Confessions Of A Public Radio Freeloader

When I was in the fourth grade I dropped Catholicism from my life. I skipped catechism or CCD, whatever they call it these days, Sunday school for Catholics. We lived in Detroit, there were so many Catholics in Detroit at the time, that we had Catechism after school on Monday's. That was at a public school. The cafeteria served fish on Friday's. I remember asking why the collection plate is so active at church. Can't they worship in someone's living room? I suggested this to the priest when I was ten. My mother elbowed me to shut up. I just thought it might cut costs. Oh yeah, back to my departure from the church, I skipped the holy class to play little league baseball, my true passion. The next week I told the nun who was my teacher that I was playing baseball. I knew the truth was the best way. She scolded me and said something like I might end up in Hell if I continue to be so carefree about my faith. My heathen father was constantly talking about how unstable nuns are. I don't remember him using the word celebate, but it was in the air.

Today and yesterday,my local NPR's pledge drive has been interrupting programming. I keep hearing people come on and say, you are listening for free. They talk about people paying for cable, but they're not willing to pay for NPR, or buying goods that are advertised on radio or tv, so they are paying for shitty radio or tv indirectly.

I'm not a good person. I've never given money to the station (I don't have cable though). The guilt strategy is so awful. Is there a better way? I don't know. It reminds me of my brief career as a Catholic, all the guilt. It seems to be the antithesis of what NPR offers. You get something intelligent, then they expect you to fall for their pleas for money. All those years of freeloading has helped develop my critical thinking skills enough that I won't fall for the guilt tactics.

Free Harry Gordon- Telepath

My way to Marfa via Austin wasn't hurried, not much of my life is. I stopped in New Orleans for a few days. I stayed in the seedy India House, a hostel with some single rooms. I stayed in a single room. I was traveling solo. I think I was getting over some romantic detour. I don't remember specifics. I just remember that being the situation. I went out by myself sitting at Molly's in the Quarter. I haven't been there in about three years, but they had a great jukebox. As I sat there drinking my beer staring into space, a young woman asked me if I would buy her and her girlfriend (in the romantic sense) one beer between the two of them. I bought them both a beer. I had some sort of feeling that this wasn't their everyday routine. We hung out all night and ended up sharing a plate of hashbrowns at the Clover Grill around 4AM. The next afternoon the ladies came by the India House and took me to lunch.

After I bought the women their beer, they led me from the bar to a table by the front window. I was introduced to several locals. While I was in the middle of conversation and introductions, I noticed a very old man glaring at me from the bar, at least it looked like he was glaring at me, it became apparent soon. He shuffled very very slowly over to me. When he reached me he said faintly in what sounded like an old Brando, "I know you, you know me." I said. "I don't live here." "You know me, I know you." "I don't live here. I don't know anyone." "You know me. I know you." He stared at me and shuffled back to his barstool. Everyone at the table looked at me, in a what was that sort of way. I told them it didn't make sense to me. I looked back at the man. He looked at me with some contempt as my tablemates laughed. After a few minutes the man shuffled back to our table. The routine was repeated. His voice more powerful, but still barely audible. He shuffled back to his stool when I reiterated that I've never seen him. He had a look of hate as he stared at me from his stool. About three minutes later he returned. His shuffle was almost painful to watch. I was feeling uncomfortable, annoyed, empathetic and entertained. He repeated his you know me thing. I repeated my, I don't know you. Then he stopped looking me in the eye and said, "You don't remember this?" He started to move his arthritic body with an emphasis on his hips, he was gyrating, his movements sexual. "I'm sorry it doesn't ring a bell." He looked at me with disgust and went back to the bar. I headed to the Clover Grill with my new friends.

Earlier that day I was walking by the courthouse. I saw an old man (not the hip gyrating guy), who looked like a prophet. He was holding up a sign that said. Free Harry Gordon- Telepath.

Germans And Japanese

I've just been hired to work a couple of weeks with NADA (New Art Dealers Alliance) out of New York City. I'll be working in Miami most of the first part of the month for Art Basel, the huge contemporary art fair. NADA represents artists and galleries from all over the world. I noticed one the places it represents is the Marfa Ballroom in Marfa, Texas.

