Political, Random Thoughts and Stories

Intellect is the Enemy

It wasn’t until the recent last few years that I have been trying to understand our American culture. Unique to the world, our own brand of patriotism, pride, and power, all deeply connected to the Constitution and the beginnings of our nation.

It has been most recently presented that if you acknowledge the horrors and murderous behavior of our predecessors, you hate America.

It’s coming from the Right Wing of persuasive conservative minds in an attempt to discredit any liberal thinking voter. It’s intentional and purposeful to sway votes in their favor.

It’s nothing new, to manipulate people for votes. It’s even bi-partisan. Every politician in history has learned the practice of bending truth and reality in order to excite their constituents and gain or remain in power. But never like this. Never with the awesome power of social media and the lack of consequences for telling half truths and all out lies to the American public.

For those that are unaware, there used to be a law enforced by the FCC that required truth in news programs. That law was revoked by Ronald Reagan and gave birth to political opinion “news” programs such as Rush Limbaugh and Fox News. I can only assume that The Gipper was convinced by puppeteers that a law that limits what you can spew out of your insane fucking mouth is an infringement on free speech, and ol’ Ronny fell for it.

And here we are today with a whole plethora of bullshit to wade through that no one can find the actual truth about anything without digging deep into trusted, but always still biased, independent news sources. You have to do focused research on who you can trust. You need to have the ability to recognize when you are being targeted and manipulated. And most people don’t.

We don’t have the time, education, or instinct to decipher the coded news. We don’t have the ability to see the manipulation if we are not manipulators ourselves. We have been trained, conditioned, educated, and indoctrinated into believing what the officials on TV are telling us. And now everyone looks official. That’s how they got us.It’s not our fault. We were taught to trust them. They look like the News. They talk like the News. Why aren’t they the News?

If you study the smallest amount of history about nations where democracy has failed and about the takeover of fascism. It’s almost always the same playbook. You’ll see the tools of manipulation, like using Law and Order, Free Speech ,and Patriotism to convince hard working, good people that they’re being duped. You’ll see the Right Wing accuse the Left of exactly what the Right is doing as a way to confuse people. It’s a way of pointing the finger as a distraction to get away with something and it works. It creates doubt and places blame on their enemy so no one gets suspicious of them. They appear to have seen it coming, so they must be smarter. They are protecting us and calling them out. Well, no. They are manipulating you.

One strange thing we do is despise intelligent people. ‘Know it alls’, arrogant and pompous educated people. We don’t like anyone who is smarter than us and we are offended when we are wrong. We call our own kids ‘smarty pants’ when they know something we don’t. We stomp our feet and throw tantrums and become absolutely defiant when smart people tell us what to do.

I was truly disappointed in America, not mad, not offended, but sad when the election results confirmed Donald Trump as our President. I honestly didn’t think it could happen. That an obviously child-like, wannabe dictator, city slicker, whiny, cry baby convinced rednecks and country folks that he was better than a woman to run the free world.

I was continually surprised that those followers appeared more like cult believers and would do anything he told them to. I’m still amazed that after all he has said and done, and crimes he has committed, he is still the front runner for the Republican Party.

We are being warned about the loss of our democracy. Some of us have been very vocal about it for a long time. But we play nice. We try to have respect for those that don’t agree with us. All the while, the Right Wing is taking down our freedoms. Our civil rights. Our country.

I see the future of America as a fascist nation. My kids will live to see a different America. Ironically one that goes against the very thing that made us. The Constitution.

It’ll function. America will convince the masses that they are free and have unalienable God given rights. They’ll be convinced to die for it just as it is now. But the homeless, the poor, and the working class will hurt. There will be a lack of empathy and more despair. Violence and illness will run rampant and the gaps in our society will grow. It will be a worse world to live in. Even if you’re rich, there will be futility and guilt. And history will look back and wonder why we didn’t see it coming or stop it from taking over. Again.

