******* All American Frank *******

Punk rock Stacy dumped a pile of guys’ clothes on the floor. She’d found them on a curb near her house. “Dig in, ” she said. I grabbed the black pointed-toe cowboy boots. But her new guy-pal, hovering nearby, hesitated over 2 pairs of brown, wonky square-toed boots. “Hey, I want those black ones,” he protested. And continued, “Look, Stace, I bought you breakfast, I deserve them!” She laughed, countering, “Yeah, you know who deserves them? The guy up the street who originally bought ’em, but guess what. He’s dead! Losers keepers.. or weepers.. or something like that.. Ha!” She advanced, staring him down temptingly then brushing past with just a kiss on the cheek.That night I went to the Living Room punk show with a pint of Southern Comfort stashed in my dead-man boots and was glad when Stacy walked in. She said, “I ditched that dude. Don’t worry. He’s a junkie. I’m only doing safe stuff now.. liquor, cigs, maybe a joint.” I told her, “Then it’s my lucky day. I have all three in my van.” She grabbed my hand and we headed to the big parking lot, quietly abuzz. She lounged back in the passenger seat, long intricate hand-made earrings dangling, reflecting muted dome lights of punk bands’ vans with Jersey and New York plates. And after a drink and a toke, she closed her eyes, striking a nearly angelic pose, of innocence amidst the punk army about to kick love squarely in the face. Her eyes turned slowly. She smiled, lit a Marlboro and got the restless look again. With a single vault she hopped seats, opened my door and landed a pretty violent kiss, making us both tumble clumsily out onto the pavement, laughing with a young body’s defiant bounce. Then suddenly serious, she announced, “C’mon buddy, you’re missing the show!”

“Trust” is warning someone there’s a cliff up ahead.. “Loyalty” is following them right over it! (:

Who is wise, and who is the fool?
The one with the facts, or the one with the truth? (:

My first job out of college was Music Director at a summer camp. Having partied pretty hard my senior year, sitting in a quiet Music Room overlooking a lake sounded pretty nice. Plus I would get extra pay, for being a part-time camp counselor, then be excused afternoons to plan night-time music. No drinking was allowed, but the head counselor enjoyed his herb, claiming a responsible toke kept us all sane. So he acted as Spirit Guide, whisking us off for a quick buzz, asking if we had any hazardous activities planned, as he was safety-guide too. I started liking the woods, so I scheduled a hike for my cabin, of 8 middle-schoolers, with famous Hikemaster Hal, a Zen-like survivalist. Hal agreed, and appeared magically at our cabin later, leading us silently into the woods. We came upon a swamp. How would he handle it? A rope bridge? An unseen, raised trail? He waded into the swamp, and for two hours we trudged, waist-deep, then chest-deep through thick, black, bug-swarming, vermin-infested mud. I was increasingly baffled, and angry. He didn’t say a thing. What was being taught? We finally climbed up and out, directly behind the cabins. He nodded as he turned to leave. I yelled, “What happened to the hike?” He replied calmly, “That was the hike.” I showered, miffed, and headed for a much-needed, emergency toke with the head-counselor. He laughed deeply, saying, “I think you just learned the whole secret of camp! Maybe life..from Zenmaster Hal. All in one day. You’re a lucky man!” That night I was scheduled to lead a sing-along version of “Turn, Turn, Turn,” but hadn’t had time to learn the verses, or print hand-outs. But I took the hall-stage anyway, guitar in hand, and began singing, “To every thing Turn Turn Turn. There is a season Turn Turn Turn”.. Then I paused, and launched into a semi-stoned monologue about how there is a time for nature, and a time to turn away from nature. A purpose for camp, and a season to leave camp.. A time to walk into a swamp, and time to walk out of the swamp! I may have turned, before reprising the opening. Nodding thankfully, I left the stage to muted applause. No one asked what happened to the song, but if they had I might have replied, “That was the song.”

