Slammer Time

Insanity stalks me this morning, after trying to strangle me in my sleep. Filthy fuck. Ignoring it does little to dissuade it. There is no reason nor morality that it recognizes. It just waits there, waits for me to let my guard down, its crazy face devoured by a stained-teeth smile.

I was going to write about the Dems again today, seeing how they are supposedly in charge while lame duck Bush jabbers on about "sacrifice" and the need for extended slaughter. But I simply lack the energy, Sonsters. Composing these daily blasts wears me out, and I neglect the house, the dirty kitchen floor, the mud room crusted with salt as several towels soak up the melting snow and ice tracked in by the family, the living room disheveled beyond belief, books stacked everywhere, magazines strewn on the dusty carpets, our neurotic New York cat puking up her food every few hours while our lazy Michigan cat sleeps and sheds all over my old Army jacket. Money is tight, bills are put off or partially paid, and here I sit, reading about the woeful world, jotting down notes and stray lines with sports radio providing ambient sound in the background.

Is this all there is?

Actually, believe it or not, I have planned, if not a more optimistic post about certain progressive Dems, then something less hostile and gloomy. At least that's how I feel at this conception stage. Once I start banging the thing out, that might change, but I can't say for sure. I never know how most of my posts will end, nor can I predict my mood as the thoughts burn through me. But I will try, loyal readers, to find something of worth in this mess, for I wear myself down far too often and suspect that I'm doing the same to you. If that's the case, my sincere apologies. Who wants to visit an angry man everyday, who shakes his fist at the sky and throws rocks at cars and trucks that speed through his residential stretch? I'm even looking the part these days -- my hair is getting long and my salt and pepper beard grows wild, like those old crazy coots in the trailer parks of my youth, cursing up a storm with a Schlitz in one hand and a Marlboro in the other. My friend Bob and I would egg these guys on, then laugh as they ranted away, seemingly oblivious to everything save their own dying rage. Kids can be cruel to the old, but I don't think those coots really noticed, especially after putting away a six-pack.

Speaking of old men who talk too much, a quick Perrin family snapshot: my grandfather, Charlie Perrin, who died in 1987, was somewhat legendary in the bars near his home. Charlie was filled with fear, which he covered up by being the loudest guy in the room, and oftentimes the funniest. For all of his bullshit, my grandfather could make you laugh, though he had to work you to find the right opening for his extremely corny but absurdist jokes and takes. I once went with him to one of his favorite bars, The Slammer, which had mock jail cell doors on the booths and old black and white photos of prisons and jails on the walls. The bar itself was very dark and reeked of dried beer on the floor. When we entered it was around 11 AM, and a small crowd of older men, hunched over their drinks, turned and stood to greet my grandfather.

"Hey! Charlie's here!"

They all smiled, awaiting Charlie's performance, and he did not disappoint them. I said very little, and took some pride in Charlie's act, which consisted of weird plays on words and anecdotes about his time as a salesman for Morton Salt. His little audience ate it up, and I could see, however briefly, my grandfather releasing some of his fear and living in the jovial moment. Of course, he got drunk and I had to drive him home, whereupon he drained a few more beers then nodded out in his big, plush chair, the bulk of his day over by 3 PM. He'd wake up a few hours later and read condensed books until bedtime, telling me that once he got the gist of a story or historical tale, he didn't need to read the whole thing, and so moved on to another shortened tome.

While I don't drink during the day (though sometimes I could really use it), I sort of feel like the Son is my Slammer, and you good people are the audience at the bar. Now, if only I would tell more amusing stories, yes?

Here's some classic Rodney Dangerfield, who looks a lot like my grandfather, though Rodney had a slicker act. But then, if Charlie hadn't been so emotionally beaten down, who knows what he might have achieved?