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. ...
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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. Tonight I'm a single dad. My kids are properly tucked into bed at the expected hour. I've got whiskey and a fireplace. Yes ma'am.
* I don't like egos. We all have one to some point, especially me. You have to have a bit of one or else you'll get eaten alive. Or maybe ego isn't the term I'm looking for..maybe it's confidence. But that's essentially ego, isn't it? Just carried differently, I suppose. I've worked in industries where ego is king. You are surrounded by fly fishermen, climbers, paddlers, who all scrum to be on top. They claw to undermine peers, form a bro-club straight out of 5th grade, scrap for Instagram likes, try to create a "brand" for themselves, get free gear for bragging rights...all for ego. It's who they are. They lose their true self behind the longest beard they can grow, and become "fly fisher man" or "climber man". It's all they do, all they have. Their job, their friends, their existence is entrenched in this hobby. I guess I got caught up in that a bit years ago, and it can be addictive. Attention, followers, likes, people in the industry--peers and customers alike, know you or want to know you. It's a micro-spec of recognition in a tiny subculture, but it's one you're immersed in and the attention is tasty. It feeds the ego. It makes you want to focus more on attention and noise rather than self and zen. I'm not sure you can have it both ways. I'm not sure you can plan a trip to the river by yourself with the sole intention of escaping modern life while having videos, IG-quality pics, potential "sponsorships", river reporting, influencing, and/or bro-ing in mind. They cancel each other out. And I think I've realized this in my "older" age, that it's all pretty goddamn stupid. I got into fly fishing for myself and my dad. It just happened...organically. There are very few pictures of me fly fishing before the social media age, so I clearly was never in it for the recognition. But I'll be honest, the recognition was kind of cool, as very little as there was. But now I've come out on the other side, ego-free again. Well, maybe not entirely ego-free. I'm still better than everyone. Epilogue (kind of): I work among teachers and other educators now (so I'm clearly better than you). Very few egos. Just good folks trying to help kids. I like that. Egos are checked at the door. We don't scrum for attention, followers, pseudo-sponsorships, or free gear. We just do our job. Confidently. * It's no secret that I adore big dumb rock. I adore it, man. As I type this, AC/DC is screaming "Let There Be Rock" in my newly purchased JBL headphones (birthday present to myself). Now, my brain doesn't completely shut off when listening to BDR, but close. More so, it takes me back to riding shotgun in Vinnie's '64 Chevy Impala or Boner's baby-blue '65 Mustang, blasting 70s and 80s rock so loud it would make your ears bleed. No cell phones. No internet. No Spotify. Just a tape deck and the best backseat speakers a junior in high school could swing. Girls? Sure, man. Hope they like Van Halen. Sweet. They do. Big Dumb Rock is not a guilty pleasure of mine. I don't feel guilty at all. In fact, I think more people should give it a try. And hey, it's not too late to drive around, sans cell phone, and blast Dio at an uncomfortable sound level. Crack a handy road-sixer, take a puff off a hand-roll, drive through some poor sap's front yard, make out with someone on the hood of your car, shoot a couple bottle rockets out the window....get into some good, clean fun. Just do it while listening to some Big Dumb Rock. Embrace the BDM. You'll be glad you did. * If you are reading this, you probably know that I enjoy barbecuing. Sometimes I make some money doing it. I've got my methods, and that's cool. And I think I'm okay at it. But am I a "Pit Master"? That's got to be most ridiculous fucking term I've ever heard for someone who cooks meat over a fire. Pit Master? And I'm guessing "Pit Masters" are usually self-appointed. We just had a discussion about ego, man, so please drop the term "Pit Master" from your vocabulary. Especially if you run the Traeger on your patio from your phone. No offense. * Jameson Irish Whiskey is good. I'm a bit ashamed to say that, seeing as how I take pride in my taste buds and general choices in brown liquors. But it's so easy and satisfying to sip. Granted, I usually partake in my "expensive" stuff first, then cruise on some maintenance whisk afterwards if the evening looks like a more-than-one-glass night--as is the case tonight. But still, after wetting my whistle with the good stuff, the Jame-o has a sweet, peppery taste that I wouldn't mind dipping rare pieces of steak in. It's kind of like the Arby's of whiskey. You can get it anywhere, it's mass-produced, but it's still pretty fucking good. Good night. I haven't talked about Cliff at all since he died back in May. Too personal, too fresh, too sad, still. Yeah, he was a dog. And it's easy to say, "He was just a dog. Get the fuck over it." And I get that to a point. But you, obviously, have never had a dog quite like Cliff. And when you absolutely needed to get away from the general public and humans in general, Cliff was absolutely the friend that you needed to take with you to find that cleanse. Right now, I'm peopled out and need a fresh cleanse, but I don't have my co-pilot anymore to accompany me.
