Another excerpt!

* The following is another excerpt from that novel project of mine that I had to put down for a while... It's the one about a guy with an inoperable brain tumor trying to live long enough to see his first novel get published? 

This here is a flashback scene to when he was a kid...

~~~

“Goo-ood Times, Baa-aad Times – you know I had my share...”

The Pontiac’s top-shelf stereo system blared the blues inspired riffs of Led Zeppelin at critical levels, shaking and rattling the doors in time to John Bonhams' aggressive drumming. 

“When my woman left home for a brown eyed man, well, I still don't seem to cah-aaare...”

Dad wasn't into the soulless, commercial sound of contemporary music. No, he stuck to the classics:

* Lynnard Skynnard.

* Black Sabbath

* The Rolling Stones

He knew every verse of every song by heart and would passionately sing along to each and every one, creating duets and complex harmonies that would leave your jaw hanging in complete and total amazement. 

Unfortunately, Dad – as it turned out, was completely tone deaf. 

He butchered 'Walk This Way,' destroyed 'Jumpin' Jack Flash' and completely disemboweled 'War Pigs' before I finally had the nerve to stop him. With my hands pressed firmly against my ears, I turned to my Father and shouted: “DAD!” He turned the music down to a low rumble. 

“Yeah?”

I took a moment to answer, my ears still ringing, to briefly mourn the death of thousands of irreplaceable sensorineural fibers before responding. Dad dropped into fourth and swung the car onto the turnpike, the motor roaring back into fifth.

“Well?” I could tell that he was anxious to get back into the music.

“What the hell's so funny about fish, anyway?” I asked at last.

He looked confused. “What?”

“Fish. This morning you said you had fish for dinner and then you and Mom started laughing and I didn't get it and I'd like to so – what's funny about fish?”  

“It's grown up humor,” he said, leering,  “Ask me again when you get outta high school.” Dad scanned ahead, looking for cops as the speedometer creeped past ninety. “By the way,” he said, changing the subject, “Don't ever let me hear you cuss in front of your mother again, capiche?” His tone was deadly serious. Dad had only ever hit me once before, not counting the occasional, correctional “love smack” to the back of my head – and it was pretty awful: do as you're told and don't disrespect your grandmother. Lesson learned. 

“You swear,” I said, reproachfully. “All the time.”

“Yeah, I do. But I shouldn't. Not around your mother, at least. She deserves better.” A darkness crawled across his features then, briefly, like a passing storm cloud. He blinked his eyes a few times and shook his head, his quiet smile resurfacing. “Tell you what,” Dad said, “I don't mind you cursing around me or your friends but we'll both watch our mouths when your mom's around, okay?”

“No shit?” I asked cautiously.

He laughed. “No shit.”

“That's FUCKIN' awesome, Dad!” I sat a moment and pondered my new super power. “Does it fucking count if mom's in the fucking house, but not in the same fucking room I'm in?”

“Yes,” he said grinning.

“But what if she can't fucking hear me?”

“Your mom hears everything, you know that.”

“Yeah... Oh! But what if I'm real quiet, like this?” And in as soft a whisper as I could manage, I said; “Fuck.” 

“What do you have, tourettes? I said no, Daemon,” He barked. “Not if you whisper it, not even if you just mouth the word. Not. Around. Your mother. That's the deal, got it?”

“OK, OK but – what if I'm with Mom and I'm helping her with the fucking groceries and a jar of fucking  peanut butter accidentally drops on my fucking foot and it hurts real fucking bad and I can feel the word 'Fuck' want to fuckin' come out...”  He turns towards me, one eyebrow cocked.

“I'm listening...”

“Well, what should I say instead of 'Fuck'?”

“Darn.” Dad said instantly. “Darn or drat.”

“Or phooey?” I asked.

“Yep. Phooey works. So does Fudge, nertz, dang...”

I giggled. “Crap?” 

“Nope, sorry. Crap's off limits.”

“Dammit.” I hung my head dejectedly which made my father burst out laughing. I liked making him laugh. He reached his shifting arm around me then, man-hugging me.

“You're a good kid, m'boy.” He turned up the stereo and went back to checking for speed traps, chuckling to himself and muttering; “Something tells me I just created a monster.”

