Free to a Bad Home: Unclaimed Killer Punk Rock Band Names

 

Dead Kennedys

Dead Kennedys

I guess the first punk rock band name that caught my eye was “Dead Kennedys, “ who, by the way, rank as number 6 on DigitalDreamDoor.com’s “100 Greatest Punk Rock Artists” pantheon.

It seems as if choosing a relatively inoffensive name would be a real sellout for a punk band, and what could be the motivation except for some kind of profit motive?

Not to piss on “The Misfits” (#9) or “The Adolescents (#29) or “Streetlight Manifesto (#84), but those are some pretty lame-ass names as opposed to “The Vibrators” (#74) or “Chocking Victim (#67).

Then again, those are not nearly as cool in my humble opinion as these 3 head-snapping double-take inducing names for a punk band who ain’t afraid of clucking tongues.

I offer these un-copyrighted, free of charge.

Idiosyncratic Caucuses

Trans-Vaginal Mesh Settlements

Body Fluid Cleanup Kit

You’re welcome, Johnny Graverobber.

The Trans Vaginal Mesh Settlements

The Trans Vaginal Mesh Settlements

The Whatness-of-the-Right Now

06_10_018861Chapter 1: Losses and Gains

I’m a 47-year-old man who’s lost a portion of my left leg to diabetes, my erstwhile wife to — and I’m not making this up — a yoga teacher ten years her junior.

I would like to think, however, that through these two rather major subtractions, I have gained a greater appreciation for what I’ve come to call the Whatness-of-the-Right Now (WORN), Now I pay heed to the slow softshoe of the keyboard’s clicking, note the redness of the Bic lighter lying next to my empty coffee cup, the grain of the walnut of this desk that once was a tree, the steady samba sway of the branches of magnolia outside my study’s smudged window panes.

As that master of the Whatness-of-the-Right-Now, Van Morrison, once scatted, “It ain’t why why why why why; it just is.”

So I’ve tried to jettison the dichotomy of wise and unwise and replace it with interesting versus uninteresting, which, of course, is inviting Old Man Trouble to crash on your couch. Also, I guess I should mention I have a 17-year-old daughter Bronwyn whom I’m attempting to nudge in the right direction, i.e., a path that leads to happiness. Of course, at her point in life, WORN and opting for what’s-interesting over what’s-not-interesting is as foolish as encouraging her to read The Sound and the Fury in the dad/daughter book club we’ve formed. [1]

Dad, I’ve decided to go to the all-night rave in a club downtown instead of the Drama Club production of Annie. The rave sounds more interesting. Yes, I have my fake ID! Jeez, Dad!

The thing is, though, when WORN kicks in, everything is interesting – even the logo of the Allstate bill that lies next to the empty coffee cup.

 

images

Why blue?

Are the hands about to receive a communion wafer?

Are we the communion wafer?

Are they the Hands of God?

How come the A is listing to the right?

How much was the creator of the logo paid?

 

Hang Outs

After our divorce, Gwen and I sold our house on Limehouse Street in Charleston, SC, and I moved to a barrier island called Folly Beach, the most bohemian of Charleston’s beaches. I live on the backside facing the Folly River in a small one-story, two-bedroom bungalow propped on pilings, but my study faces the front of the house because I don’t want the constant Darwinian dissonance of pelican plummet – splash – or the baby-butchering sounds of raccoon sex — or the insect-like buzz of  jet skis to distract me as I try to put into words what is happening.

After the amputation, which I prefer to call dismemberment, I retired from my job as the arts editor at the paper and became a househusband, which drove both Gwen and Bronwyn crazy. Did I mention I am a smoker? An occupational hazard in journalism and a must-not for diabetics. Of course, I smoked outside on the verandas (there were two, one upstairs, one downstairs) running along the front the house (whose side faced the street in typical Charleston fashion), but even my smoking on the porches irritated spouse and daughter. Also, I had erectile issues, not-exercising issues, Jameson whiskey issues (another diabetic no-no); nevertheless, Gwen’s affair with the vapid spike-haired Brandon I could have not imagined; her moving out on me and in with him after 22 years of marriage seemed almost goddamned cartoonish. In this case life imitates unimaginative romantic comedies.

