"Time is a funny thing. Time is a very peculiar item.
When you're young, you're a kid, you got time.
Throw away a couple of years, a couple of years ...
It doesn't matter. You know? The older you get you say,
''Jesus, how much I got?''how many summers do i have left,
think about it."

- THE Motorcycle Boy, from the S.E. Hinton book, "Rumble Fish"

So, it's almost midnight here. I can't sleep. My stomach is killing me
and i'm not sure if its the BBQ that I ate, or the beer I drank last night,
but i don't feel right.

I ask myself all the time, "how many summers" do i have left, why
do i take for granted this life I live. All these summers, i sit
drinking away. Why don't i go, travel, see the world. 

I'd probably just end up bouncing from town to town, pub to
pub. At least I'd meet new people, find new stories ... leave
all these fucking worries that I have.

But, worries never leave you, do they. They'll follow you to
wherever you flee. Sure, you can drink them away, smoke them away,
snort them away, shoot them up, cut them, fuck them, lie
to them ... but the next day, well ... you know the drill.

I'm not sure how much longer I can do it. This ain't a cry,
mother fucker, this is just me, sitting here, talking to you, letting
you know what the deal is.

I've got  .. i gather, 10 ... maybe 12 summers left. Thats 4380
days ... that's a lot of days.

I always thought I'd die at the age of 30. Never thought I'd live past
it, to be honest. I was in love with the idea, at one time, of
just killing myself on my 30th birthday.

It would be a nice way to bookend this thing.

I'm too chicken shit to do anything like that. Plus, I love
life .. most of the time.

Now, don't get all squirmy and uncomfortable. We're talking real
life, and sometimes the shit ain't pretty, ya dig?

I wanna move to the west coast before I die, and live on the beach, soaking
in the sun, the sounds .. then move to the mountains, with an
old fashioned type writer, and a years worth of beer.

Write the greatest novel ever written, send it to a publisher with
with no name ... then I'll know my words will be immortal, while
I'll be forgotten in time, just another speck of dust.

I want to live in NY, and go to every Broadway show, i wanna
do a rail of coke in the bathroom of a famous musician; then
fuck his girlfriend .... just because i have bad manors.

I wanna open my own bar, in my home town, and then not serve
those I dislike, because, i believe in karma ... and I'll bring
all the haters down.

That or just overcharge them for drinks (that weren't even what
they ordered!)

But mainly, where I wanna go, is back to 1987 ... before it all
changed. When it was a happy world for me. When I played outside
by myself, pretending to be whatever it was I wanted to
be just then.

well, at least that’s what
i think safety is

“i knew this would day would come,” he said to
ma, as he pushed his chair out.

“think long and hard boy, from here its all different, the world you
once knew won’t be here anymore, you ok with that”?

i thought deep and long
about the past,
about everything we’d been through
together

he’d done so much for us
weeks we wouldn’t see him
when he was home, he wasn’t
really here. he was somewhere
else.

and i know it wasn’t easy for him.
but fuck, it wasn’t easy for us either.
and to be honest, I was tired of having
to be the man of the house

what was in it for me?

kids pissed off at you for
putting them in their place
cutting wood in the winter,
grass in the summer,
dishes when mom didn’t want to do them

“yeah, I think i’m ready old man. It’s time”

and with that, I took the last piece of pizza.

Thanks for the memories
By Dennis Dubay

In the soap opera that is baseball, we watch as boys become men, stars become legend and legend become myth.

Every April a new season begins. Full of hope and decadence, our teams shall dance until the end in glorious fashion.

And there to sing the praises and keep us abreast of everything that is true in the universe of nine innings is the voice of our sport. Whether our team be 50-112 or 104-58, he tells the story of Jack to Lance, from Alan to Lou.

But no more. You see, the voice would rather fade away then have his faithful brethren turn the channel.

After 64 years in the booth, 42 with the Detroit Tigers, Ernie Harwell is calling it a career. To say it’s the end of an era would be an injustice. It would be the equivalent of saying Babe Ruth was a fine hitter or that Joe Montana sure could throw a football.

