid them, but I keep silent. I don’t mind people, I just prefer it when they’re not around. This is something my mother and father passed down. It’s my mantle now and I’m living up to it.
As I slowly rock back and forth in the garage, waiting for the bug man to finish, I wonder why a short interaction of two lines of pleasantries and 10 minutes of waiting causes me duress and anxiety. It's easy. Bug man is the only person who sees how my mother and I live, and it leaves me vulnerable to judgment. Simple as that.
(Not on Spotify)
https://youtu.be/TuX3EiJEELE?si=FNBq0MKU_xWMjN1Z
21. Trash by New York Dolls
He was the first car into the parking lot at 4am and the last to leave at midnight. The parking lot was below an AMC movie theater where Mike worked part-time as a manager from 6pm to midnight. His car spent 20 hours a day in the parking lot.
When asked why — which is a reasonable question —he said he used to work on a sub and there was nothing to do except work, so it was natural to him. Questioning this logic was futile. He was a different breed than us slackers who could barely clock 8 hours.
When I think of Hawaii, I always think of Mike. His first commission in the military was Pearl Harbor. He was 18 years old. Young and stupid, by his own admission. 3 months cooking on a submarine, and then 3 months cooking on land. This was training for his later life work ethic.
One day at a local corner store, Mike placed a 12-pack on the counter. He paid for it and the clerk said mahalo.
Later, he retold the story to his Navy buddies. Expecting an indigent reaction to the story, he was met with confused faces.
Confused faces turned to laughter.
22. Away in a Manger by Loretta Lynn
At the end of the 2-lane rural road that runs from the freeway to the public golf course, and weaves through burnt grass hills and 2nd generation Oak trees is Grass Valley, a neighborhood in Oakland, California. Near the end of the road, 2 lanes become 4 lanes, and a neighborhood that looks common in the suburbs but out of place in the hills reveals itself. A wooden sign with the name Grass Valley greets you. The sign is folksy and gives away the age of the neighborhood: 1960s.
100 ranch houses spot the neighborhood and offer all the amenities of living 20 miles away: a driveway, a front and backyard, a garage, a fence, and, for the most part, no one parking in front of your house. There’s a middle school, a fire station, and a defunct grocery store that’s a social services non-profit. Out front, the underused, large parking lot is crumbling from neglect. Old-timers will tell you the grocery store closed in the early 70s. Grass Valley feels like a well-intentioned idea that didn’t work. An attempt to bring suburban ideas to an urban environment.
I used to pass the neighborhood daily on my way to the hills to walk the dog and hike. I would look at the wooden Grass Valley sign and think: there must be a lot of teenagers in those houses. An odd thing to think, but I also thought, why aren’t those teenagers altering the sign to read “ass Valley?” A little brown spray paint over the G and R would do the trick. How hard would it be? It’s what teenagers do and a huge missed opportunity. Every day I passed the sign, I looked and slowly shook my head. Kids these days. Hmmph.
Across the country, I’m traveling on a 4-lane divided highway. It’s December and I live in a town called Longs. I pass a perfectly acceptable golf course. On the shoulder of the highway is a lawn sign that says “Long Christmas Parade. Dec 9. Fremont Street." I thought, Long Christmas Parade? I like that. I’m not one for Christmas, but I can get behind a long Christmas parade.
Not trusting myself or my vivid, embellished imagination, I signaled to the fast lane and made a U-turn at the first outlet. The perfectly acceptable golf course was now on my left. I made another U-turn and slowed as I approached the sign. I decided that I was taking the sign. It would bring me years of happiness thinking about a parade that doesn’t end.
I slowed and realized it said “Longs Christmas Parade.” I should’ve known better. I lived in a town called Longs. However, I’m not always the brightest. I wanted something odd to be real so my intelligence took a backseat to my rich fantasy life. I was disappointed.
The next day on my daily sojourn to Speedway, I brought three items: Scotch tape, scissors, and a white piece of paper.
I passed the perfectly acceptable golf course on the left, made a U-turn, and slowed as I approached the Longs Christmas Parade sign. I signaled the hazards and pulled over on the shoulder, far enough to not be killed by a drunk driver, but not too far to get stuck in the ditch. I turned off the car and reached for the paper, scissors, and tape on the passenger seat. I cut a 2-inch square of the white paper and applied scotch tape to its 4 sides. I got out of the car and casually walked to the lawn sign, acting like a small business owner placing a lawn sign advertisement on the side of the road. This was the vibe I wanted to give to the passing cars.
