The Drifting Fade

I'm blind to the brewing

of the great unwashed

though I am counted among them

in circles I avoid.

Jacked on coke,

candy and bile

and a gargantuan weakness

weathering time and tidal tears.

-----

I'm railing rancor incandescent

at myself in unseen mirrors

reflecting my mind's eye

glaring back at me unforgiven.

Cracked and caked in piss stained

crimson gold and peeling

nicotine yellowy ceiling - walls - frayed,

unwanted and half betrayed,

at the feet of plaster knick-knack figurines,

arms askew, chipped and fractured.

Ghosts of my childhood,

haunted and haunting,

clotted from waiting

for me to arrive at some kind of solace,

gargling flesh and blood with lost animation,

vomiting memories of paternal delirium.

-----

My seismic hungry

licks all the CD cases clean;

my perpetual panic

tears apart the couch for crumbs;

my inner chickenshit

grips the bedsheets slick with sweat

soaked sweet

from the gin and juice

of a thousand drinks gone by.

-----

Summer some day is

a distant light from here,

the drifting fade.

-----

Blistering angst cuts

on a rage lost in thought,

the angry call.

-----

The mind blends to nonsense,

blessed chewing on my nerves,

the peptic turn.

-----

My wisdom's stillborn stupid

with an instinct for fear

and guile and guilt.

It's what I have and what I am:

the drifting, shivering, sanctifying fade

-----

Lucid Lacerations

I suffer an open wound somewhere in my being,

ground into glass, lacerating lucidity.

Down supermarket aisles dull-eyed and aching

as daily endless offices spill into vacant villains

like sloven doped up stooges running roughshod unrelenting.

-----

Lactose intolerant demons climb

from intestine to my brain stem, driving

incandescent fever visions of SEPTA trolley greasy wheels

where sickly souls go diving into

muddy puddle storm drains unwanted and unseen.

-----

A mad man is simply he

who's bled the gauze of avarice from his eyes;

is simply she

who's finally broken her baggage, tossing sad to the wind.

Oh how free the lunatic fringe truly is,

straitjacket laced clozapine blues not withstanding.

-----

Alas, I'm infinitely sound of mind in all the wrong ways

despite the malpractice I preach

alone to my congregation of dying furniture and home electronics;

this will be forgiven, I pray,

lest a yard sale see them banished as inanimate nonbelievers.

And through the heart of every

never quite psychotic night,

a sleepless dancing cavalcade haunts my graceful failures.

Or is it simply failed grace they taunt to all but tearing numb?

-----

Through it all I smile past teeth

ground down from caramel caffeine jitters,

count my lucky stars for what I have,

and vow again this year

to find out just what that might be.

-----

Unless, that is, there's something

especially good on the tube.

Next year then?

For sure.

True Blood

So last night I'm laying in bed watching an interesting documentary on the life of Joe Stummer, the late leader of seminal punk band the Clash. What I found kind of telling, however, were some reactions to Joe's days prior to the Clash. There were grumblings by a few punk purists that Strummer was a "poseur" because he'd been an art school "hippie" type performing in rhythm and blues bands before he "became" a punk.

Never mind that to be a "punk" in the late 60's/early 70's probably meant you were a prison bitch rather than a musician, I'm not sure exactly what these naysayers expected Joe to have been. I guess he should have been hanging out with the Velvets, Stooges and the New York Dolls, but I don't think he had the coin to pull up stakes and move across the pond to America.

Personally, I admire the guy more for his ability to invent and then re-invent himself. All the greats do it, with perhaps Bob Dylan being the grand master at that game. Declan Patrick MacManus, better known as Elvis Costello and perhaps my favorite musician, is another ever-changing chameleon. Being "true to one's self" doesn't mean you need to do it for the rest of the world; in fact, it usually means you can't.

To me, substance is far more important than "truth." Or, more accurately, truth is more important than "facts." One of my favorite books of the 21st century is James Frey's A Million Little Pieces. When it came out that this "memoir" was much more a melding of some fact and a lot of fiction, Frey got crucified (mainly because he fooled the lord god Oprah). But the quality of the writing didn't magically dissipate. On the contrary, I admired it that much more as it showed Frey had a sense of imagination alongside his way with words. That it seems Frey is a pompous ass or that thus far the book appears to be this particular pony's one trick has likewise not diminished the work in my eyes.

