the passage of my life is measured out in shirts

In what amounts to materialistic suicide, I recently moved into the tiniest apartment that I've ever lived in.

Technically it's a one bedroom, but to get to it, one has to walk through the restroom. And the kitchen is actually a tiny alcove off of the tiny living room. There is a big old porch and a giant roof deck off of the bedroom (with an amazing view of the local lake, mountains, and downtown) that makes it OK.

In the year since I moved out of my house (divorce will do that) I seem to have accumulated a lot of furniture. Plus all the books and records and CDs and knick knacks and artwork and pots and pans and odd art pieces, well somethings gotta give.

So, selling off some old books and comics and discs and tables, giving back the rocking chairs that were on extended loan, and tossing out old papers and magazines (8 boxes worth so far!) is clearing out the space a bit and making me feel all zen-like (sort of).

I also found 4 (4!) large storage bins of old clothes. Mostly shirts that:

1) No longer fit (no longer the skinny speed freak punk)

2) Are damaged in some way (was I planning to make a quilt?)

3) Have great sentimental value.

Number three is the kicker. I mean I get a "lemon cookie dipped in tea" kind of memory surge just looking at some of these shirts.

One is the red shirt with "8-balls" all over it that I wore to death in the '90's. Another is the purple Guayabera shirt last worn to my best friend's funeral. Various Hawaiian shirts worn when meeting Significant People in my life, another one that I wore on the first date with my now ex-wife and you get the picture as to why I cling to these.

But donating them? Selling them? I'm in a quandary.

I really do need the space...but then again, I could put aside some choice ones for my daughter to wear out when she's bigger.

If the moths don't get to them first.

If I don't turn them into a quilt first.

That means keeping them.

Rinse, repeat.

the young marble giants

Years ago, back in my old punk rock high school days (1980? 1981?) I went to see one of the shows that would alter my life.

Up until then, being a punk in Los Angeles meant being one in a couple of hundred oddballs in town, getting "Hey, Devo" yelled to you from cars by Mexican home-boys, having crazy hair, not being allowed into Disneyland, and getting the shit beat out of you by UCLA frat boys if you ventured into their turf (Westwood).

Many of us devoured the NME and other like mags from across the pond. we shopped at the local 2 stores that carried imports.

The local bands were all pretty good, or so it seemed, but far too many were just rock, albeit stripped down, raw and pissed. I was always searching for the more experimental varieties, but they were scattered and few.

Then we (girlfriend, brother, and other girlfriend) saw the ad for THE SHOW.

Cabaret Voltaire and the Young Marble Giants were coming to town. Extreme noise, extreme minimalism.

It was a long month of waiting for 2 bands that we were obsessed with. I mean this was it for the crazies amongst the crazies. back then, things weren't so divided in the music scene, so this was an event for many in 'the scene.'

The night came, the 2 local opening acts ignored, and then the Young Marble Giants.

Two brothers, a woman singer. Rhythym machine, bass, occasional guitar and keyboard. I was blown away,stricken, killed, ressurected,and in love.

I wasn't even high.

The band did nothing much on stage, but the music was sublime. Brilliant. Frightening. I felt an awareness spring up in me regarding all the possibilities in music and life, and can still visually quote what Allison Stratton did during the few songs she sang on.

I was in bliss for the rest of the evening, and essentially don't remember anything else (including "breaking up" with my 2nd girlfriend) save for the sonic virus that had entered my head.

I can't describe the music. That's like dancing about architecture.

The band split up after the tour, leaving behind just a few singles and one full length album.

Over the years, I searched in vain for a supposed 2nd album. I wore out 2 vinyl copies. Every mix tape I made included one of their songs.

Found a few scattered projects by the brothers in obscure music shops, but kept on playing the old Rough trade albun.

My first happy acid trip was spent with a Walkman playing the album over and over wandering UC Berkeley. Oddly enough, the Red Hot Chili Peppers were playing a frat party. I tuned them out.

I have played the album on the first day in every new home I've moved into.

I snuck a song onto my wedding day tape.

I played the album to my daughter in utero and on the day we brought her home...

I expect that 'Man Amplifier' (also a name of an aborted band of mine) will be played at my funeral.

If I ever get to make my film, it's the soundtrack.

It's one of 2 cd's at my work desk.

And lastly, one year ago, I found a DVD of the band playing live. Out of the blue.

Same tour, different town. Didn't matter. I was shaking. Should i play it? will it hold up?

So I waited. And waited.

Feeling low last night, I gave in and played it finally. All fears gone.

It was glorious.

And I cried, cried, cried. Happy. Filled with visions. And memories of a concert that changed my life.

