Riding with Pop

We called our grandfather Pop. Mom called him Pop too. For some reason, "Grandpa" never took. He got called Pop once so he stayed Pop forever. Maybe it was because the name fit. Pop was Pop. He was big. He had those ham like hands that factory workers had. He had broad shoulders. This was the physique of a man who could build a country. This was the physique of the men on whom this country was built.

My best memory of Pop came when I was eight. I was scared of him until then. Maybe I was always a little scared of him, but, up until that time, I didn't know anything about him. Once I got a peak behind the curtain, once I saw a little bit of his soul, he stopped being so scary. Not entirely unscary but at least a little less so.

We were visiting our Dad. Pop and Dad stayed friends even if Mom and Dad weren't. Dad liked Pop even if he was old. I think he saw a toughness in him that all men should have. Pop liked Dad even if he was a wise-ass. I think Pop might have envied Dad's education and maybe some of his brashness too.

Dad left Mom when I was three. He went to California because I figure that's where the continent ran out of road. They were careful to make sure my brother and I knew they both loved us. We knew they didn't love each other and that hurt anyway. Our Granparents were in on the game. They made sure they told us how much both Mom and Dad loved us. Part of the play was that each set of Grandparents spent time at each of our parent's houses. My Dad made out on that bet. He got to hang with Pop. Alcohol was involved.

Pop could put it way like ten men. Well, that's an exaggeration. Let's just say there was no amount of Piels, Schmidt or Rheingold that this man could not love. Writing this, I wonder if the whole family thing wasn't just a front for some kind of smuggling operation. You see, Pop would load up his car with cases of east cost crappy beer for every annual trek to his former son-in-law's. He came back with nothing but empties.

Pop drove a green Ford Galaxy. Galaxy was the most appropriate car name in the history of Detroit. Any bigger and they would have had to name it the Universe. Some people think I have acne scars. I don't. Those are indents from the Galaxy's tapestry seats. You sleep ten hours face down on those things and show me what your face looks like when you wake up. My brother and I both would pass out in the back seat with the windows down as Pop did eighty barrel-assing through the highways and byways of our great continent.

We lived and went to school in Connecticut so we spent summers in California. It must have been July the way I remember it. I was hanging around Dad's living room. Doing nothing but probably looking guilty in Pop's eyes. Pop was nervous. He was bored. This is a guy who fought a World War and worked double shifts for fifteen years. Sitting around California with nothing to do didn't sit right with him. Especially if he was sitting around sober.

Grandma must have said something. Something as dainty and feminine as only she could say, "For God's Sake, you old FART, what is wrong with you! Sit down!" Pop probably smiled. My Dad might have asked "What's the matter Pop?" Pop said something like "I've got to go. I've got to see California."

Thinking back, I remember Grandma was always suspicious of Pop's drinking. I'm sure she was the one who said something like "You're not going alone. If you go anywhere, you've got to take a kid with you".

Pop scanned the room. Cartoons might have been on the television. My brother was busy doing something. I looked guilty or innocent or something. Pop picked me, "You, come on. We're going for a ride".

I vividly remember being scared shitless. Why me? What could this giant, this titan, this tower of steel possibly want with a small, useless piece of flesh like me?

There was probably a quick packing of a bag because later in the story I remember wearing pajamas however, no sooner did Pop say "Come on, we're going for a ride" then I was in the passenger seat of the Galaxy.

This was the seventies. We didn't wear seat belts. Kids rode in the front seat. Heck, I remember shifting the Galaxy for Pop. It had three on the tree.

 I didn't know I was supposed to be spying on Pop. I was looking out for myself. Its what kids do. How could Grandma possibly have expected me to report back on that man? Well, as luck would have it I don't remember him taking a single drink on that trip. We were gone for three days. We stopped, of course, but never at a roadhouse or a bar. Always at a truck stop or a some kind of restaurant. I remember clam strips at HoJo's and banana cream pie at a truck stop that was as big as a town. We slept in the Galaxy. Pop in the front seat, me in the back. Both of us under the desert sky. He made sure I changed into my PJ's before nodding off.

