For my buddy, Bryan's 50th, him and his wife flipped the bill for a suite at Busch Stadium. It was going to be just like the old days.
Back in the 1900's, we owned that city. That was the feeling, at least. Drinking everything within a 3-mile radius, taking over our hotel like we were an 80s rock band playing the city, then moving on to the next. Fearless and bulletproof. And last weekend we were. All you can eat and all you can drink...all inclusive. Who is that that keeps yelling at the top of their lungs that the Cardinals players suck?? Sorry, that's me. Someone has to tell them. An afternoon of gluttony and rabble rousing. Only difference is that it's 25 years later. But we're smarter now...instead of spending $500 at the bar, we set up our own bars inside our rooms. Fucking brilliant, right? Most of the gang is there. Amazing that we've lasted 95% of our lifetimes together. This 50th was representative of at least five of us. Don't remember going to bed that night, but I'm sure I had a great time, laughing like pirates, up until then. Then we got the call at 10am...from my 9yr old daughter...who was calling from a neighbor's phone...a neighbor of my sister-in-law and brother-in-law who were watching the kids. Her uncle had a seizure. A bad one. Obviously, this ensued a Sunday of pure chaos. CPR, screaming, crying, emergency vehicles, friends and neighbors leaping into action as April and I tried to fly back asafp. Fast forward to right now. He is alive and stable. But there are so many questions that we are waiting to be answered that will affect the upcoming minutes, hours, days, years. One second you are making pancakes for your niece and nephew on a Sunday...the next second you're on the ground seizing and unable to breathe or function in any way. It very well could've been...maybe should've been one of us playing rock star in St. Louis. But it was the guy watching the littles, who doesn't drink, who is healthy, who was in his jammies. Regardless though, it happened. On a dime. So you don't know. You never know. In a 2 1/2 day whirlwind, I've reached out at some point to everyone I was with in StL, and my Denver tribe. I love them all. I love you all. Because it's just too short and anything can happen at any moment. So love.
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Now, I don't write things like this unless someone's died. So if he croaks before his shindig, sorry, that's probably on me.
As I sit here, 50 damn years old, with my glass of whiskey and Merle Haggard playing, I can't help but reflect on how Aunt Jerry shaped various aspects of this life I'm living. For starters...About 5 minutes ago I just got done booking a mountain cabin for me and the family for a well deserved retreat. That's all Jerry. Fishing trips, man-trips, outdoor escapes, those were from him. Well, mainly the Hill boys, but that "Okay, fine" had to go through Jerry. I'm sure the conversations between Larry & Randy and Jerry were quick and to the point-- "Can he fish?" "Yeah, he can fish." "Is he annoying?" "Well, yeah. He's a teenage boy and he's related to me." "Okay. As long as he can fish." Can't remember the first trip I joined them on. Had to be Stockton State Park. But apparently I didn't f-up too bad, because I was invited back. Those trips were all fishing. Get on the lake before light. If the weather's bad, put a jacket on. If they aren't biting, you're going to owe someone a dollar. Load up after the sun sets, head to the cabin, get a bowl of food, go to bed. Rinse and repeat. Those guys treated me as an equal. Lots of bullshitting and laughing. Lots of fishing stories, each one funnier the more you told it. The one trip that still kind of shocks me that we took was on the Mississippi. It was me and Jerry, dad and grandpa. We took Jerry's boat over to a muddy shoal on the Illinois side and set up camp. Yeah, camp. I remember we had an old canvas tent with about 87 different pole parts to put together. Really warm and breezy out. I sloshed around in the mud, up to my knees, catching moderately-sized channel catfish off the sandy-muddy shoal that was now our home. Like usual, I'm pretty sure I left all the work of setting up camp for the grownups while I traipsed around in the slimy mud and over piles of driftwood, all over that river bank. Grandpa sat in one place. And I'm sure outfished me. Towards dusk, I remember we dug a pit and started a fire. We placed a grill over the sunken coals and laid some bratwursts on top for our supper. The reasoning for the pit, I'm assuming now, 40yrs later, was because it was windy out and would be easier and safer to have a fire. But that pit didn't stop the wind from blowing a solid blanket of sand all over our dinner. Gritty, nasty, Mississippi River mud-tasting bratwursts for supper it was. We all laughed at how shitty they were. We all put extra mustard on them to drown the grit. They were terrible, and were a bit of a metaphor for how the whole trip had gone and was going to go. I think I had two. I started writing for myself around 1987, I suppose in a journal-type sort of way. Mainly bitching about school and girls, celebrating triumphs, and questioning everything. I've kept most everything over the years, with a couple exceptions of shit I'd just like to forget. My writings more or less morphed into blogs over the past 10-15 years, with the more personal entries not being published. It's all therapy. And Jesus, I guess I've got a half-dozen or so blogs floating around out there. Earl's Brain was one I used for quite a while, kind of like this one--just writing about whatever. Earl's Blogazine was a fun project, incorporating interviews, happy hours, and magazine-type entries on artists, musicians, and the like. I'll have to do some digging to unearth the other blogs--they gotta be out there somewhere.
