Vonnegut

When he died a few years ago, I felt pretty bad. Vonnegut had been one of my first loves. Slaughterhouse 5 was one of the few books I read in High School. Mr. Ellis, he named himself "El"Ellis, assigned in in A.P. English my senior year--and I actually read it. I read that, Light in August and Pride and Prejudice. Can you imagine. In any case, Vonnegut stole my heart. It was Vonnegut and the poetry of John Donne. I fell so deeply in love with Slaughterhouse 5 that I said "so it goes" to anyone who would listen for a year. This year, when I was thinking about what to assign for summer reading, I went rebel and assigned Welcome to the Monkey House. The other teachers were assigning Confederacy of Dunces, as bad a book as any fat fuck from LA ever wrote--I am glad he killed himself. Anyway, Vonnegut. I read the book over the summer, finished it today as we're going back to school next week--it was off the charts amazing. I've read "Harrison Bergeron" a dozen times, but the rest of the book is incredible. "Adam" is one of the most beautiful, touching stories I've ever read. I cried for 30 minutes after I read it. How could anyone, let alone a goyum, write a story about Jews and the Holocaust that beautiful? Vonnegut's sense of the human soul is unmatched. He must have been a wonderful man. As I child, I liked Bradbury. As I grew up, and read everything he wrote, I discovered he hated women. He does, you know. Every other story involves some fat, ugly whore who destroys a man's life. Even Bukowski liked women more that Bradbury. But not Vonnegut baby. I can't find who he hated, who he did wrong. Thank you Mr. Vonnegut. Thanks for giving me something to talk to my students about for the coming year. Thanks for caring so much about people. Thanks for not letting war turn you against mankind. I wish you had lived forever, instead of Bradbury. So it goes.

The Joys of Tannerite

Rexburg, ID is an unlikely heaven of vacation fun. The town itself is a bit tame for my taste--no bars, one liquor store (a broom closet in a gas station) and 40,000 Mormons, a number which has undoubtedly gone up since we left last week. There are no good restaurants, though we did find a good sandwich place in Rigby, down the road a spell. Rigby also has a larger (think walk-in closet) liquor store called "White Lightenin". In short there is almost no reason to go to Rexburg, which sits on the ass side of the Grand Tetons, unless you're a Mormon farmer or student at BYU Idaho. So how is it that the Coleman's ended up there again this year for a week's vacation? The Peters--Kate Peters, who I work with, and her husband John along with their kids, Andrew and Charlie. Kate's dad is part owner of a ranch complex outside of town. The ranch is on the most unusable, by conventional Mormon farmer standards, land in Idaho. Henry's Fork of the Snake River winds through the 400 acres of land that Kate's dad and two others own. It is full of swamp, woods, moose, mosquito's, trout, eagles, goats, shell casings, tire treads and mud. In other words, heaven. Heaven if you like riding OHV's at full throttle after drinking half a bottle of Seagrams 7 (don't ask, it was cheap at the broom closet), and it turns out that I do like doing that.

We (my boys, wife and the Peterses) spent week doing nothing but drinking, shooting, riding and repeating. Steve, Kate's dad, has supplied the property with every toy a person could want from the aforementioned OHV's to a two-wheel drive motorcycle (Rokon), a six wheeled amphibious craft, a sand rail, and the only fan boat in Idaho. All of these, not to mention the guns and ammo, were made available to us in addition to having John, the ranch manager, at our disposal. We went on the fan boat, to the St. Anthony sand dunes for a ride on the rail, and took 40 or 50 rides through the miles of trails on the property. The boys, 13 and 10, shot guns, drove cars, fished and wrestled--often all at the same time. My wife did all of the above as well, including the wrestling.

But that's not all, which brings me to the title of today's post. Tannerite is an explosive developed by some guy named Tanner. Anyone can buy it by the case and have it shipped to his home. It arrives as two compounds which then need to be mixed and placed in the explosive target container. That's right, I said target. Tannerite can only be ignited by being shot with a high-powered riffle. You can drop it, kick it and even shoot it with a .22 or pistol and nothing will happen; however, if you were to shoot it with a .25-06 riffle round (which I can't recommend enough) it makes as big a boom as should be legal in civilian life. Our target of choice this year was an old clothes dryer that had been replaced. The irony here is thick, given that the Colemans were out of our house for 6 weeks last year due to a dryer fire--this was payback. Julie, John and I took turns taking three round cracks at hitting the Tannerite in the middle of the dryer. John, the ranch manager, was our spotter. John Peters hit the target with a glancing blow, but it didn't blow, then we opened the drier door and I got lucky on my second shot. The dryer went up in the air, all four sides of it blown off. When it landed, the inside drum was the only thing left intact. Take that Whirlpool. That's for smoking every belonging I have. That's for sticking me and my family in a Residence Inn for a month and a half. That's for the lingering smoke smell on my entire library of books. I didn't think of it at the time, but I should have brought a piece of the dead dryer back to show the new dryer that I fucking mean business. Tannerite is therapeutic.

Thanks Kate and John, Steve, Andrew Charlie, Julie, Riley, Spencer, and the Mormon god for making Rexburg. It makes life worth living.

