My Grandfather was a war hero. He fought at Iwo Jima in the Second World War. His recognized act of bravery wasn’t on the battlefield, though, it was in a bomb factory.

Some hotshot kid was working beside Grandpa, putting bolts iito bombs.. He stripped a bolt, realized what he had done, then ran out of the building. Everybody ran out of the building, except the Commanding Officer. He asked Grandpa if he knew what he was doing. “I hope so,” he replied. Then the Commanding Officer ran out of the building,

Let’s say he was tightening the bolt clockwise. If it had gone just the slightest bit counter-clockwise, the bomb would have exploded. He got a medal.

The last time we saw each other was at my Grandmother’s funeral. We hugged and said our goodbyes. That was it. He died on Thanksgiving Day, 1999—while I was visiting my brother in New York City. We lit a candle at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

The photograph is of Grandpa holding Chasmene—his oldest Great-Grand child.

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Conversations with JB

If you don’t enjoy vulgar humor and displays of virtuosity, Frank Zappa is not for you. For a decade, my mind was immersed in his music. It got to a point where I knew that every time I put a Zappa CD in the player, I was going to hear a bunch of exceedingly talented musicians flawlessly executing ridiculously difficult music.

I frequented a brewery in Music City. I like to think of myself as an entertaining drunk, but most of the time, I was just an annoying drunk. The night I met JB, I was steeped in the latter. He didn’t appreciate my misguided attmpts at humor. He seemed like a hard person to upset, but he raised his voice in anger. I apologized.

We functioned as friends, but all of our future dealings were tainted. We would sometimes sit together, have conversations. JB was a big time recording engineer. He engineered In the life of Chris Gaines—Garth Brook’s final album. JB had worked on a lot of popular Christian music.

One time, we were chatting and “My City was Gone” came through the speakers. The snare drum sounded like it had an excessive amount of reverb. JB said that it was standard for the time.

A good friend from Virginia said that he doesn’t listen to Zappa anymore because he’s in agony in the fires of Hell for promoting Atheism. Zappa did touch on the topic, but he mostly just pointed out hypocrisy in organized religion, in a humorous fashion. I’ll bet that God gets a smile out of that.

Years prior, I had some experience with multi-track recording, at the Recording Zone. Since I was playing every part myself, it made the most sense to record the drums first, then the bass. I asked JB if they record the drums and bass first, in professional studio recording, He laughed incredulously, and said. “We record the whole band.”

Zappa worked with some specific equipment. He mastered the Synclavier. He took two digital 24-track recorders on tour in 1988. Later, he used something called Sonic Solutions—a six-channel system. I asked JB about it, and he mentioned Zappa’s engineer. I said, “Spencer Chrislu?”

He just about freaked out. He said in near disbelief, “You know his name?”

I said, “Yeah, the last engineer to work with Frank Zappa.”

JB said, “He used to be my assistant…he was great.” He added, “When I wanted to tell him to do something, I’d look over, and he was already doing it.”

I was aware of JB’s religious disposition, so songs like, “Ride my Face to Chicago,” “Titties & Beer,” “Harder than Your Husband,” “Jesus Thinks You’re a Jerk,” or “Jazz Discharge Party Hats,” never came up.

The next time we were both at Blackstone, JB let me read a letter that Spencer had written. I don’t remember any of it, but it was neat. Later, he said that he and Spencer had dinner at the brewery, and he hoped that I would have shown up.

Even with the fun coincidence, our friendship remained tainted. As far as I can gather, JB is no longer among the living.  Also, JB had mentioned that Frank Zappa and Spencer Chrislu recorded the music of Edgard Varèse with the Modern Ensemble.

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Human Rights Advocate

You know, something that I say at every show I do now–because I fine my speeches down so they’re very short–is that at some point in everybody’s life, they have to decide whether or not they believe in the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Either you believe in it or you don’t–you can’t have it both ways. If you do believe it, then you have to stand up for people’s human rights all over the world, irrespective of their ethnicity or their religion or their nationality.

