Positively Maple Street

Serve the servants - oh no.
That legendary divorce is such a bore.

As my bones grew, they did hurt.
They hurt really bad.
I tried hard to have a father,
but instead I had a Dad.

I just want you to know that I,
don't hate you anymore.
There is nothing I could say,
That I haven't thought before.

 -Nirvana "Serve the Servants"

I was born in the summer of 1967, the "Summer of Love". I was born into the Southern California American Dream, all avocado & shag - a Brady Bunch mash-up, dysfunctional & prosperous & blonde.

In a couple of years Charlie & Sadie Mae Glutz & the rest of the Family will creep through houses just like mine and carve up human beings. Liberate a famous fetus & spread horror through the sunny-green neighborhoods from West Hollywood to West Orange... The first deadly blows for freaky-peace-love sunshine were scrawled out in Sharon Tate & her friend's blood - "Rise" "Helter Skelter" & carved into Leno LaBianca's stomach "Pig"...

Blow after blow to the American Dream followed.

There were two American Dreams- the Post-War American Dream that gave birth to the neighborhood I grew up in, the hard-work, emotionally detached American Dream - squeezed out of the GI Bill and a country that built things & went to church on Sundays, it was the pot roast & new car American Dream.

And the "New" American Dream conjured by bored kids who had too much free time & never struggled for a fucking thing, the sandalwood & pot smoke American Dream. Aquarian, blissed-out, stoned & dancing in the parks ...Stabbed to death in Altamont Pass, Eviscerated in the Hollywood Hills, & left to rot in the hollow eyes of dirty footed street kids who sucked cocks on the Lower Eastside for a nickle balloon of junk or panhandled on Haight Street... a flower in their hair.

The funeral for both American Dreams came in the Senate Hearing rooms, as the best & the brightest of my grandfathers generation exposed themselves as dirty tricksters who had as much regard for the Constitution and the law as their pot smoking, draft card burning children.

& we toddled as it all fell apart.

In front of the Magnavox, as choppers flew bleeding kids out of jungle LZ's & the President fell to a cacophonous chorus of denials & admissions & static filled tapes- wrapped in fat ties & wide lapels & horn-rim glasses, just like the ones my father wore.

The 50's curriculum, taught by our suit wearing 50's teachers was old & phony & somewhere in the back of our mushy Snak-Pak brains, we'd already seen the truth. The President was a criminal, our Uncles, Fathers, Brothers were hung out to dry & die in a jungle & then shunned & ignored... Head-bands were hung up, jungle fatigues left in an old trunk & VW's abandoned.

Abby Hoffman was on the lam. Patty Hearst sprayed bullets & the Panthers were shot dead or jailed.

Nixon retreated after slipping the noose.

Colson, Hunt & G Gordon Liddy did easier time than Huey Newton.

Jerry Rubin surfaced in the Man's fat tie & sold em all out.

Dead as shit.

It was all dead as shit, and us kids were absorbing it all.

What can you tell me about the American Dream when we've seen it unravel?

My generations fathers packed up en-mass and moved to tiny apartments, or other families houses, leaving us kids with our confused mothers, our "step" families & teachers talking about "checks and balances"... Balance... an obscure concept when the world wobbles on it's axis, and the only truth is that everything we are being told, about our government, about our families, about our world is being shredded, obliterated and left in bloody heap on green shag carpet.

& we'd sit in our synagogue and watch grainy films of human beings being bull-dozed into pits. "You can NEVER forget this children, what happened to us". Everywhere we looked the world seemed fucked. We never forgot. All the massacres we were witness to. The emotional massacres of imploding families, the political massacres, Napalmed children, skin & bones Jews, flower children turned into barefoot junkies.

On this the 30th anniversary of the day Mark David Chapman shot John Lennon down, people are still feigning shock at Wikileaks bullshit, and ineffective Presidents, and Democrats & Republicans all doing a huge self-serving circle-jerk.

The Emperor has no clothes, the Wizard is a little fat guy behind a curtain, insert your conspiracy theory here.

The new hippies have a bumper sticker on their Subaru's that says "Think Globally, Act Locally"... Right next the one that says "Hope".

I say "Travel Globally, Act Like A Fucking Human". The thing about the rest of the world, especially the "third world", is you find people there who never think past tomorrow. America is an abstract. Their own leaders are abstracts... in front of them are their children, their neighborhood, their villages, their pots - full or empty...

