I Had A Good Home But I Left.

As the holidays approach, I frequently think about those Americans who are serving overseas who won’t be able to spend Thanksgiving or Christmas or the New Year with their families. I think a lot about the hardships and risks they face every day so that the rest of us can live free and exercise our Constitutional rights.

Lately, I think a lot about the hopeless situation that awaits them when they get back stateside. They’ll arrive here rattled and shell shocked from the grim realities of combat, and we’ll welcome them with no jobs and foreclosed homes and drastically reduced veteran’s benefits.

This song by Tom Waits pretty much sums it up. The only video I could find for the song is this photo compilation by a vet from Afghanistan. I’ve quoted the lyrics in full below because of how much they resonate.

I had a good home but I left

I had a good home but I left, right, left.

That big fucking bomb made me deaf, deaf.

A Humvee mechanic put his Kevlar on wrong

I guarantee you'll meet up with a suicide bomb.

Hell broke luce

Hell broke luce.

Big fucking ditches in the middle of the road

You pay a hundred dollars just for fillin' in the hole.

Listen to the general every goddamn word

How many ways can you polish up a turd?

Left, right, left, left, right

Left, right

Hell broke luce

Hell broke luce

Hell broke luce.

How is it that the only ones responsible for making this mess

Got their sorry asses stapled to a goddamn desk?

Hell broke luce

Hell broke luce

Left, right, left.

What did you do before the war?

I was a chef, I was a chef.

What was your name?

It was Geoff, Geoff.

I lost my buddy and I wept, wept.

I come down from the meth

So I slept, slept.

I had a good home but I left, left.

Pantsed at the wind for a joke.

I pranced right in with the dope

Glanced at her shin she said nope.

Left, right, left.

Nimrod Bodfish have you any wool?

Get me another body bag the body bag's full.

My face was scorched, scorched.

I miss my home I miss my porch, porch.

Left, right, left.

Can I go home in March? March?

My stanch was a chin full of soap.

That rancid dinner with the pope.

Left, right, left.

Kelly Presutto got his thumbs blown off.

Sergio's developing a real bad cough

Sergio's developing a real bad cough.

Hell broke luce

Hell broke luce

Hell broke luce.

Boom went his head away

And boom went Valerie.

What the hell was it that the president said?

Give him a beautiful parade instead.

Left, right, left.

When I was over here I never got to vote.

I left my arm in my coat.

My mom she died and never wrote.

We sat by the fire and ate a goat.

Just before he died he had a toke.

Now I'm home

And I'm blind

And I'm broke.

What is next?

It’s songs like this that make me understand what it means to be a poet.

This song also makes me very thankful that there are people out there who are willing to go through this hellishness all in the name of defending the liberties of their fellow Americans.

I think it’s also worth remembering that these soldiers defending our country include a large percentage of kids under the age of 25. Some of them are still teenagers. The responsibilities resting on the shoulders of those so young boggle my mind.

Here’s why I bring up the ages of the soldiers. In light of the Occupy Wall Street movement, many people with right-leaning political views have been disparaging the youth of this country. The parade of insults is constant and loud: The youth are lazy. They want everything handed to them. They feel entitled. They’re dirty. They’re stupid and don’t know their history. In fact, if they only knew the history of the 1960’s, they wouldn’t follow in the footsteps of the hippies who came before them because those hippies were such abject failures when they protested back in the day. Not to mention the fact that hippies are SUCH bad roll-models.

As a college professor who until recently taught the eighteen-to-twenty-five set, I find this condescending attitude hilarious. Every time I hear someone say, “Those kids should spend less time protesting and more time reading up on their history books,” I want to say, “Should they do this before or after they finish bailing this country out of bankruptcy, mending our dysfunctional political system, rescuing the environment, and fighting our two wars?”

I also want to point out that these kids learn PLENTY at college about the 1960’s, but I don’t think they take away the lessons the older generation THINKS they take away. When the conservative baby boomers remember the hippies of the 60’s, it’s all about that nasty free love and spitting on the soldiers returning from ‘Nam.

They conveniently forget that the protest movements of the 1960’s brought about huge social changes, including civil rights, women’s rights, and an end to the war in Vietnam. So when the kids learn about non-violent protests in school, they’re learning about how these so-called “smelly hippies” achieved massive social reform by banding their voices together in solidarity.

And here’s another thing about the youth of today. They LOVE our soldiers. They’re crazy-patriotic about the sacrifices our young men and women are making overseas. So if the older, conservative boomers are expecting these kids to spit on returning vets, they’re in for a big surprise. The youth are welcoming returning soldiers with open arms, and returning soldiers are feeling a solidarity with their peers that is markedly different than the welcome soldiers received upon returning from Vietnam.

