SOC Sunday – Five Minutes of Me

This has been a great week for middle-aged white men and I’ve never been more ashamed to be one.

In Texas, a bill was passed that will essentially outlaw abortion and limit the resources available to women and decisions women can make to their own bodies. For a father of three daughters and a husband of one wife, this saddens me for the now, and frightens me for the future. What are women, especially ones married to male right-wing politicians and supporters of this bill, thinking? Do they like asking their significant male others permission to go to the bathroom and or get pregnant?

In Florida, a soft, wannabe but couldn’t be police officer, George Zimmerman, was found not guilty of killing a black teenager named Travon Martin. The incident happened a year ago, but the verdict was announced late Saturday night. The facts of the case, the law that allowed Zimmerman to plea self-defense – called Stand Your Ground – supported the arguments, but he killed a kid, one that he profiled, instead of being a man and either letting police handle the situation or fighting him off.

We are going backward as a country, not forward. Forty-four years after putting a man on the moon and in Texas they’re legislating hate against women, and in Florida they’re rendering verdicts through a loose languaged law that allows racism.

I need to lose fifteen to twenty pounds. The kids need to go back to school sooner rather than later.

My wife and I are going to bed earlier and talking more.

I’m almost done editing Soul To Body but have a lot more to go on Italian Radio. Expect the former before the latter to be published in July.

My five minutes are up but here’s twenty more seconds of me telling you what I’m listening to right now. I saw Jim Carroll on a Lou Reed’s documentary. I used to play Carroll in my early twenties, almost every day.

Punk rock forever. Hang in there. America.

and Buy my book The Ballad of Helene Troy, available digitally on, Good Reads, and or in paperback from or Pound Publishing Headquarter, signed, like this one.


*****blogger’s note****

This was a five-minute thirty-five second stream of consciousness post for Jana over at

Born of Frustration

Happy Birthday Jack Kerouac. This is for you.

James was brawny and tall, 6″4″, with a coif of long blonde hair that layered over his impressive head and shoulders. I couldn’t stand looking at him, well, at least in the way everyone else beheld him. I felt like a little boy, a pipsqueak of nothing. No matter what I said, tried, did, played, or wrote, it fell at his feet like broken arrows in a bad television western. I was too young to understand that James was a moment in time not an era of accomplishment. We were early twenty-somethings trying to figure out if screwing or doing or brewing was the way to be men. He called me by my last name, an insult that kept me in a place, my pathetic place, of insecure discontent that walled much more anxiety that I already experienced through my own disordered brain. Women tossed their bodies at James, he’d treat most of them with groupie indifference, work when he wanted, and get away with things that would’ve crushed my reputation. I would get lost in plotting, scheming, and pontificating how I would make the idiots around me see how I was smarter and more interesting than him. Nothing ever worked. Instead of getting attention or, God forbid, poetic justice on the smug lug, my words and thoughts would wander like smoke trailing into my nether region of envy, born of frustration. Time showed James peaked, back then. He was only what he was in front of everyone’s face. My 5’8″ brown-haired twitch of motor-mouth, dark moods, grunge clothed, music lyric spouting, notebook writing stress ball was a work in progress. I was minor league to his major league. But looks fade, people change, things move, thoughts matriculate. I used to see James as this Goliath and me this pathetic David, slingshot unarmed, a fool’s view. Years have a way of evening scores while maturity and gravity laugh at them over lunch, something grilled and diet, of course. Cheers, James. Hope you’re well.

*****blogger’s note****

In celebration of one of the truest artists in history, Jack Kerouac,  and a nod to three prompts; StudioThirtyPlus’ “Envy” , Trifecta Writing’s “Trail”, and Write on Edge’s “This week we’d like you to write about a time you found yourself comparing yourself, unfavorably, with someone else. Focus on how the comparison affected you, negatively or positively.” I wrote in the unstructured, stream of conscience style of the late beat superstar. It’s a great day to celebrate being a writer.

Today’s song is a distant memory. This is something emo and dumb and almost forgotten that I listened to during my time of comparision to someone else. Here’s James – Born of Frustration.