Roger Waters
Democracy Now!
March 3, 2019

Universal Declaration
of Human Rights

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The Complicated Dance

            Ain’t no cup of coffee like an AA cup of coffee
            Anyone who’s had one will tell you so
            You can stop at a coffee shop
            Have a cup of joe at the convenience sto’
            But ain’t no cup of coffee like an AA cup of coffee                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         -Sober Robby

What good does it do to identify yourself as a recovering alcoholic? Why don’t you just say, “I don’t drink?”

Plenty of people–including loved ones–have quit drinking with the support that one can only get from 12-step meetings. But, Alcoholics Anonymous isn’t the only way to quit. To tell someone that a 12-step program is the only way to quit is dangerous. What if they go through the program and it doesn’t work?

When I returned to Virginia, I acquired a wine habit. You can’t get wine at the grocery store in Tennessee. There were days when, by noon, I was so drunk could hardly stand. Just before I quit drinking for good, I bought and drank a six-pack of beer every day for a month. Do I qualify as an alcoholic?

My addictions were alcohol and cigarettes. AA preaches that you shouldn’t try to quit smoking until you’ve been clean for a whole year. Bullshit. Who makes up this crap? I did it successfully in half that time. (I had one advantage with breaking the nicotine dependency, though. I lived alone.)

It’s impossible to claim that AA is not a religious organization. What higher power are you referring to? Non-Christians are belittled. The first word of their signature statement is Lord. Judges order people to go to these things!

In Narcotics Anonymous, you can’t even say the name of your “drug of choice.” You can’t solve a problem by denying it. Every drinker has had good times while drunk. There was a brewery in Nashville called Blackstone. I got plastered on a regular basis. It was fun to have goofy conversations and shamelessly flirt. Actually, I annoyed the hell out of the barflies on several occasions.

Anyway, I just got tired of paying over $200 a month just to have everything I owned smell bad. I quit smoking, but continued to drink. Eventually, the urge to smoke became unbearable. I was standing in my bedroom, trying to figure out what to do next. I couldn’t afford to smoke or drink, let alone both. So, I told myself that if I go to the convenience store and buy a pack of cigarettes, I would never have another sip of alcohol. And that’s what happened.

I was a bourbon man. There are late night commercials advertising expensive bourbon. When the brown liquid goes into the ice-filled glass, I can remember exactly how it tastes.


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Beauty in Solitude

It was known as Ultima Thule, which means in Latin, “beyond the known world.” It was changed because Ultima Thule had some significance regarding Nazi sympathizers. It became Arrokot, which comes from the Powhatan tribe of the Chesapeake Bay. It means “sky.”

Arrokot is only about 20 miles across. It sits one billion miles past Pluto. New Horizons was launched in 2006, before the discovery of Arrokot. New Horizons caught some spectacular photographs of Pluto and her moons. It had enough fuel to fly by Arrokot, so they did some delicate maneuvering.

This has fascinated me since I saw the NOVA program. It has to be the most lonesome object in the Solar System. It just sits there in quiet dignity. Did it even notice that an alien spaceship flew by and took pictures?

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Vain Posturing

I wrote a song called “Party Favors” while living in the dormitory. It’s just about the darkest lyric I have penned. It was the only song I could perform competently.

Walking down the street in Richmond, I saw a friend I hadn’t seen a while, performing as a solo act in a small nightclub. During an intermission, I asked if I could play a song. He said, “Well, I’ve put a lot of work into getting all these songs together, and building this audience. I can’t let anyone just step up and perform.” I thought he was being a total prick, but I eventually realized that he was totally right.

There was a house in the woods just north of Harrisonburg. There was a small stage near the house. I attended some of their parties. I met the owners, and told them that, “I took the liberty of looking through your CD collection.” They laughed uncomfortably, and I continued, “Anyone who has Big Science on CD is pretty cool.”

One time, a rock band was playing. A friend and I formed a mosh pit of two. That wasn’t even the stupidest thing I did at that place. A local reggae project, Awareness Art Ensemble, was performing. There were some roto-toms set up; nobody was using them. I saw a pair of sticks. Next thing, there I was, banging on their percussion…terribly. I figured that since no one in the band was telling me to leave, they must like it.

