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
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.
29. Unilever by Chumbawumba (Draft)
After successfully fixing the dryer and microwave, taking them apart, and putting them back together, I had advice to give. I was high on blue-collar skills—dirty hands, clean money. It was like I finally qualified for an F-150. I was a handyman—albeit a YouTube handyman who drove a Prius and had tools from Harbor Freight. I was confident and ready to spread my newfound knowledge to the masses.
Unfortunately, the microwave and dryer broke a short time later. I blamed it on their age and brand, but my handyman expertise had hit a ceiling. On a Fall day in October, the dream died. I would leave it to the locals who came before me, who pass down handyman knowledge through DNA and low expectations.
In a rare moment of optimism, I convinced myself I was happy about the experience. I failed, yes, but I was close. But in the fixing world, you either fix it or you don’t. There’s no, “Yeah, I couldn’t fix it. I have no idea what’s going on. That’ll be 50 dollars. Cash, please.” It’s a black-and-white world, like landing a plane.
Regardless, I had no skin in the game. I didn’t go to trade school, nor did I grow up with a dad who fixed things. He used the phone to fix problems. My mentor was Youtube, not the guy down the street with the panel truck. Nonetheless, I treated it like getting a participation trophy. Good try.
Good try didn’t fix the dryer. A new dryer, or a new-used one was needed. I had an idea, though. And the idea was that we didn’t really need a dryer. If you did the math, we probably used the dryer once a month. 12 times a year. Does that warrant a new dryer? I thought about it and came up with a big no.
We were two people in a small house with very few possessions. My mother was very old and I was a depressed isolationist who took care of my mother. We didn’t move around much and didn’t sweat. We only left the house for groceries and meds. When we did the safe confines, we walked in the shade. So, why do we need clean clothes every week? We don’t. We have a working washer. That's enough.
The plan was simple: wash clothes at home and bring them to a Laundromat to dry. I knew of a Laundromat in the adjacent town. It would suffice.
The laundromat sat on a corner next to the main intersection of a city that didn’t really have a main intersection. If it did, this was it. Across the street was a Hardees that up was the only direction it could go, and on the other side was a sandwich shop where first responders, police, and firefighters could cut to the front when ordering. During busy hours, there was lots of murmuring from the non-responders.
The laundromat was old. Probably from the 1960s. Never renovated, just maintained. As long as it had a dryer that heated up and spun, it would do.
The side door was open and I entered with an overflowing basket of damp clothes and sheets. Large dryers lined the back walls, washers ,in the middle and orange Eames-like fiberglass chairs framed the front wall.
I dump the damp laundry in a second-tier dryer and walk toward the front to find the change machine. The machine is cash-only. On brand, I thought.
I pulled out two crisp dollar bills I saved for this action and slid them into the notoriously finicky cash slot. The very satisfying sound of quarters slid into a metal half cup. I retrieved them and walked back to my second-tier dryer. 5 quarters should do it.
A sign said to slowly insert quarters. I paused between every insertion. I press the start button and nothing. I try again. And again. I lightly palm the machine. Nothing. I push the return button. Nothing. I'm hating my clothes drying theory.
I noticed that the digital display read 25 minutes. I open the door and place my hand inside. It’s hot, but it’s not spinning. I insert one more quarter. Nothing. I reach in and pull the clothes out of the dryer.
A tad humiliated and vulnerable, I surveyed the laundromat to see if anyone noticed. Less than 10 people sit in chairs or stand near their laundry, guarding and watching. I understand this behavior. It can be hypnotic. All are hoarding roller carts. I didn’t like that. They view me as an interloper. Someone who has a washer, but not a dryer.
A few notice my dilemma but turn when I look. They’re not interested. A man appears at my side and says, “That’s one’s hot,” pointing to a dryer 2 over. Insider knowledge. I thank him. I put the laundry in and feed the remaining quarters. I push start and it begins to tumble. I open the door and feel the air. It’s hot. It’s working. I replenish the quarters at the machine and feed a few extra into the dryer. I find a seat in a row of empty seats. It’s laundry warm. It smells nice.
A sign in the corner says, “Please report defective washers/dryers. Please note the appliance number. Call 800-111-1111.” It also mentioned a refund.
As I waited, I debated calling the number. I was a bit peeved it didn’t work, and I also didn’t want others to use the defective machine. So I decided to call when the laundry was done.
With the laundry dry and safely resting in the back of the car, I dialed the number. Before hitting send, I silently reminded myself it was a $1.25 and I was doing this for the benefit of others that came after me. I was magnanimous like that. I arrogantly told myself It was a public service.
A woman answered and connected me to a technician in the field. It went to voicemail. I left a short message about the problem and the dryer number. I did my part.
On the way home the phone rang. It was the laundromat technician.
“Yeah, you called this number?” He was polite and interested.
“Yeah, did you listen to my voicemail?” The voicemail said everything he needed to know.
“No.”
“OK.” I was a bit peeved but I squashed this feeling. He was probably driving and didn’t have time to listen to the voice.
“I put 5 quarters in the dryer and nothing happened. When I removed my clothes, I noticed it was hot, but the drum wasn’t turning.” Drum instead of spinny-thing was used to give my diagnosis some weight.
Unfortunately, I kept talking: “It’s probably a quick fix. The heater fuse, most likely.”
There was a long pause. The man on the phone probably fixed washers and dryers for 30 years. And I was giving him advice. I regretted it immediately.
“Alright, thanks. I can send you a check for $1.25, if you give me your address.”
Decades prior, I received a check for 10 cents from the phone company. A pay phone ate my dime and I complained. They took my address and sent me a refund in the mail. The stamp on the letter cost more than the refund. It was a reminder not to be an idiot.
I arrogantly chuckled and said, “That’s OK. Thanks.”
30. Yes I Do by Gregory Isaacs
The parking lot across the street is celebrating Bob Marley’s birthday by burning incense and selling tube socks and batteries. A cloud of smoke hangs over the parking lot, uniquely marking the event. Hippies, Rastas, and suburban white kids sway to the island sounds, their eye lids heavy and their eyes glossy. There’s talk of Jamaica and occasional screams of “Jah Rastafari,” and “Yah Mon” is the answer to pretty much any question. I watch from afar and want no part of it. It’s laundry year and I’m here strictly for business.
Across the street from the birthday party is Washingtown, a large, clean and well-lit laundromat. I pass it when traveling on the F bus to Berkeley. It looks inviting for tasks you don’t want to do.
A pillowcase of laundry dangles from my limp arm, rhythmically bumping the side of my leg with every stride. It contains my whole wardrobe, sans sheets. Sheets require a larger pillowcase or laundry bag. I don’t have sheets, though. Just a mattress, comforter, and one pillow with a pillowcase. Who washes comforters?
The sidewalk is crowded with celebrants. I look up and get a few “Jah Rastafaris” and many “Yeah Mons.” Everyone is high and smiling, strolling like their bones are on break. I look down and keep moving. I’m close to safety.
I know why everyone is so friendly to me. They look at me as a peer. If you replace my tattered black clothing with a Guatemalan poncho and patchwork embroidered hippie pants, I fit the reggae uniform. It isn’t the clothes, though. It's my dreads. My long fucked up bigfoot dreads. They overlook the tattered clothing and go straight to my hair. Brothuh! There is nothing I can do about it. What they see and how I feel are completely different. They misdiagnose my rebellion.
I grew up in the suburbs — about 20 miles from the birthday party — and inevitably went through a reggae phase in high school. I purchased a union suit in Jamaican colors from a street vendor on Telegraph Avenue and regularly wore Bob Markey t-shirts. We listened to reggae while drinking beers from a cooler in a local park, and unfortunately, probably swayed to the music. In a homogenous culture, reggae was an identity and safe rebellion.
The door to Washingtown leads to safety. It’s warm inside and smells of lavender. I put down my pillowcase and buy soap in a tiny cereal box from a vending machine. Like cornflakes in a bowl of milk, I shake the soap into the top of a washing machine, close the lid, and press start. It starts and I feel the rotation of the drum.
The laundromat is large and sparsely populated. A man with a yellow bucket slowly mops from side to side. I sit on a chair near the front window and look out — safe and warm.
It’s late and the cold winter day is ruining the positive vibrations. People flood up the stairs of the parking lot and out onto the street, going back to the suburbs, VW buses, or flats with 6 roommates. They walk silently past the large picture window in droves. From the safety of the inside, the glass distorts reality. I observe and judge, internally attaching stories to each passerby. It’s enjoyable.
The man holsters the mop in the yellow bucket and carries it to an open door in the back. He disappears from sight and returns with a large cardboard box. The top of the box is cut off, and he carries it like a Christmas present.
I watch as he walks to the front of the laundromat, passing a woman reading, her head down. She looks up and follows as he passes. He may be heading toward me.
I look up. He slows and lowers the box as he approaches, placing it at my feet. I peer inside. Forgotten and discarded clothes.
“Take what you want,” he says in a passive voice. He turns and walks away before I can protest.
He thinks I’m homeless. I just look homeless.
Between Bob Marley’s birthday celebration and being labeled homeless, it was a traumatic day.
I cut my dreads that night.
31. Ode To Viceroy by Mac DeMarco
Loris is an old tobacco town. At least I think it is. I’ve never inquired about its history. If I were driving with someone- someone local – when we passed Loris, I’m sure they’d repeat, “Loris is an old tobacco town.” It gives it status and pity.
It has two long roads lined with gas stations, banks, and fast-food restaurants. CVS and Walgreens compete for pharmaceutical supremacy and locals sell everything and nothing out of storefronts that used to be Halloween, beauty supply, and smoke shops. The optimism of when they first received a small business loan is long gone and weighing heavily on their wallet.
The one-block downtown starts where the long roads intersect. Bojangles and Hardee’s restaurants occupy two corners; a new chicken wing restaurant and maternity store compete across the street. The maternity shop rents outfits for Instagram shoots. To the north is what downtown used to be: thriving in the 50s and 60s, deserted in the 70s, antique shops in the 80s and 90s, and now a mishmash of “for lease” and “coming soon” signs.
Paralleling one of the long roads is a defunct railroad track. Brick warehouses line the old track. I look at the warehouse and think, that’s where the tobacco ended up. A film production company is in one of the warehouses. Their arrival made the news. Their arrival required workers to sign non-disclosure agreements before the announcement in the local paper. For $39, you can tour the facilities. The tour includes lunch and a chance to be an extra in a movie. The last film they produced was A Carolina Christmas in 2020. I have no idea where the studio is, but it’s there.
4 blocks from downtown is the recycling center, or the dumps, as it is known locally. There are two of them. One is closed on Tuesday, and the other is closed on Wednesday. Everyone knows this because everyone talks about the dumps. Are you going to the dumps? Can you go to the dumps? It’s Wednesday, so go to the Longs dump.
Until recently, I thought the dumps were the only game in town. Wrong. There is garbage pickup, but it costs money. The dumps are free.
I saw my only South Carolina friend, Randy, at the dumps; I talked to a woman for 10 minutes about her love for Mercury Mariner vehicles (we both have the same vehicle) at the dumps and some of the dirtiest men in the county visit the dumps. The junk is overflowing, and people are happy.
On the way home from Loris, I stopped at the dumps. Before leaving for Loris, I heard this: “Hun, you going to Loris? Take the garbage to the dumps, OK? As I said, it’s a common refrain.
The Loris dump sits on a square acre, surrounded by a chain-link fence. Beyond the fence is open space, which helps make the dump appear bigger and cleaner. I don’t know why. Lining the exterior are large, open-air dumpsters with signs denoting the kind of junk it likes. Nestled between the dumpsters is a shack where the dump overlord resides, watching. Their car is usually parked nose-out next to the shack. The overlord never shakes ya down if you accidentally put Styrofoam in the “commingle” dumpster.
