Friday, December 18, 2009

Wipeout the Poor

A spectre is haunting Old Rexhame--the spectre of WASPiness. The peasants of Old Rexhame have entered an Irish-Catholic alliance to exorcise this spectre: priests and cops, beer-swillers and pot smokers, knackers and litterbugs. This movie is the documentation of one WASP's heroic attempt to combat the lowbrow Irish-American hegemony of Marshfield, MA.

Rated R for stick figure sex

Thursday, December 17, 2009

The Best of the Worst

Perfectly small in Marshfield

New England surfers are perhaps the worst nationwide in regards to ability. We don’t get enough practice and for seven months out of twelve we wear rubber straightjackets. Yes, I said straightjackets. Insanity makes up a large part of our psyche. We enjoy pain. We welcome suffering. We expect disappointment. We are manic assholes, but there isn’t a group of surfers elsewhere who can rival our devotion, nor the undulating joys we experience while riding waves.

New England surfers wait out month-long flat spells. We deal with harsh, sub-freezing winds and tide sensitivities. We paddle out in deplorable conditions to keep our shoulders limber and for self-assurance. The majority of our sessions take place in chop, slop, and mush. When a decent swell does arrive, it seldom lasts more than a day and a half. Many of us have settled on lesser paying professions so that our schedules coincide with Mother Nature’s cruel and chaotic patterns. Lovers have left us. Family members have disowned us. We prioritize surfing over anniversaries, birthday parties, and wakes. We love surfing, but surfing does not love us back.

The same can be said for surfers from other regions in the country, but in terms of swell, the payoff for Californians, North Westerners, and fellow East Coasters is far richer than the crumbs upon which we New Englanders feed. Even the Gulf Coasters have it better than us. Think how much sweeter your life would be if the thickest wetsuit you owned was a shortie. It’s easy to be a surfer in Santa Barbara, California. It’s easy to be a surfer in Cocoa Beach. It’s easier to be a surfer in Jersey. The life of a New England surfer is arduous. It’s hopeless. We have dedicated our lives to chasing the shabbiest, unlikeliest of dreams, that in the end, all of our sacrifices will have been worth it.

So why do we do it? Why do we voluntarily slip into neoprene straightjackets? Why do we torture ourselves over some of the most inconsistent and lackluster surf on planet Earth? The cliché answer is something along the lines of surf stoke being relative or that it doesn’t matter what size or shape wave you’re riding as long as you’re having fun. This is a lie. The surf industry distributes this nonsense via magazines and movies. Consumers buy into it because the only alternative is to accept mediocrity, to accept the fact that you’re never going to surf like Kelly Slater or even a low-rated WQS pro.

Most New England surfers will never develop beyond the skills of a novice. Most New Englanders flail, hop, and stink-bug their way down the line. We are products of our environment. Our waves are ugly and therefore most of us surf ugly. We convince ourselves that this doesn’t matter. We convince ourselves that frostbite is fun. Such self-deception requires a high degree of psychosis. You’ve got to be a tad psycho to surf around here.

The French philosopher Gilles Deleuze once stated that madness is a radical break from power. This is the defining characteristic of New England surfers. We’re mad. We’re disconnected from the industrial surf complex. We don’t give a rat’s ass about who won the world tour. We don’t dress like the surfers pictured in mainstream magazines. Sure, a few of the groms are wearing their Volcom hats sideways these days, but overall we operate outside of the industry. We don’t surf because it’s trendy. We don’t surf in the limelight, and we certainly don’t surf because we’re good at it.

New Englanders surf because they covet hard work and suffering, and the greater the misery, the greater the eventual pleasure. Any masochist worth his salt knows this. The distance between our highs and lows is vast. It’s part of our Puritan history. We trudge through the cold slop knowing that it will only enhance our joy when the waves actually get good. This is not to compare the thrill we experience on a clean overhead New England pointbreak to that of Jaime O’Brien surfing perfect double-overhead Pipe. I am not committing to the utilitarian belief that joy can be measured and calculated. I am merely saying that it is the pursuit of happiness itself that makes New England surfing special. If our thrill rivals that of Joel Parkinson surfing perfect Superbank, it is only because we’ve had to climb twice the emotional distance to get there.