I leaned down to the sign and placed the 2-inch square piece of white paper over the letter S in Longs. It was now Long Christmas Parade. I took a step back and admired the work.
As modern people do, I took a photo of my creation. In my convoluted brain, the sign would spread cheer to a unique, small portion of people who saw it. It was a public service. Lame-ass teenagers weren’t doing it, so I had to.
23. Type Slowly by Pavement
I clocked him as he passed by the back of my car, following him through the rearview and to the sideview mirror. Pushing an empty cart, his abrupt, determined frame and bony disposition led me to believe he could knock on my window, leading to a slow shaking of my head. From the minute I saw him I assessed I could take him. Even though he was younger, he ran on dirty heroin or meth. I was in no danger. You only jump over the bar if you’re gonna win the fight. And, if needed, I’d jump. He continued on...luckily.
I was in my daily parking spot, writing and playing games on my phone. Train tracks crossed in the foreground. I periodically looked up to follow the man pushing the cart. About 100 yards away and pushing the cart like he stole, which he did, he stopped at a derelict car parked in a dirt patch perpendicular to the train tracks. He parked the empty cart and opened the door of the early 2000s sedan. The hood was tied down with a rope.
I could tell the door was long, heavy, and unruly. 2 doors always are. He reached under the driver's seat, moved it forward, and tilted it to the steering wheel. He looked in the backseat, rummaged around, and then walked to the front of the car. He untied the rope that secured the hood and opened it. He assumed the familiar position of a human looking down at an engine that didn’t work. We’ve all been there. It humanized him. He left the hood open and returned to the backseat, doing this a few more times. He was looking for something -- a tool of some sort.
This is when my liberalism kicked in. I formulated an idea of what was happening: His car broke down. He deduced it was the battery so he walked a mile to a grocery store, stole a shopping cart, walked 1.5 miles to an auto parts store, and bought a new battery. He walked back with the new battery and fixed the problem. Nope. My liberalism waned. There were big holes in this story.
With the car hood up and the long door hanging at the hinges, the man continued to toggle between looking at the engine and rummaging in the backseat. Eventually, he pulled a white sheet from the backseat and put it into the cart. Finally, I thought, he’s doing something.
Oddly, he pulled the sheet out of the car with a plastic bag in his hand. Once outside he held the sheet as far as possible from his body and dropped it in the cart, like dropping picked-up dog poop into a trash can. The quicker it’s gone the better. The clothes were obviously soiled.
He repeated this behavior a few times -- retrieving sheets or clothes from the back seat, treating them like a pariah, and dumping them in the cart. He shut the door, closed the hood without tying It down, and moved toward a side street, cart in tow.
I decided to follow the man and his cart. I was in a big hurry to do nothing, and nothing presented itself. Following the gangly man and his cart could lead to a prize at the end. Where was he going?
My parked car was in electric idle, wheezing that battery whine that probably pisses off neighbors more than a V8. I waited 10s of seconds to let him travel a bit before I tailed.
I made a left on the side street and watched. He entered the small parking lot of a stand-one Subway with fresh green and yellow paint on the outside stucco. He strolled up to the drive-thru window, looked inside, and moved on. It was an odd thing to do. I silently crept into the parking lot, pulled into a space, and acted like I was texting someone. I surreptitiously watched in between fake texts. I didn't want to get made.
After checking the dumpster for 6-inch subs, he exited the parking lot and headed north on a busy street. Leaning forward, moving at a fast clip, he stuck to the sidewalk, determined to get wherever he was going quickly. I moved to a new spot near the road and unabashedly watched. His back was to me.
He crossed the street mid-block and continued north on the opposing sidewalk. He made a right on another side street and disappeared behind a building. Fuck it, I thought. I’ve come this far, I might as well continue the journey.
I slowly pulled into traffic and followed him down the side street. Flanked by a vintage laundromat on the right and a Hardees on the left, I crept forward, looking between cars and the sides of the two buildings. I spotted his empty cart perched on a cement parking block, perpendicular to the front door.