Near the entrance are the heavy-use dumpsters and one trash compactor. The heavy-use dumpsters handle cardboard and packaging cardboard, glass, and plastic (commingle), and the compactor squeezes household trash. They are the big three of recycling.
In front, a 90s Chevy truck with a tall, white plastic barrel—its top sawed off—sits in the bed. I walk past and heave one bag of trash in the compactor.
“Hey, do you mind helping me with this?”
I turn and the owner of the 90s Chevy is pointing at the white barrel.
“Sure, no problem.” As many times as I’ve asked people if they needed help with their trash, I’ve never been enlisted as a helper. I like helping.
The asker is in his 60s, lean, wiry, and wearing a sleeveless t-shirt. I get the vibe that he has at least one domestic, a couple of drug priors, and has never had a job that requires him to be indoors.
The barrel teeters on the bed, slightly breaching the gate. We both grab the bottom with our right hands and the top with our lefts. The barrel is heavier than the trash. We slowly tilt the barrel over the lip of the compactor. The loose trash slowly slides out, brushing against my clenched fingers. As the barrel lightens, we raise the bottom higher. The last dregs of trash is dirty liquid. It drains against the fingers on my left hand. My stomach flinches.
The sleeveless man takes control of the barrel. Without looking, he thanks me and exclaims, “Americans working together.” This catches me off guard.
I drive home with my left hand out of the window.
32. Hearts Are Trump by Trio
Bundle Branch Block sounds a bit like a blog from 2014 or a post-punk band from Estonia. Either will do.
The heart problems started with a murmur. A heart murmur. My GP heard something and then didn’t. “That’s odd,” she said. She grabbed a colleague, who had two interns in tow, and they took turns listening. Their responses were similar to my GP’s response. Regardless, they agreed something was there. That was 5 years ago and one non-invasive heart procedure later, which found a 20 percent blockage of a minor vein. I wrote it off as anxiety and psychosomatic mania. Tell someone they have heart issues, and that person has heart issues.
On the other side of the country, I sit in an observation room waiting for my Nurse Practitioner. She came my way via my mother. We share the same health professional. Confidentiality laws are loose in this area, so this makes me uneasy. Someone might blab about my murmur to my mother.
It is a scheduled appointment. A 6 month checkup. No big deal. A few questions, blood pressure check and some blood on the way out. But it wouldn’t’ be like this. When she asks how I’m doing, I downplay how I’m feeling, but give enough to cause concern: “For the last two months I’ve had waves of nausea and dizziness. My feet tingle when I lay down, and food seems to trigger nausea and dizziness. I don’t think it’s my heart, though.”
I eliminate a cause at the end of the symptom list: “I don’t think it’s my heart, though.” I have no idea, and I don’t read WEB MD for every ache and ailment. This was a lapse. Let them do their job.
She asks many questions and says, “I think it’s your heart.” I shrug and think, “Of course it is."
The nurse appears in the doorway and asks if she needs to shave my chest? I give her a quizzical look and then intelligence kicks in. She needs a clean path for the EKG.
“No, I’m not that hairy,” I reply. She thinks, thank god. I think, thank god.
I sit on the observation table, shirtless, legs dangling. The stupid sheath of paper crackles under my butt. She fusses and attaches round stickers to my chest. Shirtless, I hold it in.
The long skinny arms of the octopus-looking machine attach the round stickers to my chest. The octopus rolls in on heavy duty casters, sliding across the high-density flooring. My heart travels from the arms to the mothership, and then to the computer. A few deep breaths and holds, and I’m done. I don’t say, “That’s it?” I stay quiet.
The NP returns and says, “Bundle Branch Block.” She puts it out there. I have no idea what she said or what it means. I didn’t inquire. I can figure it out later. It didn’t sound that bad. Right?
She sends me to a cardiologist and they send me to the hospital for an echogram. This is my mother’s cardiologist, of course, Before I walk in the door, I know the doctor has small feet and was skinnier before he married a nurse. I know nothing of his ability as a doctor.
The hospital is a block away from the cardiologist. Say what you will about the medical hegemony of coastal medicine, but being able to park 30 yards from the front door of your doctor’s office, and then walk 50 yards to the hospital for a some-day test, and all if started with one phone call, is appealing. They may not have degrees from Stanford on the wall, but you don’t have to wait 6 months for an appointment. And convenient, ample parking. People move for parking. People uproot their lives for parking.
The motion sensor doors to the hospital are flanked by vintage wheelchairs. A man who looks like he preaches sitting down greets me. I know the drill. I’d been here a few times with my mother.
Awkwardly leaning back in an office chair, like a man in hour 4 of a smorgasbord, he directs me to a machine to take a photo for an ID. The industrial boxy camera sits on a low table. I can see the frame of the photo in the box and move back about 5 feet to get in the frame. At the low angle, I look like a death metal guy in a band photo acting tough, chin up. It’s rather jarring. Do I really look like this?
The screen says smile and counts down from 3. The sitting man says smile. In spite of prompts from human and machine to smile, I stay blank. He hands me my temporary ID. I attach it tot he breast of my shirt and think, “If I lose a few pounds, paint my face in white, I might have a gig as second guitarist in a band called Habitual Murder.” If, you know, they overlook my age.
The TV on the wall of the waiting room plays a colorized western TV series from the 50s. The hospital knows its demographic. Old people. Really old people sitting in twos. People who would call me son.
A few miserable teenage couples with infants sit next to side tables with donated bibles. Bibles occupy corners of all public buildings. Either put there with permission or surreptitiously. I’m used to it.
The Echogram tech is under 25. We make small talk on the way to the Echogram room. I wear a Live Laugh Love t-shirt, which requires a slide of deodorant over the shirt and under the arm. It’s a bit smelly, but since the dryer broke, laundry is a burden. The shirt doesn’t match the face and I like that.
I take off my shirt and lay on my side on the observation table. This is a prompt from the tech, not a freelance move. I’ve never been of fan of being shirtless. In grade school, when a game of shirts vs. skins was suggested, I either went to the bathroom or preyed to the shirt god.
I’m keenly aware of the dynamic: a 60-year-old Norwegian Death Metal Santa-looking guy and an under 25-year-old medical tech. We’re stuck in a sterile room. I feel bad for her. For us.
I lay on my side, my arm at a 90 degree angle, hand cupping my head. This pose is natural for lying on your side, but it feels suggestive, like I’m taking boudoir photos on a red wine leather tufted settee in the study of a Victorian for my mistress. It’s not a nice visual.
Luckily, the tech tells me to put my arms flush against my body. I struggle to find a comfortable position. I feel like a torpedo or a dead guy wrapped in a Persian rug. It’s awkward and I have to make this pose work for 15 minutes. I slightly lean back against the adjacent wall and find my stride.
The tech reaches out and pulls a machine on casters close to her. The echogram machine. She takes the wand and places it about 6 inches above my abdomen — on, near, and away from my heart. Periodic bursts of audio blast from the machine. It sounds like an ultrasound — blood rushing in and out of the heart. Rhythmic.
2 minutes in, and I venture into fantasy land. The pose is not easy, and the weakness of asking for a break or a possible new pose, one that’s a tad easier, is not an option. I consider myself tough. Resilient. A victim of stubbornness from societal and cultural norms. I’m oppressed, people!!
I retreat to the comfort of my brain and think: In the future, everything will be wireless and on casters. Dressers, beds, washers, dryers, stoves. People will roll the stove in front of the TV and saute onions while watching the 92nd season of Bake Off.
The future looks awesome.
She finishes. I put on my shirt and return to normal, not thinking about casters, the future, and grade school shirts vs. skins games. I squash the desire to compare an echogram to an ultrasound, asking, “Is it a boy or girl?” Why ruin a good echogram?
33. Say Hello To Heaven by Temple of the Dog
A short hallway leads to the bathroom. A man in work-orange and dirt enters the hallway, and I follow. I don’t want him to hold the door for me, so I hang back. I’m OK with front door holding, but doors that lead to small rooms—like a bathroom—are always awkward. He doesn’t look like a door holder, though.
I slightly push the closing door and step in. Two urinals, two stalls, 2 sinks. Standard convenience store bathroom. I pause and let him choose one of the two urinals. He takes the far one against the wall. I saddle up next to him.
A floor-to-ceiling tiled wall divides the urinals. The wall means business. No peaking. Maybe it’s for the best. The curiosity of peaking leads to confrontation. This guy seemed to have some confrontation in him. I tread lightly.
He sings a made-up song as he urinates: “Oh the pizza is here. I know it’s here. I love me some pizza.” He does it in a laugh-sing voice. I can’t see him but i imagine a maniacal smile and crazy eyes. He stops and forces a few laughs. I thank god for the floor-to-ceiling divider. I want no part of this guy.
We finish at the same time. I act like I have a full head of steam and stay put. I’m not moving until this guy is gone.
He takes way too long to wash up. He’s dirty and essentially taking a bath in the sink. Fuck it. I zip up and occupy the open sink. We’re two guys — one washing his hands, and the other his body. His shirt is off. With the mirror in front of us, it’s impossible not to see what he’s doing. Our eyes lock. I panic and say, “I like your song.”
Fuck. What an idiot. Why did I say that?
He puts his shirt back on and replies, “What the fuck..the urine. Jesus, people these days. It’s all going to shit. Everywhere. It’s like in Iraq. Everywhere is fucked up. I’d go to Ukraine but they don’t pay enough.” He ended the last sentence with his trademark maniacal laugh.
He’s talking to me so I nod. A non-verbal gesture this time. Safer than “I like your song.”
He leaves and I wait, giving him a good 10-second start.
I retrieve my empty refill cup from a shelf that sells batteries that look exactly like Duracell Batteries — same color scheme and font — except it's called 24/7 Life by 7/11. Seriously, 7/11? You gotta push in on the battery market?
I refill the refill at the dispensing station and queue up in the line. I scan the room for my bathroom friend. I don’t see him. I relax and take a large draw of Diet Coke. I deserve it. But it’s not over.
Two junkies are at the counter. They wear clothes that were in fashion a decade ago when they first started their drug journey. I used to work with addicts so my tolerance for them is low. You would think it would be the other way around.
I internally assess their ability to hurt me. It’s low. I can take them. After my poor showing in the bathroom, this knowledge gives me a shot of dopamine and confidence. I'm back. I’m somebody. I’m a man.
I scan the room again for the pizza-singing man. Nowhere. Gone. Phew.
Candy, sodas, and chips splay on the checkout counter. A simple transaction is taking too long. Finally, one attempts to pay while the other looks around. The line is frustrated, and the clerk is frustrated. We're looking around, enlisting sympathy from strangers.
The money man slowly dives into his right pocket, fishes around, and comes up with change. He repeats the process on the other side, and the result is the same. He looks at his friend and asks, “Do you have any money?” The friend shakes his head no.
They shuffle off to the front door.
In one swell foop the clerk sweeps the candy to the side of the counter with his forearm. I step up, nod in acknowledgment, and pay as quickly as possible. The line can’t take another transgression.
As I’m taping the machine with my debit card, one of the junkies appears at my side. He’s way too close. I give him a back-the-fuck-up-junkie look, but he’s unfazed. He’s on a mission.
He looks down at the counter, picking up items and pushing them around. It’s like a fucked up version of three card monty.
“Did you forget something,” the clerk asks? It was the question we all wanted to know.
While shuffling product on the counter, head down, he replies,” Yes, but I can’t tell you what.”
The clerk points to the door. I follow closely. He doesn't hold the door.
34. Wish You Were Here by Incubus
The office music is oppressive. Most everyone feels this way. What you like doesn’t equate to what I like. No matter how you sell it — nodding and intently describing its relevancy — technorumba will never be in my musical wheelhouse. If you wanna talk space synth, go right ahead.