A fresh cleanse in the past meant me and my buddy heading up towards the Never Summer Wilderness atop the Poudre Canyon, finding "our spot" to set up camp, catch a couple trout, split a package of cheddar brats, watch a campfire for hours, and discuss hot topics like why people suck so terribly. My phone doesn't work up in that part of the mountains, thankfully, so it "forced" me to lay in my hammock with Cliff right next to me within petting reach, sipping on whisky and listening to the Allmans. No distractions, aside from the occasional car in the distance. Typically, the sound of the river would drown even the motorists out. That place was the perfect spot on this earth to take a breather from humans, reset, and figure out what's important. And with the best dude on this earth. He wouldn't just lay there asleep, or constantly grab a stick wanting to play, or whatever distraction...he would listen. He would engage, physically and emotionally. He'd look at you. He'd nudge you with his snoot when it was time to retort. He would lay his head on your chest when he felt you were sad or exhausted or upset. And later in the evening, when the whisky and other treats had swept rough moods under the pine cones, he would get up and shuffle and wag to Van Halen or Motorhead or whatever other release tune we had cocked and loaded. Whatever a spirit animal is, he was it. He was my bro. As I write this, it's winter. It's gray. We're getting another foot of snow tomorrow. And that's fine--it's Colorado in winter and we desperately need the precipitation. But it's got me jonesing for mild evenings around a fire, far from the general public, and with my guy. My guy that's been on so many fishing trips with me. As a pup--a 100lb pup--he would follow my fly line during every cast, while up to his ribs in cold mountain water. When a trout was hooked, he would become ridiculously interested and meet the fish about seven feet in front of me to check it out thoroughly before it went into the net. As I released fish, Cliff's head would immediately go under the water to see where it went. It was adorable. And genuinely on-brand for this kindred spirit of mine and April's. I'm peopled-out right now. I'm tired of everyone. I'm not being an asshole about it, I don't think, I'm just worn out. I need a breather. Far away. But it just doesn't appeal the same without Cliff. He put everything into perspective with his silence, his eye contact, his snoot nudges, his giant paw on my knee. Cliff was the big lummox that dragged me down into the river at said spot in the mountains one evening. That was a rough night. After cursing his existence, I tried to drink away the pain a of soon-to-be back surgery fall, but it didn't work. It just made my break-down of camp and drive down the mountain that much more challenging. But he was there for me. Ears back and giant brown eyes, he knew he goofed. He knew he pulled too hard in a fast river while lashed to me. On the way down the hill that night, while I could hardly move, he laid his head on the center console while in the backseat. He was present and concerned. That's Cliff's heart. The kids have been talking about getting another dog, but I'm not ready. I knew Cliff for 13 years. We were very close, clearly. We fished every river in Colorado together. Camped all over the damn place. Explored Missouri and Nebraska with the family. He would hike with April weekly, join us at breweries, play with our neighborhood kids, greet guests at our giant barbecues. He was just the goddamn best. And I'm not ready to "replace" him. It'd be like going out and finding a new best friend if Kevin or Bryan or Vinnie fucking died. Not that easy, man. I miss that sonofagun every damn day. I was actually fishing in Montana when he passed. He wouldn't get up to say goodbye before I left, and I just thought he was pissed that I was going without him. Thought he was pouting, by not getting up from laying in the backyard to come say goodbye. I gave him some shit. Told him I'd be back soon and would take him fishing. Stop pouting, Cliffy. No, he was sick. I got to FaceTime with him from 700 miles away. He licked the screen, said goodbye. That was it. God bless my wife and kids and neighbors for helping with the loss while I was gone. I hate people, but not them. I've had a lot of dogs in my life. Some cats. Some other critters. And they're all just pets. Some pretty good pets. But Cliff wasn't a pet...he wasn't just a dog. He was as good of a friend as you can find. And as much of tough time that I'm having with people right now, I think of Cliff while writing this, and it makes things a little better. Because he loved unconditionally. He understood and forgave. He showed more empathy than most humans I know. He loved being around us and loved being alive. I miss all or our times together, especially at our little camping grove atop the Poudre Canyon. But goddamn, am I glad we had them. From now on, when I have a sinking spell caused from mankind, I'm going to think about Cliff. He made everything better. Miss you, old man. These are bittersweet posts.
