Punk Rock

It's been awhile.

I have this wallpaper on my computer now. I've already forgotten who's painted it but I want to say it's a Cezanne. I may have spelled that wrong but whatever. It's a painting of a tree and I want to say it's symbolic of my growth by moving to California and getting serious with a girl that I really am crazy about but in reality it's just a picture that I find beautiful. There are mountains in the background and the tree is full and prosperous atop this hill as if the deserterous mountains that engulf it have no effect. To be more accurate we'd be a shrub on the side of this tree, maybe even a weed that the other trees are trying to kill yet somehow we have survived.

I don't belong here. That much is evident. I seem to assimilate, making friends with the locals and waving a hello to the neighbors whose money we stole in a friendly game of poker a couple of weeks ago, but they all know. They know that normal families don't leave an eaten up couch sitting in front of their driveway for weeks at a time. They know that the families don't park their car on the rocks directly in front of the doorway. They know that we aren't married and we don't have kids. We're a sight for irritated eyes with our alcoholic roomy that stumbles his way into the walls and eventually into his bedroom on a nightly basis as though it is a part of his occupation. They realize that there is something off about our presence here, but there is nothing they can do about it but pray that I find a job elsewhere.

And believe me, I'm trying. When I thought about places that I could live once getting out of the army, you better believe that California was atop the list of possibilities. But this California is nit the California of a young man's dreams, through Sublime songs, of a down to earth community of musicians trying to survive underground in a community filled with other artists with the same plight. No. My California is one of desperation and deprivation. A California where the metropolis, if you can even call it that, is so far away that you could not even claim L.A. residency.

One hour is the difference between us and "civilization". But I'm not sure I would even consider L.A. civilization. It's more of a country club, that I'm not a part of. A country club that you need to make more than a million a year to even be considered for membership. I was only there briefly but I realized, very quickly, that I did not belong. And if I'm not here for the proximity of L.A. then why am I here. I'll assure you it isn't for the hour long trips to work each day. I will assure that regardless of the substantial pay being thrown at me to remain here, that I am looking for a ticket out. I'm miserable.

Our town, which some say is "the biggest that they've ever live in" (from Wisconsin), is a glip, less than a glip even, on a google map. The "big" bar here is a bar called "Mr. V's" and it is approximately the size of the bowling alley in Hilton, NY (population 5,000). And yet, I find some comfort here. Not in the house that we rent, or our neighbors, that really do make an effort to accept us, but from a 46-year-old punk rocker passing through.

Mr'V's has Karaoke night, EVERY night, except for Friday and on this particular night Kayleen and I decided to sing a couple of songs. My, song, very different than the songs I sing with my father was "I Want to be Sedated" drawing mainly from the Ramones rendition that I find much more appealing than the Billy Idol version years later.

I've been working vehemently on my thesis, trying to complete my degree and as my research increases, so does my taste for punk rock music and my interest in groups that set the standard as far as the music is concerned. When it comes to the Ramones, I'm not sure you can say that there is any group that was more influential on the movement. Though many think the Sex Pistols are the originators of the movement, research will tell that The Ramones, Television, Iggy, New York Dolls, Velvet Underground and even to a certain extent The Doors, preceded the Sex Pistols and influenced them greatly.

So my approach this song has been heavily influenced by the bands that I've been listening to as of recent: The Ramones, The Clash, Fugazi, The Buzzcocks, Rise Against, Sonic Youth, Bad Religion, Televison, MC5, Iggy and Flogging Molly among others. So when I stepped up and took control of this, (quite small) audience, I was taking with me a history of music that I find most appealing. Punk.

I didn't try to recite the lyrics in a way that sounded like anyone that had sung the sound before me. Not that I was trying to be unique. I just have my own voice that doesn't exactly fit with the way the song had been interpreted before. What I found is that my rendition took on a life of its own. I wasn't just singing someone else's song any longer. I had made the song my own. My scruff voice started the song as many may have sung it before myself but as the song progressed, so did my movements on the stage and the intensity of my voice. Before I realized what was occurring, the crowd was moving and I was belching a scream, more typical of "hardcore" punk, than of anything that had been done in the past. I was performing again. I was where I may have always been meant to be, on stage.

I remember my friend Jeff asked me awhile ago whether I'd be interested in being in a band with him. At the time, I realized that I had/have no voice. I was researching punk but I hadn't realized how unimportant this was to everything. I thought "I can't sing, why would I even attempt to be a singer in a band?" I write. That's what I do. But as I came off the stage, in a rush of emotion someone pulled me over and complimented me on my performance. He said that he was from the east and that I was better than any of the shit he had seen on stage before me. I kind of blew it off but we wound up talking a little bit later and he said that he had connections and he wanted to hear me sing again. So I did the song one last time and I felt a real comfort with the mic, jumping around the stage and shifting the cord as needed. For the first time in my life I thought. "Hey, maybe, I can be a real punk rocker".