I remember driving through the Mojave desert in the green Ford Galaxy with the windows down. It was hot. There were cactii on both sides of the road. The dirt was red. The car was fast. The sky was blue. Pop smiled. First at the road. And then at me. And then back at the road. And I understood why it was important to see California.

And I still understand it to this day.

When we got back to Dad's, I didn't have anything to say. Grandma wanted to know what happened. All I could do was smile and say it was fun.

Pop laid back in a lawn chair and took a nap. My Dad smiled too but I smiled bigger.

Filipino Front Porch Thieves (non-fiction)

I don't remember the ride home. I never remember the ride home. I hope to God there isn't a trail of casualties left in my wake everyday after I drive home. I've been commuting for twenty-one years. That would be quite a body count. At any rate, that day the only thing I do remember is stopping suddenly in the driveway. Something was wrong with the house. What the hell?

I did seventy from the the start of the driveway to the garage, a distance of sixty feet. Slam went the car door, slam went the back the door. In through the kitchen, out through the dining room and into the living room where I found Sven and Paul watching 21 Jump Street.

It is amazing how often 21 Jump Street was on the television in that house. I don't know why. We didn't even like the show. We were too poor to afford full blown cable. We were never sober enough to work the channel guide so four bachelors ended up sitting around, swilling beer and watching 21 Jump Street. Except for Sven. He could always find cartoons. Anytime of day, Sven could find cartoons. In a pinch, he'd settle for Spanish cartoons. 21 Jump Street in Spanish? Not so good.

So Sven and Paul were watching 21 Jump Street when I came rushing into the room in a panic. To them, nothing was the matter. All was well. What could possibly be wrong?

"Guys, what happened to the front porch?"

Paul replied, "Oh, you noticed that?"

I did a double take. I guess I knew I was being put-on but I pressed forward anyway.

"Seriously, where's the front porch?"

Paul again, "It's gone."

"Dude, this isn't funny. This is bad. We'll never get our security deposit back if we can't find the front porch. Where did it go?"

Paul pointed to couch, "I just got home. Ask Sven. He was here all day. Not me."

Nevermind the fact that Sven was sitting three feet away from Paul drinking beer. Always one to follow direction, I did as recommended.

"Sven, what happened to the front porch?"

"Some guys took it."

"What?! What the hell are you talking about? Who took the porch?"

Paul interjected, "That's what he said when I asked him. He said some guys took the porch."

Now I was getting upset. These guys were messing with me. Alright, I'll play along.

"Were you home all day?" I asked Sven.

"Yes."

"Where were you when you were home all day?"

"On the couch."

I could have guessed that, but I had to start out small and work my way up.

"What were you doing on the couch all day?"

"Watching cartoons."

Big surprise.

"Right, and while you were watching cartoons, some guys showed up and made off with our porch, is that it?"

"Yes."

"Wha-what?!"

"Some guys took the porch."

Paul spewed beer and laughed.

Pause.

"Well, why didn't you stop them?" I asked.

"I tried to stop them" answered Sven.

"What did you do to stop them?"

"I opened the front door and said 'Hey, stop that. Go away! Shoo! Shoo!'"

Paul was now doubled over and convulsing with laughter.

"What did 'these guys' do when you said 'Shoo! Shoo!'?"

"They just looked at me and went back to taking apart the porch. I think they were Filipino or something."

"You said 'Shoo!' Shoo!', that's it? That's ALL you did?"

"Well, what did you want me to do?"

I was stumped. I had no idea what to say. I guess I could never expect my house mates to fend off roving bands of Filipino Front Porch thieves. I went upstairs to my room, sat on my futon and looked out my window at the space that used to be occupied by our front porch.

Manifesto Part II

I'm in my forties. Marketers tell me I'm an In-Betweener. I am in between the Baby-Boomers and Generation-X. Truth be told, I feel more Gen-X than Boomer.

My grandparents were the Greatest Generation. I guess that makes my parents In-Betweeners too. They were in between the Greatest Generation and The ME Generation but I'm pretty sure they were well rooted in the ME Generation.

