Punked-Out Punk: Part Two

Needing a fix.

“It’s a beautiful day.”

I pointed the Mercedes punkeast and smogward.  La Ciudad de Los Angeles.  The City of Angels.  Ha.  That’s rich.  The bitchy irony starts at the name, and doesn’t stop until the wino piss puddles around your Hollywood sidewalk star.  Always hated the place.  After 20 years of trying to make it work, you just know, Los Angeles, it’s not me.  It’s you.

Where else will you see a fifty-one year old man driving a Mercedes to a Reagan Youth show?  Like I said, always with the bitchy irony.  Just a nasty city.

Turned off the satellite radio.  Too many choices.  I’d rather listen to nothing.  Nothing but the sound of my mind grinding gears as it pushes boulders up steep inclines.  Only to have them roll back down.  Crushing and destroying everything in their path.  Including the equipment operator.

Deep in thought I was.  Too deep for tunes.  Dint want the distraction.  Twas a busy day at Monkey Mind Construction.

So what’s the deal here?  What’s the angle?  How do I approach this little outing?  What do I have to do?  More importantly, what should I not do?  How can I avoid having any regrets?  Am I too old for this?  Am I still “punk as fuck?”  Is eight car lengths safe enough?  Is it too late to invest in the Gerber Baby Grow-up Plan?  What if I have to fight a guy with an ax?  What do I have in the car that would give me a chance?  How about one of the dumbbells in the trunk?  Really?  Against an ax?  Why not one of the ten pounders wielded like a war-hammer?


Why am I planning on having to fight a guy with an ax?  When that almost never happens.

Just a lot of questions.  Few answers.  I didn’t need the Margaritaville or New Age Spa station to interfere with hearing any either.  Silence was golden.  Especially before tonight.  I had a sneaking hinky that I was in for an aural assault.  Reagan Youth, 13 Scars, Dust Angel, and a couple of other bands.  I estimated about at least five hours of music beaten into my skull before it was all over.

Yeah, we’ll keep the radio off.  Save the ear bones a little wear-and-tear.  Good chance to pay attention to my driving.  Hands at ten and two.  Ankle holding the pedal at a steady 70.  Check rear-view.  Side one.  Wup.  Brake light flashing 2.500 feet ahead.  Ease up on the gas.  Hover over brake.  Not required.  Continue to depress accelerator.

Only thirty-two more miles.  I just might make it.  Is that a cop?

Even with a valid license, current registration, proof of insurance, and not being drunk, I still drive like I could get pulled over and hauled off to jail.  Can’t help it.  Some groove I cut deep into the limbic part of my brain.  I remember getting a flat tire the first year I was sober.  I was by the side of the road changing it, when a CHP pulled up behind me.  Oh fuck.  Both my feet jerked hard left, ready to start running across the ice plant.

Hold on.  You haven’t done anything wrong.  Nothing is wrong with you.  And you don’t have anything wrong inside the car.  You are merely a motorist in distress.  And not over the fact that Xanax slows down your backwards ABCs.

Well, he had pulled over to see if he could help.  Even let me use his jack so I didn’t have to deal with the Japanese can-opener that came with my car.  We had some laughs over that.  He turned out to be a cool copper.  It felt strange waving good-bye to him as I drove off.

Good citizenshiphood is a trip alright.  And not too bad a deal.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against outlaw stuff.  I remember this one time I broke a law.  And it was deeply satisfying.  It’s just the constant tap-dancing required to maintain the life-style that gets tiring.  So does getting busted.  Being broke.  Hungry.  Hunted.  Haunted.

Trying to find the gun you hid while in a black-out.

“The last thing I remember is thinking ‘nobody will ever find it here,’ then the film breaks.  Please St. Anthony, help me find my gun.”

Having to thank Him after you find it in the microwave.  Feeling weird that you had to pray.  For that.

Yeah, all that shit pretty much blows.  I’ll put on my Mr. Rogers sweater instead.  The loafers too.  Did he change into loafers or sneakers?  I can’t remember.  As soon as I find a safe place to pull over I’ll Google it on my phone.  I watched enough of that show as a kid, you’d think I’d remember.

At night before going to sleep, I’d fantasize about lying down flat across Trolley, so I could ride it through the tunnel into the Neighborhood of Make Believe.  (There’s a Fellini image)  Once inside, I’d run amok and destroy the place.  Twist off King Friday’s head and proclaim myself the new Emperor.  Kid Caligula.  I’d imagine bashing in or burning down every cute little building.  One by one.  The castle.  The grandmother clock in the tree.  The rocking chair factory.  The platypus mound.  The Eiffel Tower.  That rotating columned cake thing that Lady Elaine lived at.  I think it was some museum or shit.  Doesn’t matter.  I would reduce it all to smoldering ruins.  Turn the Neighborhood of Make Believe into…Stalingrad.

