The Last Day

I sat at the corner of a big, rectangle, wooden table in what would be the least busy part of the bar. It was a dive bar, with grit and grime and smoke tar embedded into the walls and ceiling tiles. The stage was only elevated about ten inches, giving an audience an intimate relationship with whoever was on stage. I watched him sweat as he played and sang the aggressive bluesey notes he was so accustomed to performing every day and night. Always leveling up a little more with every performance. The excessive volume of the amplifier was used as a guitar effect, rumbling and rattling with every half note tuned down growl of the E string. There was nothing artificial about him or the music that was bleeding out. The man was a combination of a Godly touch along with years of finger bleeding practice and experimental guitar tone.

If there was an audience, I couldn’t see them. I was just barely off on the corner out of sight. It seemed like there was no one out there. No accumulated beer bottles. No murmur or spattered applause wafting smoke from cheap cigars. I couldn’t even see a band on the stage or even their shadows. Not even the sound of any music being pumped out of sour beer stained amplifiers. Just a silent, muffled hum like a soft rain. It was as if there was a sound barrier in front of me. A curtain between me and the rest of the house, completely invisible but permeable for the thick air of the claustrophobic space to infiltrate. But still, he was performing with all the vigor of satisfying a full house.

The blank silent song ended and I watched as he exited the stage with a quick wave and was headed towards my table. It wasn’t a coincidence, I picked this table in hopes I would meet the dude.

He was exhausted as he stood with his hands flat on the table and looking straight down. It’s always a bit of a surprise when someone famous appears larger than life but turns out to be a little guy. I knew he was a man with a small frame from years of seeing pictures of him standing next to other people. Still, it was a strange thing to take it all in. I was enamored with his simple presence. I knew this would be the only time I would ever be this close.

He looked up at someone behind me as a signal that he was ready for a refresher then briefly glanced over at my eager face. I extended my hand for a handshake and he just shook his head, like he was saying, not now man, not now.

My eyes fell downward as my arm went limp. He saw my disappointment and quickly reevaluated. He reluctantly offered his hand out of pure kindness. His grip was weak from his lack of enthusiasm, and his eyes continued to look straight ahead, acknowledging me as little as possible, but I was just happy to shake the hand of my biggest hero.

As he withdrew his hand and sipped on his glass of ice water garnished with a dull, yellowed lemon, something awakened in him after a few seconds, like he got his energy back, and he was suddenly amused at my presence. He took another look and saw something in me that was friendly and real, like we could actually be friends. He smiled and extended his hand again. This time grasping my hand with a firm, energetic grip.

I eagerly shook his hand again, this time with overwhelming happiness as he drew in my arm closer, uncomfortably forcing my hand to touch the top of his belt. He was joking around like he was making me touch his crotch. I started laughing and said, “What hell am I going to tell people? Hey, I touched his pecker!” He was laughing at my expense but it was all in good fun. It was completely spontaneous, not a power play or show of aggressive dominance. It was just a funny, stupid thing to do in the moment. A way to make a monotonous ritual a little more interesting and unexpected.

Then it was if time had hiccuped. It was suddenly a different moment where I saw him again, but it was later, after the show in a dimly lit corridor. It was somber. Something had changed. He was a little sad and a little confused and very alone. Time jumped for him as well. He knew something had happened, something was different, but he didn’t know what it was.

He walked towards me through the crawling haze coming from the stage in the background creeping into the corridor, the lights slowly drawing up behind him, just bright enough to see the back room turn white, erasing everything in the distance and filling the area with a dull, smokey glow. He approached me with a question on his face. It was THE question.

All I could say is, “Do you feel it?”

He asked, “Yeah. Is this it? It’s over?”

I replied, “It’s over, but you gotta know, it’s not really over. You touched a lot of lives and you’ll keep on touching people, for a long time. You did good”.

He asked, “So why are YOU here?” and I answered, “I don’t really know, I think to say goodbye. And to meet my hero”.

He smiled and said, ” Yeah, well, you know I don’t do anything that don’t just come to me”.

“I know,…still…” I said with an affirming grin.

He put his hand on my upper arm, just below my shoulder. He gave a subtle squeeze I would feel for the rest of my life, and he nodded. He was sad but it was okay. He simply accepted his fate like he’d always done. Death was just the final encore.

As he turned and began to walk away, he stopped, as if to ask one final question. He looked back at me, and was getting ready to ask his carefully worded thought. He wasn’t sure of how much he really wanted to know. The how and why? The details. He wanted to approach it with delicacy. He started to ask, but I interrupted, “It was okay, not the worst, but not the best either, but it was okay”.

He seemed to be satisfied with that, and with a single nod, he continued to walk on. The details didn’t really matter anyway.

I watched until the moment stopped in time, like I was watching a movie scene that was suddenly frozen in frame. He was walking away with one leg stepping ahead, then it all just suddenly stopped.

Raised Stupid

I was raised stupid. I wasn’t taught or expected to know anything about anything, especially once I proved my aptitude for failure.