In 1999 I made a pilgrimage to Marfa. It's 60 miles north of the Mexican border,sitting a mile high above sea level, 200 miles from El Paso (the nearest city), 100 miles from Big Bend National Park, the place where Giant, James Dean's last film was made, the mysterious Marfa lights and a mecca for contemporary art. Late Minimalist Donald Judd bought lots of land in an around Marfa. I think he may have started buying land in the 60's. There is a public sculpture by Claes Oldenberg in town, works by Judd, Dan Flavin, Roni Horn, Ilya Kabakov on permanent display all over town. The Marfa Ballroom is more recent. It's been around for a couple of years. Sonic Youth, Yo La Tengo, Smog and a who's who in hipster rock have played there. Deerhoof is playing the opening for NADA in Miami.

I was Austin which I think is at least an 8 hour drive from Marfa. My plan was to rent a car and drop it off near Marfa, then head to Chihuahua Mexico and ride the Copper Canyon train from there to Los Mochis, then take a ferry to La Paz taking busses back up to the states. I ended up making my planned Mexican trip. I was told the closest place I could drop off a rental car was El Paso. I didn't want to go to El Paso yet. I took the Greyhound. Marfa doesn't have a bus station or at least it didn't. The bus driver asked where I was going as we drove through nearby Alpine. I told him Marfa. "Marfa? You want to go to Marfa? The only people I've ever dropped off there are Germans and Japanese."

He Had It Coming

I keep running across the term near miss, usually in the news, sometimes in conversation. I always want to correct whoever uses it, but I know they are backed by Merriam-Webster etc.. The term will never make sense to me. Why is a near miss a miss, shouldn't it be a hit? Why is a near hit a miss, because that makes sense. I can't find near hit in the dictionary. Maybe I have the wrong dictionary.

Wrongful death. I've always liked that one. It sounds like the opposite of, he had it coming.

I was just looking at the Columbia Journalism Review language corner, they haven't come to terms with near miss either.

The Killing Machine

I made a point of checking out Janet Cardiff and George Bures Miller's video, audio multi-media installations when I was in Miami. The exhibit will be at the Miami Museum of Art through January 20, 2008. I was doing some research on the two. I thought I'd read that they are married. The wikipedia entry for Janet Cardiff lists George Bures Miller as her partner. I don't think I'll ever get used to calling someone that you are probably sleeping with, a partner. The word partner conjures up images of bookkeeping, not sex. It seems like whenever I tell anyone how I feel about the term partner, I get emotional responses like, "Would you rather use the term lover?" I would rather hear or use the word lover, or just about anything else other than partner. In many cases nemesis may be more accurate.

Cardiff and Miller's ten installations are vague dreamlike narratives with tones of secrecy, temptation, something sinister, provocative, sensual and funny. I think it's probably the work of very intimate partners.

The Killing Machine is the name of one of the installations and the name of their exhibit.

Yesterday I dropped in on the war protest in Lake Eola's park. I am opposed to the war, but I'm too cynical to protest, and am suspicious of easy solutions. The march started around the time the rain came down. I left the parade and headed home, getting drenched walking the few blocks home.

Money In The Street

I rode my bicycle to a Halloween party last night. I went with Emily, the Kerouac House writer in residence. On our way over I saw some trash in the street that I mistook for money. I stopped to look at it. I saw a dollar bill nearby. Then I saw another dollar bill and another. I eventually found a $5 bill and four $1 bills. I decided immediatley that it needed to be recirculated. I bought 4-pack of La Fin Du Monde, and had 49 cents change. I told Emily about the time I was kicked off of a train leaving Copenhagen. I didn't have a ticket. I had left my money at the farmhouse in Denmark where I was staying. After I was kicked off of the train I found some money in the street. It was enough to get a sandwich, a beer and a bus ride near the farmhouse. Another time I found $23 floating in the ocean. I took my friend to happy hour on our way home. I tried to make a rough estimate of how much money I've found in my life. I've estimated that it's around a dollar a year. I was thinking about how exciting it is to find a few dollars, but if you find a lot of money, the excitement might be combined with terror or guilt. I found $9 last night, but it would have been ridiculous to look for the person who lost it. It was on the side of street that can get a lot of traffic, and it's $9. At what point or what sort of circumstances does the innocent find become something more? My head hurts a little today.

Hwy 714

A couple of nights in my friend's Summer and Steven's Ft. Pierce condo on the beach flashed me back to the 70's, when I was sort of a caretaker for my godfather's house on the Indian River in Palm City not far from Ft. Pierce, but closer to Stuart. My duties were to clean the pool, run errands in exchange for a place to stay, a little pay, and more pot than I could smoke. I lived in the servant's quarters. I'm not joking. The house was a sprawling ranch house on 55 acres with its own bridge going to the house. It was purchased because of its limited access and that it was on the river that goes into the ocean, by my godfather a disbarred lawyer. He'd done some time with my father for mortgage fraud. They were indicted on 154 counts of fraud, and convicted of two. There were 35 guys involved. My godfather and father ended up doing 15 months in a mininum security prison. They used Don King's lawyer. My father said they were in jail with some of the guys from Watergate. In prison they made plenty of contacts for their new career, smuggling pot. It paid a lot more than being a lawyer, according to my godfather.

Occassionally I was asked to leave the house for a few days, when a shipment was coming in. I wanted to be a smuggler. My father made sure that I didn't get involved. My life goals were not beyond the immediate. I think I wanted to be Jack Kerouac or Bob Dylan when I was 19.

I got a phone call one morning while I was staying in the servants quarters. It was really early around 5AM. My father was calling from a fish camp on Sebastian Inlet. He said you need to come get me. He gave instructions of where to park and wait for him to come out of the woods. I didn't ask any questions. I pulled up to the fishcamp, he came out of the woods wearing all black, with black shoe polish on his face. He jumped in, wiped his face off with a beach towel I had in the back seat (I was a surfer. I always had beach towels).

I want to give the ride back a soundtrack. I keep thinking Neil Young's Hello Cowgirl In The Sand was playing from my eight track player. I remember my father telling me to turn it down. He explained to me how the boat broke down a few feet from the shore. "We lost shitload of pot." I'm not sure how much a shitload is. I didn't ask, specifics seemed irrelevant. I'd remembered him telling me how he'd left a Cessna 402 full of dope on a Georgia highway. I asked him what happened when the cops found the plane, couldn't they trace it back? He laughed. "Good luck with that shit. If they can find out who the owner of Just Messin' Around Inc. is, they can, it's my Cayman Island company. The Cayman Island people will tell them to fuck off."

A few weeks later I was told to go away for a few days. I went up to my friends trailer just north of Sebastian Inlet where I had picked my dad up. I lived off of peanut butter and honey sandwiches, beer, pot and surfing.

I called my father a few days later. He said I could come back. We met up at Skyline Chili in Ft. Lauderdale or maybe it's Pompano. My father was late as usual. I didn't care. I always have reading material on me. Sometimes I'm glad when people are late, I read.

My father was visibly preoccupied when he walked into Skyline. A few minutes later, he told me my godfather was busted with some ungodly amount of Quaaludes. I keep thinking the number was 100,000. I'm not sure if that was it. A few months earlier he had been busted with 10 tons of pot. He used his lawyer training to get off on a technicality. The feds were watching him pretty closely. There were so many above the radar types in South Florida at that time. He was discreet about his business activities, yet ostentatious, and according to the IRS records, unemployed.

Like the guy in the movie Traffic, my godfather fled. He was apparently in South America for a few years living with a surgically reconstructed face and spending his days painting. He was always interested in art. He turned himself in four years later, did about four years time and became a pious Christian. I used to get letters from him. I haven't seen him since.

A few days ago I was on my way to Miami on I-95. I passed the exit for Hwy 714, Martin Hwy. I thought back to when I was 19, my godfather, me and few others posed for a photo standing in front of the Hwy 714 sign. It was the number that was on the Quaalude. We all thought this was amusing at the time. Now it seems more aligned to wearing a pot leaf on your t-shirt. I barely I want to admit to my participation in such inside joking.

Shortly after my godfather became a fugitive, I moved into my father's place on the intercoastal in Pompano. I spent my days looking for an escape. I became paranoid about being raided, I think justifiably. Suitcases of cash were stacked in my father's bedroom. If I wanted to go to the store, I opened a suitcase and took some money out.

I tried to get a job on a ship or a cruise boat or anything. I didn't have my own money. I ended up going for a last resort option. I joined the Army. It was a shorter stint than any of the other military branches. I was too young for Vietnam, but I had vowed early on if the war was still going when I turned 18, I would burn my draft card and go to Canada. I had done a book report in the 10th grade on Abbie Hoffman's Revolution For The Hell Of It. I was the most imperfect candidate for the military.

The recruiter promised me a slot in military intelligence. I was already aware of the oximoron. My father was pissed. He said it was the waste of my mind.

I barely listened to the recruiter's attempts to pursuade me. I had already made up my mind up. He took me to some equivalent to the Sizzler Steak House. It was funny, because I'd been eating at the most expensive restaurant's in South Florida.

The recruiter gave me a ride home. I don't remember why I needed a ride, my father had several cars and I had a car.

