plastic train

So I had it all worked out. The future was this shinesunny day and there I was waving from my locomotive with ken-doll hair and Osmond smile and the pinstripe shirt and the hat an engineer wears.

Trains were obviously a big deal back in the kindergarten years, those brief fleeting moments before reality has a chance to encroach on the sheer delight of innocence. Never mind the fact that locos had been out of production for over 20 years by then - they had been made in my hometown I might add - and understandably yeilded to deisel fuel and other technologies. Still, every time I wore my little fake pinstripe shirt t-shirt you know that someone said I'd grow up to be a train engineer and so naturally I would drive a huge coal steamer. Heh, come to think of it, maybe just like the one on commemorative display at our favorite local park.

And you gotta understand this kid's imagination. It's like one of those rainbows if you've ever seen, I did one time, so thick and so real you'd swear you could drive half a mile to the base and climb right up it. Once I was convinced there was a safe in our crawl space and even talked some other dudes into going with me to find out it was a cinder block. They were good sports.

By now it should be no surprise that visions of my future self were mannequin like. Last summer I recalled one while hanging out with the girl who lived next door back in the day, as we sat with my folks talking about old times. All along, I'm thinking back to when we were about six and I pictured we'd get married and sit around reminiscing with enormous plastic heads. Uhh, I never told her that so, our secret? Keww.

Well you'd think after a while a body would tend to outgrow the tendencies to idealize the future. And for a while you don't really consider it, it's all just some funny memories.

Then I totally did it again. In my freakin' 30s even, near the age when someone can be elected to the highest levels of civil authority. Sure, I knew I was taking steps in faith and it's brought me to the right place...but it took a while to come to terms with the fact that I'd really bit in hard to the dream, at least in terms of sweat and devotion, and it was this huge thing I had to wrestle with, all the logic, contingencies, which voices and opportunites were authentic then wups there's a rabbit trail...

I guess along the track perfectionism dind't just get the best of me, it's a bum rascal, changing engines from coal-fired to electric and turning up where I'd least expect it. There was this corporate edict issued to STOP BEING PERFECTIONIST and that in itself is, well, perfectionism. Witness?

The saying goes that "experience is the best teacher" and I can't be reminded of that enough - except maybe that, the next level would be to let it teach me during instead of just, well, after.

*polypropylene shrug*

nuclear winter

hello again

and

goodbye


over just as it starts


strolling through the department store

together

not exactly glamorous

but times like this we are

us


they keep the thing hidden somewhere beyond the night

pictures can't do it justice


we look

we smile

we grab

we laugh

we bite

we plunder


the very stench of death kills a little bit with each toke

perhaps unconsciously


and when the bomb hits close enough you'll totally soil yourself


hell of a price to pay for sex education


we came in here for a bathroom mat

for her new apartment and end up roaming all around

funny how we can make a day of this

all the while she silently wants to move in with me


sometimes what occurs in your undergarments

can seem pretty irrelevant


make that

usually

unconsciously


alone at night you push back the thoughts

for years even

then one day you give in to it

because

you're already screwed









K A B O E W W W W M









devil's in the details

doubleyou

tee

eff

???


just like they say

all dust and wind

plenty of charcoal

but don't touch it


if you can still smell anything at all

you'll give your arms not to


just try to imagine going anywhere near the store now


heh

they talk about how a dirty bomb hath no fanfare

but the fallout creeps up on ya like the shits

same difference


steadily succumbing with each panged and acrid breath

at least radiation sickness has a tangible cause


every ache and twinge in your corpse

formerly taken for granted

suddenly humanity's most dread disease

your sole destiny

till the next thought comes along


should you ever again see her face

it will be through your heat-warped lens


oh and did you catch the scar on her forehead?

wow and flutter

oxidized polymer ribbon betwixt 2 spools and I had dozens of them before my first real job

my allowance, with rare exception, sooner or later lent itself to a small, thin acrylic box containing sound

once I picked up sticks an entire afternoon to procure a Journey release that really wasn't

we made dubbing into an art form in and of itself, spending hours nailing down an all-time Philosophy of Setting The Level

they fit perfectly in a denim jacket's inner pocket for swapping at school, where the right connections make great collections

my brother gave me my first *real* tape, a cloudy-cased Memorex C-90 with Frontiers and Eliminator back to back from LPs, two albums that need no introduction for 80s rockers

you never forget the aroma of a freshly unwrapped Maxell...