I was left behind, ignored, humored, and condescended to by my educators and parents. It seemed they were all busy with other things, unwilling to sacrifice precious time to waste on a stupid child.

I also didn’t pay attention when someone was actually teaching because I didn’t know how to learn. I usually lost interest in class for a brief moment and daydreamed. Then I was lost and couldn’t find my way back. I didn’t know what I missed and nothing made sense. I was also too ashamed to say anything and I was ridiculed if I was discovered.

I was a lousy student. I was consistently punished for it. Often physically. Dragged out of the second grade classroom and into the hall by the hair on the back of my neck and bare ass spanked. Swatted and paddled in the echoing halls of Middle School with the classroom door open so everyone could hear, or on direct shameful display in front of the class with the overly used cliche’ spoken by my smirking aggressor, “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it’s going to hurt me”. I was continually made the example of the consequences of failure.

I was always just on the edge of failing and usually pulled my grades up at the last minute to keep from repeating. It doesn’t seem like anyone could reach me, or even try and find the magic formula to tempt my interest, so I just fell further and further behind. There were a few true teachers that made a difference, but it never lasted long. I moved away, or they did, or the year was over and the perils of summer simply erased my mind.

After my student career was done, halfway through the tenth grade in the third high school I attended, abrupted by a fleeting decision made by my dad to simply drop out, I perpetually wandered again. It wasn’t until I met some particular people that I even examined my intelligence.

They were smart, well educated, articulate, and accepting. They didn’t care that I was a dropout. They didn’t know how much I failed. They didn’t know about the extent of trouble I had with the law and trying to survive my wayward adolescence. They only knew I was rough around the edges but had a good soul.

The following months, while they were intermittent from their own individual further higher education, I realized, very slowly, that I was becoming their peer. The time I spent listening and engaging in philosophy, history, and general sensibility made me realize that maybe I wasn’t actually stupid. How could I even remotely understand and contribute if I was incapable of intellectual thought?

I was highly uneducated and felt like an outsider, because I was, but as I listened and learned from my reasonably educated friends, it made me want to be educated. Something awakened in me. Like the dull filimient of a primitive light bulb.

I also realized that in school, although I was always on the precipice of failing classes, I always had the intellectual ability to listen and learn. I absorbed from the students around me that actually read the books and did the assignments. I pulled together enough information to pass the final exams that allowed me to advance to the next level. I studied nothing but gathered the minimum knowledge I needed to survive. I even passed the GED exams on a whim without a single moment of studying.

My stupidity was a lie. But my lack of knowledge was a true disability. My grades, trauma, and broken home prevented any opportunity for higher education inside the establishment. But because of one summer, and meeting a particular wonderful set of friends, my mind was enlightened. I didn’t know myself or what I was capable of until then.

Now I’m drawn to smart people. I listen to them and scavenge their education. I have the ability to detect misinformation and judge character. I’ve been on the street, homeless, lived on couches in condos, and employed in mansions. I’ve followed dreams and toiled away for meaningless survival. I’ve been dead broke, worked for nothing or too little to survive. I’ve seen the wealthy and the impoverished show the exact same traits of evil and good. I’ve seen the brainwashed and self righteous oppress and blindly justify themselves. I’ve seen the downtrodden rise above us all. And I’ve seen the intelligent betray themselves by following a frenzy. Abandoning their own instinct for emotion.

My advice for myself and all of society is simple. Examine your stupidity. Categorize it, then listen to those smarter than you. Listen to what they say rather than how they say it. Big words and emotions are a distraction. Intellect is not arrogant or superior. It is simply the reflex of a good soul.

I learned this with the help of my friends and am forever grateful. I probably would have discovered it eventually anyway, but not without listening to my own internal soul.

Knowledge is a forever journey and simply learning how to learn is perhaps the biggest challenge of all.

Book Review

It’s strange to read a book by an author I know on a personal level. Although I don’t know them well enough to know where they begin and their character ends. I do know it is a mix of both. The book is a blend of fiction and reality.

It’s strange to know exactly the taste of the dust in the breeze they describe and the color of a specific sky. A geographical place where part of myself also still lives. People I shared real moments with that I can feel through the pages. I can decipher the code and know the actual people who’s names have been changed. I learned of their disappointment in a real person disguised as character building.

It’s like holding the hand of a stranger with the same past. Crossing lives in another dimension, foreign but familiar. Like a kid being friends with their parents friends kids. It just feels a little weird.

It’s a good book, with good intentions, but as someone methodically judgemental, who can feel people and see through facades, I have issues. Don’t worry, I’m not going to point them all out. I have no intention to expose the author or the book.

I find it intriguing that our society has so many quirks. So many crevices and corners of our personalities and beliefs. That people are absolute products of their environments. Myself included.

I can sense a struggle with the characters development and a fear of embracing them fully since the character goes against the authors own beliefs. I assume it’s hard to write about something you don’t understand. An example would be an Atheist character treating suicide as a sin. It doesn’t exactly add up.

