My Farewell

I said I would write something. Usually that means words, in some order, meant to evoke something. I guess in this case, it still does, just not in the form I expected.

This is rough, because I wrote and recorded it when I got home from work tonight. Emlyn called at work this afternoon to let me know that Karen passed away in her sleep last night without ever waking up. After 16 years, it is a kind of release for everyone - the kind we dread. It never feels right, whether the one being released is 102 or, like Karen, 37. But in her way, Karen has Always Been Free.

So that's what I wrote.


(For those who may miss it, the words "Always Been Free" are a link to a song.)

38 Lines About 19 Years

What a week for rediscovering old friends and new acquaintances. So many have asked for an overview, I felt I should post something that would serve as a standing "what I've been up to, more or less" to help people catch up. And when I sat down and shook the keyboard, this is what fell out. I don't claim this is a "good" poem, but poem it is.

(Apologies to The Nails.)

1990
Graduation came and went
One more Pomp & Circumstance night

1991
College life is just like High School
But with ashtrays in the halls

1992
Found a roomie and apartment
Found out that my folks were right

1993
Lost the girlfriend, job, and car
And shed all my slacker pals

1994
Finally gave in, joined the Air Force
(Anywhere but Osan, please)

1995
Wasted year on Han-guk-mal-oh
But at least I found a wife

1996
Rocked out, and got switched to Russkie
Started one new little life

1997
Half a year in roach-filled Texas
Then the move to Baltimore

1998
Orders came for Merry England
Just in time, 'cause we were bored

1999
Six weeks there is really awesome
We were there for three long years

2000
Had two boys (TV's expensive)
They're our favorite souvenirs

2001
Back to Phoenix, winning ball team!
But no jobs, then the Attacks.

2002
Unemployed, again expecting
Maryland said "Come on back"

2003
Worked our tails off (60 hour weeks!)
Clawing back toward "normalcy"

2004
Dad has two jobs, Mom has four
But we're breathing, finally

2005
Bought a house out in the county
Visit Phoenix, Christmas time

2006
Two girls, two boys, and a dog, now
No more kids (we drew the line!)

2007
Kids are older, we're all safer
(Kater joined the TSA)

2008
This year brought a lot of changes
Good or bad, it's hard to say

2009
Now we're looking forward, Hopeful
(This Space Intentionally Left Blank)

Lb4Lb #1: Swordfishtrombones & Rain Dogs

I started using the lb4lb tag a while back, and mentioned somewhere that it refers to whole albums that are, "pound for pound," the best possible investment of your time. Here's why I think these albums merit so much love:

The first song I ever heard by Tom Waits - at least, the first song I heard that I knew was by Tom waits - was Singapore. That was 18 years ago, and it still ranks as one of the most unusual songs I know. The words veer between nursery silliness and opium madness, coming out of a throat so whiskey-soaked and menthol-smoked, it's a wonder that the singer is still alive.

And he might not be:

We sail tonight for Singapore
We're all as mad as hatters here
I've fallen for tawny moor
Took off to the land of Nod
Drank with all the Chinamen
Walked the sewers of Paris
I danced along a colored wind
Dangled from a rope of sand
You must say goodbye to meThat song hooked something deep in my psyche; I couldn't say that I liked it, but I kept listening to it. I kept needing to hear it, the way you need to have that nightmare again just so you can prove to yourself that it really was a nightmare. And after a while, I knew every song on that album.

I could dance the Cemetery Polka, and I would Tango 'til I was sore. Time made me weep at an age where I didn't know enough to be weeping about time.

The album, Rain Dogs was named on Rolling Stone magazine's Top 100 albums of the 1980s, coming in at a respectable #21. I remember seeing that, and marvelling at such an unlikely entry on a list like that.

Turns out, it had an actual hit on it: Downtown Train, which was successfully covered byRod Stewart. G.E. Smith of Saturday Night Live fame played guitar on the Waits version. By the time you get that far in, though, you'll either be running for the hills, or you'll be deep in Blind Love.

Rain Dogs was the second album in a sort of trilogy, though. Waits followed it up withFrank's Wild Years, an "operetta in one act", which was actually produced for the stage. The first album of the trilogy, though, was Swordfishtrombones, and this was by far my favorite of the three.

This isn't a "concept album", but it is very much the story of a soldier, or sailor, far away from home, and both marvelling at and wallowing in the seedier corners of the world. This album is an old homeless man that just needs a buck so he can catch a bus to Des Moines, and if you follow him through the alley, he can get you something you'd really like...

It begins with the creepy shenanigans of Underground, where you can feel the hammer blows of dwarves tunneling their way out of the city; there's the false respite of Shore Leave (do you ever really get any rest on your vacation?), and an instrumental that makes you wonder just what Dave the Butcher has been up to.

Then you are treated to one of the most beautiful songs you can imagine: Johnsburg, Illinois - a minute and a half of sweetness before the bombast of 16 Shells From A 30.6 tries to "whittle you into kindlin'!"