Is that a normal fantasy for a seven-year-old boy?  Probably not normal for a normal one.  But normal for me.

Here's what I think of your 'hood.

Here’s what I think of your ‘hood.

Anyway, I turned out okay.  So I don’t think there was any lasting harm in it.  Okay, start signaling for your lane change.  Plenty of warning for everybody.  Thank you Mr. Pancho Villa Mustache Dude for letting me in.  Wave the thank you hand to him.  Did he see it?

“That’s right, bro.  You’re cool!”  Give him thumbs up.  Nod.  Mucho gratitudo, dude.

Okay then.

Did I mention I didn’t want to be driving to Hollywood to see a punk rock show?  No?  Well, truth be told, I’d rather be toasting my moccasins in front of a roaring fire tonight.  Watching some show about living in Alaska or prison.  My girlfriend snoring just enough to let me know she’s not dead.  My cats curled around me.  Both of them radiating their serenity, as my sister described “like two incense cones of coziness.”

Yeah, Mr. Destroy-Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood would rather be home with his woman and kitty cats.

Instead of a punk rock show.

Wow, that sounds really lame.  I need to make sure nobody finds out.  Vault that shit right now.  Right there with The Phone Sex Incident.  Bury it deep.

Fact is, I’m doing this as an act of contrary action.  Choosing to go out into the world and connect with friends.  Instead of continuing to isolate in my comfort zone.  I feel an obligation.  That it’s important to do.  Especially when I don’t feel like it.  It’s my small offering upon the altar of Faith Above Reason.  Connecting without fear of consequence.  It’s pretty insane.  Punk as fuck.  Actually.

Here we go.  This is beginning to feel more tawdry.  Must be getting close.  I need Sunset.  Three miles.  Signal.  Look over the left shoulder.  Right shoulder.  Rear-view.  Side-view.  Right shoulder again.  Begin merging.  Done.

It was sneakers not loafers. Well they were more like deck shoes.  That’s what he changed into after he put on his sweater.  But did he put his sweater on first?  Pretty sure.  Yeah.  He goes straight to the closet, takes off his sport coat, puts on the sweater, then sits down and changes his shoes.  That was the proper protocol.  For a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

Glad I straightened that out.  No Google either.

At least I was getting some answers.  Not to anything important.  Yet.  But I should keep listening.

I exited on Sunset and turned right.  My motel wasn’t too far.  Good.  I’ll have time to take a nap.

Before the big show.

(to be continued.)

Mindful motoring.

Mindful motoring.

13 responses to “Punked-Out Punk: Part Two

  1. Ah, your sis and her coziness. She never fails to get it right. My dog is more like a 50-lb sugar sack of coziness, but I like it just fine.

    It’s funny to grow up and realize the thing you want more than anything now is just to hang out peacefully. I’m thinking of buying a recliner, a real hideous grandma one, overstuffed in some kind of funky polyester velour. Forget Architectural Digest Eames reproductions. I want something to sink into.

    • Thanks for popping by, Suebob. Lori bought a new leather couch recently. It’s basically two recliners hooked together by a console with…cup holders! Yeah. We’ve become THOSE kind of people. It was a calculated choice. People coming over and thinking we’re tacky, or taking our relaxation to the next level.
      I’ve got to stop making fun of people. It almost always insures that I will somehow become like them.
      Maybe I always was like them, and that’s why I criticized.
      Much love as alweeze,

  2. ” Am I still “punk as fuck?” Is eight car lengths safe enough?”

    You had me rolling on this one, Gaucho Gustaitis. Seems to sum you up at the moment, matching reclining chairs and all. One seat for your bad-assness, the other for the inner Mr. Rogers (sans the “cram it with walnuts” finger signing). Seems like a lot of throwing caution to the wind in the face of…caution. Calibrate those wipers to stellar synchronicity, fine tune those brakes so they are feather light, shine the bird blood and guts and shit off those headlights. Have a nice lo-ride glow for next time you hit LA. But make sure you have an oil change before you start cranking War and bounce up and down the streets while honking “La Cucaracha”. Let’s think of Los Niños, shall we. Seatbelt on. Laces out.