I recently moved home to Boston after a yearlong stay in Santa Barbara. I surfed world-class righthand pointbreaks on a regular basis. The old East Coast aphorism that surfing perfect waves all the time makes one lackadaisical is a myth, probably invented by some guy who regretted living in Massachusetts his entire life. I never lost my edge surfing Rincon on a weekly basis. I never once took it for granted. I paddled out in everything. I maintained my scrappy New England sensibility in mellow yellow California.

Eventually, I got bored, but not with the waves. I grew tired of feeling good all the time after a session. I missed my misery. I missed having to suffer for my surf stoke. Everyone in California looked, talked, and walked like a surfer. Being a surfer in California isn’t special. It’s commonplace. It’s easy in every way. It’s a completely different activity than surfing in New England. I broke from power. I left California, the golden bastion of surfing, in favor of frostbitten toes and ice cream headaches. I preferred being a miserable big fish in a small icy pond. A solid wrap around cutback at my local break instantly awards you legend status. I might never make the WQS, but in Marshfield, Massachusetts, I catch all the shitty waves that one man could ever want.

Would I rather be in California? Yes. Am I happy here? No, but there’s an upside to my dissatisfaction. Aside from being a temperamental product of New England weather and waves, I am an egomaniacal Italian. The world not only revolves around me, but its very existence is ontologically dependent upon my perceptions, or so I like to think. In the water, I am a heaving double-up of merging psychopathies. I love myself. I loathe myself. I am neurotic. I am cynical. I am brash. I am a cruel joke, but misery loves company and there are hundreds of others committed to the loony bin of New England surfing. They hoot and whistle at my above average hacks and so-so tube riding abilities. It’s my own dark little world. I can shine here. I can mope here. It’s an egoist’s Utopia, a neurotic hideaway where I can live with myself, where I can live with being best of the worst, where I never have to worry about being happy.

Awfully glad to be alone

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Birthday Surf

A few days ago, on the eve of what would have been his 38th birthday, I surfed one of Bob’s favorite waves. I almost drove past the exit. I didn’t think the waves would be worth the extra forty minutes of driving. It’s a long way down that quasi peninsula and a longer way back if you get skunked. At the last second, I decided to risk it. I had fallen prey to a few minor injustices that day. I deserved forty minutes of wasted time. I don’t have kids. My wife was still at work. I’m a writer and a surfer for Christ’s sake! I hoard time and then I squander it. Furthermore, I’ve spent forty minutes listening to my mother cry about loneliness. I’ve spent forty minutes gossiping about the latent sexual preferences of certain friends. On my most vainglorious days, I’ll spend forty minutes browsing a certain website that features older women with profound cleavages who wear glasses. Yeah, most of time I’m a total waste, period.

I had nothing to lose. Nowhere to be. I was done teaching for the day. In both of my narrative design classes, I had discussed Grace Paley’s “A Conversation with my Father.” It’s about an author who tells her dying father a final story. He wants a simple plot with recognizable characters. She can’t do it. She despises the absolute line between two points. All plots lead to death, and even worse, they take away all hope. Her father is literally taking his last breaths. She won’t look tragedy in the face. I’m a New England surfer and a scarcely published author. Hope is a four-letter word. Tragedy is my smutty bedfellow.

On the bright side, campus and waves are only one highway exit apart. How’s that for Point A to Point B? It’s a dreamy twenty-minute drive from the exit ramp to the beach. The road runs alongside a wide tidal strait. There are more stonewalls to consider than found in all of Robert Frost’s poems. Farmland and rolling fields. Hay bales and cows. It’s the kind of landscape that tricks you into thinking the world is boundless and full of hope, but I knew that the waves wouldn’t be good. The winds were northeast at 30 knots. There’s only one spot that can handle that type of wind, but the swell had too much east in it and the tide was coming up. I put on some Bill Evans and prepared myself for tragedy. I thought about Bob and how much time that son-of-a-bitch wasted making mixed tapes, surfing shitty waves, and/or drawing on seashells and rocks with magic markers. Everybody gave him grief for it, but they were all jealous. Every single goddamn one of them. In this regards, he was the bravest soul I knew.