The second half of the album is where it Tom really shines, though. A tall tale (Swordfishtrombone), a shaggy dog story (Frank's Wild Years) and a dance with the devil (Down, Down, Down) bundle you up and set you out on a blanket next to an old lady selling her Soldiers Things.

a tinker, a tailor
a soldier's things
his rifle, his boots full of rocks
and this one is for bravery
and this one is for me
and everything's a dollar
in this boxYou don't know if you should buy them or not, but you know whatever you choose, you'll regret it.

And you'll regret it if you don't give these albums at least one listen; it's like a trip on a Greyhound bus - no one wants to travel that way, but there's a mundane danger to it that you have to experience at least once in your life. If nothing else, just to see how far down you can go without actually meeting the Devil.

I Swear

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"
"No, but I [bleep] her [bleep]ing [bleep] with it!"

Profanity is an endlessly interesting subject to me, probably because my lovely bride and I are so proficient at it. Some people feel that certain words should never be spoken, and go to great lengths to purge them from the language. Unfortunately, 75% of the words in the English language have a scatological or sexual connotation attached to them, so attempting to truly "purify" our vocabulary would be utterly fruitless. And if there is one thing I hate being, it is without fruit.

There is something to be said in favor of self-control, but when taken too far, it becomes a form of dishonesty. I say we need to get away from the false prudery involved in censoring certain words. Substitution, or, as in my provocative example above, a simple absence can leave too much to the imagination. What do you suppose I censored out of there? Did you consider "perform", "danc(ing)", and "music"? Or "devour", "stunn(ing)", and "spreads"? Even if you did, people with minds already twisted by exposure to the decadent pop culture of our times might derive a naughty giggle from the connotations of "perform", or "spreads".

Tee hee hee.

So you might infer that I am going to say that it is not the words, but the thoughts behind them that are evil. Sorry to have to tell you this, but even the thoughts behind the most pure of mouth will entertain the stray bit of offensiveness. For some of us, it is necessary to entertain it and send it on its way so it doesn't lurk in the background and cause an infection. We do try to avoid polluting with our expressions and ideas where it is inappropriate; girls in my wife's scout troop are occasionally mystified by her outbursts of "F-f-f-french fries!!" or "Creamed Corn on a stick!!" After all, we do try to cushion the fall into reality that young minds must all eventually make.

Fair enough; but still, why do we blame the words? Why must we edit ourselves so superficially, leading to situations and statements which are potentially just as offensive as the vulgarity itself?

Sometimes the words in question have a religious nature to them. Stubbing your toe may cause you to cry out the name of your god of choice, as if calling upon his (or her) name condemns them for allowing misfortune to befall your tiniest of digits. Most people in my experience have tried to use a "euphemism", such as "gosh" or "jeez" to cover up their lack of self control, apparently to avoid offending any passing clergy or deities. "Gosh, that hurt," or "Jeez, I should have moved that chair." I personally prefer to invoke the names of less familiar gods, which avoids offending the majority of the local population and brings a bit of culture into the neighborhood.

No one has yet complained when I have had occasion to cry out, "Four arms of Vishnu, that hurt!" or "By the eye of Odin, I wish I hadn't stepped on that!"

Often we use strong words to express aggression toward each other. Anger may inspire you to propose intriguing-but-impossible physical acts for the focus of your anger to perform. I suggest that it's better to let the words flow rather than express it physically. As in: "[Bleep] you, clown!" That could provide some awkward moments in the Big Top, my friend.

I have known people who preferred to substitute other words, such as the otherwise innocuous "fetch" or "flip"... which not only saps the strength of the statement, but gives innocent requests such as "Fetch my slippers, darling," a whole new level of meaning.

(Next time someone tells you, "Wait here while I fetch your wife," you won't wait so easily, will you?)

Does this mean that we need to purge our thoughts of evil? Maybe. But good luck defining "evil". It's easier to eliminate the words, which is why innuendo is so popular. "Why are you offended? I didn't mean to say anything offal! I mean, awful.

My lyrical example below is a classic illustration. No where does Jimmy Pop actually say any bad words (well, maybe one). Strictly speaking, most of what he does say makes no sense at all. BUT (or should I use the less rectal/more anal "however"?), when you allow your dirty mind to fill in the blanks, it becomes downright raunchy!

(He said "fill in"... huh, huh, huh.)

But if beauty is in the eye of the beholder, perhaps meaning is in the ear of the beholder. If that's the case, perhaps we should cut each other some slack. Let people blow off steam without holding the actual words against them. Maybe it will make them easier to get along with if they don't feel they have to pu... I mean to say KITTEN-foot around your imaginary sensibilities.

Some people will never be happy, though, until the rest of us have become completely neutered in our speech. Forcing us to control our speech is just the tip of the fascist ice-berg. Only when we all cease wallowing in our filth will they feel they have achieved a state of perfection; and then the world can end! I say stand up and tell those people where to go: the only place where they will be happy anyway. Tell them to "Go to Heaven!"