It’s interesting to me, especially since I am sadly not an avid reader, that I can see into the depths of someone, knowing only a little information about them. I’m also open to being completely wrong. That’s just as interesting.

I recognize there’s very often a membrane, due to a life of privilege and clouded with religious beliefs, that leave aspects of a partial fictional story bare and shallow. The forbidden topics and underlying sins are left out of the context of the story, and it leaves a giant hole. It’s the same in all forms of art. Sometimes something is missing. It’s a little off. Personally, I compare it to the insincerity of most faith music and pandering politicians.

I even recognize it in my own art forms when I miss the mark. I’m sure we would all fix it if we could, but it’s as complicated as human psychology. It’s like defining “soul” in a guitar solo. It’s just there or it ain’t.

Those same material and spiritual tangents can leave a hole in real life as well, and ironically, they are designed to fill a person up.

I think that’s the saddest thing about a giant portion of humankind. Not knowing how to recognize sincerity and follow our hearts. The intentional confusion and distractions thrown at us by malicious players disconnect us from ourselves and our own spirits.

Recently, we were reminded of that through the death of Sinead O’Connor. That’s all she was ever trying to say, but few listened.

All in all, it was a good story. It’s the author’s first book and I am not much of a reader anyway, unless I have nothing else I can do. I’m not even educated. My opinion is useless. I obviously enjoy the philosophy of it all as much as anything else. And yes, I am just as harsh and critical of myself and it annoys everyone.

Go read a book!

Festus Banana Truck Chuck

“He’s gone!” Carter’s exact words when I asked if he’d talked to Chuck. It was his own way of telling me the news. He was waiting for the moment I would expand the conversation and ask about our friend. It was said as a statement, less of an exclamation, but more like an unexpected surprise short answer, as if I’d asked if Chuck was home. Nope, He took off. He’s gone.

I told Carter that it’s been strange to mourn and grieve for days for someone who hasn’t even died yet. Chuck really got us this time.

The day before, I was struggling with the idea of calling up my friend in Hospice and offering to play some music over the phone to distract from the brutality of waiting for an excruciatingly slow death. My empathy had been tormented for days by the thought of what Earthly Hell they were all going through. My only capacity for expression was writing song lyrics from their dog’s point of view. What was poor Sophie feeling? Chuck had said it was only going to take a few days for the end to come, but then, with a little research prompted by one of Carter’s texts, I realized it could be weeks. I read that the death could even be painful with volatile illness, or drug induced and out of consciousness. I wanted to reach out. I was jumping out of my skin wanting to know. I finally expressed my concern to Carter’s wife, Darla, someone I could trust to understand, and a close friend of Chuck’s wife. She’s also well educated in medicine and understood the situation better than most.

I didn’t want to intrude or disrupt. I was struggling with my place as a friend and a musician. I was not sure if it was appropriate for me to offer my ability as a guitar player and songwriter to give him some comfort, or if I just wanted to make myself feel better, or if I should just leave them alone. My battle with reasoning with myself and my instincts were wildly confused but Darla ensured me to just follow my heart.

So I was getting ready to call Chuck and offer a private performance. I was setting up in my little studio when I noticed Carter had called earlier. I thought maybe Darla had told him about my question and he was going to give me some new information or advice. I thought, I should wait to call Chuck until I knew why Carter had called. It turned out Chuck wouldn’t have answered anyway. “He’s gone!” He took off!

I knew of Chuck’s illness and difficulty from my recent visits back to Lubbock. I’ve been visiting the dusty little big town quite often over the last few years. My good friend, Lee, died of cancer just a few years earlier, and more recently, I’ve moved my elderly mother from there, closer to my current town for caretaking. Throughout the last few years, I have reconnected with my old friends.

I consider Lubbock my home town although I only lived there for about five years, off and on. But since childhood I’ve been visiting both sides of my family that chose to settle, for some unknown reason, in Lubbock, Texas. My Aunt Linda was a school teacher along with Chuck’s mom and had been friends for years. Chuck was one of the few that had actually seen my Kids Music CD that my Aunt had bought multiples of. I’m not sure what she did with them, but I appreciated her support of ‘Bugs for Dinner ‘. She’s the only family member that’s ever purchased my music and because of her, Chuck also knew me as a musician.

I had an idea to write a song about Chuck and his wild, younger days. Especially since he was sick and most likely didn’t have but a few more years. I wanted to get it done while he was still alive and could enjoy it. I wrote down some verses and had the opportunity to let Chuck read them at a Thanksgiving get-together my Lubbock crowd called “Friendsgiving”. Chuck, Carter, and Bryan all had some input and memory corrections so I rewrote it a few times before I recorded it. All the while, Chuck’s health was declining. I pressured myself to work as fast as I could, without forcing creativity, and luckily released the song to the World in time for the now immortal Chuck to hear the finished product. I sent it out on social media but hadn’t heard from Chuck. I was hoping my friends would get it to him since he wasn’t active online much, but no one was promoting it and I didn’t want to ask. I finally worked up the courage to get his number and call him up. I didn’t know if he was okay with any of it, after all, I had put some of his pretty personal information into the public song without getting his explicit permission.

