I once lived in Alaska with George H, the dog of dogs. Vietnam vet, Agent Orange victim… real salt-of-the-earth American. George was from Gary, Indiana, America’s Chernobyl. He pissed bullets. If he came across some yuppie nancying about in a fashionable Navy pea coat, he’d always be sure to ask them where and when they had served.
Once, after a protracted court battle with Hank the Texas Cowboy, one of his former tenants, the judge asked George if he had any comments. He replied: “I won the bet!” When the judge asked him what he was talking about, he politely informed her: “I bet my buddy Gab five bucks that I’d mop the floor with this clown.” The judge found him in contempt.
Another tenant, Timmy-boy, a drunk and deadbeat dad, defaulted on 3 months of rent. George rented a U-Haul, loaded it with all of Timmy-boy’s belongings, then tossed 3 frozen salmon in the middle of the pile. It was the height of summer.
Among George’s exploits:
- He got kicked out of the mall in Juneau one time after calling the security guard “Shaft,” then went back an hour later with a fake moustache and glasses on.
- Once, he caught a hippie painting a peace sign on the ground at the ferry terminal. An hour later, George returned with some paint of his own and wrote “through superior firepower” underneath it.
- He got banned from his son’s school after scuffling over the removal of an American flag, then spent the next few months calling out the school, teachers, and, finally, fellow parents in the local newspaper.
When I lived with him, George and I would listen to Bruce Springsteen quite often, and George would always refer to him as “the Boss of Rock n’ Roll.”
Depending on your political tendencies, you may or may not agree with the fact that Springsteen writes songs about (and for) guys like George, but he does.
Here is the “Boss of Rock n’ Roll” covering Suicide: