Sorry it took so long, Dad

So I’m seventeen years old working at a pizza joint in the mall and I get a phone call at work from my mom. My dad had just died. I told my manager and asked to go home. “Come on, quit trying to get out of work. You hated your dad, so don’t use that as an excuse.” “I do?” I thought, or rather, “I did?” I thought I loved my father at least as much as anyone else, and more than most. “Marty,” I scoffed. “You’re a dick!” I kept working for a while.

I tried to work, but I couldn’t keep it together enough to even assemble the three pre-packaged ingredients that our anti-authentic joint passed off as pizza. Mind you, this was long before anyone aside from an SNL writer would have dreamed of combining the words “artisan” and “pizza,” but our brand was especially lame. When my “older” manager, Marty – two years my senior- saw the difficulties I was having he finally sent me home.

Now before you judge Marty, I guess I should explain how things  had gotten to this point. Like every other awkward, suburban, uncoordinated white kid of my generation I really only wanted one thing that didn’t involve a naked girl: to be a bad ass. I tried fighting, hockey, talking back, wrestling and a host of other macho pursuits. I wasn’t good at any of them. So I decide to create a bad ass persona. If Robert Zimmerman could be Bob Dylan and Michael freaking Jackson could be “bad,” I knew I could pull this off.

When my mom and step father moved from Michigan to Arizona (to a trailer park no less!), I had my chance at re-creation. I grew my hair long, wore a lot of leather and quickly found the “wrong” crowd. I tend towards over-compensation, so I left no stone unturned. I did more drugs than any of the best, listened to the loudest music, climbed mountains frying on acid, looked for fights

every chance I got and always tried to push the envelope.  To a certain extent. I still got good grades, made it to school on time – even if a bit buzzed – and avidly avoided arrest or Juvie.

With my wild friends, I tried to hide my tame reality, always fearful I’d be discovered. There was a Van Halen song at the time with the lyric, “Have you seen junior’s grades????” mocking a shocked parent. My nickname was “Junior,” so the song was perfect for my rouse. But the truth was I wanted to hide my (good) grades from my friends, not my parents!

Most of the rough crowd I ran with had terrible relations with their parents and pretty crappy home lives. Like my good grades, I hid my loving and pretty wonderful parents from my friends in a series of misleading interpretations of my home life, exaggerations and flat out tall tales. Hence, Marty’s mistaken belief I didn’t care about my father. I don’t recall the actual story, but I must have told him a dousie.

The thing is, my Dad was never ashamed or confused about who he was. He constantly told us boys he loved us, repeatedly told us it was okay to cry and encouraged any talents, whims or quirks we had and maintained a very close relationship with us in an era where fathers were distant at best, and frequently unapproachable. Despite being a big, burly construction worker, he frequently cried in public and showed his emotions – again, men of his generation just didn’t do that.

He never crossed a picket line. He invited his black co-workers to the house for dinner and parties (the only time African Americans were ever seen in our lily-white neighborhood!), picked up even the mangiest hitchhikers and always had something for any beggar. He was proud of his sons, and everyone knew it.

My father knew exactly who he was, and would never betray me.

For years I carried the shame of that night at the pizza parlor. When a great man dies, his son should be shouting his praises from the roof tops, not sulking in a Judas-like aftermath of a swirl of falsehoods. I’d like to say that pathetic scene was a wakeup call, but it actually took me many more years, and even more shameful episode, before I finally straightened out my head and met my self.

But, Dad, I’m glad to report, I finally know who I am. I’m not half the man you were, but I know I’ve finally become a man you can be proud of. I’m one of many who have to learn the hard way. It took me a long, long time, but I finally know exactly who I am. And I’m proud of both of us.

The moment Punk Rock was born

Some may disagree, but I believe Punk rock is one of the few movements that's birth can be pinpointed to an actual moment in time. October 20th, 1967 The Doors played a concert in front of a bunch of drunken frat boys in University of Michigan's Yost Field House in Ann Arbor. Morrison, himself so intoxicated the show had to be paused and restarted, became irritated by the attitude of the crowd who chided his long hair and "girly" hippie attire. Morrison decided to mock the crowd by singing in a false falsetto voice, and squirming in a provocative, satiracly feminine frenzy. He berrated and taunted the preps in between sets and the crowd responded by throwing objects at him and yelling insults. It became quite ugly to the delight, it seems, of two people in particular: Morrison and a high school student in the audience, James Osterberg. The boy who would be grow up to become Iggy Pop was struck at that very moment with an idea for a new possible performer-fan relationship. A relationship fueled less by envy and worship, and more on confrontation, mutual aggression, angst and violent expression. James left that concert with the wheels turning in his head and soon began experimenting with new stage personas, tactics and provocative sets. When he took these ideas to New York City, he spread a virus to all the early Punks who started the NY, London and West Coast Punk scenes. No one was doing this before Iggy, and all the early punks saw an Iggy show at one point or another. I think the simplicity, the do-it-yourself attitude and the anti-rock god elements of Punk may have been an inevitable response to the state of commercial rock at the time, but the Punk attitude may not have ever caught fire without Iggy's influence.

Thus, I can make the bold statement: Punk, like most great things, was born in Ann Arbor, MI.

DOB: October 20, 1967

Location: Yost Field House

Is faith a popularity contest?

The very foundation is flawed.

It get's a little tricky when you actually read the bible

Should we all be more aware of public policy?

§  While I'm not worthy to criticize the great Bertolt Brecht I have to say I disagree. The truth is that no matter where you go – and all throughout history - most people do not want to study and toil and fight to keep their leaders on track. They want to live their lives. That’s it. They want to work and spend time with their families, have a little fun, eat a nice meal, love and chat. There is nothing wrong with that. Sadly, the powerful will always take advantage of that basic human truth. But the answer isn’t to expect everyone of become aware and educated about public policy and get involved. It’s up to us. Those of who do want to put in the time and energy and passion to get involved.  It’s our job.  When we realize how few of us there actually are, we can’t get discouraged; we need to use that to get even more motivated. We need to work that much harder on behalf of all our neighbors. I’m not the least bit interested in joining the PTO, but I’m damn glad there are others who are. I benefit from their efforts, even though I contribute nothing. We each have a role to play in this world. Don't curse those who have a different part to play. Do your thing like a man or woman possessed so everyone else can do theirs without fear or limits.

Memories of 9/11 - I'm a lucky man!

Every September 11th for the rest of my life, I’ll be reminded both of the depth of evil that humans are capable of and how lucky I am to have the family and friends I have. When it happened I was fortunate enough to have a boss who – even though we were in the middle of a very important meeting people had traveled from all over the state to attend – immediately sent everyone home to “take care of your families.” I was lucky enough to have a good friend who was a child psychologist who coached me through how to talk to my 11 and 13 year-old daughters about the tragedy as I sped home. But most of all I was lucky enough to have two incredible daughters who handled the news better than even the most mature and insightful adults. After I hit all the talking points suggested by my brilliant friend, I asked them what they were feeling. Without a second’s hesitation, the only thing they wanted to know was what they could do to help. I said, “Uh… okay!” We heard about a group who was collecting supplies for the hoped for survivors (we didn’t know at the time there would not be any) and the emergency responders. After a trip to the store we headed to the collection point in a little Ford Escort stuffed with batteries, bottled water and other suggested items. Honestly, my mind was racing and I had no clue what to do – but my young daughters knew the answer was simple: find out what we can do to help and get busy! What amazing girls.