Who knows? Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. This is one group of people that believe in me. This is one person with some connections that may or may not work out. But I can't help but yearn for that stage presence again. I was talking with a good friend of mine recently who has been encouraging me to start writing again and I asked her about what she honestly thought about my short-lived career as an actor. I trust this friend's opinion and critique of any artistic venture I find myself involved in and she had belief in my talent as a performer and as a writer. I can't help but think "Maybe I've been a punk rocker all along." Maybe it's a deep-rooted wish of mine, especially after my research. I mean, who wouldn't want to be a punk rocker? But maybe it isn't just a crazy wish. Maybe this guy really does have connections. And maybe I have found my allotment in life. Could someone teach me how to write a song?

The Balcony Toss

It started with eggs. That Light Bulb Supply building looks so close, yet my meager arm could not reach it when extended with a projectile egg. Hurl after hurl my throws fell short and what I once thought was a strong outfield arm was proved worthless until finally,

Whap!

I got it. It wasn't really difficult at all. It was more about getting the right angle rather than having a strong arm. From the apartment, which is located two stories above the building, the distance appeared much shorter than its true distance. Which an adjustment of trajectory the building proved to be an easy target, yet there was still satisfaction in watching the egg leave my hand at just the right curve and find it's way to the side of the building, exploding its fragments throughout the parking lot that lay below.

It wasn't long before a hobby was created. After visitors followed their folly into our liquor cabinets, the carton of eggs would appear and each individual would take their turn at hurling eggs at the building's walls or other targets that were in plain view and not privately owned. No cars were ever hit and no people were ever threatened. It was pure fun. One person hit the building on their first try and hit it about as often as I could after several turns at it. Besides this person I was the only successful throwing arm that ever stepped into this apartment. I take some pride in that. I am a success. I can successfully hit a building, a reasonable distance away, with an egg… from my apartment balcony. Who wouldn't take some pride in that?

I'm not sure how it mutated, but I'm pretty sure there was some rum involved. Before long eggs proved to be just one of the many items that are now tossed from our balcony. Apples, pineapples, oranges, beef for stew, ground beef, apples, yogurts, bananas, Grey Goose bottles, wine bottles, avocados, coconuts, yams… pretty much anything we find in our fridge that is past its expiration date gets a toss off the balcony these days.

"I'm surprised we haven't been kicked out yet", I told my roommate last week. "I think it's only a matter of time but how would they prove it you know?"

The proof they needed came two days ago when we had a couple of people over and decided to push our luck. I had decided not to drink because my stomach was feeling ill but this didn't keep my roommate, my girlfriend or her friend from getting tight. When the rum started to flow through their veins and a release was needed we turned to our most accessible and effective form, the balcony toss.

Systematically choosing the right items in the our fridge I started by throwing an orange and dropping a piece of bacon on the Mercedes owned by the cocky ass that always parks in the fifteen minute parking area. That'll show him! Shortly after I went back into the apartment to grab some more items only to be dismayed by a white SUV that remained parked just outside the apartment. I knew it was bad news but I threw it anyway. She didn't seem to notice but I didn't want to press my luck and I returned to the safety of the apartment. Every rotten item that was once in the fridge stayed on the countertops and I enjoyed a vanilla porter that no one but myself enjoys. The beer swelled those two hanging body parts that I protect like they're my children and pretty soon I was ducking behind our flag in hopes of extending my arm just far enough to reach the building yet not be noticed by the SUV in front. While waiting, my girlfriend came out with her arms full of projectiles and ducking low with myself as to not be seen.

Before I could throw my item, she dropped a bucket of yogurt on the sidewalk, barely missing the Mercedes whose tires I'd like to slash. I looked directly to the SUV and could see that we had been seen. She pointed directly at our balcony and kept watch. We remained ducked with the door closed. I thought her attention would soon sway elsewhere or they would take off towards their destination but I was wrong. I could see her dial her phone and talk with passion as her eye remained on our balcony. It was time to leave.

My girlfriend and I snuck back inside and I announced to the rest of our guests that we were leaving, heading to my favorite bar in this city, on Colfax and York. Everyone, excluding myself, took numerous shots and we were on our way with me at the helm. As we drove around the building towards the bar with bathrooms in the vault, we looked at the SUV. There were now three people, one of which being a security guard, crowded outside, speaking to the SUV owners and inhabitants with their attentions turned towards our apartment. They were after us. But what could they do now? We were cautious. We knew we were watched. And we were now on the lamb.

Though the crimes were minor, we all felt like outlaws; outlaws that had outsmarted the authority; outlaws that would eat, sleep and live another day in the cove of our choice. That night our drinks were inspired by victory and we were untouchable.; on top of a small world where small crimes and victories seemed epic.

I noticed the pirate flag reflecting in my back window as I carefully watched the police officer change lanes and speed past us on our ride home. And I can't explain how appropriate it was for my girlfriend to shout ludicrous statements at the people we passed on the street or for our friend to puke on the car of the person who parks in the handicapped spot. And I'm pretty sure that we started the fight with the cars full of people parked just outside our balcony with the girl puking off to the side. She screamed for us to, "come get some you fucking pirates" and my friend told her to wait right there as he headed down there with a cone over his shoulder. As the cars pulled away, I held my girlfriend in my arm and watched as the pirate flag waved in the wind.