I AM RIGHT.

After making the inaugural trip to Philadelphia, and losing the muffler in the process, the van and I began our daily relationship driving back and forth to my advertising job. It was a piece of shit, maroon with fake wood paneling on the sides. Inside, it was power everything, although if my memory’s right, the mirrors didn’t actually work. The power steering fluid reservoir needed to be refilled monthly, and never seemed to make the groaning noise go away. On the other hand, the brakes were new and the heat worked, which is more than I can say for the pickup truck I’d sold off. I removed the middle and rear seats to make more room for my bass, which was also going on bi-weekly trips to New York, where the band had a residency at a restaurant, the late great Old Devil Moon.

I had finally admitted to my boss that I was moving to Philly. I felt terrible: not two months earlier, the guy gave me, a totally inexperienced mug, a copy writer position, and here I was telling him I was going off, wheeee, to play fucking bluegrass music? While my boss was understanding and encouraged me, my father was none too pleased: when I called to tell him I was moving to Philly, and why, his response was “WHAT. ABOUT. YOUR. JOB?” I don’t think he’d talked to me like that since I was a teenager. Thanksgiving was coming up, and it was going to be my first as a single man in five years: between that and the need to patch stuff up with my dad, I decided to make the trip to South Jersey.

The engine burp I’d noticed on my initial trip to Philadelphia had been getting worse, but on the drive to my parents, it really made itself known. If I was driving anywhere other than the highway, the Caravan would sputter and cough. In fact, when I pulled over to get gas in New York, it wouldn’t start until I let the damned thing sit for twenty minutes, while I shivered in the frosty night air.

The rest of the trip to Jersey was uneventful: once my parents understood that the Jim and Jennie thing had legs, and that i would find work in Philadelphia, their nerves were settled and Thanksgiving was great. By the end of the weekend, everyone was really looking forward to the move, especially my brother who now had a place to crash whenever he wanted to get out of the woods. My dad even paid for the van to get a tune-up, and oil change, and a full safety inspection.

That’s why it was so surprising when, at the tolls at the northern tip of the Jersey Turnpike, the engine burp came back. The damned thing almost stalled out, but I gunned the motor and brought it back to life. I wasn’t so lucky as I paid the toll to get on the lower deck of the George Washington Bridge: as I pulled past the toll, at 6:00 pm, right in the middle of the post-holiday rush, in the center fucking lane, the van gave one last belch and stalled out. I turned on my hazards, rolled down the window, and through a cacaphony of blaring car horns, began waving drivers by. HONK HONNNNNNK BRAAWWWWWNK!! I tried to start the engine, nothing. HEY JACKASS WHAT THE FU— HOONNNNNKKKKK HOOONK!! I waited five minutes and tried again, nothing. I didn’t have a cellphone, so I couldn’t even call for help. I cranked the engine again, and got worse than nothing: it sounded like the battery was dying.

And that’s when the guy rear-ended me. Or to be honest, tapped my rear bumper, on purpose. I leaned out the window and looked back.

“Get the fuck outta da way,” he yelled at me in Spanish-accented English. “What the fuck is wrong witchoo?”

“Dude, the engine won’t catch,” I yelled back. “Can’t you see my hazards, go around, what the hell’s wrong with YOU?”

“Pop da clutch!” he yelled back. Cars were just whizzing by. “Pop da clutch!”

“It’s an automatic,” I yelled back. “No clutch to pop!”

“Put it in neutral!” he replied. “NEUTRAL!”

“I just told you, that won’t work!” He looked at me like I was an idiot, got out of his car, and walked over. Leaning his head in the door, he repeated, “Put her in neutral.” I was beginning to think if anyone was an idiot, it was this guy. “DUDE.” I said. “THIS CAR IS AN AUTOMATIC. I KNOW YOU WANT ME TO SLAM IT IN FIRST AND POP THE CLUTCH, THAT WON’T WORK.”

He sighed. “No man, I’m gonna push you.” I was right the first time: I was the idiot.

“Gotcha!” I said, and put pulled the shifter to the big letter N. A second later, the guy’s sedan bumped into mine, and slowly but surely we started moving across the GWB, heading for the right lane and into a really sketchy looking neighborhood. As we coasted down the exit ramp, I tried to start the van one last time, and miraculously, it caught. I pulled into the breakdown lane, hit the hazards, and popped the hood. My rescuer came over and looked at the engine with me.

“I don’t understand it,” I complained, “my fucking old man just paid for a tune-up. This should be running like a clock!”

The guy looked closer at the front of the engine, at a dingy grease-smeared little cylinder-shaped thing with a small pipe on each end. “Did they replace this?” he asked, pointing.

“I, uh… well I don’t know.”

“It looks dirty,” he went on, “I’ll bet they didn’t. It’s your fuel filter.” He poked at it. “If it wasn’t replaced, that could be shutting off your engine. You gotta let it drain a bit when it does that, maybe 20 minutes, and it should start right up again.”

“Thanks a million,” I said. “Say, any idea how to get back to the highway?”

“Where you goin?”

“I gotta get over to the Hutch,” I replied.

“Oh man… you from here? Listen, just follow me, you gotta go through the Bronx.” And so this total stranger led me across the city to where the Hutch picks up. before we parted, i noticed he was puffing away at a cigarette.

“Listen man, you helped me out. I don’t have any cash to spare in my pocket, but let me get you some smokes, what’s your poison?”

“Man you don’t gotta.. well, OK Marlboro box.”

“You got it, just wait right here!” I had to put it on my credit card, $40.00 for a carton of of the awful smelly things, but it was worth it. The dude saved my ass.