It turned out, he was fine with it. And some of the last words he said to me were thanking me for making him happy in his last months of his life. I said I knew it was a weird thing to do, but I’m glad I could do it. I’m so glad it made him happy.

He called just days before he died to say goodbye. I’m grateful and sad.

Before he died, my most recent visit to Lubbock was to a memorial for my cousin’s husband. A sudden and unexpected death. We can only use these moments for goodness as an opportunity for family to connect. While I was there in Lubbock again, I took some extra time to record video footage of a 1/24 scale model replica I made of Chuck’s old yellow, 1966, Chevy Pickup, created solely for the making of the Music Video to accompany his song. I knew his eyesight wouldn’t allow him to see the video, so I gave him the model pickup I crafted before I left town. It was the last visit. I asked Carter and Darla to go with me. They didn’t know how much I needed their support. They made it much easier for me and I’m glad they could be there for me and everyone. While sitting in the living room beside a dwindled tower of Dialysat boxes, Chuck let me play his prized ‘Zager’ guitar and even sang an improvised blues song to the tune of “Pride and Joy”. It was hilarious and beyond great to see him happy. He occasionally played with the remote control model truck, zooming it across the room and listening to where it went. He had a very nice night. Something he had very few of.

When he called that last time to tell me about his final decision, we talked long and honest. He spoke about burials and the few that couldn’t accept his fateful decision. He asked if I’d made the music video yet and although I hadn’t, I was happy to tell him some of the ideas I had. I mostly got to explain the music video so he could visualize it, which is what someone would’ve had to do anyway, so, in a way, he actually saw it before anyone ever could. I’m happy that happened too.

Each visit I had with Chuck, I was amazed at his optimism and endurance, his humor and strength. Even towards the end, he’d lost his will to live but was still listening, still telling stories, and seemed happy to have a conversation. I admire his courage to do what he did. We were never close friends, but as I explained in person and on the phone about why I wrote the song about him in the first place, I was happy to know him.

Chuck was my fourth friend to die in the last few years. Each one is different. It’s sad to know I’m learning all the ways people die and navigating so many of the confusing feelings I have.

When my friend, Lee, died, I was putting together a personal comeback music album and struggling with sobriety. One of the songs was specifically about him and his family and life as a truck driver. I was trying to get it together with music and videos for him, but I was having a hard time. I also felt like I was being egotistical and self absorbed if I played my guitar while people were hurting. As if I was making it all about me, demanding attention and taking it away from those who need it.

But with Chuck’s illness, I was trying to balance those feelings, knowing that maybe I could make things a little more bearable. I regret not being more helpful with Lee. And for some reason, I convinced myself that these friends weren’t part of my life as a musician, so I didn’t want to be a different person around them. It wasn’t until just recently I realized I was always playing music in some way or another. I’m just being stupid. I should just do what I do. I’m coming to terms that maybe my ability might also be a responsibility. I just have to learn to be comfortable with it even though I don’t want the attention.

I also give credit to Chuck for making me think about my place and my ability. As I quietly played guitar at the Friendsgiving get-together, I noticed that Chuck was really enjoying it. The way I always did even before I could play. He was even disappointed when I abruptly put the guitar away. For some reason, I suddenly felt overwhelmed with anxiety and wasn’t feeling well. I heard him say, “I guess we’re done playing guitar”.

I still have some issues with playing in certain settings. I was even shy and unprepared at the last visit with Chuck. I can’t really explain why I choke, but I’m working on it. I can play for strangers so much easier than with friends. I think maybe I don’t want to be special. I think I have a debilitating anxiety. And I think I should have worked this out a long time ago.

I’m happy and sad about the song, “Banana Truck Chuck”. It’s another friend that rightfully should have grown old and ornery. He would have been great at it.

Death is another thing about life I don’t understand. There’s nothing fair about it. It often takes good people and leaves the unworthy. It teaches me things I don’t want to know. It hurts and never heals.

The day I was going to call Chuck and play guitar, I was watering plants on a job site. I was thinking about how I could help him feel better, like watering a plant. I can’t save a sick plant, but I can make it perk up a little.

I’d also been thinking of learning a favorite Hank Williams Sr. song for about a month, so I thought maybe I could play it later. I’m not sure how appropriate ‘I’m so lonesome I could cry’ would have been, but it was followed by ‘I’ll fly away’. Strangely, my research would’ve been playing those songs on my phone at the exact same time he passed away.

It also got me thinking about those old songs. They were gritty and dark and filled with real life sadness.

“Did you ever see a Robin weep

When leaves began to die?

Like me he’s lost the will to live

I’m so lonesome I could cry”

These songs were written in a time where modern Hospice didn’t exist. People died young, painfully, in a home they’d built themselves. They didn’t understand the illness they had and the only comfort they had was in gospel and in song.