Music and art are subjective, shaped by cultural baggage, childhood transgressions, and identity status. We fight over who’s the best. Like all the world's conflicts, finding a happy medium and peace is a battle we fight every day. A battle that streams through the speakers for 8 hours a day. A battle that can be solved with headphones or earbuds. Even though 90 percent of staff would prefer silence, we cater to the 10% who are young, ambitious, passionate, and up for anything. These are the same people who look forward to the staff Christmas party. These are the people who try to sell you on technorumba. We’re all tiny narcissists who want their song played.
A company Spotify playlist plays through various speakers. We all add songs to the list, and on Fridays we take turns playing albums. Fridays can be trying. For the most part, people add songs that are on brand with the label's culture. It’s not hard: play bands similar to the music we release. Indubitably, though, the people who lack common sense but have a strong sense of taste and confidence, and feel the need to enlighten us about their finds. Selections range from the obscure to outsider artists, and comfort music — songs from their childhood. It’s usually the comfort music that prompts me to put on headphones.
The Label Manager walks by my desk as a new song eases into the speakers. My earbuds are in a pitstop near my laptop, charging and ready if needed. The first few sounds give it away: scratching, a vocal boast, and distortion from a severely modified, candy-colored angular guitar by Jackson, Hamer, or Ibanez guitar. Nu Metal. I seamlessly insert earbuds before I can be traumatized. I’m really good at this.
The label manager alters course and saddles up to my chair. I feel her presence. I mix a smile with a quizzical look and take out my earbuds.
“Hey. What’s up?” I say.
She’s the 10 percent. The minority who push for Christmas parties. The employee that goes out every night to see bands, reads the right music blogs, probably has an analog fanzine, and generally is enthusiastic about everything. I like her. I just don’t want to be her. And she’s young enough to be my daughter or granddaughter. We meet in the middle. One going up, one going down.
“Hey,” she responds. Her voice is softer than normal like she doesn’t want anyone to hear what she’s going to say. “Um, how are you?”
“I’m fine. What’s up?” It’s work so you can be curt. I’m assuming this is about business — a simple question about a shipment of records to a record store or possibly someone from the warehouse spending too much time in the office. If it’s the latter, she would start the question with, “I don’t mean to complain, but…” It’s not.
“Do you not like Limp Bisksit?” Her voice is lower than before. She glances back to see if someone is watching. When you’re discussing Limp Biskit, it’s a private conversation.
I’m a bit confused by the question, albeit pleased. No one has ever asked me this and there’s a good chance no one will ask again. I want to enjoy it so I pause. However, I know exactly what she’s asking.
I smile and shrug, trying to appear paternal. If it were the 50s or 60s, I’d invite her onto my lap for a chat.
“You mean the music?”
“Yeah, you put in your earbuds anytime Nu Metal is played.” She seems hurt. I’m amazed she knows this. She was watching my reaction..
“Well, listen…” Never ever start a sentence with listen. I start again.
“Excuse me, I mean, well. I kinda like System of the Down.”
She shrugs and laughs. I do the same. We bond. We’re talking about Nu Metal at 1:35 pm. This has to be unique?
In her Shopify, Etsy or eBay bought 90s Charlotte Russe dress and jewelry from Claire’s, she’s as hip as they come. A walking real-life Manic Pixie Dream Girl. She is doing her best to look bad, but I get it. She owns it and makes it work. That’s what young people do: borrow the worst shit from the past and reinvent it as cool. She’s doing a good job. I admire her style.
Her hair is short and curly — possibly a perm. Probably inspired by The Golden Girls, a TV show made before she was born. She graduated from Wesley or NYU or Oberlin or somewhere like that and will jump to tech in a few years after keeping it real at a hip record label for a few years. She will cite needing more money as the reason she left.
“OK.” I start. Don’t ever start a sentence with OK. It’s a passive-aggressive “listen.”
“It’s Limp Biskit, right?” I know my Limp Biskit, obviously. It’s that Rollin’ song.
“Yes,” she replies.
“It’s not Limp Biskit,” I say again. I shudder at the interpretive spelling of biscuit — b-i-s-k-i-t. This thought is very old man and I don’t wanna come off as that. I wanna come off as older and wiser without the patronizing that comes with being older and wiser.
“OK.” Fuck! I did it again. I’m stalling.
I continued, “I kinda like Fred Durst nowadays. Back in the 90s, I loathed him. Modern Fred is kinda funny and self-deprecating. He seems to get the joke. He wears all those funny costumes, which I like. I mean, he’s probably wearing wigs to cover his bald head, but I appreciate it either way.”
She smiles. I shrug. I’m defusing the situation. Unfortunately, I continue.
“When I was a kid — like 9 to 13 years old — we’d listen to the radio while driving. It played all the top 40 hits. You’d hear one song and then hear it again 50 minutes later. It was mostly soft rock. Forlorn men in beards singing acoustic ballads about ladies they like or lost. Real emasculating stuff. At the time, cool people in their 20s probably listened to The Stooges and Glam and probably hated soft rock. It makes sense. Don’t ya think?”
She nods.
“How old were you when Limp Biskit was big? 13?”
She nods again.
“And you heard Nu Metal all the time on the radio and on MTV?”
She nods again.
“When Nu Metal was popular I was in my 20s and listening to Pavement, Guided By Voices and bands like that. I hated Nu Metal. My peers hated Nu Metal. Nu Metal was the soft rock for people who listened to Pavement. It’s the circle of life and the hegemony of cool music over popular music.”
The story is way too long. I’m falling in love with cultural analysis music.
I keep going: “My generation of music listeners is burdened by bias. Your favorite band was your identity and status, and a similar band was lame and stupid. If you liked rock, you didn’t venture over to pop. You stayed there and rode it out, and denigrated everything that wasn’t rock.”
“In contrast, your generation — Gen Z or whatever — enjoys way more freedom. You seem to be open to all genres of music. Not one genre holds the trophy of being the coolest. You can see Chat Pile in a storage locker at a Sunday matinee, Cindy Lee in a basement on Monday, Chapell Roan at the Coliseum on Tuesday, Staind at the Hard Rock Cafe on Wednesday, a local band at a dive club on Thursday, dance to New Wave/Industrial music at Dance Your Ass Off on Friday and sing along to emo hits with Emo Nights on a side stage at a festival on Sunday. Sounds exhausting. What I mean is you’re open to all genres, you have no biases and it’s awesome. I wish my generation was as magnanimous and confident as yours.”
I pause and take a breath. She seems on board. She likes the compliment and agrees. Unfortunately, I ruin the good vibe-bonding.”
“So, when I listen to comfort music, soft rock — Bread or someone like Kenny Loggins, someone from my childhood — it’s a private thing. I would never subject the public to it. You understand?”
I didn’t need to say that. The good vibes are gone. I’m basically asking her to think before playing Nu Metal at work. Dick.
The story hangs in the balance. It’s over between us. I know this. I blew it. If she never plays Limp Biskit or Nu Metal again, the loss of our work friendship would be worth it. However, she’s feisty, and might only play Nu Metal from now.
She breaks the silence.
“Did the Pee Stream Shadow shipment arrive at Amoeba?" She asks.
“Yeah, I checked after lunch. It arrived this morning.” I reply.
“Good. Thanks. Bye.”
That’s my answer.
35. Surf's Up by The Beach Boys (draft)
I throw up like lighter fluid on hot coals. It’s not pretty or quiet. It’s a roar. No matter how quiet I try to be, it’s an explosion. I envy people who can dispose of the contents in their stomach in a brief whisper, and then return to what they were doing. When I throw up - besides being loud -- the night, day, or morning is over.
The captain is a mix of Jimmy Buffet and Michael Anthony of Van Halen (Sammy years). He came to the island in his youth for the good vibes and never left. Hasn't worn pants since '72. He explains that the ride to calmer waters will be rough until we reach the backside of the island. It will take about 45 minutes, but once we’re there, the snorkeling and weather will be perfect. We sit in a semi-circle — tourists from all over the world — and listen, nodding. He adds the caveat that if anyone wants to cancel, they will receive a refund. Everyone looks around, and the group consensus is that we are a tough group of seafaring tourists who can take a little water turbulence.
Please, the captain raises his right hand and throws a hang loose sign to the group. Everyone throws a hang loose sign back except me. A few years prior I gave up all forms of hand gestures — the fight-the-power-fist, the devil metal sign, and the breezy hang loose gesture. Life is better without these. The world will eventually catch up.
10 minutes into the ride to the good side of the island, I sit on a padded bench in the back of the boat. It feels like a diner booth without a table and jukebox. I face inwards and look at the grey skies and rough seas. An orange Home Depot bucket rests between my knees. With every surge and lull of the boat, seawater washes over me. It smells like diesel, salt, and vomit. I’m the first to throw up. The bench is long, though.
The boat crew waits on me like a waiter, emptying my bucket over the side like chum, providing sips of water, and reassuring me that we’re almost there — to the good side of the island. Eventually, others join me on the bench, buckets between their knees. The boat staff is busy catering to the infirm.
The vomit comes in cycles like the violent rhythm of the boat. Throw up. Feel better. Throw up. Up. Down. Up. Down. With every lull of the boat, a fresh wave of seawater slaps face. I ignore the indemnity of the sea and think, please let the boat sink. 20 minutes in and my lust for life is gone. Take me.
The diesel engine comes to a ceremonious death, and the shaken boat settles. We’re here. The good side of the island. Calm waters and sun. It’s over. Finally.
I shuffle to the cabin and take a seat on another padded bench. The cabin is empty. The vomiting has stopped but the nausea persists. My vomit-peers persevere and join the party on the deck. Traitors. Pre-1964 Beach Boys blares over the loudspeakers. Fuckin’ Mike Love. I slump and look out at the prefab beach party. I imagine floaties, slaps on the ass, and twisty dancing. This fantastical visual reinforces my desire for the boat to sink. This time, though, everyone will go down with me, except the nice staff who gives me sips of water and empties my vomit bucket.
On the way back I return to my seat on the padded bench. It's not long before the sea mocks me and my head returns to the inside of the bucket. The staff empties my bucket, gives me water, and probably thinks about quitting. I'm the first to throw up, and the last to throw up. First place in this category.
I walk down the gangplank like a depressed Peanuts character. I should ceremoniously kiss the ground like a castaway, but my knees are bad, and leaning over may turn into a tumble. I continue on. I'm that guy.
I sit on the bumper of our rental, hatchback open. The nausea is still there but it’s getting better. I’m drained and dehydrated. I just want to sit. The crew pass on their way to their cars and offer condolences and positive affirmations. They’re headed back to normalcy. The captain is the last to pass. He smiles and throws a hang loose. Hmmm.
36. Older Guys by The Flying Burrito Brothers
I mostly watch the pros with Scantrons in the corner stores and try to learn from their expertise. It’s intimidating —all those penciled-in ovals on their tally sheet and alienating vernacular. But I watch, and one day I will play.
There are two types of Lotto players I’ve learned. The ones with their Scantrons and the ones without. The Scantrons players are pros. They hold their numbers in a plastic billfold and walk around the store holding it at shoulder height like a sophisticated smoker. This behavior exudes confidence. I want no part of it. It’s pro and I’m an amateur. This is something you work up, not begin with. I'll get there. Baby steps.
The other lotto player is the one that pays for their soda and chips, and then, as an afterthought, buys a lotto ticket. These are the players I intently observe. I want to know what they say, how they ask, and the inflection of their speech. Are they casual or business-like? I watch.
They’re two Lottos: Mega and Super Lotto. Easy enough. Got it. You play the one that offers the bigger prize. Got it. Tickets are in two dollar increments. Easy. But I still needed the language to acquire a ticket. And I got that.
After ringing you up, the clerk asks, “Anything else.” You act surprised and say, “Yeah, give me a two-dollar Mega pick.” When I learned this phrase, I knew I was ready to enter their world.