I clearly don't get my kicks from family members passing away...but I enjoy reflecting on them, the family, a legacy, and life. It's a time of moving on, not just for my uncle, but for all of us associated. We, myself and I'm sure my family, are relieved that Jack isn't suffering anymore--no shit. But we're sad he's passed. He's the first of the brothers. Jack, the oldest, Jerry, the middle son, and Rick, my dad...he's the youngest. He was supposed to be a girl. Grandma already had her name picked out: Sasha, or someshit. Jack was a character. For good, bad, in between, or somewhere else. As my Uncle Jerry told me today, he did things his way--and that's the song that's going to be played at his funeral. Although I'm uncertain Jack was a Sinatra fan. I don't know a ton about Jack's life aside from it was something out of a Waylon Jennings song, or maybe a 70s not-made-for-TV cowboy movie of some sort. No one's a saint. Even those who pass away "Godly" have skeletons. Jack left it all on the table. This is who I am. Sorry. Maybe sorry. Sometimes sorry. Not sorry. At the end of it all, he was a good man with a good heart and I am happy that he was my uncle. There are enough Uncle Jack stories to fill up a dozen blog posts. He was one of a kind. But how he affected me most is something pretty special. Jack was a fly fisherman back when fly fishing was nothing. Back in the 70s, nobody gave a shit really about the sport. But Jack was good. He taught my dad how to, and my dad became really good. They tied their own flies and crafted a rod or two. A couple fly rods, a canoe, couple packs of Marlboro Reds, and some hip waders and the trout living in the North Fork of the White River were doomed. A few years later, I was invited...sans Marlboros. Dad and I met Jack at a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop at the edge of a rock bluff just down the road from the river. Jack had constructed a fold-away canoe that fit nicely in his pick-up bed. He was handy like that, to say the least. I damn near tipped it over when I got in the middle--rookie move. We launched from Steel Bridge and paddled downstream to a nice bend. It was cold, the fish weren't biting, and we somehow got wet--probably my fault. But a few nice trout were wrangled, and I had goddamn amazing time. I may have been 13 or so. My uncles, as well as their friends and others, have been so incredibly generous during my younger years for letting me tag along on fishing trips. I've always been the only kid invited, and Uncle Jack helped with that passion. Uncle Jack was an incredible artist. His paintings and sculptures have been seen across the Ozark midwest, Missouri and Arkansas. Might not sound like much, but you have to see them to believe them. Jack was never one for recognition or dollars, he just loved his art. His wood carvings of fish ended up in the Bass Pro Shops Museum in Springfield, and are remarkable pieces. Jack fished fantastically, was in the military, was an accomplished artist, in the rodeo, a horse shoer, built his own house from sticks and mud (basically), lived everywhere, was a great writer, and had two million ridiculous stories that were all true that I could never retell to do them any justice whatsoever. I always heard when I was younger that I had a lot of Uncle Jack's spirit in me. We were a lot a like in some ways. But to be careful, because that might not be a great thing if it gets too far. I'm not sure how I've fared. The legend of Uncle Jack is pretty much all that I know. All that I've been told. In my eyes, nearly 50yr old eyes, he lived the life of an outlaw. Maybe an outlaw country song. Or maybe a Frank Sinatra song. He had four children, one whom I'm close with. He had two brothers, both whom I'm close with. And with his passing, I'm hoping that brings us all closer together, because, shit man, it's family. Families can be complicated. When someone passes away, be it their time or not, it's time for us all to come together and be cool. Like Fonzie. Say "I love you". Because you do, not because we're manly men that don't say that shit. Say what you mean. And dammit, I loved Uncle Jack. That rogue, that drifter, that savant, that outlaw, that devil, that soldier, that pescador, that thorn, that