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.
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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. Family:
Some of you reading this are aware of how lucky I am. Others, my apologies...you'll never understand it. And that's cool, makes me feel guilty anyway. But hopefully I can explain it a bit here for you. When we were all dealt parents at birth, I won the goddamned lottery. Not sure if my parents won anything, or not. If there are actually weird superpowers that permeate through a youngster that attract, build, and happen-upon amazing family members, then I got it. It's my mutant ability. My parents, my sister, my grandparents...man, you got no idea. For whatever reason, I hit it out of the park. And then the wife and the kids and the more family...solid gold. Yep, eerie. My grandparents liked to fish. Betcherass I did too. Neat thing though...not just my grandfolks, ALL FOUR of my grandfolks. Yes, they became friends through my folks (obviously) and then found a common interest in trout fishing at Missouri's four wonderful trout fishing state parks. Rick & Bets (my parents) liked to go as well, and everyone had a swell time, I'm assuming. Then Rick & Bets had a kid. Me. Insert only grandchild out of 12 total (God, I hope I got that right) that loved to fish, and there we go. Some kids would bitch and moan about spending a week with four grandparents at a campground and a river. Nope, those are some of the best memories of my life, friend. Me, my four grandparents, and trout. Again, lucky. I became great friends with my grandparents, even into my adulthood. That ain't bad. We all shared a helluva bond that I think about everyday. So that's where it started. After that, or during that probably, my folks and my sister basically became three of my best friends. There were boundaries, parenting, arguments, drama...your average family recipe. But we had--and still have--a strange bond that few-to-zero people I know do. And that is okay with me. I can tell you're getting bored, but I don't care. I met my wife in my 30s. It was bound to happen late. I put relationships and marriage on a pedestal, and although I'd had some meaningful relationships before then, it just wasn't the same. She was the one. My roommate, Katie, who happened to be my sister, introduced me to April. It was an odd state of circumstances that led to the meeting (early social media platforms)...but after plenty of conversations via email, actual mail (because the internet was barely invented), we met. And we really liked each other. We still do, and I think that's fucking cool. Lucky. So, here's excellent family roll-call: Parents--Rick & Betsy, still two of my best friends. Didn't spoil me. Didn't spank me. Taught me right & wrong. When there was right--cool, man. When there was wrong--time to fucking chat. These days we enjoy flea marketing, boating, angling, and drinking cheap gin and not-so-cheap Scotch. Sister--Katie Todd-Letsinger, fucking solid as a damn rock. Katie Ann Poo Poo is what I called her when we were kids, and she'd kick me in the balls for it. Deserved. I have, through my sister, a brother-in-law , John, that I fucking adore. We fish, baseball, drink, laugh, parent, joke, cook, eat, and bullshit like no one's business you've ever seen. They have a weird kid, named Van (4). That's not meant to be mean...we all call him weird. Him and his blonde-haired cousin (my weird kid) are the proprietors of the make-believe restaurant called Pizza Weirdo. Kind of an inside thing. He's amazing, and I'm proud to be his uncle. Wife--Her name is April, and you wish she was your wife. Even if you're a girl. Seriously. She had adorable dimples, so I had to say something...drunkenly. It apparently worked. We've adventured, experienced, traveled, bonded, loved, grown...and now we have two amazing children, that were certainly not guaranteed. Let's not get ahead of ourselves, though. Through April, I have two sister-in-laws and two brother-in-laws, whom I am very close to. Tracy & Sara...Patrick and Victor. Again, sorry...very lucky..hit the jackpot. And of course, I have two beautiful, cute as a button, adorable little nephews, Alden and Beck (17 & 13). Dorks. (love you) Got me a badass father-in-law whom, with his wife, grow the shit out of soy beans and corn in Nebraska. Jon & Kari run the farm, amongst other responsibilities, and we love going back there and hanging out with them and doing everything you're supposed to do on a farm, ie: let grandchildren run amok until they pass out. Thank you for that. We weren't supposed to have kids. Didn't work, multiple times. We persevered, sought help, gained patience and hope...and then we finally had a little girl. Her name's Ruby. She's the most special thing in my life (don't tell her brother). She was our first, our miracle, our Rubes. Then..........heeeeeeerrrreeee's Hank! You kidding me? We weren't supposed to have any, now two?? Lucky. Blessed. Fortunate. Hank Earl is here. He's ready to party. He's Hank Earl. This is very important to me. When you are with certain people for so long--even people you love deeply--it may tend to get jaded and overlooked. This is a post of appreciation, remembrance, love, and a reminder that every one of us are lucky to have amazing family in our lives. Don't take that for granted. Never take family for granted. I'm gonna grab a short glass of Scotch. Thank you for reading. This is one of those posts that makes me reflect and appreciate. And tear up a bit. Thanks to whomever set this situation up (I'm looking up)...you really outdid yourself. 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. 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. Wow, family's gone for the night. It's Saturday. I have whiskey. And I'm almost 50.