One of Chuck’s nicknames was ‘Festus’ after the wiley character in the TV western, Gunsmoke. Chuck looked and acted a bit like him and possibly died in much the same way Festus would have died, but much more quickly, peaceful, and without pain, surrounded by love and terribly missed in a home he built himself.

Rest in Peace, Festus Banana Truck Chuck. You will be greatly missed.

Evolution

3 1/2 years sober.
The relationship I have with booze is wildly complicated.

As an aspiring musician, I’m forced into the cult of alcohol. The venues I’m reaching out to are primarily houses for drinking. There’s food and entertainment, but the biggest profit from any evening establishment is always alcohol sales. James McMurtry says on a live album, “Here I thought I was a musician, but turns out I’m really just a beer salesman”.

That’s just the way it is. We can have issues with the system and society, but as long as alcohol is promoted and encouraged for profit, ain’t a thing anyone can do about it.

I’m aware that my discussion is possibly self sabotaging.

As a musician that very much needs to pander to these performance venues, I am biting the hand that I hope will feed me. But there are plenty of bar owners that fully understand alcoholism, the only way they can, by being an alcoholic themselves, reformed or not. I know they won’t be offended.

It’s not entirely their fault. Selling alcohol is their business, although their true intentions are providing a service, a good time and a way to unwind. It’s considered therapy and socializing and Humans desperately need that.

It’s also not any individuals fault.

I don’t want to shame anyone for letting loose. This is where it gets complicated. I fear I come across as preachy at times, and have straight up been accused of acting like a born again religious fanatic. A reformed alcoholic spewing blame and guilting people for enjoying themselves. I apologize if that’s the interpretation, but also, if that’s how you hear it, check yourself, alcoholism is sneaky.

In absolute honesty, it’s just all about me. My own study of myself. It has become an interesting experiment. My beginnings of alcoholism as an eight year old drinking Tequila, whiskey, and beer well into my teenage years of binge drinking, and continuing the party way after the party was over. To the brutal alcoholic deaths of my father, friends, and acquaintances to somehow wind up here on the other side, miraculously still alive. In hindsight, it seems quite predictable that I was destined to wind up with a drinking problem.

Most everyone is aware of the potential to become an alcoholic. Functional or dysfunctional. There are even laws in place to make us keenly aware of the danger. The real problem is how we embrace alcohol as a society. Ignoring the dangers or worse, glorifying them. Turning to drinking when there’s a problem. Turning to drinking to have a good time. It sounds insane if you think about it.

I think everyone has a slightly different relationship with alcohol. It’s something we all have to figure out. Our tolerance, our ability to reason, and our physical limitations. And there’s only one way to study. Get trashed a few times and see how it pans out.

My sobriety has gone through stages. My first attempt lasted about a year. The initial withdrawal was very intense. I couldn’t sleep for months. My brain was rebooting and every thought seemed broken. I eventually started thinking and feeling again and it was weird. It was mostly indescribable but I felt like thousands of small computers coming on line, one by one. It’s still happening today, but not as intense.

The internal rage, bitterness, self loathing, and cloudiness my disease had been cultivating was slowly breaking apart and I could feel it. There was a raging storm inside my entire being.

I still had a desire to drink. Especially since my wife continued to enjoy her wine. It was extremely hard to suddenly remove my entire lifestyle, drinking more than a few beers to relax. Especially grilling and working in the music studio.

I made a deal with myself. I’d only drink during these times and I’d limit myself to three beers. And I would only drink high quality, delicious Mexican beer with salt and lime on ice. It worked for about three months, then three beers turned into eight. But that’s where I stopped. Eight was my magic number. I continued for another year.

I saw a doctor and told him my biggest motivation to stop drinking was the death of my friend, but I had started again. He said, “How many friends have to die?” Then apologized for being so harsh. I thought it was kinda funny. We all need a harsh truth sometimes.

Eight beers was about half of what I was drinking nightly the years before. I actually felt more healthy. I was drinking twelve to twenty-six beers every night for over ten years. I don’t know how I sustained.

I realized that I wasn’t healthy and I was lying to myself. I had pain in my gut again and was incredibly weak. I realized that I was going to have to quit for good, or die. The alcohol revealed itself as a disease that I could not wager. A demon monster that controlled my thoughts and led me to believe lies. The disease made me betray myself. I now understood just how my father died. I understand how my friend died. The disease uses all of your existing sadness, discomfort, shame, and self doubt and coddles you with the intent to kill you. Like an invasive weed that eventually chokes itself out.

The second time I quit was amazingly different from the first. I still had insomnia but there were new things. It felt different. I developed a sweet tooth. My memories came back in true color. My reasoning sharpened and my desire to live returned.

I also know, from experience, that if I drink at all again, I might not survive. I have to leave it forever and that’s a scary thing. Not because I have a desire, that’s actually gone, but because of the stories we hear about relapse twenty years later. It always ends bad. I have to always remember that the monster is waiting. I didn’t kill it. It’s still there. It lies in dormancy and will always be there.