The closest thing to improvisation in Nashville is when someone farts. I was into the free jazz scene: musical improvisation and total freedom with no regard for tempo or key. The goal is to not pay attention to what the other musicians are doing. It’s super fun! Not one person from Nashville understood. Not one.

The friend I followed from Harrisonburg to Nashville was going back to Virginia. There was a going away party at the big house with a rehearsal space in the basement. At parties in Nashville, everybody tries to impress everybody else with their skills as a musician. There was one girl who utterly hated me. She played a little guitar, and then she tried to set the bongos between her knees. She couldn’t make it work. She probably hoped that no one noticed.

I sat down at the keyboard. I loved playing the piano. One big-time engineer guy tossed me from the bench. He asked if I knew how to play. I didn’t answer, I just went somewhere else.

A little later, the bongos were unattended. I held them with my arm and attempted a rhythm with the other hand. It was a crowded area, and I was leaning against a wall. I was banging on the bongos like the grooviest man in the room. Some guy that I knew motioned a rhythm as he walked past. I thought he was being silly. Apparently, there is a specific way to play bongos…but I didn’t know.

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One Fine Moment

It was a hot summer day. Clay was inside the supermarket, buying beer. I was standing outside, smoking a cigarette. A young girl came outside, with a sly attitude. There were two long rows of shopping carts, with a space between. She went down the space and hid.

Suddenly, an older woman walked through the automatic doors. She was totally freaked out. I said, “Little girl? She’s behind the shopping carts.”

It was the most sincere, “Thank you,” I have ever heard.


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Films that Changed Me

Eleven years old, alone at home… It was the early days of cable, we had HBO (the only game in town). I’d seen advertisements for The Elephant Man. It was coming on—it was rated PG. I decided to watch it. It disturbed me so much. I felt so sorry for him. It changed me.

I researched The Elephant Man for this article, to remember the dis-comfort my brain felt. I’ve seen the particular scene from Robocop (the “glitch” scene) too many times to look at it again. It’s the part where the giant robot wastes the guy. He knew that he was going to die in ten seconds. Nothing was left to the imagination.

While living in Nashville, I worked at a video store. There was an older man with two young children. The little boy found a children’s cartoon about dinosaurs. The older man said, “That’s for kids. Get a good movie, get Robocop.” I wanted to say something, but it wasn’t my place. The kids just lost their innocence at an early age.

Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice • Natalie Wood in a bikini.

Encarta Dictionary: surrealism: early 20th-century movement in art and literature that represents the subconscious mind by creating fantastic imagery and juxtaposing ideas that seem to contradict each other.

Coming from a man who sees a Satanic influence in Schoolhouse RockSmile Guide has been deemed fit for consumption as pure art. Made in Poland and set in Mushroomland, it centers on a young woman named Agatha. Her makeup is the creepiest I’ve seen since The Exorcist.

Poradnik Uśmiechu


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Punk in Context

25f Coldwell








The only punk rock music I really got into was the Dead Kennedys. A great guy I knew in high school, Jason, loaned me the records Give Me Convenience or Give Me Death and In God We Trust, Inc. I put them on cassette and listened over and over. Jello Biafra’s lyrics championed the outcast. Living in a small, rural community in the South gave me plenty of reasons to want to be cast out. There is a strange comfort in these lyrics from “In Sight,” “We never talk to him/ He never looks quite right/ He laughs at us, so we must beat him up/ What he sees escapes our sight.” (As a grade-schooler, I was deeply moved by “The Fool on the Hill,” which had the same theme: it’s okay to be different.)

(Going to high school in Appomattox really wasn’t so bad. Everyone pretty much stayed out of my way. I pissed some people off in my campaign for Student Council Vice President, but I never got beat up.)

collage - discipline.jpg

Another great guy, Tony, gave me my first copy of Maximumrocknroll. I was fascinated as I flipped through the pages in study hall. Maximumrocknroll was a non-profit magazine, newsprint, with columns, interviews, reviews, and—my favorite—letters. There were a lot of cool advertisements in Maximumrocknroll.

