Comedy, Shared on Social Media

History of the Trumpian States of Merika

One hundred years from now, the children in ‘Pay to Learn’ schools in the very caucasian Trumpian States of Merika, ask their liberal nanny servants, ‘How did our savior Don Jon T build our nation again?’

The non-brown liberal nanny servants will tell the story once more for the eighth time because the children are so incredibly stupid.

“It all started when a spoiled brat, pampered, privileged, racist with inherited wealth, and a reality TV show that featured him firing employees, refused to accept a Black man as the President of, what was then called, the United States of America.

He pursued a conspiracy theory that the highly intelligent, but liberal, darker skinned man was illegitimate to hold the office based on a fabricated suspicion that he was not born in the United States as required.

He continued his attack long after the lie was proven to be untrue. He would use this powerful method of leadership for years to come, never acknowledging facts, or science, or even common sense.

Strangely, it was a highly effective form of backwards thinking that somehow got him elected President and destroyed the existing nation. History shows it was a belief system created by Fake News, hosted by a cable TV network and AM radio stations, but was of course, blamed on actual real journalism. Even the affluent fibber did not believe he won the election because even he didn’t actually think Americans were that incredibly naive, ignorant, and easily led by fear and negativity.

The premise of the ‘Birther’ theory and our great and powerful idiotic civilian became the brunt of a joke to everyone at an annual presidential dinner which is historically light hearted and comedic. It was funny to every person, except Donny. He was very upset to be laughed at during an event that pokes fun at absolutely everyone, and showed his disapproval by pouting with his arms folded. Shortly after the White House Correspondents Dinner, the His Orangeness spitefully threatened to run for President”.

“You mean pouting and folding our arms like we salute the Trumpian flag?” asked the ignorant pale children.

“Yes, just like we do every seven hours or we’ll be vaporized by the Evil Spirit of the Radical Dem”, said the liberal servants in unison.

“Then whut happen?” asked the children stupidly.

“Well, that started a fireball of conspiracy theories that would eventually doom our nation to this living hell”.

“Did Don make up the stories?”

“No, the records show that Don never had an original idea throughout his entire life. He liked to take ideas from an invisible patriot called Q, and a vampire named Rudy”.

“Is that why we celebrate Pizzagate every other Thursday?” Inquired the idiot kids.

“Yes, yes it is.”answered the servants.

“Tell us what happened to the brown people again. Were they vaporized by the Evil Spirit of the Radical Dem?” Asked the brainwashed youth.

“No, and actually that story, along with all the others we believe in now, are complete bullshit” replied the frustrated servants. “And believing in complete bullshit is the building block of our nation.

We all carry our guns because no one gets shot anymore because we all shoot each other. And wealthy people let their money trickle down to all the poor people making them rich poor people and they’re happier. Also wealthy people get really high quality healthcare because they’re just better than the rest of us, and of course, God likes them more.

But to answer your question, all the brown people were shipped away to the great Shit-Hole countries.”

The dumb kids ask, “Are they raping and doing drugs and murdering?”

“Yep, it’s what they do. And sometimes they let their offspring sleep in cages if they’re good, because they’re more like little animals anyway”.

“Are we white nashnulits?” queried the dimwits.

“Sure we are. And if we weren’t, we’d be socialist communists. We’re also required to say that by the new Trumpian Law and Order or suffer the penalty of Lock Her Up!”

“Did the Evil Hillary die in prison because she didn’t answer the phone and she had e-mails?”

“No, actually, after thirteen hearings, they found that she did nothing illegal. She did however give us the gift of calling the Donalds supporters, “a basket of deplorables”.

“Is that why all of the smart brains buildings are named Deplorable Baskets now?”

“Yeah, but they were actually called ‘schools’ before the Great Storming of the Capitol”.

“How did our savior, Don Jon T build our nation again? We forget already”.

“Okay. He inspired a bunch of proud morons to attempt to overthrow the government by violence and no clear plan. Oddly, the newly elected Democratic President, Biden, relinquished all of the power of his office to Don Jon so he wouldn’t be sad and pout anymore.

Every politician and citizen gladly let him be the President forever because he said that he heard from many people and people were saying that it wasn’t fair. It was weird that the entire United States Constitution, that stood for democracy for two hundred and forty-four years, was folded up and put in a cabinet in a bathroom next to a gold plated toilet. But hey, life is weird”.

The dumb children suddenly stood up and high fived each other, pointed closely at the nanny servants faces and said, “MAGA bitches!” and ran outside to play in the petroleum sludge.

Uncategorized

Stupid

Shared on Facebook 6-28-2020

Stupid.

I wonder how many friends think I’m stupid?

I used to think I was stupid. I was treated like I was stupid by some teachers in school.

I look back and I was pretty stupid. Maybe because the education system failed me, or maybe I was just bad at learning. I didn’t pay attention and I didn’t care.

Something woke up in my brain later in life. I started to question things I grew up thinking were normal and accepted. Now it sometimes feels like I’m an outsider.

Our opinions and grown up personalities are based on our experiences. Our upbringing and influences. We can re-evaluate at any time.

For years I have been self examining and evaluating, trying to understand myself. The good and especially the bad. I try to figure out other people too, and try hard to not judge.

I see religion for what it is, complicated, and sometimes useful and good. But I personally can’t believe there’s an invisible man in the sky that loves us. I first pondered that when I was twelve and didn’t understand why so many bad things happen to innocent people. Especially kids. It just didn’t make sense. I was also very afraid to even think it, for fear of God punishing me. No one should be afraid of their own thoughts.

I grew up riding horses, raising animals, and being involved in rodeos. I’ve always known that the sport involves some animal cruelty and abuse. We should probably stop doing that, but it’s complicated. There will be a day where that will become an issue. It will probably be politicized by people wearing blue hats and red hats.

When I was a freshman in high school, I had a Confederate flag hanging across the back window of my pickup. It was simply a Rebel flag to me. I wasn’t taught about slavery and oppression in a way that made me truly understand, or empathize with, all that the flag represents. I didn’t realize that it’s a reminder of, and a monument to, the worst era of my American history.

I once considered painting a Swastika on my Volkswagen because I thought it would represent my funny little German car in a funny way. Again, I was vastly unaware of the meaning of that symbol. I was in my twenties. I honestly didn’t know anything about the Holocaust other than Hitler was in charge of bunch of Nazis and they tried to take over the world. Why didn’t I know about the murdering of millions of people for white supremacy? I just didn’t know.

So when I see the hatred, the ignorance, the stupidity, and the conspiracy theories on social media, I understand. I can relate.

I also understand that survival is at stake. I personally have the privilege to openly have opinions that don’t affect my work or important relationships. But I know that some of my friends won’t be accepted if they don’t have the same opinions. It can cost them a job. We were told in truck driving school, if we wanted to be a truck driver, we needed to dress like a truck driver.

I can also assume that sometimes they just don’t know about things. Maybe the education system failed them, like it did me, or maybe they’re just bad at learning or just don’t care, like I used to be.

But, I fixed my stupid. I learned how to learn. I freed my mind to think about things I wasn’t supposed to question. I changed my environment, and most importantly, I started to care about the world beyond my own.

Uncategorized

Coke Machine Brutality and Racism

Some of you will not like this story. It will subtly reveal my opinion on law enforcement. I have friends that are cops and I don’t mean to generalize or demean, but I have recognized problems with law enforcement for a very long time.

I was a bit of a lost youth and had many run-ins with the cops. My days of criminal behavior are very much over. Not because of anything law enforcement did, but because I grew up. I can relate to being profiled. I get profiled. I have a naturally rough look that makes some people nervous. It took years for me to realize that, and to not be offended. I get it, but I’m really actually a good guy.

I’ll limit my experience with the police to just two instances. One good and one bad. I’ll start with the bad experience.

To preface, no cop, I believe, has the right to hurt anyone, but sometimes some do. Sometimes they are just angry, over excited, with too much adrenaline to control themselves. Sometimes they’re full of hate or insecurity that manifests as aggressive behavior. Sometimes, some cops initially become cops for the authority and have power over others.

There is a Brotherhood of law enforcement officers. They watch each other’s backs, they protect each other, for good and bad. That gang mentality has to be in constant check. A lot of officers do that well, as they should, but a lot don’t.

Many, many years ago, three of my friends and I idiotically stole a Coke machine. I don’t know why. Maybe just to counteract the boredom of Lubbock, Texas. We were performing surgery on it in a cotton field when a cop shined a spotlight on us from the nearby highway. The driver friend peeled out and would have left us in the dust if the rest of us didn’t run and dive into the back of the moving pickup truck. The cop followed us into the plowed cotton field in his 5.0 liter Ford Mustang interceptor cop car. After a long game of high speed, hide and go seek, dangerously speeding through tiny neighborhoods and cotton fields, the driver friend gave up and pulled over to the side of the highway. There was also a very long line of intimidating police cars with flashing red and blue lights headed toward us.

Obviously we had broken the law. Obviously we had peacefully given up. Obviously we were going to jail. Obviously, we were going to be punished.

Minutes passed after we stopped on the shoulder of the highway. No officer had even approached us. We were all just waiting. I remember being ordered to stand up to be handcuffed while still in the back of the truck, and an officer deducing that we “pissed ourselves” because our pants were wet. Actually, Coke cans had exploded due to the vibration of the truck driving across the ruts of the cotton fields, that’s why we were soaked. After being cuffed, my friend and I were physically thrown out of the bed of the pickup, face down onto the gritty pavement. I was thrown on top of my friend and we were unable to move for a very long time.

At this point, we could not see anything but could hear the group of law enforcement officers having a murmured discussion about thirty feet away. My other two friends were patiently waiting to be arrested in the cab of the truck. All the officers were waiting for the cop that had originally found us to arrive in his limping Mustang to make the arrest. Brotherhood.

When he arrived, there was a brief discussion, then dead silence as footsteps approached the truck on both sides. I could hear scuffling but couldn’t see anything but pavement as our legs were becoming uncomfortably numb.

We were all eventually separately transported to the police station in individual police cars. My personal officer casually informed me that the cop chasing us was having trouble reaching his shotgun to disable the truck. I said he could have killed us riding in the back. He proudly said we would have been casualties and assured me it was all legal. Nice.

When we all briefly saw each other again in the booking area, the driver friend had obviously been beaten. We had heard it when it was happening, but now we got to see the results. His face was swollen and had been bleeding. He never looked up as he was escorted by, with two cops holding each handcuffed arm

As we sat on a bench waiting to be booked, the other friend that was in the cab of the truck had been un-cuffed and was removing loose hair from his head that had been pulled out by the arresting officers. He was holding a matted ball of hair the size of a baseball. His face was red and scuffed. My other friend and I had been removing road gravel from our faces while we waited. Our faces were scratched up.

I guess we had it coming. There were no complaints filed. Nobody ever said much about any of it. We all assumed this was normal and deserved. We were barely eighteen and nineteen years old. We were all raised to take our beating when we did something wrong. Old enough to know better, but not old enough to know police brutality.

It was a stolen Coke machine.

I can only imagine what might have been different if our skin color was different too.

Now the good cop story with a lot less detail.