Movie Plots and Ideas, Random Thoughts and Stories, Songs and poems

The Cascades of Blood and Roses

It was The Cascades of Blood and Roses

Blood flowing into the streets

A sign from the wealthy

Living in the castles on the mountains

A massive art project reminding the Peasants

Who was in control of their lives

The blood covered flowers

Rolled through the dirt paths

And cobblestone sidewalks of the little town

Filling the thresholds of bakery’s and tailor shops

A child bent down to pick one up and was briskly washed away

As the mother broke down

It was a decadent display

Meant to demean the people of the little town

To belittle their very existence

To keep them suffering for the basic needs they required

Scrambling and fighting to the death at times

While the rich looked down from their towers, amused

It was the same every year

The exact opposite messaging of Christmas

This was a holiday with no hope or gifts

No spreading of cheer or love

It was yet another mess for the poor to clean up after the wealthy had their fun

It was a statement, to signify what would become of them if they ever revolted

To rise against them would be certain death

Their suffering would be ten fold

Starving and screaming children

Mothers with no arms to hold their babies

And the Peasants believed this

Living in fear as to not upset the Rich

Doing every task and chore thrust upon them

It was reverent and willing

It was survival

What the Peasants didn’t know or care to know is that the Monsters on the hilltops were never real

The threats were an illusion, told by generations of storytellers and passed down through time

Their fear and compliance was based on lies written in a so called ‘sacred’ book authored by Peasants themselves, with a desire to live above, in comfort, without the brutal pain of labor

The folklore that had shaped their world and seemingly offered safety and sustenance was actually abuse, perpetuated by the greedy rich, obsessed with power

It was taught to Peasants when they were children

Babies with tiny brains, incapable of forming reasonable beliefs on their own

The fear grew into adulthood

The complacency was endearment, part of life

Shame and guilt were tools used to keep any opposing thoughts from otherwise capable brains

The ruse continually carried out by brainwashed Peasants themselves 

And this for centuries, solar millenniums

Galaxies form and wither in the time of this betrayal

And yet no peasant rises

Afraid to question, afraid to change

In living fear of The Cascades of Blood and Roses

Random Thoughts and Stories

Study

I’m a lousy student. I have a very limited ability to remember names, places, and dates, but still, I study.

I’ve always studied. For as long as I can remember. Before I was aware of it. Every moment, every shadow, every light, and every breeze. Part of me is looking for myself and another is just taking it all in. I’m a young soul, a child, ignorant and confused, but thoughtful and somehow instinctively wise. I easily can see the world as new and I try to figure it all out. I see patterns in our behavior, our upbringing, and personalities and I see them manifest into what we all become. Psychology mixed with anthropology from an uneducated loser. I’m naturally naive but have learned to trust and distrust people against my instincts, often to my own demise. I’m an adventurer, an explorer, and searcher.

I’m appalled at certain behaviors of certain people, but then do my best to understand their perspective. I try to empathize with people I don’t agree with. That outlook allows me to open the doors I choose and close others when I realize I have nothing to learn.

Nothing to learn from someone is a false statement. I should say, when I’ve grown tired of the conversation. There’s always something to learn if you stay engaged long enough.

I’m often surprised at what I learn from someone I didn’t expect to have anything to teach. Sometimes it’s subtle and unsubstantial, but it’s always a treat. Everyone has a hidden treasure within them. You just have to have patience. You can’t force a conversation and have anything worthwhile to gain.

My favorite thing to witness is an old person who has run out of patience. They have the ability to say something cutting and just walk away. There’s no consequence. They’ve missed out on nothing. They don’t have time in their lives to waste on a conversation that they want no part of. They have nothing to gain and no reason to learn any more about anything. It’s a beautiful thing.

Uncategorized

Thanks America , You Ruined Christmas

After watching the latest Ken Burns documentary on The American Buffalo, I’ve realized again that America was mostly built on greed.

I don’t know why I seem to forget that from time to time. Maybe it’s the dim witted idealism that we desire to be a good and kind race above all the evils of the world.

Occasionally there’s a ray of hope. A good deed done by humans that erases some of the bad and instills the delusion of positive liberalism.

Alas, this blog is not about bison or the starvation of natives or even good and bad deeds. I only mention the documentary because it made me wonder… At which point was unchecked greed powerfully enhanced by unregulated marketing?

I graduated from an advertising design school and during my studies I was often appalled at the lack of decency and responsibility to be slightly ethical. Eventually I was excluded from group projects or decided to go it alone and abandon my unscrupulous peers. One issue I protested was an actual TV commercial airing in the Valley of the Sun where an animated piggy bank was brutally murdered with a hammer. The pink ceramic pig was portrayed in absolute terror, cornered and being slowly approached by the evil hammer. The lighting became dark with beams of light shining and flickering on the fragile cash filled pig crying in fear. It was especially gruesome and out of season for a thirty second Arby’s commercial.