I'm a pretty thankful bastard, as a variety of my blog posts suggests. But tonight, for once, I'm not going to write about being thankful about my family. I am, but we're not talking about them right now. I am thankful that I grew up in a period where there was gigantic, ridiculous, fabulous, brain-shattering, face-melting rock and roll. Not a festival. Festivals are stupid. But a stadium, amphitheater, dome, student center, or big fucking auditorium show. A headliner, and one or two known openers. I've never smoked cigarettes, but if I ever get lung cancer, you can be certain it's because I saw Whitesnake. The amount of hairspray, cologne, and cigarette smoke either is going to kill me or give super fucking powers to withstand anything ever in life. Big Dumb Rock for me started early, because I'm old. I remember us pre-teens singing Quiet Riot's "Cum On Feel The Noize" (it's just Slade) in early grade school walking down the halls to see if we'd get yelled at by the teachers or not. Of course we sang, "...Girls FUCK your boys..."). And back then, "pre-teen" wasn't a term. We were just kids...until we did something monumentally cool that pushed us over that "teen" line. A graduation, of sorts. Pre-teen is stupid. Saw a few concerts as a kid that were okay. Parents were there so I was still a kid. Then I went to the local college student center to see Night Ranger. This was in the late 80s--a transitional period for lads my age. Went with a kind-of-friend...but here's the kicker: his older sister and her friend were taking us. No parents. Just me, some dildo I went to school with, and two older chicks who were going to show us the ropes of concert-going. No brainer. Motherfucking Great White was the opener. They'd just come out with whatever shitty hit they had, and that somehow made the concert even more sought after. So we went. We couldn't drive, so the whole "big sister and friend" thing was pretty cool. Back then sisters didn't take care of their little brothers and their friends. They transported them to wherever they were instructed to, then parted ways after saying, "Meet us here after the show.". Right on. Found our seats, Inhaled more cigarette smoke than my grandpa ever did in his lifetime (and he was a smoker), listened to the loud warm-up tunes while the lights were still on, checked out our surroundings, gawked at chicks with gigantic hair that were waaaay out of any league we were ever associated with, settled in and got comfy. Fuck man, we were 14 and getting ready to party! Kind of. Simultaneously, the warm-up tunes abruptly stop and the lights go down. The crowd lost their minds. It was the opening band, Great Motherfucking White! They were unmemorable, except for the fact that they didn't burn down the auditorium and kill a bunch of people. There were songs that were fun, and everyone had swell time. Remember, I'm old, so during this show not many people knew who Great White was. Fuck, they still don't. But then finally they ended after maybe an hour of okayness...for a 14yr old in the 80s. It soon became obvious that everyone in the smoked-filled college basketball auditorium was there to see one band, and that band was none other than NIGHT RANGER. Opening band's shit was quickly moved offstage while we all listened to Def Leppard's "High and Dry", Finally, finally, the lights go dark again. Another crux. Only this one apparently is the main crux, not the stupid preliminary one. Cigarette lighters lit up the college-owned student center and suddenly a mysterious guitar started playing loud, mindless feedback. A spotlight centered on some dude. A member of Night Ranger, I assume. Then, a song I recognized started by way of guitar going from said feedback to song beginning. It was "You Can Still Rock in America", a fun rock tune from the 1900s with a catchy riff and fist-in-the-air chorus. Everyone around us, all fairly older than us, rocked out by way of banging heads a bit and devil horns in the air (which was a prerequisite for any live rock show, even Night Ranger). After an entire concert of songs that I can't name, except for "Sister Christian", we walked around the center, a couple satisfying high-fives to older concert-goers, and plenty of people gawking. Made it home late that night, and I'm sure my mom had to burn my clothes. Man, cigarettes were popular then. After that, my age, taste in