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Santa needs a bailout
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HOPE IN CAMDEN - POET OF POVERTY
I just wrote about a story about Camden being the 2nd most dangerous city, according to crime statistics, and I wanted to post this, because it's sort of beautiful.
Buffonzo
I'm more than a little disappointed that hunter s. Thompson was a Jimmy buffet fan.
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Shut it
A financial expert on coast to coast just said his #1 tip is: prepare to lose your job
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something in the way
I wrote this 10 years after Kurt Cobain killed himself and feel like posting it again................................................................................................................because I found this cool montage on Youtube and remembered there was a time I really cared about music. Now I could give a shit about new music, or to be precise, Brooklyn.
It was Christmas of 1991 when I bought the single of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit.'
My cousin Kevin and I sat down on my water bed, put the cassette in and listened as our ears were hurled into a raging torrent of fuzzy power chords, booming drums, and the singer's uncultivated howl.
My father, a guitar player, said the music was simple and he couldn't understand what the singer was saying.
I loved it.
Kurt Cobain, the skinny, gravel-throated singer, was melding punk, heavy metal and rock n' roll into a music described as "grunge.' Their first major-label debut, Nevermind, was the first compact disc I ever owned.
Cobain, drummer Dave Grohl, and bassist Krist Novoselic didn't wear makeup, leather pants, or use hair spray -- I'm not even sure they washed their hair. They wore whatever jeans and T-shirts were closest to them when they rolled out of bed. In one surreal video, filled with riotous cheerleaders, moshing teens, and one unsanitary janitor, the band seemingly squashed the fluffy, lipstick rock that dominated the 80s.
"Here we are now, entertain us,' Cobain sang to millions of teens ready to be entertained.
I think Cobain probably would have hated everything I've said so far.
It's clear from reading his published journals (which I feel guilty for doing) that he just wanted to earn a living by making music. One entry details a cleaning business he envisioned in order to fund the band.
He just wasn't celebrity material -- most people aren't. He didn't have the magnetism inherent in Madonna, the mysticism of Jim Morrison, or even the social consciousness of one of his contemporaries -- Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam.
Cobain, who often seemed asocial with a sarcastic sense of humor, was unable to handle what the world demanded from him, and heroin and pills became his sanctuary.
I was 16 years old when Cobain raised a Remington shotgun to his face and pulled the trigger.
And to be honest, part of me admired him for it. He didn't sell out, I thought.
Now I have a son and another child on the way -- I no longer admire him for checking out so early. He was partly selfish for abandoning his talents and millions of fans, but even more so for leaving an equally troubled wife and young daughter. Unlike so many, he had the money to get the treatment he really needed.
What Cobain ultimately left for me is the soundtrack of my youth -- Nirvana in my headphones while I jogged or cruised the streets in my 1986 Buick Grand National; Pearl Jam at a party beneath the summer stars; Soundgarden while I scrubbed swimming pools with muriatic acid; Alice in Chains beside a campfire at Lake Wallenpaupack in the Poconos.
Every time I hear their songs, I'm pulled back into those wonderful memories -- July of 1998 stands out in particular.
I plopped a few quarters into a jukebox at a local bar and played my favorite Nirvana song, a cover of Leadbelly's "Where Did You Sleep Last Night?' from the Unplugged in New York album.
As Cobain wailed on about heartache and deceit, I got a tap on the shoulder from a girl I had met at the bookstore where I worked. She commended me on my choice in music, we started talking, and I married her five years later.
Maybe Kurt Cobain was a rock god, a revolutionary who changed the face of music. Personally, I think he was an extremely talented, fragile man, who struggled with drug problems but loved to make music.
And that's why he means so much to me.
A memory parade
This past week, I spent a lot of time questioning my dad’s fathering skills. I’m
talking about the two black holes in my memory where the 1980 Phillies and 1983
Sixers parades should be.
There should be an image, vivid and bright, of me sitting on my dad’s shoulders
and cheering as Mike Schmidt, Pete Rose, and Tugger go past in slow motion. I
can feel the tears of joy rolling down my cheeks, though it probably would have
been my dad’s cigarette smoke stinging my eyes.
And surely, I would never have forgotten Dr. J’s god-like hands blotting out the
sun as they waved back and forth, again in slow motion.
But I don’t have those memories because my dad hates parades. It’s a combination
of not liking drunks and extreme temperatures and some long, drawn out affair
about a sewing needle, the Cub Scouts, and some mandatory July 4 death march.
They’re all excuses, I told him, and he should be ashamed that he robbed me of those
moments. I made a vow that all three of my children would bask in the glory of
the 2008 Phillies if they won it all. I would burn the magic of collective joy
into their brains and they would always associate the Phillies with dad or at
the least, a day off from school.