In my early days of writing, during my formidable years, I wrote on notebook paper with a pencil. Fucking weird. One thing I did on a semi-regular basis was create Top 5 Lists. This was way before "High Fidelity", so it may have stemmed from Letterman, or I may have just started doing because why fucking not? My Lists ranged anywhere from Top 5 Artists to Top 5 Cars to Top 5 Best Friends. More times than not, my Lists would turn out pretty similar from year to year. You can definitely tell when I got into punk, or when a new album came out, or if I was engulfed with hormones or angst. But they were fairly steady. Looking back now, not a ton has changed. There were a few surprises, but not many. Here're a few Lists from a while back, with a little current-day commentary... 1989 Top 5 Favorite Pastimes: 1) Drawing 2) Fishing 3) Partying 4) Jammin' 5) Skating Now, I'm not positive what Jammin' means, as I don't think I had started playing instruments in a garage at this point. Maybe it meant listening to very loud music with my buddy Kevin. Hope so. Top 5 Favorite Guitarists: 1) Eddie Van Halen 2) Eric Clapton 3) Angus Young 4) Steve Vai 5) Ted Nugent Ok, Eddie and Angus definitely track. Vai must've been on there because he was Dave Roth's guitarist, and Dave rules. We used to listen to Clapton's Time Pieces in high school, so maybe that's why he's on there. Or maybe I just wanted to sound like I knew what I was talking about. Nugent? Ouch. What a terrible human...but you gotta admit that "Wang Dang Sweet Poontang" is a banger (no pun intended). Top 5 Favorite Singers: 1) David Lee Roth 2) Sid Vicious 3) David Coverdale 4) Don Dokken 5) Brian Johnson +1 Elvis Presley Once again, Roth and Johnson track. VH and AC/DC will always be at the top, although 50yr old me prefers Bon. Sid Vicious? He was a bass player, brotha. Unless you count his beautiful vocal renditions of "My Way" and "Something Else" on the Sex Pistols' Great Rock & Roll Swindle. Just terrible. Bonus points for throwing Elvis in there last minute. Coverdale and Dokken? Fuck yeah, man. Top 5 Career Choices: 1) Artist 2) Musician 3) Canned Food Beach Bum 4) Movie Guy 5) Strike Oil & Not Work There's a lot to unpack here. I actually went to college with psuedo-ambitions to become an artist. In my 15yr old brain, I'm sure "artist" meant comic book illustrator. Guys like DaVinci don't really bring home the bacon these days. "Musician" was written before I realized I sucked at music. Definitely didn't get that gene from dad. Living on the beach eating Chef Boyardee actually greatly appealed to me at a young, impressionable age. No fucking idea what Movie Guy means. Number 5 makes the most sense, although I don't dig as much as I probably should. 1990 Top 5 Things I'm Really Sick Of: 1) Stupid People 2) Girls' Attitudes 3) Being Confused 4) Real Life 5) Everything-Nothing? The list could go on forever. Nailed it. What Am I Gonna Do With My Life? 1) Cartoonist - Yea, Right/Art 2) Musician - God, I wish 3) Surfer - Get Real!/Skater - I suck! 4) Bum - Probably 5) Serve in WWIII & get killed by poisonous gas before I'm ready to have a real life - WOULDN'T DOUBT IT! I had some major aspirations when I was 16. No surprises, though. I'm now 50 and still trying to answer this question. But it's funny, because "What you're gonna do with your life" automatically goes to profession. It shouldn't. It should automatically go to adventure and love and living and fun and experiences and kicking ass. Not what you do to pay the bills. 2024 Top 5 Favorite Guitarists: 1) Eddie Van Halen 2) Angus Young 3) Zakk Wyldd 4) Django Reinhardt 5) Joe Pass Fuck Eric Clapton. My three favorite rock guitarists are listed, as well as my two favorite jazz guitarists. I listen to all five fairly equally. Top 5 Favorite Singers: 1) Dave Roth (1978-1986) 2) Bon Scott 3) Lemmy Kilmister 4) Ozzy Osbourne 5) Joey Ramone I mean, this list could've been written 35 years ago. I hadn't quite gotten into Motorhead or Sabbath/Ozzy until a couple years later. These five voices compile the soundtrack to my entire life. Listening to them as I write this. And since it's my fucking list, I can cut Dave off after Eat Em and Smile. Rock & roll's fun. Top 5 Career Choices: 1) Educator 2) Cook 3) Writer 4) Fisherman 5) Dad/Husband Nailed it. "The older I get, the more I realize we have very limited time here and you don't have to blindly follow along with other people's bullshit. So much of life is other people telling you what to think and do but it requires your buy-in. You don't have to do that. Have a good Monday."