UR series are only decent the first time, and then the more overdubs they get that much muddier, but that's OK for radio stuff since it doesn't count anyway

XLs smell like chrome, and I bought a box of these in 8th grade, eventually having to splice a break in one of them

once you can afford an MX you'll immediately note they are physically heavier from the pure metal film and professional-grade components

a buddy of mine could faithfully reproduce the KISS logo on the label for you with an ordinary ball-point pen

the quality of store-bought tapes depended on the label

some dubs had a way of transcending the original

sometime in 1985 and probably starting with Motley Crue, the Warner Bros labels issued the clear cases and housings that had yet another distinctive smell to offer, like some sweet scented candle you'd find at Spencer's Gifts in the mall

I was a would-be go-to repair guy for cartridges after I'd collected some spare parts in a little box and fixed a couple for my mom I believe

low-peak was safe, and high-peak would distort, so we finally settled on the importance of letting the peaks barely kiss +6dB

once in another town I found a strange brand that had a clear case and little metal reels inside, not bad

discovering the tiny azimuth screw in our tape decks was our Tree of Knowledge, because once you got the best highs there was no settling for muddiness

midway thru my freshman year was when Atlantic and Atco's spine labels went from periwinkle to red

people talking about a party brag about what tapes they're gonna bring, hopefully something cool and hopefully not too. well, different

don't buy TDK, just, don't, even their t-shirts are all nylon

chewed tape can heal over time, but a squeal will only get worse, so dub it and pitch it while the clock still ticks

some dudes would steal them from discount stores or brag that they had, leaving one to wonder which made for a more complete idiot

always, always borrow the original if you can since other people's dubbing jobs are a federal disaster

in the car you had to adjust the deck's azimuth to work with those from your dubber deck, then use a paper shim if it was off

Memorex are typically fluttery but have been known to surprise on occasion

raked leaves for like 3 weeks that one fall and made enough to get a Sanyo knockoff walkman and also an LP, which, yeah, was on tape 40 minutes after I got it home

one dude told me his rap stuff sounded good enough on TDK so there ya go

anything on Capitol or the associated EMI family had a special Dolby noise at the beginning and end that we called a "dweedle"

expensive head cleaner tapes eventually gave way to isopropyl and Q-tips from the bathroom, but keep the ol' demag handy

dang, even my girlfriend picked up on how much difference that shim made in the car's deck

not sure when Fuji came on the scene with those reverse-feed thin cases that made me wanna feed every case that way, but their hi-bias series were sure worth it

once I dreamt there was a player mechanism - mainly visualizing the head and capstan and roller - built in to the chrome plate that surrounds the drain lever in our bathtub, complete with a wall-mounted speaker beneath the shower head and yes it rocked

petrichor

driving westward through kansas
with the sun as it kisses identical fields
greeted by myriads of frilly gold-rimmed faces
along this endless asphalt conveyor
power lines converge into a single point

ahead

pretty soon you know what happens
horizon modulates from blue to charcoal
something about the sweetness of the air
blowing into the car playing a new tune
must be really letting loose

ahead

storms on the plains
change a life in the blink of an eye
they don't ask permission
static on the radio
still i must find out what's there

ahead

these times are for reflection
on the whys and whos that matter most
funny how risk scratches an itch
and that fragrance beckons a grin
i roll up the windows and venture on

ahead

(note that, as of now, I've never been west of Topeka in my entire life...)

after

evening gets chilly
was it already that?
the moment she left
it all falls flat
air is heavier now
i don't want to admit
there's something about her
we're just some kids here
playing outdoor games
but after she leaves us
it's not quite the same
she's annoying at times
her jokes make no sense
and i don't wanna deal
with those subtle hints
still its such a downer
just down to us three
there's two younger boys
and then poor old me
how barely i notice
her blond locks dance about
what her presence adds
is what it's about

The Preacher and the Old Lady

Preacher goin' to see that old lady
Said he goin' get her saved this time
Preacher gonna call that ol' lady
She sho' gon get Jesus this time
He say, All she need is love sweet love
Hope to get her 'fore them cancer sticks do

Preacher went to see that old lady
Says he wanna talk about her soul
Preacher went to call that old lady
He sho' wan see about her soul
But she start praisin' her insurance man
'Fore he even got past tha' howdy-do

Preacher says to that ol' lady
You need th' Lord to help you through
Preacher done told that ol' lady
You best trust the Lord to hep' you through
She says my husbands they took care of me
'At's all I ever need to get me by

Preacher starts to leave he says now
When you ever gon make up yo' mind?
Preacher gets up to go and he say
Sister, when you gon change yo' mind?
She says Rev'rend wee'l surely talk again,
An' coughs, but I gots to live before I die


(With very special thanks to a very astute observer...)

Welcome To The Jungle

...it gets worse here every day

It was the middle of July of the year that formed the sandwich-meat of our Golden Age. A new band out of LA called Guns N' Roses had just unleashed their Appetite for Destruction, and as a metal purist of sorts I initially dismissed their sleazy names and greasy hooks as but a blip on the radar soon to fade back off the edge. Who knew.

I arrive and set my gift on the table on the rear portico. Mom had procured some smellgood shower splash from Avon and neatly donned it in paper featuring Garfield as he thought, You're Gifted, which Dana read aloud as she opened it. I hope you like it. I also hope Mom had me sign the card.

Perfect summer weather called for yard games, including jarts, and I watched in horror as Trent carelessly lobbed one only to land a few feet behind Brandon as he walked on, none the wiser. I suppose Steve was there if Trent was, but Steve had a way of matching the furniture at parties.