Somehow, I found myself alone yesterday at 11:15 a.m., running across the Ben
Franklin Bridge with sweat beading up on my back and a few miles to go before
Broad and Tasker, where I promised my editors I would be when the parade
started. I thought I head my dad laughing at me, but I was light-headed
Just minutes earlier, any remaining ties to a perfect day were severed when I
kissed my 2-year-old son’s head and slammed the car door in his face. He had his
Word Series shirt on, the Phillies cap passed down from his brother and sister
atop his head, and the pockets of his jeans were stuffed with Daily News
business cards in case I lost him.
And I just left there with my wife.
It pains me to say this, but he was not my first option anyway. He wears
diapers, can’t walk very fast, and requires a level of awareness I’m never ready
for, hence the business cards in the pockets.
His older brother, the Headless Horseman, decided late Thursday night that the
Halloween party at school was a better . . I didn’t let him finish. Halloween
comes and goes I told him, but sports glory is a rare and wondrous thing that
may touch your life this one time and possibly never again.
Then I threatened to punish him if he didn’t go.
“Fine,” I said. ‘You’re going to regret this for the rest of your life.”
Alice in Wonderland, my daughter, gave me a certain look when I said “well, at
least your sister is going.” Her crystal blue eyes seemed to be saying “Daddy, I
love you to death but I’m about to break your heart in a million pieces.”
She bailed on me, like her older brother, for education and cheap candy.
So it was up to the little guy, Charlie Brown, to seal this parade in a glass case for me and help me put in on the top shelf of memories.
But then I saw people walking away from the train station near my house. They
were shaking their heads in disgust. They were on cell phones and throwing their
hands in the air.
“It’s a two-hour wait just to buy a ticket,” some random guy said when I rolled
down the window and asked what’s up?
From that point on, I was driven by pure desperation and that’s no place for
kids. My wife says he called for his “daddy” as I bounded up the stairs to the
Hopefully, he won’t remember any of it and the Phillies will simply repeat the
title. The other two kids only have themselves to blame. My dad hopes I never
forget it. He also made me promise to mention that he offered to pick me up
after I crawled back over the bridge.
talking about the two black holes in my memory where the 1980 Phillies and 1983
Sixers parades should be.
There should be an image, vivid and bright, of me sitting on my dad’s shoulders
and cheering as Mike Schmidt, Pete Rose, and Tugger go past in slow motion. I
can feel the tears of joy rolling down my cheeks, though it probably would have
been my dad’s cigarette smoke stinging my eyes.
And surely, I would never have forgotten Dr. J’s god-like hands blotting out the
sun as they waved back and forth, again in slow motion.
But I don’t have those memories because my dad hates parades. It’s a combination
of not liking drunks and extreme temperatures and some long, drawn out affair
about a sewing needle, the Cub Scouts, and some mandatory July 4 death march.
They’re all excuses, I told him, and he should be ashamed that he robbed me of those
moments. I made a vow that all three of my children would bask in the glory of
the 2008 Phillies if they won it all. I would burn the magic of collective joy
into their brains and they would always associate the Phillies with dad or at
the least, a day off from school.
Somehow, I found myself alone yesterday at 11:15 a.m., running across the Ben
Franklin Bridge with sweat beading up on my back and a few miles to go before
Broad and Tasker, where I promised my editors I would be when the parade
started. I thought I head my dad laughing at me, but I was light-headed
Just minutes earlier, any remaining ties to a perfect day were severed when I
kissed my 2-year-old son’s head and slammed the car door in his face. He had his
Word Series shirt on, the Phillies cap passed down from his brother and sister
atop his head, and the pockets of his jeans were stuffed with Daily News
business cards in case I lost him.
And I just left there with my wife.
It pains me to say this, but he was not my first option anyway. He wears
diapers, can’t walk very fast, and requires a level of awareness I’m never ready
for, hence the business cards in the pockets.
His older brother, the Headless Horseman, decided late Thursday night that the
Halloween party at school was a better . . I didn’t let him finish. Halloween
comes and goes I told him, but sports glory is a rare and wondrous thing that
may touch your life this one time and possibly never again.
Then I threatened to punish him if he didn’t go.
“Fine,” I said. ‘You’re going to regret this for the rest of your life.”
Alice in Wonderland, my daughter, gave me a certain look when I said “well, at
least your sister is going.” Her crystal blue eyes seemed to be saying “Daddy, I
love you to death but I’m about to break your heart in a million pieces.”
She bailed on me, like her older brother, for education and cheap candy.
So it was up to the little guy, Charlie Brown, to seal this parade in a glass case for me and help me put in on the top shelf of memories.
But then I saw people walking away from the train station near my house. They
were shaking their heads in disgust. They were on cell phones and throwing their
hands in the air.
“It’s a two-hour wait just to buy a ticket,” some random guy said when I rolled
down the window and asked what’s up?
From that point on, I was driven by pure desperation and that’s no place for
kids. My wife says he called for his “daddy” as I bounded up the stairs to the
bridge.
Hopefully, he won’t remember any of it and the Phillies will simply repeat the
title. The other two kids only have themselves to blame. My dad hopes I never
forget it. He also made me promise to mention that he offered to pick me up
after I crawled back over the bridge.
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