And these children that you spit on

As they try to change their world

Are immune to your consulation;

They're quite aware of what they're going through.

Changes, David Bowie

So images like this that imply that one political agenda is somehow more “American” than the opposing political agenda both sicken and perplex me. First of all, I think it’s pretty fair to say that the fringes of the left and the fringes of the right are equally moronic, so to suggest that somehow one movement is more wholesomely American than the movement opposing it is straight-up ridiculous.

It’s also ridiculous in light of what veterans face when they return to this country. Colbert says it better than I can…

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The point is, we Americans have a problem with hypocrisy when it comes to our vets. After all, while slashing veteran's benefits for our returning young men and women isn't literally spitting on them, it's not treating their service and sacrifice with the respect it deserves.

So when I see images like this, I get really, really angry. To imply that one political perspective is somehow more patriotic (and therefore more “protected”) than the perspective of other Americans is itself un-American. In fact, it’s about as un-American as it gets.

Exploiting the troops in this way is shameful. As any moron knows, the US military is made up of people from all walks of life - people with different ethnic traditions, people with diverse class backgrounds, and people who hold a multitude of religious beliefs. The beauty of this organization is that all of these disparate people can work together to achieve mighty things BECAUSE they share a common goal - to protect the liberties granted to ALL Americans under the US Constitution. ALL Americans. ALL of us. Not some. ALL.

This sort of propaganda is deplorable. The exploitation of the individuals in this photo sickens me. Whoever captioned this photo has absolutely no clue whatsoever concerning the political leanings of any of the soldiers depicted. Yet the implication is clear: The truly patriotic among us, even and especially the US military, scoff at those dirty hippies who are participating in the Occupy Wall Street movement.

Worse, this sort of propaganda implies that the current police brutality faced by the Occupy Wall Street protesters all over the country is somehow justified. That young Americans sitting in a circle doing NOTHING deserve to be pepper-sprayed and beaten with batons if they don’t disperse. So much for the police using violence only as a last resort.

And to those who would complain that one group’s expression of free speech shouldn’t come at the expense of the rest of us, I say this: Remember those deplorable acts of police brutality that occurred when those right-wing protestors were blocking the streets and picketing the funerals of gay soldiers? Yeah, neither do I.

Fortunately, our returning vets seem to have an opinion on how American protesters are being treated at the hands of the police in this country.

These attitudes make sense considering that these returning soldiers have real, practical experience in violence and crowd control. They know first-hand what are appropriate measures to take in a given situation, and what are NOT.




The conclusion? Tear gassing old women in wheelchairs? NOT. Concussing a fellow veteran with a flash bomb? NOT. Shooting teenage girls in the face with rubber bullets? NOT. Hitting unarmed civilians with batons? NOT. Spraying a pregnant student with pepper spray and causing her to miscarry? NOT.





Here’s a video of a vet named Shamar Thomas, who talks about his experience dressing down some New York police officers who were in the process of forcibly dispersing some peaceful protesters:

The thing is, every single American, no matter your political stripes, should be absolutely outraged over the behavior of police towards this protest movement. Are some elements of the Occupy Wall Street movement behaving inappropriately and in a way that merits police intervention? Of course, and in those instances the police provide a valuable service. But the problem is that the police are casting far too wide of a net, and are hurting people who DO NOT DESERVE to be brutalized for exercising free speech - even if their protest is inconvenient for the rest of us.

So what I’m thankful for most this Thanksgiving is the protection of our troops. Not only overseas, but also here at home. To those who feel so inclined to step between a cop with a baton and an unarmed civilian, I say

Thank you, soldier.

Cucumber Moon.

He visits each day at the crack of noon.

He makes his offering; we commune.

Lunch from a sack; we use no spoon.

He casts my share upon the dune.

I go to where the scraps are strewn -

Leery of him, but such a boon!

To his charms I am not immune -

My trust breaks free of its tight cocoon,

And thus we spend the afternoon.

When he leaves, it seems too soon.

As he departs, I caw a tune.

Until tomorrow, my heart is hewn.

He makes me dream of a cucumber moon.

Gift to a raven on your birthday.

Gift of a raven on your birthday.

May all your moons be cucumbers.

The Devil You Know.

Since my Halloween costume last year was such an elaborate production, this year I decided to keep it simple and just go out dressed as myself.

Hang out for a quiet night at the Golden West.

I know it was a quiet night because the cops only showed up three times.

I also got to shoot some pool with The Devil, which was nice because we've both been so busy lately.

As anyone knows, you can’t shoot pool with The Devil without him insisting on a sizeable wager. It’s a thing with him, but you put up with it because he has so many positive qualities, too.