Once I was on the Hutch, the ride was like butter. The only thing out of the ordinary was the way the engine didn’t want to stop running for a turn or two when I shut off the ignition. And the next day, it turned out the guy was right: a $5.00 piece metal had shut me down on the GWB.

But the saga of the van wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

At my friend’s bookstore this afternoon, a guy overheard me mention my birthday.

“Congrats,” he said. “My son just turned 14. Do you remember what it was like to be 14?”

“Actually, I do,” I replied. “in fact, I’m as angry now as I was then, if not angrier. And i’m angry about the same things.”

It’s true. I hated Ronald Reagan and the Republicans, and I still do. I hated our shitty plastic American “culture”. I didn’t like people telling me what to do, how to act, and that I needed to fit in. I despised bullies and thugs, including the cops.

In many ways, I’m still the same throbbing gristle of fury and outrage I was when I was that 14 year old my buddies called “the little Psycho Kid”, jumping into any slam pit no matter how out of control, diving off stages, and dropping from the ceiling.

It’s not fueled by the blogosphere and it has nothing to do with living in an alternative universe: it’s called a rational reaction to life in a collapsing society. And frankly, I wouldn’t have me any other way.

There were barefoot dreams of catching outlaws
There were school dreams of catching footballs
There were young dreams of finding great romance
There were armies and I took the chance
There were avenues of glory and some deep despair
That put subtle shapes of silver in my hair

Well I’m forty now and I’m a man
But I can’t resist the urge to put dreams in my plans
So many hopeless dreams and I broke some vows
Maybe life begins for me, I’m forty now

There were summer nights and there were good days
Life was water and I made waves
Oh I was crazy then so I made some breaks
Maybe God can look the other way
Either good outweighs the bad or we forget the bad
I’m thankful for a few friends that I’ve had

‘Cause I’m forty now and I’m a man
But I can’t resist the urge to put dreams in my plans
So many hopeless dreams and I broke some vows
Maybe life begins for me, I’m forty now
Well I’m forty now.

Except for the football, the army, and God, this song is great for today. Because I’m 40 now.

…here come the garbage man!

More live Dill Pickles from the NarbEarth Day Festival! And at the risk of sounding like an arrogant self-absorbed prick, check out my bass break.

This is going to be one awesome documentary. The Bad Brains are one of the best, if not THE best hardcore bands I have ever seen in my entire life.

The bourgeoisie had better watch out for me. All throughout this so called nation, we don’t want your filthy money, we don’t need your innocent bloodshed. We just wanna end your world. Well my minds made up. Yes, it’s time for you to pay, better watch out for me. I’m a member of the F.V.K….

And yes indeed, Don’t care what they may say, we got that attitude! Don’t care what they may do, we got that attitude! AYYY! Got that PMA.

Slamming in the 1980s, no idea what show this was.
At the time there was this whole “skate and destroy” meme going around. I wanted to destroy plenty of things just as much as anyone else, but I never figured out what the two had in common.

Given how angry we made the cops, I thought “skate and annoy” was a much better motto, and wrote it on the brim of my hat.

Good times.

I’d put this photo at or about 1986. That’s my buddy Kellfire Bray in the beret (berets were cool in the 1980s). The reason the mohawk is so shiny is because I would obsessively apply the strongest Aqua-Net hairspray available (it came in the white can) over the course of the day: I slept on my side (still do), and in the morning I’d straighten my mohawk, hit it with a lint brush to get any scraps off of it, and pssssssshhhhhhht, more Aqua-Net.

Good times, great hair.

Yup, it was real alright.

No one’s made a video yet for this song, and someone should.
For that matter, some mainstream female country star would have a huge hit by remaking this song as “A Workin’ Mom Can’t Get Nowhere Today”.

I don’t think Merle will mind if I publish the lyrics. this song is like my fuckin’ anthem

For years I’ve been busting my rear
To make a living
But it ain’t made

For years I’ve been trying to
Pay off my bills
But they ain’t paid

I owe every dime I make
To every soul I know
The farther up I reach
The farther down I go
And this old broken back of mine
Is all I’ve got to show
And anyway
A working man can’t get nowhere today

Lord a workin’ man can’t get nowhere today
A workin’ man ain’t got no time to play
Today I worked my fanny off
And leave it lay
A workin’ man can’t get nowhere today

I pay my income tax
and the government gives back
What I got comin’
Lord but it ain’t much

I pay my child support
Cus I’m a law-abiding sort
And an easy touch

I starve myself to death
Tryin’ to keep my family fed
I keep my budget tight
Tryin’ to get myself ahead
But I’ll still be deep in debt
On the day that I fall dead
That’s why i say
A workin man can’t get nowhere today

Lord a workin’ man can’t get nowhere today
A workin’ man ain’t got no time to play
Last night I worked my fanny off
And leave it lay
A workin’ man can’t get nowhere today

It’s always funny when I see Republicans and conservatives pretend to be the party of the neglected working American, surrounding themselves with coutnry music and flags. What they’re doing is trying to appeal to a specific group of white people, hand in hand with the old “welfare queen” racist tropes. “You good white people you work, not like those lazy welfare receiving blacks.” Merle himself has played into this a few times when he was getting in touch with his inner cro-mag back in the 1960s.

But the fact is that songs like this are about poor and working poor people, who are both black and white (and every other color people come in). Songs like this are about the very people that Republicans and conservatives look down on, or treat as “useful idiots”. This song really DOES fit working moms. It fits people like the Latino immigrants who work manual labor in the plants and on the docks, people who have seen their lot get worse and worse with every passing year.

I’ll write more later.