~~~

An Excerpt

* The following is an excerpt from a novel project of mine that I had to put down for a while, as I navigated some pretty wild life changes. It's a story about a guy with an inoperable brain tumor trying to live long enough to see his first novel get published...

~~~

    I was sitting with my feet dangling off the rear porch, curling and flexing my toes in the verdant patch of grass that grew over where the septic tank was, while Dad worked on his project Pontiac. It was summer break and hot enough to make everything doughy. Damp, suffocating heat pulsed in waves off the tarmac making even the smallest action happen in slo-motion. The noon sun rode high in a brilliantly clear, cerulean sky as Mom tended to her beloved garden. It was a beautiful ten by thirty foot menagerie of every herb and spice you could name festooned with bright red and yellow Gerber daisies. Off to one side she had a patch of Roma tomatoes, the other; Zucchini. The year before, her efforts were featured on the cover of “Gusto dell ‘Italia!”, THE locally produced herald of neighborhood happenings which Mom immediately had laminated, professionally matted and framed. This achievement hung as the centerpiece in our bright, everything-must-be-orange kitchen on the small bit of wall that faced our diner style breakfast nook and shared accolades with:

* My birth certificate.
* Mom and Dad’s wedding photo.
* An autographed picture of the Pope.

    Sadly, Mom’s garden seemed very out of place in what passed for the rest of our yard, which was little more than a dilapidated mine field of crab grass, fire ant colonies and the white, crusty remnants of Adolph, our neighbor’s prize winning Doberman.

    I was nine and three quarters and as I was small for my age, was not allowed too far off our property without parental supervision so, going out to play was a lot less exciting than it could’ve been.

    “Mom!” I could see the tension creeping into her shoulders as she came back from wherever her mind had taken her.

    “Dio lo aiuta… Yes?”
    “I’m bo-oooooooooored!”
    “So?” she said with a shrug, “Find something to do.”
    “There is nothing to do! That’s why I’m bo- oooooooooored!!”

    “Hey!” she said without turning, “No whining… It’s too hot for whining.” Then she grunted, uprooted a handful of weeds and chucked them behind her. “What about that story you’ve been writing? You know, the one about the wrestler and the priest?”

    “It was stupid.” I said, crossing my arms and kicking at the ground. “I ripped it up.”

    Mom sat back on her heels and looked out from under her floppy gardeners’ hat at me. “Jeeze kid, cut yourself some slack. Do you really think that Steinbeck got things right on the first try?”

    I hung my head, studying my feet. “I dunno.”

    “Well I do.” She stretched her arms out in front of her, flexing her fingers. “Good writing doesn’t just take talent, kiddo – it takes revision.” She rolled her head from side to side, cracking her neck. “Now where’s that father of yours?”

    I pointed towards the front of the house. “Workin’ on the car.”

    She sighed, calling out: “Honey?” waited a moment listening, then a little louder; “Hon-EEEE!” When he still didn’t reply, Mom threw up her hands, muttering; “Che pezzo di stupido…” before shouting; “SLIM!!” There was a faraway CLANG followed by a THUMP and an “Ow, Fuck.” When she needed it, Mom had a voice that could wake the dead.

    From the driveway we heard; “WHAT?!?”
    Mom gazed up to the heavens in exasperation. “FIND SOMETHING FOR YOUR SON TO DO!”
    “ARE YOU SERIOUS? I GOT HALF THE FUCKIN’ MOTOR APART OVER HERE, BABY!”
    Mom blessed herself. “CAN’T HE HELP YOU?”
    “NOT RIGHT NOW… MAYBE LATER!”

    Mom looked straight at me, taking another breath. “Bored, huh?” I nodded awkwardly. “OK,” Mom said, standing, “let’s take a break.” She pulled off her gloves and tossed them onto the mat she had been kneeling on, reached out her hand for me to take and led us out towards the front yard. As we passed Dad, his feet sticking out from under the Pontiac, Mom hissed; “Odioso zuccone” and kicked gravel at him.

    “Love you, too sweetie.” You could almost hear him grinning.

    Mom and I walked down the length of our street and across an abandoned set of train tracks, which didn’t seem to start or end anywhere, to Papa’s, the local gas station/pharmacy/deli/convenience store, for an Italian ice. Not sherbet, not sorbet but an Italian ice. I still don’t know what the difference is, but according to Mom, it was better. It didn’t really matter. An Italian ice – lemon, was more than a sensory memory in the making. It was and will forever remain, frozen summer concentrate in a paper cup; the kind that can only be eaten with what resembles a small tongue depressor.

    It’s true, just ask any kid.

    The door chimed as we walked in. “’Mornin’ Missus. Real scorcher, eh?” Papa was six and a half feet of raw leather stretched over a coat rack. “Go easy with that ice Son; you’ll freeze your brain.” He smiled his big mail-order dentured smile as he leaned over to tousle my hair.

    “It’s not the heat,” Mom said opening a Coke and grabbing another, “It’s the humidity.”
    “Isn’t that what they say about Hell?” Papa chuckled to himself as he handed over Mom’s change.
    “I wouldn’t know.” She picked up her small sack of purchases, tossed a sweetheart smile over her shoulder and, motioning for my hand again said; “When you get there, write me a letter.”