The Greatest Generation sounds like a challenge. I'm not a competitive sort but it sounds like the impact of a thrown glove when someone says "The Greatest Generation". You think you can do better? Not likely.

I'm bitter about the ME Generation. So bitter, that I relish that moniker. I love to look at my parents and think "Yep, indulgent and self-centered". I love my folks. I really do but, Jesus Christ, the shit they got away with? I mean, really? Our generation, in-betweener or Generation-X, we would never dare to be so self-indulgent. Ever.

Marketers say we are nourishers. We are reacting to the abandonment we felt while our parents were pursuing their whims and getting divorces. Yeah, I'm good with that...almost.

The nourishing can stop. It can end. We don't have to go to our graves as the "almost-ran" generation. We don't have to live in the shadow of our grandparents. There is no reason for us to fritter away our time making amends for the sins of our parents. We have plenty of time to sin for ourselves.

We are the first generation that knows it will live past seventy. There's a good chance a bunch of us will make it to one hundred. That gives us each eight to thirty-five years of unfettered, non-nourishing, time to ourselves. Think about it.

Here's my plan. Let's raise our kids to be the little geniuses we know they are. Once they are out of the house, once they land that post-graduate job or get married, or start a band or whatever they hell end game we're killing ourselves to get to, let's turn inward. Let's be more "ME" than "Greatest".

Being the first generation to know it will live past seventy is significant. We need to write our license to be indulgent. We need to express OUR selves after sixty-five. Hell, we should start now.

Oh? Should we be more "Greatest" than "ME", you might ask? Fuck no. That's what we're raising the little bastards for, right? Our little geniuses are supposed to fix the planet. You didn't listen to all of that Mozart while pregnant for nothing. Well guess what? We're done. We gave them all of the tools we could. We nourished them right into University and beyond. We're retired. We are RE-TIRED.

Beware passion! Don't let the snake oil salesman lure you away in pursuit of your passion. You don't need to pursue your passion to find happiness. It is enough to get through every day. It is enough that we have raised a generation of geniuses (and not serial killers). Let's not waste our time in pursuit of a passion. It is too easy to fail. "Oh, I didn't live my passion!" "Oh, I must be a failure because my passion has not been expressed". Fuck your passion. Don't worry about it.

Instead of pursuing a passion, let's do this, BE PASSIONATE. We shall live our lives with passion. We will die laughing. We will kiss with our tongues long past it being appropriate. We will dance better than the next three generations combined. When we die, our girlfriends will stuff our coffins with their panties. Ours will be the exit of a super nova. We'll leave the next generation to text "WTF?".

Let's be nourishers and then let's be done. And then the party will start. Who's in?

American Catholic

I took Mark Twain to church today. Cathy and Matt stayed at home. It was easier to go without them. They're always complaining. I'm not sure they believe but only they can tell. Samuel Clemens might have protested but he's dead and I can't say. I took him anyway. I wanted him to see what I see.

I've been reading the "Mark Twain Autobiography". He said his church in Florida, Missouri was made of logs. Hogs would get under the floorboards. Dogs would chase them and make a fuss. The noise was so loud it would interrupt the Preacher. They had to wait for quiet before the Preacher could continue. There were two streets in Florida, Missouri. There are a lot more where I come from.

Saint Jude Parish in Monroe, Connecticut includes over two thousand families. Mark Twain saw it coming. His father bought thousands of acres in Tennessee. He knew the wave was coming. He knew the country would grow. Mr. Clemens failed to time it right, but he knew. He knew.

I wanted to show Mark Twain what we have made since he has gone. I wanted him to see our beautiful roof. He could admire our school. He could marvel over our rectory. I wanted him to hear the thousands of faithful intone each prayer. I knew he might be derisive and I secretly hoped he would. We're American. We reject such notions, even the ones I cherish.

I went home and kissed Cathy. I told Matt the Monsignor was looking for him. I wished everyone was there. Only Mark Twain came with me because he was dead and couldn't complain. I prayed for my Mom, my in-laws and my wife. Samuel Clemens didn't say a word. I don't think he would have if he were alive.