Milton’s Satan, one of my boyhood heroes, says that “sometimes solitude is best society,” and I get plenty of it now, but I do every afternoon, depending on my mood and/or the weather, visit one of two Folly Bars, Chico Feo or The Jack of Cups. 

 

Chico Feo is right across Second Street East from Berts, a small grocery store that’s been in operation for 60 years. I guess you could call Chico Feo an alfresco dining experience featuring Caribbean cuisine or a funky drinking establishment without a roof. It’s in the backyard of an old un-air-conditioned two-story house where they prepare the food, goat curry, beans and rice, tacos.  The bar forms a barrier to the back door of the house where the kitchen is located. Beers are retrieved from coolers, or rather, large ice-filled tubs. Throughout the day whatever bartender’s on duty — Charlie, Tyler, Paul, or Greg — makes the trek across the street to Bert’s to procure more ice.

Chico Feo is only six blocks from my house, so I ride my bike, adding to the island’s quirky charm, a one-legged man with a notebook in his hand peddling a mountain bike on a flat barrier island. By the way, prosthetic legs have come a long way since Flannery O’Connor’s Hulga stumped her way up into the hayloft and into the arms of Manly Pointer. I opted for functionality rather than cosmetics in choosing mine, which I have rather pompously christened “Ahab,” though if you check out this link on eBay, you can find some pretty tempting vintage models, advertised with élan: http://www.ebay.com/bhp/prosthetic-leg

From my private collection :

Rare german steampunk vintage pre WW1 (about 1900 – 1910)  leather wooden foot with metal spring!

Very rare steampunk collectible – stay like this or do some restoation work on it for art design, museum collection or just an outstanding weird item for home design

outside leather is in very good condition for it’s (sic) age, rust on metal braces , inside of socket worn out and very used .

an unique item!

of course not for medical use !!!

mNAsu-ycUT4gj6RTrjTmBCw

Anyway, I usually wear long pants, unless temperature tops 90 or so, and though I admire those who flaunt their prosthetics, like Paul McCartney’s ex-wife, I’m also a great admirer of Ray Charles, whose dark glasses shielded children from at least one awful truth.

The Jack of Cups, my other hang out, is a small brew pub that features kickass Thai-like cuisine, though the owners/chefs are very white people from Santa Monica, as nice as they can be, and very talented when it comes to cooking.

I’m there right now, talking to one of the bartenders, Fiona, an articulate, culturally aware young woman with gorgeous wavy red hair, very pale freckled skin, and prominent hazel eyes that chameleon like change colors from light brown to green. She’s originally from Savannah, and although I wouldn’t quite yet call her Rubenesque, she’s headed in that direction. She actually edited the literary magazine at Bowdoin, has published poetry in on-line journals. We end up talking about Devon, an aspiring fiction writer who works at Berts.

“So, what you working on, Jake?” she says as I turn the page of a manuscript.

“It’s not mine. It belongs to Devon. It’s his latest novel.

Fiona rolls her eyes, adds a theatrical sneer.

Devon is a very upbeat young African American in his early twenties with excellent facial features but who is uncomfortably overweight. If one day Fiona might be Rubenesque, Richard is already giving Sydney Greenstreet a run for his money. Apparently, he spends every moment off work writing (and eating). When he talks about his latest project, he goes manic, as if you might be as interested in his made-up world as he is, which makes him a very poor conversationalist for a practitioner of WORN. He’s not interested in anything else but his “art,”  not sports, not politics.  I don’t think he’s ever asked me a personal question like “how did you happen to lose that leg?”

Sydney Greenstreet

Sydney Greenstreet

“You poor, stiff,” Fiona says. “You should’ve just said no. Let me be your role model, pal. When he asked me, I said, ‘no way, amigo, no can do,’ and believe me, he can take no for an answer.”

“Well, I am a man of some leisure, and I told him I’d be brutally honest, which I intend to be.”

“Yeah, and you don’t have to worry about any potential romantic delusions he might harbor  Anyway, What’s it about?”

“It’s sort of hard to explain. I just started it. Two paragraphs in. But according to him, it’s actually a video game, the plot of the novel is a video game, and like those choose-your-adventure books, you – the reader – can opt where to go, to skip 50 pages ahead if you decide to go to a movie, or instead of that, drop some LSD and jump 150 pages ahead.  He fantasizes that they’ll make it into a movie and then ultimately into a video game.”