    Funny how we are so fastidious and caretaking in our affairs these days, in the autumnal years. We’re not old, Marius, we are simply cask-aged (at least our livers have been). The thought of trodding and flopping through a mosh pit brings me a UPS-delivered, Granny-wrapped parcel of fear. Five hours of bearing down through a sonic tsunami is borderline torture for this delicate flower. So the badass comes out to play in ya. I don’t think he will ever leave, even if it means you wearing a Reagan Youth T-shirt underneath your robe as you go out in your slippers to shake your fist at the Real Youth and yell at them to get off your damn lawn. They might knock over the garden gnome. The one that plugs in and blows bubbles from an acorn pipe. That one.

    I don’t have the story you have, kind sir. I don’t think I would have lived through it, to be honest (see “delicate flower” above) but we all have our ways of being reckless. Me? It was getting hammered, or semi-hammered and deciding that car keys were a good idea to have. Some people got naked or started fights or got over amorous. I liked to drive. Ego wanted to prove that I wasn’t drunk, so driving is the best way to prove that, right? Right? Can I get an amen here? (crickets) I know…poor Absolut thoughts. Those stolid Russian Princes on the shiny bottles seemed to make good, solid choices…so why sully themselves on hobo poison? That’s a question for the man on the moon, I suppose.

    We can have safe recklessness now, can’t we? Maybe getting a triple letter score with a misspelled “brontide” in Scrabble or finishing the milk and not replacing the bag, or sweeping the leaves onto the neighbour’s side of the walkways. Or maybe that’s me getting my badass on. Or staying up 17 minutes later than I should on a work night. Maybe tickling the kids too much. Who knows. For others it’s having a lost weekend in a scanty motel room with salami, punk breath and elbows in the face. Live life like a outskirt, AAA hockey player, going to Moosejaw for the semi-finals. We can dream, can’t we?

    Moose hugs,

    • Orale vato. Que onda? Nice full-car burn you you put up on this subway train. You’re a gifted graffiti writer. But here’s one that was especially special for me “The one that plugs in and blows bubbles from an acorn pipe. That one.” Yeah. That one. Okay, like what the fuck? Did he actually see one of these in real life? Because that would be insane. And wildly hilarious. Or did he just make all that up? Which would mean only from the creativity that’s born of holy sanctified madness. Either way I can’t stop laughing.
      The acorn is what does it for me. I don’t know why but acorns crack me up. Oh, and I’m getting “seatbelt on, laces out” tattooed on my arm. Fore, I think. Again. Is that a real saying? I better find out since I’m getting it permanently inked into my flesh.
      Dude, apropos of nothing, but I’ve had a mildly bummer day. You know how those can be difficult to digest? I mean a total disaster of a day I can deal with. Just throw myself on the sword of The Universe. Collapse into a heap of surrender.
      But the mixed-bag of bon-bon sized bummers. The day that leaves you standing at the bell count, but somehow slightly nauseous from what you’ve been through. Those are hard for me. Oh I break out the Obeah and Wanga from my Voodoo bag, Try to banish it. But the minor key malodorous ones just sort of linger. The Glade air freshener of my holy incantations not quite cutting it.
      That’s all. Thought I’d check in. I’m Marius. And I’m an alcoholic.
      Speaking of T-shirts, Gurz sent me a Cat Flag shirt. You know, black cats replacing the traditional Black Flag bars. It was clearly a nod to my ripening with age. Bastard. He’s no spring chicken anymore either. At least he attempted some stage dives at the show. Yah, it was good to actually get to meet the guy. He was a righteous cat. Like I knew he would be.
      Spoiler alert for Part 3. I do no stage diving.
      No trodding or flopping either.
      Unless you count to and on the motel bed that night. I usually go to bed around 3AM ish. School nights too. So yes, I’m a very bad boy. Anyway, that night I get back at one thirty and I’m destroyed. Almost went to bed before remembering to plug in my Rascal Wheel-about mobile assistance bumper car. And washing out my hernia truss in the sink before hanging it up above the heater. Using my ointment for corns. Powdering my crack with Gold Bond.
      So tired I was.
      Alright, I’m not quite there in terms of the senior self-care regimen, but it’s not like I might not have spotted something that looked like it, on a distant horizon in a possible future. Know what I mean, jelly bean? Gross things that come with getting older. And that is why it is imperative we find the Fountain of Youth, Conquistador Pablo. We must find the elixir. (the codeine-free one) I do not want to get gross old. Distinguished fine. Hell, I’ll even settle for wizened. But not old AND gross. This is one area I shall not yield. Not one step back. Stalin Order whatever it was.
      Who am I kidding? I’ll yield. I always do. I’m the Yield Kid.
      Strange thing, too. The Yield Kid’s looks younger.
      Sure feels it. I think you know what I mean. Doesn’t your active alcoholic old self seem like a gnarly old dude. Just all that world weight tugging your face flesh downwards. Bloated and blown out. Always leaking from somewhere.
      Fuck that. This is better. I’ll deal with the ear hair. At least I’m continent.
      And chicks dig those dudes.
      Well, Mr. Pablo, I’m going hand over the briefcase at this point, and pick up your back pack, after which I’ll back out of this motel room nice and easy and say it’s been a pleasure doing business…ah, fellowshipping with you. That’s right. Nice and nice like. Let’s all remember we’re all happy here. Everyone gets what they wanted. Nobody needs to get nervous…or greedy.
      Muchas gracias.
      In true brotherhood of the spirit,

