Last Will

While You Can

2012-01-04T14:41:00.001-08:00

Dedicated to the person who has seen someone in a painful relationship, and had to watch.....

Personal Politics aside...

2011-12-23T16:16:00.001-08:00

Okay, everybody knows he yelled at his daughter on her voicemail. He's a father. He didn't get that whippy.Yes, his politics are borderline whippy lefty....Whatever.No one, with the possible exception of Mitch Hedberg on stage and Harold Lloyd on screen has made me laugh as hard as Alec Baldwin.Here are some great clips of the supporting role he had that few know about. He is so funny here....

Some sort of retribution

2011-12-23T15:49:00.000-08:00

As a man who looks at the world through a lens that most find me crazy to gaze through, I am sorry I cannot exchange my world view, let alone my eyes.
I see things the way I do thanks to those who raised me and what I took from them.
I see far too many fucking people walking the earth who have hurt others in so many ways, don't seem to mind having done it, and carrying on as if the world were their oyster....

God damn it.

Yes, Michael MacCreary, (and hundreds of thousands of others) I am indeed talking to you. Those that are indifferent are nearly as bad as the perpetrators...
Poor Kitty Genovese, poor Teresa Saldana, I weep for them in my darkest nightmares...the ones that don't involve my own fears.
I do believe in eye for an eye....
God help me, I do, because knowing those conscienceless bastards are cavorting out there while those that burn inside fret about it, is just a further insult. Salt in an already bitter wound....
I can't abide...

Memory Lone

2011-12-21T21:05:00.001-08:00

It's kind of startling to me when I look at friends photo albums from back in the day.
Don't get me wrong, initiial reaction is usually something like "Ah! Look at you!" and then full entrenchment into memory lane ensues....
One night after the laughter died down, and people went home, and the computer was turned off, or the glitter faded, or whatever the fuck you want to call it happened, I scrunched up my brow. Scratched my chin. That one night led to several more afterwards that consisted of me digging.
There were times when I would tear through the small boxes of my extremely compartmentalized and segregated past, searching for photos, memorabilia, and ephemera. Desperately...one time, in tears.
I attended 11 different schools in 2 different states and 3 different cities....after I hit 14, my parents moved me 3 times. I went to 3 high schools in 3 cities.....those photo albums never had a chance. I haven't had a bff since the 6th grade.
Yeah, I know...fuck me, it sounds like whining, here's a kleenex, go away little match girl. I get it.
But this is what I do, this is how I exorcise demons. So the power of Christ is compelling me right now.
I don't have any mistakes in my past, because I never got the chance to make them. I never left any hearts in my wake, because I had no opportunity to break them. I can't share any great teenage love and loss stories that are now fodder for memory lane giggles. I don't have any buddies I can dial up and say "Bro, rememember the time....." and have the conversation end in gales of laughter and tear-stained cheeks.
That's a problem for me. A huge one.
Huge.

The last known photo taken of me before I turned 19. I was 13.

Mid Life Crisis Disclaimer (Written December 2, 2010)

2011-12-13T20:09:00.000-08:00

The phrase is generic and genuine and older than dirt.

I wear my heart on my sleeve.

Shit, it's a mantra for me. You can tell what I'm feeling by looking at my face when I walk into a room.

It's encoded in my DNA. I've never been able to hide it. Be disgusted by it, if you gotta.

I spill my purse like Ally Sheedy in "The Breakfast Club", man. I'm no mystery.

I've heard all the chatter before, and hell, for that matter it's been directed to my face....

"You're needy", "You're whiny", "You're a wet blanket on a kegger fire." I may be all of those to some, and to others I'm none of the above. If anything, I'm emotionally honest. Should I hurt, fuck, you're gonna know it.

Folks have discarded me and given me my walking papers electronically for this, and to them, I apologize for ruining their train of thought. Sadly, they've cast aside someone who will listen to them forever if need be. I work both ways in that department.

I hurt hard, but I love even fucking harder.

So....this is me. At 39. I like to laugh and absolutely love to make others laugh. I've always been that way, and will be forever. But when the need to feel down, or God forbid, even cry comes along, it's gonna show. And for that, I'm giving fair warning.

Halloween: The Horrors

2011-10-20T15:44:00.001-07:00

Halloween: 10 non horror scary movies

2011-10-20T13:40:00.001-07:00

1. "Paradise Lost"--Watching 3 teenagers being railroaded into life in prison or a lethal injection is terrifying....The West Memphis 3 had it happen to them by a biased and discriminatory legal system and community....but what happened to those little murdered boys is far worse, unfair, and disturbing....
2. "Idiocracy"--yeah, it's a wackadoo comedy written and directed by "Beavis and Butt Head" and "King of the Hill" vet Mike Judge, but just think....if the morons of the world continue to reproduce at the current "Jerry Springer" rate, and smart people don't have time for kids, how off the mark is it really?
3: "The Day After"--doesn't really hold up special effects wise, but the build up to the button being pushed is undeniably creepy and tense....and from my knowledge, being pretty well read on the subject.....is fairly accurate.
4. "The Accused"--Another legal system gone amok movie, but the sequence where Jodie Foster is gang-attacked still haunts me to this day and I refuse to watch it again.....ever!
5. "Trekkies"--If you're a Star Trek fan, respect...really. But just like anything pop-culture wise you can be a fan of, some people take it to nausea-inducing levels of self-indulgence and hero-worship that exceeds even church-going zealotry.....There's also a few moments in "25 Years of Terror" where fans of the "Halloween" series are also show in much the same way.....these people give me the creeps.
6. "Dopamine"--a romantic comedy that poses the questions: what if love is just dopamine, and lust is just adrenaline....despite the saccharine ending, those questions posed by the move chilled me to the very marrow of my bones.....So it possessed me to ask my own question: Why are we doing this, then?
7. "Miracle Mile"--The last 15 minutes of this movie show humanity at it's absolute worst. Couldn't sleep for days afterwords....
8. "Midnight Express"--remind me to never, never, EVER, EVER try to smuggle heroin out of Turkey.
9. "The Guyana Tragedy"--humanity's lemming mentality at it's most pathetic and disturbing. Jesus Christ.
10. "Thirteen Days"--The Cuban Missile Crisis and how close we actually came....Goddamn eye opening.....

Astral Projection

2011-06-03T21:07:00.000-07:00

Leaning on a weathered railing, staring out into the distance, which was a 3 AM, blackened sky, accented by wind through the trees and fireflies, I had a bit of a revelation.

I looked at my past in my agitated state, a past comprised of various leavings...self-induced, disease created, or flat out betrayals. Or a mixture of both....

I started to raise questions within myself and found it exhausting. The answer wasn't hard to find....I take the bullshit factors of my past, amplify them, and project them on to everybody else.

Sooner or later, everyone, is going to desert me, begin to hate me, blame me, or just plain glare at me and HATE.

This isn't healthy....
This isn't right....I am a good person. I have given, I have bled for others. I have been heroic and I have fought the good fight.

My nose is bleeding, but I still breathe. I stand on a rotting railroad tie at a crossroads....one turn is reality, the other is what I am led to believe by my own self-induced inadequacies and self-esteem issues....

Make a move, Rob.

The Philosophy of Mike Terry

2011-06-02T19:31:00.000-07:00

I was thinking at work today about a movie I have seen a dozen times, and it caused a reaction I had yet to see in myself until this morning.....

"Redbelt" is the story of Jiu-Jitsu instructor Mike Terry. A "pure" martial artist who believes that competing, especially for money, "weakens the fighter". All around him, his need, his lifestyle of seeing the best in everyone, seeing the good in them...wanting to help them...has brought him nothing but financial problems and disdain from his wife, who comes from a family of Brazilian martial artists taught by "The Professor", (played by Bruce Lee's prized Jeet Kune Do pupil, Danny Inosanto)....and steeped in wealth.

The actor who plays Terry is pitch perfect. Not only is Chiwetel Ejiofor a fantastic hand to hand fighter, but a brilliant actor with expressive eyes that can tell a story in and amongst themselves...

You've seen him before as Denzel Washington's brother in "American Gangster", as well as in "Love Actually", "Talk to Me", and a doe-eyed, benign seeming, self-proclaimed "monster" in the film based on the "Firefly" television series, "Serenity".

One rainy evening, a peculiar incident takes place that sets the events of the movie in motion. Terry sees things start to look up, but as the film moves along, he finds that everyone is taking advantage of his good nature, to better and further their own financial agendas. No matter what the risk. Including the suicide of Terry's prized student, a police officer.

All of this puts Mike Terry in a corner where he agrees to compete, to help his student's wife, who is penniless, and himself and his own wife, who have financially been pinned between a rock and a hard place....

Mike Terry is a warrior, and he finds the "big competition" of which he only fights on the undercard, is a sham. One that is played out in front of the unknowing and Godlike "Professor" from Brazil...including fighters taking falls, and Mike's own teaching idea stolen from him and used as the centerpiece of the pay per view event.

Mike walks away, friendless.
Except for maybe one. A rape victim, that he gave her confidence back to, and quite possibly, her life. When she sees Mike, staring at his shoes, and walking away, she slaps him.

Mike knows now. A woman he helped through Post Traumatic Stress Disorder awakens him to the point that he knows he has become a victim himself, but with a chance to prevent that word from being tagged to him.

"Ripping it down" is what he decides to do....and one of my all time favorite, yet simple fight scenes ensues, that finishes with the most touching moment in martial arts movie history.

There's a scene, where a security guard says to Terry, "Shame about Joe, he thought the world of you, Mike"... referring to the police officer who had committed suicide over the previously mentioned string of events....Mike almost cries...

That's what made me almost cry this morning. I remembered how I idolized and almost deified my own martial arts instructors, as Joe did. I also saw in Ejiofor's eyes, the agony that must come with that responsibility.

And the last thing that came pounding down along with my tears, is the world's ability to take those who trust, those who only see beauty in people, those who want to help and teach, and take advantage of them, and destroy them with their own love.

Mike prevents that....

I wish I could.

The 1982 Brewers and I: a love affair

2010-11-18T08:34:00.000-08:00

1982 was a crazy year. My father had died a short two years before, and a while later, after almost being killed by a potential axe murderer in his building, my brother decided to move back in with myself, my Mom, and my stepdad. I was thrilled. Not about attempted murder, but my big bro moving back in to share a room with me. He was back and unexpectedly brought a passion with him.
The Milwaukee Brewers.
As we watched ballgames together on a tiny Admiral black and white, he explained the strike zone, runs, hits, errors, and the science of the game I never really played or understood. As that 1982 season progressed, I became enthralled with America's pasttime and the Brew Crew, and individually, they became heroes.

Having never attended a game at legendary Milwaukee County Stadium, I always hoped for those 50-odd games on the road each season that were televised by local independent station WVTV-18 to be aired on the weekends. Brought to you live by husky white-haired play-by-play man Steve Shannon and former Brewer first baseman Mike Hegan. It was more fulfilling to listen to the radiomen, Wisconsin mainstay and current legend, Bob Uecker, Mr. Baseball himself, and his partner, Dwayne Moseley (The Nose and the Mose) but having the ability to see what I normally merely heard was something special. I was able to put faces to the names.

On that immensely exciting '82 Brewers squad, there were rookies, vets, speedsters, power hitters galore, and something that set them apart from a lot of other classic baseball teams...character. Manager Harvey Kuenn, the Wisconsin boy who hit .300 for his career and had over 2000 hits was the top character of the big list. Leaking tobacco and ambling out to the mound on his wooden leg (he had it surgically amputated due to circulation problems) he looked every bit the pirate while taking the ball from some exhausted pitcher, and pointing to the bullpen for relief.

There was the young stud, Robin "the Kid" Yount, who had come up under the mental tutelage of the great one, Henry Aaron. The youthful eventual 3000 hit hall of famer, consistently hit for average, in the clutch, and fielded shortstop like it was his own personal domain. Gorman Thomas, the oafish power-hitting centerfielder who smashed almost as many outfield walls crashing into them hunting down flyballs, as he did hit fastballs out of the park.
In 1981, he accidentally died his hair orange.
Another eventual Brewer star that would ultimately lay claim to 3000 hits and the hall of fame was Paul Molitor, nicknamed "The Ignitor" for his uncanny ability to start late inning rallies with base hits and stolen bases, despite overcoming an intense cocaine addiction in 1980.

The team had the third base/DH tandem of Don Money, longime crowd favorite and Brewer mainstay since the mid 70's, and pesky spray hitter, Roy Howell. Charlie Moore, who was a former light hitting catcher, stalked right field with arguably the strongest cannon in the A.L., who regularly gunned down cocky baserunners that underestimated his right handed shotgun. (Including Reggie Jackson,in the ALCS, who according to legend, popped up out of his slide to salute Moore.) Who could forget the diminutive second baseman Jim Gantner of Eden, Wisconsin? A malcontent on the field, his temprement was legendary, and he combined with Yount to be the best double play combo in baseball.

Certainly, this duo, lastly, but not least, were cool cucumber Cecil Cooper, who hit well over .300 (and would have won the batting title the year prior had it not been for George Brett's flirtation with .400) and drove in runs with clockwork regularity. Besides Coop's offense, his glove was the envy of first sackers around the league.
Let's not forget wiry, whip-swinging power lefty, Ben Oglivie, who had some production left in the tank after a deal with the Tigers that brought him to Milwaukee to be the left fielder a couple years earlier. They both spent significant 70's time with the Boston Red Sox.

From Molitor down to Howell, the Brewers were a modern day "Murderer's Row" (a moniker given to the 1927 New York Yankees) for their ability to pound pitching over the fence from the top to the bottom of the lineup. For this talent, they were also given the nickname "Harvey's Wallbangers", as they were the power source of major league baseball.

My family was drawn together a bit that late September into October by the Brewers successes, as after a lackluster start dimming the optimism of their playoff appearance in the strike-shortened previous season, they fired manager Bob "Buck" Rodgers and the fortunes almost immediately changed when Kuenn, the hitting instructor, took the reins.
As summer faded to fall, the leaves browned and the sun dipped byeond the horizon sooner in the day, we'd gather around to watch the ever more important late season games wondering if this could be the first year for the Brewers since their move here from Seattle in 1970, that they could make a serious run at the World Series. My Mom and eventual stepdad would spend a fair share of time at taverns, and the talk of the bars and nightspots was the Milwaukee Brewers. It was often on these evening drinking expeditions that little bits and pieces of memorabilia would make their way home to me thanks to my parents remembering to bring them home for their Brewtown baseball obsessed kid. All kinds of little junk from evenings out with the Brewer logo on it would be laid claim to by my small hands.

I never imagined my mother, a life-long Packers fan, would become embroiled in baseball, but she did. It was fun to watch her chew her nails during those tight one-run affairs where Rolaids relief man Rollie Fingers would have to be called in yet again to put out another team's fire. It was completely reminiscent of her moaning and groaning over tight-knit Packer battles with the hated Chicago Bears, as the Brewers attempt to clamp down the A.L. East came down to a four game series against the Baltimore Orioles. Only needing to win one, the crew lost the first three, and the title came down to a one game playoff.
My Dad and I would play a game wherein we would try to outguess each other as to what the next hitter would do, and what would happen next. Even my 16 year old sister got in on the act, developing a major crush on the face of the franchise, Robin Yount, with his shoulder length hair and sly grin, Yount won my sister over for more than just his ability on the grass. In that cathartic last game against Baltimore on October 3rd, Yount hit two homers to lead the crew over the Orioles and ace Jim Palmer, 10-2. On to the famous come from behind ALCS victory, and eventually, the Series loss in 7.

This team claimed a hold on my imagination, more importantly. I would often go out into the backyard with my black weather-beaten Louisville Slugger, and pretend to be the Brewers lineup. I had even mastered the art of imitating each and every one of their batting stances. Yount's wide-open pose with his back almost facing the pitcher. Catcher Ted Simmons' stoic and motionless knee-bender. I'd even switch around to the left side to mime Coop's way-back lean (wondering the whole time how he never fell down), and "The O", Ben Oglivie's stick straight stance, bat waving in the air as if the wiry Panamanian was attempting to swat flies with the lumber. Incidentally, it was this odd attempt at mocking Cooper, Oglivie, switch-hitting legend, catcher Ted Simmons, and Jim Gantner that actually led to my ability to be able to hit left-handed. I had inadvertently tought myself to switch hit. My physical abilities initiated upon me from the tutelage of my brothers, Dan and Tim, were brought to another level all by my lonesome.
For each of these "plate appearances", I'd toss the ball up into the air and swing my damndest to simulate the Brewers hitters in an effort to forecast the crew's performance against an upcoming opponent. Narrating to myself the whole time in my best Uecker baritone, I'd give myself the challenge of facing the other teams, if only portraying my heroes in doing so. Nightly, my imaginary Brewers would vanquish the likes of Jim Palmer, Ron Guidry, Dave Stieb, and Jack Morris.
It was a thrill, if only a small one, to get a hold of one, especially lefty, and watch it sail over my parents chain-link fence from under the backyard porch light, perfectly mounted on the middle of the house, right where "home plate" was. I then would do a victorious homerun trot around the bases, (Frisbees in this case) before ending the joyous tour back under the light, where the grass had been flattened by hours of my mimicry. I would then bask in the imagined admiration of 50,000 strong County Stadium faithful. Ben Oglivie had just taken Steve Trout off the right field foul pole to end the game and thwart the dreaded Chicago White Sox again, and I had made it happen. Then I would trudge out to the field beyond the fence to undergo the crime scene investigation of trying to find the baseball I had just crush.

Ah, yes, the innocence of the young baseball fan, and the purity of his admiration for the sport. The smell of summer, the humidity hanging in the air, the crackle of the crowd on the radio, all amongst the hum of the central air unit.

Before sexual angst, teenage frustrations, systemic anger, punk rock, and rebellion set in to flatten it all.

Baseball and youth. Forever entertwined.

I hate Advertising Ad Fest: Volume Quatro

2010-11-12T05:55:00.000-08:00

Okay, technically this is a public service announcement, and brought to my attention by my kid, a Godzilla fan. It's endorsement of positive fatherhood is both a pat on my back, and it rubs my sentimental retro nostalgic bone by featuring Nilsson's theme from "The Courtship of Eddie's Father"....ah, yes....all it takes to point out the gallantry of a good Dad is a giant radiation creating monster that spends most of his days knocking down architecture.

Burning Bright: Another Low Volume addition.

2010-11-11T21:37:00.000-08:00

Carlos Brooks directed this straight to DVD effort, another one of what I call "low volume" flicks....much like "Frozen" by Adam Green, it features a very small cast, limited special effects, and very few sets and locations. It's energy lies in it's suspense.

On screen dickhead du jour, Garret Dillahunt, (Krug in "Last House on the Left" and 2 psychotic roles in "Deadwood" as well as a nutjob in "The Road") decides to buy a tiger for a safari he's attempting to build on his Florida land. He's using money needed for lead actress Briana Evigan (who is fantastic here) to start her college career, and care for her autistic brother.

Through nasty circumstances, Evigan and the boy, Tom, are trapped in the house with the tiger, dubbed as "evil" by the man who sold it to Dillahunt. They're boarded in because a hurricane is hitting the gulf coast, and the house was battened up by laborers as the two slept.

Evigan is no scream queen. Her character is smart, resourceful, sympathetic, and emotionally-torn....she's a thrill to watch. The tiger is beautiful and terrifying, and suspense is palpable through the whole flick....

As a matter of fact, the sad circumstance involving Evigan and her need to care for her autistic brother with no help from her shitty stepfather shortly after the suicide of the pair's mother is so engrossing and believable, you almost forget for a bit that horror is on the horizon.

Low budget, high quality fare like this doesn't come along often, so if you're looking for lesser known and unique viewing experiences, this movie is a good one to search out.....

I hate Advertising Ad-Fest Volume Tres

2010-11-08T10:29:00.000-08:00

Caught my attention from the get-go, because I dig polar bears....funny, thought provoking, and goddamned cute payoff. What's not to like about this extremely well thought out, shot, and edited little commercial....