One time, I ordered some buttons and a t-shirt from an ad in Maximumrocknroll. The buttons said things like, “The Moral Majority is Neither” and “Military Intelligence is a Contradiction in Terms.” The T-shirt had a picture of gravestones at Arlington Cemetery and the words “You don’t die for your country…your country kills you.”

My fascination with punk culture lasted well into my twenties. I published some zines. While not “punk,” they were part of a broader counterculture, a counterculture that barely existed. It is a fucking shame that the Maximumrocknroll contingent would only be associated with artists who were what they considered “punk.”  I read a letter in which some guy was complaining that Maximumrocknroll gave his record a bad review because it had an acoustic guitar on it.


Then there’s this business of “selling out.” It was South Park where selling out was defined as: “If you work in the entertainment business, and you make any money at all, you’re a sell out.”

I had always considered that the term “selling outis about people who make a name for themselves in the punk community, and then sign with a major label. It’s like a betrayal. For me, I haven’t made much of a name for myself in any arena, and the matter of signing with a major label is completely irrelevant—I can’t give my totally DIY EP away.

By any measure, Henry Rollins is a sell out.

25f Additives to Faith

There is a lot of philosophical common ground between punk culture and myself. I wouldn’t be the person I am without it. However, while I may have for a while in high school, I do  not regard myself as “punk.” My acoustic guitar just sounds too awesome.


25f Nixon With BombMaximumrocknroll


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Bizarre Jobs


We didn’t stay in California long. It was my first semester of kindergarten, and Stephen was in second grade. We came up with the idea of having a “plant sale” on the front lawn. We gathered containers and put plants from the yard in them. Stephen made a sign. One woman drove by, saw us, and gave us two nickels for a plant. That was a lot of money to a kid back then.

Austin Underpass

Sole Proprietorship:

#1: The public golf course in Austin was next to the airport. Somehow, I got the idea to go around the golf course on my ten-speed and pick up stray golf balls to sell. I found less than a dozen over a couple of weeks. Some were fancy, and I sold most of them at our yard sale.

#2: Every day, on the way to Pearce junior high, I would stop at Safeway and buy a bag of lollipops. I sold them to fellow students for a quarter each—making a decent profit. Of course, there were the complimentary lollipops for the kids who could easily kick my ass.

Independent Contractor:

Fast forward to me at twenty-two. I had three (sometimes four) roommates in an apartment with a red front door on which someone had scratched, “Cinder Hippie 666.” The upstairs bathroom door would sometimes lock itself, requiring a good swift kick. El John was the cat.

My painting buddy, Butch, was a good many years older than I was. We had some fun drunken and hilariously misogynistic times. He started delivering newspapers and worked with this odd man, Alan. Butch got me a gig painting the interior of Alan’s house. I did a crummy job. Anyhow, Alan got me a gig with Pro-Steam, cleaning carpets.

It was horrible. I got the big map book of Greater Richmond. Once I located the customer’s home, I had no idea what the job would be like until they opened the door. Sometimes it was sloppy, sometimes it was neat, and sometimes there was furniture to move. The equipment was heavy and awkward—I was in the best shape I’ve ever been.

When I went into people’s houses, the first thing I’d try to sell was deodorizer—it came in either cinnamon or cherry. People who say that there aren’t cultural differences between white people and black people may find this tidbit interesting: 100% of the time—regardless of income level—regardless of gender—inner city or suburb… Black people always chose cherry, and white people always chose cinnamon. Always. No exceptions.

Nashville Fourth

(Un) Professional Temp:

First, they had me stuffing envelopes, then they had me doing data entry. I had a terrible cold the whole week I worked at EDS, a Medicaid contractor located in downtown Nashville. I stayed home on the Monday. Tuesday, they put me with a nice caucasian woman named Breena in the microfilm lab. It was a small room filled with equipment. Nobody could come into the room without knocking because sometimes the room needed to be dark to process film. On our first cigarette break, she told me that she takes her nap around two. She was often heard to say, “If I don’t feel like working, I don’t work.”

The bastards at Kelly Services sent a disgusting and insulting letter about calling in sick. It was Thursday evening, and I smoked a bit of reefer. I concocted the most vile and crazy scheme—involving Breena lying to the supervisor. She was hurt to hear it.