The Speedway wasn’t my usual Speedway. I was in a different part of town and freelancing for my soda. It would do. They all look the same — some nicer, some not. It all depends on the proprietor. This was in a worse part of town. That’s relative to the individual. To me, it looks rather normal with a few junkies scurrying about. America. I'm sure the locals have a derogatory name for the neighborhood. Bad neighborhood or not, soda called.
This was also my inaugural lotto purchase. In case I screwed up, I didn’t want to do it at my primary Speedway. I have a customer rep, you see?
I pause at the door. I’ve got this. A Big Gulp and a lotto ticket. I repeat, “Yeah, and give me a 2 dollar Maga pick.”
The soda dispensing station is in the back. I have my own refill cup and try to make it visible when I walk into a store. They never question the validity of my refill, but you never know. I envision pleading my case by showing them the degraded straw and lid. This never happens, but I’m ready.
I test both ice machines for my preferred ice. I like the small cubes. I fill it up to the lover black line on the cup and test both Diet Coke and Diet Pepsi for the right mixture of soda and carbonation. It’s easy to see. Diet Coke wins. I fill and walk to the counter.
The staff at this Speedway is very different than the staff at my primary Speedway. My primary employees are all under 25, local to the rural surroundings, and tend to be doing this temporarily until they move on to something better. In this place, though, the employees mirror the neighborhood outside. They’re either over 55 and sober with old self-scrawled tweaker tattoos on their forearms, or under 25 and budding drug addicts who are twitchy and preoccupied, incessantly looking down at their phones. The older employees should wear a three-inch button that says “Please excuse me as I get my life back together," and the younger ones should wear a button that says “Please be patient. I’m just starting my drug journey.” You can probably catch an NA meeting there after hours.
I queue and hope for a sober, older employee.
The woman greets me. She has a nice smile and face that wants to make up time lost.
“Refill,” I say confidently.
She scans my rewards cards. Before she rings me up, I continue, "Oh yeah, uh, give me a two-dollar Mega pick.” It was clear, concise, and informative. I was proud of myself. The rpos would be proud.
She walks to the machine. She turns and asks, “Do you wanna a boost?” A boost? Huh? What is a boost? A look of fear floods over my face.
She asks again: “Do you want a boost for a dollar?”
She must’ve pegged me as a pro, a hard of hearing pro. As humans do, I made a quick decision. It was an extra dollar. A dollar what? I don’t know, but it was only a dollar. A learning dollar, I internalized.
“Yeah, give me a boost.” I had no idea what I agreed to but I said it confidently.
She came back with a ticket in hand. I looked at it like I was checking the validity, and held it up like a trophy. My lotto ticket.
A few days later, I scanned my winning lotto ticket. Sorry, not a winner. A bit harsh.
37. Here Today, Gone Tomorrow by The Ramones
Jim changed his name to Lord Jim Vodka. Legally. This means he went to a government building, waited in line, and yelled through a small round vent in the middle of a plate glass window at an expressionless worker who was a quart low of blood. That’s enough to keep your Christian name, but Jim Smith persevered under the fluorescent lights and was reborn.
We learn of the name change 50 yards from the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard, a military base that was active and non-active simultaneously. We weren’t sure. It wasn't abandoned but was close, and maintenance and decor were a thing of the past. It looked like a tumbling parking lot of a defunct K-Mart in Cleveland. Either way, to get into the base, everyone in the vehicle had to show ID and the vehicle had to be insured. Since we were here three times a week, we knew the drill and had our papers.
Jim took out his ID and proudly christened his new name. We passed around and laughed. No one really had future aspirations so a name didn’t matter. It was better for a laugh than a job.
We stopped at the gate and the guard asked for IDs and insurance. Just inside the gate is a restaurant called Dago Mary’s. Sandwiched between a military base and projects, it’s the opposite of location! Location! Location! With an uninviting exterior, and any retail business, restaurant, or corner store being 1 mile away, you have to ask yourself why? If you can get past the location, the shitty exterior, abiding by military rules, and don’t mind producing an ID and proof of car insurance for lunch, it’s actually not that bad inside. The views are great and you can tell it was once a contender. I would go there for lunch with my father and he would always remind me that Sinatra would go there when he was in town. It’s an old SF institution that you drop to let people know you know.
One by one the guard looks at our IDs and calls the name associated with the card. The Epson would say hero or poke his head up and wave when called. When he got to Lord Jim Vodka, he passed and tentatively said his name. Jim was in the back of the van and popped his head between the bucket seats. The guard looks at him and Jim smiles.
“Is that Russian?” The guard asked.
Jim nods and does his best not to laugh. The rest of us cover our mouths and suppress laughter.
We slowly proceeded and burst into laughter. The name is already paying dividends.
We’re there for band practice.
Once the military base closed, they rented warehouse space and outbuildings to artists and musicians. It was a good idea. We practiced in a meat locker. The door was 6” thick and the doorknob resembled a larger plunger on a pinball machine. You pushed it like you priming a lawn mower.
It was cheap, safe, and completely soundproof. Sound died in the room. However, like Dago Mary’s, it was in the middle of nowhere, and if you gigged regularly — picking up your equipment, lugging it to the show, and lugging it back to the outskirts of the city - it was inconvenient. Mostly because we were drunk after the show and getting by the guard and onto the base in this condition, it was only a matter of time before something bad happened. Even in our youthful arrogance and impermeability, it was gonna happen. So, we eventually left, and a new band moved in. There’s no shortage of bands in this town.
38. Fill Your Heart by Biff Rose
The receptionist calls me Buttercup. Maybe it’s because I wear a clean shirt, pants, underwear, and socks. The shirt has a watermelon on the front. The pants are from TJMaxx, and the socks were bought at Marshalls. They have dogs on them. The underwear came in an 8-pack from Amazon. My body is unwashed but can pass as clean. This is my only appointment, so this ensemble should last over a week. I don’t sweat. So they say.
I arrive on time. It’s after lunch, and the parking lot is empty. It seems suspicious, like I got the day wrong. I often get the day or time wrong.
Inside the double doors are the reception area and waiting room. Next to the doors are two drinking fountains. I silently question why there are two drinking fountains in the lobby. This is the first. One is for short people, and the other is for medium-sized people. There is no fountain for tall people. There never is. Tall people get screwed when it comes to drinking fountains. True.
Like the parking lot, I’m the only one in the reception area. I look left and right. It can probably hold 40 people. It’s rather large. Two TVs mounted to the wall play Judge Mathis. I caught his show in the lobby of my mother’s doctor. Big in Japan. Big in waiting rooms.
The receptionist and I do the medical dance of information: insurance and forms. She reiterates that I’m here for an event monitor and a stress test. I nod. She has a homemade tattoo on her forearm and lady hair.
When we’re finished, she looks up and says, “OK, Buttercup, hang ten over there and they’ll be right with ya,” pointing to the empty waiting room. Buttercup and Hang Ten.
I forgo the advice of her point and sit in the hallway. Five chairs line the wall. This waiting area feels like an auxiliary or overflow lot for when it’s crowded. I choose the chair closest to the examination rooms. The other side leads to the suspicious water fountains and the double doors.
Since no one’s in the lobby, I clutch my bag with donkeys on it and wait. And wait. A nurse walks by holding Tupperware. I scooch in and let her pass freely. This is why it’s the auxiliary waiting room. There’s not a lot of room. She curses me as she passes, I think.
It must be lunch time. I reach in my donkey bag and pull out my phone and study Spanish on Duolingo. Como Estas? Bien Gracias. I might be here for awhile.
A nurse calls my name. I greet her in English, fighting the desire to say Come estas? The day will come when I unleash my monosyllabic Spanish to medical staff. Not today. Juan esta consado. Juan is tired.
The nurse is disheveled. Maybe the most disheveled nurse in my tenure on earth. You have to assume she was on-call and was awakened at 7am after a night of drinking. This didn’t bother me, though. She looks like me if I were a nurse. And I represent my people.
In a t-shirt she slept in, hair that hasn’t seen a mirror in 24 hours, and oversized black sweats that flare at the bottom—the left leg of the pant accidentally tucked into a sock, and the other pant leg flooding over the back of her shoe onto the floor—she's a mess and out of uniform. On-call will get you this. I follow and watch her right pant leg drag across the floor.
She leads me to an open room at the end of the hallway. No door, just an opening with an exam table, sink and counter area, and treadmill. It feels like an en-suite without the bathroom.
The treadmill is for me. She points to a chair next to the examination chaise and asks me to take off my shirt. I reluctantly do. There’s no door to this room, and anyone in the hallway can see I’m sitting perched on a chair, shirtless. I’m very uncomfortable. She preps the machine for the test.
I step onto the treadmill, and she explains the test. Pretty simple: 3 minutes on the treadmill or until my heartbeat reaches 136. If I feel fatigued or dizzy, let her know right away, and she’ll terminate the test. My internal voice says, I can do three minutes. If not, I will die on this treadmill. She attaches wires to my chest and hits go. I’m off.
I walk the first three minutes in silence, listening to the soft sounds of Air Supply’s I’m All Out Of Love caressing the sterile room air from a pharmaceutical Bluetooth freebee on the counter. She looks down at the stress machine like she’s tracking an AXIS submarine in the South Pacific in WW II on radar. Head down, intently looking at the machine. She hums to the song. I smile and stare at a poster of a pharmaceutical company’s history from 1887 to present. The founder from 1887 looks like Rasputin. It’s the only art on the walls. An odd choice.
After three minutes, she elevates the treadmill. A few minutes later, I reach the target heartbeat. She stops the machine and continues to look down. The machine spits out reams of perforated paper with familiar-looking EKG graphs. I watch, shirtless, standing on the treadmill, acting like I’m not winded. Sin Camisa.
She stacks the sheets of EKG graphs and places them on the counter. She turns and takes off the wires attached to my chest. She points to the chair and says another nurse will be here shortly to attach my event monitor.
I put on my shirt and feel much better. Clutching my bag to my abdomen, I wait in the en suite for my new handler, staring at the pharmaceutical poster in front of the treadmill.
“Is there a reason that poster is directly in front of the treadmill?" I ask. I don’t know why I did this.
“Excuse me,” she replies, turning from her busy work at the counter. Perdona?
“Is there a reason that poster is directly in front of the treadmill?"
“I don’t know,” she turns back to busy work.
I’m content to sit in the chair with my shirt on and wait.
The new nurse arrives in matching comfortable yet tailored scrub-like scrubs. Her hair is in a tight ponytail, and she wears prescription classes that you get from a retail store called Eye Dare. She's showered, attentive, and wears Nike running shoes. They all seem to wear Nike running shoes.
She leads me to a room with a door and closes it. I might need to take off my shirt. She opens a box that looks like an over-the-counter Covid testing kit. She opens it and takes out the contents: a disposable razor, an alcohol wipe like the kind you get at KFC, a round piece of light cardboard with a sandpaper surface, and the device that monitors my heart for two weeks. The device is 5 inches long and 1 inch wide. It looks like a large dragonfly with its body chopped off—just the wings and decapitated head. The wings are the sensors that feed the information to the head. The head is the size and shape of a nickel and 1/4” tall.
The nurse asks me to raise my shirt. She takes the razor and shaves the hair from the area around my heart. She opens the alcohol wipe and cleans the newly shaved area. She waits 30 seconds before gently rubbing the area with the round sandpaper. She turns and grabs the device, peeling the sheath of paper on the bottom and affixes it to my chest. She pats it down and observes her work.
She explains the rules: I cannot shower or sweat for the next 24 hours. If I’m having a heart event—palpitations, racing heart, etc.—push the button on the device and note it in my heart diary. Yes, my heart diary. If it flashes blue, call this number, and they’ll send you a new one. At the end of two weeks, I take off the monitor, return it to the box, and drop it in the mail.