A few days after a heated debate over the commercial in “Videography” class, where I was outnumbered and forced to retreat and silence my scruples, the commercial was pulled off the air due to public complaints of violence. I remained silent and deemed them all unworthy of an ‘I told you so’ from me. I wanted nothing to do with those people.

The experience made me sadly aware that my sociopathic classmates were going to be the next generation of advertisers that would greatly influence America in thirty second, commercialized mini films in the near future. 1989 was a tough year and perhaps the reason for America’s current waywardness.

So when did it happen? The thing that ruins Christmas every damn year. You know what it is. It’s only second to blaring horns and deadlocked traffic. Breathing toxic exhaust fumes and shuffling through box stores to get nonsense presents for family members or friends that wouldn’t have picked it out for themselves, because it wasn’t what they really wanted, and then contributing to even more congestion on the trip to return items after the stupid holiday.

And yes, Christmas is stupid. It’s historically and even mythically inaccurate. It excludes cultures across the globe that celebrate the changing of the season. It doesn’t mention the whole Pagan thing at all and has us believing that it’s Jesus’s birthday. A white guy hanging out in Jerusalem and Egypt until he was nailed to some boards and died. But it was cool because he came back. Back from the dead, for reals, y’all. But that’s another holiday. This one in December is mostly about presents and stress until it’s over and we can all finally relax and aggressively watch grown men play with a ball on TV.

It’s culturally divisive by religious beliefs. Even the name suggests that it is strictly Roman Catholic – which is like christian-zilla. The name is Christ-Mass. Nobody has a problem with that? Really? In this cancel culture generation?

Or maybe Christmas could be interpreted scientifically as the amount of matter that makes up the Jesus.

Christmas is horribly disruptive to nature and the environment. Birds are now subject to pointless decorative light pollution in tall trees – all freakin’ night! Fake plastic snow never decomposes and of course eventually winds up in the ocean, and a massive amount of conifer type trees are murdered, degraded, publicly shamed, and displayed in the living rooms of countless homes. Tinsel is eaten by cats and slowly digested into shiny, pretty trailing cat turds. Dogs eat boxes of seizure inducing chocolate and devour peanut brittle leaving diarrhea remains that resemble… peanut brittle. The only thing worse for wild and domestic animals are explicitly loud fireworks in the new calendar year and on the fourth of July.

But the worst thing,…the worst thing…is advertising. Visual and auditory pollution. Lazy ad-copy writing reliant upon christmatism (a cross between Christmas and patriotism). Appropriating the holiday icons, such as Rudolph, rosy cheeked caucasian children, snowmen (..and where are the snow women? Trump might ask. We love the snow women, don’t we), Mrs. Claus, and Santa Clause and having them represent rampant greed and commercialism.

But why not Jesus? Why isn’t he included in the hocking of material items? Why’s he so special? After all, it’s his own name in the holiday. He should be the spokesperson. It’s not Santamas or Saint Nickmas. They could have him on the cross pitching ads for Goldman-Sachs or Chick-Fil-A, on or off the cross. Either way works, as long as it’s not on a Sunday.

But the absolute worst, worse than everything, is the theft and desecration of music. Holiday songs repurposed for profit. The laziest form of art is to take what has already been created by someone else and change the lyrics to suit your evil capitalistic purpose. Don’t make it funny-I say sarcastically. Don’t be clever or creative. Don’t be a wordsmith or intelligent. Just keep it as bland and boring as your God damned soul. Go ahead, use the world’s most famous and popular, heart filled, sincerely written songs to sell your manufactured concoctions, elixirs, and snake oil. Feel free to obtain your massive wealth built on the backs of the impoverished and oppressed. It’s the American way, after all.

There’s a special room in Hell for Christmas music marketing planners and it’s filled with perpetually screaming children, tinsel turds, epileptic dogs having seizures, and peanut brittle diarrhea on white carpet everywhere. And there will be music. Their own stolen auditory abominations pumping out at a consistently creepy volume, chipping away at their souls for all eternity.