artist, that teacher, that heart. Certain things run In the family. If Uncle Jack weren't Uncle Jack, I'm not sure I'd be Matt Todd. And although he'd never met him, I'm not sure Hank Todd would be Hank Todd. Certain things run in the family, man. We're a strong group of Todds. We have strong, glowing spirits. Hearts of gold, with a bit of mischievousness. And remarkable torsos. Jack was one of a kind, but also one of us. Rest easy, Uncle Jack. I've never cared for school. I was smart, I suppose--but didn't care, nor did I feel like applying myself. I enjoyed playing the "fuck it" card, for lack of a better term. I skipped school, partied profusely, turned in sub-par work because I could. I coasted through high school and didn't last four years in college. It wasn't important to me. "Living" was important in my adolescent, cheap beer-logged brain. I never had a vision of what I wanted to do for a living. The closest I could really get to an idea of what I wanted to do was teach, oddly enough. Really? Yeah, not sure why. Okay. But fuck man, a guy like me? I'm not that guy. So 'fuck it', let's move on. 'Moving on' consisted of a million different jobs just to pay for rent (on a good month) and beer. I sold copy machines, I sold fence, I drove a bread truck, I bagged groceries, I sold paint and treadmills at Sears, I wore a tuxedo and served banquet food at a "fancy" Ramada, I drove a Schwann's truck, I worked in HVAC, I mopped up cigarette butts and vomit after Ted Nugent concerts at the Shrine Mosque, I was a welder, I loaded FedEx trucks at 5am, and probably a dozen more jobs that I can't think of immediately because my head hurts from trying to remember all this shit. And this was just in the 1990s. One. Million. Jobs. But I worked. The gig I enjoyed the most was Sears. Met a ton of solid folks, some I still converse with via social media, which is nice. And that prompted my "career path" of retail sales--primarily in the Outdoor Industry. Had a good go at that, about 15 years or so. Some good times, good folks (some absolute fuck-sticks, too...looking at you, Tucker Ladd). Learned a ton about most every aspect of that industry, from sales to ops to marketing and whatever else. But at the end of the day, I was selling shit to assholes. Don't get me wrong, just because you buy a North Face jacket or a Winston fly rod or a Yeti cooler or the like, doesn't automatically make you an asshole. If that were the case, we'd pretty much all be in that category in one way or another. Yes, customers can most certainly be assholes. Especially when they're focussed on spending thousands of their disposable dollars on shit. So one side of that statement is somewhat fitting--that I sold shit to assholes. "Shit" being the ludicrously expensive recreational gear that one spends their thousand dollar bill that they found between the couch cushions on. And 'asshole" meaning that this type of person more times than not is indeed an asshole. The other meaning, If you haven't figured It out yet...Is that I sold shit to assholes. It's like selling ice to Eskimos. They don't fucking need it. You get it. I digress. It had its ups. Paid the bills. I shouldn't bitch. At any rate...my career path has since shifted. And for the better, I should add. After some solid stay-at-home-dadding and some mighty fun BBQ bizzing, I am teaching. I should clarify and give credit where credit is due. I am a Para Educator. I help those who have, in fact, stayed in college and received a degree and certifications that allow them to teach. I help Kindergarteners through fifth graders read, comprehend, write, speak, behave, and enjoy their existence and those around them. I haven't been there long, but I've already had several "FUCK YES" moments. That didn't happen much while merchandising a retail store with lots of $400 coats. It's new. It may wear off. It might make me drink more. But it's fulfilling. Haven't had that in a while. And my kids go to school there, so that makes it twice as fun...usually. Unless Hank is being a dick. End of blog post. * I like nice things. I like good food, I like well-made clothing, I enjoy tasty coffee, I like staying at fancy places, traveling to exotic locations, cars sometimes. I'm a man of the world.