We have all this TIME.

Time to fret over abstractions and theories. Time to dissect your life and the times in which you live it. Time to spin stupid blogs about the American Dream, a thing, like a puff of smoke, that never really existed, a figment of propaganda and salesmanship... Too much time.

Charles Manson was busted this week with a cell phone in his jail cell. He was calling and texting. California to New Jersey... I wonder what Charlie has to say in a text... "Prison sux"...

Mark David Chapman still rots, like Charlie in prison... I wonder if he has a cell phone.

My kids are healthy & happy at opposite ends of I-5.

I have a few bucks in the bank, and my life is an adventure.

The frozen Great Plains sparkle under a blanket of crystalline snow each morning and I retrace the tracks of the Lewis and Clark every day through the land of the Mandan & Arikara... This, the land of the first American Dreamers is giving way to bobbing oil pumping rigs.

The Great White Buffalo, which once came forth out of the Black Hills and gave life to all of The People, has returned - dressed as oil-men in filthy coveralls, spreading cash over the Plains like piles of steaming dung.

The rest is white noise. Fodder for the rear-view mirror.

I'm not the child, I'm the father & my dreams are my own.

Baby birds & dirty nightgowns

 I woke up this morning, and none of the news was good

Death machines were rumbling across the ground where Jesus stood

and the man on my TV told me, that it'd always been that way

there was nothing anyone could do or say

And I almost listened to him

Yeah I almost lost my mind

and I regained my senses again

looked into my heart to find

that I believe that one fine day, all the children of Abraham

will lay down their swords forever in Jerusalem

-Steve Earle "Jerusalem"

A painting on tile of Ali.

IA Checkpoint

On the dusty, cratered roads leading to all US F.O.B's (forward operating base), there are a few things that are constants- haphazard Iraqi checkpoints, manned either by the Iraqi Police (IP) or more likely, some militia. These militias present themselves in a wide range of conditions, from rag-tag and filthy to downright dapper... some checkpoints are festooned with plastic flowers, some huge paintings of the Shi'a hero, Ali, Son-in-law of the Prophet Muhammed, and considered by all Muslims to be the first male Muslim, looking like the Zig Zag Man, often in the company of tigers... The militia that had the checkpoint outside the North Gate of Joint Base Balad (JBB), had matching leather jackets and cold weather beanie caps, all bearing their unique insignia, like a street gang from Westside Story, or group of oil changers from Jiffy Lube... The "soldiers" in these checkpoints lean on their AK47's, sometimes muzzles in the dirt... they stare, they smoke, they try to look indifferent, they beg water, sometimes they wave, and sometimes they make a gesture, like a knife cutting their own throat and then point at you, laughing. If you get this signal, I tell my guys, I wanna know... It's an indication that we may be driving into something...Were still gonna drive into it, but maybe I'll put my kevlar helmet on... Probably not.

The other constant on these roads are the kids.

He is maybe 8, barefoot, wearing what appears to be a nightshirt. It's filthy, his hair too is stiff and coated in the talc like dust... pointing in every direction -Iraqi bed-head. His sister holds tightly to his arm. She is dressed in a similar nightshirt, hers appears to have once been green, it's sequined... it was once beautiful, something my daughter Piper would have loved when she was her age... a "Princess Jasmine" dress. She lets go of her brothers arm long enough to make a gesture... her hand like shadow-puppet bird, opening and closing, she holds it to her mouth, she's begging for food. Once in awhile a box of Pop-Tarts will fly from the turret of an MRAP (Mine Resistant... something or other... a big armored gun truck) or an MRE. I have told my guys, that under no circumstances are they to throw ANYTHING to the kids, or anyone else for that matter. It is one of the few things that will get them in deep shit on my convoy - hit a cement barrier? I'll cover the damage with mud & we'll all repeat the mantra "what happens outside the wire, stays outside the wire" But if you throw something to the kids, The Dude (thats me) will chew your ass... and The Dude doesn't chew much ass.

Before I got to Iraq there was a female CC (Convoy Commander, later re-titled Convoy Lead, to avoid confusion about exactly who was in charge of the convoy - the Military CC)... This CC, so the legend goes, would go to the PX and buy all kinds of sweets and treats, package them in individual baggies, like birthday party hand-outs, and throw them to the kids... one day a kid got a little too excited and ran into the road. The kid was killed, by one of our trucks... Imagine being that CC... Imagine being that driver. The kids were fearless, and I wasn't going to have a dead kid on my conscience.