We pulled into my fathers driveway. The dark blue Cadillac limo that my father had received as a collateral payment on a debt was in the driveway, along with his Mercedes, his van and a motorcyle. He had two lots. Some bikinied beauties were wandering around the yard, some others could be seen on his 45' yacht. The recruiters jaw had started lower as we turned into the neighborhood. We sat in the driveway. A couple of women waived to me. The recruiter looked over to me completely slack jawed and asked, "you live here?" "Yeh, it's my dad's place." "Why do you want to join the Army? I'm from a poor family in Arkansas. It was my best opportunity.You're joining the Army?" "Yeh. I need a change."

I saw my father in Pompano this week. His existence is Spartan. He spent his money on drugs and alcohol. He doesn't seem bitter at all. He said to me the other day. "I've never needed much."

Miami

Miami. I'm going back Wednesday for a few days.

In the process of getting plenty of documentary footage of the noise scene, I was recruited by the shadow puppet ladies for a performance. I was asked to be a part of their shadow puppet show while the Laundry Room Squelchers played. The thought crossed my mind that I might be violated, or at least I hoped so. I was the only male puppeteer. The performance was improv. I don't have the video footage of it, but I'm sure there would be a general agreement that it doesn't look like the work of grown ups. I used one of those stuffed horses on a stick as a prop for awhile. I ended up giving several female performers piggy back rides while the light cast our shadow to the audience and the squelchers supplied a chaotic soundtrack. The sheet was pulled down eventually exposing us. There was plenty of unabashed butt slapping, faux mayhem inappropiate laughter and puddles of sweat. It gets hot on Churchill's outdoor backstage, but I was not violated.

On the way over to Little Haiti, where Churchill's is located Mr. B a drummer who plays in several bands from several barely related genre's told us how he had met a man, the topic of the hour, with many aliases, who was apparently dubious in every way. There were plenty of stories of get rich quick schemes, bad art, couch surfing, speculation of axes to grind, auxillary personalities, hero worship and poorly articulated dreams.

He met the man whose real name is still a mystery, from a domanatix acquaintance, "she's Asian", B. said, stressing that Asian domanatrix's are in demand and that they are tougher to find than one might suspect.

I admit my knowledge of supply and demand is rudimentary so I didn't delve. I don't want to look stupid.

Rat Bastard

 Rat Bastard is the godfather of the Miami noise scene. Yesterday Greg Leibowitz and I were headed to the discount car rental place by the airport. We were on our way to see Rat.

I was feeling a litle light headed. I had been loading some things into my hatchback, and banged the top of my head on the bottom of the hatchback. A few seconds later, I felt something on my forehead. I rubbed it thinking it was sweat. It was blood. I walked into my bathroom and saw blood running down my forehead. I took a clean towel and held it on the wound. I was already running late to pick up Greg, but I was wondering if I might die.

I stopped bleeding for the most part a few minutes later. My bathroom looked like a crime scene, so I had to clean it up.

I have some hypochodria tendencies. The thing about being a hypochondriac is that it's hard to tell whether your worries are rational. Anyway that was yesterday. The cut looks a lot better. It's a little difficult to see it through my mop of hair, that has been mistaken for a wig (see, Are You Wearing A Wig?).

We're listening to old Miami noise, and getting a lesson fron Rat on the history of it, and  getting lots of sidebar info. This is good because Greg, Nelson Hallonquist and I are making a documentary of the Miami noise scene. Rat has all kinds of stories like the guy holding a gun to his head threatening to kill him, if he doesn't stop playing. He kept playing. The guy came back  a week later and said"sorry about last week I was really drunk."

That Was Back When I Was In College

"I had a friend in college who died. He couldn't afford a regular funeral, so we gave him a Viking funeral." This was told to me in ubermonotone, by an acquaintance. I'm reluctant to call her an acquaintance. I know her.

"Is that legal?" Asked acquaintance number two. I'm only slightly more comfortable calling him an acquaintance.

"No it's not legal. We sold his body to the medical school, because he was in premed. Then one of the guys in the medical school gave the body to us, so that we could give our friend a Viking funeral."

"Wait, what's a Viking funeral again, and why is illegal?"

"It's when you take a body to sea, burn it along with the boat. It's totally illegal."

"But why?"

I stepped in on this one. I have to claim that I had some accountability in getting this conversation going. I was telling the guy that I saw a casket next to a dumpster the other day, so she stepped in with the Viking funeral bit.

My response to, "But why?" "You ever watch the Sopranos? You don't want people coming by your house to pick you prematurely for your own Viking funeral, do you?"

"No shit." His responds and laughs.

"Yeh that was back when I was in college, in the 80's. I did some crazy shit." She explained.

I've Never Seen La Chinoise

When I was ten years old I played my first year of little league baseball. I lived in Detroit with my family. We were there for a couple of years, because of my father's job.

I was horrible. I didn't really understand the concept of hitting a baseball. I became a decent hitter later on. My brother said that my batting stance didn't really resemble any major leaguer's, it was more like something inanimate, say furniture. I used to look back and imagine myself looking like I was waiting for a transmission from somewhere else.

Today I read in the latest New Yorker that Jean Luc-Godard's 1967 Maoist film La Chinoise is showing in New York City. This reminded me of a story regarding transmissions from somewhere else that I read years ago.

I read about Godard using an earpiece to feed Anne Wiazemsky her lines in La Chinoise. I'm not even sure if it's true. I think it is. I've read more recently that Godard used this technique with several non-actors. The motivation for the transmissions was that an actor will look startled or confused while listening to the incoming message. This could be an asset during certain scenes.

I've never seen La Chinoise, but there is supposed to be an earpiece aided scene, where Wiazemsky has a political debate with another actor. I've heard jokes about politicians going their entire career receiving similar transmissions. I think they were jokes.

Are You Wearing A Wig?

I left off in my previous post with the kid from the blue mini-van having a celebratory hug on returning to kindergarten from his fifth suspension in five weeks.

The kid that he was hugging could be called his protege. He has taken to growling and throwing things at adults too. The first week I was at the school, the protege just sat and stared at me for awhile. Then he said. "Are you wearing a wig?" I said. "No." "Are you sure you're not wearing a wig?" "Yes, I'm sure." "I think you're wearing a wig." "I'm not." "Can I touch your hair." "No." "I think you're wearing a wig. Do you drink beer?" "No teacher's don't drink beer." "Yeh right."

A Blue Mini-Van

I was driving down Magnolia, by the downtown library and I saw this kid in a blue mini-van waving to me, smiling, yelling "Look it's Mr. Greene." Then I recognized the kid.

One of the ways I've been making a living is substitute teaching. I was at an inner city school for three weeks. I was a teachers aid for some of it. One of my jobs was to keep an eye on this second time around kindergartner, it was the kid in the blue mini-van. He had headbutted his teacher a few days before I stepped in. His teacher is a young woman in her first year of teaching. I think the feeling was that a man might be a more intimidating figure, and that this kid would settle down. Nobody asked if I had any experience with kids. I worked on instincts, which I found were useless with medicated hyperactive kids.

The last week that I was at the school, the kids mom came into the classroom, right before school started. She said. "You must be Mr. Greene. My son says you're his best friend in the school." I looked over to the young teacher. She was grinning, probably thinking back to when the kid threw a stack of bowls at me, or the pencils or pulled the map down over my head, or maybe the many times he told us that he hated us. Usually the I hate you was balanced with you're my friend a little later or earlier. He also liked to growl at me and everyone else.

The day after his mother visited, he went into the bathroom and wouldn't come out and go to music class. I was asked to stand outside the bathroom door until the behavioral specialist came. The behavioral specialist came and ordered the kid out of the bathroom. The kid was crying and hit me in the chest. It didn't hurt, he's five, but he was immediatley suspended.

A couple of days later his mother was walking him into school, holding his hand. He had just finished his suspension. They both looked towards me walking down the hall. His mother said to him, "Tell Mr. Greene you're sorry."

The kid looked down at the ground and said very quietly. "Sorry Mr. Greene." Then he saw one his friends from class and yelled his name. They hugged each other celebrating the kids return.

A Casket Next To The Dumpster

Yesterday, I was driving on some back road that connects to Alt. 19 just north of the Tarpon Springs bridge. About a half a mile before Alt. 19 I saw a casket next to the dumpster of a warehouse. I forget how big those things are. It looked about eight feet long, made of white metal. I didn't get out and touch it or open it like some of my friends suggested. My friend Alex said I should throw it in the back of my hatchback and ride the two hours to Orlando with it sticking out. I ignored this suggestion, but thought about it a little when he mentioned selling it on craigslist. I don't want to draw anymore attention to myself.

I made my way through Tampa back to Orlando. I stopped and got some baked goods at the huge 24 hour Cuban bakery on Florida Avenue near Hillsborough Avenue. I ate lunch at Nick's diner down the street. It's an authentic diner, looks like it was manufactured by Airstream. I overheard a guy a few booths down say. "I can look at a copy of my MRI an tell you exactly what part of my brain is missing."