Three and a half years later, I still feel my brain growing. I’m alive again. I feel my hard age, but I’m not consumed with sadness. I believe I have some undiagnosed clinical depression, but going through my dark spells now is more rare and less painful without alcohol. I am aware that my brief suicidal thoughts and sadness are just another monster. That monster used to have a very powerful friend and together, they wanted me dead. They almost succeeded.

So now when a concerned friend asks me if I’m okay with their drinking, I have to respond with a quick answer. “Yeah, fine”. Explaining it takes to long and they are trying to party, but eventually, they’re loose and have lost their inhibition and they ask again. So I tell them about some of this.

I’m not concerned with you. I’m just remembering and imagining myself and how I once was. I’m not judging anyone although I strikingly recognize the symptoms of potential problems for you. But I understand, you’re just trying to have fun. You’re already aware that you’re dancing with a devil, or you wouldn’t be concerned. So was I, until it got out of control. Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. Don’t worry about it now anyway. I’m sorry I make you feel awkward. Go ahead and have a good time. Let’s see if you can let me have one too.

Legends of Austin – Cosmic Cowboys

It was fifty years ago. Something happened in the universe. Jupiter got stupider or Saturn got smart, or Mars collided with some other stars, but whatever it was, it created a Cosmic Cowboy. A different kind of traveler. A storyteller that didn’t adhere to any established rules. An outcast, a societal misfit that just happened to gather with others cut from the same cloth. Drawn by cosmic energy focused on a specific spot on the globe. Like ants to a grain of sugar. Like bugs to a light bulb. Like cotton candy around the lips of the gods.

I don’t know all the facts and I refuse to be bound by the strict rules of journalistic integrity. I deal in rumor and folklore. Tales of the unknown and low class mystery. I’ll tell what I think I know, embellish for creative flair and glorify that which I know little about.

Because I wasn’t there, but I felt the energy as an infant. It affects me to this day. My mind was corrupted by the same big bang and has led me throughout my awkward life of waywardness. Searching for the collective of like minds in this vast world of round holes and square pegs.

I yearn for the type of comradery and shared intellectual being as they once had. A pack of wild wolves strangely drawn to the same pond. To drink from the same creative waters that would forge a new art form. Temporarily sustainable, legendary, and the power to shape a nation. Creating the seeds of sound and style that generations would feel forever in their souls. Souls that are sometimes completely unaware of its existence.

The Cowboys are still around, well, most of them anyway. They’ve agreed to get old and survive the chemicals and ignorance of their youth. Some used the popular drugs of their generation to experience expanded thought and consciousness while others kept their minds pure and un-enhanced, or unaltered. It was that social division that ultimately corrupted their world, causing the downfall of their temporary culture. The room was divided by users and non users, two different attitudes that didn’t mix. Unable to effectively communicate.

Like any spark of life, the creation must evolve by duplication and the original copy will eventually deteriorate, doomed to fade into cultural obscurity. It’s now only legend, with a few occasional elderly reunions in dimly lit rooms along the paths of its original trek. Giving new life to memories and memories giving new life.

The unofficial club of Cosmic Cowboys. There was never a membership jacket or dues to be paid. Membership only required some scribbles on random sheets and mindful floating ideas that became the anthems of a generation.

It was an original flame of creation that lasted as long as anything else of purity in a corrupt society. Giving birth to evolutionary marketing and fueling years of unchecked capitalism and greed. Branding a new, less friendly, but purely American ideal of badassery to blanket the nation with self indulgent worship for generations to follow. Even the icons were uncomfortable with the idea. It was a false identity. A farce. A delusion. It became the Outlaw era. And it’s influence is still corrupting our society and making tons of money.

But it’s important to note, the Outlaw craze was always just a marketing stunt that appealed to those who needed a self gratifying identity larger than their own life. To those that can grab on to a culture that makes them feel powerful. Like a pistol in hand or having a warning sticker on the back of a vehicle that seems to suggest their own vigilante justice is above the law. Proudly proclaimed that the vehicle is protected by Smith and Wesson. It isn’t true, but it’s empowering to pretend. A fantasy can create the same feeling of confidence as a flamboyant red sports jacket and a little hair gel.

Meanwhile the less aggressive original mantra of simply following your own path was mostly forgotten. It was less appealing for a mass frenzy. There were no poster boys. No gods of coolness to worship. They were just people. People that were a little odd. People whose intentions were never based on greed or wealth, but art. Simply art, in the form of music and words and a good time to be had.

I’m a straggler Cosmic Cowboy, lost in time. I’m not the only one. I can’t be.

I don’t have the resources to create a new generation of Cosmic Cowboys, and yes, it was financed. Someone had the space to create the universe. The dollars and clout to book the venue for experimental research. Motivated by just having a party and to see where it lead. To create a gathering of songwriter dorks and goofy artsy fartsies and push the record button to capture the moment in unlost time. It was a collaboration, unorganized and whimsical. Motivated by boredom and the desire to simply entertain themselves. I can only assume that some attempts were total flops, but surely led to successes. Eventually, the pot was stirred long enough and magic happened. The sugar caramelized. The dough rose.