I check in with the woman who called me Buttercup before leaving. On the way out, I stop at the medium-sized drinking fountain and pull a few hefty gulps. I’m parched from the treadmill. Agua fresca!
39. Knotty Pine by Dirty Projectors
The address is somewhere on the block. Most likely near the beginning because of the numbers. I continue on to the end of the block—a dead end—to buy some time. I don’t want to do what I’m doing, and I think about canceling, saying I got into an accident. I’ve done this before. But I also want what he’s selling, so I give myself a pep talk and vow to follow through. It’s never too late to cancel, even if I’m at the front door of the seller. Not today, though. Today I’m a normal, adjusted human. I’m buying a guitar.
The block is a mix of trailers and one-off custom houses. Both don’t believe in landscaping, sitting on an acre or two like it was dropped from the sky. It’s the Atlantic Plains, so everything is squat and sandy. It’s a muggy day in summer.
I pull over on a sandy, dirt shoulder and look at a compound of trailers on a large lot. This has to be the address. There are at least 4 trailers, and all of them seem to be in use. Maybe his extended family lives there too?
The address comes my way via Marketplace, Facebook’s version of Craigslist. He’s selling a white Fender Squire Classic Vibe Jazzmaster. The a large description. The Classic is well reviewed, and I’ve always wanted a Jazzmaster, Jaguar or Mustang. My days of buying vintage are over, so this will do. I just need a guitar to hold in my lap and aimlessly play open G chords over and over. All my guitars and amps—all in various stages of disrepair—are 3000 miles away in a room of a garage. They’ll die there, I’m sure.
I open the car door and walk to an opening in the fence. I have four trailers to choose from, so I start with the closest.
Before I can choose, the seller opens the door of the nearest trailer and invites me in. He’s about my age, boyish, tanned, muscular, and possibly has had some work done to his face. He’s very friendly. I step in.
The trailer is a stand-alone music studio. Guitars and amps line the wall, along with a stereo and records. A pool table takes up half the space. The air is cool but muggy. I spot a window air conditioner that is struggling to keep up with the southeast summer. He shows me the guitar. It’s already plugged in to an amp on standby. I sit on a stool in front of the amp. I check the guitar's intonation, frets, neck, and other rudimentary acts. I switch on the amp and check for buzzing on all the frets. Once I’m done, I noodle around and make small talk with the seller. I try to show off a bit, letting him know I can play. We all do it, unfortunately.
We talk music and our paths to where we currently reside. He was from Jersey and moved down here 10 years ago. Before that, he was a working musician. I had spent time in Jersey in grade school, and he reminded me of the Italian fathers of my friends: boisterous and inviting, except all the fathers were round and wore wife-beaters.
I asked him if he’d ever heard of the Dirt Club in Central Jersey. He lit up and said, “Yeah, I know the club owner, Johnny Dirty. I interviewed him for my public access show in ’86.”
He had a public access show. I like this guy.
Johnny Dirt was the owner of the Dirt Club, a Central Jersey music venue and bar. A club you played on your way to CBGBs in NYC, The Rathskeller in Boston, and The Electric Banana in Pittsburgh. You hit it on the way up or down.
An eccentric who sold bags of dirt in a small drug baggie for a dollar with a safety pin to attach to your shirt, Johnny Dirt also parachuted into the Hudson once a year as a publicity stunt. He bartended in a robe and stood on his head on the bar if he liked the band. Unfortunately, he didn’t stand on his head when we played.
Dishevelled and sweaty, he was beyond categorization—punk, hippie, scumbag, sleazy club owner. He looked like an American Shane MacGowan. When you talked to him, he mumbled and left you with a quip. His lore graced us before we ever stepped foot in the club.
We learned of him through gossip—gossip passed down in Gainesville, Lawrence, and every city in the US by other touring bands who already played his club. Are you playing the Dirt Club in Jersey? The owner is crazy. And we would pass it on.
I was enjoying myself, but I’d been there an hour, and it was time to go. Why ruin a good thing by staying too long? He threw in a bag for the guitar and said he plays every Tuesday at a club near where I live and that I should come down. In spite of me, it was a good experience. It almost always is, but getting to the door and walking through is hard, very hard.
When I got home, I googled “John Dirty, New Jersey, Interview.” And to his word, there was a video of the young seller in a tank top, tanned, mullet, and wearing Carreras inside interviewing Johny Dirt. Dirt was watery-eyed, smoking and pimping bags of dirt. The interview was the same year we played his club.
40. Rock n Roll the Place by Eddie Money
These were signs. Signs of change, like a new restaurant taking over the space of your defunct favorite restaurant. A luxury condo that used to be a rehearsal space. Change is good. The only thing that’s constant is change. Platitudes used a fodder by developers and restaurant conglomerates to tear down a building and revitalize a neighborhood. Platitudes from capitalists. Signs were everywhere.
A store on 16th sold ephemera, art books, and locally made art and crafts. Fanzines greeted you on the way in and out; witty letterpress cards for the discerning birthday celebrant. A turntable, stereo, and a crate of records sit on a table to the side of the back counter.
I enter and browse the books in the entry. One employee is behind the counter, looking down. She doesn’t greet me when I enter. She looks like the neighborhood gave birth to her.
As I aimlessly flip through hardbound books, I notice the music: The Doobie Brothers. She’s listening to The Doobie Brothers. I look at the stereo, as if to confirm the tangible reality of what I’m hearing. Yep, there’s a record spinning. It’s The Doobie Brothers.
I look at the employee. Still looking down. I should steal something, I think. She and the Doobie Brothers should not mix. She looks to be about 21. Hip as shit—short-bangs, piercings, and second-hand clothes. And probably studies Computer Engineering or Women’s Studies at State. She should be listening to a band no one has ever heard except she and her friends.
I want to ask her why. Why the Doobie Brothers? Was it your dad? Did you hear them on KALX? College radio? There has to be a reason. But there’s no way I’m asking her.
I quietly put down the book and silently left. She doesn't look up.
Walking into the door with my guitar in hand, I tell the woman working the door my name and what band I’m in. It’s 10 minutes before we play, and about 12 hours after I heard The Doobie Brothers. It will be the first words out of my mouth when I talk to my bandmates.
The young woman hands me two drink tickets and compliments the sweater I’m wearing, a white late 70s Izod v-neck sweater. Compliments are few, so I light up and thank her. I lean my guitar case against the bar and take off my sweater. I handed it to the doorperson and said, “It will look better on you. Trust me.” She brightens. Before the dead-air awkwardness of waiting for a thank you, I tell her to have a good night and walk away.
The gesture could’ve come off as gratitously magnanimous, but I was never comfortable in the sweater. I was of the age where a vintage sweater looks more grandpa than hip, like I bought it in ’79 and am still wearing it.
I put my guitar next to the stage, tucking it under as far as it can go, and see my bandmates. I start my greeting with, “Dudes, The Doobie Brothers….”
After the show, I say goodbye to my bandmates and walk to my car. Parking was bad, so I’m 6 blocks away. I don’t want to walk by myself at 2 am with my guitar, but I don’t have a choice.
I head up Cesar Chaves and make a right at Guerrero. I‘m close.
I hear before I see it. Loud music, yelling, and thumping. There’s a party going on somewhere. I look around and see a 3-story, 6-apartment Victorian walkup with locked bikes in front bleeding into the sidewalk. Two bay windows on the second floor with sheer curtains flash red and white. Silhouettes of too many bodies in a room pulse with the music—jumping up and down. Everyone in the apartment is singing, screeching the chorus to Eddie Money’s Take Me Home Tonight. Take me home tonight. Be my little baby.
I stood across the street and did the math. Everyone at the party was 12–15 when this song came out. They heard it incessantly on the radio and MTV, probably bought the record, and forgot about it when they hit their late teens. And now that they’re in the 20s, they’re going through the inevitable nostalgic phase and listening to and talking about TV shows, music, and the culture of their youth. They listen to this song as kitsch, comfort, and nostalgia. It makes them happy.
I watch the party and think the song is horrible and lame. It’s a gimmicky cash grab, written to make money. But I understand and enjoy that a whole age group likes something I thought was universally lame. That’s called narcissism and irrelevancy. I’m like the poster of the cat hanging on until Friday.
First the Doobies, and now this. Those developers are right. Change is inevitable.
I walk up the slight incline to 26th. I’m parked near 25th. As I walk, I think about the Doobie Brothers woman. I bet she’s at the party in some corner talking to another 22-year-old about pre-Michael McDonald Doobies vs. Michael McDonald Doobies. Her orange Schwinn Varsity 10-speed locked out front next to a Peugeot 3 speed.
41. Now It's On by Granddaddy
The ‘70s Red Wing boots look like something a foreman would wear. Someone who pulls up in a new F-150, wears a hardhat with no stickers, and asks if everything’s going OK and then leaves. It's a boot that work boots aspire to. When you wear these, you made it. Clean boots, more money.
I got the boots on eBay. I wanted something different than the manly-man boots of real men, and these presented themselves. Anke high with padding on the collar, a low vamp, and gum soles, they kind of looked like a butch Beatle boot in a rich copper. A trans kid at the barbershop complimented them, so I knew I made the right choice.
The boots accompanied me on an outing with my son and his friend to an arcade, mini-golf, and go-kart emporium on the side of a freeway. They were old enough to play by themselves but had to check in every 15 minutes or so. I gave them money, and they disappeared in the land of sound and light. Every 15 minutes, they, under the guise of checking in, pleaded for more money. The arcade was the babysitter, and I was happy for the break. They got their money.
It was late fall and chilly. I leaned against an outside stucco wall; a sliver of sun warmed my ill-prepared body. A handful of tables with umbrellas splayed in front of me, people chatted and ate food from Tupperware.
With one leg bent at 90 degrees, the sole of my shoe resting against the wall, I looked like someone who was just released from the drunk tank in a previous decade, their 2 am clothes still on them for breakfast.
Besides my trans-kid-approved ankle boots, I wore a baby blue Robert Bruce cardigan over a plain 60’s control-room-at-NASA shortsleeved button-up. My light Sta-Press pants were a little too short, exposing my fancy boy socks. A leather loop belt kept the lower half up. My hair was slept in and out the door in 5 minutes, and, if my face could talk, it would say, “Where are we?”
In between staring at nothing, I looked down at my early iPhone. Even back then it was a time waster. As long as the sun stayed above the coastal hills, I could lean against this wall, dispensing money and looking pensive and longing, like I was misunderstood.
Unfortunately, people had other plans that involved me.
I noticed a group of teenagers staring at me, and then looking away, and staring again. Something was up. What would four 18-year-olds want with me? I did the same as them: look, look away.
All four slowly stand and shuffle my way—the leader in front and the other 3 flaming him. I was as they slowly approached. They exude absolutely no confidence. They were about to do something they didn’t want to do.
The leader stopped in front of me. I nodded.
He said, “You look like Bad Grandpa. Can we take a photo with you?
I looked down at my outfit, and I did look like Bad Grandpa. The grandpa part stung, but I focused on the Johnny Knoxville part, even though they were comparing me to a character he plays. I like Johnny Knoxville. I like his style.
I shrugged and smiled. Oddly, I was used to this. I had a rubber face. In my youth, I enjoyed the comparisons—James Hetfield, Tom Waits. In my later days, the comparisons have not been so flattering, like Bad Grandpa.
Playing a St. Patty’s Day party in an alley with Dana Carvey headlining (he was awesome!), I noticed 3 drunk women, who had taken full advantage of the open bar, looking at me on the stage. They look, chat, and look again. Very much like the teenagers at the arcade.
After a few songs, our singer walks over, looks at the women—I follow suit and look at the women—and says, “Those women think you look like Harry Carey.” We both look over. They’re watching our every move, knowing we’re talking about them.
“You mean Will Ferrell. A character of his?” I replied.
“I have no idea.”