But even If I had the money to sustain all these extravagant luxuries, I wouldn't. Now, I realize this sounds like a cop-out from someone talking himself out of the jet-setter, highfalutin lifestyle because deep down, he simply can't afford it, yet doesn't want anyone to know this truth. In my case, incorrect. Here's my reasoning: If I adhered to the "life's too short for shitty (insert: wine, whisky, food, coffee, clothing, vacations, etc)" I would become burnt out rather quickly, not to mention, be in terrible debt. I would become used to eating (at first) delicious meals three times a day, and then they would become mundane. If I drank uber high-end coffee every morning, my taste buds would become spoiled and not appreciate the nicer things touching them anymore. There's no reason for me to drive an Audi R8 supercar or wear a gold chain or Rolex wrist watch, because then, when I would ride with you in your Q7 while you wore your Citizen, I would scoff. This kind of reasoning with one's self requires balance. There's that pesky word again. It's everywhere with this guy (even tattooed on his dang arm). Balance is everywhere, just like the spirit of Elvis. In the case of minimalist basics vs. fancy shit, I prefer to have the teeter-totter perfectly horizontal. It has to do with satisfaction. Here's a neat example: I feel satisfied as I awake from my 0 degree, mummy-style sleeping bag atop a bluff, overlooking a valley. No tent, no camper, just me sleeping on the goddamn ground. Satisfaction continues as I slip on my worn-out down jacket and make a morning fire. As my coffee becomes steamy and perfect for sipping, the satisfaction increases. I'm happy with the minimalist morning I've had. With spirited initiative and resourcefulness, I've created a long-lasting memory with nothing more than a handful of life-giving necessities, a few miles on my feet, and some woods. Other side of the coin: I feel satisfied when I awake from the king bed with sheets made in Italy and a mattress made from Tempur-pedic wizardry. My skin is smooth from complementary body lotion I applied after a soak in the 425-jet Jacuzzi tub the night before. Enjoyment escalated last night as I indulged with a bottle of red wine from a foreign country, a petite fillet cut with a hand-forged steel steak knife, and two fingers of the Balvenie for dessert. My morning of satisfaction peaks as I draw the shades, pour a cup of coffee from Costa Rica or someshit, and sit on my personal balcony soaking up the scenes of oceans, rivers, mountains, or some other view that's worth the money. I've saved for this experience, this memory. I'm proud of it and I understand that it is an every-now-and-then type of indulgence. Even if I were very wealthy, like Toby Keith, I would not want this lifestyle to become routine, as it would likely change who I am as a Joe who appreciates all ends of the spectrum. Living modestly, or at least within your means, is a grown-up thing to do. If I sprung it rich, I'm not sure I would change a whole lot. I'd probably upgrade from used to new in a couple materialistic categories. Buy a few toys like a Trans Am, maybe a Hulk #1 or a new smoker with a built-in canopy. But I'd still buy my Wranglers at Walmart. And I'd try hard to keep perspective. I wouldn't indulge every day. No need. "Every day" being key, there. I'd still have fun, because money can't buy you happiness, but It can buy you a yacht big enough to pull up right alongside it...on occasion. But don't forget, sleeping on the beach while the yachts roll by is equally as satisfying. At the end of the day, I like a heavily peppered, seared Wagyu ribeye cooked rare, with garlic gorgonzola butter drizzled over the top, served with roasted fingerling potatoes, and a glass of Scotch whisky from an $80 bottle. I also like a bag of White Castles, Always Save potato chips served with Hiland French Onion Dip, and a can of Busch Bavarian fresh from downtown St. Louis. Like I told you, friends, I'm a man of the world. "Unapologetic American" is what the gentleman's t-shirt read. That, in itself, pretty much invites headbutting--that he was cocked, loaded, and ready to argue with any "libtard" that questioned his mantra. What are you not apologizing for, exactly? Let me guess...
