Johnny was a bit of an enigma when one even took the time to notice him. A voracious reader when he hadn't smoked too many joints, he was removed from Lester Pearson Middle School one semester early. Superintendent Cowan Boyle himself had to give the OK, after Johnny passed a series of "headshrinker puzzles" with flying colors. J.T. had been pretty much truant for more than a year already the day he strolled into Pearson, to announce he'd been given permission to take his leave by the "Education" chief himself. It was January 20, 1977, and Jimmy Carter's inauguration as US President was being televised in Study Hall. "Why are they watching that bullshit," J.T. wondered. His outstanding memory of the day is talking with Reeve Robertson, who was the coolest, kindest, most gentle and understanding teacher in the whole world. "I'm retreating," said Johnny. "How can you retreat when you never even tried your best to advance?" "Well, whatever, Mr. Robertson..."
Some questions are beyond the scope of an adolescent. Why indeed?
"Because, for some reason I learned more hiding out in my closet reading books like 'God's Own Junkyard,' a fascinating volume about the corruption of the American Landscape. Or 'Chicago's Famous Buildings.' Or 'Johnny Tremain,' a kid's book about a kid's life during the US Revolutionary War. But also, there was, while mom and pop were away, sneaking downstairs and listening stoned to Pink Floyd's 'The Piper at the Gates of Dawn:'
'Lucifer Sam, saw your CAT... Always got him by your side, Alwaaays, BY your side...'"
How could boring old Middle School ever compare?
It wasn't long before Johnny Trashcan and Blondie Dreadlocks were attending Urban Youth Institute together. Oh boy!!!
Sunday, January 23, 2011
"Schmuck The Autobiography..." "Class Dismissed."
Brad, a volunteer teacher, was calling. “The auto mechanics class has been cancelled,” he said. “What,” exclaimed J.T., “why!?” “Well, it seems you and Darryl Haider threw tempera paint from a third story window onto the sidewalk below. And you did it while you were SUPPOSED to be in my class. Why you want to go and do a stupid thing like that for?” “I, uh, well…” Johnny sputtered into the receiver. “Look Johnny, I’m not mad at you. But it’s kind of a shame, isn’t it? I guess all I can tell you is what I said the first day of class. Remember, Johnny: ‘Intake, Compression, Combustion and Exhaust.’ Those are the four basic principles. Good luck, kiddo.”
“OK Brad, thanks for calling. I’m sorry…”
Hanging out with Darryl Haider was one of the worst mistakes Johnny made during his six months at Urban Youth Institute, a refuge for “softies,” “losers,” “druggies,” and other rejects, all of whose presence taken together led kids throughout the district to refer to it as “Hippie-Dippie High School.” There were however plenty of serious, gifted kids at the institute. Darryl Haider wasn’t one of them; Darryl, everyone agreed, was a dork.
Inscribed into Johnny’s memory with indelible ink is the day he and Darryl skipped school. A fateful day, for Johnny had already “made a date” with the lovely Kerry McIntyre. Kerry liked Jazz too. Kerry had invited Johnny over to the family’s house on Meridian Way to listen to LPs; John Coltrane and Charlie Parker, maybe even Ornette Coleman. Most important, it was Kerry who remarked during Sex Education class that “Sex is MESSY.” That perked up the Trash Can’s ears and made him FOCUS; “How does SHE know THAT!?!” Johnny lacked empirical knowledge of sex between a boy and a girl, but he was interested. VERY interested. Instead, when the day of decision arrived, timid little Johnny agreed in an improvised fashion to skip school with Darryl. And so, after downing some NoDoz in the school gymnasium, the two of them rode the Transit bus to the East Side, furtively ripping up seats with box cutters during the ride. They walked the railroad tracks next to Barber’s Feed Mill on a fine autumn day.
But Johnny had a nagging sense of his own stupidity that whole day. It became a neurosis that bothered him for years afterward; “How could I let my fear of girls…” and “That goddamn stupid Darryl Haider!” and “It’s my own fault, really, eh?” Johnny finally lost his virginity five years later, five long, stultifying years. To this very day, he realizes he “missed the boat,” at least in terms of achieving sexual fulfillment at a “reasonable” age. Reasonable because, aside from the risk of pregnancy, there appeared to be few if any risks. Even in those days before anyone had heard of AIDS, all the kids knew how to get a hold of condoms. And “all the kids,” all the “cool” ones anyway, were doing it. Nobody ever went to Juvenile Detention, as far as Johnny remembers, just for screwing.