The numbers weren’t too good in the microfilm lab (so I presumed), I stuffed envelopes on the Friday, and my numbers weren’t impressive. When I got home, the woman at Kelly Services called and told me that the supervisor said that it “just wasn’t working out.” I assume that he and Breena had a chat.


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In Front of People

In high school, the senior play for the class just ahead of me was Bye Bye Birdie. I ran sound. Brian, who played the lead role, was a friend. My first instrument was bass, and the first guitarist I jammed with was Brian. He impressed me with his knowledge of bar chords. We formed a band with Robby on piano and someone named Chuckie on drums. We rehearsed in the band room, working on “Johnny B. Goode,” “Louie, Louie,” and a cheap blues number. They let us do our songs after Bye Bye Birdie, the show for the students. It was pure exhilaration. The girls were screaming.

Years later, there was a business in downtown Appomattox called The Mushroom Factory. It was run by two grown hippies—a man and a woman. They sold books, artwork, and coffee. I brought several copies of Rip Snap Meow for them to give to customers. She found it offensive, and was glad they didn’t give any away.

National for BlogThe Mushroom Factory sometimes had live music. I put together ten songs. The lady insisted that she see all the lyrics before she would let me perform. The day of the concert, there weren’t any customers—just the woman and one female employee. I opened with “City of Dreams” by Talking Heads. I had known all along that I was severely off key, but I figured that performing it in front of people would miraculously fix my pitch. It was all terrible.

The Little Grill in Harrisonburg, Virginia was a cool place for live music. I played at an open mic night. I was so nervous, I went behind the building and puked—just a little. I played a song I wrote, “Hippie With a Dog,” and the Pink Floyd classic, “Pigs (Three Different Ones).” One guy in the front was familiar with the original and seemed to dig my interpretation thoroughly.

The city of Murfreesboro was about fifty minutes south of Nashville. That’s where I did the only live performance the whole time I lived in Tennessee. I chose “Psycho Killer.” I was drunk and the song was brutally under rehearsed. A friend said that it “wasn’t quite ready for MTV.”

Robby and I have maintained our friendship. He would come in and out town every couple of years. It seems that he was the only avant-garde performer Appomattox has ever known. One of the things he did was street performance. He said that one time, he went behind a building downtown and improvised on the saxophone (at high volume).

He would frequent the open mic night at Baine’s Books & Coffee on Main Street. There, I performed “Pigs (Three Different Ones).” It’s hard to sing—but I had it down. I was prepared and confident. Now I can say that I did it right, once. No one in the audience recognized the song, but I think they genuinely appreciated the effort. One woman complained slightly that only playing one song was a tease.

The last time I performed in front of people was at Baine’s, just before Robby ran off on his latest adventure. The song was “It’s All True,” the first song on I Should be Shot. I couldn’t play it alone because there was an extended solo. Robby played piano. He wasn’t much interested in rehearsing—we only went over it for about fifteen minutes. I didn’t introduce the song, I just counted down. I liked to sing it—it had a playful melody—I think I sang it well. Nevertheless, Robby and I were so disconnected, it just sounded wrong. We got some pity applause. I left as soon as I packed up my guitar.

The Little Grill

Baine’s Books & Coffee

Space Cabbage


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Visitor Center

There was a war going on. A friend was in the Army, in the middle of the action. He could have backed out after September 11, but it only strengthened his conviction.

There were gaps in my work history. I figured it would be good to do some volunteer work–to have something to put on my résumé and to get a good reference. I got the United Way book of volunteer opportunities. I called several charities. It’s amazing how challenging it is to find a place that’s interested in free labor.

I called the Appomattox Visitor Information Center. They were delighted to hear from me. I figured that since I’ve lived in the area for quite some time, I could do a reasonable job. I dressed like I was going to an interview, and brought my hopeless résumé. The very nice elderly woman in charge asked if I knew it was a non-paying position.

She threw me to the wolves. My first shift was on a Saturday afternoon. It was near the peak of the tourist season. The desperation began when I got there—I arrived fifteen minutes early, so the morning shift lady went home fifteen minutes early.