Most of my drivers were from Ghana. They grew up barefoot & filthy. They wanted to treat the kids. I wanted to treat the kids. I always saw Piper or Lisa when I saw little girls in filthy Princess Jasmine dresses. The risk was too much however. Don't throw a fucking thing to those kids. Ever.

If a Major League scout had any balls, he would be handing out gloves and baseballs along the roads of Iraq. I once saw a kid, maybe six years old, standing on one side of the pontoon bridge leading over the Tigris river one early morning. He had laid down a sack some twenty yards away from the road, and walked towards our idling trucks making the hungry bird gesture. A dog approached his sack and was sniffing around it when the kid saw it... he stooped and picked up a golf ball sized rock, and in one fluid motion winged it, on "a rope" as the scout would say, straight into the poor dog's ass... the dog went yelping away and the kid continued his bird feeding... They could be just as accurate with bigger rocks, aimed at our windshields. The glass on our trucks was 4 inches thick. Layers of glass & Mylar. They would stop a 7.62 round, shrapnel and, of course a rock. I was never angry at the rock throwers. No matter how many hours of sleep they cost me, filling out reports and talking to Security dick-heads... I woulda been a rock throwing motherfucker if I had grown up on those dusty roads. Someday Iraq may surpass the Dominican Republic as the best place to scout future Major Leaguers outside the US.

The kids also stole anything that wasnt securely fastened to our flatbeds... as we'd creep in or out of a base, they'd run along side and open our side boxes, liberating heavy chains & straps... tools, cargo, spare tires, whatever they could get. I'll never forget the sight of a 8 or 9 year old boy hauling ass, barefoot through the desert, a 70 pound length of chain trailing behind him... What the fuck did they do with all of that chain? I imagine they sold it to the local truckers, or maybe they even sold it back to Army.

Most of the chain was probably wrapped around old Russian 155 artillery rounds, then wired up and buried along those same dusty roads to be detonated as we drove by... When an artillery round is set off it spins a half turn as the explosion finds the weakest point in the round to escape from... they blow out sideways. If they were in an artillery piece as designed, the breach of the weapon would contain the explosion, and the energy would force the war head (or "bullet") out of the barrel. A 155 round wrapped in chain would send thousands of chunks of steel flying sideways. They would tear a human body into tiny wet pieces, but they rarely did much damage to our trucks, or military vehicles... Often the idiot that planted the IED would lay it parallel to the road, war head pointed up or down the road, The thing would be set off and spin a half turn, sending the nasty stuff up the road instead of into the road.

Truck 5:"Truck 5 IED!... still rolling"

IED attack on my convoy, 10 Sept 2011.

Me: "ok guys, lets get out of the kill zone"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dXLMOvt7LFg

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5-X0PI3uzy0


And down the road we'd go. Another night in Iraq. Maybe we'll asses the damage on the road, up a few clicks, maybe we'll just keep rolling and check it out when we get where were going. I'd get on the Qualcomm and let Operations know back at JBB, that we were hit... then I'd earn the 200 bucks extra base pay I got for being a CL, the questions would start, the paperwork would begin, and sure as your born, some dick-head "security" dork would be all over my ass at whatever base we were headed towards, and he would keep me busy for a few obnoxious hours...

Once as we were idling our way into JBB after a long night on convoy, Poncho, the driver who was behind me keyed up the 40 watt radio "Hey Dude I just saw a kid stick something in your side-box". This was a fear of mine... as easily as they steal shit OUT of the boxes, they could have put something UGLY in the boxes. Something could blow up inside the wire... I notified the military and we pulled our truck up against a blast wall in the South entrance to JBB and I got out of the truck. I had my helmet on then! - not that it would do any good...I had my flashlight out and I approached the box. A soldier came up behind me "See anything?" "Fuck I cant see anything yet!" he was hiding behind me and we were both giggling the nervous giggle of two guys who were about to be blown to shit as I approached the box...slowly... My light lit up the open metal box... it was empty... "Nothing" I said. The kid then came around me and looked for himself. We laughed the relieved laugh of two guys who are going to make it to morning chow and we ran back to our respective vehicles.

Just another night in Iraq.