My ultimate journalistic hero isn't Edward R. Murrow, it's Hunter S. Thompson. Murrow is close to the summit but Hunter and his Sherpa Ralph Steadman have firmly planted their flag at the top of the world in my opinion. Hunter's "Gonzo Journalism" was based on the adage that you should never let facts get in the way of your search for what's true. It's the substance of the story that matters more than the traditional view of "truth" (and Hunter used all manner of substance and substances in his quest to bend reality to this end). Not journalism, you say? Bullshit. Read Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72 for some of the best political reporting you're likely to find before or since. How much of it is true? All of it, more than almost anything I've read. How much of it is fact? Who cares.

Perhaps today's guru of the wise, Mr. Stephen Cobert, had it right when he coined the term "truthiness" in 2005 as that thing you know in your gut is the "truth" despite all absence of evidence, logic or fact. That he's being facetious doesn't make it less true.

Shiny Boots of Leather

It's a shame that two of New York City's most historic rock and roll haunts now only exist in cyberspace - namely Max's Kansas City and CBGB.

I was too young to have made it to Max's but was lucky enough to see several shows at CBGB, albeit long after its hey day as home to the Ramones, Blondie, Television, New York Dolls, etc. in the mid-70s (just after Max's first closed).

Max's was a regular hangout of the Velvet Underground, along with Andy Warhol and crew and one of the places to play in the late 60s and early 70s. Jim Carroll practically made it his second home as he illustrates in his book, Forced Entries. It's a deli today, which is a crying shame.

Why mention this? I was re-reading the Lester Bangs 'bio book' Blondie. Lester was, at least in my opinion, the best rock and roll writer the world has known, and one of the best writers of any kind. Not enough people know of him, certainly not those under a particular age. Sadly, Lester passed on much too young in 1982 and though he left a rich body of work behind, much of it is maddeningly inaccessible, save for a couple of compilations. The best of the compilations, and most commercially successful, is Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung, put together by a buddy of his and another pretty good rock writer, Greil Marcus - if you haven't read it, I highly encourage you to pick it up.

Lester worked for a number of magazines in the 70s, including Rolling Stone (where he was fired at least once) but his voice really took root in the pages of Creem Magazine (God, I wish I had saved my copies from that period). Creem was an irreverent rag out of Detroit, 'America's Only Rock and Roll Magazine' it proclaimed on each cover. Creem now sadly also only has a life online (of course, it certainly isn't alone in that equation). Lester did get some posthumous exposure when Phillip Seymour Hoffman played him in Cameron Crowe's Almost Famous but his work is largely incarcerated in those Creem back issues.

Anyway, I got off track again, as I'm wont to do.

What was I talking about?

Oh, yeah - Blondie.

Lester was was a subversive motherfucker by nature. The Blondie book he had been hired to write was supposed to be a typically shallow fan bio, published only to take advantage of their unexpected success in the wake of Heart of Glass. Lester, though, had other plans. He used this relatively high profile exposure as a bully pulpit in order to preach his special brand of punk religion. He confused and infuriated the publishers (not to mention Blondie) but it's a great read. He talks about the roots of punk and in particular the Velvets and Max's and Television, the Dolls, Patti Smith, Ramones and, yes, Blondie at CBGB.

Screw the boring ass Museums that dot NYC (with a sponsor's exemption for the Guggenheim, which is kinda rock'n'roll in its own right) - I would pay dearly to be able to visit this kind of history outside the pages of a book (no matter how well written it might be).

Ahh, but that's not right.

Rock and roll isn't like other art and maybe trying to fit it into that mold would be the worst thing that could happen: you become - well, you become the Hardrock Cafe.

Max's is better off as a deli. After all, what's more New York than that? Except for perhaps the fate befallen the CBGB building, once Patti gave the final concert there in October 2006 and the doors closed for good as a rock joint.

First CBGB was shuttered/abandoned and then it became a high-end fashion store. NYC is very well known for plenty of both. The fashionistos left the club graffiti and playbills in the bathroom intact as a shrine for the richies to marvel over when they need to take a piss while shopping for high priced John Varvatos clothes and fragrances.

