On March 1st I listened to Pink Floyd The Dark Side Of
The Moon as a bit of an homage to my father. It’s one of his all-time
favorite albums.
Released in 1973, The Dark
Side Of The Moon is the 2nd highest selling album since recorded history,
with a global total of 45 million units shipped. Only Michael Jackson’s Thriller
has sold more copies. The London band’s eighth album landed at No. 1 on the
Billboard Top 200 upon its release and then stayed on the chart for 741 weeks
until 1988! I watched all my asshole friends buy the album or cassette, then
buy it again on CD, and then steal it off the internet.
I’m sure this won’t come as a shock, but I don’t like Pink
Floyd. I did my time listening to Dark Side and I find the band's whole schtick to be boring. They
don’t speak to me and the imagery associated with their music is creepy. When I
say I did my time; there was a five or six year period when an 8-track copy of Dark Side was perpetually stuck inside
the player of my dad’s stupid van, and I heard a chunk of it every time he drove
anywhere.
The thing that drove me nuts about this album is that it is
half pudding and half meat. Huh? There’re too many long grooves to get lost in
and not enough hooks and choruses. I knew that served a purpose, but c’mon! Are
you only supposed to listen to this album while you’re high? I’m pretty sure I
never got high with the sole intent of listening to Pink Floyd afterwards. Wait. I take that back. I'm pretty sure I smoked a bowl once before going to see Lazer Floyd at the planetarium. However, I did fall asleep.
Because Dark Side was
always stuck inside the 8-track player and I barely understood how 8-tracks
worked, you never knew where it was. I still barely know how an 8-track works.
You had 8-tracks on once piece of tape, two tracks per song, and it moved in a
continuous loop. It’s like if you never had to turn over a cassette and side A
and side B didn't run in opposite directions. Ugh, I’m confusing myself. I
remember if you didn't like the song playing, you hit the “Program Button” and
popped over to another track and a different song. I was a bit of a
destroyer-of-things and the “Program Button” in the old man’s van didn't work,
so The Dark Side Of The Moon went
around and around. Is it ironic a child is complaining that a parent is
listening to the same thing too much?
I’d pray that the lady in “The Great Gig In The Sky” would
die already so we could get to “Money.” At least that was a song to me and it
had the world “bullshit!” I long for a time when the word “bullshit” could make
me giggle. By the time “On The Run” would fade out and “Time” would fade in, I’d
forgot we were listening to anything and then those stupid alarm clocks would
always get me… I’d get startled and think that a tire fell off or that we were driving by the alarm clock store. At some point during “Us And Them,” I’d daydream
about jumping out of the moving van and some nice passersby would take me in
and raise me as their own in a Pink Floyd-free environment.
To me “Us And Them” is the epitome of the 70’s – hippie
influenced bologna. It's a song that sounds like a modern day dog that’s been
kept alive for a few extra years. The poor pooch is propped up on its hind legs and suffering endlessly all for the sake of Classic Rock fans... alive despite itself. It exists in a bubble of timelessness. “Us And Them” sounds like it could have been recorded in the 60’s,
the 70’s, the 80’s, or even the 90’s. But, instead of sticking out like a
polyester pant suit, a pair of bell bottom jeans, or a mullet and a mustache, this song blends into any era because “they don’t make
‘em like that anymore.”
I do appreciate the tapestry of this album, even if I don’t
enjoy it. Every note on The Dark Side Of
The Moon is conveniently tucked into the next, as each "song" expounds on the
timeless question; what is the meaning of life? This L.P. is truly an accomplishment…
and I don’t care for it.
When you boil this record down, you’re left with five songs!
It’s basically an E.P.! The cornerstone of the Rock universe is resting on five
songs and what feels like hours and hours of top-of-the-line musicians noodling
about.
Not only have I heard this album too much, but it reminds me
of the time I realized that my father was kind of an asshole.