This quote succinctly greeted me this morning, shortly after I woke up, 50 years old. 50 sounds old. It feels old. It's a lot different than 30 or 40. It means that not only are you old, but everyone else is old, as well. I'm really no different than I was a few weeks or a few months ago. I've basically been 50 for a couple years now, at least in my head, preparing for the day when I, Bowie, Elvis, and Bruce Sutter all gain one more year of immortality. I had today off, which was nice. Had a pretty average morning--a couple-three cups of coffee, checked the phone, played Wordle, listened to "Powerage", and prepared mentally and physically for my oldest day yet. Then had a cupcake and danced with the kids to "Candles on the Cake". Got a couple more gifts, which is pretty special when you're an old man. One being a sans children trip to New Orleans with my wife. We celebrated the bday Saturday night with friends and whisk(e)y, so today was to be chill. And it has been. But although I've been mentally prepping for this day for quite a while now, I've been enveloped with a sense of wisdom. And It's quite possibly stemmed from this glorious quote that I typed out to start this blog post. Scroll up and read it again. I've lived 50 years. Fuck you. That's what I get from the quote. That's wisdom. From a young age--as far back as I can remember--I've struggled with people telling me what to do and how to think, to my detriment even. When you're young, though, you need that shit to a point--some guidance. I struggled with religion and politics, and which way I'm supposed to lean and what I believe in and if I don't all hell will break loose, literalIy in some respects. I've had two million jobs and I've struggled with every single one of them (until recently), dealing mentally with someone else telling me what to do and how to do it, seeing as how working a job takes up roughly 76% of your existence. And one thing that I've learned over the decades in dealing with the mental anguish of coexisting with humans...is that people are fucking idiots. Everyone thinks they know. The highly religious types that I grew up around in the Bible Belt of Southwest Missouri all know. They know that Assembly of God is the way to go...or you have to be Baptist or you're going to hell...or Lutheran or Catholic is what God wants from you. Faith and belief are good, I'm not taking that away. But the unfun part of growing up with all that is the constant judging. If you want to be religious, by all means do so. Faith is powerful. But don't look down on folks that don't see eye to eye with you spiritually. That happened quite a bit growing up, especially with parents, which is unfortunate. The one thing that I'm 100% certain of and comfortable with...I don't know. Nobody does. So please don't act like you do. We don't have a ton more time here to try and figure things out--life flies by, man. And let's face it, figuring things out just ain't going to happen. People have been trying to figure out why we're here, what our purpose is, what we need to do to partake in an afterlife, what the rules are, and how to coexist with one another for a pretty fucking long time now. I don't think it's meant for us to know. And I know I'm not going to listen to another person tell me what the answers are. "Buy in." You have to buy in to the culture. You have to buy in to the product. Buy in to the party. If you buy into this way of thinking, then you'll be more successful and secure. Please, buy in to this way of life, these precise rules, and this group of people, and all will be well. I'm not buying what you're selling. If I'm lucky, I've got another 20-30 years left in me. I'm at least a decade over the hill. So why bother with nonsense? Don't make no sense, man. For the next 20-30 years, I plan on mixing together a comfortable balance of laughter, adventure, libation, fresh air, music, gratefulness, growth, love, and kicking ass. That's what I'm buying into. And you can't tell me not to. I'm Matt Todd. (above quote borrowed from Ricky Cobb, aka "Super 70s Sports" on Xwitter) . I just wrote a lengthy blurb on why New Year's Eve sucks so bad. And it does. But upon rereading the blurb, it came across pretty self-absorbed, so I deleted it. It had to do with resolutions and how you must be weak and fragile to initiate life-altering change on January 1st just because you hung up your new 2024 Garfield calendar.
It touched upon how I, Matt Todd, must be superior to you because I don't focus on drastic change and shallow hope when a new year begins. But while showering during a break from contemplating and typing, I thought to myself something different. As much as I'd like to admit that I am focussed on maintaining my current lifestyle and frame of mind, as opposed to immediate change, I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about what I'd do differently this year. Maybe it's all the television and social media hype centering around New Year's resolutions and the like, being shoved down your throat like cheap champagne in a matter of hours. Maybe it's because my birthday is only a week after the year changes, and that doubles my thoughts of what to do better. Goals aren't a bad thing. And I think we all need to start looking at "resolutions" as just "goals". And they don't need to fucking start on January 1st. If you need this arbitrary date to give you a kick in the ass, then so be it. But goals should be strived for year round, into the next, growing and changing. Goals should not be "one and done", meaning that they should evolve into a more precise goal, or have different steps or tiers. Let's start with the obvious "Exercise More/Eat Better/Lose Weight" combo platter that every schmuck in the universe thinks about on this day. Let's say that I decide suddenly that I'm going to hit the gym every day and lose 20lbs and be in excellent shape at age 50. Nothing wrong with that, and who knows, I might. If I feel like it. But what happens after you lose that 20lbs? Do you go say "mission accomplished" go back to your old habits, regain everything, and recycle the same "resolution" the next year? No, man. If you want to lose weight, lose it. That's your goal. Then set another like-minded one. Like hiking a 14er or running a half marathon. Then, perhaps, start incorporating these tendencies and habits into your everyday lifestyle. Learn to cook. Learn to cook well. Learn to cook healthy, real foods. Or you know, something along those lines. A calendar shouldn't tell you how and when to start doing these things. Just fucking do them. That's super easy for me to say. But I also understand that it's easy to get caught up in the everyday complacentness and a wake-up call on December 31 might come in handy. We all want to be better. Even me, Matt Todd, who is comfortable with maintaining the status quo. But what if the status quo can be even better than it is now? Wow, that's something I might be interested in listening to. Things are awesome now. But you're telling me that they can potentially be even awesomer? Awesomer always gets me jazzed. I currently have a goal. And it's not to lose weight. It's to procure some land in the Rocky Mountains. I didn't make that goal on December 31, 2022, I made it on some random Tuesday over the summer when I realized that is what I want for myself, my family, and my friends. That goal will stay steady until achieved. Then that goal will morph into solidifying some sort of shelter on that land, be it a camper, bunk house, or yurt. When that's settled, then I'm sure the focus will be more long term, as in a cabin with an actual foundation. This goal of mine has different tiers, and I'm approaching it as such. No cart before the horse. And I'm trying my hardest to be realistic about things, because "goals" and "dreams" aren't always the same thing. I've got another goal, and it's to barbecue more. Again, I didn't create this resolution while watching Ryan Seacrest host a Rockin' New Year full of terrible music and bullshit. I thought about it while concentrating on my new career in Education. I purposely scaled back barbecuing so I could focus on teaching kids how to read. Now that I feel comfortable in that, I would like to start mixing in more barbecue, like we did three or four years ago. So I'm going to, and it has nothing to do with NYE. Or does it? (I probably wouldn't be writing this if it weren't December 31...) So yes, things are good. Can't complain. But if I get closer to, or actually achieve one of my goals, then things would be better. Awesomer > Awesome. This is stupid, and I'm a bit embarrassed to share, but I kind of look at life as one of those "curvy roads ahead" road signs. And you can look at each year this way, too. There are always going to be some twists and turns, but eventually you straighten back out. Yeah, that's dumb, but I like visuals. I dig my life. But I also don't want to be complacent. I want to fine-tune it and tweak it so it can be a little better and a little better. When you do that, you're going succeed and you're going to fail. And I hesitate to call it a fail when you're in the middle of doing something that requires trial and error, because that term seems to discount the fact that you are learning something paramount in the process. Starting to dig a little too deep here. But you get my drift. Moral of the story: Goals, not resolutions. Create them year round, not just on NYE (although NYE is a reasonable time to be reminded to do so). Maintain. No drastic, unrealistic crap. Stay within your wheelhouse and keep on truckin'. And remember, New Year's Eve sucks. I'm out in the sunroom again. It's really my only refuge from my family, whom I adore, but also whom I need a reprieve from at least one time per day. It's got to be 50 degrees out here, but I'm desperate. I should probably pour a small whisk.
Better. Continuing... What's more important than where I went and when I went there, is surely what happened mentally. After all, that's the main purpose of these types of journeys. Well, that and catching a shitload of trout. And oddly, I remember my mental state much, much better than my physical. Physically, I filled up with gas, grabbed some variety of food, and turned west. The instant my four wheels hit 306, it was the farthest west I had ever been, by Colorado standards. It was literally uncharted territory for me. I remember having a couple Colorado Fly Fishing books next to the atlas riding shotgun, as this was well before having everything at a phone's tap, even with probable shoddy service. I knew the Taylor River was worth the drive. And I knew Cottonwood Pass was worth crossing. Mentally, it was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. There was a timidness and anxiousness, as I had never explored a place of this magnitude, especially alone. But those feelings would quickly morph into confidence and comfortability with each passing discovery. I recall the weather being of some concern, not having a smart phone, computer, or TV handy. Rocky Mountain Octobers differ from Ozark Mountain Octobers considerably, and the former range can be much harsher than the latter range. I saved plenty of the deep thoughts for windshield time, being that was a big part of this escapade and a time when I tend to chat out loud to myself. I went into every road, river, mountain, and city with blind faith and excitement. Excitement for what was around the next bend and for what might happen in a week or two or three. My soundtrack for this adventure as a whole was spearheaded by the Allman Brothers, specifically "Ain't Wastin' Time No More", which I found fitting. It's the perfect song for what I was doing. Still fuels a sense of adventure, or at least a calm mood while staring at the mountains, which thankfully now reside in my backyard. 