I can only imagine what it was like to be there. To live in the moment of future nostalgia. I’ve had some relatable moments, but nothing that lasted. And nothing that was shared on such a massive scale. I assume they all were aware of what was happening when it was happening. I’m sure they knew they would be legends and revered as musical heroes. No, no they didn’t know.

The buildings that once provided the stages have all been torn down and replaced with corporate money generators. The music has been added to the vast ocean of noise on the internet, only to be discovered by a few curious cultural small town mindset historians. The lyrics have been integrated with our societal phrasing, the origin and actual meaning lost in the fuzziness of trend and now seems utterly meaningless. Cowboys, Hippies, Redneck Mothers?

But that creative spark still exists. There are places and gatherings that can be conducive to creating another wave of Cosmic Cowboys. The universe just has to align and focus on a specific spot on the globe. Again.

And I hope I’m there this time.

Pride

Heavy post time.

My youngest kid’s birthday is on Halloween.

He’s always had a difficult time just existing. He’s had issues with anxiety and depression since the very day he was born.

It’s taken a lot of work to figure him out.

Right now he’s attempting middle school. He’s been mostly home schooled since the first grade. It’s really difficult with his social challenges but he’s trying so hard.

He’s figuring himself out too.

Luckily, he has a great team of educators working with him this time around. The support he’s getting this year is awesome and is making all the difference.

I told him that if he can manage middle school he can do anything.

It’s probably the most difficult time in our American lives. Kids are mean. Grown ups are mean. Everyone is judgmental and impatient all while we’re trying to go through a massive brain development that shapes us for the rest of our lives.

Some of us don’t make it. We have an arrested development and stay at a seventh grade mentality forever, ironically forever unaware.I am incredibly proud of both my kids, but Halloween is all for my little monster.

________________________________________

I’m also proud of myself.

I was about his age when my family broke apart and I was essentially emotionally abandoned. These are formidable years and I am proof of the damage that can be caused by shitty alcoholic parents.

I was also battling being a shitty alcoholic parent up until just a few years ago. I was just slightly better than my own shitty alcoholic parents because I was still trying at least. But hangover dad is never a good look. I couldn’t be there 100%.

When they say, “where do you want to be five years from now?” Well, five years ago, I wanted to be dead and I was well on my way. (told you this was heavy). My depression was gloriously intensified by alcohol and I was hell bent on drinking myself to death.

My most powerful driving motivation for getting sober and fighting alcoholism (besides not leaving a disgusting mess for everyone else to clean up) was my kids.

I knew they were still going to need a dad. A functional one.

A sober one. So I quit drinking. It finally took after a few tries.

I tell my kids, there’s no such thing as failure as long as you keep trying.

And now I can see the difference I make in my kids lives. I see it every day. I’m not bragging, I’m just glad I survived to do some good and even make new stupid mistakes.

I’m proud that I have surpassed my own parents. I also thoroughly enjoy the time I have with the kiddos before they grow up and leave.

No matter what I do with my own life to call it “success”, from here on, I’m satisfied. I survived when others haven’t. I’m still here and that’s something.

And I think my kids are going to be okay.

At least I’m not going to make their lives worse.

The 4th of July in Great America

Published on Facebook July 8, 2022

Being annoyed at the insanity of the 4th of July has got me thinking.

It used to be about celebrating the existence of the USA. Patriotic and proud of our freedom. With BBQs and parades and a hot summer day off work. To watch TV and hang out with friends and family. To celebrate being an American with baseball, hot dogs, burgers, and watermelon. And watching little kids chase fireflies or play spotlight in the evening.

We didn’t always have enormous fireworks that looked like a professional display in our own yards. We didn’t have as many obnoxiously loud bombs that caused dogs to run away in absolute terror for hours and cause wildlife to panic and die. And most of us had a water hose ready to put out the sparks in the driveway or the street.

If there was a fire, it was because we weren’t warned about drought and we were careless. Now, everybody knows about the fire danger and there’s no excuse.

The big displays lasted an hour and were put on for the whole town to enjoy, at the park or the high school, not just private parties.

We were ignorant to the atrocities at the beginnings of our country, slavery and genocide. The ugly truth about our nation’s history that current politicians are trying to bury again, which just makes it worse. They’ve made the horrors of our nation now front and center. Reminded of it with every silenced teacher. It makes it so much harder to ignore, even for just one day.

Patriotism now has been marketed to the worst people in the country, and flying the flag is now a radical political statement. It didn’t use to be this way.

Our beautiful nation is now not so beautiful anymore. Made so by the very people that are so obnoxiously proud of it. The very people that want only one version of it. That point their finger in your face and accuse you of being something other than an American simply because you want good things. The people that don’t actually understand the Constitution and the fragility of our Nation.

