Punk Rock Music.
As Important as silence is, the possible antonym of it is of equal importance. Music itself is so important, that it's unfair to lump every genre together as a good thing. Doesn't make any sense. Primarily because some songs and genres are hilariously terrible and therefore are not important to me at all. Carrie Underwood, for instance. While she is somewhat fun to look at from a distance, once this dying-coyote she-devil opens her mouth, the vile racket that resonates from her lungs is one of the most unpleasant sounds any tasteful human will ever audibly witness. Music, I suppose, is relative. The same people who enjoy the sound of Carrie Underwood's voice most certainly loathe punk rock music. Some people like apples, some like oranges. Or in this case, some people like apples, some like cat shit. What punk rock music provides is a necessary "fuck you" to anyone and everyone you desire it to. It provides a "fuck you" and a "fuck it". Inhibitions leave, cares dwindle, and somehow by listening to music that mocks itself you find power and dominance over other people listening to other weaker forms of music. With a snarled lip, a fist in the air, mindless jumping, charging, and engaging, punk rock simultaneously makes fun of real musicianship while creating a real, viable genre of its own. One that cures primal urges, provides a deep outlet, and satires real world crap and mainstream garbage. Punk rock is too smart for idiots to understand. It's got a sense of humor that Top 40 Country crowds aren't geared for. People that wear "Let's Go Brandon" t-shirts do not listen to punk rock, I assure you. And if they do by chance, it's because their mind is confused and twisted from being so stupid. Back in the 70s, music became so incredibly terrible that someone had to do something about it. Granted, the 70s was a remarkable time for great music also, but it took a while to weed through the absolute trash on popular radio to find it--or for someone to create it. Iggy, The Ramones, and others arose from underground to offer the odd-men-out something better. Something that helped deal with shit. Helped you put a fist through the door, laugh at the mainstream, get on your skateboard, break glass, flip off everyone and everything...because you are secure enough, finally, in who you are, what you like, and what you represent, and there is an army of like-minded individuals around the world who are on your side. Sometimes you just don't want to think. You just want to feel. Punk rock provides a means for me or you to pick up a guitar and play four chords that we just learned in the last 10 minutes on YouTube and fucking play. Play hard and fast and with aggression and humor and mock serious everyday bullshit. Or sing a song about beating a kid with a baseball bat, or how terrible the Queen is, or where your pretty face is going, you bitch. You can sing songs about the dumbest shit imaginable, or flex your brains about politics...it's all fair game. So long as you play it fast and get to the fucking point. God bless you, punk rock music.
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Preface:
I like certain things. Things, as in objects, activities, feelings, living beings, and whatever else I deem a "thing" for this purpose. Most people like things, and some of the things I'll be discussing you may like, too. Or not. Don't care. Here we go. Silence. You don't hear much about the importance of silence (pun intended). And if you really break it down, there's rarely silence...meaning no fucking sound. There's sound, always. But minimalizing the sounds, both exterior and interior, is rare and beautiful. My two children are very loud. They talk, and yell, and scream, and question, and repeat, and fart, and make fart noises, and talk... When they are absent, which is never, my world becomes silent. Yes, there will be noises. Dog noises, furnace noises, wind and cars and birds and planes. But to me, it's silent. Fairly. My mind, at that time of absence, takes a while to plane out. And when it does, it's usually time for sleep. Oddly enough, when I sleep I have to have white noise blasting. I suppose it's equal to having your ears under water--if that was actually a thing. But white noise allows me to forfeit focus on anything, and just let the fuzzy sounds lull me to sleep. If it were entirely silent, I would spaz at any sound throughout the night. A snore, a car, a dog--any of that would wake me and ruin my fucking night. I haven't In a while, but I used to go camping by myself quite a bit. That's a special kind of camping. Just you, your dog, and your thoughts. If you can find a place free of neighbors, that's the ticket. A rolling stream. Small waves breaking. Crickets, cicadas, and frogs. Certainly the sound of fire crackling and whisky being poured into a tin cup. That's generally the time when I can erase worries and agendas and noise. Phone's dead, music is over, dog is asleep, moon is high and so am I. Zero unwanted noise. It's relative these days. Sometimes silence is running to Walgreens by yourself. Sometimes it's sitting in the farthest corner of your yard at 5pm with a drink, hiding. Silence for me, these days, is even going to the gym to walk the track for an hour and listening to "Powerage". The mental cleanse of eliminating noise is monumental. The accompaniment of something delicious to ingest helps, more times than not in my experience. And then, silence typically leads to music. My mind relaxes, then thinks, and thinks, and then becomes restless and needs more relaxation. So that's when it's time for music, to soften the thoughts and lull the mind again, like it had earlier with the entrance of zero sound. Like I said, silence is relative. Sitting outside watching the world go by is silence. Resting in nature with the sounds of moving water and leaves rustling is silence. Sitting in front of the fireplace with a cocktail, writing about silence...is silence. It's come to my attention, from my own self, that I've been drinking whisk(e)y quite a bit these days. Means I've been writing quite a bit. As is my cold weather routine. So be it.