That guns are your God-given right and that Hillary Clinton (those emails!) and Barack Obama (not my president!) will have to pry them from your cold, dead hands? That's my guess. I suppose it could be something related to the blacks and the gays and other non-white/straight/"Christian"/Republican males that White American Jesus looks down upon. But in light of the recent murders with deranged white males using Armalite Rifles to gun down their innocent victims, I'm going with guns. Guns are fun. Guns protect. Guns provide food. I am not anti-gun. I am anti-idiot. And unfortunately, that's the real problem. Don't get me wrong--the deranged white males wielding these weapons are idiots, to say the least. The folks that sit on their hands, doing nothing but offering "thoughts and prayers", deflecting the issue and putting "blame on the Dems for politicizing" the matter, blaming teachers for their poor door etiquette, claiming that everyone needs to be armed like it's the goddamned wild west or someshit...those are the idiots that prolong this ordeal. That is the root of idiotism--and it grows deep. How in the name of White Jesus can a person prioritize the ease of purchasing a semi-automatic rifle over the lives of children? That is a legitimate question right now in the world we live in. "Regulations wouldn't have stopped the gunman." He bought both guns, legally, the day after his 18th birthday and two days afterward. Regulations would have most certainly helped the matter. "It could've been worse." Shut the fuck up, Greg Abbott. Take your bloody gun money and go buy yourself a soul. If you agree with his statement, you are officially one of the bad guys. A terrible thing to say, but one that his lobbyists applaud. "Yer not takin' away ma guns!!" No, I don't believe that's the plan, bud. But there needs to be something set in place to help prevent the ridiculous ease in purchasing a firearm of this magnitude. "Can't stop people from speeding. People are just going to break the law irregardless." First: Not a word. Second: We can install a speed bump. That's a start (and also metaphor, dummy). I don't care for politicians. They are typically slimy, money-grubbing, talking heads for lobbyists. Ted Cruz is an excellent example of this. "The Democrats are trying to politicize this issue instead of backing our law enforcement officers." he says. First, the dems aren't politicizing anything. The GOP is filibustering a Federal Assault Weapons Ban that expired in 2004. Mass shootings have increased significantly since then. It's already politicized, and if anyone is dragging it out, it's most certainly the NRA-fueled GOP. Second, according to several reports, our law enforcement officers not only failed to prevent the shooter from entering the school, but unfortunately did nothing for up to or over an hour while the murders were taking place. Which brings me to another argument... "We need more armed people at our schools!" That's ludicrous, and was just proven ineffective during this massacre. There was an armed security guard. There were multiple police officers and local SWAT--all armed. Nobody confronted the gunman. It took over an hour, according to reports, for the gunman to finally be taken out. Okay, let's take politics out of the equation right now, because that argument just doesn't get through to the dense. Let's, just for a minute, ignore everything FOX News has told us. Let's pay no mind to Sean and Tucker, Ted, Greg, and Donald. Let's pretend they don't exist (I can only imagine). An 18yr old man-boy walks into a federally licensed gun store the day after his 18th birthday and purchased an Armalite-style semi-automatic rifle, along with 375 rounds of 5.56 caliber ammo. Two days later, he buys another rifle. Legally. This person now legally owns an arsenal. More weapons than a police or SWAT officer carries on their person. He posts his intent on social media. Yeah, that happened. He crashes his truck near an elementary school where children from 2nd grade to 4th grade go to learn their letters and numbers. The gunman enters the school--there is uncertainty about the door being open or the security guard's whereabouts. It's moot at this point. The gunman slaughters 2 teachers and 19 children, roughly the age of my daughter. He took his time. He shot them all within the timeframe of a little over AN HOUR. Close range...the bodies had to be DNA'd. Can you fucking imagine? So, with this true-life nightmare scenario that unfolded a matter of days ago, how in the hell can you say this is okay--that's just how it is? How can you be so numb to this, that you turn the other way when common sense people call for common sense regulations? How can you blame the teachers for "leaving the door unlocked"? How can you call for more guns and more people to be armed when all the guns in the city of Uvalde were cocked an loaded outside of the school, but not preventing a nightmare from unfolding inside? How do you keep regurgitating the same talking points, deflecting the main issue, and blaming the other party for this? A mentally fucked-up 18yr old LEGALLY bought semi-automatic weapons, 30 round magazines, over 300 rounds of ammo, and killed a bunch of babies. But you keep pounding that goddamn 2nd Amendment drum, just like Sean and Tucker, Ted, Greg and Donald, because it's your God-Given Right to easily purchase a weapon of war. Listen to yourselves. The Second Amendment was written in 1791, by MEN. White males