The adventure had come to an anti-climactic end. He was performing a mundane task. Washing his clothes. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this. As a consolation to the story, I imagined him sitting in an orange hard plastic in his underwear acting weird, having removed the clothes on his back to wash with the soiled sheets.
24. Hold On by Wilson Phillips
Sitting on the floor at the end of my bed, I watch MTV on a small, portable TV. The TV rests on the ground. It's 3 am on a Saturday night. I'm a bit high, drunk, and tired, but amped enough to stay up and watch TV. Weed and alcohol don't mix well, and leave me a little dizzy. From experience, sleeping in this condition leads to bed spins. I stay up a bit to prevent this.
The TV was kept on a shelf in the closet. It was only used for situations like this. I could go into the living room and watch on a bigger screen, but my roommate’s bedroom is connected to the living room. Flimsy wood sliding doors do a bad job of soundproofing the rooms. On the floor with a small TV is OK by me.
It is cold. I lean back against the bed and hug my knees. It is always cold in shitty Victorians, regardless of the season. We live on the cold side of the street, and our side of the block is always shrouded in shadows. We aren't special. Everyone feels this way. Victorians are beautiful to look at, but not so great to live in.
The video changes from Roxette’s Joyride to three women dressed like they went shopping at an upscale Wrangler store in West Hollywood in 1991 before a weekend at a dude ranch in Taos. Perched on a mountaintop in California, they emphatically sing to the camera passing overhead. All three look like characters in Beverly Hills 90210 and Melrose Place.
After a quick change of clothes and setting, they appear on a beach in LA, dressed in black cocktail attire. Each member looks deeply into the camera, bearing their artistic soul, taking advantage of their moment. They’re rootsy and high-fashion women, unique in what they bring to the group. They are:
The lead singer. The pretty one who dreamed up this girl group project. A theatre major who dabbles in modeling and acting. Confident, dramatic, and in charge, she looks into the camera, tilts her head, and teases.
The lead backup singer. She had to be talked into the band. Would rather play bass in her country punk band at Al’s Bar. Artistic with red henna hair, she regrets saying yes to the group.
The other backup singer. The young sister. The funny one. She wants to be included but is nervous about the beach scene, and argues against it. Smart and ambitious, she pulls double duty as backup singer and manager.
They toggle between the mountains and the beach until the breakdown in the third verse. The group walks confidently in parallel lockstep on the Venice Beach boardwalk, emphasizing every step. The hot polloi parts as they walk by. Drums and vocals. It’s strangely fascinating. In my state, this is the best I could ask for. I look around the empty room, wanting confirmation. Who are they?
Knowing every MTV video begins and ends with the song and band’s name, I pay close attention. I want to know who they are. I want an explanation. As the song fades, the name appears. Wilson Phillips. Wilson Phillips? Who the fuck is that? I turn off the TV. The night is over, ending on a high note.
The next afternoon at 1 pm, I spring out of bed thinking about the video from the night before. The dizziness from alcohol and weed is gone, replaced by a familiar hangover. The video from last night is on my mind and I need to share it with someone.
Lounging in the living room in their PJs and robes drinking coffee, my roommates are surprised as I bust through the door. I look at them and smile. They know something is up.
“What?” one says.
“Dudes, I saw this video last night. Three women walking on the boardwalk in Venice Beach in black dresses. They kept looking into the camera, singing to me. It was crazy. You gotta see it. They’re so weird looking.”
They laugh at my enthusiasm and ask, “What’s their name?”
“The Wilson Pickets.”
“The Wilson Pickets?”
“Yeah, The Wilson Pickets. Turn on the TV. I’m sure they’ll be on.”
It would take a few cycles of MTV before I learned their real name.
25. Pigs by Pink Floyd
There’s not much agitation in these parts. Every day I look for homemade signs along the freeways and roads expressing discontent with something -- a bedsheet hanging over a freeway overpass announcing an event, a flyer taped to a pole, or the common refrain written on a bathroom wall, but there’s nothing. Expressive bumper stickers are big, but it doesn't count. They’re usually smug, and witty, and you buy them on Amazon. Regardless of what your bumper stickers say, you bought it online, along with 100s of other people. A bumper sticker is not rebellious.