I looked at them and did my best Will Ferrell doing Harry Carey impersonation, lifting imaginary oversized prescription glasses from my eyes to my forehead and looking confused. They went crazy. Give the people what they want.
A few months later we played a wedding at a fancy hotel. Jennifer Tilly and Ian Zierling were in attendance. After taking a group photo at the end of the evening with everyone in attendance, where Jennifer Tilly, front and center, said, “If you can’t see the camera, the camera can’t see you (some damn good Hollywood advice),” I went to the bathroom before breaking down my equipment.
The hall to the bathroom was wide. Groups of well-dressed drunk people walked back to their rooms, loud and laughing. I hear, “Nick Nolte, Nick Nolte, Nick Nolte!” I look slightly behind me, looking for the commotion. Two adult women and one adult man are looking at me. One of the women repeated, “Nick Nolte, Nick Nolte, Nick Nolte!”
Without missing a beat, I yelled back, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, convict.” My best Jack Yates from 48 Hours.
They exploded and shuffled off, arms around each other, swaying to their wittiness.
Bad Grandpa, Harry Carey, and Nick Nolte (bad years). What do they have in common? The people have spoken; they think I’m crazy-looking.
The teenagers saddle up to my sides and take turns taking photos of me and the group. They thank me. And move on.
A few minutes later, they return with more teenagers. The leader again asks if they can take more photos. Like 80s hardcore punks at the Fish Wharf charging tourists a dollar a photo, I say, “It will cost you a dollar a photo.” The leader looks hurt by this news and turns.
I stop him. “No, I’m just joking. Come on,” inviting the newcomers for photos. The old-comers took advantage of the new photo session, edging their way into group shots taken one at a time by everyone.
Bystanders took notice of what was going on. All of them expressed looks of, “Who the hell is that?” I enjoyed their stares.
After exhausting every photo op, the polite teens thanked me and went back to whatever they were doing. I returned to my pose against the stucco wall and moved slightly north to catch the late day’s sun.
I was cold and out of money. I entered the room of light and sound and found my son and friend and told them it was time to go.
In the parking lot, a stranger approached and asked, “Who are you?”
I replied, “I’m a lot of people.”
42. All Mixed Up by The Cars
The expiration dates are too old to see. They’re on a high shelf in the garage: wheel wash, oil, leather cleaner, liquid car wash, car wax, and ancient brands of useless stuff. I’m pretty sure some of these products are from my childhood. This means some of these rusty cans and discolored bottles have traveled from California to Georgia, back to California, around California, and across to South Carolina. Why?
Who the hell waxes their car? This was a scam, right?
This is day one of stage two. I’m in the garage and cupboard throwing away everything with expired dates. I finished fixing everything that was broken, and I cleaned everything in the house, including the floorboards. Most everything was in disrepair, so it took some time. Without the proper tools and skill, my goal was a two-year warranty on all work. After or before that, I’d be gone and Mom would be dead. I’d take a year if offered. Either way, stage one is done, whether it’s finished or not.
As I do, I stare at the shelf in the garage of outdated products. I look to the ceiling for an answer. I can’t throw all of this stuff in a bag and take it to the dump. Some of it is toxic. I’m from California, where loss of sleep occurs if you errantly toss an empty soup can in the garbage. Knowing it would take some research and possibly a call to the county, I did what I did best: leave it for someone else, some other time, and/or hope for fire. When the time comes to sell the house, as-is will be the last line of the description. Cozy house in the coastal plains. Comes with toxic liquids and a broken dryer. As-is.
Ridding the cupboards of expired items is morally easier. I don’t mind throwing full cans of peas from 2001 in a Glad bag and taking them to the dump. Someone else can deal with it, or it can be the cake topper on a trash mound. I don’t care. When faced with reality, my environmentalism only goes so far.
With a full garbage bag of expired cans and boxes at my feet, I feel good. I made progress, lightened the clutter. However, I specifically placed 2 expired Aunt Jemima pancake mix boxes on the washer behind me. They didn’t make it into the bag. I had better things in store for them.
One pancake mix was sealed, and the other was open—a half-moon cardboard button on the side pushed in to pour the pancake mix. Smart design, but the tab usually prevented a steady flow of mix. Both boxes expired in 2005. When I pulled them from the shelf and read the expiration dates, my mind knew exactly what to do with them. They wouldn’t join the cans and other misfortunate boxes crammed into a garbage bag. Nope, these two were special. They would be disposed of in a creative way. In one second my brain mapped their course.
The tags to my mother’s car were expired. 3 years now. They were expired when I arrived. She blamed it on the DMV, citing never receiving a letter to register the car from the DMV. She doesn’t drive, and her small SUV is used only for garage runs to the dump. The dump is 1.5 miles away, so registering it feels like showing off. Talk to me about this action when I get pulled over.
With the garbage in the back and the two Aunt Jemima pancake mixes placed upright on the passenger seat, I drive the short distance to the dump. It’s raining sideways from the south, hitting the passenger side. The car is like my mother’s room on wheels. I don’t like spending time in it.
Before leaving, I opened the lids of both boxes for easy pouring. There was no plastic udder containing the mix, just the mix and cardboard. It’s ready to go.
I roll down the car window and note the traffic on the 4-lane highway. I check the rearview. No cars in the distance. I reach over my body and grab a box on the passenger seat. I bring it back and rest my arm on the elbow rest of the door, box gripped in hand. I raise my arm, extending it out the window, and tilt the box forward. This is the vision that popped into my head when cleaning out the cupboard: I would empty the mix from a speeding car to cause a plume of cake mix like a rooster’s tail. It was a nice visual.
Immediately there’s a flour bomb explosion. It takes a second to digest what happened. The whole interior of the front seat is brushed in the pancake mix. It’s in my eyes and hair. I dropped the box when the explosion ignited.
Having no expertise in how to deal with a pancake mix explosion, I continue on and make a left into the dumps. I drop the garbage bag full of cans and food boxes and head to the grocery store, a mile up the road. One box of pancake mix with no top sits on the passenger side seat. After the explosion, I don’t know what to do with it.
In the bathroom of the Food Lion, I peek at myself in the mirror. I look like a ghost, a dry wall installer at quitting time.
I pay for my groceries, and the checker doesn’t question my look. They mostly only talk when spoken to. I respect their right to silence.
Before closing the door of the car in the Food Lion parking lot, I reach over and grab the open pancake mix box with my right hand and pour the mix onto the wet pavement like emptying cigarette butts from a car ashtray. It quickly dissolves from the rain. This is what I should’ve done with the other box. Or, like a normal person, thrown it away in a conventional method.
The next morning I open the car door of my car and notice the side of mother’s car. It’s caked in dried pancake mix. I get out and touch it. It’s like cement, extending from the driver’s door to the side-back panel. The rain mixed with the pancake flour and became pancakes…on the side of my mother’s door. I thought about tasting it.
I took a photo to prove my stupidity.
43. Mark's Theme by Black Country, New Road
Women’s bathrooms are just as gross as men’s. The only difference is they have just one choice, and we have two: urinal and commode. If they had a standing urinal, it would be just as gross. Trust me. I’ve been in both. I know.
I love bathrooms—especially public ones—and can talk about them all day. I used to boast that I knew every public bathroom in San Francisco, including retail and restaurants that don’t mind you walking straight to the bathroom without the facade that you’re going to eat there. I also used to know the location of every 7/11 in the city. My gifts are specific and unique.
Bathrooms are a battleground, a free zone to say and do things you wouldn’t do on the other side of the door. Inappropriate conversation appears to be tolerated, and flatulence and decorum don’t mix. Flatulence is the language of the room and the norm. No shame in letting it fly.
In my youth, bathrooms decided the future of more punk shows at clubs. If you left them alone, there would be more shows; if you fucked with them, no more shows. Pretty simple. You would think people pissing on the neighbor’s wall or general punk hooliganism would decide this. Nope. Bathrooms held the power.
Almost every show, a promoter would grab the mic between bands and say, “If you want to have punk shows in the future, don’t fuck up the bathrooms. Don’t fuck up the bathrooms.” This ultimatum was met with heckles and multiple middle fingers.
He was right, though. Every show the bathroom would be flooded, and either the sink would be lying in a ceramic heap on the floor or the commode would be uprooted, leaning against a wall like a drunk. All of this caused you to immediately stop when entering the bathroom. You’d look around, assess the situation, and pee on the floor, if needed, or in the sink if the urinal was in shards.
In these same bathrooms, I once shook a person’s hand while both of us were urinating, urinals side by side. I thought this was rather odd, but there are no rules in a public bathroom. He complimented me, saying he liked my earring in the ‘gay’ ear. This stuck with me because I immediately thought about a yellow bandana.
I can handle grossness and inappropriate chatter, for the most part, but I have a very tough time with grunts, pep talks, and guttural ecstasy. Most of this happens in the stalls, not the urinals. Although I’ve heard some muted screams from nascent STDs at the urinals. It’s a helluva way to learn you have chlamydia. Doc, I was in the Speedway bathroom…
That leaves the stalls. If anything goes outside of the stall doors, then everything goes in the little box inside the bathroom. It’s where the fun is, I guess.
I once heard a reliever with constipation giving himself a pep talk: “Come on, man, you got this. You got this. Come on. Just do it. You got it.” It may have been a performative thing, knowing I was trapped in the next stall, listening—cowering, but, still, the man was talking to himself with his pants at his ankles. Something’s not right. If I had a spoon, I would’ve slid it under the partition. You know, help a brother out.
The mirror in the 3rd-floor bathroom is generous. It’s away from the hot polloi on the other floors, and it’s locked. You need a code. This prevents someone from camping in the handicap stall and shooting or smoking drugs. It’s never fun to hear the familiar sound of a Bic lighter strike or interrupt someone nodding off in a stall—door open, pants down. That’s when you turn around and let someone else deal with it—someone who gave them the code or someone with more empathy.
While washing my hands and peeking at the mirror, a short, round man with high-waisted pants kept up by 3"-wide suspenders and listening to music on a Walkman with delicate silver dollar-size ear pads on flimsy headphones opens the door and walks past me to the diamond lane stall. The conventional size stall was open, but he chose the big one. Don't we all.
I knew he was, so I didn’t have to play bathroom cop. He volunteers and always wears the same outfit, and he’s prone to outbursts due to tics or inspiration from the music he is listening to. I’ve never seen him without the headphones or his backpack that’s always on his back.
I linger because, well, that’s what I do.
He shuts the stall door, and I hear his backpack hit the floor and the sound of him pulling his pants down. It’s amazing the sounds your ears pick up.
Almost immediately I hear mumbling, squeaking, and wild laughing. What the hell is going on in there? I return to washing my hands again, exceeding all OSHA requirements, and listen. This is a good one.
The squeaking, mumbling, and laughing are abruptly interrupted by a yell: “59 pancakes!” It was brilliant and startling. I look around for reassurance. Did he just yell 59 pancakes? I could only assume that breakfast was prodigious and plentiful.
A co-worker walked in and pushed open the door to the adjacent stall, not knowing what had just happened. I nod. Confidentiality issues prevent me from relaying the gem I just heard.
Beating a dead horse, I turn on the faucet for the third time and go through the motions. I might as well see what my coworker’s got. So far it’s been a stellar bathroom experience.
The mumbling and crazy laughing started up again. A few seconds later, the familiar sound of suppressed flatulence escaped under the door of my coworker. There was a brief lull, and then laughter. A different type of laughter. Not crazy laughter but mocking laughter. 59 pancakes thought it was hilarious. My poor worker.
I dried my overwashed hands and left. Why ruin a good thing by overstaying your welcome?
44. Mother by John Lennon
My mother’s room is off-limits. It’s her shame. It’s where my dad died; it’s incontinence; it’s blood. It’s a contained bomb, a crime scene without the chalk outline of a body. When the door opens, a wave of darkness is released, flooding the kitchen, living room, garage, and front yard. Because of this, a no open-door policy is strictly enforced.