Harwell is the last of a dying breed. Though the players on the field are now multi-millionares, it is men like Ernie Harwell that are priceless.

For many, Harwell is the soundtrack of many a summer. Growing up, there was no such thing as 100 channels on the television. Atleast, not where I grew up. Once in a great while we’d get that ol’ TV to pick up a Tiger game with Al Kaline and George Kell, but most of the times we’d have to listen to the game on the radio.

But don’t cry for us baseball fans. That was indeed an honor.

Sitting with my Father at the kitchen table, Dad would tell me about the “good ol’ days” of Bill Freehan, Mickey Lolich and a guy named Denny Mclain. And inbetween our conversation would be Ernie:

“And that’s two for the price of one”

And as I said before, It was an honor to listen to Ernie. Only, I didn’t realize that until I was much older. When all my hero’s started to disapear. First it was Kirk and then it was Lance and eventually Alan and Lou.

And all we’re left with now are images, painted in majestic colors thanks to Ernie.

Atleast we have the rest of the season left to enjoy. Let’s not take these last few innings for granted.

Thanks for the memories

transitor radio
with Ernie Harwell
to paint

what we couldn’t see

I remember
wanting to be Lance Parrish
he was an ox
of a man

we didn’t have disposable money
to spend
on trivial things like
dentist appointments
and
baseball bats

but we had big oak
trees
and a chainsaw
and some sand paper
at our disposal

louisville slugger,
this was not

but it did me well
for a season on the
brink

of life in another town
of life in another house
of life in a whole different world

i understand that not
everything i say or write
is acceptable to the
person reading it

but its my life
and eventually i
have to live it
right

we live in a world
with so much potential
yet we just live

we don’t really push
the gas, our foot
is always on the brake

but i’m tiring of that
with every breath i
take

and i know i’ll lose
some of you on the way
down or up or sideways,
or maybe inside out

and i realize that it
has nothing to do with
me or you

it was destiny

a higher calling

a karmasic metamorphis

a fluke

a folley

but let it be known
i’m just a vessel
from which these words
flow

my intention is not
to harm
or hurt
or anger

my only intention
is for you to
think

all i need now
is a cot
and a microwave
one of those
cool little
fridges
to put my beer away
single ply
shit
paper
and

a tv that gets 3 stations

growing up we needed
the best of the best
transformers
and voltrons
nike shoes
and pants not called
wrangler

and a tv that got 3 stations

like a sunburned
baby who
played to long
at the beach

my skin is pale
white and flaky

i’m the oldest boy
the drunk
smarter than you know
but i’ll run away

hold it in
die within
but i dont
fear writing
it down

with different
names and
different places
attached

same meaning
if it meant
anything at
all

you
never knew
me
cuz i never
let you in

you’d get lost
within
the layers
anyway

buried her on a thursday
rainy day in linwood
sisters cried and
brothers watched

didn’t know what else do
to

i’d been arguing with a friend
on the roads of
whittemore
talking bout transformers
and what i was gonna do
the rest of my days

when the bus stopped
in front of a
rusty ol’ trailer
where
a bunch of us lived

dads car was gone
but the grandparents were
home

but i knew
i knew

she died 10 days later
never really got to know
her

still miss her
whatever thats worth

mom sat in front
of an old tv
watching “Search for Tomorrow”
while dad mowed the lawn

i sat in my room,
peering out the window
at the next door
neighbor girl

long, curly blonde hair
washing her car

BANG!
BANG!
BANG!

my door exploded
and dad was yellin

“Where is the money,”

and i knew he meant business

“i don’t know”

and i got the paddle.

….

i bought her an ice cream
for the next 10 days
at school

she asked if wanted to sit
but i refrained

your a sweet boy
she said with a smile

i’d never give them
to her
but they were hers
cuz i was hers

i’d fold them up
and put them in
white
suits

store them in my
coat pockets

perhaps today
i’d give her
one
problably
not

i’d write her letters
than my grandma
than my sister
tricia

she was in prison
for being
in the wrong place
at the wrong time

but now jennifer
doesn’t talk to me
and grandma is dead
and tricia is still
bitter
for being in the wrong
place
at the wrong time

and i still have
that yellow pad