I want people to go into their garage or rummage under their crafting table and find paint or magic markers, pull a poster off the wall, and use the back to paint a slogan, some swear words, or something sarcastic and political. I want them to go out at night after 10 pm and find a spot to illegally hang it. On a tree, on a street sign, wheat-pasted to a wall. This will make me happy.
An early 2000s Mercury Grand Marque is stopped between Publix and the parking lot. The Frogger area between the two is where pedestrians and cars vie for right-of-way. The rules and cultural norms of the right-of-way are vague and cars and humans fight for dominance. Here, pedestrians and cars battle. Because I'm an outsider, I look both ways and precede when it’s clear, and when I’m driving, I let pedestrians win. Rationality like this is discouraged.
The Grand Marquis is immaculate. Only an old person can maintain an older car like this. It’s their last car, so to speak. They did the math and don’t want a car payment, because death is always around the corner. Why invest in the future when you’re just gonna die? I respect and admire this. I’m lucky if the oil gets changed once every two years.
I notice the Grand Marquis before crossing to the other side of the street. Palmettos line the median. I stop under one and watch. The Grand Marque is stopped in the middle of the road, and the old driver is out of the car barking at a pedestrian. The pedestrian is barking back. They’re in the Frogger zone, and the battle has begun. Pedestrian vs. car. I stand in the shade and express my discontent through facial expressions. I want everyone to know that I’m not OK with this, and I’m ready to get in between them if they clench.
I look at the Grand Marquis again and notice a piece of computer paper taped to the inside of the back passenger window. It says Stop the Violence. Given the size and the font, it was printed at home. The irony wasn’t lost on me or a few other observers. The man who felt compelled to print a Stop the Violence sign, and tape it to the inside window of his car, is out of his car ready to throw down with another stranger. From the comfort of a shadow, I enjoyed this very much.
Like most altercations, it subsided without violence. The old man returned to his car and left the Frogger zone, and his opponent continued to the store.
On the way home a large rectangular piece of plywood leaned against two recycling cans at the end of a driveway. In barely legible red spray paint, someone wrote: Lost. Pigface. Reward.
I must’ve read it wrong, I think. I turn around for another look: Lost. Pigface. Reward. So many questions. No phone number? No description of Pigface? Dog? Cat? Child? Uncle? No reward amount? And the name: Pigface. One word, not two.
I was in the “in-skirts” of the country, leaving a sparsely populated area with lots of new housing tracts. Maybe Pigface was known in this area? A local might see it and think, “Ol Pigface is on the loose again.” So, there’s no need to add other details. Details are showing off. This is the country, not the rural city with new housing. This is how we do it.
It was a good day.
26. Back it Up by Nils Lofgren
There are 7 pillows on my bed. 5 long ones and two regular size. I use one of the regular size pillows as my primary. It’s a bit lumpy, but it has a pillowcase, and I like it.
All pillows are of varying quality, bought at TJMaxx, Marshalls, or Bed Bath and Beyond. When my sister visits, she buys two and leaves them. They’re 2 more long pillows in the other room. If my mother’s alive, two pillows a year will be added to the cache. When she dies, they'll be taken to the recycling center and dumped in the household goods bin. Pillows, like underwear, socks, and mattresses, are dumped not donated. Oddly, shirts and pants are donated. Maybe not so odd.
I’m putting the 7 pillows to use. 4 are stacked at the head of the bed: 3 longs one with a regular size on top. I lean back against them and adjust the top pillow for maximum comfort. Two long pillows flank my sides from knees to torso, and the primary pillow rests on my abdomen like a napkin. My laptop lay at arm’s length, playing a curated playlist on Spotify. A big gulp rests on the side table. I rest on a plush blanket from TJMaxx. Underneath the plush blanket is a comforter from Amazon. There’s no top sheet. There was but it disappeared to the bottom of the bed, scrunched up in a ball. I could retrieve it but I don’t. A few gummies in, I read and listen to music.
This is the trashy version of sitting by a fire in a wingback chair, a dog at your feet, Chamomille tea in one hand, and literature in the other. This is what we try to emulate. The reality is above.