I'm playing it again tonight.

You're not my daughter's valentine!

So, the dreaded question comes from my nine year old:

"Daddy-o, do I make a Valentine Day's card for everyone in my class?"

For the last few years, the school's policy is that a child makes one for all, or none. Very PC.

Mind you, my hated of Valentine's Day probably started around my girl's age in school as I was one of the kids that generally never got too many cards from school mates. I was fat, nerdy, "Latino" (mostly white bread school), and a thespian.

Basically, a dork. So no cards. Cynicism is born. Suspicion of "love" and "relationships" begins.

It also didn't help that my mother, the ultra-catholic (is that a superhero yet?), would always remind us that Saint Valentine was no longer a saint (along with St. Bernard and St. Nicholas). So throw that in to the mix, add punk hostility towards ugly American consumerism, and my little ray o sunshine's question sets off various sirens in my head.

Being the sensitive Dad however, I answer back:

"Do you ask that because 22 is too many, or is there someone you feel funny giving one to?"

She knows I'm on to her.

"Uh, dad. Nunces?" (child's name changed to preserve anonymity).

Nunces carries one of those wheeled travel bags everywhere he goes. To the bathroom, to the lunch area, on field trips. The weird part: There are no school supplies in it. Those are in his backpack. His parents don't know what's in it. He will not open it.

Nunces is a brat.He is a cynical 50 year old man trapped in a child's body. At eight years old, he back talks to every teacher, goes around saying all adults are stupid, uses the "F", "B", and "A" word so much that he has been suspended twice, told the teacher to "Suck my ____!", and insults every child every chance he gets.

The whole Nunces family needs some help, I think.

But he called my girl a "Fatty four eyes." And that means war.

What to do? What do I tell my girl in this awkward situation. Feelings for the nemesis aside, there is a rule at the school, and my wee one informs me that she has spent most of Sunday making the other cards.

So she can't leave Damien Omen III without a card (I remind my Kid of my hurt feelings being left out).

"Hmmm..." I stall. "What do your cards say to the other kids?"

"Uh, 'Be my valentine's', 'you're the sweetest', and stuff like that. But I can't say that to Nunces!!"

Then it hits me. I remember one particularly nasty card that I once got. No sickly sweet pandering. Just someone's (a parent's?) idea of fulfilling the needs of the card at it's most basic? Or a sad attempt at generic-ism? I'll never know, but it got to me.

And now, the cycle can continue.

I tell my pup what to write, and she understands. And a little part of me feels bad, but another part thinks on how this may turn the kid around (I mean, I like the weird old man sarcasm and that bag thing, and I was a bit of a jerky know it all as a kid, so maybe...?).

Nunces' card reads:

Have A Nice Day.

salty buddha

Everyday on the way to work, the train passes by a strange manufacturer of steel tanks.

Over the now abandoned street entrance at train level, above the door frame, is a tiny one foot by half a foot alcove, holding what appears to be a soot encrusted smiling monkey Buddha.

It's been there for goodness knows how long. Looking over all the industrial traffic that has passed by over the years. And now the strange sooty grimace looks down on commuters, probably unnoticed by most.

I had already noticed him years back in a drunken walk down this street years before the train went in. And how happy I was to re-notice him all these years later...

Just what was the Buddha doing up there? Was he o.k. all covered in years of truck exhaust?

I've never had the nerve to stop by and ask just what this effigy is doing sitting in an otherwise forgettable brick facade.

My fear is that someone in management may take notice and take it down, making my train ride all the less pleasant.

I mean it's like having my own personal greeting from some kind of "higher" power or observer as I make my way to and fro from work.

The other day I drifted off on the train and dreamed I was up on a ladder, and that to gain possession of the sooty Buddha, I had to lick the statue.

He was salty,and that woke me up.

i'm still yawning

I fell asleep on the train today.

3 stops past my transfer point, and into Terra Incognita for me (others call it Compton).

I had gone out last night for a long-delayed drinks date with a new friend, and we talked and talked and talked. It was wunnerful.

Then I headed home, and my old enemy, insomnia, showed her ugly face.

So it was close to 3 a.m. when I finally fell asleep.

Of course, I had to go pick up my daughter at 6:30 a.m. from the ex., drive her to my folks across town (school's out) and drive back to the train stop, and catch my commuter south.

Next thing I know, one of the local Sheriff's is moving my shoulder, saying "I think you missed your stop."

Nice to be remembered.

I stumbled out of the train, straight across the platform to another train heading back to my destination.

I was still late to work.

And now I can barely keep my eyes open.

So, lesson learned:

Drinks + talk = calling in sick.