The first question I got was, “Why did they sign the surrender at a private residence instead of the Courthouse?” I could only say, “This is my first day, I don’t know much about the Civil War.” Some woman said, “That doesn’t make much sense.”

There was nobody but me holding down the fort. If there was someone else I could ask to take charge while I went home, I probably would have made the imposition. (They wanted to work out the details on neutral land—also, it was Sunday and the Courthouse was closed.)

VC int blog

I ended up taking the Friday afternoon shift. There was a nice woman named Tina who worked at the Chamber of Commerce office in the rear of the building. There was a small television in my work area. I was able to get a channel where I could get some information about the war. I would sporadically give Tina updates.

Mostly, my job consisted of helping middle class white people have nicer vacations in the hope that they would throw some dough into the local economy. If the Visitor Center couldn’t fill all the shifts, they would lose funding.

There was a world map on the wall, and visitors could put a pin designating where they were from. Most countries had at least a couple of pins. A family from Hawaii came in one time. It’s mindboggling that people from Hawaii would vacation in Appomattox! Two guys from somewhere in Europe were driving around, and they thought Appomattox was a neat word, so they followed the signs to the Visitor Center. I gave them the bullet points of the American Civil War and a map to the National Historical Park.

The people I worked with were good people. They doubled my salary a few times. I eventually started calling in sick to go fishing. The Visitor Center and I parted on good terms. This experience hammered into my brain that I don’t have the temperament for working with the public. The work experience and the good reference were useful, though.

Appomattox Visitor Information Center

Appomattox Court House National Historical Park


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Ill Manners and Hope

cropped-swamp-2[1]My mouth was terribly dry. I was waiting for family at El Cazador, the only true Mexican restaurant in town. I figured that, when my family got there, I could go inside and order an iced tea. In front of the Kroger was a soda machine.

They could be heard a mile away. The sound of thump, thump, thump wafted through the air like a thousand dirty diapers. It doesn’t make you a man because you can turn a dial, buddy. There were families walking around while these guys were blasting out profanities. When they parked, the driver turned the stereo even louder to illustrate a particular obscene portion, and then he turned it down. They got some sodas and drove off.

It would be just as well, I thought, to get a soda for myself. I put a dollar in the machine and got a grape soda. Apparently, the sodas only cost a quarter. I wasn’t even back to the bench before El Cazador when a young girl walked up and stopped me. She had three quarters and handed them to me. She said, “You forgot your change.”


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Theft and Hope

I went to the bank for a roll of quarters. As I handed him the ten-dollar bill, the teller asked if I was going to wash my car or do laundry. There was a teller I liked standing behind him, and I didn’t want her to know how poor I was. It was clearly none of anyone’s business, but I sheepishly said, “Laundry.”

Appomattox only has one laundromat, on Confederate Boulevard—the main drag. It was nice enough. It was kept up reasonably well. The sign on the door that said “Air Conditioned” was a lie.

As my washer was finishing, a lady was using a nearby dryer, taking her clothes out. As she was about to leave, she pointed out that the dryer was malfunctioning—it was running for free. I said, “Thanks,” not intending to use it—that would be stealing. Of course, I did end up using it. I used it every time I returned.

Mom's Garden 3

It was necessary to make a couple of trips to the drink machine. As I was getting my soda, I noticed a five-dollar bill on the floor. I left it there, figuring either someone would come back for it, or it would make some kid’s day. It was the latter. I was sitting on the bench before the glass window when a boy came up to me and asked, “Sir, have you dropped five dollars?”

I replied, “Nope,” and the boy was off.


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The Promise Keepers

A friend from Seattle visited me in Nashville in the fall of 1997. We were both editors of underground publications. We had met briefly at a restaurant in D.C., three years earlier.

In that cruddy little apartment on Evelyn Avenue, my bed and my couch were in different rooms. On the first morning, I awoke before her. My stereo and computer were in the room where she was sleeping. I was so bored that I flipped through the AM radio on my alarm clock.