I hate Advertising Ad-Fest Volume Dos

2010-10-20T21:49:00.000-07:00

Beat boxing? A silly yet rhythmic way to "get it done" in the rap game. But if you give that ability to a beaver.....comedy gold....I love this bit, spit and all.

I hate Advertising Ad-Fest Volume Uno

2010-10-20T21:42:00.000-07:00

Despite it's popularity at the time, and it's retro-admiration now, I've always liked the song "Hungry Like the Wolf" by Duran Duran, but never been certain why....
On the other hand, I adore Bruce Campbell, not just due to his cult status with Sam Raimi's "Evil Dead" series, but his supporting turns on "Burn Notice", and the obviously noticeable chops as an actor in "Bubba Ho-Tep", among other films. The man has game....but overall, his sarcastic sense of humor and self-deprecating ability to charm you is never more evident than in his autobiography "If Chins Could Kill", and his novel "Make Love the Bruce Campbell Way", both literary classics I highly recommend.

But this Old Spice commercial?, flat out fuckin' gold.....

Digital Dab'll Do Ya: Home by Hovercraft

2010-10-19T21:16:00.000-07:00

Beautiful harmonies, nice rhythms, and piano-driven pop rock that stands out over what's on the radio today by leaps and bounds......forget most of what you're hearing in the mass music media.....
this is the real deal.....

http://www.myspace.com/homebyhovercraft

COMING SOON Last Will's Last Ads

2010-10-16T14:05:00.000-07:00

Sometime tonight I'm going to really get boring and rehash my favorite spots in a section I call: "The I hate Advertising's Best Spots".....

Halloween Heroes: Perkins 14

2010-10-11T15:27:00.000-07:00

"Perkins 14" is three different movies in one, really....

A.) A melodrama concerning a police officer dealing with the lingering misery of a son who was abducted some ten years ago, and damaged relationships with his philandering and ignored wife and rebellious daughter.

B.) A potential conspiracy/paranoia riff. Our hero cop believes, with little reason initally, an incarcerated speeder may have been the one who abducted his son, and 13 other children those many years ago.

C.) A bloodfest splatter flick, with the "Rio Bravo", "Night of the Living Dead", "Assault on Precinct 13" flavorings....It's well done...

Telling you anything at all, I risk giving away what are many surprises and twists and turns that make this one fun to watch....It's a slow burn initially, so it requires a patient viewer, but one who won't be dissatisfied with neither the drama or the gore.

Chris Singer directed this little flick with some skill, and snappy editing covers some uneven performances save for the absolutely heartbreaking turn by Michaela Mihut as a conflicted woman is both dedicated to her husband, and neglected by him....it hurts to watch her hurt. Watch for her, she's good.

I initially was uncertain how I felt about it, especially after a cold-cock ending, but the versatility of the film from beginning to end had me thinking about it in a positive light for days afterward, despite "Perkins 14"'s tremendous darkness. No, Chris Singer is a director who wanted to make some noise with his first horror feature, and love it or hate it, "Perkins 14" does just that....

Halloween Heroes: Midnight Movie

2010-10-11T14:28:00.000-07:00

This review is posted by my son, and pride and Joy Aidan Zeus Will

In recent years, as most people are aware of, there have been a slew of Slasher film remakes, from Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Halloween, My Bloody Valentine, to Friday The 13th and A Nightmare on Elm Street. most of these films, while often entertaining, are nothing remarkable or interesting. what perhaps the majority of general audiences aren't aware of are the original Slashers coming out since 2007, The new blood.

among these new murderers is Ted Radford, the antagonist of 'Midnight Movie', directed by Jack Messitt. This Man's intentions seem about the same as every other Slashers, kill the shit out an entourage of teenagers, showing the world who's boss. But he has a different way of executing it. Ted starts out as the director of an early 1970's horror flick "The Dark Beneath". this film is essentially Texas Chainsaw Massacre with different characters, but that's not important. this film (or perhaps Ted himself) has ambiguous supernatural powers. the origin or extent of these powers is not particularly clear, but they allow Radford to essentially control the entire Theater building at which its screening. Of course he himself enters the fray, donned in the outfit of his "The Dark Beneath" killer, with a primitive drill, that will be used for less than constructive things.

The characters are surprisingly believable, entertaining, and developing through out the duration of the story for a film like this, and a few you come to feel bad for as they are brutally destroyed by Ted. most of these are the usual teenagers, but you get a couple of detectives, a small child, and a biker couple. while it sounds uninteresting, the above-par writing forms almost all of these people into dynamic characters.

after viewing the film, it becomes apparent that this film needs, and deserves, a proper sequel, as we barely came to understand the character of Ted and his powers. this is sadly unlikely, as the film didn't receive much attention, but we can dream, and here's hoping Ted Radford somehow finds his way into the hall of always-remembered psychotic murdering heroes.

Halloween Heroes: Just Before Dawn

2010-10-05T23:04:00.000-07:00

In the early 80's the slasher market became oversaturated, and as a result it was an inevitability that now and then a good one would slip through the cracks...."Just Before Dawn" is a Jeff Liebermann film that somehow managed to make a giant northwest forest seem claustrophobic. This was helped by a strong synth score by Brad Fiedel, who would go on to do the "Terminator" films.

Virtually no one saw the film upon release in 1981, and it didn't see a DVD release until Shriek Show put it out in 2005. The cast features a young Gregg Henry who many will recognize from "Payback" and "Slither". In the latter, he was comic genius as the obnoxious mayor of the town suffering from slug and splatter circumstances.

A typical splatter movie set up, young party-harders head off to forested land, in this case an inheritance for Henry's character, despite the warnings of the "old man with the scary story", this time none other than George Kennedy. Chris Lemmon provides some comic relief...there's nudity (of course), but what may be the weirdest stalker in slasher history, and a strange family living on Henry's land.

Beautiful cinematography, great locale selection, and some serious tension help this one in locking itself a position in the "better than most of the genre/era" category....a little tough to locate (internet may be your best option) but damn-well worth it. If you're looking for a "stalking madman" movie that actually provides some real atmosphere and tight moments, this is a good suggestion.

Halloween Heroes: Behind the Mask

2010-10-05T22:53:00.001-07:00

This movie is kinked from the beginning. In two ways: It's a mock documentary, first and foremost, and when "shit goes down" it turns into a top notch slasher film. The second way is that it takes place in a universe where Michael Myers, Leatherface, Freddy Krueger, et al are real and unapprehended serial killers who haunt their hometowns on an annual basis.

Leslie Vernon (played here with panache by Nathan Baesel), is an "up and comer", a slasher who is just trying to start his "career". A documentary film crew works with him, in an attempt to put his actions to film, and look into the whys and hows....there's a hamfisted allegory here about how the media not only glorifies the exploits of the sick and twisted, but also tends to take a step back and film as opposed to helping potential victims. Alas this movie is too much fun to get caught up in all of the social commentary.

As the doc unfolds, Vernon accumulates all the necessary pieces of the pie that after being baked is a completed hack and slash film. Virginal victim, dumbass horndog teenagers in a less-than-intelligent locale for ease of mutilation, and of course, an "Ahab".....a doctor/hero type in pursuit of this murderous individual...in this case, it's none other than Robert Englund.

There are twists aplenty, and a ton of real smart, solid humor mixed in that make this horror flick above the fray of the recent re-flooding of the slasher movie market. Give this one a go, it's way worth it....plus it has the best usage of the Talking Heads' "Psycho Killer" I think I've seen....

Halloween Heroes: Frozen

2010-10-05T22:32:00.000-07:00

It's refreshing as hell, when I come across these "low volume" horror films....
A small cast, claustrophobic surroundings, snappy editing, and solid direction. This one, a tense thriller about three young people trapped 50 feet in the air on a ski-lift when the resort shuts down does remind one of "Open Water", but you forget that once it gets going.

Adam Green, who made a completely different kind of horror movie with the 80's homage, "Hatchet" is responsible for this, an edge of your seat flick, based on something that could actually happen.....this isn't a demon, a slasher, or some sort of apocalyptic outbreak that is the antagonist.

It's circumstances.

You can imagine yourself going through the nightmarish turns of events happening to the characters, and they're so well played by the principal actors, it's convincing throughout. Green hired the right people for this flick....

I'm impressed with Adam Green. I will mark him up there with Steven Mena, and Joe Lynch (incidentally the name of Shawn Ashmore's character in this flick) as young directors to watch. They are all capable of driving it right into your forehead, but none of them suffer from a lack of subtlety either.

"Frozen" is very good. Enjoy it if you can....

Misfits and acknowledgment

2010-09-13T20:37:00.001-07:00

A few years ago, author and journalist Michael Azzerad released a compilation of essays and stories about the 80's music underground entitled "Our Band Could Be Your Life" (a lyric from the Minutemen track, "History Part II") The book compiled biographies on various iconic punk rock and alternative acts that struggled through the alleged "Me Decade", shunning conventionality to quote, "DIY" or "do it yourself". The forefather of that attitude was Black Flag, of course, but the book sprawls out to include Midwestern acts such as Husker Du, The Replacements, east coasters Minor Threat and Big Black, and bands from all points in-between. It even chronicles the burgeoning Seattle that would eventually spew forth Grunge, a type of music considered landmark at the time, but in my humble opinion is just third generation punk. It does this by detailing the beginnings of Mudhoney and Dinosaur, Jr. (but somehow overlooks Green River in favor of those acts.)

The tome acts as a decent primer for anyone looking into the flash and fury of the bands mostly responsible for influencing many of today's non "Nu-Metal" groups, as well as giving a passing glance to those responsible for influencing the subjects of the book, Television, The Clash, and The Ramones. But there is a huge, glaring, gigantic absence.
The Godfathers of "Do it Yourself" themselves. Lodi, New Jersey's pride and embarrassment, The Misfits. Basically Glenn Danzig, Rock's future purveyor of all things evil, and Jerry Caifa, (who would eventually adopt the last name moniker, "Only" when people seemed to develop an inability to spell Caifa). This pair and interchangeable guitarists and drummers (save for Caifa's brother, Paul (Doyle to Fits' fanatics) who took the job of six string shredder permanently in 1980.). were guys who basically created the horror punk genre with heir creepy appearance (eye make up, and the legendary devilock, a long narrow piece of their bangs hanging down the middle of their face) and songs about B-movies, murder, and other less than savory things. They were truly the musical bump in the night.

Oh, mind you, they are mentioned in Azzerad's book, albeit briefly, and usually just as some sort of accompanying act for one of the groups Azzerad is documenting. It is sad, really, when you consider how much of getting it done, the Fits had to do all by their lonesomeness. They did record a bunch of well mixed material in the late 70's using stuido time gained basically in trade. Glenn Danzig was smart enough to copyright "Blank Records", the self-styled record label the fits rleased their debut single, "Cough/Cool" on in 1977. A major label wanted the name and Danzig gave it to them in exchange for 30 hours of studio time, which explains why the "Static Age" sessions have such a higher production quality than many of their later recordings. The stuff was very good and was intended to be a full length album.

No record company wanted any part of it.

Which is a surprise when you consider that at the time (approximately 1978) damn near anything out of the New York/New Jersey in the wake of the Ramones was getting signed faster than you can say Blondie. In London, the Sex Pistols, the Clash, and the Damned were all making big noise. Somehow, no one wanted in on "Static Age". Perhaps it was the stark lyrics that Glenn Danzig, lead singer and vocal hellion, put to paper. Some of the words to the JFK epic, "Bullet" were pretty gruesome and sexually deviant. But that's neither here nor there. The Pistols lyrics on "Bodies" were almost equally offensive. To me, when you compute the factors of the time period, and what the sessions came out sounding like, I am shocked no label, even an indie, wanted in.

So the Lodi boys had to put it all together on their own, and it wasn't easy. They floundered away, cutting 7", 12", and EP records by small amounts, usually less than 5000 copies, and often cut and sealed the covers themselves. The sound quality of much of the work in this period (78-80) was less than impressive, but who can blame the guys. Eventually an album was recorded, "Walk Among Us", and distributed by Slash records, but by then the group was heading towards it's inevitable end.

Much of the Misfits catalogue from that period has considerable monetary value, even to less than hardcore followers of that groups music. Eventually in the late 80's, bands that were heavily influenced by the Misfits, such as Metallica and Megadeth, brought the group's background into the forefront, and a lot of the material was compiled and re-released, however haphazardly in compilations, bringing the value of the and collectability of the originals even higher, and putting a glimmering sheen on the collected works of the masters of DIY.

My point? How the hell does a band that epitomizes the basis of the book Azzerad wrote, get left out, without even a whispering glance? When you look at some of the popular "punk" and metal acts of today, My Chemical Romance, A.F.I., Rob Zombie, and many others, the "splatterrock" genre has influenced far beyond the Metallica/Slayer era of the mid to late 80's. It's still standing today, directly outside the door of rock and roll, clawing it's way in.

Azzerad left a gaping hole in his book.

Sheesh, the Misfits history is a long, black soap opera. Even today, there are original bassist Jerry Only's past and ongoing projects, including two underrated albums, "American Psycho" and "Famous Monsters", with vocalist Michale Graves (who some, including myself, consider superior to Danzig) doing the singing, and a fine cover record, "Project 1950" with Jerry himself on vocals being received well by some Misfits fans, and just as passionately in the negative direction. You can't ever forget Only's tumultuous relationship with Danzig, including a decade long lawsuit over the right to record and tour under the name Misfits, which Only won, with provisos. There are legendary true stories like early 'Fits guitarist Bobby Steele vomiting on John Lennon's shoes at the Mudd Club in 1979, and Glenn and Doyle chasing a young unknown metal band named Motley Crue down Sunset Boulevard and beating the shit out of them. To this day, there is still stormy bickering among the principal players. A full book could be written on this monstrous terror of Lodi, New Jersey.

Perhaps it should.

That's How It's Done

2010-09-05T11:53:00.000-07:00

FEAR?

2010-09-04T22:42:00.001-07:00

In memory of Fear bassist Derf Scratch, who passed away a couple of weeks ago.

In 1977, long before the early hardcore movement featuring the likes of Black Flag, Circle Jerks, and the Bad Brains, there were a handful of bands that bridged the gap between the Ramones and those affore-mentioned punkers.

There were Sex Pistols, X, The Clash and the Damned, 3 of the 4 from the disenfranchised U.K., and America offered the east coast Misfits. All the way across the contiguous states, out of L.A., was Fear.

Incendiary to the nth degree, they were still the envy of many punk bands in their wake for despite songs bashing gays, and embracing misogyny and debauchery, they could flat out play.

The content of their music wasn't all of the "piss 'em off" variety, however. When they "got serious", political unrest (Let's Have a War, Foreign Policy) and mental illness (Camarillo, Welcome to the Dust Ward) were well thought-out and performed.

Leader Lee Ving's voice could be as tuneful as much as it could display the raw rancor and howl it was noted for. Spit Stix was a demon on drums. If a snare would ever need to be retuned, he'd be a leading candidate for making that necessary, as he plain beat the shit out of that thing. It oddly sounded like he used it as a replacement for a ride cymbal. Philo Cramer had some eardrum-shrieking leads and Derf Scratch was an excellent addendum to the rhythm section with Stix.

Fear was getting notices long before they cut their first LP, "The Record" due to John Belushi's drug-addled attempts to push the band on anyone who would listen, and an infamous display in Penelope Spheeris' documentary "The Decline of Western Civilization".

Why, who could forget their head-scratching 1981 Halloween appearance on "Saturday Night Live" where slam dancers destroyed the place, one grabbing Ving's mic and screaming "Fuck New York!!" at the top of his lungs.....

All before their first record came out. That's pre-consummated reputation, folks.

I had decided to revisit their music a few weeks back while on a cigarette break in my car. I happen to own two Fear cds and on a sauna of a day began listening to "The Record". About 5 songs in, I felt the need to switch to their live reunion album "LIVE for the Record".

As I ejected the first disc, my stereo went into it's radio default mode. Turning to my right, and my trusty cd binder to grab "LIVE" the radio voice spoke these words:

"Fear, today is the fear show,...I'll show you how to tolerate your fear of investing"

A lot of people may have been a bit taken aback by that astronomical synchronistic event. I just cocked my head, thinking "Of course that just happened." and slid in the second disc, firing immediately into "Null Detector".

However, something like that just doesn't sneak by me, and I knew immediately a blog post would be necessary....two weeks later Derf Scratch died.

Here it is.

Good for Karma, Good for us

2010-08-20T07:49:00.000-07:00

My wonderfully talented and beautiful friend, Lezlie Deane, AKA Scary Cherry has candy for the ears. Take an hour,....see what happens!!!

Cherribomb---"Spin"

2010-07-23T13:46:00.001-07:00

CHERRI BOMB'S new video to debut shortly

2010-07-22T23:30:00.000-07:00

Youth and guitars.

What else can one ask for....folks, give this a shot, you won't be disappointed.

link at right to their website for details on the vid....

THE BANG BANGS ARE HITTING THE ROAD (HARD!)

2010-07-21T16:59:00.000-07:00

My favorite splatter/catchy/chord-crashing/screech & howl/harmonizing punk band, Scary Cherry and the Bang Bangs, have a tour coming up....if you're in the neck of the woods, (or hell, even not, go anyway) check them out...their live shows have garnered like eleventy million positive raves from large quantities of pensman.....(I wish I were a pensman).....anyways....click on the link at the right for dates and locations...

VINYL DESTINATION: 3 from the decade's end

2010-05-30T14:36:00.000-07:00

These 3 bands were of the alt-metal variety that I pushed in my college radio days. As a matter of fact, all 3 of my vinyl copies were "rescued" by me from the station floor. To me, their music still holds up and I throw the platters on often enough to glance back at them now, in written form...

I Love You emerged from LA in 1990 with a self titled Live debut EP, their only recording for indie Medusa records. They eventually signed with Geffen, put out one hell of a debut, and a couple others over the ensuing 18 years, to little avail. Their biggest national coverage came with an appearance on MTV's "120 Minutes" and on Rick Dees' live show where the former radio host got the title of their single wrong in his introduction of the band.

Back to the EP, It's 6 songs are in front of a small audience. They are a blending of "Disraeli Gears"-era Cream and the trended crossover punk-thrash metal of the period. Jeff Nolan was a guitar god in waiting, and Chris Palmer's voice is like Henry Rollins channeling Jack Bruce. From the ripping "Steppin' On Baby",

to the Cream cover, "SWLABR", and the eerie "Flies" the record has no weak points.

The Psychedelia of the lyrics is another evident symptom of their hippie-era influence.

I Love You were unique.

Broad audiences weren't ready and they faded. They are definitely worth seeking out. This is good stuff, and can be found periodically on Ebay.

Clockhammer were a trio out of Tennessee. A debut from them, self-titled and on First Warning records popped up in 1990.

The grim opener, "Mother Truth" is a grabber from the get-go. A fantastic choice for the first cut. Philosophical metal is what it is, by God, questioning knowledge and the mind's eye over some of the coolest riffs of the time period.

The band likes to dip into a jazzy half reggae vibe at times before slapping you in the head with well produced thrash metal chording.

This is not Metallica, folks, this is thinking man's devil-may-care, set up for people looking for something different. The refreshing thing about Clockhammer, unlike some of the mixed-genre bands of the time, you can tell the musicians had played the "off-metal" structures before, and in the pure.

While vocalist-guitarist Byron Bailey displays both surprising vocal range and convincing growl not to mention enviable six string licks, Ken Coomer and Matt Swanson keep time behind him, and display artful fills that swirl all this together like a nasty twist cone.

Clockhammer also faded, like I Love You, but cuts can be found on YouTube and Itunes. Highly recommended.

It should also be acknowledged that they thank Redd Foxx, the Flaming Lips, and their parents at the bottom of the back panel of the record.

SWA was founded by Black Flags bassist Chuck Dukowski and were often referred to as SST's worst band. Probably unfounded, yet "Winter" shows why that statement is both true and false.