So, anyway…Merry Christmas!

Random Thoughts and Stories, Shared on Social Media

The Death of Clifford Carlisle

I didn’t know Clifford Carlisle. I knew people that knew him and I’d seen him in the halls of Goddard High School in the short time I was there. He was always happy and energetic it seemed. I do remember the vivid and hilarious image of him hanging out on the sidewalk of the Main Street Cruise a few weeks before he left for the Marines boot camp. He was goofing around, wearing bright red Bermuda Shorts, a straw cowboy hat and boots, with an unbuttoned open western shirt. He was a funny guy with loads of confidence. He was excited to become a soldier. We were excited for him too, and damn proud.

I just happened to get back in town a few years later the very weekend after he’d been killed on a training mission. The story was that a Mortar Rocket Launcher had malfunctioned and was blowing up his platoon. He was in the clear but went into the danger zone to save his fellow soldiers and was hit by a shell. He was described as dying in the most heroic way possible, saving lives.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s all true. He was a hometown hero and it would be unthinkable to believe he died for nothing. And it doesn’t hurt anyone to embellish a little. He would’ve eventually done something great anyway. Probably.

I remember the dominating sadness. It seemed like the whole town was grieving his death. My best friend knew him well since he was in the same grade above me. We heard a buzz on Main Street about a memorial going on so we drove out to Clifford’s parents house where he used to live.

It was out in the country in an old single wide trailer house at the end of a rough dirt road. The trailers with multi level roofs and odd shaped windows. There was an iced down keg on tap in a big trash can to drink a beer in tribute to Clifford. Many of us were under age but knew even the cops wouldn’t mess with this. There might’ve even been one or two out there. There was a circle of people of all ages around the keg under a rustic, dilapidated front porch patio roof. The uneven wood planked floor creaked as you stepped. Some of his family members were sitting in scotch pattern weaved ribbon aluminum lawn chairs, their worn faces flickering in candlelight, greeting all the people coming to pay their respects. Usually with nothing more than a smile and a nod. There was some rumbling in the yellow orangish glow through a door leading into the kitchen and into the house. I could sense others were too broken with pain and tears to see anyone. Especially strangers. There was silence, then soft spoken words of sorrow and respect. There were some memories and even a few laughs before turning back to sadness.

Over two hundred people had come out to visit. They were on the second keg by the second day. It made me wish I knew him before I got to know about him. We would’ve got along great. My friend and I drank our beer out of the red plastic cup, listened, spoke condolences, and left in a cloud of soupy sadness back down the rutted dusty road.

It was Saturday night but the town was quieter than any other Saturday night. There was a soft hum everywhere. The lights were dull. There weren’t any fights, or drag races, or even pointless hollering and whistling. No tires squealing and burning out. No girls laughing or boys cussing. It was a somber night until everyone just went home when it got late.

Clifford would’ve hated that sadness, but damn, it was powerful.

It’s been thirty five years since that day. I’m a little surprised there’s not an online memorial. Someone would’ve had to make one since there wasn’t an Internet when he died. I never got a yearbook from that school, but I assume he’s in a few. His best friends are getting older, some aren’t healthy, and some are gone, but I know they carry Clifford with them. Maybe pictures and pages don’t really matter all that much, but for me, it would’ve been nice to try and know him a little better. I didn’t know him, but I think about him often. How he had an entire town in mourning and how he was immediately missed. Even when he wasn’t even there. I think he deserves to be remembered, not as a hero or a soldier, but as someone everyone loved. He was felt in that town like no one I’d ever seen. He was his own monument.

Rest in peace, Clifford Carlisle, and thanks for the brewski.

Press Article from upi.com

Exploding mortar rounds killed two Marines and injured 15…

July 8, 1988

POHAKULOA MILITARY RESERVATION, Hawaii — Exploding mortar rounds killed two Marines and injured 15 others in a training accident during a live night-firing exercise, military authorities said Thursday.

An undetermined number of 60mm shells — but more than one — landed among a platoon from Weapons Company, 2nd Battalion, 3rd Marine Regiment Wednesday night, Maj. Kerry Gershaneck, a Marine spokesman, said.

It was not known if the shells were misdirected as a result of human error or a mechanical malfunction, and an investigation into the incident was under way, Gershaneck said.