I started this blog in 2010 because I would get bit by the
writing bug from time to time and didn't have a place to stick my “pieces.” In
April of 2009, I was inspired by an episode of Eastbound & Down to write something about my mother. Because I
had no place to post it, I emailed it to a few people that I thought might find
the humor in it. Nobody gave a shit… or so I thought. A few weeks after I wrote
I Love Kenny Rogers I was in L.A. to
see Depeche Mode and a friend of
mine encouraged me to write more stuff like that.
Inspired by the positive feedback and hearing a Pink Floyd song
on the radio, I jotted down some notes and then one night whilst drunk I wrote My Dad And Pink Floyd. I had every
intention of sending it to the same lucky group who got the first one, but
decided to sober up in order to clean it up and send it the next day. It’s a
good thing I waited, because after I read it sober I decided never to share it
with anybody… until now.
This email has been just sitting in my “drafts” folder for
years. It’s addressed and ready to go! So, I touched it up and drew a red line
through the really angry shit.
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| Would you like a microwaved Hot Dog? |
My Dad And Pink Floyd!
Sometimes when I'm
drunk I write things. Sometimes when I'm sober I edit those things and send
them to you. I apologize for that. And as always...
PLEASE DO NOT READ:
About a month ago I
found myself in a dive bar off of Sunset Boulevard trying to get drunk with the
Fisher (SIC) brothers, Dan and the other one. It was my kind of place; not too
many assholes around, a great jukebox and a gruff but fair older lady behind
the bar. She had a great sense of humor and was microwaving hot dogs for
anybody that tipped well and actually wanted a microwaved hot dog – I had two.
After a few beers Dan
mentioned how much he enjoyed my email about my mother’s two loves - Kenny
Rogers and giving people bad news. He also mentioned he’d love to read more
about my fucked up childhood. I really hadn't planned on writing anything else
on the topic, but I was inspired by hearing Pink Floyd’s
“Brain Damage/Eclipse” on the radio the next day. It’s one of those 70’s beat-to-death
Classic Rock songs I normally hate, but it sounded good cruising around Venice
Beach… and it reminded me of this sad little story that I’ll embellish and make
somewhat amusing.
I haven’t seen or
heard from my father in about ten years, nor have I tried to reach out to him.
A couple times a year my mother will give me an update and it’s usually bad,
which is right up her alley, and who am I to stop a horse from running. The
updates usually involve him being in the hospital, him finding God and/or Jesus
again, him getting another DUI (I’m pretty sure he’s up to six.), or something
about his [EDITOR’S NOTE – I TOOK THIS
LINE OUT]. In short, he’s a drunk douche.
My father also had a few loves that I
distinctly remember from my childhood and here they are in the order in which
he loved them…
1. Schmidt’s beer. I watched him drink
thousands of them. That was his No. 1 beer of choice. I dare you to go
drink one! It’s like chilled beer flavored vinegar.
2. An old brown
bathrobe. If he was home for an extended period, he’d wear this shitty brown
robe and nothing else! I've seen his balls so many times that I can’t look at
my own and not think of him. One time I was scratching my balls, somebody said
the word “dad,” and I started to cry. Hand to God... not the one I scratched with.
3. [EDITOR’S NOTE – THIS ONE WAS TONED DOWN.]
Women. All shapes and sizes. The old man was a poon hound.
4. Breaking promises.
I suppose if I was drunk all the time and my ten-year-old kid wanted something,
I’d just say “sure thing son, let’s do that next Saturday.” Next Saturday never
came. I believe because there was never any regret on his part, he
enjoyed breaking those promises.
5. Pink Floyd The
Dark Side Of The Moon. He owned it on
8-track and listened to it in his van incessantly.
And finally, I’m not sure if this was
something he loved or just something he did a shit load of times.
6. Telling me to shut
up. But he would mostly do it in Polish. He’d yell, "Cisza!” It means
silence and should be pronounced “che-shaw,” but the old man said it like
“Chee-Haw!” He was a big fan of the TV show Hee Haw, so maybe that’s why he said it like a hillbilly.
Now that I've set the
table, our story takes place in 1975 or 1976… I’m somewhere around five or six.