Like the proverbial little girl with the curl, they are awesome and horrible on this record....Tracks 1-6 are fairly strong, they stumble a bit, and then recover into a fantastic song called "Wasting my Time" that really features great vocals by Merrill Ward...two follow up tunes, chiming in at under 2 minutes a piece, "Chances Are" and "Headphones" bookend each other and are truly headbanging.

Phil Van Duyne's riffing is tip-top, but his solos are sloppy, seldom fit the part of the song they appear in, and are in general all over the fretboard, quite the dichotomy from his rhythm parts.

Greg Cameron, is one of those fun drummers to listen to, not just content with keeping time, he likes to use every piece of his kit.

"Talking Behind Your Back" features great tempo changes, a storyline about the title's self explanatory musing, and then "The Man Upstairs" is one great song about the horrors of schizophrenia. The record then devolves into noise again.

Also worth seeking out, I had missed the good parts of this record for so long because my vinyl is in such bad shape, I thank the rock and roll gods someone on Ebay was willing to part with it.

--Rob Will (May 30, 2010)

Plug: Vinyl Destination : Overlooked 90's Gems

2010-05-24T18:57:00.000-07:00

Coming up this weekend, a Vinyl Destination look back at 3 independent albums that I still own and listen to that have been left in the dust......hopefully to someday re-emerge like the majestic ground hog:

Ain't No Daisy

2010-05-24T08:41:00.000-07:00

My personal self-produced notebook collection of prose and essay bullschtein.
It ain't pretty, but it's writing.....

Contact info available at Facebook's "Aint No Daisy" page, or if interested in one, drop your address here as a comment.....No charge. It does take time for me to put them together.

My goal is to get a copy in 50 states. Ha!

Useless Icon

2010-04-27T17:29:00.000-07:00

Useless Icon--Rob Will

Editor's note: This is from the beginning of the fall, when I had things handled, shortly before everything else piled on and pushed me through the ice......

I cant' do this much more
Waiting for an answer to walk in the door
I'm like a life coach who has yet to live
yet, I have nothing left to give

Can't walk her through this fucking downpour
Because she may drown me

feel free to say I'm not what she needs
I can't fix the wounds as she bleeds
Cast your doubts and aspersions '
in a great pile on the floor

I'll pick em up later
When I have nothing left to do anymore

Can't count the times we made love
in full tears
shaking palms, pulling hair
rattling mirrors
Sadness should never have felt so much like grace
Ecstasy shouldn't make me want to pull a sheet over my face

after the years
things shift and twist
but never change

Her dear heart hurts
but I can't heal her pain

A useless Icon
sworn to protect
her soul and heart

while her irrational mind
wanders around in the dark

Oh, no, I can't do it much more.....

BUCK PETS: Rares and Unreleased

2010-04-15T21:19:00.001-07:00

I flew down to Dallas last weekend to see the reunited Buck Pets play at Trees in Deep Ellum. The place no longer has doors, because the beeps blew the fuckers straight off. A blistering set featuring the tight musicianship of the band was among the best live shows, if not THE, best live show I've ever seen.

Too bad you can't can, bottle, or box that energy. They lifted it up and set it down. A CD collection of unreleased Buck Pet material from over the years has just been issued and contains a ton of excellent and mostly unheard material.

Veteran Buck Pet Fans and newly converted will find it outstanding. Link to purchase is at right....

DIGITAL DAB'LL DO YA: Antonio Estevan Huerta

2010-04-01T09:32:00.000-07:00

It seems today's best straight up rock combines elements. Power pop, punkish edge, harmonies and melodies that have "feel". Especially vocal ones that elicit a reaction, maybe even a goose bump or two. Maybe there's a touch of blues or roots twang in there....

Antonio Estevan Huerta gets that in spades.

"Your Shrine" is a damn fantastic rock record. Huerta's got a fine voice and knack for lyrical artistry which he intertwines with some unpredictable mid-tempo rhythms.
Oh, and his band can play. These guys are for real.

"Feel" is important here. "Swept Again" will take you into THAT relationship. "Pigeons of your Paradise" is one of the strongest openers I've heard in some time. I dare you to listen to "Horses" without getting a strong vibe. Every song on this platter slams a good or bad emotion on the table.

Huerta is his own self. He cites inspirations as Alex Chilton, Thom Yorke, and the Buck Pets, but you will notice he takes these paths laid into his own direction.

"Your Shrine" is available on Itunes and Lala, and along with Mic the Tiger's debut, is among my strongest suggestions for download.....New music, pure, edgy, and honest.

LUCID DREAMING

2010-03-28T21:21:00.000-07:00

I've read much in the past about techniques for "lucid" dreaming, you know, that ability in your sleep where you can take control of your own actions in a dream and participate knowingly in the events transpiring....the possibilities are endless. You could take out a sword and battle Sir Galahad, beat Jimi Hendrix in a guitar solo-off, knock down a monster threatening a village, seduce and bed Asia Argento, who knows?

It's never happened to me, unfortunately.

I've tried the techniques I've read about, but sadly, my dreams are these disturbing David Lynch affairs with a touch of the Farrelly Brothers for flavor. I've tried to make things happen in la-la land knowing it's a dream, because, believe it or not, I've gone lucid and actually said to myself, "This is just a dream". Then, being a bad-ass, attempted to go about it, conspiring with my subconcious for potential entertainment, gratifacation, or even enlightenment.

Despairingly, I end up falling down cliff banks, get in knife fights with former junior high bullies that I almost lose, wind up at horrifying off-color funereal events, or end up having sex with Courtney Love in a refrigerator.

Is this the kind of thing that a person lucidly in control of their dreams, let alone their mind, would want to be participating in? Or am I just flat out insane whether or not I'm awake or asleep?

I guess I just need more practice at the lucid dream preparations. Because quite frankly, the alternative dreams are just too frightening. And I don't need those anymore...

MUSES: 30 Years Later

2010-03-19T20:01:00.000-07:00

This year marks the 30th anniversary of the death of my father, Robert W. Will (1933-1980)

This is for you, Dad
--------------------------

The target of abuse
is often the muse
taken from 'til the well runs dry

Mined from forever
Like a bird's soft feathers
when it's been plucked, we wonder why

Another example
of the forces that trample
the man had something to say

He had those he loved
It wasn't enough
for the powers above
and on a cold day
he was taken away

Do those hear on Earth
cut such a wide berth
through thought and circumstance

That the next world as a result
needs them to consult
more than we need them, by chance?

So are they the muses
for unseen fuses
that light the great beyond

We miss them so steady
but they may be already
strengthening some unseen bond.
-------------------------------------

PICK UP A BOOK ONCE IN A WHILE: "Both Ends Burning"

2010-03-19T16:34:00.000-07:00

Since I was a kid I always liked short stories, having fallen in love with them upon picking up "Night Shift" from Stephen King at a Paperback Exchange...

You just never know in a medium so small, what direction that brief, but possibly striking piece of fiction may be coming from. Or what it may do.

Marci Mangham's "Both Ends Burning" is a hell of a collection of stories so stylistically and character-wise different, that it may leave your head-spinning. You have sick children listening with glee to impossible fantasy stories, heart-broken widowers finding ways to cope, long-distance friendships that ebb and flow.

There's stories here that made me laugh out loud, and some that made me strikingly ill at ease, as if I was watching David Cronenberg's "A History of Violence".

Miss Mangham's imagination comes from so many different angles, that the anticipation of what the next story could possibly be about is tangible.

I highly recommend it.
Link for purchase is at the right.

CHAINED TO IT

2010-03-18T19:36:00.000-07:00

"You hide it well, most people don't see it, but you're the angriest man I've ever known."--"Justified" FX

----------------------------------------------

One day in a darkened movie theatre, my wife told me what amounted to almost the same thing. She followed it with "It's nothing to be proud of" after I chuckled, staring right through me. Then the house lights went down, the trailers began to roll, and for a time, I forgot about it.

It came up again yesterday....and I asked her about it, as I was unsure about the angle of the whole thing. After all, I never get into fights, I've never raised a hand to wife or child, and I brought all this to her attention.

"It's not us", she said referring to herself and our son. "You're angry at yourself."

It was like a bit of a revelation.

I then went and looked in the mirror. I saw through my borderline mongoloid, scruffy nerfherder features, into the hazels, beyond. My thought spinning to the things that may anger me about myself. I was rattled.

What's there, what don't I like?

Then it came like a flood. Voices careening through my head, swirling at different volumes, whispers, shouts, accusations......You roll your ankles, clod, you can't walk, ....you're a failure as a husband and father,...you break more things than you fix.....

What the fuck? Who were these rude, petulant voices?

Maybe, since you spent so much time being mediocre in the 80's, the least you could have done was have some fun.....so much effort in trying to be the monumentally heroic good guy, you never thought to try to be the villain once in a while....

All those chains I attached to myself so long ago, no matter how much I shake and rattle them, they will never come loose. There it is. I'm definitely angry with myself, but the only difference here is, unlike being pissed off at another individual, I can't FORGIVE me.

I'm the only person in the world I can't give that grace to, even if I may deserve it.

Lord knows, I've tried.

THE SAD HOLIDAYS OF POWER POP

2010-03-18T19:01:00.000-07:00

ST. PATRICK'S DAY

Alex Chilton and his band, Big Star, influenced more groups, and the acts that they in turn inspired, than you'll ever realize. Despite the sadness and truth of that statement, it's not at all what I really wish to talk about.

I want to talk about Alex.

I always new who Chilton and Big Star were, but didn't really get my education and initiation until a dear friend and the Lala website schooled me in. After immersing myself in music I could hardly believe was from the 1970's, I began searching for and finding cds, including my personal favorite, Rykodisc's "Big Star Live", a radio gig taped directly to two track in Long Island, while on tour for "Radio City"...It sounds amazing despite the source recording.

Alex Chilton passed away last night at 59. This is a fact that most don't know, because outside of a #1 hit with the Box Tops, "The Letter", back in the late 60's, he's remained on the fringe of the musical scape outside of the initiated and converted. That's piece of bitter truth.

The sounds that he coaxed from his guitar and elicited from his voice, a perfect partnership, were undeniably his own. Even in the most upbeat of his songs, there was a dripping slice of melancholy, that tugged at a place somewhere within, even as your toes tapped.

You knew it was Alex's guitar just from the first few notes of his records. Few six stringers can say that.

Goodbye, Sir. And El Goodo, wherever you are.....Play it the same.

VALENTINE'S DAY

The Knack sold 6 million copies of their debut on the wings of a Capitol Records media Blitz and the strength of one of the greatest singles of all time, "My Sharona". Matter of fact, every track on that debut, "Get the Knack" was a potential hit single.

"Oh Tara", "Lucinda", "My Sharona",...contrary to popular belief, all these girls were real individual romances in the life of lead singer, Doug Fieger who co-wrote most of the Knack's songs with lead guitarist Berton Averre, who, in Doug's words "grew up 2000 miles away from him, next door".

This was Power Pop at it's finest, showing flashes of the garage rock of the 60's, with touches of the Beatles and Dave Clark Five, Doug and the boys still made it their own. Sadly, despite solid success in their 2nd LP, and critical acclaim of their third, they fizzled out....a couple of moderately noticed reunion albums followed, but the Knack couldn't grab it back.

But for a brief shining moment circa 1979/1980, they were the biggest band in the world, and Doug Fieger was the core. A sweet, smart, self-effacing guy passed February 14th at 57. I was given a hand me down copy of that first LP in 1982, and my idea of pop music was never the same.

Goodbye, Doug....wherever you are, keep it just as catchy and just as sweet and nasty as you always did......

DIGITAL DAB'LL DO YA: Scary Cherry and the Bang Bangs

2010-03-17T17:39:00.000-07:00

If you are a fan of fun horror movie theatrics, (you can't beat blood-stained white clothes and roller skates) raw-assed guitars, and ripping howl at the moon vocals,

this edition of "Digital Dab" is for you.

What I've come across, upon recommendation from a great friend, is a group who took the spirit of Alice Cooper, the Misfits, tossed in the added touch of "la femme" growl, and created a voracious beast,

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Scary Cherry and the Bang Bangs...My 15 year old boy says they "bring it fuckin' old school".

They've released an EP available on Lala and Itunes, and a freshly minted version of "Cherry Bomb".

People, show your support for a true original in a couple of ways....

Visit ScaryCherry.com, which has the all important Itunes link where you can vote for their cut of "Cherry Bomb" as held up against the original Runaways version and the cut from the upcoming movie about that classic band. (Bang Bangs is easily the best).

You can also vote for them to get a crack at making a record with Velvet Revolver's Slash, something they're truly worthy of at the same Scary Cherry Website.

The link to their website is to the right and up.....

AMERICA'S PREOCCUPATION WITH THE "ACCIDENT"

2010-03-14T20:16:00.000-07:00

It's been said before. "I just couldn't stop looking at the accident". That's the way this country (and others) has become regarding celebrity.

And if pisses me the fuck off.

Corey Haim and Corey Feldman had another one of those "celebreality" shows that seem to be sucking more brain cells out of the heads of Americans, and on a moment by moment basis.

Haim died last week. Tragic as young as he was, but outside of the rehashing of his youthful glory days some 20 years ago thanks to the reality show, which apparently ended with the two principals parting ways, what did he do to deserve adulation?

Yes, I'm not heartless, and we should pay respect and feel grievance for the loss of one of our own, it is indeed what separates us from the animals. But I am a huge fan of the seminal "skinny tie" power pop band, The Knack, (as readers will know) and I didn't know until almost three weeks after the fact that lead singer Doug Fieger passed after a brave and grueling 6 year battle with that fucking C word.

Fieger and the boys wrote, performed, and recorded one of the most successful debut records, and certainly debut singles, with "My Sharona" of all times. After the dissipation of the Knack a few years later, he continued to work in the music biz and even worked with the development of other acts. The Knack reformed a few times to record some quality albums in the 90's and 2000's. He continued to produce and assist in producing.

He was, as I'm told, a bright light, and engaging presence in a rather dark world. He will be missed. I love Doug Fieger for how he changed my perception of rock music.

But back to the Haim thing. Look at all of these "washed up" celebrity reality shows all over cable. People who haven't been in the public eye for decades acting like assholes for a few bucks....and people watch this. A lot, I guess for the crap still surges anew every renewal season. The messes these people create, usually grouped in with other complete messes of people to add "spark" rival an accident for viewability. Do we have such low self-esteem as a country that not only do we want to see the mighty fall, but watch the ones that already fell, crawl around on the ground in a drunken stupor?

Fuck me.

I'm sad. For Doug. For us.

BEING AN ELITIST IS EXHAUSTING

2010-03-13T18:46:00.000-08:00

Who needs cultural martyrs?

Having a variable personality, I have been able to hang with many different types of people from all walks of life. I can make small adjustments to my mindset to the conversation's direction and stay with it comfortably. Yet, I felt like a fake, a taskmasker, doing so...

I'm well read and can speak in an informed manner about a broad variety of subjects, as a result, on most subjects I piss very few people off. Unless it comes to music and movies. Politically, I'm a moderate, able to see both sides of any coin realistically and with empathy. I keep friends that way, and it's honest, not fakery to avoid losing friends and acquaintancs.

But I've been through many phases of music adoration, from oldies, to metal, to hair metal, pop, thrash, big band swing, hip-hop, etc., and not in that order....

But I've grown tired of scoffing when someone brings up something I don't care for....which is a lot. The reasoning for this is that I realize I enjoy and sometimes downright LOVE a lot of music and flicks that many would look down upon as trash. I don't want to go into specifics for there are far too many....

But, I've found myself very much in enjoyment of Jean Claude Van Damme's recent work....before you laugh, see "JCVD", "Until Death" or "In Hell". Watch "Assassination Games"....besides the machismo, there's a story, and true emotion there... You may be surprised.

I'm unapologetic about my love for the Knack. Many hate them. Their loss. Some would call me a nerd for my love for "Mystery Science Theatre 3000". Oh, well.

I've come to a conclusion, that if a form of entertainment throws a switch somewhere up in that cranium of mine, who am I to deny myself that enjoyment because some of my punk rock fan friends, (and I'm there, as I type this, my Spotify playlist is unleashing the Replacements, Government Cheese, Clockhammer, and Chevelle) and may not dig my love for the song "I Remember You" by Skid Row. Should I be ashamed to love a good Harlan Coben novel, because people I know that dig the existentialist prose frown on that "burger and fries" format? Hey, I also read Elmore Leonard and John Connolly...hip enough for ya?

Fuck That.

Trying to cover my tracks to keep those people I like impressed with my tastes is eventually a futile and tiring affair. I see no point in doing it anymore.

Unless the band you're digging on is Nickelback. Fuck them.

ACHES AND DRAINS

2010-03-12T18:28:00.000-08:00

My jaw is killing me from clenching my teeth all day. I don't even realize that I'm doing it, until I'm safely in the womb of my car surrounded by the amniotic fluid of Replacements, Nirvana, Norah Jones, or Big Star. Once I relax, the ache sets in. Feels like I was popped in the side of the head.

My feet are killing me from repeatedly kicking myself in the ass. Come to think of it, they hurt from continuously shooting myself in them, too. There's blood everywhere.
I can see the floor through the holes.

The car door creaks when I open it as I get out to go to work. Come to think of it, my knees creak too, my shoulder pops. My toes crack as the pressure of walking exerts it's force downward onto my feet. I haven't recovered from yesterday yet.

My ears rush, the sound of blood as well as the static side effect of my anti-depressants. It's all a lot of minor bullshit that adds up to an intense desire to get home.

That's really what my one and only goal is in this day and age, this fog-bank ridden state of mind I'm in......

Home.

Stronger than any prescription...

Home.

Breakfast with Asshole

2010-03-05T18:17:00.000-08:00

Dana stumbled into Wallace's place feeling the need to puke and the absolute desire to repress it. Hungry and nauseous at the same fucking time. Did anyone else go through this shit? He rubbed his chin scruff and crawled into the nearest booth. He did not remove his sunglasses, for that would be impossible and suicidal. It was too Goddamn bright in here.

His corneas would melt.

Wallace's looked like one of those 50's theme diners with the red vinyl cushy seats in the booths and a mini-jukebox on the menu side of the formica table tops. It wasn't themed though. Nothing had changed since the mid 60's. Same old Sinatra, Bill Haley, and Frankie Valli records in the jukes, they just didn't work anymore. Duct tape abounded on the seats everywhere. Dog-eared menus that needed replacing were tucked haphazardly between the jukes and the antique sugar holders. Wallace was either lazy or a cheapskate, but damn, if the food wasn't good.

This was absolutely without a doubt the worse hangover he had ever experienced. The liquor was flowing a little too smoothly last night and without restraint, as it always did when he was nervous as social gatherings. As a direct result, Dana lost roughly the last two hours of the last evening's gala. No big deal, typically, but he was in the hopeful process of trying to restart something. A relationship he had kinda botched (kinda was a kind way of putting it) three years ago, and was unable to leave in the past. Racing, nah, nix that, careening toward 25, he felt it was time to get his love life in some semblance of an order.

So that brings him to Wallace's diner on an explosively bright Sunday morning.
Waiting for Perry.

Against his better judgment, he ordered a small stack of pancakes and some sausage and prayed for the best. Perry had just swung through the door and sat opposite Dana in the booth, who didn't see him, because Dana's face, glasses on, was buried in his palms. He looked up as the exhale of air from Perry's ass compressing the archaic cushion surface of the booth seat, defying the laws of physics, blew it's 50 years of smell history over the table top and straight into Dana's face.

Yeesh, Murphy's Law appears to apply ten fold when hung over. He gagged quietly.

Perry flashed Dana a blinding smile and wink as he gave him the "hold on a minute" index finger gesture and began flirting with the waitress that had just sidled up to the table upon Perry's entrance. Propositioning and ordering O.J. at the same time. Smooth as asshole yogurt. Dana sighed behind the shades. Put on hold by his best friend, only no muzak to listen to while boiling in the murk of impatience. He ran his hands from his forehead through his long brown bangs, and sighed again. Damn it.

Here in the early AM waiting to discuss what happened last night with Perry. Good old Perry, Dana's best friend since the third grade, when he stepped into a dispute with Sal Amato and beat his ass for Dana. He'll never forget the relentlessness Perry flashed in that fight some 13 years ago. It took Dana a full two minutes to pull him off of Amato's shocked and bloodied face. Dana's own shock was quickly turned to dismay when he saw the jacknife Amato had pulled laying next to him on the ground.

Dana never saw it come out, Perry did.

Ever since, inseparable.

Perry was good looking in a roguish way. The waitress he was speaking to was obviously appreciative of that. Right now he was wearing a black Pittsburgh Ben Roethlisberger jersey that made his medium length blonde locks blonder, and jeans. Somehow he made that simple shit work. Jerseys were complimentary on a 6'3 frame, and the smile always rounded out the look. The soft appearance and wry smile didn't associate well with the sometimes cocky and hardened soul contained within. Perry wasn't the best at matters of the heart.

Or heart on the sleeve, in Dana's case.

Finally, Perry's dick in check, and the waitress' phone number scrawled firmly on the back of the receipt, Perry winked at her, said his goodbyes , and turned his attention the hung over and near death Dana Felder.

"Doesn't look too good, does he? The weary drinker, beaten and nauseated comes to this loooooooooowly state." Perry said in his best Darrin McGavin from "A Christmas Story" voice. Dana couldn't believe this. Perry was enjoying this shit! Now he would continue. "He's a mere shell of himself, and one has to ask, the age old question, 'does he deserve to live?'"

"Fuck you, Smartass", snapped back Dana, with absolutely no life behind it.
"Witty repartee! A smidge bitchy today, aren't we? Surely a side-effect of the Screwdriver bath you took last night. Damn it, I forgot to order a Coke."
"Fuck You." Dana uttered, with a mild purring groan. The world was on fire.
"Now I'm concerned. Redundancy is a sure sign of it.", said Perry with mock overinterest. He was displaying cocked eyebrows, and "Person in Thought" goatee rubbing.
"Of what?" Dana said exhaustedly. "I hate fuckin' games.", he breathed, rubbing his temples.
"Repressed homosexuality brought out by binge drinking."
Dana stared at Perry for a long time before raising his sunglasses over the top of his head.

"Funny cocksucker, aren't you?" Dana scolded. "If you have nothing to bring to this table, I'm going to have to ask you to leave." Dana windedly sputtered between gasps of air. He was now performing the breathing technique you do when trying to avoid vomiting.

"Are you going to puke before or after you drag me out by my scruff?" asked Perry with a precocious grin.
Dana was winded and emotionally exasperated. "Come on, man, cut me some slack, I'm dying here." he muttered through his dried lips and flushed face. As he spoke his begging proclamation, sweat began to run into his eyes, causing them to burn, and in turn, tear up.

Perry stiffened up, scowled, and said, "Alright, I'm serious as a heart attack, man. What's the matter?"

TO BE RESUMED///

Here endeth the lesson

2010-02-27T20:06:00.001-08:00

Kevin Costner sucks.

FROM THEN 'TIL NOW: Buck Pets and a fulfilled path

2010-02-24T20:52:00.000-08:00

In the spring of 1991, I was a misguided, malnourished, and somewhat ideologically lost individual.
I had the good fortune, as a member of Kenosha, Wisconsin’s “Video Whiplash”, to interview The Buck Pets on a Milwaukee swing-through. As big a fan as I was, I was a tad nervous of that “fall from grace” that can happen when one discovers their heroes are assholes.

That. Never. Happened.

Being 18 years old didn’t help one bit in the nervousness department, but at least I had that musical connection that all fortunate youngsters have with a band to latch onto. That artist or group that echoes the sentiments, becomes a conscience of a sort, a comforting guardian angel of the musical variety perhaps making it an easy interview for one who feels those things.

Somebody out there gets it, feels that youth.

When you’re a teenager, and you have that to hold on to, it literally can be a difference between life and death, and in this case meant a difference between a joke and a solid Q & A.

I love the Replacements, and see Paul Westerberg as a deity. That being said, by the time I discovered the Placemats, they were recording “Don’t Tell a Soul”, and all my friends had been into them for years, knowing more than I did, and joyously rubbing it in my face. As much as I loved Paul and the boys, there was a bit of a distance there.

By the time “Nevermind” smacked the world upside the head, I was engaged, and preparing to start work on a family. So, in short, for my formative years of 17 to 19, when it all “went down”, the Buck Pets were My Nirvana.

That’s not an overstatement. Make no mistake.

I met Chris Savage, Andy Thompson, Ian Beach, and Tony Alba (I hadn’t had the pleasure at that time of meeting Ricky Pearson, the drummer who had taken the stool behind the kit for “To the Quick”. But I can tell you in hindsight, aside from his multiple instrument virtuosity of musicianship, he’s also one hell of a photographer) in Milwaukee in the winter of 1991. I won’t ever forget it.

Having seen the condescending jackassitude that can emanate from established rock acts, especially the ones I had dealt with, I was refreshed to find none of this with the Dallas foursome that emerged from the musically fertile whirlwind of vigorous youthful vitality that was Deep Ellum around 1988.

The Pets first record, a self-titled debut, didn’t so much emanate from the speakers, as it did violate them. It was a double-barrel blast with buckshot soaked in spit, rage, hurt, longing, lust, and ...love. “Inamorata”, “Good Day”, and “More and More” ran parallel to my state of mind at that time.

The second LP, “Mercurotones”, was a step, slightly drastic, into a different direction. This was a band progressing rapidly, evolving quickly, a whiplash snap into more mature territory, but do not be fooled, it still rocked. I can still get weepy hearing “Five o’clock or Thursday”. “Moon Goddess” blows the doors off the joint(especially that double feature tempo change at the end). ”Hey Sunshine” is a beautiful piece of acoustic song craft.

So I was prepared and excited for the interview. I had been burned by previous interviews in the past, so I had an understandable timid streak. That was immediately disarmed from me by these guys. They charmed me that quickly.
These kids were close friends, and family-minded. In the liner photos of “Tones”, Chris’ dog, Walt, is in full view. That’s right, hard-rocking six string slinger puts his pooch in the artwork. In and amongst the packaging was a boy and his dog. How un-grunge, unpretentious. How REAL. The Buck Pets looked out for each other, I found that obvious, not just because they had to, but because they wanted to.

In my interview, I found them hilarious, quick-minded, and damn, if not in complete opposition to their peers in the “genre”, Goddamn smart and self-aware.

Humble.

The interview went well, as well as any could considering the fact that due to my age, the club owner refused to let me interview the guys inside Shank Hall. Because of his stubborness, really the Pets were off the hook, and had no obligation to do the interview…..

They did it anyway.

Andy and Tony decided to bring it into the cramped Winnebago they were touring in, sat us in the small but usable space, and as I like to remember it, one hell of a fine interview came off. Under the scrutiny of a plastic Godzilla. The kicker to this story isn’t the question and answer session that had me tickled pink. It was Andy’s reaction to the fact that I wasn’t allowed in for the gig either.

Thompson and Alba quickly made off to find Savage and Beach, and they instantaneously engaged in what looked like a football huddle minus 7 guys. This went on for several minutes before they pulled in what appeared to me to be the driver/ road manager.

The original plan was to boycott the show because I couldn’t get in. Unreal…..I got the interview I came for, I was thrilled, but because of my efforts, my fanhood, they wanted me to see them play. I was touched beyond belief. I, of course didn’t want to see that happen, a nightclub mutiny, people were beginning to file in to see them, and I had spoken to the leader of the opening act earlier, a big Pets fan, and he was geeked to be taking the stage before the Dallas foursome.

The show did go on,.

But that didn’t spare the owner of Shank from getting dirty looks from the guys behind his back, and noticeable attitude.

The Buck Pets, looking out for the little guy. A true deviation from the norm in the music biz.

As we drove away, I was looking over my shoulder to see all 4 members of the band waving good-bye…..I thought to myself, perfect….just perfect….."and he drove off into the sunset, a moment cryogenically frozen in time, that he would never forget".

If this was a movie, right now is where a sound effect would come in, with car brakes screeching, or the ripping sound of a needle being scratched across the vinyl of a LP record.

There’s more to this little tale.

Through a bizarre and wonderful twist of fate, Chris Savage and I have become close friends. He’s a person who means a great deal to me. A guy who is an infinitely patient listener, particularly when being subjected to the idle complaining of a broken human as myself. He treats me as an equal, values my opinion as much as I do his, and always has advice, and answers to questions, not about music necessarily, but life in general. He is indeed, a special person to me.

Chris is still in Texas, as is Ricky, the other two are spread out across the country…..as I mentioned them being talented and intelligent lads, they’ve gone on to start businesses, grow families, investigate unique endeavors ranging from culinary arts, the restaurant industry, motorcycle renovation, teaching, and photography, making unique music, and in some cases, all of the above.

But all have retained their senses of humor, humility, and likeable nature. Damn it, I love these guys.

They’re still funny and smart, yet they lack the superficial ego of many who’ve accomplished what they have, yet they’re still aware, sometimes self-deprecatingly, of their gifts.

And now, we come full circle….

On April 10th at the Trees in Dallas, Chris Savage, Ian Beach, Andy Thompson, and Ricky Pearson will take the stage again, after some 16 years, as the Buck Pets.

And I will be there……No, I won’t miss it this time.

The Buck Pets covered more ground, stylistically and emotionally, in their brief 3 album oeuvre than many bands with decades under their belt do in their careers. That’s varied, beautiful, crunching, eclectic, primal stuff. And eye-opening more is on the way.

That says a lot about what’s upstairs. Minds of differing thoughts and cultures, who when put together create something unique and powerful. Minds that are more than just music……

The Buck Pets are real.

Fakeness need not apply.

What happens next after April is anybody’s guess, but under those lights, bathed in sound, the circle will be completed for me. And maybe start a different one for them.

DOWN

2010-02-23T23:11:00.001-08:00

Inconceivable. 311 is huge....

STIGMA

2010-02-22T18:57:00.000-08:00

"The photographs of God I bought have almost faded away"--Jesus & Mary Chain

Mental Illness.....

I saw "Shutter Island" this weekend, and it may have been one of the more difficult to watch movies I've ever viewed. Not because of content itself, but because of how I've seen and read of all the various psychiatric maladies that many in the film suffered.

Including myself.

I'm wrapping the cloak around myself again.

The guys I work with see it. They don't care, but they see it. They think I'm crazy, not "wacky", "nutty", or "different". Insane. Gone.

I know where it comes from. I'm unreachable at times. I hate the "snap" reaction to questions, and when it happens, I often "shudder". A defense mechanism. When my mood makes a slight upswing, I get silly. That's not acceptable to them, either. I'm not falling in line, they don't understand me, therefore I am to be looked upon with disdain or even ridiculed for it.

In short, at my 8 year place of employment, in no way, shape, or form, am I allowed to be me. I can only do that at home.......

Do you know how confining that is? The weight that puts on a person? There are others like me out there, I married one......

Where are they?

More talk, more meds, more......worry.

Now I've been told by the wife, it's just work, and co-workers, their opinions shouldn't matter. And really, when it comes down to brass tacks, it doesn't. But my co-workers are the only people I see on a day to day basis.....

The world's a quiet, cold place when that happens.....and then I bring out the cloak.

I'm gonna be quiet for a while.

THE STALL

2010-02-20T00:08:00.000-08:00

The funeral had been painless so far. Comparatively.

He had barely known the deceased after all. A kid he had known in grade school.
How did he end up a pall-bearer? Christ.

Standing in the arched doorway, David thought about the look Sherry gave him on his way out the door. That soft look of acknowledgment that he was doing the right thing. He had tried to talk himself out of this a thousand times. She though he needed it.

A trip 2500 miles to attend a funeral for someone he hadn't seen in 25 years.

David rubbed his eyes until they hurt, and the blackness that accompanied their closed nature sparked with electricity from the pressure. Perry was a good friend in the fourth grade, no doubting that. Pick up baseball games, stay overs, board games, sure. It was all there in the past, but did he feel anything now.

Fuck.

An odd nausea started to set in as he remembered something Perry had said all those years back. Late one night as they lay in the dark in the bunks of Perry's room. The question had come from below David just as he dwindled toward that goal line of slumber, at first he thought he imagined it.....

"David, does your Dad ever hit you?"

He didn't answer. But now, in the rigid awareness that came with adulthood, those pieces came crashing together.
The black eyes. Perry's occasional limp. The infrequent but common absences.

Funny what you miss when your 10. As David looked up to the table where all the trimmings and hors-d'ouevres were located he saw Perry's father, standing there, shoving finger sandwiches down his throat, and yes, laughing with who David believed was Perry's uncle Frank.

Suddenly the nausea exploded.

Running to the basement, David's vision blurred, he turned the sharp right and slammed his left shoulder into the door, swinging it open. Weakness had begun to permeate David's body, and the wobbling legs held it together long enough for him to stumble into the stall and vomit hard.

As his system purged itself, the tears came. Huge pounding sobs, that gathered air deep into his lungs. The weeping was immense, as he slid to his rear end, swiveling his weight to his left to reach for the stall door and swing it shut.

He never cried this hard before.

He never felt this guilty before.

LAUGH 'TIL IT HURTS

2010-02-09T20:08:00.000-08:00

I've written before that my favorite thing to do is laugh.

It really is. That statement is probably looked upon as bizarre by most people I know, who read my blog, and most certainly by the people I work with. All understandable, really, when you consider the consistent state of melancholy I am in the bulk of the time.

But people who know me, REALLY know me, dying breed that they are, find me to be a card. I'm a funny guy, a nice guy. So they say. I've been that since grade school, when people starting joking around with me and girls decided to start using my shoulders for kleenex and nothing else.

I have always liked making people laugh. "You should be a comedian!", they've said. Great idea, only problem with it being that I can't write material for spoken word performances. Oh, you get me in a group, and I can riff off conversation like it's no tomorrow. I can go all night.

If I get in "the zone", there's gonna be some sore stomachs in that group. And their laughter is a gift to me. Especially that infectious, bent-over, tear-down-the-cheek roaring. My sister, Dee, for example, has always been my favorite target. Not because of any favoritism, or anything so arbitrary as all that, just because of the sound of her laugh. A full-bodied crack-up that's an addiction for me. I just have to keep that thing going until I am no longer able.

Because I know what a wonderful feeling that is.

That "pants-crapping" variety of laughter is few and far between for me. I can only remember a handful of moments that brought about that out of control, loss of function laughter that renders one incapable of even breathing.

One was in the 3rd grade, when in parochial school. The story I like to call "Be Careful with that desk, Eugene" is a simple one. A husky kid, the titular Eugene, was sitting across the room from me. I just happened to look in his direction and saw him attempting to wheel his legs out from under his desk. The desk was one of those old school one piece units, where a balancing piece runs down to the floor from under the writing surface then to the underside of the seat.

Now, as Eugene was swinging his legs out, the feet became entangled in that crossbar. Unfortunately for Geno, his upper body did not stop with his Keds-encased tootsies. He started to fall out of his chair, but since his lower body was held up in a purgatory of metal and corduroy, the tipping of Eugene over the side was a long drawn out process that involved the "big E" battling in an eternal losing battle with gravity, the front of his desktop, and the back of his chair.

Two hours later, the huddled mass that was Eugene, lay with his back on the floor, feet coming to a complete stop on the chair that long ago held his buttocks. By now, he had everyone's full attention. Most were looking at him in shock, a few asked him if he was okay. Our uppity teacher, told him to dust himself off and get back into his seat.

I, on the other hand, was breathing into a paper bag that had at one point held my lunch, for I was hyperventilating with maniacal laughter and in danger of fainting. I also had to urinate so badly that I left the room without the teacher's permission for the first time in my life.

My father had died about a year earlier, and this was absolutely the longest I had smiled and hardest I had laughed since before Dad passed.

It felt so good, so freeing. By God, with a simple accidental pratfall, a page had turned in my life.

Going home that day, the sun seemed a little brighter, a bit warmer.

If I can give someone a fraction of that, waking up that morning was worth while, and a gift.

TIRED OF ME

2010-02-09T16:24:00.000-08:00

When conversations with yourself
END IN ARGUMENTS
Half of what you said, You've no idea
WHAT YOU MEANT
Is there love from up above
AND IS IT LEGITIMATE?

And when you've had enough,
IS IT TOO SOON TO QUIT?

Because I've grown so tired of me
the fatigue sets in
as I begin to see
My act getting old
as my flesh grows cold
Because I've come too far to be
so goddamn tired of me

So I'm already feeling the pain
BEFORE I EVEN FELL
I'm too young to call it quits
AND TOO OLD TO RAISE HELL.......

So Tired indeed.....

LABOR LOSS

2010-01-31T20:59:00.000-08:00

I have wondered for months what it is that makes me want to crash my car into a tree on the way to work, to avoid 12 more hours in the hole.

I've said before that I don't fit in there, I'm not going to tread down that path again, readers, you don't deserve that kind of redundancy.

In the world today, there's a lot of dislike. Republicans and democrats. Conservatives and liberals. Talk show hosts. Neighbors unhappy with the guy next door. Drivers in traffic, not happy with being cut off.

A maelstrom of conflict. From the door in the morning to the pillow at night.

That's the way it's always been and always will be, yes? But I've come to an understanding of this that relates to my workplace.
Yes, my occupation is contained within a compressed microcosm of everyday disdain.

From 1st shift to 2nd shift these guys don't like each other, and it weighs on me like a wet blanket after 12 hours. Like some kind of warfare being waged in the trenches of disharmony, I'm caught up in it, in a foxhole between two sides, not wanting to load my rifle anymore. It's exhausting, it takes a toll, it's a tremendous draw on my body.

It's black weight.

Finger pointing, guys trying to set each other up for failure or a harder day. Name calling, ignoring, ad infinitum.

I used to partake in this, now it's too much even for me.

I'm tired of trying to be an emotional Jason Bourne, seating myself in the corner of a restaurant, back to the wall, as to be able to case the whole place. You have to see your existential exits and your metaphysical entrances, needing the broadest view possible to avoid that next soul-sucking attack.

After enough time of dealing with this, it starts to become a physical malady. A pain deep in the stomach (or maybe buried in my soul somewhere), I can't sleep at night if I have to work the next day, I am mortally drained of all want to do what it is I have to do.

Now, I fully understand that in this economy I should feel fortunate to be hanging onto a job with decent pay and benefits, but I'm not like these guys. I don't like working with my hands, I'm not mechanically inclined, despite being a printer for 18 years. Am I that good of a liar, or just smart enough to accomplish something I hate doing for the greater good? The answer to either question is not a good one.

And I certainly don't want to be part of their complaining, name-calling, desultory disdain, or scheming negativism.

I'm right brained, working in a left-brained facility and it's killing me. I'm not asking to be president of the United States, but there's no one to blame for myself. For I made the collegiate decisions, and faulty base-covering in my youth that put me here.

Here on Earth, savoring every glorious moment at home as if it were the last, every note of "Don't Change" by INXS, every single frame of "Fight Club", for those are the things that really matter, not this over-pondered and all too seriously taken production industry where paperwork, sweat, sometimes blood, frustration and anger, all go into making a giant roll of what will soon enough be landfill. (And don't think that that hasn't crossed my mind either)

Here on Earth.

A QUESTION OF WHY

2010-01-27T18:58:00.000-08:00

Faith.

I saw the "Book of Eli" this week with my son. It's a good film for a lot of reasons but the really great one is faith. A rare film indeed, that illustrates the beauty and power of faith while illustrating the pure horror of how a basis of faith, manipulated by someone strong and enigmatic enough, can destroy.

Faith.

My son's faith is unwavering. As is my wife's.

I've told them both I'm envious of them. That knowledge, rooted deep within, not only of the existence of their higher power, but that he/she/it does everything for a reason. We're all here for a lesson to learn.

"I believe in all paths to God...."--a quote from a USA Characters promo I saw this week.

I've been searching for answers since I was 15 when I had my first and 23 year long crisis of faith. I'm not looking for scientific proof of God, nothing so inane, for I believe that would ruin the reason for faith in the first place. I'm not searching for the tangible "Discover" magazine unveiling of the truth, if there is such a thing.

I'm asking why.

If we have lessons to learn, why do we have to have the curriculum pounded into our heads over and over again? For every personal disaster, when I hang my head and feel miserable for myself, a natural calamity comes along somewhere and makes me feel guilty for it.

God's way of telling me to stop the pity party, or just to fuck myself?

What does he want from me then? I will never be Abraham, but I'm hardly Cain.

I have days where all I look to my left, and my devoted wife of 17 years is sleeping there. The door across the hall is open, and in that darkened room lies the snoozing form of the greatest thing that ever happened to me, my son. Have a roof, dogs, cats.

Blessings all.

What am I so angry about? I get headaches from clenching my teeth. Absence seizures rack my brain from stress over what I see.

West Memphis, 1993. 3 dead naked boys found in the Robin Hood Hills. Naked, destroyed and racked into rigor mortis. Who tosses aside little boys as if they were squirrels?

Guyana, 1979. Jim Jones gets hundreds of devoted followers to drink enough poisoned Flav-or-Aid to die in piles on the ground.

This is footage I've seen in just the last couple of days, hard enough, that when I get psychically well-adjusted, it slaps me in the face.

And I question that power. I know I'm not the only one, and that's fine. And down to brass tacks we go, to accept these horrible atrocities that happen without snapping, faith is what you gotta have, kid.

So I'm hovering somewhere in the middle.
I'm hardly a happy person, but I've got a lot to be thankful for. I'm angry, but have a mighty pronounced sense of humor. When the good things are good enough, I can almost feel the heat of some sort of faith developing, a grasp of ease that we're in the right hands.

Then I turn on the news. Darfur. Rwanda. Mexico. 9-11. Green River.

23 years and counting.

RETRITIS: Or My Mother Sold My Childhood Part Two

2010-01-21T18:41:00.000-08:00

I guess instead of preparing legal action against my mother, I should maybe start concentrating on why a grown man should miss his King Kong lunchbox (1976 Dino DeLaurentis version, hold the damn laughter, please). Maybe I should deal with why I wish I still had my completely filled 1983 Topps Baseball Sticker album. I think I know why this shit is what it is. Retritis is maybe not a disease, but a feeling of longing. My love of all things retro is not necessarily a bad thing, right? Whether the era is the 1940's (antique radios and big band fliers), to the early 80's (my McDonald's Milwaukee Brewers placemat collection). I realize with obviousness that I draw joy from the objects of the past.

The retro bug takes me back to somewhat simpler times. Whether it's the era of Little Orphan Annie (where you don't have to be from that time period to grasp it's innocence), or onto my own childhood, a time largely spent watching "Mork N' Mindy", trading baseball cards, and taking in movie after movie. Retro draws up the memories of not having any debts and the only thing I needed to concern myself with was where my next pack of football cards was coming from. Most of which, I, thankfully have saved from my Mom's holocaust of resale.

All these vibes of warmth, freedom, and safety were largely destroyed by the death of my Dad, which is another story entirely. I won't drag the room down.

There's sad enough news in the fact the retritis isn't my only "looking back" disorder. Imagine having to suffer from what I like to call Retritis by Association. It's a pathetic nostalgic feeling I get when seeing something one of my older brothers and sisters had as I grew up, bu was too young myself to enjoy them. For example, Pet Rocks, 8-tracks, and glow-in-the-dark posters. It's bad enough to be nostalgic for my own childhood, let alone someone else's. It's a curse sometimes. But another story for another day.

Now that I know the cause, it doesn't help the fact that the symptoms can be inflammed by the way things are today. The old "You Don't Know What You Got 'til it's Gone" syndrome. (As I suppose exists for all generations). For example, did you know they don't really air Saturday Morning Cartoons anymore? The ones that are on are just extensions of WB or Fox Kids regular programming from during the week. Today's kids are being deprived! They do not have any Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Show (my personal favorite). There is no Super Friends, no Hong Kong Phooey, No Drac Pack for them to watch while devouring overly sugarized cereals. Unless of course they watch the Cartoon Network during the right hours. There aren't even newer versions of these cartoons on Saturdays for a new generation. How Sad. And it makes me crawl even further into my retrotic cell. How can networks not run Saturday Morning Cartoons? When did this happen? It certainly flew under my radar.

Today there is no environment-wrecking foam Big Mac containers. There are no crying Indian or Smokey The Bear warning us that us, and only us can stop forest fires. No "Bud Man" cartoon character on T-shirts making beer more attractive to children. It all seems so sad these icons have been replaced and no substitute created to fill the vacuum. Advertising is now geared to adults and adults alone. With the possible exception of Christmas season, which now starts sometime in August.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

FAVRE ZEALOTS : A Romantic Comedy

2010-01-17T21:19:00.000-08:00

I've been finding an irritating trend amongst my coworkers and many Wisconsinite cats in my southeastern neck of the woods. The Double Standard.

These people, a cast of thousands are they, are the same ones that 5 years ago when Favre threw 29 interceptions, wanted him hung from the rafters. 2 years ago, when he through that inane interception in OT of the NFC Championship game at Lambeau, these same folks wanted him retired. Among other less savory things I will refrain from adding here. I do have some fucking restraint.

Those same chaps are now wearing a purple #4 Jersey on Sundays. Yeah.

When you get into "conversations" with these people, it borders on the ludicrous. If you're gonna get into a semantic argument, come fully strapped, please... For example:

I cite:

When you discuss Favre's signing with the dreaded Purple Princesses, his zealots claim "It's a business." Conversely when the Pack Management dealt him to the Jets last season, the organization was being "disloyal".

When Favre danced on the proverbial fence for 4 seasons, and brought that jitterbug to an epoch 2 springs back, the favre-lots, as I call them for brevity's sake, claimed he'd "earned the right". But when the QB job was given to #12, the organization was being "ungrateful". As if it were all Favre all the time and the rest of the organization and team had nothing to do with it. Brett was out there alone. Is #4 playing Linebacker?

Now I'm not saying Thompson was blameless in this, I'm just tired of people, who spent the better part of the last 16 years thinking this guy could walk on water, and the whole damn state looked at him as a demigod, being put on the back burner for his ego.

"True Packer Fans will understand" says Brett.

Really?

For perspective's sake how about Miami fans picturing Dan Marino suiting up for the Jets and taking them to the playoffs. Any Aikman fans like the idea of #8 leading the Redskins to the Super Bowl?

Didn't think so.

When all this Favre crap is blessedly over with, and Aaron Rodgers is consistently leading the Pack to post-season berths, I know the Favre zealots are gonna be running along the bandwagon, latching on, in an attempt to get back on .

I'm just gonna kick them right the fuck off.

Brett can go into the hall as a Viking, and I will be keeping his jersey around, just in case we run out of toilet paper.

NOTHING ON MY LEFT, NOTHING ON MY RIGHT

2010-01-13T20:44:00.000-08:00

I've found myself in some strange dreams over the last year. They've involved unseemly and demonic events involving blues legend Robert Johnson, Nazi snowplows, navigating a snowstorm on a paper tricycle. But this one, though an easy solve on the metaphor front, may be the most disturbing.

I'm in an old gymnasium. Dingy and run down bleachers, ancient backboards, giant blocks of false light generated by fluorescent bulb units. I'm gazing upon 3 or 4 groups of people, gathered separately around the gym. Some of these groups are as small as 8, other gatherings balloon up to as many as 15.

Instantly, I feel lost. The small group to my left boasts people that appear to be about my age. Seeing that, I gradually saunter over. This band of people parts to allow me in, much in the same way that all crowds do, gradually and with little or no reaction to my presence.

As I listen the subjects shift from cars, car parts, snowmobiles, bars, beer, "bein' all fucked up", "bitches", ad infinitum. I chime in something of my own that is a bent version of what they are talking about, bent so that it fits my life. This, in an effort to relate.

Their voices die instantly. They look at me in embarrassment.
They are embarrassed for ME.

I try to mosey my way around to the other groups and the reaction is pretty much identical. Where am I supposed to fit here?

I went to the local convenience store earlier today for soda, and the lines were unusually long, and I was in the midst of a group of about 12. The conversations were among people who didn't know each other. They were about snowmobiles. I've never even been on one. Never wanted to. It went on, seemingly forever, subjects changing to other things I don't care about. I felt my face getting hot, my hands digging into the thin pressboard box of Diet Mountain Dew in my right hand. I was shaking a little, and wanted out of there.

Mercifully, much like the dreams, it ended. I left, welcoming the 20 degree air outside to cool off my steaming face and it's calming effects.

I don't know where I am anymore. It's not the fault of those around me that they know nothing about click tracks, whammy bars, directors of photography. Why should they care about what "Namaste" means, or what a Gnostic is? No one should be forced to know who invented the A bomb, or who was president when the Vietnam conflict ended, much less who Jack Ruby is.

So where does that leave me?

DAY LATE AND A DOLLAR SHORT

2010-01-11T22:35:00.000-08:00

underachiever,
what did you want to be?
nonbeliever
what did you expect to see?

I didn't know where I was going
Because I wasn't ready when I left
Summer's coming and it's still snowing
It's stopped raining and I'm still wet

Behind my times
Ahead of my thoughts
Imagined crimes
and moments lost

I'm spending my evening
One moment at a time
It's burning a hole in my pocket
And I'm down to my last dime

I know what I'll face tomorrow
It'll hit me like a truck
Breaking my heart and hands
And forcing me to duck

Cause my head's coming off soon
It's on fire and continues to burn
Acceptance of the way things are

It's something I'll never learn.

LOOKS AND "THE LOOK"

2010-01-10T21:10:00.000-08:00

There's a look given between men to each other, a glare, if you will, when one of us sees another with a woman who appears out of their class. A kind of "What are you doing with her" kind of vibe. I know it sounds superficial, and I don't mean to seem that way, but it's a baser thing, one I know we as a species should be above...

Now I know the look exists, I've given it about 200 times since I was old enough to recognize things like that. The "You've outkicked your coverage" glare, the "She's out of your league" sneer. But until I was 21 I never received it.

When I started dating the woman that is now my wife, I walked into bars, restaurants, etc. and got that look. I didn't recognize it at first, as I'd never gotten it. Then I looked at the woman next to me, and realized. Hey, She's better looking than me.
Now, you'd thing I'd be prideful with that, but with receiving that look comes great responsibility. You have to be careful the look you shoot back is correct.

You have to be qualified.

There's nervousness and an insufficient feeling that comes to a newcomer to that look.

I've realized that you've become "qualified" when you've put in the work. The work that will allow you to fire back the triumphant "That's right, Mofos, she came in on my arm, and she's leaving on it too."

How do you qualify do you ask?

4 achievements:

1. Hours of talking
2. Moderate arguing, feeling each others differences out.
3. Physical experimentation, compatibility, and goal-setting.
4. The ability to look each other in the eye upon waking up and not wanting to run screaming from the room in horror for mental or physical reasons.

Only when you've achieved these are you qualified to give the "Mofo" look.

I felt that way until I got THE STATEMENT

There is a severe illness that my wife had been struggling with for years, that went badly misdiagnosed. Through hours of research my wife had come across a theory as to what it could be and we decided to visit a specialist to investigate further.

I accompanied my wife to this appointment (as I often do), and upon sitting in front of this doctor, he said to us, "Before we get started, I have a question to ask..." He then turned directly to me, looked me in my eyes and asked, "What's a beautiful woman like this doing with YOU?"

Wow, confidence booster. I know she's better looking than me, pal. You're supposed to give me the look, not come right out and say it. I didn't get too bent out of shape though, for he was old and his first name was Basil.

But it was strange, and brought me back to reality.

Mind you, I've never been drastically successful with the opposite sex, nor comfortable, until my wife and I shared time and each other. I am also no stranger to jealousy or feeling threatened, but I always thought that at the very least I would be able to be AWARE of potential reasons for jealousy, and BE PREPARED to deal with them. Even if it mind hiding my lack of self-esteem, while appearing to have some. Which is somewhat badass in a dysfunctional way.

Now, my wife's illness has been a battle for the both of us. It's caused mental and physical ups and downs.

But she's still the most beautiful creature I've ever laid eyes upon.

And after 17 years, even if we're not going anywhere, she's still leaving with me.

MOUTHPIECE

2010-01-04T18:30:00.000-08:00

I keep trying to fancy myself as a writer. I've never been published. Haven't written anything "with a purpose" since college. I have a blog. So does 3/4 of the American population. I just try to pat myself on the back, thinking mine's "different" or "not just a diary" or "has more to offer".

Now, I've promised one of my best friends I would stop beating the shit out of myself on here, so I shan't delve too far into the territory of self-deprecation. That's because he's right, art's a matter of opinion, so if this claptrap (kidding, C!) is enjoyed by anyone, then it's worthwhile.

But, if drawing cake from it or not, I am a writer, why must I feel the need to use the Paul Westerbergs, Nick Hornbys, and Greg Giraldos to speak for me?
Do I not feel qualified to speak for myself? After all, who knows more about me than me? Do I think I'm hip that I can use these maestros of artful linguistic flair to fill a spot in a conversation?

Or is it identification? It's nice to have corroboration and empathy for the way you think or feel, and if someone does it poetically, it's all the more impressive.

I don't confront well, I, despite being a green belt in Tae Kwon Do, avoid violence at all costs, and find myself frustrated in arguments, thusly seeming to lower my intelligence bank account. It's not due to lack of funds, but more my cerebral struggle to have easier access to it under heightened circumstances.

So, because of that, during great moments of duress, be it anger, melancholy, depression, outright betrayal aftermath, what have you, my ability to tap into my muse becomes static-ridden. Until I turn to pharmaceuticals, then the mudslide stops, it all quiets, and I can begin the flow.

Unfortunately, this option, though convenient in those evenings when I'm writing and creating, is not available when working, driving, or carrying out my day to day.

Helpless and weak becomes my feeling, my mode.

So, to quote Tom Perotta: "Dave didn't answer. He just sat there, staring at the nutritional information on the side panel of a box of Cheerios, marveling at his own cowardice."

That about sums it up.

STOP THE HYPE

2010-01-04T17:01:00.000-08:00

Sometimes something is so built up, so talked about, so made into a big deal, that it couldn't possibly be as good as billed.

"Paranormal Acitivity"

This is that film shot for $6,000, and made bazillions right around Halloween. Press rumblings made it out to be the scariest shit on celluloid since "The Exorcist". People couldn't make it through full viewings. Infrared shots of horrified crowd reaction in the marketing scheme are now the stuff of legend.

I saw this movie on Saturday Night and began to fear being numbed, desensitized. Losing what was left of my dying Peter Pan element (see previous post). Now I realize it's not my fault.

As Chuck D. once said, "Don't Believe the Hype", and I agree with that now legendary Public Enemy statement. But what I think is more apropos is "Dont Even Start the Hype".

I had a realization as the weekend progressed that if the media hadn't caused such a terrifying buzz about this film, it actually probably would have scared me. Really. The problem is, I went in knowing so much about what the film was supposed to do to the viewer, that it's thrills and chills were dulled. If I had known little about "Paranormal Activity" and just nicked it off the shelf at my local horrible video store took it home and watched it, I firmly believe I would have at the very least been able to claim, "Okay, that was fucked up."

Just like when critics ruin a twist simply by stating there is one, they have ruined yet another movie for me.

ELEMENTARY

2010-01-02T00:52:00.000-08:00

Well, thanks to Jon Favreau and Mark Steven Johnson, there's at least been a tendency among Hollywood auteurs to at least attempt to carry over the spirit of source material to major-budget movie adaptations. Favreau did a nice job with "Iron Man", The director's cut of "Daredevil" was nicely executed by Johnson and now add Guy Ritchie to the mix with "Sherlock Holmes".

It's not perfect, mind you. There are periodic slip-ups, some minor character alterations, but the spirit is there. The mysterious woman, Holmes' muse and frustration is here, and carried well by Rachel McAdams. LeStrade is the numb-skulled, but well intentioned chief inspector of Scotland Yard. These translated well. One would expect a bit older an more portly Dr. Watson than Jude Law, but as I said, in Hollywood, compromises are made, and Law's excellent humor and physical presence more than makes up for the tangible differences.

Downey amazes me. When you consider the shitstorm his life and career had become, and look at his work since his comeback, (which actually began with the spectacular "Kiss Kiss Bang Bang", if you haven't seen it, get on it) he's priceless. He holds the accent through the film, carries over Holmes' substance abuse, martial arts expertise, musical prowess, and yes, the defining characteristic, deductive reasoning. To the point where it becomes a physical nuisance, an exhaustive hypersensitivity to his surroundings. Interesting and overlooked touch from Doyle.

I'm not going to go into the plot, it's complicated and I don't want to spoil. Those hoping for classic Guy Ritchie touches in the visual arena won't be disappointed. Choreography, film speed, limited but acceptable CGI usage, and humor are all vividly and properly installed here.

This is a good film, well thought out and acted, and helmed by a confident director. Whether you've read Doyle or not, you will enjoy it. Frequent readers, as myself, will find themselves performing knowing nods and grins throughout.

That's all you can ask for in a modern Hollywood film.

Drawing Sharks

2009-12-28T10:07:00.000-08:00

It was the best shark I'd ever drawn. Not perfect, mind you, but it had some three dimensional qualities, noticeable roundness in the right parts. The gills looked like gills instead of inverse letter Cs. The tail appeared to be, in a less than overbearing way, pointing out at the viewer of the picture.

Drawn by a 9 year old, on college ruled paper with an old Ticonderoga number 2 pencil.
As good as that shark, (which I had been trying to draw since my interest in the Great White had been peaked by movies like "Jaws" and "The Deep"), appeared on the paper, my mind wasn't on it.

I was thinking about the strange place my parents had taken me to early in the day. A foggy memory today, I still remember it enough for it to disturb me. I sat in a room with my mother and a strange guy. In a fold up chair, scrunched down, I face him as he leaned forward, elbows on knees and asked me that question.

"Are you afraid your father is going to die?"

I felt a cold raindrop roll down my spine, and lied through my heavy metal teeth.

"No."

This chap, who I now assume was a child psychologist, looked over his right shoulder at my mother, and told her we could leave. She nodded back, and that's exactly what we did.

As I was penciling this Great White, trying to model it after a shark drawn by Neal Adams in a pocket Batman compendium I owned and treasured, this day's event was what I thought about. The shark, as good as it looked, was a secondary value.

I had to do this now, before my balls backed up any further into my anatomy than they already were. Mockingly, a picture of "The Last Supper", a mirror painting I would steadily lose faith in over the next few years, hung over the entryway to the kitchen, the same influx my Mother would have to go through to answer the question I was now aching to ask, before I couldn't hold the guts to do it anymore.

I called her into the room. She sat across from me as I added unnecessary touches to the Great White, never looking up at her.

"Mom?"
"Yes, Honey"
I cleared my throat. It was getting hard to breathe.

"Today, when we went to see that guy and he asked if I thought Dad was gonna die? I lied to him. Is he?"

Mom looked at me long and hard, and the eyes started to glisten with wetness. I didn't need to hear the answer for I now knew it. Finally, she nodded. As much as I expected that response, it was like a 2X4 to the testicles. Breathing became rushed. My dear mother was only 3 feet away, but getting there took an eternity. I stood, and instantly my knees locked, my calves tingled and became weak as I stumbled that horrible distance, huffing breath, finally falling into her arms.

I was crying that awful cry, that indescribable weeping, where breathing is not an option, where your chest feels like an anvil is resting on it. Screaming feels like the only way out. Crying so hard your body is as sore as your soul.

Even at nine, I still knew this was mile marker number one, in what would be many landmarks, that would act as chapter number pages in my life. How I knew that at nine is beyond me.

This was, and still is the most painful moment of my life. Going to Dad to answer his question of whether or not I understood, was not worse. Watching Ray Bradbury's "Martian Chronicles" on TV while absorbing this disease of a piece of information was not worse.

I cried that awful cry off and on for several hours. Mom did what she could to soften the blow, made me a strawberry shake in a big Superman glass, told me I could stay home from school tomorrow, even called my dear aunt over to try to talk me through this. This was wisdom, my first experience with awful, acidic wisdom. Not the death of a pet, not a fish that gets flushed down the toilet, this was the fucking crash course in black knowledge.

Later that night, at the table, suffering with a bout of insomnia, I found that shark still sitting in the kitchen, swimming in what appearing to be puckered paper from my tears. In the same room as the mirror/picture of "The Last Supper", I took my last look at that excellent Great White.

I would never cry that hard, or for this reason again.

I stood in the dark slowly ripping it to shreds. I wafted the confetti into the trash can and closed the lid. It was late, and I would try sleep again. Switching off the light in the kitchen, I walked back through the entryway to the hallway that led to my bedroom, completely ignoring "The Last Supper"

For Jesus held no comfort.

EPITAPH FOR THE "SO FAR"

2009-12-14T17:26:00.000-08:00

I read a lot. A lot of non-fiction. Over the last few years, I've banged through a ton of memoirs, recent stuff, older material looking way back. Everybody's got their moments, the ones they recollect whether completely accurate or not. There's a lot of honesty in a joke, that kind of thing.

I'm afraid to write a memoir on my life.

I see the stuff about growing up, particularly in the Midwest. "My father broke his back, but he always came home.", "I'll never forget when I saw the Beatles on Ed Sullivan", ""Let it Be" changed my life, they were talking to ME."

That's just reactionary. That's all I'm doing.

It's the "we's" that scare me. "We played in front of 500 people that night, and left 'em wantin' more.", "When we lit Redford's face for that scene, he couldn't have been nicer", "We were 9 runs down and came back to win it."

That's where I wanted to go. Not necessarily the fields of endeavor those quotes may entail, but the vibe of "being a part of something." I encourage my son to continue with his metal band, not because I want him to be the next Metallica or Black Sabbath, because I want him to be a part of something. He doesn't see it that way now, but it's creating memories. Good or bad, they will be INTERESTING and thoughtful tidbits to look back on and share years later. It doesn't have to be his career, he's 15, it's building a back catalog of "look-backs".

I know of what I speak, because I don't have many, if any. When people I have known have these great stories to share, I love to hear them, but on another level, I can't relate, and there's a great distance there.

Maybe a distance that is too far to bridge.

A distance I've had with everybody that I've ever met, and every last one of them, I don't know any more. We lost common bonds as well as touch. It's rooted in a lot of reasons, moving too damn much, teenage awkwardness, inability to steadily "get involved" in unique endeavors, fear.

I've been telling myself, subconsciously or not for 38 years that no matter how good something is, or may seem to be, sooner or later, it's gonna break. The bottom's going to fall out and it will be over.

Now if I can self-analyze this way, one would think that correcting that problem wouldn't necessarily be all that far behind.

I hope that's true. But time moves on and I'm still having a difficult time deciding where I wanna go, what dream to pursue, not to mention the after-effects of possibly leaving a job, a position that others need me to have, to chase it down. I'm not blaming those others, for their support and love keeps me sane. I blame myself for missteps in my youth.

Unfortunately those missteps aren't even the variety that one can laugh at after looking back, because quite frankly, they're fucking boring. They're administrative fuck-ups, not the fun kind.

I want to move on. The fork in the road is here. It's a dusty, dirty wishbone in the middle of the woods, smell of pine and rain in the air.

I may have to bed down for a while, before taking that first step.

DIGITAL DAB'LL DO YA: Mic the Tiger

2009-12-10T08:14:00.000-08:00

Soulful punk, or punkful soul?

Ah, God. I hate labels, and critics for that matter.

Here's the deal, MTT's got some of their songs available for purchase on their website, just click on the Mic the Tiger link on the right panel of my blog.

This is good stuff, people. Remember, a long time ago, at the top there where I was writing the beginning of a pretentious review? Well, this is NON-pretentious rock and roll. Straight forward, very memorable, ass-kicking songs from 1-10. Guitar, bass, drums, top notch songwriting. You know, stuff you don't hear on the radio anymore?

www.micthetiger.com

Digital downloads available, and tangible cd right there for ya....link to the rite-
While you're there, buy a shirt!!!

BULLIES AND THE REVENGE FANTASY: Part Two

2009-12-09T21:05:00.000-08:00

This leads to a fantastic moment, though. My best friend at the time, Richie, his aunt Rosala (old school Sicilian woman) and I were walking to the grocery store to get the ingredients to make Rose's famous 3-inch thick Sicilian pizza. I spied behind us the busrider lunatic and his goons quickly trailing up behind us. I leaned over and told Richie the situation. He quickly turned and said, "Auntie, those guys bothering Rob are following us." Don't laugh at the word Auntie. She like being called that and even demanded I did. Now Rose was very diminutive, jet-black hair always under a bandana and coke-bottle glasses that made her dark brown Italian eyes all the more intimidating.

Auntie Rose whipped around, stood her ground and said, "What do you mooks want, a kick in the head?"
Classic.
Richie and I had a great laugh and we went our way. The busrider hooligan gang theirs. I had a bigger laugh later on that weekend as I visualized tiny Rose throwing spinkicks and hurricanes into the heads of bus-boy and his boys until they ran home screaming like Scut Farcus in "A Christmas Story". It made the rest of the weekend enjoyable. Alas, Monday was fast approaching.

Later, that summer, there was a punk a couple grades ahead of me, who decided it was his turn to give me shit. That he did all school year long. With the changing of the seasons, it was like these assholes passed the Prick Torch to one another. One hot summer afternoon, pre mentioned Richie, his brother and I were playing a 3-way game of catch when this pre-mentioned punk, let's call him Brad and a friend starting in on me before even getting off their bikes. Brad had pretty substantial burn scars on his face that were very prominent. I guess he felt that gave him the right to step on everyone like they were dog shit.

Not to be crass, this is bitterness talking, but just because you look like Quasimodo doesn't give you the right to act like him, even if you are just as intelligent. Brad started in on me, trying to get me to say self-embarassing things, which I refused, then his buddy be brought with him told him to get into the "crane" position. Now the "Crane" position is the incredibly useless martial arts stance taught to Daniel LaRusso by Mr. Miyagi in "The Karate Kid". Once firmly established in this most ancient of stances, he told me in his best Eastwood, to "make a move". Which I didn't. Unless you count picking up my Dudley baseball glove and going home, leaving behind everybody including my friends. I decided to watch a Kung-Fu movie supplanting the faces of the bad guys with Brad's face, that was "making my move" that day.

That was damn embarassing, and right in front of my best friend. Pride cracked stings like a bitch. I needed plenty of Gorilla Glue.

Eventually during the school year, Brad continued the same act until a couple guys in his grade leaned on him to make better size decisions on who you pick on. Volunteering themselves. Sometimes it's good to have friends in slightly higher places. Brad backed off. Slight relief set in. I often still fantasized about a leaping Chuck Norris spin kick to the right side of his face blowing him through the bus window and out into the street. Not necessary, as I had mentioned, he backed off, but therapeutic nonetheless.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

RETRITIS, or MY MOTHER SOLD MY CHILDHOOD: Part One

2009-12-09T20:27:00.000-08:00

I find myself at that cold spot in my life. The one somewhere between that "young enough to party" stage and "true" adulthood, whatever the fuck that means. The stage where I kinda find myself missing some of the material shit I grew up with as a kid.

My mother sold them, you know.

I used to have this killer Wile E. Coyote drinking glass. It would greet me with a grin and 6 ounces of Orange Juice every morning. Gone to some stranger with a 10 cent sticker on it. She unloaded comic books, electric guitars, sports memorabilia, all kinds of things, sacrificed at the altar of thrift. Some of these things were sold with or without my permission, mind you, but it doesn't necessarily make it any easier to deal with.

The woman unloaded my youth.

You see, as I approached my late 30's, I've developed a disease I like to call Retritis. Its an horrible affliction of the explicitly nostalgic that includes, but is not limited to these symptoms: Overgrown collections, irritated spouses, and a growing interest in damn near all things retro. This disease is hearkening me back to the era of those god-forsaken rummage-o-ramas that decimated the items of my childhood. And since I've developed this condition, I am starting to fervently wish I had back the trinkets of my golden years.

Why does a woman sell my shit? To what end? $1.25? There has to be an answer of some sort. I mean what motivation does a lady that nags a person about cleaning their room, when she only goes in there to clean it in the first place, have to bargain-bin my most treasured belongings? It's a quandary haunting me to this very moment. Of course it is, or I wouldn't be writing this drivel.

Actually, I think it would be unfair to say that she sold my ENTIRE childhood. Just large portions of my memories. To my own credit, I've gone to some lengths to re-acquire them. For example my 1978 Daredevil #154 featuring Paladin. (A victim of a 1985 yard sale). At the very least I've gotten some nice pics off of the internet of several long lost items. Being that retro items of the 70's and 80's could easily cost me the deed to my house if I wanted to repurchase the real deal, the photos will have to do. I've even retrieved a nice grab of my favorite cereal, Crazy Cow (and started a devoted facebook following of the long lost breakfast treat). Although I can hardly blame my mother for throwing away cereal boxes, they are garbage after all. Of course, in today's collector/buyer society, an original Crazy Cow box could probably fetch a couple hundred smackaroos from the right person.

Against my will though, on a dark day, she did sell my rather expansive (and expensive) Star Wars action figure collection. Who knows how many thousands of dollars that would be worth now? I don't care, really. I'm past the sting of lost-dollar-value items. I once gave away a box of basketball cards to a dear nephew, not knowing that the holy grail of NBA cards was in there, the Fleer Michael Jordan rookie. Mmmph. At least he thanks me for that when he sees me. Good on him.
I'm no Indian giver, so with him it remains.

I am sure, however, on the Star Wars front, those action figures would be more properly passed on to my son, a young man who is the member of yet another generation of memorabilia collectors of George Lucas ever-fattening franchise. He'd probably be upset, unfortunately, upon realization that they are no longer in their original packaging, or "carded" as the nerdlingers phrase it. That seems to be some sort of prerequisite among collectors these days when looking at old toys. The buyer gives you that "you smell like fermented cow intestines" look as he handles a 4 inch Han Solo figure with a pair of tweezers and a jeweler's loupe. Meanwhile, you're rolling your eyes and wishing you were elsewhere.
Shit, me, I'd just be happy if my Luke Skywalker still had his dog-chewed lightsaber.

(To Be continued)

MY NAME IS ROB, AND I WAS A D.J.

2009-12-09T15:41:00.000-08:00

Last night at the chasm serving my penance, right towards the end of my shift, the local "rock" station being listened to (not my choice) was playing Def Leppard's "Bringing on the Heartbreak". Not that that is groundbreaking by any stretch of the imagination, (although it is rare to hear anything off "High and Dry" these days) but at the end of the song instead of fading out, I was shocked to hear it roll directly into "Switch 625", as it does on the album.

I was stunned. I called it a small victory for the d.j., although it's probably likely he was out of the room and didn't catch it.

Actually scratch that, everything is on touchscreens at the bulk of radio stations, and knowing that this was Milwaukee's "big one"......

Wait, that term is perfect, I should probably take off those quotes. Ha Ha.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. It seems like the jock probably let the song run. As I said, it's small victory in every sense of the word. What I dream about is hearing a station launch into "Unsatisfied", "Rise Above", or "Fearless Vampire Killers", but I know that will not happen.

I told you that story to tell you this one.

There's another popular radio station here, one that professes itself to be "independent and alternative", although all I ever hear on there are bands like Shinedown, Kings of Leon, and a bunch of stuff that was huge on the rock charts in the 90's. I don't think playing "The Man Who Shot the World" followed by "Possum Kingdom" as cool as those songs are, is "independent". A lot of stations play those particular tracks, but I digress.

Every once in a while this station will toss in a Ramones song, or one of two Violent Femmes tunes. Maybe once a week, one of the Beastie Boys tunes. When I say once in a while, I mean every 12 hours or so. This is not "edgy". This is not "independent". Come on, man. The rotation is every bit as canned as any AOR station in any town I've ever lived in. You can tell it was put together by some firm or consultant somewhere, and "I Wanna Be Sedated" and "So Watcha Want" are part of that "record library".

Don't be fooled.

When I worked at an oldies station in Wausau, Wisconsin, they had a liner that belched into your ears, "WE'RE OPENING THE DOORS TO THE LARGEST RECORD LIBRARY IN WISCONSIN!!", and I had to choke back laughter before turning on the mic after playing it. This record library was a small rack consisting of about 36 cds, each disc's jewel case contained a plain white liner sheet with the names of the 12 songs contained within. That's it. That's your "record library", some prepackaged, copyright-licensed monstrosity put together by a hired non-descript consulting firm somewhere. Nondescript as those damn liner sheets. Harmless as a baby with a marshmallow teddy bear.

Oh, yeah. "Don't break format". Stay with the rotation sheets. Wouldn't want to give false information by a song or two to ASCAP/BMI, now would we? I remember pulling a 10 to 5 all night new year's eve shift, playing an upbeat "HAPPY NEW YEAR" countdown bit at the top of midnight and then launching into.....................wait for it......................"You've Lost That Loving Feeling" by the Righteous Brothers.

Right.

Now I would have preferred something that would make the crowds of people listening and partying and kissing strangers and spilling champagne and having elated regrettable sex on the first day of the year dance, damn it. Something like oh, say, "Hanky Panky", "C'mon Everybody", or "Twist and Shout". Tunes you could really get down to.

Nope.

CAN'T BREAK FORMAT. The Law.

Mind you, I was fearful to even try, 6 months out of broadcasting school. But that was, although not my fault, one of my darkest moments in radio.

I steadily became more disillusioned in the lack of spontaneity in the business, the machinization of it all. As a kid, I dreamed of "laying some serious shit on you", bringing something new to the world, because being in that business you have access to music most people never hear. And never will hear.

Goddamn it. That wasn't even an option by the time I walked in the door.

Ah, fuck it.

SCATTERED

2009-12-08T22:43:00.000-08:00

I am still here, scattered high in the wind
Not nearly part of the pages I wished I'd been in
Seeking out voices to speak for me with force
Thinking I'm alone like a child of divorce

I never found that group
That I sought in the faces
that passed me in the halls
without social graces

I look down, a leaf blowing on high
scraping the glass ceiling, my back to the sky
landing in places I wish not to go
mingling with people I don't wish to know

I am still here, scattered, as I travel
bouncing and twisting through blacktop and gravel
Decisions to be made soon, at a place not too far
Before the rain starts in, ever binding me to the tar

HOW MYSELF AND DOC HOLLIDAY ARE ALIKE

2009-12-05T23:33:00.000-08:00

Many film buffs, historians, and even critics regard the film "Tombstone" as a cartoonish, fairy-tale-esque take on the story of what happened in that Arizona town in the era of Wyatt Earp. That may be so, but it doesn't change the fact that it's still a damn fine, underrated movie with some slick dialogue and rich characterizations.

I'm fond of the dynamic between Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday in this movie. Midway through, when Earp's deputized crew are picking apart "The Cowboys" criminal syndicate one by one, things are looking dark for a while. People question why Holliday is putting his already tuberculosis ridden body through this, when he's clearly hardly up to it. During a break in the action near a river bed, an exchange takes place between Jack Johnson and Holliday.

Jack Johnson: Why do you do it?
Doc Holliday: Wyatt Earp is my friend.
Jack Johnson: Friend? Hell, I got lots of friends.
Doc Holliday: I don't.

I get that.

In my travels, I've made and lost many friends, due mostly to distance, and an inability for some to return phone calls or letters. That's neither here nor there. As it stands now, I have few. The ones I do have know what they got.

I'm loyal as a German Shepherd, If I got it, I'll give it to you, and if you need me, I'll try to be there.

If you hurt, I hurt.

And just like Doc Holliday, if Johnny Ringo is too fast for you, I'll put that bullet in his forehead for ya.

WATCHING FROM THE WEEDS

2009-12-05T19:41:00.000-08:00

I'm not gonna name any names. Just thought I'd preface this piece with that.

There are many, and I mean many, people I know personally, people very close to me that just like to watch. They lurk behind the curtains, if it's evening, with the lights off, just studying.

Watching.

They leer, filing information away for later use, cerebral bits of data on what they've seen, in-mind documentation of movements, habits, communiques, and acquaintances. It's a borderline obsession, as they jump at the sound of slammed car doors, scurry to the windows, yanking the drapes up to nose level.

Who's there? Who's visiting? What do they do for a living?

Are they dating someone, and if so, is sex involved?

Yes, we all know these compulsive oglers. Neighbor watchers.

I personally don't understand it and find it a little creepy. I've met and shaken hands with my neighbors, introducing myself and even (gasp) sharing my name and trade, as nauseating as that fact may be. I know their names, guess how I got that? No, no reconnaissance missions, no trips to the town hall, and God, no under the table cash exchanges with private detectives.

I asked.

Yes, I find neighbor watching creepy. For a few reasons which I will proselytize for you right now.

1. They are human beings not characters on a television show. If they want to realize how foolish they are being, Neighbor Watchers must be forced, (if Alex from "A Clockwork Orange" against the will viewing is necessary so be it), to watch "The Truman Show". That ought to sum it up. If it doesn't, they have no conscience.

2. I don't care. I mean, outside of the generalities I've exchanged with the ones I've met, I don't really worry too much about my suburban mates coming and goings. It's just not a high priority. I don't care if a vehicle in their driveway is from another state, really. Unless they are leaking oil on my front lawn (which has happened), or their useless brats are tossing garbage into my front ditch (which has happened) I don't want to get involved. See: No contacty, no involvy.

3. It's none of my goddamn business. I have absolutely no right to try to pursue information about people who are not coming right out and sharing it with me. If the info is achieved by, oh, say asking, actually communicating with the folks, fine. But otherwise, leave 'em alone! Just because they live within my visual plane, does not give me the right to try to understand them.

My neighbors have been trying to figure me out for 18 years.

Not happening. I live in the suburbs, have hair 8 inches past my shoulders, wear horror movie tee shirts, listen to Minor Threat and The Buck Pets at top volume with the windows open, and have two very large dogs. I see the looks the neighbors give, and reversing the topic into my direction as one of the viewed: I don't give a shit.

I just don't get it. What is the allure of staring at the neighbors? I would ask, but I get snippy over it, and it would start arguments. So I guess I'll just leave well enough alone.

The gossiping about others they don't know however, is another story.

HOW ROD STEWART DEPRESSED ME.

2009-12-04T19:12:00.000-08:00

Last night, Conan O'Brien had Rod Stewart as an interview guest.

"Rod the Mod" himself as a guest wasn't all that exciting as I've never been a huge fan with the possible exception of the song I had a brief infatuation with in the 5th grade, "Maggie May".

It was something he said.

In the midst of telling a story, Stewart said to Conan, and I'm parphrasing, something about not knowing if O'Brien's audience was old enough to remember a group he was in, The Faces.....

Conan was visibly shocked as was I. At least I think I was. Seems I did not have a camera available to photograph myself at the moment.

Now the Faces were a touch ahead of my time, but if you listened to any sort of radio at the time of late grade school years and my early teens, their songs were in no way in short supply.

As a matter of fact while serving my 2 year sentence in Waco, Texas, KRZI played "I'm Missing You" at least once a day.

Rod Stewart's statement reminded me of the stories that my Mom would tell, not so much the tales, but the phrase they were predicated with; "Years ago....." This made her seem older than she really was.
Rod Stewart made himself seem old in this way, in turn suddenly bringing me face to face with awareness of my advancing age.

It made me kinda sad.

I can easily remember Stewart in the days of "Young Turks" and "Infatuation", flopping around on stage in Spandex treating his mic stand like the sword of Excalibur, spouting lyrics of both romance and misogyny.

Now, he's doing standards with a big jazz band. Not that that's a bad thing, but methinks he's getting a little ahead of himself perhaps?

Other rockers of his era are still jamming it up. The question is "Do they look good doing it?". I don't know. The Stones, not so much. The Who still sound, if not look sharp as hell.

Maybe Rod is more observant than some of us may think...
Maybe he's just keenly aware of his limitations than the rest of us. Only he would know, but it still makes me sad nonetheless. There's nothing more melancholy than the changing of an era.

I'm not ready to move on.....yet.

VINYL POOPY PANTS: Steve Martin

2009-12-04T17:54:00.000-08:00

When I was in High School, I was fortunate enough to attend a facility whose library had a periodicals section that reached way the hell back. Regardless of the topic I was researching, I could dig up a wealth of articles on the subject.

I told you that story, to tell you this one...

During the winter of 1987 I had, out of curiosity, purchased a cassette copy of Steve Martin's "Wild and Crazy Guy". It was one of those bargain copies where a hole was punched in the plastic side of the case, usually resulting in cracking and pesky residue falling in too near the tape.

$1.99. Where could I go wrong?

Before I listened to it, I checked out an ancient dead-sea scroll copy of Rolling Stone (back when they were completely oversized and printed on newspaper substrates, thusly with age, damaged and frequently repaired by the vehement librarians) in an effort to read a review of Mr. Martin's record.

This issue, needless to explain, was from the era when "Wild" was fresh and Steve Martin was all the stand-up comedy rage in the U.S. Back then I was a little too quick to take critical exposition seriously, naivete at it's finest indeed.

Rolling Stone had accused the album of being rambling and nearly incoherent with no real material, apparently as if Martin had no pre-rehearsed routine, but was just up there spouting off improvised non-sequitirs.

I myself thought the conversational nature of the record was it's charm, actually. Weird jokes about intellectualism , while displaying a staged obvious lack of articulation. I found that bit funny myself. Not Rolling Stone.

He shared a story about a vocal instructor who told a friend that was a student to "sing from her diaphragm", and then claimed to think the guy a pervert for proposing such a thing.

Where else can you hear someone shout to a massed audience, "Grandpa bought a rubber!!!"

He goes on to state that bad news is more easily absorbed when given whilst playing a banjo, and you know what? He's kinda right.

Let's not forget "King Tut".

Screw the critics, Steve Martin's "Wild and Crazy Guy" is a time capsule stand up comedy classic. A fond reminder of my early discoveries of live taped stand up performances.

Alright. "Enough--comedy--Jokes!!!"

COUNTERDICTION

2009-11-29T20:50:00.000-08:00

"Don't counterdict me, Rob." my Dad used to say.

Of course, he meant contradict. Just like he used to use "irregardless" which was exactly the opposite of what he thought it meant. All the same, I knew what he meant, and disregarded the faux pas.

But in a very many ways, I do "counterdict" myself. I come from two different directions in so many ways, on a mental and physical level. If it wasn't me I was talking about, I would find it much more amusing.

Let's do this in an "outline-ish" type way, since I'm one of those Rob Gordon "High Fidelity" list types, anyway.

Here are my contradictory ways.

1. RESEARCH, (or info-digging): My wife has pointed this one out. My mind is a steel trap, at least when it comes to certain areas. I can remember names, years, sports stats, albums, movies, actors, directors, producers, etc. They call me the "Encyclopedia of who gives a shit". It's all tedium and minutiae, really. I can find shit. Almost anything, even without the benefit of the internet and plastic. Movies, books, albums, any kind of product someone's looking for, give me a couple weeks and I can track it down. I'm a regular fuckin' Columbo.

Then why can't I see my car keys when they're right in front of my face? Why can't I locate the pants I just took off 15 minutes ago, and where are my goddamn socks?

2. NEGOTIATION: When tempers arise at work, I am more than privy to the art of keeping calm while having someone scream in my face. I'm not saying I like it, that's fuckin' sick. I can just keep my cool. I can lay back when someone is being an asshole to me. I can step between two people fighting and bring about some sort of an agreement.

Then why do I get into a screaming match with my son about whether or not we should go to Taco Bell? Why can't I keep from arguing with my dog when she won't come to the door? It gets nasty, people. I love her furry ass, but it's 2:00 AM, cold as hell, and I'm in sweat pants. Get your canine ass in here!

3. AGILITY: I am fully capable of pulling off a pratfall that would make Chevy Chase jealous without hurting myself. I can make a diving catch of a frisbee seven feet off the ground on a brilliant football style down-and-out pattern. In martial arts training I have had an instructor use my roundhouse kick as an example of perfect form, and hold my foot up at my classmates cheek for damn near a minute. My teacher also used me as a demo for a tricky spin kick called a "hurricane", which if practiced too frequently will result in nausea-induced vomiting.

Then why can't I walk down the hallway without steamrolling the cat and scraping the side of my face on the textured drywall? And how do I manage to slamdance with the cupboards when rushing through my kitchen to show my wife the frog that has planted itself of on the exterior glass of the patio door? Seriously, people I slid through the kitchen like Pete Rose heading for home and removed a cupboard door with my shoulder in the process. Do you call that graceful? Contradictory.

4. CHIVALRY: I have been known back in the day to give up my bus seat to elderly women on the bus on the way home from school. I often open the doors for strangers at restaurants, and pick up items women have dropped while in the checkout counter of the grocery store.

Then why can't I offer my wife my sweatshirt when she's cold? Why can't I help her off the sidewalk when she's fallen without laughing first? And why the hell can't I remember to rinse the syrup off my plates before putting them in the sink resulting in them turning into sweet Maple concrete?

5. MEMORY: I can tell you where David Whitehurst, the non-legendary backup quarterback of the Green Bay Packers in the 70's went to college (Furman). I can tell you what legendary band Robin Trower was in before he went solo (Procol Harum). I can tell you who directed the original "Piranha" (Joe Dante).

Then why can't I remember my Mother's birthday? Why can't I remember to take the trash out before I'm halfway to work? And why the hell can't I recall where I left my wedding ring?

These are just a few of the big questions I have to ask myself day in and day out. But instead of trying to solve these things, there are bigger unanswered riddles that plague my mind during the doldrums of the day....

1. Did "the Dukes of Hazzard" have jobs?
2. Whatever happened to Corey Hart? (Not the Brewers right fielder)
3. Did Gerald Ford find it as funny as I did when he fell down the steps after getting off of Air Force One in Austria?
4. When is America going to see the genius of the Knack?
5. Does Mick Jagger know he's hideous?
6. Does my wife think I'm as big a geek as I think I am?
7. Will my son surpass Todd MacFarlane as the greatest comic book illustrator of all time?
8. Well I ever get out of printing?
9. When will "Manhunter" be recognized as superior to "Gone With the Wind"?
10. Where are my socks?

Now you know what I'm dealing with.
Please Help Me.

SARCASTIC THANKSGIVING

2009-11-26T06:46:00.000-08:00

Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to thank the following:

1. John Oppenheimer, Leo Szilard, and Edward Teller for turning my childhood into a paranoid nightmare.

2. The handful of girls in high school that made me feel like "Igor". Picture me hunched over, shuffling away, uttering "I mean you NO HAAAARRMMM!!" Thanks for the self-confidence boost. Cheers.

3. THE CHASM OF DESPAIR, for sucking out my soul on a daily basis and running it through a wood-chipper.

4. Bullies. Eat shit.

5. The indifference of good men. Without which so many awful crimes would be stopped.

6. The local book store. Thanks for not carrying anything worthwhile and taking 6 months to get in a mass-market paperback. You rock.

7. William Friedkin and Wes Craven, for making every corner have a vivisectionist rapist or possessing demon behind it.

8. The 1982 Brewers for breaking my heart.

9. The music industry for not having a frickin' clue.

10. Farm equipment driven on highways. That's pretty awesome.

HAPPY TURKEY DAY EVERYONE!!!!!!!

TED NUGENT : All American or Sanctimonious asshole

2009-11-25T17:36:00.000-08:00

I recently read Ted Nugent's manifesto, "Ted, White, and Blue" and I came away doing one thing.

Shaking my head.

First of all, yes, he's a ferocious guitar player, and his style and work is exemplary. A true pathlayer. Ask anyone from Henry Rollins to Slash, they'll back that up. He's a peerless live performer. Having seen him several times, he's flat out amazing. Obvious from his political activism, and articulate nature, he's highly intelligent. Overbearing and obnoxious, but highly intelligent. There's no question that Nugent has a good set of core family values, he is family-oriented, through and through. At least, nowadays.

Shit, I grew up listening to "Uncle Ted". His first 5 or 6 albums are heavy metal royalty pieces. The people he surrounded himself with, Derek St. Holmes, Rob Grange, Dave Kiswiney, Charlie Huhn, all fantastic vocalists, bass players, et al. His first album should be dropped in ANY time capsule.

But, Ted has the most narrow world view of any outspoken, well-known celebrity I have ever seen. He has created a small box that I call the "Nuge Cube", which he seems to want to jam everyone into, and if you don't fit in that cube's living criteria, you're worthless. There's no gray area with Ted. He's among the most black and white people I've ever read. He takes nothing into consideration. Not everyone is raised in a nurturing, healthy, supportive family environment. Not everyone recovers from financial mistakes. He refuses to take mental illness or societal pressures seriously as affects on a persons life. These are REASONS, people, not excuses for being waylayed by life.

Great, Nuge, you had a paper route at 14. What do you recommend as work for someone that age in South Central L.A.? Particularly for one whose parents are on crack? Ted, you lean on hunting a lot as the answer for life's ills. Maybe that kid should get up off his lazy ass, steal a bow, and take a whitetail over in Compton?

Please.

First of all, not everyone's interested in hunting. I agree it's a necessity for the health of the herd, and should be managed by good stewardship of the DNR. But, I find it one thing to hunt an animal and feed your family with the meat, another to treat the dead creature like a volleyball trophy. You'll forgive me if I don't want to dance in the presence of death.

He bashes "fat" people. His scrawny 120 pound ass has probably never seen cellulite on it. Again, a person that knows not of what he speaks. He just groups the overweight into the same group as people who just sit around doing nothing all day, chomping chips, playing video games, and urinating in gallon jugs. Again, with the "Nuge Cube". I've seen him and his wife do this on television. Come on, man, you cannot be that shortsighted. I find it funny that a person who spent the better part of the 70's sticking his weiner into anything with a skirt would have a little better angle on what is right and wrong appearance-wise publicly.

Doesn't our country have a bad enough self-image as it is? Our mass-media fed idea of what is "beautiful" is ruining kids as we speak, and you go on tv and bash "fat kids"? Weak sauce, man, people look up to you. I once did.

We got a gun problem. In my eyes, black market mass distribution of weapons is the issue, not your average gun-owner with a .30-.06 or a .22. I'm with you there. But going on tv howling the praises of assault weapons as your friend is not helping the causes of either side. Less is better on the AK-47s, Mr. Nugent.

And to say that hip-hop isn't a viable form of music? They said the same thing about the blues, the same thing about Rock and Roll, the same thing about punk. All of those genres are thriving. That close-mindedness does nothing for anybody.

I consider myself neither a liberal or conservative. I do agree with a lot of the ideas Nugent has in his book, for every thing I side with him on, there's two that make me want to smash something.

I find myself changing ideas as I grow older. The 30's were an awakening. I've grown sympathetic towards people and groups I was hardened to for a long time. I feel if we're going to survive together, we have to accept each other first. Not tolerate, accept. This manifesto is not a guide to either.

It's a public vomitorium of my way or the highway. That isn't democratic at all.

I used to look up to Ted Nugent. His records just don't sound the same anymore.

BULLIES & THE REVENGE FANTASY (Part 1)

2009-11-21T21:13:00.000-08:00

I was bullied a lot as a kid, man. No doubt about it. This was a result, most likely, of a lack of confidence in my ability to defend myself, and the lack of anyone at home that wanted to show me how. There was really no one there that was practical to turn to for advice on that topic at the time. No one's fault, just the way it was.

I really had no tangible reason why I was bullied. other than the fact that I was a chunky kid with a floppy head of hair. Apparently, despite my sense of humor and generosity, that was more than enough of reason to taunt me. Some kids can be inherently bastards. They tried to intimidate me with comments, and try to get it to lead to violence, which usually began with shoving, and the classic non-sequitir, "Bring it on, Man, right now!!" . I usually just tried to talk my way out of it, which usually worked. It did not, however, take away the sting of humiliation as I walked away with a broken sense of honor. Tail firmly planted between my legs.

In the late 70's I caught a late night telecast of the movie, "Billy Jack". This film was mostly an awful liberal-minded movie about Indian kids in a special school getting intimidated by local wealth-merchants, authority figures, and mean-spirited kids. The title character (a green beret half-breed played by Milwaukee native Tom Laughlin) acted as their protector and one afternoon in the town square deals out some martial arts justice to a powermonger and his henchmen until the sheer power of numbers becomes too much.

However, the scene lit a bit of a fire in me. Hit me like a bolt out of the blue.

I went to bed that night fantasizing, what if I could dole out those kicks and punches, volley aggressive action from others into armtwists and hence, force them to apologize. It was fun to think about and made me feel a little bit better. Sadly, I would awaken the following Monday just to trudge back to the same school and hooligans who would deal out the verbal abuse that I was too afraid to respond to, due to plain black, cancerous fear. My mind would go back to those imaginary ass-kickings, and at least draw a crooked smile. Eventually.

I think that it was in 1980 that I discovered Bruce Lee and the movie, "Fists of Fury" (known as "The Big Boss" in his homeland) and I was awestruck. The quickness, power, and grace that Lee displayed was so much more fluid and powerful than the seemingly pedestrian supporting cast members abilities. Lee quickly became a hero of mine, largely because in "Boss" as well as in his other films, he stuck up for the little guy, the put-upon, the helpless. I could respect that.

My efforts to get my parents to enroll me in martial arts classes fell on deaf ears. It seemed that they really didn't realize the potential for violence I was dealing with, despite the knives at school, the right crosses to the cheeks I had taken, and the violent tosses to the ground resulting in abrasions and stiff and aching muscles. The pudding contained no proof.

In Junior High I had to ride the public transit system to school every day, because the school district was apparently too cheap to pay the school bus transit companies to do their fucking jobs. So the students from my school would be intermingled with civilians. One morning I offered my seat to an elderly lady, and thusly ended up standing for the ride to school. I was feeling pretty good about myself for my selfless gesture, until the bus hit a pothole the size of the sea of tranquility and i was jostled forward and slightly bumped into another kid. I quickly chuckled, and uttered, "Sorry about that.", to which he replied, "I'm gonna find you and kick your fuckin' ass after school."

Now hold on a minute. What kind of psychopath finds a reason for a fight in a slight bump on the bus? I didn't elbow him in the balls. I didn't make a pass at him. What's going through the dude's head? For the next couple of weeks whenever this cat would see me around the neighborhood, he'd start following me around, usually with one of his half-brained apish "goons" and try to start fights which I would generally somehow avoid. This kid had a vendetta. A low rent Luca Brasi. He was the only 13 year old person in the world with a death warrant on someone's head for bumping into them accidentally on a motherfuckin' bus. Unreal.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

STOPPED UP

2009-11-21T16:54:00.000-08:00

Writer's block, it's called.

Constipation of the brain. A creative bottleneck.

I sit here, wanting to write more than I have in a while, the white screen of my blog set-up glowing back at me mockingly, with absolutely nothing to say. Now, if you wanted to talk to me, even in my depressed state of the moment, I could probably yap till my mouth fell off.

I want to write.

I don't want to toss off any more of that "Whinin' Naff" poetry for a while, because it's boring the only person listening, and that's me. I haven't even had a movie inspire me to write a piece since "Redbelt", and haven't felt kooky enough to dredge one up from the midnight childhood eyeball rub-a-thons for my "Movies I Stayed Up Late For". The book I'm reading is epic, and it's gonna take weeks to finish. No embellishing on that, the one I just finished, "Crooked Little Vein", is so sick I can only discuss it in select company.

Haven't bought any new CDs in some time. My day-to-day life has been riddled with the above mentioned poetry fodder, so I'm not going there any more for a while, it makes it worse.

I want to write.

Is it something as horrible as having nothing to say? God, I don't think I could handle that right now, but it seems to be the case....

So I guess the only thing I have to say is "I have nothing to say."

Hey, I just said something.

I STOPPED MEANING IT

2009-11-19T21:11:00.000-08:00

I brought along my iron-on smile,
My fresh-out-of-the-box plastic greetings
are nothing but lies

they have hollow, thoughtless meanings,
hello as good as goodbye

I brought my tatooed innuendo
I'm a lost and wounded soldier
a former cryed-on shoulder

my conscience, broken against the rocks
I've forgotten you before I've turned
My sentiment crashed and burned

This is what I've become
Wrap around hugs of prescription drugs
Waves and Nods, followed by shrugs.

Oblivious and arrogant

2009-11-16T22:09:00.000-08:00

He's gotten that raise
and he's fallen in love for the 50th time
things can't get better in his life

across town, a man is beating his wife
somewhere a serial killer's sharpening his knife

He raises a glass to the night

It's outside the window, trying to claw it's way in
It's on the other side of his tv screen
It's waiting on the exit he's never taken

Together for Thanksgiving dinner
he picked the fifth horse, a winner
he can't lose, everything's right

A terrorist's finger is on the button
and his best friends head is in the oven

He raises a glass to the night

the pink slip he handed away won't be dealt with again
and neither will his wife's unseen sin
it's waiting at the exit he's never taken

seeing things his way
things handed on a silver tray
he's raising a glass to the night

looking out a window
he's seeing a fire
not hearing that blind bum's painful desire

He says "salud" and turns to his wife
kisses her neck as he turns out the light
and raises a glass to the night

his quarterly earnings are in
and she's not thinking of him
this shit's the farthest thing from right

WHEN I WAS 15 I WAS SURE...............by Rob Will

2009-11-16T21:40:00.001-08:00

1. Ronald Reagan was gonna remain president and keep us safe from the commies and aggressors forever.

2. Huey Lewis was the next Elvis Presley.

3 I would marry Joan Jett and father many children with her.

4. The Green Bay Packers would win many championships.

5. I was going to do something worth large quantities of respect and adulation.

6. Punk scared me, but I was oddly drawn to it.....

7. Girls would sooner shoot me in the face with a high caliber weapon than look at me.

8. John Mellencamp would continue to make great music for decades.

9. Jimi Hendrix, Bruce Lee, and Eddie Murphy were the trifecta of greatness.

10. Grape Flav-or-Aid would be around forever.

Ah, youth.....

VINYL POOPY PANTS (I warned you) LET THERE BE ROCK

2009-11-16T20:54:00.000-08:00

WINTER 1981

I wasn't living in a cave. "You Shook me All Night Long" was all over the radio. Excruciatingly. Oddly enough, not as much as it is now. Speaking of which, how is it when a band, AC/DC for example, can have a 30 year plus career, release nigh on 20 LPs yet the corporate radio bastards can only select from, say, 6 songs to program?

I'm digressing again, my apologies.

At this point in my life, however, "Back in Black" was the only AC/DC LP I had been exposed to. That all changed in the upcoming summer.

Staying at my sister and brother-in-law's place I was told not only did the Aussie band have prior LPs, but with a different lead singer. Shit, sir, surely you jest.'

Nah.

Rob Will, I introduce you to "Let There Be Rock". Consider me befuddled. This was the time period between my dabbling in classic rock, and my self-guided immersion into the emotional kick-in-the-nuts known as punk. Let's call this my musical growth "Half way point". As close as it gets, anyway.