93.7 FM, "The River Rat" out of Salida accompanied me throughout the trip as well, and welcomed me to the mountains. It's what the locals listen to, man. Think deep, classic rock cuts from the likes of Little Feat, New Riders of the Purple Sage, and Creedence. On my way up the hill, I stopped a handful of times to take pics of a couple elk, which I'm not sure if I'd seen in Colorado up until this point. Pics of the winding road that somehow complemented the landscape, and the Pass itself, which was the probably the highest I'd been ever been on the ground, according to altitude. My musical choice went from earthy classic rock to punk quickly as I found a fabulous single track that needed me on it. I'm not a serious mountain biker, never was. But riding this easy little nondescript downhill, winding back and forth ever so slightly, then huffing back up the gravel road to the truck gave me life. The Taylor Res on one side of me, Mount Yale on the other. Zero other people in sight. Shit, man. Time for a tailgate and some jerky. I spent the remainder of the day exploring the Reservoir and River, catching some decent fish, but nothing massive like the big girls that lurk below the dam. At one point, I realized where I was, and needed to take an appreciation break. I have to force myself to do these, 'cause I'm a fucking robot when I'm fishing. More so back in those days than now, but the breaks are still needed. If memory serves, I had just caught my biggest, which was maybe an 18" brown, maybe. Satisfaction engulfed me, so I unbuckled my waders, laid my rod and pack on the grassy bank in front of that beautiful riffle holding that beautiful trout, plopped on my back with my hands behind my head and stared at the lodgepole pines and blue sky. Appreciation. Thanking whomever for what's happening, where you're at, what's in front of you, what's in your head, and why you're smiling. I was in a valley In the middle of the Rocky Mountains next to a river in October. This wasn't a mild Midwestern evening approaching. I could feel the chill starting to take lead over the sun, and it was 110% time for a campfire and warm clothes. Luckily, I had passed a tiny campground on the opposite side of the road from the river earlier in the day. Looked perfect. And it was. It was actually serendipity, as I discovered soon after, that the state-owned campgrounds closed October 1st in Colorado (back then, at least). That would certainly add a wrinkle or two to my voyage. But I'm pretty good at making lemonade, so let's drink up. The fire served its purpose well, giving me much needed warmth and a means to boil water for dehydrated chili mac. Maybe not the best choice, seeing as how this tiny campground was sans toilet, but it all worked out in the end. It was a chilly first night in the bed of the truck, but my down jacket had fully dried from my sweat-fest the day prior. So that, plus most of the clothes I packed, layered over me and being inside my down sleeping bag worked out pretty well. I tend to get a lot better night's sleep when I'm inside a truck or camper, as opposed to a tent. Peace of mind from the elements and critters that always seem to be somewhat of a pest. I've had bears and porcupines fuck with me at night before, and I've been flooded out and woken up with 6 inches of snow on my vestibule. So truck was a solid call. For the next day, I dicked around that same area, exploring and fishing and riding my bike. I spent one more night at tiny campground, with no other campers in sight. Now, in hindsight, I'm not sure if this campground was closed or not. Later in my trip--starting the next day on the Blue River, is when I discovered that all the campgrounds shut down. Maybe tiny campground was an exception? Who knows. Who cares. It was perfect. After another chilly night, but one that was more comfortable due to a bit of familiarity, I headed out. Oddly, my guidebooks did not take me further west to Almont and Gunnison--rookie mistake. I instead backtracked to BV, through Leadville, and spilled out onto I-70 en route to Silverthorne and the Blue River. ....tbc I believe I got a little rest in the truck, if memory serves. But between the anxious energy, the sore body, and the racing mind, it wasn't quality rest. Sub-par, at best I'd say.
But as the sun came up over the Collegiate Peaks, turning everything pink and shiny, thoughts started coming into focus. And that main focus was, "Dude, you're sitting alongside the Upper Arkansas River on private water. You know this water. You don't have any clients today." So I fished my face off. Brown trout, wrangled hand-over-fist. Some pretty decent ones, too. I even netted a cuttbow over 20 inches on a golden stone. I can't remember what I had for lunch yesterday, but I remember what this goddamn fish ate almost 20 years ago. I fished hard, straight through breakfast and lunch. Just water. My body tends to ignore all outside interference when I'm on the water. I don't need to eat, I don't need to poop or pee, I rarely need water, and bugs and sun and wind and snow don't bother me. Only people. And there were no people, so I kept going. I ended the day somewhat early. The snow on the ground from a couple days before had all but melted. It was fairly warm, clear, and very sunny, and I imagine my Patagonia down jacket was starting to waterlog from the constant stream of perspiration generating from the back of my neck and armpits. After my last cast, I finally took my eyes off the water to notice a gulch I wandered into while blinded by a sheer focus of hitting my seams and refusing to look up. The quickest way was up. So up I went. Slogging up the steep, loose dirt embankment proved to be a demanding feat, but one I conquered, albeit with not much grace. I really should've lost the down jacket before this straight-up hike. A not-so-short walk back to my fancy truck, and I was whooped. I rung out my jacket, de-robed the boots and waders, sat on my tailgate and pondered. It's dinnertime. I'm beat--shitty sleep for a week, sliding around on river rocks that resembled snot-covered baby's heads for six days, drinking whether I wanted to or not each night, and now this questionable decision of climbing up a 30 foot dirt wall on my hands & knees. Fuck it. Let's find a motel. I was a few miles upstream from Buena Vista, which by now, seeing as how I had guided there a handful of times, I knew was pronounced Byoona-Vista. So I was basically a local. 