Birthdays are egocentric and ultimately depressing. Like I said, I don’t have kids and my wife lets me surf whenever I want. Therefore, everyday is my birthday. I’m free to surf, write, and squander. The downside of this is that I am free to ponder my significance on a daily basis. It’s excruciating work. Perhaps the hardest thing a person can do. Most surfers feel rewarded when there are waves on their birthday. When there are waves on my birthday I feel like a spoiled brat. I feel like a cruel joke, which is why I look forward to Bob’s birthday. His untimely death justifies my wasting time. He’d be doing the same thing, and he had two kids, a wife, and a struggling business. He was my brother in arms. Together, he and I killed time surfing some of New England’s most pathetic waves. We dropped bombs on time. We nuked it. We kicked it in the face and stabbed it with bayonets. It was my duty to honor my fallen brother by wasting a few hours of my life on his birthday.

I pulled up to the break. There were six cars parked alongside the private road. Despite the cliché, misery does not love company. The only thing worse than surfing crappy waves is surfing crappy waves with other wastoids. I didn’t bother checking the waves before suiting up. I grabbed my fish and headed across the cow pasture towards the path leading down to the beach. The wind was blowing so hard that it nearly ripped my board from underneath my arm. I ignored the symbolism. Nothing was going to stop me from wasting time. I didn’t feel bad for myself. I didn’t feel bad for Bob. He’d lived the good life and I was following in his footsteps.

The ocean didn’t disappoint my disappointment. There were six guys and not a ripple in sight. To make matters worse, one of the guys was a stand-up paddle boarder. The wind blew so hard offshore that it sent small swells back out to sea. I didn’t wait to see a set. I paddled straight out. It was painstakingly small and inconsistent, a perfect session to commemorate Bob’s legacy of waste. I caught a few meager bumps and pulled off a few slow and flowy turns. One particular lull lasted almost ten full minutes. It was turning out to be the perfect pity party.

Then something semi-miraculous occurred. A somewhat respectable set approached. At its best, the spot is a long sweeping left with almond-shaped barrels. The approaching set was forming into a microcosmic version of that. I paddled over the first wave and spun around for the second. The stand-up paddle boarder was taking off deep, too deep. I went. The wind was howling against the wave. I picked a line and trimmed in perfect sync with the racing, chest-high lip. When the wave slowed a bit, I drew out a big bottom turn and carved a tight and powerful hook into the pocket. I repeated the process a second time. After my second turn, I plopped down to my stomach and enjoyed a long belly-ride to the beach. Further down the line, the stand-up paddle board bounced around in the foam. In the grand scheme of things, it was a fantastically mediocre ride, as good as life gets for the average person. It felt like blowing out the candles of Bob’s birthday cake.

I returned to my car and slowly changed out of my wetsuit. I stood half naked in the street letting the hostile breeze saturate my wet skin. I took a nice long piss into a rusty hydrangea. On the way home, I drove as slow as I could. I noticed each turning leave. I cherished the lichen patterns on every stone of every rock wall. I stopped and got a coffee at a place that roasts its own beans. The sights and smells. I savored it all! I wasted the rest of the day appreciating the smallest things that the physical world has to offer. I was smaller than all of it. I am too small to fail. I am too insignificant to count. I waste so much time even the dead envy me.

According to Grace Paley, the problem with writing stories is that characters start out fantastic but end up being average with a good education. Sometimes, however, it’s the opposite. A person is a dumb innocent who outwits you, and you can’t think of an ending good enough for them. There was no ending good enough for Bob, and that is far from being a tragedy. That dilly-dallying slacker outwitted all of us. He died young and avoided the fate of Point A to Point B.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

The Death of a Surfer

Bob Pollard passed away during the tranquil hours of pre-dawn on July 7, 2006. The winds were northwest at 6 knots. The tide was dead low. The local buoy was 1.1 foot at 7 seconds, flat conditions for even the most eternal of wave optimists.

Bob always carried a weather radio with him, even to the bathroom. He’d sit his bony ass on the throne and listen to the marine forecast, maybe with a dip in his mouth, maybe with a surf magazine spread across his hairy thighs. After he was finished analyzing and calculating the data delivered unto him by the automated voice of NOAA, he would then reach for the cordless phone to call every surfer he knew, and Robert Hugh Pollard was friends with damn near everyone.

His stoke was divine. In the water, Bob hooted at the local rippers. He hooted for the beginner skipping down the face drop-knee. As a surf shop owner, Bob gave away free gear, new and used. His layaway policy would extend months, sometimes years, whatever suited the customer. He never hassled the groms for camping in front of the shop television all day, replaying Campaign 2 until his DVD player exploded. He teased customers who walked into his shop wearing outfits by Hollister and Pac Sun. He didn’t make much money. He believed that shop owners should be spiritual leaders, not businessmen. He wore dreadlocks and Mohawks. He wore beads in his hair and a Jesus beard.

Like many surfers, Bob kept obsessive tallies on atmospheric and oceanic conditions. He kept track of every surf session, jotting the particulars down in his calendar. He believed that full and new moons generated swell despite the fact that science insists otherwise. Bob loved predicting swells. His friends often scoffed at his forecasts, but he was right more times than they ever gave him credit for. He was the first to identify and track those late spring swells that originate in the south Atlantic and travel the thousands of miles to the obstructed shores of Massachusetts Bay. He coined the term “Brazil swell.” His friends laughed at him then, but he was right. He was right about a lot of things, like taking time off from work to surf, or eating lots of fruits and vegetables, or being too angry at the world, or for having surfed Beadle Rock when Standish was the better option. His friends often shrugged him off, but they are listening now. He has their attention now.

Since his passing, Bob has taught his friends that life is often imperfect and illogical, but that surfing transcends such arbitrary terms by forcing us to live in a series of moments wherein Time and Reason are tangential. Surfers have the privilege of disappearing into these voids while the world devours and mocks itself. Unfortunately, non-surfers aren’t so lucky. They are often beached by the mundane realities of 9-5 careers and the demands of consumerism. In life, Bob Pollard denied those realities by riding waves. In death, he has paddled into the everlasting moment, the ultimate void. Bob Pollard has achieved perfection. The buoy report is 6 to 8 feet at 14 seconds forever. The winds are constantly light and offshore, and the tide always works in his favor. I love you Bob. Save some waves for me, and for Christ sake don’t call everyone to tell them how good it is. Let them find out for themselves.

Just in case

Saturday, October 17, 2009

When in Roman…

In a 1979 interview with British author Martin Amis, Roman Polanski made the genius observation that, “If I had killed somebody, it wouldn't have had so much appeal to the press, you see? But…fucking, you see, and the young girls. Judges want to fuck young girls. Juries want to fuck young girls. Everyone wants to fuck young girls!”

I couldn’t agree with Roman Polanski more. The modernist painter Balthus knew this to be true. Abercrombie & Fitch know this to be true. Brittany Spears’ producer Max Martin (“Hit Me Baby One More Time”) knew this to be true. Billy Cyrus knows this to be true. Whether selling denim skirts or directing a psychological thriller, the sexual objectification of pubescent girls is good for business and makes for great art. If you don’t understand and/or accept this you are a Philistine. Just ask Debra Winger.

Winger criticized Swiss officials for their “Philistine collusion” in arresting Polanski. She also said that, “This fledgling festival has been unfairly exploited, and whenever this happens, the whole art world suffers. We hope today this latest (arrest) order will be dropped. It is based on a three-decades-old case that is dead but for minor technicalities. We stand by him and await his release and his next masterpiece.”

I take exception with Winger on two fronts. First, Polanski is not a genius. He has never created a masterpiece. Second, she and Polanski both fail to understand the art museum principle, Look, don’t touch.

The genius of Balthus and Abercrombie is that they make you feel guilty for wanting to fuck young girls while somehow making it socially acceptable and profitable while you look and ponder. You’re allowed to pay admission to see the artwork. You’re allowed to buy the denim skirt or the Oops!...I Did It Again album. You can buy the merchandise, but you can’t touch the models. The sexual objectification of pubescent girls has become one of our primary aesthetics in selling art, books, films, fashion, and music. It’s illegal to have sex with a minor, but it’s legal to profit from the desire. This is a precarious construct. It’s perhaps one of the ugliest contradictions of our capitalist society. Roman Polanski, the evil genius that he is, rubs our face in this truth while Debra Winger calls us stupid. Worse, we watch while he touches—literally and cinema-graphically (Repulsion, Rosemary’s Baby, The Tragedy of Macbeth, and Alice in Wonderland).