The Spotify playlist ends and it enters the free-for-all world of post-playlist songs. Under the auspice of “If you like this, you’ll love this,” Spotify gently suggests songs it thinks you'll like. Spotify is a drug dealer of songs or your annoying music friend who starts every sentence with “You gotta hear this…”
I hear it. I put down my book and look at the laptop. It's emitting a song I never heard. I smile. It's a modern Yacht Rock song with a horrible riff. It works, though, only because I know irony and mockery play a role, and it's recorded and written by someone under 30. It's an exclusive club, a club I don't want to go to. I like being invited, though.
If it were Toto or Pablo Cruise, I’d hate it. Same song, but personal generational baggage muddy the waters. Context matters, I guess.
I reach over and nudge the laptop. It comes to life. I look at the bottom left corner and discover the artist. Nils Loftgren. Nils Loftgren, thought? The tiny hobo guitar player in Springsteen’s band? Him?
When the song finishes, I reach over and hit repeat. It truly is an awful song. It sounds like an attempt to write a hit: the horrible riff, the cliche double entendre lyrics, and the snappy I-can-play drums. But something keeps me listening.
I push down my shallowness and hit repeat once again. Yes, I'm hearing it. Yes, I'm liking it. Should I include it in a curated playlist with a witty title? No. I bury it in another playlist and listen on the sly. I have a reputation, dammit.
27. Passenger Side by Wilco
The car trickled down. By the time it got to me it had problems. A hole in the roof from a knife attack and the damage to the inside due to the knife attack. No matter the amount of duct tape used to seal the hole, rain drips in, spreads across the seats and floorboard and mold grows. Drought is the only remedy.
The car is a white VW Cabriolet with a white vinyl top and white seats. In a foggy city, it stands out. It should be in LA with a vanity plate that reads LA BITCH. Vaurnets hang from the rearview and a water polo sticker on the back bumper. It’s free. I will drive it until it’s stolen, breaks down or the city takes it. I know the city will eventually take it. They always do.
The minute I take possession of the car, it's a downward trajectory. Almost immediately it’s broken into. I keep nothing in the car and never lock the doors, but thieves like to take a look, just in case an errant CD with a cracked jewel case is under the driver’s seat.
The driver’s side door joins the party on a cold, foggy summer afternoon. It starts the day as a functional piece of the car, capable of opening, shutting, and locking. It ends the day hyperextended, its hinges bent and slightly pointing outward.
The car door stops a bicyclist. No matter how many times you remind yourself to look before opening the car door, there’s one time you don’t. This was the time. No one was hurt but the door was damaged, and the front rim of the bicycle is badly bent. The bicyclist is ESL. Conveying an apology is difficult, and he seems content to walk away, pushing the bike to wherever.
Through hand gestures and facial expressions, I get him and his bike in the car. I drive him to the nearest bike shop and pay for a new rim. At a time when doing the right thing is muddied by financial limitations, I do the right thing. Lo siento.
The lip of the door juts 2 inches from the frame. It’s noticeable. Closing the door requires two hands, a strong tug, and a grunt. Its natural position is now open. When closed, it just wants to be open. A slight pull on the inside door handle and the door flings open. It feels like bats leaving a cave at dusk.
That night a homeless lodger resides in the front passenger seat. He enjoys half of a blueberry pie and a few beers. After dinner, he reclines the seat and sleeps. By the time I roll out of bed in the early afternoon, he’s gone. Half a blueberry pie sits on the driver’s seat, and beer bottles litter the floor. The passenger seat is still reclined. The downward trajectory is in full swing.
Near the end, when giving up turns to gave up, the car mostly sits on a block a half of a mile from my flat. It’s a block that guarantees one parking spot after 3 am. It’s a block of similar cars.
The car is parked halfway down the block. I turn the corner and naturally look down the block. The passenger door of my car is open. It’s midday. All the other car doors are closed. Why mine?
I approach with caution and tentatively peek in, my hand resting on the open door. The front passenger seat is pushed forward, and angled to the dash. My eyes move around the front and then to the back. On the floor of the backseat is a condom. It lays like a chalk line of a dead body on a sidewalk. I look at it. I look in the glove box, middle console, and hatch for personal items. I shut the door and walk away and don’t walk back.
28. Fuck Tha Police by NWA
Another city, another parking lot.