“Sounds fucked-up. Delusional. Unpublishable.”

“It’s not the plot but the prose I’m dreading.”

“Well, sweetheart, I’ll let you get back to your reading,” she says wiping off the bar. Fiona’s writing a dissertation on film noir and has started to parrot the lingo of Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe.

“Thanks,” I say, and start over reading the manuscript.

 

[1] Actually, we’re reading Houseman’s A Shropshire Lad, which, though a tad bit sing-songy and cloyingly melancholy, is age appropriate for both of us:

 

         Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

         Is hung with bloom along the bough,

         And stands about the woodland ride

          Wearing white for Eastertide.

 

         Now, of my threescore years and ten,

         Twenty will not come again,

         And take from seventy springs a score,

         It only leaves me fifty more.

 

         And since to look at things in bloom

         Fifty springs are little room,

         About the woodlands I will go

         To see the cherry hung with snow.

Don DeLillo’s Twilight World

image found at Beautiful Decay

image found at Beautiful Decay Website painting by Hiroshige Kagawa

Don DeLillo is one of the few writers whose books I buy in hardback when they first come out. The rap on him is that he can’t do dialogue, or rather, chooses to have his characters speak in polished packed paragraphs that defy believability, like this exchange between college professors in White Noise:

“How is your car crash seminar progressing?”

“We’ve looked at hundreds of crash sequences. Cars with cars. Cars with trucks. Trucks with buses. Motorcycles with cars. Cars with helicopters. Trucks with trucks. My students think these movies are prophetic. They mark the suicide wish of technology. The drive to suicide, the hurtling rush to suicide.”

“What do you say to them?”

“These are mainly B-movies, TV movies, rural drive-in movies. I tell my students not to look for apocalypse in such places. I see these car crashes as part of a long tradition of American optimism. They are positive events, full of the old ‘can-do’ spirit. Each car crash is meant to be better than the last. There is a constant upgrading of tools and skills, a meeting of challenges. A director says, ‘I need this flatbed truck to do a midair double somersault that produces an orange ball of fire with a thirty-six-foot diameter, which the cinematographer will use to light the scene.’ I tell my students if they want to bring technology into it, they have to take this into account, this tendency toward grandiose deeds, toward pursuing a dream.”

Although there is some truth in the criticism in of the believability of the dialogue, I happen to hang with cats like JT Williams and colleagues like EC who do talk in packed, polished paragraphs that feature words like “metacognition” and “sturm und drang,” so my suspension of disbelief remains airborne when Sister Hermann Marie, a nun in the same novel, responds to the accusation that her belief is a pretense by laying this rap on her accuser: “We surrender our lives to make your nonbelief possible. You are sure that you are right but you don’t want everyone to think as you do. There is no truth without fools. We are your fools, your madwomen, rising at dawn to pray, lighting candles, asking statues for good health, long life.”

No only does my disbelief remain airborne, but I absolutely relish these verbal exchanges.

Edward Hopper: "Morning Sun"

Edward Hopper: “Morning Sun”

Anyway, although I consider DeLillo a superb stylist, it’s not his prose that has me plopping down thirty bills when his books come out, but his ideas, his subject matter, his detached observational perspective as he turns his binoculars from the lonely woman sitting on a bed in an Edward Hopper painting to the bleak, soulless but sunny American landscape that lies beyond that lonely room. DeLillo’s novels are exercises in cultural anthropology, case studies in the integration and synthesis of cultural components. Here’s Murray Suskind riffing on advertising, again in White Noise:

Look at the wealth of data concealed in the grid, in the bright packaging, the jingles, the slice-of-life commercials, the products hurtling out of the darkness, the coded messages and endless repetitions, like chants, like mantras. “Coke is it, Coke is it, Coke is it.” The medium practically overflows with sacred formulas if we can remember how to respond innocently and get past our irritation, weariness and disgust.