17 years ago, Buena Vista had zero hotels, zero corporate shit aside from a Subway, and was your quintessential quaint mountain town. I haven't been there in a few years, but I hear the yuppies and hipsters have taken over. And that's a damn shame. Because I get kind of jazzed about checking into a mid-century motor lodge with an original neon sign out front that has an arrow and maybe some pine trees on it and is called the "Pinewood Inn" or "Mountain Lodge" or some other shit that people in the 1950s would make up. And that's exactly what I did. The name escapes me, but I checked into a locally owned, rustic-as-fuck, park outside your front door, old school motor lodge. I've got pictures somewhere that I took with my Olympus handheld waterproof digital camera. I'll keep looking for them. They had a vacancy, as advertised by a separate neon sign hanging in the office window. So you know it's the real deal. I unloaded the necessary items for my sleepover and transferred them to my room, including one black, totally fucking soaked from sweat, Patagonia down jacket. That got hung in the closet with a box fan blowing directly onto it. I remember hopping on my bike and heading to a place where we had ordered pizzas for our clients before. Not sure what flavor I ordered, but I do know that I discovered that evening that riding your bike at dusk with a large pizza and a 12-pack of Bud Light ain't easy. I returned to my room which sported two double beds--one for pizza eating, beer, drinking, laying my clothes all over, and studying my atlas on...and one for sleeping. I scarfed, drank, and looked over maps to mark my next move. It ended up being an easy decision--drive over the beautiful Collegiates to fish the Taylor River. I don't remember many things, but I do remember when I get a seriously good night's sleep. This particular night ranked fairly high in that category. .......................................................................................... I don't know why, necessarily, but this is when the trip starts to get foggy. It's gets difficult for me to remember the timeline, but that's why we're doing this in "chapters", so I can somewhat try and regain some recollection of this whole thing. Hopefully I'll find that wad of pics I took and that'll trigger some "oh yeah"s. Once again, stay tuned. Joe Pass. Quite possibly the best Sunday morning, coffee drinking music ever. It's almost like Joe thought to himself right before recording "Night & Day", "Man, I wonder if Matt would dig this in 60 years on a Sunday morning while sipping coffee?" And then just went for it.
I'm guessing It has to do with the time of year, the sunshine bouncing off of the fresh snow, the newly unboxed and abundance of Christmas decorations surrounding me--testing my claustrophobia...all of it coming together this Sunday morning, urging me to be thankful. And for whatever reason, I am reminiscing about my move out to Colorado nearly 17 years ago. I went from sleeping in the back of my pickup in the middle of the Rocky Mountains to yes, sipping coffee (and listening to Joe Pass) in my sunroom a short lifetime later. I'm thankful I made the leap. I'm thankful for the adventure. And I'm thankful for where I've ended up. All modest, but mine. I've got a horrendous memory. I've done a lot of living, I am not young, and my brain chooses independently what it feels it needs to retain and what it can dispose of. So I guess I find it an entertaining challenge to piece sections of my life together. I didn't have a smart phone to document everything with photos and video. Just did it. And the rest is up to the ol' brain to hold on, if it chooses. This is what I'm remembering now--and I'd better type quickly before I forget it... My last guide trip on the Arkansas River. I was the guide, not the guided. I had done this gig a few times prior, so I knew the cabin, the water, the spots, the whole rundown. I knew my fellow guides, too. All midwesterners, like myself, making the pilgrimage from flyover states to damn near smack dab in the middle of the Rocky Mountains. I traveled from Kansas City, where I lived at the time with my girlfriend. I ran a gear shop that offered adventure trips to customers. One of those "adventures" was a guided fly fishing trip to said location in Colorado. I remember elbowing my way into guiding this trip. Unfortunately, my gear shop, unlike several others peppered throughout the Midwest, did not offer fly fishing equipment. So it was a little frowned upon for me to guide, seeing as how I didn't have any gear to pimp to potential adventure-goers from the KC area. I ended up selling a trip or two despite our lack of fishing gear to extend, and I was an advid fly fisherperson, so I suppose the higher-ups felt mercy. Prior to this trip, my girlfriend and I had decided that we were going to move to Colorado. Big decision, but she had recently landed a job out of Denver so that assisted with our big decision. Me? Well, let's just say I was the proverbial dog riding in a car with his head out the window. Tongue out, letting everything hit him square in the face and loving it. I had a blue S-10 with a camper shell on it. One of those fancy S-10s, the ZR-2 off road one with big tires & shit. Because I'm a fancy guy. I packed that bastard with Rubbermaid bins of gear & clothes that slid neatly under my sleeping platform in the bed of the truck. I had my fancy mountain bike securely mounted to my Yakima trailer hitch bike rack. And of course, I had my Colorado Atlas in the passenger seat. I kissed my girlfriend goodbye and fucking split. As poor as my memory is, I remember feeling the thrill of absolute blind adventure. Sure, I had been to this fishing cabin before and I had a week's worth of guide work to concentrate on, but I couldn't escape