Papa was a headbanger. No, I didn’t call my father Papa, but when I wrote “Dad was a headbanger,” the Temptations song Papa was a Rolling Stone popped into my head. I needed to change what I wrote. Of course, Suzy is a Headbanger by the Ramones could have just as easily sprung up in my brain. Then I would have had to write “Jerry is a Headbanger.” Sheesh, it’s hard to get started on this story. Regardless, Papa, Dad, Jerry, he was a headbanger. And by headbanger, I don’t mean a metalhead with goth tattoos and long greasy locks he tossed in time with Sabbath or Metallica or Napalm Death, I mean he banged his head on shit. All the time.

From my earliest memories, I knew my father was accident prone. To gross out my brothers and me in our first decade of our life, he frequently popped out his bridge revealing a gap where his four front teeth belonged. He lost them playing hockey in high school just a few years after he grew them. During intimate moments like evening story time on the couch, he would jag his eyes to the side to show off a train track of red stitch marks where his smashed eyeglasses sliced his eyeball during a squash match. And who could possibly forget the great Cann taboggan incident of 1969? My father broke his wrist, and my brother David sprained his ankle. Other stories abound: the time he locked his thumb in the car door; the time he peeled the skin off his calf and shin like a banana; the time molten lead splattered his face; I could go on.

Comparatively, his headbanging was pretty tame. In fact he never even seemed to notice. Walking down the basement stairs, he would smack his head on the low hanging ceiling at the bottom of the stairs. He wouldn’t react; he’d just keep walking. Installing a sump pump, he whacked his head against the cinder block wall while wresting with a bolt. Cabinet doors, kitchen counters, getting out of the car, the dude just bumped his head. Like Les Nessman on WKRP in Cincinnati, he frequently wore a Band-Aid on his forehead.

I’m the headbanger now, and an arm-banger and a knee-banger, etc. I attribute most of this to poor vision. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch in the evening reading books, Susan will sometimes stretch out her hand, fingers waving, looking for a touch, a squeeze, an acknowledgement of our closeness. After fifteen seconds, incredulous, she’ll blurt out “Can’t you see my hand?” The answer is no, my peripheral vision sucks. Outside of the clear tunnel before me created by my eyeglasses, the world is a mystery. If I don’t already know the open cabinet door is eight inches from the side of my head, I’m almost guaranteed to smack my temple on it.

Like my father, I don’t notice these bumps and bangs. Several nights ago, I crept through my almost pitch-black bedroom to grab something from my closet. When I flipped on the light, I noticed a blotch on my arm, a bleed below the skin with two tiny, bloody pricks in the middle. It hurt like it just happened, but I had no recollection of any sort of incident. Did I walk into a wall? A piece of furniture? Did a vampire bat swoop down out of the dark and nip me? Did I bang into something on the way to my bedroom? I find it disconcerting that I don’t remember.

My blotch has been with me all week. Something to look at and ponder as it faded away. For a while I saw a demon’s face, but by the time I took the above photo, it morphed into a buffalo. Did my father get to a point where he looked at his scabs and bruises and wonder where they came from. I’m certain he did. Maybe we all do. My theory is we get used to physical pain. The older we get the less we feel. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism to deal with creaky bodies. Or, with a litany of age-related health issues, maybe those minor cuts and bruises are just the least of our problems.

~

A few years ago, Bruce at the Vinyl Connection wrote about Papa was a Rolling Stone, a song I hadn’t heard in years. I listened to it as I walked to work that morning. Later in the day, I commented on Bruce’s post that listening to it was like a religious experience. I’ve probably played it a hundred times since then, no small feat since the song is twelve minutes long.

Suzy is a Headbanger, from my favorite Ramones album, is NOT a religious experience, but it sure is fun. Have a listen.