The carpet is a map of falls, of shit—a witness to the decline. It documents what I can’t see, what I don’t want to see. If I enter, I enter with caution—a mask, gloves, coveralls, and protective glasses. I need a barrier between me and it.
I clean the toilet, the shower, the floor, and the sink. I vacuum and change the sheets. I wipe down flat surfaces. I pick up wet clothes off the floor, pinching their sides, holding them away from my body, and throw them in the garbage in the garage. Outside of the house.
And I do this without her noticing. Mask, coveralls, gloves, and glasses are put on in her room. I don’t let her see the shame. She knows, I know, we know. It’s best that way. A mother shouldn’t have to see her son clean her room in a hazmat suit.
No one enters the house. The house is our shame. This we agree on. We’ve never talked about it, but our silence communicates. No one in the house. A locked door and Febreze can’t mask the charade. It’s about being seen and what they say when they’re gone. Those are the words we fear. That, and, “How are you?”
When I give up or can’t take it anymore, I will move her into the guest bedroom and place yellow caution tape over her door. We won’t talk about the room or acknowledge it. And I will secretly pray for fire to take it away because I will eventually have to deal with it after her death. I’ve prayed for fire before. It’s the greatest cleaner of junk and shame. It also involves an arson charge on your jacket. Sometimes you gotta break the law.
45. Life Has Its Little Ups and Downs by Charlie Rich
The warehouse was cold, vast, and poorly constructed. I used to go there for clandestine shows and occasionally to hang out with friends. The inside bedrooms were divided by sheets, the kitchen was a hot plate on a counter, and throwaways from the street littered the open space and acted as furniture and art. Typical warehouse living.
This and these types of warehouses are gone, transformed into condos and lofts. This warehouse became a thrift store. An idealistic or nostalgic developer probably bought this one and kept it real.
The alley next to the thrift store extends one block from main road to main road. 50 yards to the north is the main road parallel to the alley, and 150 yards to the south is the last parallel main road. It’s encircled by better options. Across the street is a police station. It’s rather new to the neighborhood, like the thrift store. I once handed a man on a hunger strike in front of the police station a sealed card. It said, “You can’t help people if you’re dead.” In a wheelchair, surrounded by supporters, I handed him the card and left before he opened it. Like holding a door for a person entering a store and them not thanking you, I don’t wait around for a thank you or a reaction. You hold the door open; it’s the right thing to do, not the acknowledgment of your action. This might sound astute and magnanimous, but it’s not. It’s probably narcissism. Although, I think pretty much everything is narcissism, though.
Across the street on the north side of the building is a taqueria where I started my burrito career. It has a special place in my heart; in the parking lot of the police station, a man once committed suicide by gun. He left a note explaining the location of this event: I wanted to be found. This stuck with me, oddly.
I knew I’d take the alley from main street to main street. Even though the main street 50 yards parallel to the alley was a safer option, there was a part of me that liked the danger of a street mugging. And the arrogant side convinced them that I could take it. I think I did/do it for the experience and the story. It’s money, capital, fodder. It’s identity. Even today I’m proving myself by venturing into the corners. It’s where the fun is?
I’m not an idiot, so I walk in the middle of the alley. I figure a mugger will come from the shadows, arms up and screaming like a banshee. This short distance will give me time to be heroic. A karate chop and a roundhouse kick.
When I lived across the bay, my roommates and I walked on a dirt median to avoid being pulled into cheap motel parking lots. This was our route to buy cloth shoes. Cloth shoes were important at the time. Important enough to get mugged.
Walls extend on both sides of the alley for the first 40 yards. The walls are solid colors, the cheapest the landlords could find. In a few decades these walls will be covered in approved, commissioned spray paint art. It will be shared on social media, the artist’s website, and used by the Chamber of Commerce to advertise the city’s eclectic treasures. Throngs of tourists, car tourists, and locals flock to it and take pictures and collectively think, “This is sure a great city.” Some will seek out an art class on tagging and spray paint art. Others will pick up a spray paint can.
The first recess is on the right side. The backsides of two parked cars extend to the near wall. There’s a third spot that is unoccupied and closest to me. This gets my attention. If they come, they’ll come from here.
I skew to the left and attentively continue—each step light and calculated like I was sneaking up on someone.
With my head tilted to the open space, I see her first. She sees me. A look of surprise and panic washes over her face. She looks at me and then looks away, and back to me again. She’s looking at somebody. Somebody to her left.
Before breaching the beginning of the recess, I slow and peek around the corner—extending my head. I prepare myself for conflict. Possibly physical.
Leaning against an outer wall, a man squats, his knees to his chest, pants down. Our eyes meet. I see his exposed hips. A wash of shame and frustration plastered his face. I look away. He’s pooping. Even if a private act is being played in a public arena, it’s still private. How he reacts will be how I react.
“Goddammit, Juliet. You were supposed to keep guard. Fuck.”
“I know, I know. I didn’t see him. I…”
“Fuck. Come on. Jesus. Goddammit, Juliet.”
I give a no-look wave and continue down the alley, lighter and a tad more reckless. The odds of being mugged on the home stretch of the alley were astronomical. I was completely safe. I was pre-disaster.
On the corner of the alley and the other main street was a cafe. I entered and ordered French onion soup.
45. Forever Young by Alphaville
A soda and a mandate are on the counter: “Refill and a two-dollar Mega pick, please.” Thanks.” I’m always polite to the working person!
“Do you have your ID?” She asks.
She works at a convenience store called ReFuel. The parking lot is expansive and newly paved, the outside walls freshly painted, and the inside looks clean and inviting through the large picture windows. Since there are no Speedways between home and my destination, I’m taking a big risk with ReFuel. I’m a pro, though. It’s guaranteed to have clean bathrooms and a soda dispensing station. I can tell. These are my two requirements for convenience stores. I’m a simple man.
I am right. The place is immaculate. New tiles, new floors, and possibly an olive bar. The well-lit bathroom has multiple stalls, urinals, and sinks and a Dyson air dryer with a powerful head of steam. And the soda dispensary station has the perfect mixture of carbonation and syrup. I'm in heaven. I will log this positive review and revisit it anytime I’m in the area. Move over, Speedway.
The convenience stores of my youth smelled like freon and rotting wood. They were predominantly owned by old white people who got into the business because they liked to drink. The shelves were half-empty, half expired products. And even though the bathroom was always open, it was never clean. Some of the worst bathrooms ever were from this time period. Conversely, the modern convenience store is owned by Bechtel or Amazon or Mr. Beast, and there are 100s of them, not just one. The employees are mostly on their way down and have no connection to the ownership. Immigrants are still in the corner store game, but they’ll eventually be pushed out by the next YouTube star and their team of investors.
Even though I’m a bit nostalgic for the smell of rotting wood and outdated, dented soup cans, I like my convenience stores clean and shiny. Modernity.
I don’t know why she’s asking for my ID. Is this a lotto thing? Is it like being carded for alcohol even though you look like a 60-year-old sleepy homeless Santa. It’s a formality. Either way, I hand over my ID. I’m not one to mess with the working man.
She stares at my ID a little bit too long. Maybe I’ve been blacklisted from Lotto.
“Hey, we have the same birthday.” Her expression went from mild surprise to nonchalance. A bit surprised, then bored.
She holds my ID in her right hand and waits for a response.
I slightly raise my eyebrows in a contrived surprise and say, “Oh.” I don’t know what to say. There’s a bit of a pause, and then I grab deep.
“Me, you, Eddie Van Halen, and Ellen Degeneres.” I was a bit hesitant to include Ellen Degeneres because of her sexual orientation. I was in the country, and just verbalizing an unapproved name on the wrong team could lead to a snide remark and chaos. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to say something like, “I don’t want any trouble, folks. No trouble at all,” as I slowly backed out of the store, Super Big Gulp in hand. My sea foam blue Prius with Cal plates doesn’t help when I indulge in this fantasy.
“And Paul Newman,” she adds.
“I didn’t know that,” I reply.
We were having a conversation about our birthdays. I was proud. It was a rough start, but we pulled it together and made something out of nothing.
She hands back my ID and says, “Except I was born in ’74, though.”
Though? What the fuck does “though” mean? I was 10 years older than her, yes. Was “though” a dig at me being older? I think it was. I imagined her walking off in slow motion, hips swinging, hand wagging.
I pick up my soda and Lotto ticket and shuffle to the door. Alarm bells are going off. It’s not the slight; it’s how she looks at 50. I thought we were peers. If she looks like that, what the hell do I look like?
If you don’t look in the mirror, you never age. The only glimpse I see of my face is unwarranted scraps of a window reflection. I avoid bathroom mirrors, going to the barbers, and I will never take a dance class. Mirrors in all of them. It’s a losing battle, but one that I fight every day. Sometimes you lose, though. Today was a loss.
I reach for the rearview mirror and slightly tilt it in my direction. I slowly ease into the reflection—forehead and eyes. I stop there and stare.
Fuck.
46. Draft
Ass and Jackass are good words. I’m fond of saying, “That guy is an ass,” or, when I don’t have time to say so many words, the simpler “Jackass.” Straight and to the point. No fluff.
I don’t know where the donkey bag came from. The ex-wife probably got it as swag from a fancy event or a gift when she subscribed to Vanity Fair or Interview. Either way, it eventually found its way to the hall closet, buried and comingled with countless thrift store scarves, fallen jackets, and items that were a good deal but you never really wanted. These items will follow you from move to move until someone reads a book about clutter and announces, “I’m taking this shit to the thrift store. Do you have anything to add to the pile?” And this person donates the pile back to the thrift store, parks the car, goes into the thrift store and brings back more items to replace the items they just donated. I think we all have a they.
The internet loves donkeys. So do it. I would like to think that “I was donkey when donkey was cool,” but I wasn’t. It would’ve been nice to be on the ground floor of the new donkey movement, but I’m more of a door holder and need a lot of good reviews and test runs before buying. I enjoy the content, though, but not enough to comment. Commenting on a cute video is a pile-on, something beneath me. I’m not a pile-oner.
I wasn’t anti donkey, no—more nonplussed about these beasts in their down years. Now? I consider myself a donkey enthusiast. In weak, delusional moments during the day, I might think about starting a rescue, having a couple of donkeys and dogs—maybe a cow or two—and posting videos of their crazy antics.
The back of the Prius is littered with reusable bags, mostly those waxy plastic ones. They’re not my favorite, but they’ll do when I forget my favorite cloth donkey swag bag.
I didn’t forget the donkey bag, but I needed two bags for this shop. I was getting two 2-liter Diet Cokes and wine for my mother, along with four for two dinners, or one dinner and leftovers. I shopped every other day. It was all I could handle.
The produce section is to the right of the entrance. Immediately, my attention is focused on the ceiling. I look up. Steve Wonder’s I Just Called to Say I Love You is playing from the overhead speakers. I never noticed music in the store before. It was definitely loud.
A produce worker sang the first few words of the chorus. I just called to… He was under 30. Grow down, kid, I thought. It was a very odd way to start my shopping experience.
When I was 18, I worked in a warehouse for a delivery-only grocery store. The radio in the warehouse was tuned to a top 40 station, and every 50 minutes, Stevie Wonder’s I Just Called to Say I Love You played. I worked full-time. If you do the math, I heard that song 9.6 times in a shift. I grew to loathe Stevie and his torturous way. When I hear people praise him, I want to scream, “What about I Just Called To Say I Love You?”
Retraumatized, I persevere and push my preferred small cart to the avocado bin. Stacked in a familiar pyramid, I inspect every Florida avocado, knowing not one will be perfectly ripe. They’re either hard as a rock or soft like a jelly donut. I loathe avocados and the hold they have over us and will eventually garner the confidence to speak publicly about their hegemony. For now, I purchase an unripe avocado and will check on it every four hours until it deems me worthy.
I hear, “You gotta protect yourself from the homies.” This piques my interest. I slowly turn to see where it came from. A rotund, bald, pale man with rosy Rosacea cheeks in a 5XL Made in I Butterbean Ireland green t-shirt, driving a motorized grocery cart, who resembles the first Russian nesting doll and still quotes House of Pain, stares at the back of a man inspecting apples. The apple man looks like end-of-life Ron Jeremy—sweaty, pasty, and dressed in given-up clothes. He’s oblivious to the stare. If he looked my way, I’d hold up an avocado and convey an I-feel-your-pain look.
Jeremy inspects every apple, picking it up, turning it around in his hand, and then putting it back. Repeat. He’s methodical and seems unfazed by the lack of approved apples.
I go back for a second round of inspecting avocados as cover for my leering. I surreptitiously observed the interaction and tried to put together the dynamic. Butterbean continues to stare at his back.
“You gotta protect yourself from the homies.” There it is again. It was Butterbean. He is saying it to Jeremy. He seems pleased with himself, feeling this outburst will get a reaction. His hands firmly grip the steering bar as he waits for a response.
Jeremy twists his body, revealing the back of his shirt: “I’m Willing To Die For My Rights. Are You Willing to Die to Take Them From Me? The text circles a graphic of a grim reaper skeleton holding an assault rifle over his shoulder and giving a thumbs up with the other hand. These types of shirts are common amongst a certain angry demographic in this area. You see their F-150s parked askew in the handicap spots, stickers yelling at passerby. I’m used to this hero syndrome behavior of my peers and pay it no mind. Or I try.
Jeremy doesn’t fully turn around. He stops at 80 degrees, focusing on the onion bins, and says, “You gotta protect yourself,” in a monotone, unimpassioned, and droll voice, every word a painful burden. He returned to inspecting apples. Butterbean appeared hurt. He was up for some conservative, extremist bonding. Not today.
47. Our Love Will Still Be There by The Troggs
We were of the age that you didn’t do these types of things with your parents. In our early 20s, extending our feral youth on city streets, we communicated through grunts and “duuuude.” It was the bruh of the day. Months turned into years, and you eventually stopped going home for holidays. So why was I camping with my girlfriend’s family? I don’t know.
Whiskeytown is a warm water lake in Northern California off I-5. If it’s summer and you’re passing through and you have your swim shorts in the back, you pull off, drive through Redding, and find a pull-off and walk down to the lake. That’s how I found it. It’s a little too far from the city to camp, but a warm water lake in the summer—when your summer is fogged in and cold—is worth the extra hour or so of driving. You don’t need a tent or even a sleeping bag, just a blanket and the ground or the backseat of your car. No REI.
Oddly, campgrounds are some of the noisiest places on earth. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, but they can be louder than city life. There’s a vernal hum of noise that hangs over the campground, with jolts of screams, laughs, and hoots. It’s all acceptable until the quiet hour of 10 pm. After this, a park ranger with a holstered gun visits and tells your drunk asses to quiet down. This type of camping is like moving your sofa to a new room. Same sofa, new room, same shit.
I clocked the extended van in the parking lot. White with four rows of bench seats, I knew exactly what it was: a youth pastor and kids. I don’t know why this caught my eye. I assume the feeling was like watching people board a plane. You and a stranger are seated in the aisle and the window, and you’re waiting for the poor middle seat passenger. As people walk down the aisle, you inspect and judge everyone, hoping you get a small, slim, antisocial 35-year-old wearing headphones to take the middle seat. They point to the seat, you nod and move to the aisle, and they sit. No chit chat, no thick elbows and calves spilling into your territory. Life doesn’t work this way, though. The person you least want in the aisle of passengers is the person doing the pointing. This is how I felt about the youth pastor and kids. This is life.
When the sun went down, we took our positions around the campfire and replicated our living room in the dirt and Oaks. We drank, played songs we deemed cool, made plans we wouldn’t keep (dude, we should go to Yosemite next weekend) and got louder and more animated as the witching hour of quiet approached.
In between drunk choruses of Sam Cooke’s Bring it on Home and sips of passed whiskey (you gotta drink whiskey at Whiskeytown?), I leaned back from he log I was sitting on and observed the campground. It sounded like a busy airport. Distant conversation and singing bouncing amongst the trees. It was like everyone was making plans to go to Yosemite next weekend.
Amidst the noise, I heard a familiar song. I listened, but there was a disconnect. I kind of knew the song, but the lyrics were off.
No one noticed as I got up to investigate the familiar song. It was coming from our direct neighbors. I paused to let my eyes adjust from firelight to darkness and walked the 10 yards to a copse of trees dividing the campsite.
Like us, our neighbors were positioned around a campfire singing songs. Even though they can’t see me because of the bright fire they’re all staring at, I position myself in back of a thin tree. I’m fooling no one.
I was right. The youth pastor and kids are camping next to us. I told you!!
The pastor is playing the guitar and emphatically singing. He is the precedent. Around him are kids who don’t want to be there, a smart kid, a funny kid, and a few budding youth pastors who are giving the primary youth paster a run for enthusiasm. I’m here for the song, though.
He’s God, He’s God. Shamon. Who’s God?
It takes me a bit, but I figure out they’re playing Michael Jackson’s Bad, replacing the words with God lyrics. Up until this moment, I was unaware that such a thing existed. I watched in delight. It was like getting your Bible verses from The Way not the Bible. It was a blatant attempt to make Jesus hip, hunky, and relevant to disaffected youth. Make Jesus cool again!
After finishing the song, the youth pastor tuned the guitar by ear like he was onstage playing at a megachurch. A good gig for Christian bands. I was hoping he was dropping the E to low D for the next song. Not so lucky.
Next on the set list was Louie, Louie. I moved to a small tree to get a better view. My enthusiasm was waning.
Pharaoh, Pharaoh. Let my people go.
The kids liked this one. Even the unenthusiastic sang the chorus.
I had my fun. I pushed off from the tree and took my place on the log in front of the campfire. No one noticed I was gone.
I tapped my friend's shoulder and said, “Lean back and listen.” I leaned back to show him how it’s done. He leans back and gives me a quizzical look.
“Louie, Louie,” he said.
“Yep, but they changed the lyrics to Pharaoh, Pharaoh, let my people go.”
He smiled, not as impressed as he should be.
“See, I told you. It’s the long van church people.”
Of course I blabbed about my theory of the long van in the parking lot.
Near the quiet hour, the youth group was still going strong, singing bastardized hits one after the other. They seemed to be the driving force of noise in the campground. Conversely, the campground settled, and fires grew dim. Families put the young ones to bed in tents and sat around the fire drinking and engaging in real talk:
I’m thinking of leaving Bob. I’m having an affair with our team leader.
What the fuck is a team leader? Don’t you work at a bank?
It was the honest hour, nudged by alcohol. The hour of regret.
A yell broke the nascent calm: “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
In sing-song staccato, the proclamation brought the campground to its knees. We knew who it was directed to—our Pharaoh, Pharaoh neighbors. We collectively looked at our watches. It wasn’t quiet hour. The campground stopped. All eyes waited for a response:
“It’s not 10 pm.” There was a brief pause, and then the campground returned to normal. Collectively, we all thought: he’s right. It’s not 10 pm.
The next morning, we met in the parking lot. The youth group was packing up, the back double door of the van open. I was hungover, dehydrated, hungry, and tired. Typical for camping. I threw my blanket in the backseat of my car and waited for the others.
I nodded to the youth pastor. He slightly nodded back, giving me a knowing look.
The night before didn’t end at 10 pm. We stayed up, getting drunker and louder and making more plans. A ranger came by twice, telling us to quiet down, adding a hefty fine threat if he had to come back for a third time.
As I waited for my friends, the youth pastor approached:
“Where are you from?” We were about the same age.
“The City.” It was code. We were from San Francisco. It was an arrogant response.
I'm sure he looked at my rental car and thought, “City people and their friggin’ rental cars. I knew it!”
48. Draft
It was in the shape of a goalpost without the crossbars, hanging and plugged into a receptacle directly underneath. As I waited, I looked at it and couldn’t figure out what it was. About three inches thick with a plastic illuminated face, it glowed like an object a teenager would put on their wall and stare at when they came home stoned.
It wasn’t advertising anything, nor was it counteracting negative vibes with an unseen hum and light therapy, which I thought was a possibility if such a thing exists. But it was the country, and they wouldn’t take kindly to such a thing, even as a joke. They're just getting used to hybrid cars. Electric cars are still met with derision, though.
I waited in line and stared at the—whatever it was on the wall. Men in camouflage queued in front and behind me with gas station pizza from a small glass carousel.
Register three waved me over. The clerk was new. I transacted with her a couple of times, and she was very smiley and friendly. I like friendly, but not too friendly, though. I don’t like when they ask questions or make a statement: “You really like your Diet Coke. You must be thirsty.” This type of break in protocol receives no response or eye contact. I need to train her, I think.
I pull up to the station and say what I always say, “Refill.” My keys are already in my left hand, and my thumb and pointer finger are clutching my tiny rewards card attached to the key ring. I hold it out, and she scans it. Beep. The new clerk is distant and aloof. Gone are the glory days of last week, when a new job was fresh and exciting. A few bad customers can break your spirit, and they obviously broke her optimism. I respect her ‘disgruntleness’ and keep it short and professional.
I hover my debit card over the pay terminal and wait for the muted beep. I glance back at the humming, glowing thingy on the wall. It’s vibing me. I give it a hard look in case there’s a camera inside. I’m on to it.
Before leaving through the side door, I give the glowing thingy one last look. I’ll be back.
49. Last Christmas
I looked down at the open seat next to me and watched the puddle of water, pooled in the indentation of the plastic seat, move with the rhythm of the bus. Lunging forward at every stop and lunging back and settling when we took off. There was something in this puddle that was beyond me. It was meditative. It was where I’d rather be.
Unfortunately, anger overrides meditation, and I switched from zen to cursing the idiot at the bus yard who left the windows open. The night before it rained hard. This seat could’ve been mine if someone did their job.
The bus was crowded at 7:30 am. It’s always crowded. Quart-low commuters endured the indignities of bare minimum transportation, amplified by weather, season, and hatred of their jobs. This prepares us for the irrelevancy of old age and low expectations. There would be no revolution with these workers.
A man in the back intermittently yells racial epithets, interspersed with maniacal laughing, adding to the misery of the trip. He seems to be a mixture of meth and turrets. We ignore him but secretly want to hurt him.
It was rainy and cold outside and damp and muggy inside, the windows streaked with condensation and fogged over. The handrails were slippery, and the rain-soaked outer clothing of the commuters was musty—the prominent foul smell. We were a rolling tomb that stopped every block.
At 16th, a quarter of the listless exited for BART and the 22. A new
Indifferent army entered and took their place amongst the vets from the outer neighborhoods. We despised these interlopers, going 8 blocks at most.
A man separate from the interlopers entered, paid the fare, and grabbed the top rail behind the bus driver. He faced the back of the bus.
“Excuse me,” he said. This breach of etiquette bonded the bus. For the first time we looked at each other with quizzical looks. As veterans of the bus system, we knew something was about to happen, and given the state of the person that got our attention, we didn’t fear for our safety. This was crazy bus shit.
“Excuse me, this is my last Christmas,” he announced with no emotion. He quickly turned to the front, his left hand gripping the above handrail.
We collectively stared at his back. It took the bus a few seconds to adjust to the terse admission. We digested the statement with more looks of surprise, tinged with a bit of excitement. A few people exchanged words. The drollness slightly ignited the commuters for half a block, distracting us from work, rain, and the misery of the daily commute that robs you of humanity and empathy. Last Christmas doesn’t sound too bad right now!