Good Night Sweet Prince

Daniel Shore died Friday, as most of you must know. I won't bore anyone with the details of his heroic (I don't use this term lightly) life, except to say that the release of leaked military documents this week, showing that the government is lying to us about everything in Afghanistan, harmonically converges with the passing of one of the bravest, truest journalists of the last half-century. Shore had the distinction of being on Richard Nixon's enemies list, finding that out by reading his own name on air while reading a leaked copy of said list. He went on to report on a leaked Pike Committee report detailing illegal CIA and FBI activities. When called before Congress to testify, Shore refused to name his source and was summarily fired by CBS. He didn't curl up and go away at that point; he kept going, to CNN and then to, as a commentator, NPR, where I knew him as the voice of aged reason, the best example of the wisdom of unfazed, old intellect.

That Wikileaks has published the latest litany of lies from the govment is proof, as if we needed any, that the Shores of our world are the true heroes and that they are not all dead--thank God. Thank you Mr. Shore for making me think while I listened to your broadcasts. Thank you for making me feel less alone and less of a malcontent. Thank you for what you did for our country, world. Your death reminded me of a passage from Shakespeare's Richard the Second Act II, i:

O', but they say the tounges of dying men

Enforce attention like deep harmony

Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain,

For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.

He that no more must say is listen'd more

Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;

More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before:

The setting sun, and music at the close,

As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,

Writ in remembrance more than things long past. . .

Goodnight Mr. Shore.

The Bowl

Anyone who lacks faith, or a reason to keep living surely didn't see She and Him perform last Sunday at the Hollywood Bowl. They weren't the headliners (The Swell Season), but, like all warm up acts at the Bowl, they were better. It isn't that Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova were bad, it's just that I've seen them three times in the last two years and, I've been there. I bought these tickets because she and him were playing, along with The Bird and the Bee, who I thought included Eleni Mandell in addition to Inara George, but no such luck. The entire show was great, but it's hard to beat the sublime guitar playing and lyrical genius of M. Ward, especially when he has eye-candy, part-time actress Zoey Deschanel with him. The thing is, I like her look and her voice, but I would love to hear more of M. Ward's. His solo stuff is the best, and that's saying something. I saw him in Seattle with Monsters of Folk and I thought the same thing--let M. Ward have the stage by himself. My wife assures me that he's not bad to look at either, though I was bit to drunk to see very much anyway, which brings me to my real point: urinals.
I pee a lot. This is a natural bi-product of consuming 100 or so ounces of beer in a couple of hours, so I can't really blame the gods. My college roommate, who I went to the Monsters of Folk show with, is the only guy I know who pees more than I do, so we were a good pair. Now, I don't want to sound whiny, 'cause at least I don't have to sit to pee and am not forced to wait in ridiculously long lines at the bathroom, even at a big venue like the Hollywood Bowl. Still, I worry that with increased immigration and the natural changing of the generational guard, many of my fellow men are not aware of good etiquette when it comes to using stand up urinals or troughs. Enlightened self-interest compels me to share a small list of suggestions for your consideration. If you are a man (take a second now and check), or if you know one, please consider this list:

1. Never take the urinal next to a currently occupied place if possible. This is simple, don't stand next to me in an empty bathroom. It leads to stage fright, or, worse, the dreaded crossing of the streams. Besides, I frequently wear sandals to these things, and, while I have learned to appreciate my own splash back, I don't want to feel yours. The same rule applies to troughs, where you should keep a minimum of three feet the fuck away from me.

2. Look at the wall, or at your own junk. Never, under any circumstances, should you look down to your left or right. I have enough shit to worry about without wondering why you're looking at my dick. While we're on the subject, if you must talk to me while you're peeing, it had better be important. "Hey dude, the cops are checking people for drugs on the way out"--totally appropriate. "How's it hangin'?"--not so much. In any event, if you must talk to me have the decency to not make eye contact.

3. Don't judge me when I walk passed the sink. I didn't pee on my hands and my unit is clean. I have no need for soap and water. Similarly, don't announce loudly to your child that everyone should wash his hands, I know you're talking to me. I pee so much at a concert that my hands would be raw if I washed them every time.

4. Don't shit in a toilet near the urinals. Seriously, you have to shit at a concert. Lay off the dairy or jalapenos or whatever it is that makes it impossible for you to hold your shit for two hours. Here I'm having this magic moment with M. Ward and Zoey. I'm feeling great. But you have to interrupt the flow by taking a huge, grunting, paint melting shit while I take a pee. If you must shit, go all the way to the last available stall, do your business quickly, and, in this case, do wash your hands--an apology to everyone using the head on your way out is acceptable.