‘The weapons company was supporting an infantry company, which was conducting a ‘final protective fire’ exercise,’ Gershaneck said.

The operation involved firing all of the company’s weapons in an effort to stave off an attack by an enemy threatening to overrun its position, Gershaneck said.

The accident occurred at about 8 p.m. at the Pohakuloa Training Facility on the Island of Hawaii, where about 600 soldiers are taking part in a 30-day exercise.

The two Marines killed were Gunnery Sgt. Howard Harris, 34, of Philadelphia and Cpl. Clifford Carlisle II, 21, of Roswell, N.M., Gershaneck said.

Seven of the 15 injured Marines were released from hospitals Thursday after being treated.

Four Marines still hospitalized on Hawaii Island were flown to Tripler Army Medical Center on the island of Oahu, where four other Marines were taken earlier. All eight were in stable condition.

The company is normally assigned to Kaneohe Marine Corps Air Station on the island of Oahu.

The weapons company has heavy machine guns, wired-guided missiles and 81mm mortars among its arsenal. It usually operates as support for the infantry company, which is equipped with lighter weapons, such as the 60mm mortar.

The Marine Corps said relatives wishing to inquire about the status of Marines injured in the accident may call 808-257-2778. The duty officer will not release any names and will only provide status reports on names provided to him

Clifford L Carlisle II VETERAN

BIRTH

1967

DEATH

1988 (aged 20–21)

BURIAL

South Park Cemetery

Roswell, Chaves County, New Mexico, USA

PLOT

67-8-3-10

Random Thoughts and Stories, Shared on Social Media

Personal Letter to Zager Guitars

Hi there. I recently acquired a Zager and I really like it. I probably never would’ve discovered it without the particular circumstance in which I got it. I’d like to share the story with you in appreciation of your fine guitars.

I’ve been writing songs for many years. I’ve given up a few times over the frustration of life and the lack of finding commercial success. This story reflects a new experience with music.

A few years ago I found out that an old friend was ill. He wasn’t a close friend, more like a friend of a friend, but someone I knew well enough and always enjoyed his company. He was someone who was always busy with projects and was rarely seen running wild around town like I was.

In 1985 in Lubbock, Texas, on weekends, we were usually hanging out with friends, looking for girls (unsuccessfully), and racing up and down the local cruise, driving and riding in hot rod cars and pickup trucks. My friend, Chuck was usually home tinkering in his shop, working on whatever car project he had going. On occasion, he would take something out for a test run. For a while he had a 1966 Chevy pickup he tinkered on. He found an old can of paint and temporarily colored his truck John Deere Yellow. He made me realize back then that even a dumb ol’ teenager could do some amazing work. He was inspiring.

When I heard he was sick a few years ago, with complications from Diabetes, I thought I’d write a funny little song about him as a gift to lift his spirits.

At the time, I just happened to be visiting Lubbock often, helping out and eventually moving my elderly Mom closer to me in Austin. I’d seen Chuck a few months before and he was recovering from a broken hip. He was having a hard time but getting around okay and still making everyone laugh. It was hard to tell just how sick he was and I honestly couldn’t fully conceive it anyway. I had the chance to show him my first draft of the song lyrics about a year later, around Thanksgiving 2022. The song was called, “Banana Truck Chuck”.

By then he was completely blind in one eye and had been on a steady routine of Dialysis every night for a few years. He’d been injecting Insulin even longer. He was exhausted and weak, but somehow was still in good spirits and made it out to a friend’s house. We talked about the song, which I only had a little guitar riff at that point, and he made some observations about my memories of the old days and told some characteristically funny stories. He also told me about his guitar and told me it was made by the guy that had the hit song, ‘In The Year 2525’.

I got back to Austin and worked on music when I could. I was aware that I might be pressed for time, but I didn’t want to force it. Amazingly, it just came together quickly on it’s own. Soon I recorded it and released it worldwide, all the while hoping his health would allow him to hear it.

For me, it was strange to do all this. I didn’t know if it was appropriate. I didn’t know if he or his family or our friends would appreciate or understand it. His family didn’t know me at all. I was full of doubt and insecurities. I wasn’t getting any feedback so I naturally assumed it wasn’t going over well.