DeLillo’s latest, Zero K, is set in Central Asia in what the dust jacket calls “a secret compound where death is exquisitely controlled and bodies are preserved until a future time when biomedical advances and new technologies can return them to a life of transcendent promise.”   This compound is a mazelike campus that is part hospital and art installation, a sort of conflation of Kafka’s Kastle and The Ministry of Love from 1984. Here is the narrator, Jeff Lockhart, whose billionaire father is an investor in the project and a “patient” in the process, describing what I would call residence halls:

The halls were nearly empty, three people, at intervals, and I nodded to each, receiving only a single grudging glance. The walls were shades of green. Down one broad hall, turn into another. Blank walls, no windows, doors widely spaced, all doors shut. These were doors of related colors, subdued, and I wondered if there was meaning to be found in these slivers of the spectrum.

Sometimes the walls turn into movies, throwing the pedestrian into a sort of unwilled virtual reality of interconnected disaster, and these passages swoop into cinematic writing that brilliantly captures moving images and places the reader into the mix as participant:

Fires were burning onscreen and a fleet of air tankers hung a thick haze of chemicals over the scorched treetops.

Then a single figure walking through a town’s empty streets with homes imploded by heat and flame and lawn ornaments shriveled to a crisp . . .

Elsewhere now people wearing facemasks, hundreds moving at camera level, walking or being carried by others, and was this a disease, a virus, long ranks of slow moving men and women . . .

Then a woman seated on the roof of her car, head in hands, flames – the fire again – moving down the foothills in the near distance.

Then grass fires sweeping across the flatlands and a herd of bison, silhouetted in bright flame, going at a gallop parallel to barbed-wire fencing and out of the frame.

There was a quick cut to enormous ocean waves approaching and then water surging over seawalls and sets of imagery merging, skillfully edited by hard to absorb, towers shaking, a bridge collapsing . . .

You get the picture.

The narrator Jeff is there to bid his debilitated stepmother goodbye as she prepares for the big freeze; however, to complicate matters, his perfectly healthy and supremely wealthy father Ross has decided he too wants to end this phase of his life because he doesn’t want to live without his spouse and he is confident that one day they will be awakened into a brave new world. Jeff, not surprisingly, hates this idea of pie-in-the-sky surrender, given that even if it were possible, reawakening in that world may not be as self-affirming as you might imagine.

Given that he was born in 1936, it’s not surprising that DeLillo has turned to a meditation on death, but death-obsession is also a major theme in White Noise. His world is God-vacated, like the paintings of Edward Hopper, a fascinating world, both beautiful and terrible, an exhilarating world to explore, a world very much alive.

Don DeLillo

Don DeLillo

 

 

The Not Do-It-Yourslfer

bent nail 2

 

I’m no good at hammering nails

or sawing straight, presaged

in kindergarten by my inability

to color inside the lines —

My Friend Flicka’s brown coat

zigzaggingly asymmetrical.

Pressing down too hard,

clutching the crayon as if someone

might try to snatch it away,

too much in a hurry,

I would give up and flip the page,

start anew, scribbling colors,

blunting the tips of the crayons.

Now I beat the bent nail into treated lumber

to protect barefooted grandchildren.

Unusual high tides have lifted

dock planks divorced from rusty nails.

Bang bang bang   bang         bang.

That’s it: it’s time to call a handy man.

 

il_570xN.747633851_81cp-2

Evening All Afternoon

6150464_orig

 

I don’t know why these lines from Wallace Stevens have always moved me so:

It was evening all afternoon.

It was snowing

And it was going to snow.

The blackbird sat

In the cedar-limbs.

The day before yesterday, a student at my school, a junior, a beautiful impatient boy, died.

Adolescents are more or less flat-liners when it comes to perspective. In my acne-ridden days, I remember all too well stupidly thinking all too much depended on something that might happen at 4th period, or not, or after school, or not. Breaking up equaled deserts of vast eternity.

Back then, I was eaten up with Romanticism, could not imagine the longer view that year piled upon year provides, could not imagine the joys of a post-adolescent life, of discovering an intellectual passion in college, of meeting and marrying a soul mate, of producing children, of singing lullabies to them:

When you wake, we’ll paddy-paddy cake

And ride the shining little pony.

Today, weather-wise, it was evening all morning and evening at noon and even evening early in the afternoon. Outside my classroom windows, at nine a.m. the dense cloud cover made the morning look like nightfall. It was so dark streetlights were illuminated.

I was teaching Wallace Stevens. The students seemed to get it. “It’s like a cubist painting,” one of them said. “Different perspectives.” They had momentarily forgotten.