Early in my career of sitting in cars in parking lots, I found myself parked on the outer stretches of a strip mall lot in Orange County. The lot was typical LA: nail salon, laundromat, and a fold-up chair church that used to be a taqueria. In a decade or so they’d be replaced by Jamba Juice, Wolf’s Camera, and Sally’s Beauty Supply and then Ultra and TJMaxx would eventually swoop in and kick them out. The stamp of modernity was coming. The circle of life.
I somehow tried to convince myself that the avocado and alfalfa sprout GNC sandwich that sat precariously on the console of my dad’s mid-80s Camaro company car was tasty. It was not. It was never tasty. I walked through this internal dance every time I went into a GNC to buy a sandwich from a store that only sells vitamins and brewer yeast. I did it in the name of veganism and steamed broccoli.
The blue, long, low, and ugly Camaro pointed toward a 4-lane road with a dirt median. The traffic was consistent and oppressive. It’s always like this in LA. The strip mall and parking lot are reflected in the rearview mirror. Neglected shade trees lined the 5 rows in the lot. No parked cars beside me. This is how I liked it. Early anti-social behavior.
I took small bites from the sandwich. Small drops of avocado and beans from the sprouts fell on my lap. I turned up From the Cradle to the Grave by The Subhumans and watched the traffic. This was a parking lot to get some thinking done.
The day before we traveled south on I-5. Me, my sister, dad, mom and the blue Camaro. Dad was a carpet salesman and needed to make some “client calls” in the southern territory, and asked us if we wanted to come along. It was an odd request because my sister and I were living on our own and we never went on vacations together. This was some sort of attempt to rewrite our childhood.
They dangled a visit to Disneyland to sweeten the deal. This backfired. We told them that the fascist Disneyland wouldn’t let us in because of the way we looked. It was the ‘80s and this was a common refrain of the young, oppressed subcultures of California.
My sister was at the height of her lesbian Eros years — tattooed, pierced, and a prevalent fuck you attitude. I was recovering from years of Anarcho Peace Punk and looked like a skinny, homeless bigfoot — tattered black clothing, cow patty dreads, and metal hoops and studs piercing my face. We assured them that the Disneyland man didn’t welcome our type. It is the response they expected. They are used to it.
4 cop cars abruptly stopped behind me — 2 on each side, angled, blocking my escape. I noticed them in the mirrors. I placed my sandwich on the console and looked forward. Something must going one in front of me. This is how innocent people react — they’re not here for me. The top piece of bread from my sandwich slid onto the passenger seat. Fucking GNC!
Guns drawn, I hear, “Driver, place your arms outside of the window.” I look around. Are they here for me? I look back and see the inside of the barrels of their guns. They were here for me. I quickly put my arms out the window.
They pull me from the car and push me against the car. They frisk me, place handcuffs on my wrists, and walk me to one of their cars. They holster their guns.
Two cops search my car, half their bodies in the back and front seats. The other two cops flank me, holding my elbows.
I ask, “What did I do?” No response. I practicing say, that's not mine.
All four cops are stereotypes. Mirrored aviators, tall, blond, short hair, good posture, fit and stern. Robo cops as they were known.
The cop in the front seat exited the car and approached with his pinkie in the ear. He has a smug look on his face. He placed his pinkie 12 inches from my face and said, “What is this?”
Leaning forward, I examine the green fleck attached to the underside of his pinkie.
“That’s avocado.” He turns his hand and squints at what he thought was weed. Do these cops not know what weed looks like, I thought? Smells like?
“What did I do?” protesting again. They took off the cuff.
“You match a description of someone who robbed an appliance store.”
“Seriously?” I said.
“A guy with cow patty dreads driving a blue Camaro robbed an appliance store?”
They said nothing.
They returned to their vehicles and drove off. The crowd watching the transaction dispersed. I returned to the Caramro and looked at the piece of bread on the passenger seat. It was face down, seeds and avocado shake surrounded it. I grabbed it and threw it out the window.
A few days later we’re heading north on I-5. I’m driving. I’m going 80 mph. The tools of my father’s trade — some carpet samples held together with a ball chain lay on the front passenger floorboard and under the seat. The rest in the trunk.
I’m in charge of the tunes. I put a cassette in the car stereo: NWA. Fuck tha Police. I crank it. Fuck LA.