In grad school, I took a web design class. I’m not a visual person, but wanted to learn how the internet worked. The teacher was an earnest, older Asian dude who assigned a mock website, for each of us to create, called “My Awesome Life.” But at the time my life was not awesome. In the middle of a breakup, drinking too much, with insomnia, I would spend nights at my writing desk, with wine, drawing stick figure cartoons, and finding them greatly amusing.. My 3 stick figures were a guy, his girlfriend and her dog having silly arguments, but the dog was the only logical one, so he would always break the tie, usually for her. I thought these cartoons would make an awesome mock website. The teacher was horrified.. poorly-drawn stick figures, a painful relationship… Why?! He suggested a cheery website, with a future wind-surfing trip I might take, would be better. Our culture clash began to amuse the students so he let me be. And, at that time, despite his disappointment, a solid B- did make my life more awesome.

My bass player always had a trick up his sleeve. He arrived at the gig with his drinking buddy, to whom he owed twenty bucks. We knew his “borrow from Peter to pay Paul” method, so we avoided them. He began chatting up tables, and bringing them pitchers of beer. I asked what was up. He explained, “Easy, I’ve got a tab here, so I put pitchers on it. Each table gets a dollar off, if they pay me cash. Then I pay my bar tab at the end of the month.. So it’s win-win.” Soon his pockets were full, his friend paid, and he threw one more pitcher on that tab for himself, and the band!

Sometimes your brain knows something before you do. My dad’s roommate at the Nursing Home was a tall, hulking 6’5″ ex-cop. One day he exited my Dad’s room wearing an extremely small, skin-tight, track suit. My brain knew those were probably my Dad’s clothes, and that my Dad, at 5’8″, was likely wearing the large, flowing attire of an intimidating ex-cop. As I entered, he smiled, in a king-sized sweatsuit on the large throne chair.. Or maybe like a medium-sized bug in a rug. The staff apologized for switching their clothes, crediting a new employee, who had promptly quit. We searched his dresser for better stuff, but most had fallen victim to the dreaded laundry system. They suggested I check Lost and Found in the basement, so I headed down into the bowels, finding bounties of clothes’ racks, but nothing with my Dad’s name. The nurse said anything without a name “written in Sharpie” was up for grabs. So grab I did. There was nice new stuff, and many suburban Boston folks didn’t bother labeling, having “made it” from the poor-house to a Cul-De-Sac. My Dad was soon Best-Dressed in the Nursing Home, and after a few more shopping-sprees downstairs, we sent him off to meet his maker in grand fashion.

My plan was to write a big-hit book like “On the Road,” play pop music and have a normal life. Not a great plan, but having made the crazy trip from Boston to SF, getting coffee up on Haight St. seemed like a good next step. As I headed down our apartment stairs, a handsome Jamaica guy, painting our vaulted hallway, greeted me from above. I offered him some Sensimilla from Humboldt County, and he came down for a break. We lit up, and he told me he was a “hood famous” guitar player, but laughed, “Look at me now. I’m a painter!… By the way, if you need work, King Rasta, in the restaurant downstairs has odd jobs and pays cash, if you can find him!” So I headed down there to wait for the King, and sip sweet Blue Mountain coffee, but he yelled a final thing, echoing through the San San Frisco cavernous hallway, “The West is the best, but the East holds the lease.”

The elders felt the freshman pledges were too soft and domesticated, so they sprung into action on Valentine’s day. They chose one nauseatingly “lovey-dovey” frat pledge, who’d bought an oversized heart box of chocolates for his sweet classmate. Sneaking into his room, they located the giant heart-box and carefully sliced the cellophane along the back, opened it and quickly ate the chocolates. They had scavenged the frat house for replacements, and once the box was packed full of suitable “stuff,” they replaced the cellophane, so it looked unopened, and headed off to the dining hall to await his public gifting and celebration of love. The chocolates cost him a little, but the looks on their faces, when she opened the giant heart-box full of carpet lint, gym socks, cigarette butts, recycled condoms and old pizza, were priceless.