I, for one, will gladly help send them there... and then the rest of us can fetch and flip to our hearts' contents.

"Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo" by the Bloodhound Gang:

Vulcanize the whoopee stick
In the ham wallet

Cattle prod the oyster ditch
With the lap rocket

Batter dip the cranny ax
In the gut locker

Retrofit the pudding hatch
Ooh la la
With the boink swatter

If i get you in the loop when I make a point to be straight with you then
In lieu of the innuendo in the end know my intent though
I Brazilian wax poetic so hypothetically
I don't wanna beat around the bush

Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo
Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo

Marinate the nether rod
In the squish mitten

Power drill the yippee bog
With the dude piston

Pressure wash the quiver bone
In the bitch wrinkle

Cannonball the fiddle cove
Ooh la la
With the pork steeple

If i get you in the loop when I make a point to be straight with you then
In lieu of the innuendo in the end know my intent though
I Brazilian wax poetic so hypothetically
I don't wanna beat around the bush

Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo
Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo

Put the you know what in the you know where
Put the you know what in the you know where
Put the you know what in the you know where
Put the you know what in the you know where pronto

Kerouac and Ginsberg Grow Up and Get Jobs

Originally posted Friday, August 11, 2006, while thinking about old friends and more adventurous days.

I was absorbed in cyberspace when I thought I heard a suspicious sound in the real world.

I turned around and glanced around the cluttered office, but nothing was moving. My ears listened for the telltale sounds of the kids playing in the far reaches of the house. The last thing I wanted right now was for someone to come asking to play Nintendo or watch one of the "America's Funniest" animal clips on YouTube.com. All seemed to be quiet enough, so I turned back to the screen.

What had my attention so fixed was a message from someone I hadn't expected to ever find on MySpace.

A fellow trumpet player (for 11 years!), and a fellow traveler through the late 80s/early 90s ordeal of growing up in White Middle Class America. He was the unintentional center. He was the guy who discovered things and shared them with the rest of us.

Wanderer, explorer, welcome bum. He had roamed the suburbs of Northwest Phoenix from age 12, getting into and out of the kinds of trouble only an over-tall kid armed only with a thick Stephen King novel or true-crime/serial killer book can get into.

He was the conduit through which I discovered a love of Tom Waits, the Pogues, Wilco, Nana Vasconcelos and the Bush Dancers, the Police, Elvis Costello, Ofra Haza, Les Negresses Vertes, Chris Isaak, and Buckwheat Zydeco.

He's the guy that edged me out of childhood reading material such as the Hardy Boys and into Salinger, King, Gaiman, and even a little divertissement called "Les Miserables."

He is the guy who was there for 1993 - about which, the less said the better - and yet still considered me a worthwhile person.

And I found him again on MySpace.

All of the sense memories, and not a few images from the past, were on my mind as I read his note. A catching-up kind of missive; just enough to say, "Howdy" and yet imply that there was a lot more to say. If you can't already tell, thinking about the old days takes me back to a place that most would think of as "the bottom of the barrel." And frankly, it is.

It is the Waffle House of memories, where the coffee is bitter, the spoons are never clean, and the air is full of grease, smoke, and Hank Williams songs coming from a fascist jukebox that won't play what you paid to pick.

It is all of the porn shops, bars, and flea markets we used to visit; not so much for the shopping, but for the sake of watching the people we found in such places.

We already know our safe, suburban world, and we had always been told which way was "up"... but these places and these people were the Other Option. This was the threat our parents and teachers had always held over us. More frightening was the fact that this WAS us. If we failed, or gave up, we had every reason to expect to end up there.

And now I was chatting with this old companion of the Waste Lands from my safe, warm house full of children via a slick, silly online forum.

It felt good.

Just knowing that for all of the close calls and odd adventures, we had made it to places that make us happy, or at least to some compromise between the forced potential and the rocky alternatives.

But there it was... the old rebellious urge to show him that I was still somewhat "hip"... that I still maintained my edginess. To downplay my "Mr. Mom" role, and revel in the dark side. Like the old days...

Of course, that was the moment that I felt a breath on my neck, and realized that there was someone behind me. Not just behind me, but literally climbing over the back of the chair!

With memories of horror movies and crazed homeless people -- or even some supernatural beastie from another dimension -- fresh on my mind, I was seized by cold, wet, unreasoning fear. Lacking breath to scream, I emitted a small "urk."

Then the little girl toppled over the top of my head and into my lap, giggling like a mad little imp (see, supernatural beastie from beyond!).

"I love you, Daddy!" she said, batting her eyes, which she knew would save her from any unpleasant reaction. As my heart rate returned to normal, I pieced together the "surprise" she had perpetrated; putting the kitchen stool in my blind spot, creeping up on me. Come to think of it, all of the good things in my life have been surprises.

So, sitting with her in chair, I dash off a maily to my old friend from my old life, and tuck away the hobo memories for another day.

"Daddy," she said, "Can we watch the 'Funny Dogs' video?"

Sure, honey. Why not?