    We were nearly home when Mom reached into the bag and pulled out a balsa wood glider. “Here you go kiddo,” she said with a wink, “aim high.” It was assembled and ready to fly by the time I WHOOSHED passed Dad and the car and into the shade of the back yard, ratta-tatting imaginary zeros. Mom, the ultimate problem solver, knew that for half a buck, an imaginative kid like me could spend the whole day looping and power-diving the world and never once think to bug her. She had, in essence, bought herself the rest of the afternoon alone in her garden checking for aphids, while I bombed the shit out of World War 2 Berlin.

    At least, that’s what I was doing until a breeze blew my glider off course and into our neighbor’s yard.

    Adolph’s yard.

    Which is why I was sitting with my feet dangling off the rear porch, curling and flexing my toes: 

 

    I was deciding how badly I wanted my plane back.

 

Bone Tired

My GODDESS, but I'm tired!

Tired of politics
Tired of in-fighting
Tired of capitalism

Tired of Gaje-splaining
White-splaining
Man-splaining

Tired of who's generation sucks more, or who's god has the bigger d1ck

Tired of constantly fighting to just exist
Tired of gas-lighting
Tired of people talking without thinking

Tired of Fascism
Communism
Nationalism

Tired of being told who I am by clueless morons who couldn't find their own ass with a GPS and a flashlight

Tired of gatekeeping
Tired of indignity
Tired of genocide

Tired of children dying
D-y-i-n-g.
DYING!!!

Tired of treading water in an endless sea of blood, while the ones I love get caught in the undertow

Tired of “pick mes”
Tired of fake feminists
Tired of “fuck bois”

Tired of never being good enough
Fast enough
Strong enough

Tired of the world burning to the ground and only having a leaky water pistol

Tired of zero accountability
Tired of unrealistic expectations
Tired of excuses

Tired of “trending”
“Canceling”
“Stitching”

Tired of pretending that my pain doesn't exist just to make you feel more comfortable

Tired of liars
Tired of appropriation
Tired of hypocrites

Tired of intrusive thoughts
Sleepless nights
Self harm

Tired of the constant bickering between mania and depression, the endless looping of every survived assault and trauma digging into my shoulders

Tired of the ringing in my ear
Tired of forgetting to breathe
Tired of flinching at everyone's touch

Tired of my brokenness
Angriness
Sadness

But most of all I'm tired of how you pushed me away, when I needed you the most.

It's 1984, after all

In light of all the horrendous shenanigans currently going on here in the ole' You Ess of Ay, I have been doing a sort of spring cleaning of my digital life. Scrubbing any and all stuff and dealios that I am not OK with being publicly accessible.

This has MOSTLY entailed social media. 

Once upon a time, social media was this cool way we came up with to connect to people outside of our immediate geographical radius. Mama has ALWAYS been a rolling stone, so this was especially appealing to me. It was a communication tool; a way to stay connected to folks I encountered during my travels and such, not a revenue stream and certainly not a foundation of ones identity. 

The money pigs hadn't yet infiltrated this free and public area much beyond ad space on the websites that were hosting these gatherings, and generally speaking, you weren't being force-fed nonsense by algorithms tracking you and your interests. If you wanted dark, or unsettling content, it was there, but you had to go looking for it.

Folks could do neat things like share art or their writing or music and chat with folks visually and in real time. It was a way to shrink the world and grow our communities: A place where people could realize that maybe they weren't alone. A person could access all the worlds knowledge and culture with just a few keystrokes.

It was uncharted territory.

And sure, you had your predators, and trolls and the like, but that was anywhere, and most of us knew about "stranger danger" and had the sense not to let ourselves be too exposed. There was enough real world experience going around to know how to navigate such things -- generally. 

But over the last 20ish years, it's gotten spoiled. Turned rotten. It's been appropriated by greed and paranoia. People live and die by how many faceless randos "like" the most basic, empty, unimportant stuff, and it's sad.

Kids don't go out to play. To explore. To discover. To imagine and grow. Instead, people let social media raise them; Fill their heads with conspiracy, and idiotic pablum. Basic life skills are being lost. More and more people are succumbing to anxiety and self isolation.

Now that the money pigs are running the show, people are backing off. Unplugging. Meeting friends in person.

Maybe this needs to happen. Maybe people need to work on themselves and rediscover the tangible world. Reestablish human contact. Perhaps this is our wake up call to detox and find ourselves offline again. 

Hard to say. I'm only musing here.

But I and some of my cohorts are cashing out. We're unplugging from the matrix, so to speak. There are non corporate, grass roots and crowd supported platforms out there to help scratch that itch and ease your withdrawal. It's the original recipe of digital encounters. Mastadon, Loops, Pixelfed... even blogs and personal websites are starting to come out of retirement.

Maybe so will art shows, and local events and music and dive bars and playgrounds and parks. Maybe we won't panic if we leave the phone off for a day, or on silent or in the car while we hang out with our friends and loved ones.

The mind boggles. 

So here I am, rebooting this blog of mine that I started 19 years ago. I gave it a new paint job, greased the wheels and pruned some of the dead bits. If you're reading this, welcome. Have a look around. Maybe come back to visit.

Let's see how it goes.