music, taste in lifestyle, choice in friends, and overall joy of loud music mixed with charismatic machismo and kickassery led me to numerous big dumb rock & roll shows. These shows are rare nowadays. Yeah, you can go see Night Ranger at the county fair on the second stage on Thursday, right after Billy Ray Cyrus. But you can't smoke cigarettes. Not allowed. You might have a similar experience at a Foo Fighters show or maybe someone else I can't think of right now. But they'll never be the same as they were in the early days of fuckin' shit up. I talk big, but I didn't attend shows in the 70s or early 80s. You sonsabitches don't know what you had. Queen, Sabbath, Zeppelin, VH, AC/DC...in their prime. Son of gun. Now, these big dumb rock shows served their purpose. Back then, we actually liked to "party". A term forgone in today's language. We figured out where the other kids were by way of a couple telephone calls from a parent's landline (the only line), and then did our due diligence in finding where the best action was. That's right. If it were a house party, you can bet all of the big dumb rock bands were blasting via cassette tape. If it were a concert night, well shit, that just cranked the evening up to 11. The 80s were fun and brainless. Big. Dumb. Carefree. I have love affairs with punk rock music, some jazz, reggae, old country, and some other shit...but big, dumb, rock will always be part of my personality. It's so ridiculous, but so fucking wonderful. I'm drinking whisk, per use, and listening to a swell 80s metal mix I put together on my iPod. Remember that little green 3" iPod thing you could buy at Sears? I listen to that thing sometimes because I'm old and I don't care. At any rate, I hope you listen to this shit and enjoy yourself. That's what it's there for. It's both tongue-in-cheek, and tongue out. Rock on, dildos. -earl As another day of marathon child watching (or parenting, as some call it...) comes to a close, I find myself curled up with my daughter watching her new favorite movie, "Return of the Jedi". She likes the Muppets and the crappy CGI and all that. I am tired and numb and crotchety from hours upon hours upon hours of dadding, so I judge one of my all-time favorite things in life: Star Wars.
I am a major nerd when it comes to most things Star Wars--always have been. But I've never put much thought into "Jedi"--especially the opening sequence centered around Jabba's palace. Tonight though, I did. One: Let's just address the elephant in the room that is an all-around travesty of a representation of anything Star Wars in the character, Sy Snootles. The original wasn't great. If I remember correctly, the animatronics on her were reminiscent of the robotic mannequins in Herbie Hancock's "Rockit" video. The overall visual design worked ok, but the movements all seemed compromised and way too 1983 as far as Star Wars standards go. And now...NOW we have to watch Lucas's horseshit remake of a scene with an overly cartooned Sy, now aided by an even more nauseatingly cartooned Joe Cocker-looking motherfucker singing space jibberish at my face along with an elaborate, nails-on-the-chalkboard musical number. Throw in a very poorly-made Muppet playing the harmonica, and it gets really rough. Like, Jar Jar rough. Two: After a plan that pretty much sucked and failed, Luke comes in to save the day. Thing is, he pretty much sucks at being a Jedi at this point still. Definitely not up to Mandalorian final-episode standards yet. Why the elaborate plan to put the lightsaber in R2's head? Why not just bring the lightsaber into the palace with you and start fucking shit up? Why have a wink at Lando and then really do nothing? There was no plan there. Lando fell off the skiff...pretty much immediately. And the Rancor battle...c'mon man. Any other Jedi would've barbecued that fucker. At least give a little Jedi nod to close the gate on him instead of throwing a skull at it like a girl. Use the fucking Force, not your 4th grade girl's softball skills. They were all bringing some serious weak shit to this plan, and somehow salvaged a win out of it. I'm just glad Sy blew up on that sailbarge. Three: Boba...worst death ever. He's your most popular character coming off of "Empire", and you feed him to the Little Shop of Horrors houseplant by way of an unarmed blind man accidentally backing into him? Insult to injury--said