I found the live broadcast of the march on Washington by the Promise Keepers. They were a group of men who wanted to take responsibility for their actions—to the women in their lives, and to God. The name of the event was “Stand in the Gap, a Sacred Assembly of Men.” That first part doesn’t sound very comfortable for the woman. I crept into the living room and started to record the broadcast, taping over Henry Rollins.

The Promise Keepers announcer said that there were men walking around the reflecting pool reading parts of the Bible so that the entire book was read. Why?

Those were the days of staying up late to listen to Art Bell. It was a syndicated program that often discussed the supernatural and the disquieting. There were several recurring guests, one of the more interesting was David Oates. His field was Reverse Speech. The theory was that when people arCassette - Final - Crope talking they say things that can only be heard if listened to backward. Supposedly, that gives insight into their inner selves. When heard backward, the human voice conjures an unholy tone.

During the horrible and bitter days of working at Radio Shack, I stole a small tape recorder. (It was a return that had a scratch but was good enough to restock.) I took out the play head and turned it upside down.

I slapped in the Promise Keeper’s tape. Whenever they said, “Stand in the gap, a sacred assembly of men,” it came out as, “An unveiled mess, oh what a mess.” No shit. Clear as a bell. I swear. The only thing I heard on the rest of the tape was what sounded like a black preacher saying, “No one knew her name, law.”

The Promise Keepers have all the right to do and say whatever they want…no matter how silly I think they are. For me, it would be horrifying to be in an auditorium filled with men who all think and believe the exact same way as me.

One more time: An unveiled mess, oh what a mess.

It Speaks for Itself

Relative to Nothing


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It’s Spring

The golden strand
Of the ceremonial string
Calls out beyond intelligence:
  it’s spring.

Spring is never happy,
Spring is always dull.
It’s a lie that
  flowers bloom
  and the yellow moon
  shines bright upon the earth.
  It’s a lie.

Fools play in the fields.
They forget about the mines
Planted in the undergrowth:
  it’s spring.

Spring comes once a year
But never really goes.
It only pretends to snow.
If you can never feel the
  warm mud ooze between your
  you’re a lie, too.

Winter in Spout Spring







Winter is an illusion
To make us feel cold;
So that we are happy
When the President addresses
The country and makes
His formal announcement:
  It’s spring.


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High School Biometrics

A long time ago, I graduated from Appomattox County High School. Things were simpler then. Not better, but simpler. Maybe different is the right word. This was before the horrors of Columbine, before the War on Terror, before internet bullying, and before students had to check in and out by swiping cards. The thought of asking public school students to use their fingerprints to check in and out of school was unconscionable—even in cheap science fiction.

Nowadays, people seem to accept happily that when they carry their smartphones, they can be found by anybody who really wants to know where they are. Twenty years ago, people were horrified at the idea that someone could implant a microchip into a pet. Consider the information we give away just to use the internet…forget about it. I keep a piece of electrical tape over my webcam. I assume that every keystroke I make can be monitored. (Hi there.)

Pardon me for being dismayed that the local newspaper, The Times-Virginian, had a front-page article called “Fingerprint Scanner Helps Document Students’ Attendance.” The article, by Stephanie James, said that the fingerprint scan is currently optional, but the mandatory cards have been in use for the past two years. When students scan a fingerprint or swipe a card, their picture and name shows up on a laptop screen. The article states that the program “is used to record a student’s attendance, and can be used to reveal if a student is cutting class.” Parents can sign up to receive e-mail or text alerts if their child is truant.

Hell, some of my best memories of high school are from days I played hooky. One time, my friend Graham and I ditched school and spent the day at his house. We played guitar, smoked cigarettes, and ran around on his roof. Those were the days before the public could wrap their minds around the very concept of caller ID—we were free to make any prank calls we wanted. One time, my friend Tony and I skipped school, and I drove my big red pickup to the high school one county over. There were some girls there that we liked. During that day, we were parked in a wooded area for some reason, and my nose started to bleed something terrible. On the senior class’s skip day, a cool guy had a lot of land and a small lake on his property. I had a few beers, wrote some embarrassing things in people’s yearbooks (forgive me!), and swam a lot. That day when I got home, the folks had decided it would be fun to go swimming at the big state park. I was miserable.


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