When the blackbird flew out of sight,

It marked the edge

Of one of many circles.

124561676

Cults of Personality, Similarities between Trump and Sanders

The Scream

Alas, it seems as if the revolution Bernard Sanders has tried to foment has devolved into a prolonged elitist temper tantrum.

Certainly, the impoverished of our country, the “32.8 million adults” who live in “food insecure households,” have not shown up in sufficient numbers at caucuses or voted in primaries, as Sanders himself has acknowledged, bemoaning the fact that “poor people don’t vote.”[1] To make matters worse, when they do, they don’t vote overwhelmingly for him — at least according to the Washington Post:

“Sanders has lost Democratic voters with household incomes below $50,000 by 55 percent to 44 percent to Clinton across primaries where network exit polls have been conducted.”

Sanders has, on the other hand, done a bang up job with younger voters, undergraduates and college-educated millennials, who, if they haven’t actually read Das Kapital themselves, have had it sympathetically explained to them by liberal high school and college instructors.[2] The bad news is that a minority of these supporters have taken “the revolution” rhetoric a bit too much to spleen and turned violent, most notably hurling chairs in general and the c-word in particular at Barbara Boxer during last week’s Nevada Democratic Convention. Afterwards, Bernie supporters bombarded the state chairperson with obscene and threatening voicemails, including a threat to kill her granddaughter, and vandalized the venue where the event was held. Unlike the thugs associated with Trump, who can be identified by their baseball caps and Gadsden “Don’t Tread on Me” tattoos, vulgarians of the Bernie brigade tend to sport pork pie hats and Tibetan mandala ink. Otherwise, you really can’t tell them apart from their behavior.

And, not to put to fine a point on it, despite their antithetical ideologies, Sanders and Trump themselves share remarkable similarities in their MOs.

For example, both propose grandiose policy initiatives without providing details about how these policies would be implemented. Trump, famously, will make America great again by somehow getting Mexico to build and finance a gigantic wall on its side of the border and by coercing China into changing its monetary policy. How, you ask? Don’t ask; trust. Likewise, Sanders will break up banks “too big too fail” and provide free college tuition for American citizens. How you ask? Don’t ask; believe.

What we essentially have in both cases is a cult of personality.

There is a one significant difference, though. Trump condones if not encourages violence at his rallies:

There may be somebody with tomatoes in the audience,” Trump warned people at a rally in Iowa last month. “If you see somebody getting ready to throw a tomato, knock the crap out of them, would you? Seriously. Okay? Just knock the hell — I promise you, I will pay for the legal fees.”

On the other hand, Sanders doesn’t actively condone violence, but rather, merely rationalizes, makes excuses:

“Our campaign of course believes in non-violent change and it goes without saying that I condemn any and all forms of violence, including the personal harassment of individuals. But [my italics], when we speak of violence, I should add here that months ago, during the Nevada campaign, shots were fired into my campaign office in Nevada and apartment housing complex my campaign staff lived in was broken into and ransacked.”

He could, for example, have said something to the effect of “the behavior of a minority of my supporters at the Nevada caucuses was unconscionable, and I want to emphatically condemn it and express my regret that it was done in my name and to make it unequivocally clear to any follower of mine behaving in such a manner that you’re hurting, not helping, our campaign.” He could have also added, “It’s Hillary Clinton who espouses violence as a solution to geopolitical problems, not us.”

I’m not going so far as Josh Marshall and claim that “[t]he tone and tenor of a campaign always come from the top” and “knowledgeable sources” claim “in the last few weeks anyone who was trying to rein it in has basically stopped trying and just decided to let Bernie be Bernie.” However, a lawyer for the Democratic Party in Nevada offered this characterization of the convention violence: “At no time did any Sanders representative make anything more than token gestures towards peace in the hall, and at the times of most intense crisis offered little more than shrugs and smirks.”

Whatever the case, the New Yorker cover artist this week could have replaced the caricature of Trump with Bernie and replaced the elephant with a donkey, and we would have essentially the identical message. It’s not mere happenstance that Chris Matthews interviewed Ralph Nader in tonight’s edition of Hardball.

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[1] http://www.feedingamerica.org/hunger-in-america/impact-of-hunger/hunger-and-poverty/hunger-and-poverty-fact-sheet.html

[2] In fact, I’m talking about myself here.