houseplant belches afterwards. Show some fucking respect, George. I mean, I love Star Wars. But there's really only 3 or 4 good movies out of the 11. I wouldn't mind a total reboot done the way it should be done. Leave the original three and give them a better visual updating. Scrap the the prequels and call a redo. Hell, scrap the final Rey films and try again...they were good for nostalgia's sake, but pretty poor upon revisiting a few years later...sans maybe "The Force Awakens". Maybe. I tried to get Rubes to watch "Rouge One", but no dice. She likes what she likes. I can respect that. I'll stick to watching "Empire" on repeat and gorging myself with Mando reruns and feast upon "Book of Boba Fett" and Obi Wan's new show when they come out. Filoni and Favreau seem to have things under control. Hopefully there are more plans to clean up George's shitstorm and make things right. Nerds deserve that. But "Jedi"? Yeah, I've seen it 47,000 times. And yeah, it's a bit of a bummer of a sequel to to the greatest movie ever. But it's still fucking wonderful. -earl I am remarkably guilty. I look at screens way more than I should. And for that, I am truly apologetic.
My main reasons for screen-gazing are more or less related to my interests in comic book collecting, fishing, and cooking. I try real, real hard not to get sucked into idiot's agendas. Morons praising bigger morons. The cultists who have no brains of their own, so they worship Boebert, Rogan (not Seth), Carlson, Trump, and the like. Worship-ee's, who certainly in my eyes, are bad guys. Their beliefs and agendas couldn't be more different than mine--and I'm a good guy. It's difficult to gaze past this real-time shit while checking out vintage comic book pages and not get annoyed. It's disheartening, and it's too bad. *Here is when I take a sip and digress.* I'll tell you what though--ain't nothing cures the dipshit blues like a glass of whisk and some rock & roll via Princess Leia-esque headphones. At the end of the day, after seeing absolute brainlessness happening around our country...on the television, on the telephone screen, on the laptop computer...there just ain't a whole lot you can do about it, unfortunately. Yeah, you can vote. You can post your frustrations on the social media and pick fights with the braindead--but where's that gonna get you? Nowhere, friend. Can't win a verbal war against a brainless fuckstick. There is a very sane corner of my mind that wants dearly to turn a blind eye to current events and news in general. If it's really important, I'll find out eventually. I suppose I feel informed, in the loop, grown-up, intelligent when I am up to date on the worldly and political happenings, but being this informed, grown-up person also causes me a lot stress and distress. It makes me judge others--and rightfully so, they're fucking wrong. But imagine a world where I have no cares about what's happening. I have no idea what my peers are thinking, because I don't care. I embrace people because they're people, not because they think like I do. Granted, the truth will eventually come out about how vile they are, and then they're dead to me. But until then: bliss. Ignorance is bliss, you know it's true. *Ramones, 1989 There is this balance that I'd like to obtain between being "somewhat" informed, and happily dumb. The less I know, the better. Because when I get deep into current events, politics, and world happenings, I become fairly unhappy because it's all maddening. So many stupid, stupid people. And unfortunately, the idiots on the TV influence our neighbors and everyday folks, too. That is when you just have to start punching. It's the only answer. So... If I can achieve and maintain this balance of being just a little informed on shit that actually matters and affects me...plus, pouring a cocktail, slapping on the headphones, and listening to "Whole Lotta Rosie", I believe I've won. I don't need to know what maniacal words Marjorie Taylor Greene upchucked today. I don't need to know that Joe Rogan can suck his own dick (real headline). Donald T. isn't infuriating me on a daily basis with his cult-master dipshitetness anymore. So let's all just relax, have a drink, and turn off the screens. Let's embrace the bliss. It's the only cure for the dipshit blues. -earl |
AuthorI am Earl. Archives
May 2024
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