The Devil says to me, “If I win, I want a scorching hot kiss from those frosty lips every day for eternity.”

Then he says, “If you win, I’ll give you …” (dramatic pause) “... A fiddle made of gold.”

Then I say, “You’re constantly trying to pawn off those golden fiddles. What in the world am I going to do with a damned golden fiddle?”

And he says, “Are you kidding? Have you seen the price of gold lately? Plus, with a fiddle made of gold, think of all of the souls of men you could torture with your haunted fiddling. WhhooooOOOOoooooOOOOOOooo!!!”

“Dude. Seriously.”

“Okay, fine. What do you want if you win then?”

And I say, “I want the contracts to all of the lost souls of gunslingers, Navy Seals, and rock guitar gods. OH. And some prime Coastal California real estate. That’ll never devalue.”

And he says, “Prime Coastal California real estate? Who do you think I am, Jesus?”

I thought about trying to negotiate for Raiders season tickets, but look at me - I don’t think I’d need The Devil’s help for that.

Nonetheless, I was struck by The Devil’s question.

“Who do you think I am?”

It’s a good question for Halloween.

The boundaries between who we actually are and who we think we are and who we pretend we are get blurred. Things appear out of context.

I can’t say it any better than Kurt Vonnegut: "We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be."

I would never tell anybody that I know who I am.

That would be a damnable lie.

Who I am changes every second I exist. I am not the same person I was three months ago or three years ago or three decades ago.

These changes in the “am” are incremental and gradual and occur over time. I barely notice them as I move forward, yet when I look back, there they are.

The fact is, the am that I am right now is different than the am that I was a minute ago. So if by the time I ask the question, “Who am I?” who I am has already changed, how can I claim that I know who I am? How can I even answer the question?

Unless the answer is, “I don’t know.”

Or maybe, “It varies.”

So even though when The Devil asks you a question you'd be wise to answer it, the truth is, I don’t worry about The Devil’s question much.

Because when it comes right down to it…

My wings come off at the end of the night just like all of the other succubi.

My Happy Place.

Many of us are familiar with the technique of mentally visualizing a quiet or peaceful place in order to relax ourselves in an anxious moment or to bring on a happy feeling or to help us to sleep or to otherwise calm our minds. Some of us might imagine what it would be like to be in stasis on some sort of fantastic space journey (nerds), or others might visualize what it would be like to be free of the confines of our bodies, able to travel the expanses of time and space in the blink of an eye because oneness and nothingness and meaninglessness twoness and meaningfulness and threeness are all the same thing (hippies).

Most people probably gain comfort by visualizing themselves in a tranquil place in nature, like on a beach at sunset where warm sands meet a calm sea. Or maybe laying out on a cool rock in the sunshine, soothed by the sounds of a babbling brook.

Here’s mine:

When I was about eight, my dad got transferred to a job in Southern California, where we lived in Anaheim for about a year or so. What this move meant for me was going from a home where I lived on four acres and had my own horse to living in a house that was less than three feet from my neighbor and less than five miles from Disneyland. Trippy? Yeah.

Until this move, I had only spent the night at the homes of grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and such. With my relatives, it was all about cowboys and camping and hunting and fishing and motorcycle riding and ranch chores and swimming in the river - I’d never had an overnighter with a school friend, let alone someone who lived in town.

My first experience spending the night with a girl from school came shortly after we arrived in Anaheim, when one of my wealthier classmates asked me to stay over night Friday night, and then go to Disneyland with her and her family on Saturday.

I arrived at their very fancy mahogany door dragging my sleeping bag, and with my change of clothes and teddy bear tucked safely in a paper sack. The parents of my friend - I can’t remember the girl's name, so let’s call her Brittany for simplicity’s sake - Brittany’s parents waved to my mom as she pulled away, assuring her that all would be well. My mom was no sooner out of sight when Brittany’s parents departed as well, leaving by the still-open front door to go to a cocktail party.

Brittany and I were left in the care of the au pair. As the parents said their goodbyes, the au pair shut the front door, looked me over from top to bottom, and in a voice that could corrode metal said, “Is that your sleeping bag?” She tugged the fabric. “Is it canvas? And - oh my god - is it lined with plaid flannel? It is.”

Brittany - who had always been very nice to me in the classroom - changed her stripes in an instant and eagerly joined in with the au pair in making fun of my rig. “She brought her clothes in a paper bag!” she hooted, pointing.

Noticing the stuffed animal peeking out of the top of my sack, the au pair said, “A teddy bear? Really? Your parents can afford to get you a teddy bear, but they can't afford to get you a Barbie?”

“I have Barbies, too,” I said. “I like Fred better.”

“Your teddy bear’s name is Fred?!”

And so the evening went.