This afternoon I posted a very tongue-in-cheek birthday present bit on the Facegram. It had a picture of a nicely marbled porterhouse steak, a bottle of my favorite Scotch whisky, Detective Comics 164, and a DeWalt Sawzall. I feel like talking about these objects. * Marbled Porterhouse Steak: The best piece of meat I've ever had was arguably this. I've had some fantastic cuts that were done adequately, some so-so cuts that were done amazingly, and some poor cuts that were done as well as they could've been. When I think about my favorite meals, meat is what I'm thinking of. My favorite meal is not an artistic piece with foam and ingredients I've never heard of that can fit in my palm. I can appreciate that, in a sense, but not my bag. Pasta, seafood, burgers--all terrific. But my last meal, God willing, will be a porterhouse steak cooked perfectly rare. Top 3 meals: 1) Braised beef short ribs in red wine and beef broth. My wife and I make this on occasion, and it always delivers. One of those dishes that we finally perfected with the help of a few different recipes, and if die right after eating this meal someday, along with a kiss from my wife, I'm okay with that. The next two are particulars... 2) Snake River Farms Ribeye, reverse seared, in Montana. Yes, the atmosphere surrounding a delicious meal certainly helps the taste. In this case, me and my best lads were in nowhere Montana after a day of fishing and decided to treat ourselves. We happened upon a swell grocery establishment that carried the sought after Snake River Farms beef cuts. I opted for the $29/lb ribeye, which I didn't flinch at when purchasing. One, their reputation demands respect, thus the price tag. Two, I had been drinking. I opted to forego the gas grill at our quarters, unlike my compadres, and instead seasoned it properly, and then set it in the broiler for a pre-cook. Then I finished her in a cast iron skillet with rosemary and garlic butter. Enjoyed it with a large tater, glass of full bodied red wine, and a glass of Balvenie for dessert. 3) Porterhouse steak purchased from Wally's Meats, down the street here in Colorado. My cousin, Ryan, was visiting a few years back. We used to like to hang out, and when we did, Ryan didn't really like to skimp on cost. So as a family and friendly gesture this time around, he purchased these exquisite cuts of steak for me to try and not fuck up. We also enjoyed several strong beverages, if memory serves. While imbibing, I made a fire in the pit, seasoned however I did, and threw those bastards on at some point. Throughout the laughter, the drinks, and the darkness, I somehow cooked these steaks that most likely cost my cousin $49/lb perfectly. I was shocked. And maybe that's part of the reason this serendipitous meal was so memorable. I paid little attention, but somehow they could not have turned out better. Excellent cut. I shockingly cooked it perfectly. What more? So that's where the bar is set. * A bottle of my favorite Scotch whisky: I'm not one to judge booze on price. I've got enough $15/bottle McCormick Gin in my veins to turn me superhuman. And I've been lucky enough to sample some pretty fine brown liquors, which is my preference. I enjoy most whisk(e)y, be it Bourbon, Scotch, Irish, American, Canadian, or Rye. Those are capitalized because they are very, very proper nouns. Most whiskey requires an "e" in its name...Scotch whisky does not. Doesn't need a fucking "e". That's one reason it's my favorite. And I haven't had any better than The Balvenie Double Oak. Affordable, if you like whisk, and just amazingly delicious. I've been drinking Scotch since I was in my early 20s, while on work trips wearing ties and shit. My go-to was always a house burger, rare, blue cheese on the side, and a glass of Johnny Walker Black or Red. Hmm, that's what's in my glass as I write, right this minute. Fishing trips with the boys eventually turned into whisk(e)y trips, as we all brought different bottles to sample and possibly devour. Through the years, I've had some incredible Macallen, Genlivet, Lagavulin, and plenty of others. Lately, I've become fond of Bourbon, American, and Rye. All different, all delicious. On my dying day, please give me a glass...a bottle of Balvenie Double Oak. I can afford it sometimes, it's smooth as a preacher's dick, and pairs well with being fucking awesome. Thank you. * Detective Comics 164: I collect comic books. I prefer old comic books. I'm dearly attracted to the pop art, the history, the characters, the smell, and nearly everything that it ensues. I'm not attracted to the blood-thristy dealers that have driven the market through the roof as of late...but if there are buyers, then fuck. This particular comic, which I just kind of randomly chose as one I'd like to add to the modest collection, was $88 just a couple years ago. I thought the price was too high, so I balked. Now we're looking at $600 or so. Shows you how the market has skyrocketed. Hell, first Spider-Man just sold for a record $3.6mil. Comics aren't for kids these days. Fuck you, kids. My reasoning for wanting this book is simple: it has a beautiful cover that I would like to look at while in my basement. Ok, nerd-basement. Judge if you like. * DeWalt Sawzall: I just like sawing shit. And yellow. That's the breakdown on things I like. Things, that if you still gave a shit about your birthday, and still received gifts, would be relevant. For whatever it's worth, I typically don't mention my birthday...but this year I am. Not sure why. Maybe I'm looking for a break from the ordinary...maybe I'm struggling with 50 around the corner...maybe I'd just like some fucking presents. Who knows, right? I'm tired of writing. Going to cash in. My birthday is January 8th, this Saturday. Just sayin'. Good night. Sweet Mother of God, what a start to 2022.