I finally summoned the courage and called Chuck on the phone after a couple weeks. It was the first time I’d ever really talked to him one on one and he seemed amused with the song. We actually got into some deep conversation about his illness and his struggle. He was optimistic and funny and just living one day at a time. I felt like we were now close friends, after so many years. It was a good talk.

I’d vaguely remembered what he said about his guitar but forgot the name of it. I wanted to look it up so he told me again. I found it online and thought, cool, and that was it. I didn’t dig very deep since I was not in the market for another guitar. I just bought a basic model Martin for recording. I had to save money for a very long time. And I do like it. I have an old Takamine that doesn’t record well and a very old Fender that fret buzzes. I usually used the Fender anyway with White Bronze strings for recording.

I thought I should make a music video for the song, so I bought a 1/24 scale model 1966 Chevy pickup toy and painted it John Deere Yellow. I even made it a remote control.

I had another trip planned to Lubbock and thought I would take some extra time and shoot video footage around our old stomping grounds. Each visit, Chuck was in a deeper decline. He was unable to get around without his wife’s help and mostly stayed on the couch in front of a mountain of boxes of Dialysis fluid. Chuck’s eyesight was failing even more so I decided to give him the little truck when I was done since he probably wasn’t going to be able to actually see the video. I dropped it off and visited again late one Saturday night. He was looking very pale and his strength was drained as he asked his wife to get out his guitar. I played it for a while and he really enjoyed it. He was making up lyrics and smiling and laughing. It was a very good time. I told him it was a really nice guitar. Better than any of mine.

He called me a few weeks later. He was saying goodbye to friends and family. He had gone completely blind and lost his desire to live. It was not a sudden decision. He thanked me for the song and we had another deep conversation about life and illness and death. Even laughed a little more. He confided more in me than most, I presume. It was another good talk. Obviously, it would be our last conversation. I was happy to describe my ideas for the music video. It was almost like he could see it. He died from Kidney failure two days later after stopping Dialysis.

Before I attended his funeral (and nervously played his song – and edited a few inappropriate words), I got to meet his family. Almost everyone mentioned how much Chuck liked the song and how he told everyone he saw to listen to it. Friends, family, and neighbors. I was very surprised. I had no idea that he liked it that much. They all said it made him very happy and they appreciated that I could give him that. It made them happy to see Chuck happy in his final three months.

The last few years, I’ve been struggling with the meaning of why I want to play music. I’m frustrated and tired of not getting anywhere and I don’t have the resources to make success happen. The time, money, or energy. It sometimes feels futile, vain, and self centered, especially on social media. And sometimes I feel like someone might think I’m exploiting and using other people’s lives as inspiration for my own profit.

But, writing this song for Chuck and seeing the happiness it brought him made me realize something profound.It’s not my music. It doesn’t belong to me. Just because I create it from thoughts and memories (and somewhere else I can’t explain), it isn’t just for me. Success doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t even have to be a good song to be a good thing.

That probably sounds stupid and simple, but it’s taken me a lifetime (and some deaths) to understand. A few years before Chuck died, another friend died of Cancer. A very close friend, and I had a song for him too, but I was too caught up in my own head to properly share it with him. This time, with Chuck, I hadn’t realized all that yet, but I knew I didn’t want to regret not sharing something again.

I was told at his funeral, in return, Chuck wanted me to have his Zager guitar. The one I played that Saturday night and brought him a little happiness.

I don’t know how he discovered Zager, but I do know he was very particular about quality and craftsmanship. I’m honored to play his guitar and will always remember the lessons I’ve learned through his life and his death.

He gave me so much more than I gave him. A profound clarity that music is much more than just notes and words, and it belongs to no one, but everyone.

All these thoughts and feelings are housed in a Zager guitar that you built and was signed in 2012. I’ve modified the pick guard and painted it John Deere Yellow. I really appreciate the quality of this guitar. It was enjoyable to play from the very first strum. Chuck picked a nice guitar.

The video is not available yet, but you can find multiple links to the song here:https://songwhip.com/thebigsid/banana-truck-chuck

Thanks for creating a wonderful instrument. It’s now meaningfully bonded in life and in death.

Sincerely, Sidney Stephens www.theBigSid.biz

Random Thoughts and Stories, Shared on Social Media

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.

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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.

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Book Review

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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!

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Festus Banana Truck Chuck

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“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.