Terry McIntyre expressed her disappointment a few days later, and she did it mercifully. She spoke to Johnny in the way practically all us boys soon came to recognize as a clear signal that the girls were, by and large, two to three years more mature.
“Most of the girls were like that,” says Johnny today. “They learned French while so many of the dorks broke windows. They practiced the flute while we smoked dope in the unlocked garage across the street from school. Very few of them were dumb enough to suck Nitrous Oxide from a G-Tank, bless their hearts.
I wonder… whatever became of Kerry McIntyre?”
“OK Brad, thanks for calling. I’m sorry…”
Hanging out with Darryl Haider was one of the worst mistakes Johnny made during his six months at Urban Youth Institute, a refuge for “softies,” “losers,” “druggies,” and other rejects, all of whose presence taken together led kids throughout the district to refer to it as “Hippie-Dippie High School.” There were however plenty of serious, gifted kids at the institute. Darryl Haider wasn’t one of them; Darryl, everyone agreed, was a dork.
Inscribed into Johnny’s memory with indelible ink is the day he and Darryl skipped school. A fateful day, for Johnny had already “made a date” with the lovely Kerry McIntyre. Kerry liked Jazz too. Kerry had invited Johnny over to the family’s house on Meridian Way to listen to LPs; John Coltrane and Charlie Parker, maybe even Ornette Coleman. Most important, it was Kerry who remarked during Sex Education class that “Sex is MESSY.” That perked up the Trash Can’s ears and made him FOCUS; “How does SHE know THAT!?!” Johnny lacked empirical knowledge of sex between a boy and a girl, but he was interested. VERY interested. Instead, when the day of decision arrived, timid little Johnny agreed in an improvised fashion to skip school with Darryl. And so, after downing some NoDoz in the school gymnasium, the two of them rode the Transit bus to the East Side, furtively ripping up seats with box cutters during the ride. They walked the railroad tracks next to Barber’s Feed Mill on a fine autumn day.
But Johnny had a nagging sense of his own stupidity that whole day. It became a neurosis that bothered him for years afterward; “How could I let my fear of girls…” and “That goddamn stupid Darryl Haider!” and “It’s my own fault, really, eh?” Johnny finally lost his virginity five years later, five long, stultifying years. To this very day, he realizes he “missed the boat,” at least in terms of achieving sexual fulfillment at a “reasonable” age. Reasonable because, aside from the risk of pregnancy, there appeared to be few if any risks. Even in those days before anyone had heard of AIDS, all the kids knew how to get a hold of condoms. And “all the kids,” all the “cool” ones anyway, were doing it. Nobody ever went to Juvenile Detention, as far as Johnny remembers, just for screwing.
Terry McIntyre expressed her disappointment a few days later, and she did it mercifully. She spoke to Johnny in the way practically all us boys soon came to recognize as a clear signal that the girls were, by and large, two to three years more mature.
“Most of the girls were like that,” says Johnny today. “They learned French while so many of the dorks broke windows. They practiced the flute while we smoked dope in the unlocked garage across the street from school. Very few of them were dumb enough to suck Nitrous Oxide from a G-Tank, bless their hearts.
I wonder… whatever became of Kerry McIntyre?”
Saturday, January 22, 2011
"Late Bloomer; The Memoirs of a Schmuck"
Johnny Trashcan and Willy Whiterasta stopped in at the "Rapid Rations" store on Venue View Road. Johnny wisely pocketed a piece of Quench Gum for the long night ahead. It came from Berkeley in nice little vials, but the acid he brought along was on Orange Blotter paper, and Sherri Taylor was amazed Johnny shared it gratis. By 10:00 Johnny's trip was so intense, he couldn't read the phone book. Words cascaded through a perceptual cataract, and Satin's number, entered under the name of his dentist father, was attributed to an "Oral Sturgeon." Guess there wouldn't be any smoke to speak of tonight. Bob Farmer's elegant $100,000 domicile was a good place to get together; it was far more luxurious than the typical "white aluminum box," those dull rectangular containers constructed with such prolific abandon all across the "Best Side" during the postwar suburban boom.