The 4th of July is ruined for me now. Hopefully not forever, but things are going to have to change for the better, for everyone. Everyone.

I want someday to fly the flag proudly because of the good we caused, the wrongs we righted, and the opportunity and freedom we promised. I want my kids to worry about changing the future world for the better, not just getting back to common decency. I wish they could just work for above and beyond decency and the terrible past is completely unrelatable.

I don’t understand why we occupy ourselves with making things more difficult. We have the ability to solve every problem our country has, if we could just get to work. I don’t understand the constant blocking of progress and desire to go back to the worst times in our history. There’s no making us great ‘again’, we were never great.

But we could be.

Save the Innocent Little Democracy

The latest judgement by the United States Supreme Court has overturned Roe v Wade and left the issue of abortion to the States.

If you read just a little about the original case, you will learn the federal government ruled against Texas banning abortion. It was challenged years later in Planned Parenthood v Casey that ruled for the right to an abortion for the safety of the mother.

The conservative right argues that they are saving God’s innocent little babies. This is based on a false presumption that God cares since the Bible has no mention of unlawful abortion. It’s actually the opposite. The Bible has references to killing unborn children in the bellies of their enemies, but no mention of saving them.

Religion has no place in the Supreme Court or our government, but yet, here we are, arguing theology with 60 to 80 percent of the population in support of women’s rights to choose. Our nation is now corrupt.

The purpose of religion is answering the question of why we are here and what lies beyond.

When I was 12( the age of reason) I questioned the existence of God. I was afraid to even think the thoughts.

I’d been told my entire life that it was a sin to question God and I would go to Hell. But I just had to try and make sense of it and risk it. Why are there so many different religions? If only one is the correct one, and all others are wrong and they go to Hell, it seems like a pretty big crap shoot. My 12 year old brain was wildly confused.

When I realized that it wasn’t real, that religion had a different purpose than just obeying the man in the sky, I was freed from the constraints of a narrow view of the universe. I discovered and invented my own answers to some really deep questions. I learned later that I wasn’t the only one with those questions and answers. And God also never hit me with lightning.

I also feel like we as humans are incapable of understanding it all. Just as an insect, I presume, doesn’t understand calculus, we are not capable of understanding the vastness of energy around us. Maybe that’s spiritually. I accept that I don’t understand and never will, therefore it really isn’t that important.

I would never force anyone to follow rules of what I believe or don’t believe, but here we are now, being forced to follow the beliefs of right wing Christian conservatives who are the minority.

It is unconstitutional. It is a violation of the separation of Church and State. It is a corruption of our government years in the making.

If anything good comes of this, it’s the realization that the Right is dead serious about overtaking our nation. It is not in the interest of Democracy. It is self-serving and it is now proven very real.

Republicans have been installing radical politicians by appointing and gerrymandering members of the far right for over forty years. It’s a long and strategic ploy for control. Today, their efforts have again paid off in a very big way.

Currently, there are Trump Republicans in place as Secretaries of States standing by to corrupt the next election. https://youtu.be/6zqWcx6TqD4
That sounds crazy, but it’s real.

It will be nearly impossible to reinstate the freedom of choice with women’s rights. The only hope to preserve our democracy and the rights of its citizens is to vote.

Vote out Trump followers who wish to corrupt our government based on lies.

Vote out the Republicans who pander to extreme right wing businesses, organizations, and Churches.

Vote to reinstate your actual fundamental beliefs, even if you’re a Republican.

Stop voting based on years of tradition and being convinced the Right is family friendly and good. It is not that anymore.

Vote to save the lives of the living children. Not amoebas or zygotes, or brainless blobs with a blood pump, or a machine that resembles the sound of a heartbeat, but actual living children regardless of their gender or preference. Maybe God would want you to do that, if he was real.

Tea

Sometimes, too often, the thoughts in my head get so muddled up I can’t make any sense of anything.

It’s like I’m working on a mystery to figure out how my memories and my present life are supposed to fit together.

I get confused and start to feel like something’s wrong and maybe I’m missing a vital clue that’s keeping me from understanding it all.

Sometimes I think I’m doing everything wrong and I’m incredibly stupid because the answers are right in front of me but I can’t see it.

I don’t get it, I don’t understand, and it’s not because a piece of the puzzle is out of place.

It’s just because my mind is hazy and all this outside noise makes it hard to concentrate

I start to wonder who I even am and if anything even really matters anyway.

Maybe I’m just wasting my time and overthinking everything, or not thinking enough.

There’s no answers to my questions, why are we here? Why are some of us good and some of us evil?

Or are we all just nothing, floating on a ball in space. There is no meaning.

Then why do I have the ability to ponder if there’s no reason for it? It doesn’t make any sense.

And then, suddenly, I wake up. The last few days were just chaos in my mind. Running circles for no reason.

Now I can chill and relax. Enjoy the sunshine and the clouds. Have a glass of tea and think about where the fuck tea came from?