I dislike New Years Eve, New Years Day, and all that encompasses it. Always have, always will. I dislike the parties, the amateurs, the vibe, the television broadcasts, the hats, the plans, the expectations, the music, the resolutions, and the thought that a single calendar day will automatically make everything different. Dislike it all. This New Years, and Christmas, my family and I were in Hawaii. Planned it for months. Did a lot of switcheroos with my wife's cousins regarding houses and cars and whatnot--particular cousins reside in Kailua, Oahu, where we stayed. Them, and other cousins were visiting Colorado for the holidays...hence all the switcherooing. It's nice to have family that you can do these things with. It was a long travel day getting to Hawaii, and my kids did great. A few tense moments going through Covid protocols to enter the island and also make connecting flights and such, but we made it. It was my family's first time there, and we were floored by its beauty. Just unreal. The night we arrived was Christmas Eve, and that's when poor luck ensued. Illnesses, hospitalizations, more illnesses, rashes, buckets of vomit, and the like immediately impacted our first few days. More illnesses from the Colorado cousin crew followed, with a car accident, even more illness, another hospitalization, and a game of musical houses commenced after a terrible fire consumed nearby cities and put our Colorado neighborhood on a pre-evacuation watch. And then Betty White fucking died. New Years Day, we traveled back to Colorado, and it was easily, without a doubt, the worst travel day I've ever experienced. I'm surprised John Candy wasn't around. But we made it back, even without Mr. Candy, somehow. But one thing that I dislike just as much as New Years, is bitching and moaning about things. Things happened, it was challenging, and that's it. Move forward. Realistically, the dark may overshadow the bright on this trip--at least for now. Just enough unfortunate things happened that we may look back and just shake our heads and chalk this one up to a rough outing. Fair enough. But I'd really like to look at it in a different light. The things we saw, and the things we breathed in and smelled, and the birds and raindrops, the waves and kids laughing and playing...that's what needs to be front and center. And I hope once the dust settles from the negatives, that we don't constantly associate them with this adventure. I took a lot of pictures while we were there. I took pictures of the beach, waterfalls, the kids playing, palm trees, mountains, and gardens. I did not take pictures of vomit or fevers or hospitals or car wrecks or three hours on the tarmac and lost luggage. Just the good stuff. I've touched on this via a stupid Facebook post, but we all learned how to make lemonade out of lemons. That's all you can do. Life punches, you roll with it. Curveball? Learn to hit it. Whatever saying you have, we adapted to it. At any rate, you just gotta keep on truckin', right? Even during what seems to be a show of shit, there's plenty of good to keep you balanced. Fuck, we came home to a house and an alive old dog. There are plenty in our community who, unfortunately cannot say that. My daughter's Vice Principal, a fantastic educator and human, lost everything in the fires. Well, not everything--he and his family are safe. But house burnt to the ground, cars gone, pets gone...alI of it. So there you go. Lemonade, fuckers. Afterthoughts... * Get your shit together, baseball. We need you...NOW. Put your monetary, unionized, mafia-run bullshit aside and play baseball. You're all going to make more money than I can count, so at least entertain us with a game that plenty of us need. Spring Training would be swell, but I'm good with just a regular old season of regular old baseball. Get your heads out of your buttholes and play baseball. Figure it out. * A fun aside while we were in Hawaii was watching the Book of Boba Fett together. I needed that. I don't watch much, but I sure do love a nice Star Wars show. I'm able to escape for 45 minutes or whatever. I just lose myself in it--and then pick it apart, look for easter eggs, and speculate the next 45 minutes. Good to see some flashback to the Sarlacc and the destruction of Jabba's sailbarge. Fat fuck, glad Leia killed him. He was probably friends with Jeffrey Epstein. Probably some tabloid pics out there somewhere. *. Lot of randomness in this post. While re-reading it, I can sense my stress. Not my finest writing, but a vent-post, I guess. My apologies--just how I'm decompressing, I suppose. We really did have some pretty good times during our vacation. Don't want to come across as ungrateful or spoiled. But I gotta tell ya, it sure feels nice to sit by my fireplace with my old-as-fuck dog curled up in a gigantic black ball on the floor by my feet, listening to the Allmans, with my second or third glass of whisk soothing my mind right now. Fact is, it's a new year. So, Happy New Year. It's just another day, but a day in which you can try and adjust things to make them better. You can vow to exercise more, eat less, drink more/less, or whatever your stupid resolution is. But I think that's something that can be adjusted throughout the year, everyday. You don't need to wait until December 31 to make all these changes. If something needs to be changed, change it, moron. My takeaways from this past week or so: Look for the good. And help out others. Basically, don't be an asshole. That's pretty much what it boils down to. Sounds like something Betty White would say. |
AuthorI am Earl. Archives
May 2024
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