The urge to fuck young girls exists, as Polanski not-so-eloquently points out, but the truer, more philosophical question should be why does it exist, and why do we let artists and corporations exploit it? Making Polanski pay will at least give the appearance that society actually cares about the issue. Meanwhile, Abercrombie will continue manufacturing skimpy outfits and record producers will keep inventing new pubescent sex symbols. Debra Winger will also continue to have her head up her ass, especially in regards to recognizing a masterpiece.

Debra Winger is wrong. The art world doesn’t suffer when male artists emotionally and/or physically abuse women. Just ask Miles Davis or Pablo Picasso. It doesn’t make paintings ugly. It doesn’t make songs cacophonous. Ovid and Shakespeare aestheticized rape. Jerry Lee Lewis married his thirteen year-old cousin. Great Balls of Fire! Artistic geniuses get away with it. Polanski just isn’t that important of an artist. In his defense, I’m not sure if a Guernica or Kind of Blue would provide immunity for an artist in Philistine America these days. If Roman Polanski wants to get away with raping a young girl in this country, he’d better learn how to dribble a basketball.

Americans are willing to forgive and forget rape and other forms of violence against women, but only for the true geniuses of sport and political punditry. The privilege of sexual harassment and rape are reserved for the likes of Kobe Bryant and Bill O’Reilly. As a film director, you’ve got to be a Spielberg or Lucas to get away with drugging and sodomizing a thirteen year-old. The Pianist is no Schindler’s List. Too much melodrama. Not enough action. Polanski’s movies are very good, but he’s not a genius, especially not here in the United States of Philistines. Personally, I find the rape scenes in his films and life to be gratuitous. He doesn’t even have the decency to aestheticize them. Therefore, he can be tried and convicted like the rest of us perverted dummies.

Just in case

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Only in America can a poor black boy die a rich white woman

In regards to pop culture worship, I was never of the Michael Jackson denomination. I was eight years old when Thriller came out. 1982 was the most significant year of my life, but not because of “Billie Jean” or “Beat It.” It was the year that I stopped being Catholic. I had undergone an apostasy due to the Dead Kennedys album Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables and an interest in Greek mythology.

My cousin Michael is six years older than me. As a teen, he looked like Ralph Macchio and strutted like John Travolta. I worshipped him, even when he was making me slap myself in the face with my own hand. At fourteen, Michael broke into the corner store. The register was empty so he stole six boxes of Trojans and a carton of Watermelon Hubba Bubba. The cops were waiting for him outside the joint. As punishment, Auntie Gina sent Michael to live with his father in California. The night of his flight, she had a going away party for him. While everyone hugged Michael on his way out the door, I sat on the toilet and sobbed into my palms. It was like JFK all over again. Only this time, I was actually alive when he got shot.

A year later, Michael came home with a purple Mohawk and a fistful of punk rock cassettes. The family was shocked. My aunts and uncles worshiped Sinatra, Ted Williams (if only he were Italian), and Jesus (O how the world is lucky he wasn’t Italian). My family wore the finest that Italian fashion offered working class people. They were also very proud in regards to their hair. We all had it, thick wavy locks in various shades of black and dark brown with a hairline immune to aging. By shaving his head into a Mohawk, Michael had desecrated the family curls. He had also blemished our collective persona by dressing like some sort of angry British homosexual. My uncles threatened to kick his ass all the way back to Huntington Beach. His punk rock iconoclasm only lasted a few weeks, but it was a noble stand, worthy of respect and imitation.

The entire family had dinner at my grandmother’s every Sunday. Thirty of us crammed into a small two bedroom apartment which would emit a progression of three distinct scents throughout the evening: simmering tomato sauce, cigarette smoke, and Sambuca commixing with coffee. It was Michael’s first Sunday dinner back from California. In order to evade the hostility of our uncles and older cousins, he hung out with me in the spare bedroom, formerly occupied by Uncle Paul, whose Swank magazines were still stashed in the closet. Michael and I sat on the bed looking at close-ups of glossy clitorises. I had never seen anything like it. Always an enthusiastic tutor, Michael explained to me the function and scent of a clitoris. He had also taught me how to pick my nose and how to reverse a figure four leglock. A year later, while snooping through my mother’s nightstand together, he would provide me with a graphic explanation of how her vibrator worked.