A Note on My 43rd Birthday

Going bald and simultaneously growing hair everywhere else on my body (yes, fucker, even the bottom of my feet) has given me a certain gracefulness about aging, which is to say I don't care much. I am still able to drink, piss, eat and as Shakespeare said, "make the beast with two backs"--and that's all the matters more or less. This year, as I have for the past three years, I had my birthday at Manhattan Beach's Pollywog Park Sunday Concert. This week's band was a local Reggae outfit, so the stars were aligned. My wife, as usual, took care of most of the particulars, which she manages to do with a smile. I need birthdays and they don't depress me as much as they allow me to act like my inner child for one day. For one day, I can drink as much as I want, say whatever comes to mind (which gets to be a bit much even for me) and dance like a fool. I was surrounded by friends, family and a whole park full of reasonably happy people--and I smiled. My friends, Brad and Natalie, bought me a shirt with the picture of the baby that Zack Galifianakas had strapped to his chest in The Hangover on the front. The shirt elicited more comments from random strangers than anything I have ever worn. I walked through the crowd, as drunk as 10,000 men (thanks Ed Gillespie) wearing my shirt and a shit-eating, glad-to-be-alive look on my face. It doesn't suck to get old, it just hurts a bit more after a hard workout and a bit less after a personal setback--trade off.

Birdcage 2: LeBron aux Folles

Has it come to this? Do we now have to endure a live TV broadcast, 25 minutes long, to announce where a 25 year old basketball player will sign his next contract? President Obama has held two official press conferences since taking office, but Lebron can take a half hour of prime time ESPN coverage to announce that he will be moving to Miami--a town with less soul than a ten year old pair of Birkenstocks. I will not wax nostalgic about that time when players stayed with the cities who loved them out of a sense of obligation or home, as, frankly, I have never known that time. Free agency in every sport has been around for as long as I can remember, and I'm not sure what the big fucking deal is anyway. Lebron James is a businessman, not an elected official or spiritual guru. He gave Cleavland longer than you or I would have and he played well for them. Still, let's face it, no Cleavland team in any sport has won a championship for 50 years. From what I know of the town, having driven through it twice, they never will. Cleavland is like Detroit, without the charm. I understand why Lebron wants to go to Miami and play with the Dwayne and the other guy I don't know anything about. He wants to win a championship, be the best at his profession and become a billionaire--wouldn't we celebrate this under other circumstances? I would say he has a good chance at becoming the billionaire if he wins the championships and keeps his nose clean. I was in Macao on in April and the only symbol of the West I saw was one of those building size Nike posters of Lebron with the caption: "Nice". My wife was convinced that it was a typo, but I think Nike probably checked it before they put it down forty stories of a building. Good luck Lebron and stay out of the strip joints--you never know what you're going to get.

4th of July

I'm a sucker for fireworks. I suppose this is not a terribly revelatory statement--but I have it bad. At the end of the my first marriage, I took the boys to Denver where my dad lives, without my soon to be ex, for a week. I drove straight through to Green River the first day, through Barstow, Vegas, Mesquite and even St. George, where any sensible person would stop on the first day out from L.A.. The boys were tired, and I had pushed them too hard. I was clearly getting the fuck out of Dodge with the two things that mattered most two me, one of whom convinced his brother to put a half-full juice box on my seat while I pumped gas at one of our "leisure" stops. I sat down in the car and felt a lukewarm rush of shitty apple juice hit my face and cascade down. This was a low point in my life, but I was surprised to find that I wasn't pissed. I laughed, Riley laughed and Spencer has never stopped laughing. If they were happy enough to fuck with me without real fear of physical harm, then I must be doing something right and life would go on.
Fireworks, sorry. We made it into Parker the next day on July 2nd and passed a hundred fireworks stores on our way to the Pinery. The kids noticed them. The next day, I took the boys back into town with my father's blessing and spent $150 on fireworks, which is a lot. I bought everything they had, not because I was trying to make the kids happy (juice boxes are cheaper), not because I wanted to drown my pain, not because I can't find anything to do with my massive teacher's salary, but because I like to blow shit up. I like to see colored fire, hear dog-deafening whistles and know that I lit the match. It just feels good.
On the way back from Denver (there were no juice boxes involved) we stopped at a Paiute Indian reservation between Mesquite and Las Vegas for one reason. These Indians don't have casinos, they have fireworks, and not the kind of "safe and sane" crap that we had in Colorado. The Paiute know how to party and must have a vacuum transit system to China, because this place is the final scene of Citizen Kane crane shot, only with fireworks instead of statues. We bought bottle rockets, M80's, and a brick of Black Cat firecrackers. When we got back to California, about a week before I moved out of the house I bought and painted and crawled under, replaced the toilets and killed the rats in, we had a little fun. I blew some shit up, illegal style. It was a final fuck you to my neighbors, my ex and the life I thought, at the time, was surely coming to an end. The juice box incident taught me that the kids would be fine, but it would take longer for me. As each Black Cat exploded, so many that the neighbors threatened to call the man, I blew up a little more of the dream.
It's been 7 years since that day, and therapy, age, a new (decidedly better) wife, have made things better. Look, we all have these stories. The fucked up times even outnumber the good for many of us, but, I swear, as I lay under the fireworks last night and watched shit explode with my second wife, my mother, her mother, my sister, her "dude who fathered her children", their kids, and not my children,who were two miles away with their mother, I know that it gets better. I'm happier today than I have ever been in life. Now if I could just stop people from wanting to play Lee Greenwood, but that will take longer.