Here’s what’s strange. I didn’t feel nervous or upset or hurt or angry in this situation. I was then (and still am) a big fan of fairy tales, mythology, and fables - the violent, horrible versions, not the cleaned up ones. For some reason, in that moment, I just felt an inexplicable degree of confidence that these two trolls were gonna get it in the end. Until then, all I had to do was take things in stride and figure out a way to handle the situation.

Finally, after an evening of being roundly bullied and made fun of, it was time for bed. We went into Brittany’s room, and even though there were two matching (frilly, pink, canopied) beds, the au pair said I had to sleep on the floor in my sleeping bag because she didn’t want to have to make up an extra bed the next day. So Brittany climbed into her princess bed, and I hunkered down on the floor next to the bed in my (badass, hardcore, old-school) sleeping bag.

I don’t know what came over me at that moment, and I can’t explain to you in any logical way why I did what I did next. A few minutes after the au pair had turned the light out, I shoved my teddy bear and paper bag of clothes under Brittany’s bed, then scooted under the bed after them, sleeping bag and all.

“What’re you doing?” Brittany whispered.

I jammed my knee in between the slats of the bed in the general vicinity of her back, and in my best Exorcist voice said, “Shut up, you!”

“Quit it!” she hissed back. “You’re being scary. I don’t like scary!”

This time I used both knees and shook the whole bed by the frame. “I SAID SHUT UP YOU!!”

Brittany started sobbing. Like, really crying. Loud. From where I was under the bed, I could see straight out Brittany’s open bedroom door and into the living room where the au pair was watching TV. The au pair kept saying, “You girls better not make me come in there,” but in spite of my escalating fright tactics and Brittany’s increasing wails, the au pair never came in to check on us.

(Note: In hindsight I do feel a little guilty about the psychological damage I probably did to this child. I wonder to this day if she checks under her bed before she goes to sleep, or hears voices in the dark. But in the moment, at that time, scaring the beejesus out of Brittany was the most fun I’d ever had in my brief little life. And it was about to get better.)

It was around this time that the parents got home. From under the bed, I watched as they staggered into the living room. Both of them were clearly drunk, and when they heard their daughter crying and saw the au pair just sitting there watching TV, they became irate drunks. “Is Brittany crying?” the mom slurred angrily.

“They’re just being loud and dramatic like girls on a slumber party do,” the au pair reassured her. “Going in there would just encourage them.”

The dad walked over to the door and flipped on the light. He scanned the room. I didn’t make a peep from under the bed as Brittany lay there above me, sobbing. The dad was really drunk, and you could tell that things were taking a minute to register with him. He looked at his daughter, and then at the other, unslept-in bed, then back at his daughter. “Brittany,” he said, very serious, “where is your friend?”

Brittany was crying hard, but she managed to say, “There’s something under my bed!”

The dad knelt down and lifted up the bedskirt. I froze. I was partially hidden by a box of shoes and some toys, but I was sure the dad would see me and that would be that. He scanned under the bed carefully, and at one point he looked right at me. But instead of ordering me out, he lowered the dust ruffle and stood back up. “There’s nothing under there, princess. Now I need you to calm down and think. Where is your friend?”

The mom walked in. “What’s going on?” She too looked around the room. Suddenly a whole lot more sober, she said, “Where’s Jen?”

“I’m sorry for making fun of Fred!” Brittany wailed.

“Fred?” The mom asked.

“Jen’s teddy bear!”

The mom stormed out of the room and confronted the au pair. “Were you making fun of Brittany’s friend?” she demanded. Then, before the au pair could answer, “Where did she go? Did she run away? My god! Did she run away?! Is there an eight-year-old walking around the streets of Anaheim at 1am because of you? Crap! We have to call her mom. SHIT!! We have to call the police!!”

“Don’t panic,” the dad slurred. “No one panic. She couldn’t have gotten outside without setting off the alarm.”

“How can you be sure of that, Gordon?” the mom demanded, near hysterical. “How can you be sure?”

“I said calm down. She’s in the house. She’s got to be. We just have to look for her. Come on, now. Let’s look. Let’s all look.”

As the mom, the dad, and the au pair tore the house up looking for me, as the parents berated the au pair until she dissolved into tears, as Brittany lay in the bed above me, weeping with terror...

I hid under that bed and realized, even at that tender age, that I had never felt more happy and calm in my entire life.

To this day, if I’m feeling anxious or overwhelmed, all I have to do is center myself and bring my mind back to that moment under the bed, and I instantly relax.

And that is some fucked-up shit right there.

Twenty-OneDerous

Also Twenty-OneDerful.

You make every day a Twenty-OneDerland.

Thank you for filling my life with so much Twenty-OneDerment.

More, please.