I woke up early on a
chilly Saturday morning and hit the living room with a shitload of toys. I
flipped on the TV and went to work! On this morning I was particularly
enthralled with my Fisher-Price car garage.
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| Storm Shadow! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! |
That baby had everything!
Elevator! Ramp! Spinning car park! All the bells and whistles… literally. As
you cranked the elevator up and down a tiny little bell rang out gloriously!
“DING DING!” It wasn't made for Matchbox cars, but they worked just fine in
there. “DING DING!” Up the elevator, down the ramp! “DING DING!”
I have the vaguest
notion I knew what I was doing that morning. I wasn't an oblivious little kid
just mindlessly playing with my toy. I remember sitting there on our shitty
pond green rug and thinking, “this will wake them up!” I wasn't being
mischievous and looking to ruin my parent’s morning, I was being a kid and
hoping they’d wake up and come play with me!
“DING DING!” So, I’m
cranking that elevator up and down, the bell is ringing into the morning air
and then...
I remember my parent's
bed having this very distinct creaking noise. I heard it when I jumped on it,
when my parents screwed, and when my father was getting up in a hurry. If the
old man was leaping out of bed in a hurry, shit was about to go down.
What happened next
incorporated four of my father’s six loves. My bell was too much for the old man’s Schmidt’s (Love #1)
induced hangover. I looked up from my garage in time to see a flash of cock and
balls as he turned the corner, trying to get his robe (Love #2) closed. He was
humming something that he started to sing as he got closer. “I’ll see you on
the dark side of the moon (Love #5),” he sang as he swooped down and scooped up
my garage. A cascade of Matchbox cars and Fisher-Price people rained down all
over the pond green rug and my head.
I really let him have
it with a spirited, “hey,” but he already vanished into the kitchen.
The garage crashed
down onto the kitchen counter and was followed by the sound of rummaging through
the kitchen’s junk drawer. In my tiny little mind I knew where this was going
and didn't bother getting up. “And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear,”
he continued under his breath as he found what he was looking for in the
drawer. “You shout and no one seems to hear,” as the sound of metal on metal
emanated from the kitchen. “And if the band you’re in starts playing different
tunes,” he muttered while simultaneously letting out a little victory guffaw.
He then sang the next line in a singular movement of throwing a screwdriver
back in the junk drawer, slamming it shut, picking up my garage, and dancing
back into the living room…“I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon.”
The old man floated
from the kitchen on a cloud of dickhead nonchalance and parental indifference
as he gracefully whisked by, his robe flowing in the breeze. He simply discarded the garage. He didn't set it down, he didn't throw it
down, he just kind of let it go as he passed. It landed with a thud in front of
me. “Cisza,” (Love #6) he said as he disappeared around the corner. The creaking
of my parent’s bed as he nestled back in was the last sound to break the new
found Saturday morning silence.
A sad hollow knocking
noise now replaced the glorious “DING DING,” and that’s how it remained until I
grew out of that toy. The garage’s bell sat in that junk drawer until my mother
moved out of the house a few years ago. A fitting tomb for a child’s toy that
annoyed a drunk dickhead.
[EDITOR’S NOTE – I’LL END IT HERE. I WENT ON TO WRITE AN OPEN LETTER TO
MY DAD THAT WENT A BIT TOO FAR.]
I didn't put that out into the world, mainly because it’s
very angry and I toned it down in a lot more places than I noted. I also kept My Dad And Pink Floyd to myself, because
I come off like a victim. I’m the lonely child reaching out for my father’s
attention only to get a bucket of water poured on my head. I didn't have as
much fun reading it, as I did writing it.
My father died on Sunday June 8, 2014. I found out two days
later on Tuesday. My mom was trying to get a hold of me and I didn’t feel like
picking up. When she called me the fourth time, I figured something was up. As
I alluded to early, giving people bad news is my mom’s thang, so I sensed just a hint of joy in her voice as she told me
that my dad was dead.
I asked her what had happened and she wasn't really sure.