In the spare bedroom, I was deeply appreciative of his lesson on the clitoris. I was still somewhat intimidated by his new Ralph Macchio meets Mad Max look, but I wanted to prove to Michael that I was worthy of his venerable guidance. I went into the other room to retrieve my boombox. It was a recent birthday gift. He seemed mildly impressed with it, but not enough to steal his attention away from the Swank. I hit play hoping to impress him with my musical taste. Michael finally dropped the magazine, but only to whack me upside the head. He called me a faggot for liking Smoky Robinson. It was my mother’s influence. I was a mama’s boy. I liked whatever she liked, which was Motown and The Rolling Stones. Michael ejected the cassette and crushed it underneath one of his Doc Martens. He said I could still listen to The Stones, but not Motown. He wrenched my nipple and then knocked my forehead against the wall while holding me in a full nelson. He didn’t stop until I swore on the Holy Bible to stop listening to Motown music.

Michael told me to buy an album entitled Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables by the Dead Kennedys. As a Massachusetts Catholic there couldn’t have been a more disturbing name for a band. Everyone in my family adored the Kennedys, which was miraculous given how much they despised Irish people. My mother would never subsidize the purchase of such blasphemy so I double-charged a few paper route customers and bought it myself. Songs such as “Kill the Poor” and “Let’s Lynch the Landlord” rocked my working class soul. Listening to “Your Emotions” ignited a lifelong love affair with my own neurosis.
Your mommy told you this
And your daddy told you that.
Always think like this
And never do that.
You learned so many feelings
But what is there to that?
Which are really yours?
Or are you just a copycat?

Your school told you this
And your church told you that.
Memorize this
And don't you dare look at that.

The Dead Kennedys were sublimely blue collar. Their songs were angry and sarcastic. As far as I could tell, they sang directly to the working man’s plight. In what ways had Frank Sinatra ever spoke to my family’s being? In my opinion, never. What did “Summer Wind” have to do with my father’s occupation of mixing mortar and throwing bricks? Nothing. What had Elvis or Jesus ever done for anyone in my family? Not a thing. Fuck them all. That was my new attitude. I realized how spoiled I had been in wanting Castle Grayskull and a new pair of canvas Nikes. I deserved Michael’s open-hand smack. I was a copycat. I was a hypersensitive mama’s boy. There were a slew of fascist forces profiting from my neurotic desire to be accepted. Jesus, Sinatra, and Mattel, would be the first colonizers that I ousted from my heartland.

I was also reading a kid’s edition of Homer’s The Odyssey at the time. I preferred the Greek gods to the Holy Trinity. They reminded me of my family members, moody and volatile, prone to drinking and violence.

A few family dinners later, I announced my disdain for Catholicism after grace. I recited the lyrics to “Your Emotions” hoping to win them over. My father smirked. My grandmother gasped. My mother smacked me in the mouth. My uncles wanted to know why I couldn’t be like other kids my age. They wanted to know what had gotten into me. Where was I getting these crazy ideas? What radio station was playing such vulgar music? I looked to my cousin Michael. He stared down at his plate of ziti. His Mohawk had been shaved. He was wearing a turquoise Izod with the collar popped. They had gotten to him. I was last man standing. I wanted to save my family while they were still worth saving. The Reagan years had commenced. More and more working class stiffs were voting republican. Once that happened, I wouldn’t have saved them if I could.

I asked what music they deemed acceptable for an eight year old. Michael Jackson was the unanimous choice. Their answer confused me. My family was never particularly fond of black people or homosexuals. In 1982, not many, if any, suspected Michael of sexual perversion, nor did they speculate on the color of his dick. That said, his overall style and manner of dance was flamboyant, if not flagrantly effeminate. But what could I say? For the first time, my family wasn’t being racist or homophobic. They were slightly put off by Michael’s multi-zippered pants and Jheri curls, but that’s what the mainstream record companies were selling and that’s what good little American boys and girls were expected to like. Sure Michael tugged on his wiener a hundred times in a three minute video clip, but Elvis had done the same thing on The Milton Berle Show. In their eyes, Michael Jackson was still that cute little boy who sang “ABC.” In my eyes, he was all pomp and show, a freaky form of entertainment that required zero thought or participation from the viewer.