Another time, in another town in Texas, I was detained overnight. They could have filed charges but didn’t. I was covered in my own blood, under age, alone, and intoxicated. They just gave me a place to clean up, sober up, and be safe. I had a private room with a comfortable mattress and a TV. The officers were all respectable and kind. It was like a motel and I was released the next day, refreshed and ready to get the Hell out of that town.

I can only imagine what might have been different if my skin color was too.

I’m amazed at how many people have opinions on race but know very little about people of color and our own country’s diversity and culture. I’m amazed at how many people don’t know they’re racist, especially because they might have a Black friend, or just know someone who is Black. It’s incredible to hear someone insist they’re not racist while they’re using racist slurs.

I grew up racist. I was being taught to be racist. Members of my friends and family told racist jokes and were noticeably on edge around Black and brown people. It took years for me to understand racism, and to this day I still have to evaluate myself.

I have finally realized that Im really only prejudiced towards stupid people. Skin color has absolutely nothing to do with it. Sorry stupid people.

I was lucky to be immersed in Black culture even though it was not intentional. I have a greater understanding now, but still far from an expert. I’m not even sure this next part is appropriate.

I ran a recording studio in East Nashville that naturally evolved into a mix-tape studio. It was a crash course in Black culture. One profound moment that made me highly aware, happened in a rap recording session. I almost always had a movie playing with subtitles to occupy the lulls and pass the time while an artist would work out lyrics or a beat. This particular night I was watching ‘Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?’ A movie set in the time period of the slowly emancipating South. There is a scene with the KKK and the attempted lynching of a Black man. It occurred to me that everyone in my studio had ancestors that lived something like that horrifying scene in real life. I suddenly felt incredibly uncomfortable as I realized that I have an ancestor in Tennessee that was an actual slave owner, and everyone else had great grandfather’s that were actual slaves. As we were all watching the scene, I suddenly started to sweat and become flushed. I suddenly became strangely overwhelmed. Then I noticed that I was the only one who was profoundly affected by this moment. I thought it was strange that a room full of Black dudes could watch this and not be absolutely enraged. But I realized, they have dealt with it their whole lives and I had never even really considered it as a real thing. I’ve just kind of seen it as history in a movie. I calmed myself down and could only say out loud that I couldn’t believe that sh*t really happened. Everyone responded with, “Yeah”. I really wanted to say what I was feeling, that I’m sorry for what my great grandfather did, but that would have just been weird.

So when people say all the other things about racism, like reverse racism, or all lives matter, when they make excuses for bad cops, like saying that guy that was killed was a criminal, or try to divert the attention away from the immediate subject, like the police casualties of the protests, I don’t think they understand that it’s real. It’s horrible that cops and civilians are getting hurt and killed, but the protest is simply about police brutality and racism in our country. It’s the same thing they’ve been protesting for over fifty years. Fifty years!

It feels like a scene in a movie when it’s on TV or our phones. If you haven’t lived it, you can’t possibly know. You can’t possibly judge. You can only have empathy. Hopefully, you have empathy. These things are either right or wrong. Our nation is being confused and divided by everything right now. Race, religion, politics, wealth, and on and on.

There is only one division in America. Right and wrong.

Pick a side.

Comedy, Random Thoughts and Stories

My Video Submission

I’ve written stories about my friends that they might find offensive. I don’t blame them if they do. I often convey their personalities in an unflattering way. I don’t mean to purposely demean them, I just amplify my perception of a small part of them that adds character. And in an attempt to be fair, I’ll attempt to write about myself in a self deprecating way.

It was the year Twenty-Nineteen and I had decided I was going to become an entertainer. My landscaping job was not only shameful, embarrassing, dirty, and non-lucrative, it was also kicking my ass. I realized that I wasn’t physically going to be able to do the labor-intensive work much longer. I needed a new career plan that I could live with. The thought of working a seven to six job until I die of sadness, fluorescent lights, and monotony just made me want to die sooner.

But here I have this fountain of talent for writing songs and singing that has remained untapped for thirty years. It requires a lot less physical labor, and since my standard of income is so extremely low anyway, I should be able to continue barely supporting my family with minimal impact.

Somehow, I have worked hard for years to find the perfect income bracket that allows us to survive in poverty. Making just enough money to almost never owe taxes, qualify for affordable health insurance, and still have enough to enjoy pizza and movies on special occasions. It’s pretty good science until the President throws some random bullshit executive order into the theory.

If I was going to restart a music career, I needed to start honing my craft. So I asked my family to help make a video to submit to the Tiny Desk contest. They agreed to help, but as the days passed, my repeated requests seemed to always be ill timed. So I waited. And waited. Asked again and waited some more. Soon the deadline was upon me. I had one night left and everyone was still too busy to hold a camera to make a video, so I set up a tripod, drank a beer, hooked up a light, drank a beer, adjusted the light, drank a beer, adjusted the sound, and drank another beer. And then I put on a clean-ish shirt and a hat and recorded two amazing songs.

I opened up the first song presentation by explaining that I didn’t understand ‘charisma’. It was one of the required suggestions for submitting a video. I said, in an uncontrolled, high pitched, special needs sort of way,” I don’t even know what charisma is, I don’t think I have it, but here’s a song anyway!”. The second video was much less exciting, I may have said, ” This, I wrote, a long time ago….  here it is. By the way I’m not sitting at a desk. It’s a drafting table, but I guess that counts as a desk too, so…” I thought it was a good idea to show in each video, a half full, glass of beer with a lime in it, on ice, to show I was enjoying myself and I had some class.

I uploaded it to YouTube and enjoyed a few more beers, knowing I had just created some possible winning videos.

The next day, I came home fithy from work, had a few beers, with ice and lime, and decided to upload one more winning video. Mostly because of the rule of three’s, coinciding with the best chance at having good luck. I didn’t bother to shower or change clothes and wound up recording an extra song, completely negating the rule of three’s. I also chose to use distorted electric guitar to get all gritty and down and dirty. I wanted to present myself as a real person with a real job so they might decide I need to be rescued from my real life.

Oddly, some time passed and I didn’t receive my winning invitation to perform at the actual Tiny Desk on National Public Radio. I did receive a ‘thank you for your submission’ email, so that was almost like winning. 

Since then, I started recording an album while enjoying beer, then finished the album while enjoying no beer. Most of the ‘drinking’ tracks were deleted and re-recorded due to strange technical problems like inconsistent rhythm timing called latency, and slurred singing, called slurred singing. The computer probably just needed to be re-booted.

Sobriety hasn’t made my work shirts any cleaner but has reduced their appearance in videos by fifty percent. It also hasn’t motivated my family to help when they said they would, but it has lowered my bitterness and anger by a factor of three. It has increased my ability to perceive reality by approximately fifteen degrees but hasn’t deterred my retirement plan of pursuing a career in music in any way, so I’m not sure if sobriety even really actually works.

I’m considering selling black-market ‘clean urine’ to functioning drug addicts as an alternative or a side gig but still haven’t committed. I still need to do some legal research on liability and insurance fraud. I suppose I may have to choose between selling bootleg pee and playing a guitar, but it’s almost the same thing. It’s giving away a part of myself for money.

Someday, I hope to be so big that even really large desks appear to be tiny. I’m also okay with poverty. It really doesn’t matter as long as the family is good and everyone is healthy.

There’s also no shame in having a tiny desk. Especially if all the drawers work and you get your work done.

Just to be clear, my desk is a drafting table, so…

Random Thoughts and Stories, Shared on Social Media

Success, Parts One and Two

Success Part 1

It always amazes me to see just how many people are happy to take your money to make you successful.

During my years in Nashville, I saw countless songwriters throwing money at shady promoters and self described music industry insiders promising to get your songs to professional representatives. I never met anyone that sold a song that way. Many successful writers knew someone personally in the business. Sometimes the writers had an arsenal of good commercial songs and came to Nashville with enough money to survive without a day job, and buy the attention of actual music industry executives. They made their connections before even moving to Nashville.

I’m lousy at making solid plans. My plans for Nashville changed drastically just on my drive there, but that’s another story.

In Nashville, I once met a guy from Houston, who was fully financed by family friends that won the Texas lottery. He had athletic good looks, money, and had written at least one really great song hook (that I’m surprised we haven’t all heard yet) but got caught up in the Nashville party scene mixed with self promotion. When I met him, he was working off debts on a horse ranch and going through a severe, cold turkey, drug rehabilitation. He blew all of his gifted lottery money on cocaine and partying after only two years. His family gave up on him and he had destroyed all his music industry connections. There was a long line of people that took advantage of him and it left him completely broken. I’ve never seen someone fall so hard from so high up.

I suppose I was lucky to have so little. It kept me from blowing it all on drugs. I chose to waste my money on food and shelter instead… like a loser.

I have to admit, I also capitalized on the constant flow of aspiring songwriters a teeny bit. I built part of my recording studio with money I made from other writers. Sometimes I would even go out to a writers round at a venue and recruit business. A few times the clients were Music City tourists that just wanted to record a song in an actual Nashville recording studio. (It only qualified as a real studio because I installed a cool looking slanted window and built an isolated sound booth). I never promised any promotion. I just provided a demo recording on a CD at an affordable price and had fun. That type of business recruiting makes me feel predatorial and sleazy, but that’s why I’m also lousy at marketing and sales. I obviously don’t have the stomach for it. Mostly, the studio was built with the help of friends who agreed to help me with getting equipment for recording their demos. I then kept the studio going primarily by recording local rappers. I somehow became a premier east side, mix-tape studio. My given rap name was Thug Nasty and I learned about blunts and proper use of the N word.

The years I ran the recording studio, I had a stream of promoters and representatives trying to get me to recruit seemingly desperate songwriters. Sometimes they offered me a one time commission but usually nothing at all. Not one of those businesses were truthful about their accomplishments. They all claimed to have success stories of people no one has ever heard of, or some grandchild of an old fart country singer with a random hit song as part of their sales pitch. I was amazed at how much business there was that seemed to be the bottom feeders of the music industry.

I once had a songwriting session with a guy that worked for a major record company. He even showed me around the building on Music Row one Sunday afternoon, including the writers rooms where staff writers actually wrote multiple hit songs. It was an amazing experience and I’m grateful I got to see it. Not many people do. We got together at a friend’s house later and started writing the next “Redneck Anthem” as he put it, but after about forty-five minutes, I became frustrated with the cold and insincere process and abruptly walked away, almost like a real jerk. Also, I was writing all the melody while they were just trying to come up with string of catchy phrases. Oddly, some songwriters do exactly that and occasionally they write a hit song. I later learned that he was actually a part time janitor at the record company building. I would have thought that was even more cool than being a staff writer, if only he didn’t discreetly lie about it.

One rule I still follow is “Never pay to play”. In all of my experience through the years, that still hasn’t changed, even though it’s often tempting when something amazing or exclusive is offered, but it’s always too good to be true.

With the release of my third album, I am now bombarded with ads for promotion on Facebook and email. I see some friends using these marketing techniques and I really hope they know what to expect. I also hope it really works for them. It takes an incredible amount of effort and time.

I’m doing some of the same techniques as the marketers, usually by sheer coincidence or intuition. I have difficulty dedicating a lot of time for self promotion, so I’ve given myself reasonable deadlines and realistic goals. I plan on doing things before I die of old age.

There is a huge demand for independent music marketing on the internet. It’s actually mostly about gathering data to sell ads, not music. So you’re really in marketing, instead of music. Did you want to be in marketing? Too bad, you’re in marketing now. Surprisingly, the pitches are pretty straight-forward and honest about that if you’re really listening, but they can still be pretty tricky.

Creating music is actually getting more affordable as the processes get more streamlined and competitive. It’s also becoming less meaningful as it gets more and more saturated. I’m contributing as well, I’m sure.

The independent music industry is turned upside down right now and I assume that the real players are way ahead of the trends and protecting themselves. Nashville executives have always been in control of their industry, for the better or the worse. It’s all subjective, and as long as they can say what’s good music, they’re going to be just fine.

Success Part 2

With the internet, the average person can now produce music and make it available for the whole world to hear. We can go out and play live shows and peddle our CD’s and t-shirts for a few bucks. We can even possibly make a living doing it-if it’s set up right and highly maintained. (It’s important to note that professional music producers, talented writers, and craft musicians are still in another league. All musicians should aspire to be in that elite league, or at least know the difference.)

Making it big is still as elusive as it ever was. Getting a hit song on the radio or movie soundtrack is still amazingly difficult. Everybody wants a cut, everybody wants a piece of the action, and nobody wants to invest in the highly unlikely chance of your success. It’s worse odds than winning the lottery and being struck by lightning on the same day, but we do it anyway. We tell ourselves that someone has to win the lottery, and the chances are greater the more we play, and we try and put ourselves in the path of opportunity. I am there with exactly that.

The hope of making money doing something so creatively satisfying is mind boggling. It’s an addiction and it’s a foolish pursuit, but it is also a legitimate business. Computers, software suppliers, bars, restaurants, instruments, electronics, CD manufacturers, online distributors, ads and more ads. It’s a big, big business for so many, and sometimes lightning really does strike for an artist.

It’s also hard to accept that you should just go get an unsatisfying job for sixty-five years when you are capable of creating music. 

An extraordinary soul stuck in a conventional life. (I heard that on the radio). It makes you wonder why you even exist at all? It’s even harder when you have to accept you’ve struggled to dedicate your entire life to music and realize that you’re barely closer than you were thirty years ago. You didn’t plan for surviving with nothing, and it seems too late to start building anything. It makes you wonder, again, why you even exist at all?

That’s why some people believe it’s absolutely foolish to chase such dreams to begin with. I get that now, because I’m older, worn down, cynical, and poor.

There’s also a heavy guilt side effect in investing in my music endeavor because I should probably be putting money into my home and family instead of throwing it away on guitar strings and making CD’s. When I get a few extra bucks, it usually goes into a music fund and I try to spend it before something new breaks around the house. (I’m ignoring the old hole in the back porch.) I even keep my self embezzled allowance a secret from people that wouldn’t approve. I’m probably way too old to be doing that, but I’m also too old to have to be explaining myself.

I’ve tried many careers and made many mistakes. One mistake was not going in deeper. Fully immersed and sacrificing everything. Homeless, starving, alone, and maybe ending up dead. I sometimes listened to people who didn’t get it. I was convinced that I always had to pay the rent and have a steady job. That kept me from discovering and learning everything I really needed to know about music or entertainment. I was so focused, for years, on trying to earn a living instead of figuring out a way to develop my very real passion, I actually wound up failing at both.

I’m aware that it sounds like I’m blaming others because I am. I’ve got plenty of things to blame on myself, but it isn’t like everything can be my fault all the time, right? Right?

When I was seventeen, I wanted to go to L.A. to try to get into the movie business. I didn’t go because something told me I would die without support. The truth is, I was already dead, or at least my future was. There was nothing for me where I was. In hindsight, I had no real prospects either way so I should have just gone to Hollywood. Part of me thinks that is my biggest regret. Another part knows I probably wouldn’t be here now to complain about it, so I try not to give it too much thought.

So years later, I’m still struggling to make music. It’s still just as useless and futile as it ever was, but it’s the air that I breathe. I have no desire to quit creating music and still no desire to work at a meaningless job for lousy pay. At least no more than I have to. I still gotta provide and survive.

At this point, I’m sort of just running out the clock. I have to make my failures my accomplishments, my poverty my contentment, and my lack of desire for competitive wealth my social protest.

Making music is powerful. Sharing music is nice too if everyone at least pretends to like it. Making money from making music would be life altering. The amount of work that’s put into making music is mostly kept a secret because it’s ridiculous. And don’t even ask how much money we put into it.

I was thinking about how much I can charge for a CD. If I sell one for ten dollars, that’s about thirty minutes of work for an average person. It would be kind of like giving someone my CD for taking out my kitchen trash or folding a load of laundry. My cost with shipping is about seven bucks so I make three dollars for a CD that I’ve invested thousands of dollars and a lot of years to create. I’m starting to think it’s a bad business model. Unless I can guilt millions and millions of people into buying them.

It’s strange to think that music is for sale at all. Music is the way humans breathe through their souls. It’s just too bad we can’t eat pentatonic scales.

Comedy, Uncategorized

The Cockroach that Ate the Seventh Grade

It was the seventh grade. The world was absolutely perfect. I had perfect hair, and a perfect family, straight A student, endowed with a family legacy of prosperity and a glorious future.

Actually… I looked malnourished, dressed in horrific style, and made bad grades. My dirt poor family was falling apart due to drugs and alcohol, and no hairstyle of mine could ever take hold. I wore thick framed, ugly, tan colored plastic glasses that didn’t fit my face. In the early eighties, glasses were designed with the influence of the look of playdough and photo-grey lenses were in style and very useful for immediately stumbling in the darkness of sunglasses when you came in from outside. The middle school had many external annexed buildings, so that was very useful.

My mom usually cut my hair in straight lines, but even when I had it styled by a hairdresser once, it didn’t work. There was usually one side that just grew outward and flipped up. I erased and re-drew a comical self portrait of my picture in every yearbook I could get my hands on. I often wore a baseball cap everywhere – except school since it wasn’t allowed. I don’t know why. Maybe we could’ve smuggled food or unauthorized snacks on to the premises, competing with the corporate owned vending machines full of candy, cokes, and chips as an alternative to a healthy school lunch. If I had any allowance money, I had two Twix chocolate wafers for lunch. I saved the Corn Nuts for an afternoon snack, and the grape Bubblicious to later kill the putrid salty corn breath. Some days, I walked home for lunch. My home was just barely a block away.

It was a rent house. Red brick with a side carport that was my own private bicycle workshop. The master bedroom, on the other side of the house, was obviously an enclosed and remodeled garage. It upgraded the tiny house to three bedrooms. The landlord was an old woman with severe mental problems. She once held us at gunpoint at three in the morning, exclaiming we were in her house. Technically, she was correct. She had forgotten that it was rented out and that she didn’t live there anymore. She was removed by the local Sheriff and luckily somehow no one was hurt. She was never heard from again.

Part of my coolness appeal was my custom jeans. I had mentioned, or complained, to my mother that my legs were too skinny and I wished my pants fit more snug. Since I was only allowed new jeans at the beginning of the school year, I was stuck wearing the pants my mom decided to redesign for me. I’m not sure what she thought she was doing, but my thighs remained loose fitting while my calves were skin tight. I also wore cowboy boots exclusively, so it was an interesting look that didn’t seem to create a trend with the other kids at all.

That year I also had a severely ingrown toenail. I was a very trusting kid, so I allowed a very nice boy in the gym class locker room to perform a healing ritual he’d learned from his grandpa. He first took a very large dip from my can of contraband chewing tobacco, worked up a big spit, and let it loose all over my big, red, swollen toe, as a deadener, he explained, then he thumped it as hard as he could. I fell to the floor in writhing pain as the fairly large crowd that had gathered to witness my misplaced trust first hand, laughed until they cried, then laughed some more. It really didn’t help my toe at all, I eventually realized.

I had surgery on that toe later, from an actual doctor. I had to navigate stairs and long distances throughout the school campus on crutches for ten weeks. At least it got me out of P.E., although I still had to pointlessly be there.

The worst pain I have ever endured was the four shots of deadener in the top of my big toe. I was literally crawling backwards up the wall as he saddled my leg to give me the shots. After that, the procedure didn’t hurt, but was horrible to witness. He basically took pointed needle nose pliers and jammed it under my toenail, then opened them up, popping the toenail completely off. Years later, I Iearned that he was supposed to cauterize the cuticle so the nail would not grow back. I guess he just plain forgot, because it grew back and I still have a very painful ingrown toenail, many years later.

One day, I woke up, got out of bed, put on my pants that I’d left on the floor, probably ate some cereal, and sleepily walked to school. During the first class, I felt an itch on my butt, like we all get from time to time, so I scratched it. Later, I felt another itch, then another. I found myself subtly digging my finger deeper to scratch my butt. It was becoming a more intense rectal itch and harder to conceal. My adolescent mind assumed I was having an itchy bunghole day and would just go home at lunchtime to really wipe my butt, maybe even rinse off a little. As lunch became closer, the itch seemed to be getting really agressive. I was having to clinch my anus to keep it from itching so much. Finally the lunch buzzer rang and I hurried home, walking and clinching the whole way. I bolted into the bathroom and loosened by belt buckle and dropped my pants and underwear in one motion, clinking to the floor. In the center of a tan shaded streak on my half soiled underwear sat a stunned three inch long cockroach, shiny and as black as the night. My feet jumped as I screamed in fear as it immediately scurried away, escaping forever. The horror on my face was slowly replaced by pure disgust as I realized that monster insect had been actively trying to enter my anus all morning, and I chose to mostly ignore it. To be clear, it was trying to crawl inside my butt. It almost did crawl into my butt. I had never in my life felt less proud and ashamed and disgusted.

From that day, I have and will forever vigorously shake out my clothes before putting anything on, and now you might too.

Comedy, Random Thoughts and Stories, Uncategorized

The Walmart Illuminatti

“Do you know what the Illuminati,… you know, the top one percent, do you know what they call the rest of us?” I couldn’t wait to hear the answer. This beautiful, buck toothed, scraggly woman at the Walmart check out had peaked my interest. I didn’t mind that she confused the wealthiest people in the world with the Illuminati. I don’t mind that she actually believes there is a private social club that controls all of our lives. Maybe, there is. I don’t claim to know about things I can’t possibly know. I just know I love to hear crazy people speak. “Useless eaters”. she said, ” That’s what they call us”. I thought, that’s not so bad. I often feel like a useless eater. I agree with the Illuminati. Maybe I am one!

Turns out, after a comprehensive google search, five days after the statement rattled inside my head, that consisted of one very easy search, I discovered that the iIlluminati didn’t say that. It was the Nazis.

Damn! I am so dissatisfied with the customer service at Wal-Mart. I want to complain, but to whom?

Then, I remembered the rest of the cashier’s platform. “Well, when those Illuminati meet the Lord, they’ll find out, real quick”.

“I suppose they’ll get what’s coming to them”, replied the long, white hair, bearded man with minimal enthusiasm.

When it was my turn at the cashier, I just said, “What the Hell? Ten cent’s for a god-damned paper bag! This is bullshit!! Fuck the Illuminati!” Then I peed on everything and exposed myself to the cameras in the ceiling. “Sam Walton would have burned you all!!” I exclaimed. Then I wrapped myself in pool noodles and sang God Bless America. After three back flips by the security guard, we consummated and drank a case of Gatorade.

Actually, I didn’t do any of that. I just don’t have an end to this story. I wonder what the Illuminati would think if I did do that? Oh well, who cares? I’m hungry. Fuckin’ Nazis.

Uncategorized

K Club Parenting

Sometime in the mid seventies, a vague memory lingers of my parents taking my brother and me with them on a night out as stowaways. It was to a gathering at the K Club.

It was Christmas or maybe New Year’s or maybe just a celebratory Saturday night. I only remember that it was the first time I’d seen my mom really dressed up like an adult.
She wore a revealing red dress, perfume, and make up like I’d only seen in magazines. She was beautiful and sexy. I was only seven years old, but I knew what sexy was. I had seen the manuals hidden in my dad’s dresser drawers. She was oddly exciting to gaze upon and I could tell my dad was proud to show her off, even though they had been fighting the entire time they were getting ready. Fighting was usual and normal for our family. Not arguing, but fighting. If my mother could take or deliver a punch, they would have been throwing knockout blows at least once a week.

During their evening preparation, they had neglected to feed their children. I’m not sure if there ever was a plan for us, or the plans fell through, or the time was too constricting, or what, but it was obvious we were not prioritized at all. Maybe we were supposed to meet with a babysitter, or maybe they just forgot about us for a little while, but we were obviously not invited to the party and eventually had to be dealt with somehow.

I assume the plan soon became to figure something out in a pinch. I hope the actual original plan was not what they did, but it totally could have been.

We all squeezed together on the cold vinyl bench seat of the 1977 green Chevy 4×4, and rode twenty plus miles into the city. I remember mostly a calm silence, as if my parents refused to speak in fear of ruining any chance they might actually enjoy the evening. The overpowering smells of perfume and cologne might have also collectively altered our brain patterns, rendering us silent and passive.
I do remember a certain energy surrounding my dad. It was as if he was hyper focused on the coming events of the evening, and he would let nothing alter that path. We all assumed he would be content with leaving us on the side of the road if we posed as an obstacle to his upcoming enjoyment.

On the way to the building, we stopped by a small grocery store where we were allowed to shop for snacks. Anything our childish hearts desired, just to keep us quiet. No rules of nutrition applied. This was also our dinner.

Upon arrival, my brother and I were quickly, silently, and covertly guided down a dimly lit hallway to a dark, unheated office room. My mom had no part in it. I’m not even sure she knew we were there anymore. The fluorescent lights blinked and flittered as the room illuminated. Among the unemotional office carpet and grey tweed and false leather office furniture stood a television on a rolling cart. My dad turned it on and silently rejoiced as he turned the loud clicking, giant rotary channel knobs, discovering at least four channels. It was as if it was sent by God. A babysitter God. We did not have an operable TV at home since no signal existed that could reach our rural area. My dad left us with a stern warning. I don’t remember what he said, but it may have been the only time in our lives that my brother decided not to anger me for his own entertainment.

So for hours, my brother and I ate our dinner of powdered sugar and waxed chocolate coated donuts, M&M’s, bags of chips, candy bars, and multiple soda pops. We watched adult themed sitcoms and violent cop shows on the clean signaled tv channels as the steady roar of the distant party echoed down the hallway. We didn’t argue or fight, or at least enough that required an intervention.

After hours and hours, and hours, our obviously inebriated, red faced parents came to get us. We were once again snuck out like prisoners of war. Most of the guests had already gone so it was a successful super secret covert operation.
I believe it was against the rules for children to be present, but it must have been worth the risk to my dad. A reprimand? A possible exile from the K-Club? At least he would have been publicly shamed, maybe.

My mom would have never had a rational opinion about it, so there is no point in trying to guess what her thoughts on the matter even were. That would be equivalent to trying to understand why cats suddenly run out of the room sometimes.

At that time, there were no actual laws against driving drunk, with or without your kids. We obviously made it home to tell the story. I remember that we were so tired, and it was so late, and we were exhausted from eating so much sugar.

I also remember that my parents actually had a good time. It was rare and overdue, and probably the last time they enjoyed each other’s company, in public or private. And looking back in even further depth, I wonder if it was really just a sex party? I hope not, or I hope so. Mom and Dad sure were excited.

Uncategorized

Cavities

There was a time I had dental insurance. It was only for a few years while I was working at a print shop in Nashville. I had very little experience with dentists, so I knew they were all professional and honest, like doctors and lawyers.

As an open minded and slightly naive type of person, I have no reason to be suspicious of anyone at any time.

I was a walk in, and a walk out after my consultation. I can’t say for sure if the dental office was motivated by racism or they ripped off everyone equally, but it felt a little like racism.

Everything went smoothly throughout the entire visit at the East Nashville white castle dental institution. So smooth that my accusatory thoughts went completely un-investigated.

I enjoy experiencing different American cultures. I’m not afraid of people or areas of town. I usually find that people everywhere are accepting and friendly to people like me, especially when I’m out of my element.

I think I was actually afraid of being accused of being a racist if I reported them, so I did absolutely nothing.
I now wonder if the operation was counting on my fear, or white guilt, or confrontation, or am I giving them way too much credit.

I filled out the forms in the waiting room among a large group of people. All ages, all races, and all lower middle class to poor. It was as warm and welcoming as the Department of Motor Vehicles. Tan painted cinder block walls, one lonely fish in cloudy ten gallon tank on a table, and the usual unorganized pile of over used, torn, scribbled on, missing pages, Highlights magazines on a green shelf in the corner. My initial feeling was that this place must be great. It’s affordable and a great service to the community. Why else would the waiting room be so busy?
All the employees looked tidy and professional. Monochromatic bleached white blouses, pants, and aprons. Fancy hairdoos and painted fingernails. All more to love body type ladies with strong opinions that they kept to themselves during working hours, but could size you up with a glance and a murmur.

I was called to the back, politely asked to remove my baseball cap, and sit in the laid back dental chair. She, of course, commented on my long hippie hair and asked a few seemingly indifferent questions. It felt like I was being screened.

“How you doing today?”
“Good.”

“You got some long hair.”
“Yeah.”

“You been here before?”
“No.”

“Where you from?”
“Texas.”

“Oh, Texas. I never been to Texas. Have you heard of us before?”
“No.”

“Why you move to Nayushveal?”
“Music.”

“Oh you gon’ be a country and western star.”
“No, heh, I don’t really play country.”

“UmmHmmmm. And how did you hear about us?”
“I drive by here on my way home from work.”

“Where you work? Never-mind, you ever hear anybody say anything bad about us?”

“Uh, no.”
“Good. Let’s get started!”

A new assistant came in and had me lay back as she poked on and around each tooth calling out numbers to another assistant who was writing down the secret code on a shiny metal clipboard as if they were seeing just how fast they could fire through it.

Then they left to decipher it and, I assume, discuss how far they could take their lies.

When the actual Dentist arrived, it was like a diva appeared, complete with bodyguards. Then she gave me the news. I had nine cavities, but someone just cancelled their appointment, so they could fix them all right then and there. It was coincidentally incredibly convenient.

I thought about it for half a second and said, I’m not really prepared for that right now. I think I need to go.

She said, ok baby, make a appointment and come back tomorrow.

I said, I will.

But I did not. I walked straight out the door in a daze and went home feeling confused and oddly violated. I’ve only felt that way once before. The time my eyes were dilated at the Git-er-Done Nashvegas optometrist office, and they did not inform me that I would be very sensitive to the sunlight, and they let me drive home anyway. It was like driving home fourteen miles in the flash of an atomic explosion.

A week later, I found a different dentist office. There was only a mom and a kid in the waiting room when I filled out the forms. There was a clean fish tank built into the wall. You could see the bubbles and everything. It had seven alive fish. There was an assortment of current magazines on multiple tables. It was better. The walls were stucco textured with colorful art.

The actual dentist took a moment to inspect my teeth with the same poking method, so I guess that’s a thing, and asked, ‘So just a cleaning today?’ And I was like, What about all the cavities??
But there were no cavities. Not even one. I expected maybe one, but no. Just zero cavities.

And before long, I was gazing into the beautiful brown eyes of a Hindu dental hygienist while she battled my cigarette breath for twenty-five minutes. I went every three months, for as long as I had my insurance. My only complaint was the unsettling loudness of the landscaping equipment outside the serene tooth and gum spa. Even the fluoride flavored mouthwash was delightful. I highly recommend this dental facility. Four stars!

I’ll end this story with a few reminders to all humanity.

-Shop around a bit.
-Ask some questions.
-Report bad behavior.
-Go to the dentist if you can afford to pay for it or have insurance.
-Find a dental hygienist with pretty eyes and nothing else will matter.

Uncategorized

Spasmatic Side Effects and Death

I have been diagnosed with shingles. An after affect from the chicken pox I had as a child. Shingles show up later in life just to remind us that life still sucks. I’ve also suffered from nasty cold sores my whole life. Strangly, it’s the same prescribed medication, Acyclovir.

Most shingles symptoms are a burning rash across the chest and arms. My symptoms are more rare, only a few pimply, itchy, red bumps at my beltline, and nearly debilitating muscle weakness and deep aching nerve pain. I find myself in tears as I power through my laborious workday.

I can feel outbreaks coming on, so I start the medication to minimize the full effect of the virus. Up until now, it’s worked just fine.

Suddenly, I fully sympathize with Parkinson’s sufferers. My brand new incredible side effects were uncontrollable twitching and stuttering for almost three solid days.

Of course I researched online before going to an expensive doctor. It was terrifying not knowing what was wrong with me and how bad it was. I fully expected the worse. Even death.

The reality that I might stay that way was not only horrific, but also thought provoking. Everything would change. Playing music, working, driving, walking, preparing meals, eating, writing, hugging, Everything.

Luckily, I have already reconciled with my death for the most part. I may even welcome it, after all, I’m exhausted.

Years ago I was so ashamed and tired of providing very little for myself and my family, I contemplated the thought of death and all the ways I could die. By my own hand, or in an accident, or incident, or by the failing health of my vital organs due to how I’ve mistreated my body forever.

I started writing to curb those annoying thoughts, or maybe to leave some possible clues to my death.
Then I started recording my music again (after a ten year hiatus) to leave at least something in this world.
Then I gave up alcohol (it took a few tries) and then eventually I started feeling better about living.

I do hope to leave my kids with a better understanding of who I am, so they can better understand themselves, and all their weirdness, someday. Hopefully, my legacy of music can leave them some royalty cash as well, but so far, nuthin’.

The illness scare made me realize that mentally, I’m doing better than ever before. Sobriety will always be a battle, but having clarity has allowed me to leave something behind, even if I died right now, and I’m okay with that.

I don’t think I would be okay with living with a debiltating disease, but that would be another story. I’m grateful that I don’t have to, for now at least.

Of course, I still haven’t gone to the doctor. I’m waiting for my inclusive yearly checkup to bring up all the issues I have. Sort of a self bundled package deal.

Who’s got money to throw around for just a few tremors and severe headaches? It’s not that bad if there’s no blood. And even then, that’s what the ER is for.