She only knew that he had been in the hospital for a day or two and passed away
on Sunday. I was alone when I found out and other than it being a bummer, the
news had no effect on my day. That kind of fucked with me.
I rather quickly decided not to attend the funeral and in
the next few days realized that if not for my mother, nobody else would have
told me. I also spent the next few days bracing for some huge emotional
breakdown. I guessed that my lethargic initial reaction could have been years
of anger and regret masking themselves as a flimsy armor of bravado and I was
on the verge of a great sadness. God forbid somebody said “dad” while I was
scratching my balls, otherwise I feared I would melt into a salty puddle. That never
happened. Then realizing that I wasn't going to weep for the death of my father fucked
with me further. I wondered, what was wrong with me?
Whose responsibility is it to try and save an estranged
relationship between a parent and an adult child?
My dad was an alcoholic. The never-around type and not the
abusive kind. The old man caused plenty of strife in my life because he was a
drunk, but my mom and I weren't staying at the shelter or anything like that. [EDITOR’S NOTE – I’M BEING VERY GENEROUS THERE.]
If given the choice between seeing his family or the world from a bar-stool, he
was setting a course for adventure from that bar-stool. Sometimes to kill two birds with one stone, he’d drag me along. At first, I didn't mind hanging out at
a bar while he drank. There was always a steady stream of quarters to play a
video game, but eventually every trip to the bar with dad would turn into one
long boring game of “We’ll Leave Right After I Finish This One.”
I can’t really explain a 15-year-long estrangement in just a
few sentences. My relationship with my father was long and complicated. It
started off good enough, but my childhood became a string of disappointments
followed by the realization that my dad was not a good father. There is one
incident that I can say acted as a turning point in our relationship but we
never had that one big blowout or major disagreement that cut the ties between
us. We didn't grow to hate each other, our relationship simply burned out. We
both let apathy beat love. That’s on both of us.
My Dad was a Purple Heart decorated Vietnam veteran, he had
a pretty cool scar on his inner calf where he was shot. He worked as a pressman
at a place that printed books – I always had a lot to read when I was a kid. He
married my mom and had me and then he got his girlfriend pregnant and things
changed drastically.
I inherited quite a few things from my dad. I have some of his
self-destructive tendencies, which I ignorantly like to think I have under
control. I love vegetables because of my dad. He was a meat loving carnivore,
but God damn did that guy love fresh vegetables. Whenever possible he got his
produce from the local farmer’s market. I’m the same way. I got my sense of
humor from him. I also got my big fat head from him. In fact, I look almost
exactly like him. It’s kind of freaky how much we look alike.
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| According to this map, we can make it to the Schmidt's brewery in 2 hours! |
Sometimes when I lose my temper I see too much of my father
in me. An uncomfortable amount of somebody else’s exact mannerism pouring out
of me. It’s unsettling and something I try to avoid as much as
possible. That temper is something I hate about both of us.
I didn't want to not have a relationship with my father.
That’s a funny way for me to say that. I didn't want to not have a relationship
with my father. Why not say “I wanted to have a relationship with my father?” I
was often jealous of my adult friends who had great dads. I would have liked a
dad to go to for advice or money. I would have liked a dad who was my friend. Somebody
to golf with or fish with or split a hooker with… a couple times a year. But, I
always knew that was never going to be me and my dad. The seeds for that
realization where planted on that cold morning in 1975 or 1976. The dad I would
have liked slowly faded out of existence and I just watched it happen… I didn't want to not have.
I didn't send out My
Dad And Pink Floyd because it sounded like I was saying, “love me, daddy.” Even
with all the vitriol I couldn't wash the daddy issues stink off of it… to me anyway and that’s not a
line I ever wanted to dance anywhere near. I understand wanting the approval of
your father, but it’s not something I have known or strove for since I was a
boy. I never understood why some people sought out that validation from a completely
flawed father. I chose not to chase a man that decided to run.
Tomorrow I listen to Led Zeppelin and Sleater-Kinney.
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