I argued that Jello Biafra of the Dead Kennedys had more smarts and talent than Michael Jackson. My family scoffed. They resorted to the fact that nobody had ever heard of Jello Biafra and that Michael Jackson was a famous millionaire. I didn’t have an answer for that. I hadn’t fully developed my argument. I remembered The Odyssey and switched topics, alluding to the Greek gods as proof of there being more than one religion.

“Greek?” my Uncle Sal jeered. “You’re talking about Greeks? They like having sex with little boys.”

It was news to me. I had no response. I wasn’t smart enough to defend my theories. I finished my ziti and meatballs in quiet defeat. Later, my cousin Michael and Tommy beat the shit out of me in the spare bedroom for having hurt our grandmother’s feelings. My mother cheered them on from the dining room as I pleaded for help.

Had I still been Catholic in 1982, I would have certainly idolized Michael Jackson. In a pop cultural, capitalistic society, religion prepares you to worship pop idols later in life. From Hail Mary to “Like a Virgin,” from Jesus to Cap’n Crunch. Had my cousin Michael not introduced me to punk rock my fondness for Motown would have continued its natural progression towards the later music of Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie. Instead, I developed the good sense of hating mainstream entertainment and the various members of my extended family. My apostasy did not solely pertain to the Christian god and his bearded son. It included corporate mascots and quarterbacks. I renounced Indiana Jones and my Uncle Sal. By the time the MTV Thriller video came out, I was convinced that Michael Jackson was nothing more than capitalist propaganda. That video was the beginning of the end for my peers. It was Cyndi Lauper and Prince next. Followed by The Dukes of Hazzard and Knight Rider. Atari and Nintendo. Camaros and Mustangs. Generation X has proved to be the most materialistic generation in American history, which is sort of like being the biggest loser on The Biggest Loser.

Being an iconoclast in capitalist America is next to impossible, especially when you’re eight years old and Toys “R” Us is punching you in the face every Saturday morning with commercials advertising the new Star Wars figure or He-Man doll. My first bout of punk rock Marxism only lasted a year, which was eleven months and two weeks longer than my cousin Michael’s. It was Huey Lewis and the News that got me to flip. Huey had a head of hair I could respect. My mom liked him too. She took me to the hairdresser and had them cut my hair like Huey’s. My mom really flipped when she read in TV Guide that she and Huey shared the same zodiac sign of Cancer. I was back to wearing her fashions and listening to her music. I also returned to CCD, which in my defense was as much an economic decision as it was political. My cousin Michael had made a thousand dollars at his confirmation. I wanted a Redline BMX. Believing in Jesus was the quickest means to that end. Capitalism kicked my ass until I rediscovered punk rock and Karl Marx in 1988.

When Michael Jackson died, my cousin Michael was the first to email me the jokes. Some of them were racist and homophobic. Almost all of them made light of pedophilia. As the family killjoy, it was my place to belittle and chastise him along with any other family member taking part. They see me as some snobby college professor who writes so-called “literary” fiction. I don’t like letting them down. Most of them voted for McCain. They would have voted for Tom Brady had he ran. As an elitist dickhead, it is my opinion that they deserve my disdain. My retort to Michael’s email caused an enormous email war. Michael and my Uncle Sal threatened to kick my ass. My cousin Paul photoshopped my head onto Michael Jackson’s body. I was banned from family dinners. I haven’t spoken to them since. Perhaps I was a bit hard on Michael. Perhaps I never forgave him for abandoning his punk rock convictions so quickly. Perhaps I should have thanked him. As a result of his venerable guidance, I am a free-thinking intellectual and extremely handy when it comes to clitorises.

But really, I have no regrets. It’s not easy being the family iconoclast. Its harder being an aspiring literary author. I love art and literature more than I love my family. I love art and literature more than I love myself, which was why I paid no attention when Michael Jackson died. One dead pop star makes potential room for an obscure literary author. This year, best-selling authors Frank McCourt and John Updike passed away. They both received an insulting amount of national coverage and retrospection. What news and retrospection will the deaths of literary giants Don DeLillo or Thomas Pynchon make? There is a chance that neither Brian Williams nor Charles Gibson will make mention of either. I blame the pop culture junkies. I blame members of my family. I blame Jehovah, his bearded son, and the Blessed Mother for leading us into idolatry. We feel ashamed when we lack the talent and supremacy of a Bobby Orr or Jesus Christ, and once you feel shame, it’s that much easier for them to slap you in the face with your own hand.