the anxiousness and excitement of what would come next. Because I really had no idea. I didn't know any different at the time, but these guide trips weren't your typical day trips that most outfitters offer. No, these trips were a week or so long with guides and clients both sleeping in a rundown old fishing cabin in the middle of the woods. As guides, we'd not only take the clients fishing as much as they wanted to, but we would also cook every meal, provide whatever libations they enjoyed, and would serve as newly-appointed drinking buddies for them. We would all become pretty close during that week on the river, as we really didn't have much of a choice. As far as the trip went, I remember it being a pretty good one. Dry fly fishing was good, I got hit on by one of the female guests, the food turned out tasty, and the weather was perfect. On the last day of the trip, before sunrise, all of the guides got everything tidied up and the vans packed and ready for the trip back to Topeka or Oklahoma or wherever they came from. Not me though--I had other plans. Which were zero plans. Before our clients loaded up for the drive back, they pooled together a huge wad of hundreds for our tip. We graciously thanked them, split the cash up accordingly, all hugged, and then hit the road. I drove about 50 yards to a pull-off along the river and took a nap. Long week, man. And finally it was time to concentrate on the month ahead, because that was my only plan: to travel and fish for the entire month of October in a state that I was not all that familiar with, but would be living in shortly. Fly rods, gear, sleeping bag, bike, fancy truck, and a wad of tips. Before I nodded off to the sounds of the river next to me, I reclined my seat, locked my doors, and said to myself, "Fuckin' A, man. Here we are." But as tired and sore as I was from an entire week of being a fishing-butler/drinking buddy, I couldn't sleep. As I rested my body at daybreak in the middle of the woods, my mind took off. It all starts now. ...................................................................................... Well, that's a lot of remembering for me. I'm going to get my shower now and work on some shit around the house. I'll work on remembering that month of October, as it has it's ups & downs, ins & outs, and led me to where I'm at now...in my newly constructed sunroom built from insurance money, sipping coffee, and listening to Joe Pass. Stay tuned. Wow, I haven't written in months. Had to look up my password to get into this blog. Can't do that to myself--this time writing is too important, but also too hard to come by these days. That's my excuse, at least.
Months have passed, and I'm that much closer to the half-century mark. I never thought it would be a big deal--no mid-life crisis...no gold chains and a Corvette...no leaving reality to "find myself" in a foreign country...no bucket list countdowns. And there's really not anything like that. Just deeper thoughts. "Getting old is a mindset" or whatever that saying is...it's true, to a point. I can control my mind and body for the most part. At least so far. Staying young is an art. Or immature, in my case. I've pretty much stopped paying attention to politics, try to avoid assholes as much as possible, act like a big, dumb kid, and drink and listen to rock & roll music lots. Lots. I have little kids at an older age, so I owe it everyone--especially myself--to try and stay young. Gotta keep that balance. But man, unappetizing thoughts start to become more and more prevalent. All my boomers are in their 70s & 80s now. Gen X friends, relatives, and acquaintances are becoming sick or peeling off in their 40s & 50s. It's a bummer, but that's how it goes. All of us lucky enough to take this trip have to wind it down at some point. So the definition of the word I suppose I am leaning towards is "preparation". For myself. For others. Others that are heading into another stage of their lives, be it growing into their 70s & 80s...or others that are little kids and deserve all that I can give them, now and later. Preparing mentally and physically. It's weird, this feels like a brand new category or chapter, more so than any other part of my life so far. When you get older, which I am, you start thinking about what's important and what's not. What was Important a couple weeks ago was going to Disneyland. What's going to be important next week is flying into St. Louis. What's going to be important for the remainder of my time is having adventures, good times, and creating a lasting foundation for those important to me. "What the fuck does 'creating a lasting foundation' mean?" That's a pretty good question. I guess it means a few things. First off, and probably most important, is that I need to make sure my kids are grounded. Not when they get in trouble for saying "shit"--the other grounded. I need to make sure they're solid, as much I can. The rest is on them. But they need the tools--the mindset, the communication, and wherewithal to help them out. That's basically called "parenting", so let's dive deeper. For a while, as dumb as this sounds, I thought that one of my hobbies could some day help my kids out financially. I collect old comic books, and I've got a pretty spectacular collection. The investment just keeps climbing in value, and my thought was to keep purchasing as the market allows, keep adding, and then one day, presumably when I'm gone, the kids could use that money for college or whatever. Not a bad idea. Not a bad investment. But I think I want to cash in that investment for something meaningful...something that will serve as a foundation for not only my kids' future, but for all of those I dig. I moved to Colorado for a reason. Because I like outside. I like the Rocky Mountains. I'd like to own a piece of the Rocky Mountains. Like I said, I've been thinking a lot about what's important at age (almost) 50. I'm parenting the best I can. I'm keeping in touch and visiting my friends the best I can. I'm visiting my