Andy Warhol would smile. That's very NYC indeed.

Repugnant Beauty

A sweet stench

of snowflake

wafts off rivers

icing slowly.

January lifts

light as lonely,

settles in

soft as Sunday,

its beauty

so repugnant

from the outside

looking in.

Sway

So I sit here this evening with a migraine and a toothache and Sticky Fingers on the iPod. Not exactly an inspirational record but it seems to fit my mood to a tee tonight.

I've felt out of phase and off kilter all this week in ways I haven't since the bad old days, yet without having indulged in any of the 'better abuses through chemicals' that accounted for such a funk back then. My 'head full of snow' (thanks Moonlight Mile) is purely of my own making this time. By that, I mean it's physiological, which to me is more frightening than the pharmaholic hangovers of yore. That, by the way, is a great name for a rock and roll band: The Pharmaholic Hangovers of Yore. Ya heard it here first.

Now before you get all excited about some amazing scientific breakthrough you think I've discovered where I can tap into my psyche to get an organic high with no need to pay for drinks, score dope or whatever it is you might otherwise do, you should know I've only stumbled upon the capability to induce the hangover portion of those particular rides. It's like discovering a get-rich-quick scheme wherein you instantly become a multi-millionaire in the eyes of the IRS and have to pay taxes on this money, but you never actually get the money itself. I can't imagine anyone wanting such a gift.

How did I unlock my inner hangover?

It was really quite simple: I started nosing around where I don't belong in a Pandora's box of childhood memories I'd heretofore kept on ice in my subconscious, repressed into a stone cold coma. There they stayed lo these many years, nice and somewhat quiet (except perhaps for the ulcers that occasionally flare up, but that's only a guess and in any case, indirect). Until last year, when I decided I needed a proper hobby and said to myself, "Hey, how about trying my hand at some creative writing, some 'factional' short stories about Growing Up Birnam." Think one part That 70's Show, two parts Titus, two parts Twilight Zone, a jigger of Married with Children, a healthy splash of The Night of the Living Dead and a slice of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind on the side.

I started with one of the few memories I had of those carefree, Leave It To Beaver days: Dad throwing his hat on the rack in the front hallway, loosening his tie and calling out, "Honey, Kids - I'm home!" Yes, indeed. Then I switched off Nick at Night and tried to get my focus back to the task at hand, my memories, my childhood. No Barbara Billingsley, no Hugh Beaumont (though I'm sure Otis Campbell from Mayberry was really there on occasion). Start at the beginning, Ben, concentrate. Think of each significant event and start riffing on the keyboard. Think, remember, write.

Think, remember, write.

I've spent about 15 months of doing this now and each memory pulls another one out of the ether along with it, up and out of my pounding head, like doing shots of Tequila then fast-forwarding past intoxication to the aftermath. I think this week's sort of the culmination of this journey. The first week of the year is always tough for a number of reasons. One is because it means the holidays are over and as much as I profess to dislike this time of the year now, I loved them as a child. My dad usually managed to hold it together during the weeks leading up to Christmas and I don't have any bad memories of that time of year but then came January and business as usual with drunken bickering parents. Sort of like a segue from It's a Wonderful Life to Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? To add to this, the first week of the new year means I just got back from time spent with my sisters in AZ, which I enjoy but which inevitably means much reminiscing about that childhood. Too much whine can give you a hangover to rival too much wine, it seems.

The tone for most of this 'therapy' is too dark for posting to this blog (believe it or not, the shit I have thrown up here is the 'lighter' side of my memories). Beyond a black hole of depression, the rejects are frankly not all that entertaining at this point (certainly not all that funny). Or maybe they're the good ones and it's the shit I've been posting. Or, most likely, they're all shit but nevertheless my shit and I should throw caution to the wind and see what sticks. I need to figure out the angles before most of these screeds see the light of day, and that's if I decide it's even worth the price of admission to continue on this odyssey of self discovery redux.


Unfortunately, tonight I've got a psyche full of snow and the rabbit ears aren't working (damn digital broadcast switchover, nobody told me it applied to my head). Time to turn out the lights as I listen to the sound of strangers sending nothing to my mind ...