      • PS I totally get having to get behind the wheel to prove you’re not that drunk. Hell, this will be good for me. Sober me up a bit. A little fresh air blowing in my one-eyed face. Madness. I don’t think the holy sanctified kind either.

      • Such a great scene. Ok. I thought it was some sort of gang saying, like “Yo, bangin’ through the ‘hood, got my laces hangin’ out. Big booty mama, gonna make me scream and shout” kind of thing. So now I really get the “seat belts on, laces out.” ref. Let’s do our best to mitigate any oncoming disaster by attending to some common sense details. And hope to God avoid some minor fuck-up that could create a Ray Finkle. Something that wants to kill us. Because we made a mistake.
        Recurring motif in many personal myths. I might be able to bring a few of my own to mind.
        Well. Fuck Finkle. He can come and get me. I may have a grievance or two to air myself. Like him never taking the time to practice kicking the ball laces in. Mother…
        I swear.
        Anyway, big holiday here in The States. We like to call it “Thanksgiving.” We are generally such an ungrateful people, that we need to set aside one day a year to assuage our guilt. Everyone returns to the families they decided they would be happier moving away from, hangs out with them for a long week-end, then leaves, feeling reassured that they made the right decision. It’s a beautiful annual tradition. Like the return of the swallows of San Juan Capistrano. Because, the swallows always leave as well. Like clockwork.
        People forget that part.
        Okay, that’s enough bah-humbugging the holiday. And chasing those goddam kids off my lawn. I’m gonna drag my dirty bathrobe inside. Gotta tidy up the place for mother’s visit tomorrow. Big time “laces out” situation that there, Pauly. If you can dig what I’m saying.
        And I’m sure you can. Since you brought it up in the first place.
        Love you laces in or out,

  3. LOL! The whole things! I again can relate to so much… Hiding stuff in a blackout – never a gun, but I have hid the car keys so I wouldn’t drive in my blackout, just to be stuck the next day because I couldn’t find them :/ Oh and my first year in sobriety I got 2 speeding tickets, one flat tire and 2 accidents – weird – only got a dui when I was drinking. Now I drive nice because I got 3 back seats drivers with me most of the time. So I am glad you made it safely to the motel… Can wait to hear the rest!

    • Sorry to hear you could relate, but not, if you know what I mean. Just glad you made it to the other side safely. Fellow survivor. Wow. That was some shipwreck, huh? I stole some silverware before the whole thing went down. I was hoping to pawn it after we get rescued. Hey can you take over bailing for a while? This is usually my nap time.
      Makes me smile knowing you were such a speed demon behind the wheel. It’s always the nice girls. Seriously. My sister. Lori. Loving spiritual souls most of the time. But get them behind the wheel…and they turn into New York cabbies. The morphing transformation really is something to behold. Then you get this grandma pretend-brake-mashing-in-horror passenger seat driver in the same car, and sister, you have the makings of a zany screwball fun-for-the-whole-family comedy.
      Yeah, the laughs never stop when Lori and I drive somewhere.
      Except when I think we’re going to die in a fiery crash.
      Hang on St. Christopher.
      Loving salutations,

  4. It is never too late for the gerber baby grow up plan! Well it probably is, but on the plus side (I guess) it is also too late to smash up the land of make believe. The image of sneaking in flat-backed on top of the trolley is not one I will shake soon. Great post!

    • I guess it wouldn’t be too late if the baby didn’t grow up yet, right? If lets say, if he secretly would still like to torpedo-surf a little trolley car into a magical little place where he could declare himself ruler of all. You know, totally being hypothetical. Then it wouldn’t be…too late. Would it? I hope not.
      For that guy.
      Whoever he might be.
      Sometimes all people have is their hope.
      Hoping there’s an abundance of that resource in your little kingdom.
      Blinding bright love,

    • I’m down for a road trip, Johnny. A drive through the desert at night, under a full moon. You know how sensitive our brains are to tide-pull. I’m sure it would be most memorable. But I want to be designated rememberer.
      Your brother in solemn silence,

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