wrote the second amendment, not God. It was written well before semi-automatic, high-capicity rifles were invented and marketed (very well) to heartless, soulless, brainless, nutjobs who value a highly unnecessary military weapon over human life. Nobody is banning all guns. That's ridiculous. It's very doubtful that anyone is going to take our guns--AR-15-style or otherwise. But "no shit" regulations can be put in place to prevent murderous assholes from killing our kids. It's not a solve-all, but it's a fucking start. Make it at least just a little more difficult for whackjobs to obtain a gun. A fucking speed bump, man. It's a start. How in the hell can we not even come close to agreeing on that? It shouldn't matter if you vote Republican or Democrat, live in the Midwest or NYC, live in the sticks or a condo, are blue collar or a doctor, your buddies at work preach 2nd Amendment, the boys at the bar are all about guns, your golf bros are staunch conservatives...it doesn't fucking matter, man. Use your brain, your brain, to make the decision that this is fucked up. Because it is. Deep down you know it is. Like I said, guns are fun and to a point, necessary to some. So I don't mind jumping through a few hoops to prove that I can handle one, physically and mentally. I'd actually feel a lot better if I had to jump through a few more hoops. Means the crazies are hopefully getting stuck in the red tape. That's a good thing. So don't get duped. Don't let money sway your conscious. The NRA backs gun owners...because gun owners buy guns, dummy. Mass shootings increase fear, and gun purchases. The NRA makes it easier for more people to buy guns, be it the mentally unstable, 18yr olds, or both. They "support the rights of gun owners" because it makes them money. They pay Ted and Greg and Donald to do their talking. They, along with the manufacturers, would like to see an all-out wild west where everyone is armed and shooting at each other. Think of all the money they would make. Think of all the money they're making right now after a mass school shooting in Texas. All the people that are scared. All the people that feel the need to have an AR-15 in order to combat another AR-15. Protection. I get it...and so do they. Anyone who doesn't see a problem, is a problem. Anyone who doesn't think it's wrong for a mentally unstable 18yr old man-boy to legally buy an arsenal to shoot up a school of littles, is unstable. Stop blaming others. Stop ignoring the problem just because you want to easily purchase a gun to have fun with--your hobby. And yes, shooting guns is a hobby. Hunting is a hobby. Target practice is a hobby. So just stop it and use your brains and your heart for a change. Put a speed bump in place to slow lawbreakers down. Remember, the gunman didn't have booze or weed on him--not old enough. He had machine guns--plenty old enough. That's fucked up. So, "Unapologetic American", you're not apologizing for loving your gun more than children's lives? You have the second amendment tattooed on your man-tit, even though the founding fathers (men, not God) would be appalled by how it's been twisted and "adopted" in 2022. The 2nd Amendment, the American Flag, the Bible, God--all manipulated to fit into a certain culture and agenda. It's time to amend the second amendment. You didn't seem to mind when Prohibition was ratified. Let's get up to date on this 230yr old Constitution that people hang on to so they can have fun with guns. People are being murdered at a very alarming rate, but "my rights" seem to trump that shit...pun intended. Dude, you're just an asshole. An Unapologetic American Asshole. Please wake up, folks. My kids' lives might very well depend on it. Need a pep talk? I bet you do. Don't care for profanity? Don't read this.
I'm angry. And I've spent 48 years trying to control that anger. But now it's out. Things have come to a head. This blog post is going to sound unlike me. No whisk(e)y...no deep, wise, self-absorbed life lessons...no sympathy. It'll probably sound more like lyrics to a punk rock song. It's definitely going to sound immature and dramatic, but immature, dramatic times call for like responses. Here we go. If anyone questions your self worth...Come at them with more fucking self worth than they can fucking handle. Lay a motherfucking mushroom cloud of worth on the fucking situation. Don't sulk. Don't allow your confidence and your positivity and your ethics to be diminished. Fuck that shit. I'm a stay-at-home dad. Question that, motherfucker. I dare you. I double dare you. You think that's a woman's job? You think I don't work? You think I'm lazy? You think I sit around in my bathrobe all day eating motherfucking bon-bons and drinking wine? I'm the best stay-at-home dad there is. I'm a mac n' cheese making motherfucker, motherfucker. You want to play ball? Go to the lake? Snuggle? I am a fucking ninja at this shit. Skating lessons, baseball practice, dance, swimming, school volunteering, playdates, singing lessons, softball games, science fairs, bike parades. Take your judgement and stick it up your asshole. And from my kids: "Go fuck yourself." I also make barbecue. Don't like it? You got no taste buds, pal. Please leave and go eat shit instead. Don't think I can succeed in the barbecue industry? I'm gonna be the motherfucking Monarch of BBQ. The best you've ever tasted. And here's some free beer to wash it down with, asshole. Don't let anyone EVER fuck with your worth. Your dreams. Your