Dana had invited most of the church youth group along with others guilty by association. A couple of red-headed sisters were in a pageant it seems, and Dana only got along with the pastor's daughter Tina when it was convenient, which it evidently was not at the moment, despite the behest of Dana's dad.

There was also Stacy, the tall, silently strong Honduran, longtime neighbor of Char, who in turn was Dana's best friend, at least they said so. Even in the prior weeks Char had been trying to steal Kenneth. You should have seen her and Dana cling to him like flies on a turd until he made the choice.

Chuck rode with me, my best pal, for another year anyway. He was the one who convinced me which of the girls we knew were hot, at least as he saw it, except for Dana, whose charm you couldn't miss from the moon.

Her parents were present but invisible. I'm sure we ate so let's make it hot dogs or pizza and Doritos and melon slices, maybe some baked beans. Oh, and birthday cake. Sweet Sixteen, as Billy Idol sings. Dana sets up a boombox with the local hits radio since we're not at the church were you have to play Petra. We were our own.

honey we know the names we are the people that can find whatever you may need

The actual authority that evening seemed vested beneath the porch canopy, seated there Dana and Kenneth and Mario and Sally. Kenneth was your classic black sheep who Dana was on a mission to save. Rumors were already swirling about the other couple, and tonight he guarded her like prize money. We'd hear whispered R-rated accounts of their torrid times in her '83 Escort, usually parked near a reservoir, into nearly fall of the next year despite her parents, a pastor and wife, grounding her at every turn.

Stacy would eventually become one of the most successful among us, double-majoring in college and and going on to a good solid marriage.

During volleyball with everyone standing around, Char and her unavoidable glare responded to one of my barbs by shouting suck my left tit!

Still not sure what to think of that. Except, we were our own.

Besides, I could sometimes get Z-Rock radio out of Cleveland, in FM stereo, and would tape it, so who needs chicks? I wouldn't even want the right one. It would be weeks before she and I had an earnest conversation at a revival service. In the mean time, she tried to shorten my hair on the way back from Cedar Point. On my birthday.

Dana, that petite blond who added her own brand of substance to any mix, for her part, was the de-facto nerve center for our group during the rare times when we functioned. She would call you once in a while just to talk and pretty much kept up with everyone. Once she organized a party at church that dwindled down to herself and 2 others within the first ten minutes. Wasn't till years later I realized the prize was not to capture but to enjoy her, to share laughs and stories and be a friend for once.

The radio played Whitesnake's single version of Here I Go Again that they'd cut in a hasty studio set during their tour in Texas, this being the first time I'd heard it. More keyboards, less guitar, pppptttt.

Sally's brother Matt joined us, always jovial and animated, you tend to think he has no guile whatsoever. During v-ball we got to whining Guyyyys....c'mon, Guyyyyyys over and over purely for the sake of saying it. For whatever reason, as we all smacked the leathery white sphere over the net and chased it out of bounds the song in my head, Show Me The Night by a little-known band, was not the greatest ever but they sho nuff got the infectious groove down on that track.

learn to live like an animal the jungle where we play

We were all somewhat apprehensive of the unpredictable Kenneth with his sneaking out, the dope, the alleged fights, and his dad would often just drop him off at her house, a rebel with no clue why he's stuck on this girl who keeps her world in a tidy lil box, and, for all we know, gift-wrapped.

After a while we drift across the road to the grounds of the church-school Dana attends, no one knowing why, as if it matters. Stacy was trying to ride the handle bars of a 20" bike that Kenneth had commandeered. What was it about him and anyone nearby that held your attention? We were afraid of what he might do, and he's afraid he can never become one of us. His original plan, Dana tells me later, was to drop off his gift and leave.

In the youth room seated next to a previous beau, Sally sang I'm on my way I'mmm makin' it, that familiar chorus from the radio, several times one day, the sparkle in those brown eyes desperate for us to crack the code. Ironically she didn't get pregnant until a year after she and Mario split, and not by him.

Mario was not a hood like Kenneth. By now he had shed his attitude and was pretty cool, but make no mistake, he was no less than superhuman with the ladies. Seems our other don juan Jimmy may have moved to Florida by then, either way, you just didn't see him often.

watch it bring ya to your shananananananana knees knees

By the next Spring there were beach parties at the local man-made lakes that I never went to and I mostly talked to Tina, until her family moved away. GN'R by then was giving the pristine Def Leppard Hysteria sound a run for its money. I didn't have cable at home but my new girlfriend's TV perpetually featured Axl and Slash smoking their way through low-key interviews on MTV. Critics and rockers and even new converts were blown away by their seminal debut, the devil-may-care depiction of a depraved urban hell, a sonic conflagration of sin and despair complete with a scull-laden Crucifix on the cover and Sweet Child O' Mine for a gospel.

Our innate insecurities and mutual animosities seemed near a boiling point, as those feeling strong tore into those we perceived weak and flawed, juvenile savage amusement at its finest.

Char asked me if my gal pal and I were behaving properly, out of concern, she assured me.

We were our own.