Johnny has a truly astounding recall from the Carter Years, so he can attest to the fact that September 1977 marked the start of Hamilton's newspaper-worker strike. Every Hamiltonian who possessed an ounce of political awareness knew there was a boycott on. Much of the citizenry wouldn't be caught dead purchasing either "The Empire Morning Journal" or "The Monument Times," which hit the newsracks in the afternoon. Johnny and Willy took things to the next level; both were 15 years old, into Doctor Feelgood's prescriptions and hardly content to merely refrain from purchasing those informative "scab rags."
Unlike his best friend of 35 years, Willy White-Rasta's greatest talent doesn't reside in possessing an elephantine but highly selective memory. So it's unlikely Willy, who was always the biggest beer drinker of the two, remembers leaving the party on his ten-speed. Johnny, though, will never forget the way the night transpired. Dark and deserted lay the Campus Boulevard convenience store when the boys pulled into the parking lot, a location ripe for mischief.
Johnny has a truly astounding recall from the Carter Years, so he can attest to the fact that September 1977 marked the start of Hamilton's newspaper-worker strike. Every Hamiltonian who possessed an ounce of political awareness knew there was a boycott on. Much of the citizenry wouldn't be caught dead purchasing either "The Empire Morning Journal" or "The Monument Times," which hit the newsracks in the afternoon. Johnny and Willy took things to the next level; both were 15 years old, into Doctor Feelgood's prescriptions and hardly content to merely refrain from purchasing those informative "scab rags."
Unlike his best friend of 35 years, Willy White-Rasta's greatest talent doesn't reside in possessing an elephantine but highly selective memory. So it's unlikely Willy, who was always the biggest beer drinker of the two, remembers leaving the party on his ten-speed. Johnny, though, will never forget the way the night transpired. Dark and deserted lay the Campus Boulevard convenience store when the boys pulled into the parking lot, a location ripe for mischief.
Recent Reports
Recent reports have indicate an additional 1400 US Marines are being sent to Afghanistan in the coming weeks. This escalation is occurring in light of last year's reports that it costs over $1 million annually to put one US GI on the ground over there. I do place a higher level of blame on the policy makers behind the...ir desks who send soldiers off to kill and be killed than I do on the grunts in the field. But neither can the troops escape with their conscience unscathed, much as that may be desirable for them. Jingoistic saber-ratlling doesn't cut any ice with me. Robert McNamara was right when he ironically told us: "The Human Race needs to think more about killing."
One needs to do the unpleasant introspection: "Are these wars JUST?" I believe they are a flagrant violation of the US Constitution's requirement that the President go to Congress to ask for a declaration of war, if one is really needed. I believe that all of our wars since 1945 have been illegal, under international law as well.
I suggest that everyone who reads this examine their conscience as it relates to the matter of making war. The fact that many soldiers are motivated by a strong sense of duty does not give them some automatic, unqualified moral right to support this war or any other. I happen to know that soldiers take an oath to the United States Constitution. So I think it's incumbent upon all the troops, and the entire population, to determine whether the Afghan or Iraq wars are in accordance with the specific terms of that venerated document. Who among you can credibly argue that they are?
One needs to do the unpleasant introspection: "Are these wars JUST?" I believe they are a flagrant violation of the US Constitution's requirement that the President go to Congress to ask for a declaration of war, if one is really needed. I believe that all of our wars since 1945 have been illegal, under international law as well.
I suggest that everyone who reads this examine their conscience as it relates to the matter of making war. The fact that many soldiers are motivated by a strong sense of duty does not give them some automatic, unqualified moral right to support this war or any other. I happen to know that soldiers take an oath to the United States Constitution. So I think it's incumbent upon all the troops, and the entire population, to determine whether the Afghan or Iraq wars are in accordance with the specific terms of that venerated document. Who among you can credibly argue that they are?
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