drive. Your life. Pep talk. And please understand right now...and I don't care who you are...close friend, relative, neighbor...if you ever come at me with this 2nd Amendment bullshit/Obama's gonna take our guns/guns aren't the problem/the school shooting COULD'VE BEEN WORSE horseshit, there's a good chance you are going to get a gut shot from my right fist. Maybe my left. You won't know until it happens. My nephew's school was just on lockdown because of a gun threat. SWAT teams, cops, kids locked in their rooms, teachers screaming. If you don't think that's a problem, I will fist fight you and I will win. Anger issues, remember? If you don't think gun violence is problem, then we have issues I'm afraid. And that's too bad--because if you're reading this, there's a good chance I kind of like you. So cowboy, you can take your so-called debate that you have inside that dusty, brainless skull of yours and give yourself a fucking enema with it. Don't let this get swept under the rug again. AGAIN. Fight for common-sense gun laws. Fight hard so deranged men can’t go to motherfucking K-Mart and buy a fucking arsenal. So teenagers can't shoot up my daughter's school. That is a problem, you braindead fucksticks. My kids go to school. My sister, brother-in-law, close friends, and relatives are teachers. So fuck off with whatever argument you think you have. Because you don't have a leg to stand on. And I will punch you. Pep talk. I am clearly very emotional right now, and that's okay. It really is. When life gives you lemons, you shove those lemons up their ass. No sulking. No complacency. Just get mad and awesome and fuck shit up. I know you have it in you. I will be okay, and you will too. Whether it's personal shit that's eating at your soul...horrible, preventable violence that's got you in the dumps...or maybe something else, just remember that I am a badass sonofabitch, and you can be too. You just gotta believe, pal. And if you need help, just let me know. Me and ghost-dog, Cliff are happy to help. We're good at problem solving. God help us all. Pep talk. fin. LIfe:
This is a fairly broad term, I realize. I wrote a bit about freedom and a few other things to myself, but then it just boiled down to life. If you're reading this, then you obviously have life. You are a fucking miracle that we take for granted every second of our lives...because that's all we know. When I was young and trying to figure things out, without a computer or anything, I would do what some these days call "meditation", I guess. I would breathe. I'd feel...physically. Feel my skin and hair. Feel my body breathing and pumping blood. It's shit that I do everyday, but it's different when you slow down and pay attention to what the hell is actually going on. I'd stretch my muscles and think about each muscle and bone and guts in between. I'd keep breathing. Sometimes I would look at myself in the mirror and just stare. I'd talk, on occasion. Just to get to know who and what I was. I still talk to myself, sans mirror typically. And I think you need to do that from time to time, to let yourself know that you're doing okay. Or if you're not, maybe you need that talk from yourself to figure out how to handle the rough stuff. Because life is weird. It's all we know, and we're all winging it. Earlier on it was nice to take time and try and figure out what the fuck was going on. I'm alive, I'm young, I have emotions, I have questions...let's figure this shit out the best we can. I believe I did. All while life is buzzing by at lightning speed and decisions and actions have to be made on my part. Do the best with what you've got, right? I'm older now, and I continue to realize that I'm here, I'm alive, I'm a fucking person. I look at other people and think how stupid most of them are, how clueless and small minded they are. But maybe they're just doing the best with what they have. Life ain't easy, man. Although I cherish it, some people don't. They didn't ask for this. And their reality might just be hell. You can't judge if you don't know. The brain is weird. The world is weird. Life is weird, and it's not easy for everyone. With life comes freedom. Freedom, these days, unfortunately is a political term that some folks use to hurt others. But in its purest form, freedom is beautiful. It means we are free to start our own business. We're free to have a relationship with whomever we want. We can worship whichever god we want, in whatever religion. We can build a cabin on an island. We can live off the grid, with solar power and a well. We can buy businesses and monopolize industries. We can do absolutely nothing, and just get by, happily or not. My wife and I had a really hard time trying to have kids. Took years. After countless doctor's visits, discomfort and heartbreak, we had a couple kiddos. They're perfect. They remind me everyday how precious life is, and how fortunate we are to be on this ride together. Because it's all we know. And we just need to do our best with what we've got. I'm thankful for my life. I'm thankful I was able to have a couple kids, too, and help them realize how lucky they are to have a life--a good one. Life is a deep, deep thing. Doesn't matter who you pray or talk to--if anyone--you still have to appreciate that you're here. You're a fucking miracle. You are alive. You can do things. Do them. And please, be grateful. |
AuthorI am Earl. Archives
May 2024
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