relatives (whom are some of my best friends) the best I can. If and when I can procure a chunk of land in the middle of the Rocky Mountains, then my kids and their friends and their friends' parents, and my friends, and my family--we could all benefit from visiting this special place. Camping and bike riding and fishing and bird watching and moose spotting and hunting and sitting and relaxing...everyone needs this. And you talk about a foundation. Having something for everyone important to me to enjoy is what you call a foundation. More than comic books. Realistic scenario number one: I keep said comics, they keep increasing in value, 15yr old Hank wants money to buy a keg of Keystone Light, he sells said comics for $200 instead of $120,000, and we're all fucked. Except for that one night that 15yr old Hank and his dipshit friends enjoy an illegal, ice cold, delicious keg of Keystone Light. Realistic scenario number two: The comic book market bottoms out and I'm stuck with basically getting my money back. (not very realistic, but possible I guess) Realistic scenario number three: I do what I said I was going to do--sell books, buy land--my family--older & younger, close & far away, friends and neighbors, all benefit from a piece of privately owned land in the Rocky Mountains. Bonds are created, foundations for what is important are set, lasting memories are made, and moose are seen. That's my mid-life crisis. But it makes sense to me. It's not just for me, it's for everyone. Sure, it's an investment, but one that we all can enjoy. So I guess there is more than just deeper thoughts involved at this age. Clearly, this is me talking myself into it. By the way, Disneyland was rad. Star Wars Land was epic--the 8yr old in me who has never left was ecstatic. Thanks for asking. ... My Cousin Sue (Cousin is capitalized and there is no comma between the two words. Just so we're clear) wrote a short essay on the (in)famous words of Master Yoda..."Do, or do not. There is no try." You can read it here: As a Star Wars dork and also someone who enjoys thinking and writing about shit like this, I have just poured a whiskey and am diving head-first into it. I mean, this is far from the first time I've ever pondered these words, but the first time sharing them. Let's chat.
Yoda's words center around the word "try". "Try" is an attempt, no? An attempt has an outcome, correct? Cousin Sue (we will refer to her, lovingly, as CS) touched on "trying" not having to mean half-assing. In Luke's case, during the Dagoba scene in "Empire", he most certainly was half-assing it. "Alright, I'll give it a try" Luke says in his whiney, loser voice after Yoda's about fucking had it with him. This is in reference to Yoda telling him to lift the X-Wing out of the swamp with the Force, explaining to him that he "must unlearn what he has learned", clearly meaning that things that seem impossible are possible with the Force...or in real life, with determination, practice, and knowledge. So, half-assing, Luke was. Let's go back to "try". CS is learning to play classical guitar...which I think is tops. In my eyes, and Yoda's apparently, she is not trying to play classical guitar, she is playing classical guitar. You either play it, or you don't play it. How good you are at something doesn't really matter to me. If you keep doing it with determination, learn something every time you pick up that guitar, and practice your ass off, you will become accomplished at it. But as soon as you pick up that guitar with a goal in mind and half-assedness far out the window, then in Master Earl and Yoda's eyes, you play classical guitar. Susan, do you play classical guitar? "Yes" should be the first thing that comes out of her mouth. Now, if she would like to elaborate further on her progress, continued interest, or skill level, she may feel free to do so as to not come off as something she is not. She could say something like, "Yes. But I just started. There is quite the learning curve." Or, "Yes. But it's not going too well. I may take a break and pick it back up in a year or so." Or, "Yes. I absolutely love it. Never thought I could do something like this." So I guess what we need to figure out, is what is the difference between a try and a do? To try is to attempt, or put effort into accomplishing something. To do is to perform an act. So it looks like Meriam sees it as a "success" or a "failure". I prefer the absolutes. While putting effort into something, you are doing. If you fail while putting effort into something, you are still doing, and gaining valuable knowledge in the process, I might add. If there is no effort, if there is no attempt, you are not doing. If you whine about shit like Luke and have no heart, no ambition, no effort inside you, you are not doing. You are going through the motions or half-assing. There is no do. How you represent that "do" means something, too. If you do a bunch of shit poorly, but just tell people that you do a bunch of shit, without elaborating on your success, then that's just a character flaw. And Jedis shouldn't have that kind of character flaw. Matt, are you a writer? "Yes. I've got some blogs, nothing major." Not, "I try to on occasion." Matt, do you barbecue? "Yes. Been doing it for several years. Got a little business. I dig it." Not, "Yeah, I dabble." Matt, do wrap your own Christmas presents? "Yes. But I'm fucking awful at it." Not, "I try to, but I suck." Matt, do you eat healthy? "No. But I'm eating better". Or, "sometimes" will also work in a pinch. Slight differences probably, but own what you do, own what you're good at, own what you're okay at, and own what you suck at. "Try" is a copout word used to degrade or lessen something that you do. Own your do, elaborate as necessary. I vote for using idioms such as, "Give it a do", "Do it on for size", and "if at first you don't succeed, fucking do it again." A try is a do. Success or failure is secondary. |
AuthorI am Earl. Archives
January 2024
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