First of all, that cover. What the hell is with that sky? It looks like a looming apocalyptic thunderstorm is approaching, yet heaven's ray's are emanating down onto a young and scruffy looking Angus Young. The rest of the band is darkly, and yes, even creepily half lit. The arms reaching from the audience onto the stage are greenish/blue like the crayola crayon of the same name.

The title of the record is in a font similar to what you'd think would be etched in the stone of biblical times' laws. And of course, this was the introduction of the signature AC/DC red/yellow sharp-edged logo. One of my all time fave LP covers, as you can see above, I've framed.

Martha Stewart, kiss my nuts.

The tracks.....right. Having heard only "Back" thus far, Bonny's voice was from Mars. That took some getting used to. A mid-tempo song from AC/DC? "Overdose"? Brilliant. The one that really got me was the title track. 1976 and the bastards were almost leaning into thrash metal territory.

I don't have to mention the standbys, you all know they're there. "Rosie", "Problem Child", and "Rocker". But for my money "Hell ain't a Bad Place to Be" (Satan-fearers, believe what you want, but it's a love song of sorts) is the kicker here.

I rediscovered this one on cassette in Waco, Texas, circa 1986 and wondered how I had lived without it all that time, and never made that mistake again.

Yeah, it's framed up on my bedroom wall. But they got these things called CDs now.

GREAT STUFF: Clu Gulager

2009-11-16T16:11:00.000-08:00

"Return of the Living Dead" was a movie in my early to mid-teens that I was afraid to watch. The commercials and trailers never really gave it the "horror-comedy" vibe that the film actually carried with it. Shame that. Mind you, make no mistake, the movie has scary moments, and gory as hell, but some very great laughs, albeit some are of the uncomfortable vibe.

But, as I always do, I digress.

I have a habit, which movie geeks do, (which I am not, I consider myself and, um.....informed fan) of frequently following movie commentaries, especially of my favorite movies and film-makers. Bruce Campbell/Sam Raimi doing "Evil Dead II" is hilarious and informative. John Carpenter and Kurt Russell's commentaries of any of their collaborations are really good stuff. Especially "The Thing".

When listening to the com of Dan O'Bannon for his "Return", he frequently endorses the performance of Clu Gulager, the male lead in the film, for his professionalism, performance, and despite his veteran status of the "old school", his ability to "get" the tone of the film after not doing so initially. Then he made the bombshell statement that Gulager during filming, punched O'Bannon in the face. He said it almost like a description of someone throwing a balled up piece of paper at another. It was so matter-of-fact, I found myself chuckling alone in the dark, empty living room.

Gulager was a successful "method" actor dating back to the late 50's doing both frequent movie and television work and finding plenty of that. He's one of those actors you recognize immediately and feel like a strange sort of what I call the "familiarity comfort" when seeing him. It's the same vibe I get from seeing Rory Calhoun, Christopher George, and Cliff Robertson.

By the mid 80's his career had come full circle and here we was starring in a low budget zombie movie, in a brief era when those weren't being made. God love him.

Even in his 80's, he's still popping up, most memorably in his son John's horror film, "Feast", playing a full-on, ear-ringed, bar-tending bad-ass. That's just plain awesome.

FAIL YOU'RE IN (or FAILURE INN)

2009-11-15T19:33:00.000-08:00

I promise you a story
about faded glories....

Neon crosses
Dirty water from cheap faucets
stained and wrinkled sheets
broken from underuse heat

People once liked to visit and stay
before my decline chased them away

this is what I've become
a mess, but not quite undone

Used to be somebody
drew laughter and smiles
had the effect of honey
now just drawing flies

There were those who looked up to me
they're now looking down at me
I put poison in the attics
Now I know what the rats see
I put poison in the addicts
Now I know what the rat sees

I promised you a story....
You know I'm good for it.

IGNITION

2009-11-12T18:00:00.000-08:00

The goddamn alarm.

The thing is a bitch. I've been waking up to it for over 30 years, and how I haven't taken my "Easton Assassin" to it is beyond me. Even as my muscles would tense to the point of snapping, with every downward swing of the aluminum spirit crusher, I could just imagine the psychic relaxation. The easing. Is that a word on a metaphysical level?

If not it should be.

That just starts it. That brief fantasy, (if you could call it that) fades with whatever horrible nightmare I may have had. What happened to good dreams? Even the dirty ones? They left me about 10 years ago, I think. Now it's twisted Chris Mars meets Glenn Fabry imagery of hellish fates and incomplete reaches for heaven.

Shake em off, bro. Gotta get up.

I stand in the shower without moving. Sometimes I cry. Oddly with the water pouring down my face, this is the only place I could get away with crying without people knowing. Generally, you shower alone, so the potential disguise is wasted.

I don't even look in the mirror anymore.
I tie my hair back really hard in an effort to feel something. Pain, perhaps? The fading youth that comes with the length?

Duke makes me smile. He sniffs at my hand as I leave the bathroom and head to the kitchen to gather a bag full of caffeine. He sits before me, soft eyes studying mine with his unconditional love.

I usually rub his head and tell him goodbye. He leaps into the recliner to watch me out the window. It's a futile exercise as the sun will not be up for some time.

The stereo will be loud. It has to be, because the closer I will get to the chasm, the more it's balm will be needed. The news makes me angry, so I pass a few minutes on the windshield. Late fall brings pasty frost on the glass, the kind that requires a scraper, the kind that makes horrid screeching noises as it's peeled off the glass.

Once I'm in the car, the news is flicked off for something else. Anything else. Despite the hatred for where I'm headed, anger is not what I want. I reach for my cd book and leaf through. For a time, it's not a disc binder, but a history book. My past flapping by me as I search for a chapter of my life, a snippet of my being encapsulated in a digital collection of 1's and 0's.

"Suicaine Gratifaction" it is. Paul Westerberg's album has been the morning ride for better than a month now. It doesn't anger me, or incite rage as punk and thrash do, it just identifies with me. I still have to clench my teeth at times. Knuckle the hard vinyl of the steering wheel with fierce and negative anticipation of where I'm headed. The music will eventually settle me enough.

Enough to put the key in and turn it.

God, not again.

MY OWN WALL

2009-11-12T16:20:00.000-08:00

I feel as if it's there
to mock me, but it's just concrete
Or is it there to reflect me?

If it was only made of glass
It'd be a lot easier to smash

Knuckles bled, cracking bones
My heart pumping out of control
If I'd known why it would be there

I could have stopped it from being built

I've been known to argue
with myself,
about the things I love
I've been known to argue
with the things I love

Why can't a sentence
Why can't a scream
Why can't a thought
Tell someone what I mean?

Because I don't know

THE BAR AND THE TRINKETS

2009-11-11T20:11:00.000-08:00

We all deal with pain in our own way.
Grief is a bastard, and we usually react instantaneously, grasping as one waist deep in the quicksand for that thing that most easily and quickly, (even if temporarily) has the answer.

Dad died. No secret there, fearless readers, and we as a family, as a collective unit, stumbled along in our own ways. People, drained of color, wandering in circles like elderly people mall-walking, or one of the zombies in a George Romero movie.

There were different answers for everyone, at least varieties of answers. My elder siblings found solace in their own ways, my mother as well.

In that situation you have to, absolutely have to, do what you can. We had crutches. All of us. We fought as a family. Sometimes we swung those crutches at each other, but sometimes we loaned them to each other to prop ourselves up.

I think we did it. We emerged from that three year period of bleakness, emaciated, bloody, angry, but still deeply loving of each other.

I spent a lot of time alone there. A kid on the weekends, often left to his own devices learns to talk to himself, which eventually I did well. I wandered the back yard, rehearsing speeches never to be heard, singing songs never to be written. I constantly reorganized my baseball cards, carrying my favorites wrapped in a rubber band in my back pocket.

Denny O'Neil, Neal Adams, Dick Giordano, and Jim Aparo created the four-color heroes that emerged from my 35 cent comic books, that always had a new angle every time I read them. Make no mistake, these things lost much of their sheen after Dad died, but they still held the power to spark my mind.

Still do.

We deal.

For a time, I thought "The Bar" was a giant beast that swallowed my loved ones whole and belched out stumbling, bumbling, mush-mouthed versions of themselves, that for the first time would have the power to grieve out loud. By morning, they were themselves again, and the outward angst was gone. That slow-steam building anger at the world for removing one of our own, temporarily silenced.

A few years later I discovered the gains to be had in alcohol, and whole-heartedly engaged in them myself. The forgetting it created, which eventually led to catharsis. It was purging, artifical, but purging nonetheless. There's nothing for anyone to be ashamed of. I even convinced myself of that.

Anyone.

I can never blame any one person for using what was there for band-aiding the cuts that never seemed to stop bleeding. But in a 3 year period, my family had been tied together with a barbed-wire twine, dropped into a hole with a high-powered explosive, and left to wait for it to detonate.

Which it did.

We're still fucking here.

I love you guys.

WHAT'S THAT LIKE?

2009-11-09T20:49:00.000-08:00

ROB WILL'S DICTIONARY DEFINITIONS FROM HIS LIFE (Revised, 3rd edition)
help'less--(adj.) ineffective, dependent, hands and knees in shower, screaming "GIVE ME MY HEAD BACK!!"

SUMMER 1989

Before I was diagnosed with epilepsy in August, I was a huge boozer. I had been up drinking until 5:30 in the morning, and got up at 11:00 to go pick up books for the upcoming first semester of school. Not a good idea even if you don't have a neurological disorder, which at the time I didn't know I had.

MY "Is it safe?" MOMENT

About a mile and a half from home, the lights went out. I woke up screaming, being restrained by complete strangers trying to force an oxygen mask over my face, and calm me down. EMTs obviously in an ambulance, but to me they may as well have been Joseph Mengele's away team. I think they shot me up with a sedative, because in my brief insanity, I almost got away.

That "light's out" isn't the worst part, for I've been asked that question many times. What's a seizure like?

JOKE? WHAT ELSE DO YOU DO?

I often joke, "I don't know, I'm not there." Har-de-fuckin-har.

See, in many cases, epileptics experience what are commonly referred to as "auras" before the seizure occurs. Mine feel more like "twitches", minute moments of what feels like a weak "jerk" and the closer I get to the impending seizure, the stronger and longer they get. Sometimes there's a brief blackout. As Christopher Walken said to Dennis Hopper in the famous "True Romance" banter between the two, "It ain't any kinda fun."

The jerking and the twitching aside, the real problem is the anticipation. Once those brief electrical pulses reach an intense enough point, you know it's coming and you're unlikely to stop the bitch from pulling you in. That's the worst part. Knowing that at any second, maybe 10 seconds from now, maybe an hour, you're going to have your damn lights turned out and when they're turned back on, you're gonna be breathing funny, and have people hovering around you, lowering you to embarassment's ass-end of helplessness.

You won't be able to answer their questions. Not even your name. These people bring their faces in real close. You can smell their breath, but you can't say how bad it is, when you're not sure what day it is.

Most people who've seen me come out of it, say I look "crazy". Again, I joke, "...and that's different how?" har-de-fuckin-har.

A couple of times, I've beaten the seizure. The twitches start, I find a quiet place, focus on a real or imagined "pinpoint" and breathe. Several times, my mind cleared, I could think without cloudiness or the jerks, and all returned to normal. A couple other times, I was no match for my brain's need to shut me down, and I was reduced to a disgraced stand-in for a corpse that appears to be hooked up to electrical wires laying in a mud puddle.

But still, through all of this, what's my favorite joke?
What do you do when someone has a seizure in a bathtub?
Throw in your laundry.

Har-de-fuckin-har.

THE NIGHTMARE RESEARCH CHRONICLES

2009-11-09T14:54:00.000-08:00

Well, in the wake of my unfortunate and put-upon wife's massive pain issues, I've decided to try to distract myself and further investigate my infamous "Robert Johnson" nightmare. See here: since this host won't let me insert a blog link, it's called "The Stones, Nightmares, and the Delta Blues", and can be found under "Nightmares" on my "What the hell I am talking about" side panel.

I have limited means to do this at the moment, as outside of his recordings there's not a whole lot of tangible information and documentation on Mr. Johnson.

Reading a companion booklet to the definitive "The Complete Robert Johnson", I did come across the fact that before they met, eventual Robert Johnson mentor, Son House, did some blues recordings with some other stalwarts in Paramount studios in Grafton Wisconsin.

According to Google Maps, said Grafton is about an hour straight east from here. I believe about 10 years ago, I applied for a job there once. Hmmm. This keeps getting slightly more interesting. I shall dig further.

SOMETIMES YOU JUST NEED SOMETHING GOOD TO HAPPEN

2009-11-08T13:41:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow I return to the chasm of despair, knowing that I will get a facefull of shit over the Packers loss to the toilet cleaners of the NFL. That's fine, I've gotten used to it over the last couple years. I can even live with it.

But there's a universal filing system someplace that is filled with invoices of bad things that whomever is in charge requisitions to happen to those of us walking this scarred dirty marble. I once believed, in my stupid, shrinking, rotting, naive little heart that there was another cabinet in that system. See, my mind is still not working in computer terms, I guess, despite my blog about the opposite. It still envisions giant metallic HON cabinets brimming with triplicate forms on all of us. This second cabinet is used to organize the other things, the nice things, or at the very least, the benign.

I don't think theres an even balance there. I've had 3 funerals in the past 6 months, very good people, those. There's been no less than 4 major pieces of household equipment failing since March, no matter how I batten the hatches, and a wife that is ill more often than not despite her brave and relentless battles with her disease.

Now I've gone into a funk.

I keep waking up grumbling, usually tripping at least once on my way to the restroom, but still thinking, "Today may be that day. That magical day, when that thing, whatever it may be in it's mysteriously vague nature, happens."

That's what I was thinking on Friday. This despite the fact that at first, I thought I had the day off, until my rather rude wife broke the glass on that fantastical hope. I was running late because I set my alarm ahead a half hour in my fugue state of believing I did not have to get up yet. I slipped in the shower and banged my elbow. Despite the warmth of late, I had to scrape hardened frost off my windshield, and the coup de grace, Fog appeared at the end of my driveway. Not just patches in low lying areas like usual, but thick Linda Blair-esque, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, don't go out onto the moors, FOG all the way to work.

That was just the first 35 minutes of my day. Days like this continue to pile up, I get down, my wife gets me back up, or tries to anyway, and I can sometimes work a smile up my face. Maybe even joke a little.

My sister brought something up to me the other night. You know that feeling, that sigh you get just before you start to cry really fucking hard? I haven't broken up in pieces since I put my German Shepherd down 3 years ago, but I've been feeling that way my sister described more often than not. I almost want to, if not for anything, but the relief.

I keep looking for that thing. Whatever it may be. It could be small, it could be huge. It could glow like E.T.'s fingertip. I don't know.

But it better show up soon.

For the time being, I'll have to enjoy the shine on what I got.

GREAT STUFF Vol 3: Talk Radio

2009-11-07T22:22:00.000-08:00

Back in 1990 a film was released entitled "Talk Radio". Unfortunately, It was a box office dud. Over the years, however, my top 5 movie list has shifted and twisted with the tides, yet "Talk Radio" is the only film that has remained constant. It ws written by playwright Eric Bogosian (a stage performer, now playing the chief detective on "Law & Order: Criminal Intent") and director Oliver Stone. It's directed by Stone himself (among his lesser known films, shame that)and based on the stage play scripted and played by Bogosian primarily solo in theatre stages. It should be noted here that "Talk Radio" is loosely based on events in the life of Denver radio host, Allen Berg, whose controversial on-air nature led to his unfortunate and violent demise.

Bogosian plays the lead role of Barry Champlain in the film, a late night shock jock-call-in talk show host of a Dallas radio program called "Night Talk". The movie takes place primarily over one night, albeit with character building flashbacks that are extensive. At the outset, in the midst of his shift, Champlain finds out a representative of a major media outlet is present at his station, watching with interest as he's thinking of syndicating Barry's show nationally.

The rest of the film is, succinctly, riveting. Champlain, a very difficult person to say the least, feels like he's "auditioning" for his own job due to the circumstances and begins taking foolish chances on the air. Chances including answering phone calls from potential rapists, engaging neo-nazis in chilling banter, and even inviting a borderline wacko teenage caller to join him in the studio, are among the radical stunts he begins pulling live and broadcasting it out into the Dallas night. All of this is very entertaining, but it all eventually leads to a stark, raving realization for Champlain that starts with that crazy teenager's line, "It's your show, Barry."

Champlain then realizes with some shock that his show is just that, a show, an entertainment. The viewer sees here that surprisingly, Barry is caught off guard by that revelation. He seemed to think that "Night Talk" was much more important than all that. He then displays astonishment and nausea when he realizes his listeners are weirdos, creeps, freaks, and potential psychopaths and tears into his audience with one of the single greatest on-screen monologues I have personally witnessed. The truth of the nature of his pro9gram isn't quite enough to blow him away as much as the knowledge that he is the unpleasant listening demographic's ringleader. He spews into the Texas evening airwaves all the self-hatred that made him a ratings giant in one surprisingly non-vulgar, eloquent, emotional, hilarious, sad, seething blast of venom that is all the more amazing due to the visuals going on behind him that are beautifully orchestrated by Oliver Stone.

During the course of this evening's program, barry is gradually becoming overcome by self-doubt and anxiety as his engineer, (a wonderful early performance by John C. McGinley) his producer girlfriend, his program director, and yes, even his ex-wife are on hand watching his show crumble to the ground around him, largely at his own hands. Alec Baldwin, consummate character actor that he is, is fantastic in a scene where he tells Barry he's dragging it all down, but that it's up to him and him alone to make this venture succeed.

Bogosian is terrific in this flick as he seems born to play the character he created, having both harsh vindictiveness and a puppy-like softness in his eyes tht represent perfectly the dual nature of his character. He has loved and been loved, only to stomp on these positive aspects of his life in the end. Not to mention the killer on-air pipes that Bogosian possesses, he has a voice that is cut and dried for radio broadcasting, and that indeed lends another degree of authenticity to the proceedings, as if the film didn't carry enough of that with it already.

To be down to the point, "Talk Radio" is a character-study drama that as the pacing and feel of an action film. it moves so fast and Bogosian carries it all the way. I will never forget the complete success this film had in impressing me, as at the time I saw it I was a beginning radio broadcasting student. Looking back, it makes me wonder something?

Does the audience hurt the media, or does the media hurt it's audience? Or, which one does more damage to the other?

NO FEEDBACK

2009-11-07T21:58:00.000-08:00

The chatbox is at zero
the inbox is full of dust
Your email gives off the sound of crickets and whistling wind
Twitter hasn't tweeted in weeks

There's nothing on YouTube you haven't seen

What time of year is it?
Did the sun come out today?
Do you feel the chill
or does it come from the temp. on the taskbar?

There's noone on blackbook you haven't clicked

sleep will come eventually
and beforehand you will pray
you payed the electric bill

THE NUCLEAR WARHEAD AND ME, The 5th and final installment (thank goodness, eh?)

2009-11-07T15:01:00.000-08:00

The sheer sizes of atomic bomb detinations were never really fully comprehended by my teenage mind. Yes, I had seen the photo of Hiroshima's mushroom cloud in it's black and white terror hundreds of times in my life. Indeed, I had seen grainy stock footage of tests, albeit from the dusty shelves of network newsroom film libraries.

A couple years back, I purchased a DVD of the film, "Trinity and Beyond", a retrospective look at the testing and development of the atomic bomb, and it's subsequent continuing growth. What I wasn't prepared for was the actual film footage. "Trinity" was made by Peter Kuran, a legendary special effects developer who had worked on such cinematic titans as "Star Wars", "RoboCop", and a couple of "Star Trek" films. Kuran retrieved declassified films, and footage from both China and Russia.

Here's the kicker: Kuran developed an Academy Award winning film restoration process that can make old film almost appear as if it was shot yesterday, on 35mm of course.

The majority of these clips are devastatingly effective. During these tests, it is apparent that the explosions were shot from a variety of angles, both on the ground and from planes. It was a shock to see actual celluloid images of things I had read about in history books. Creepily reminiscent of the accidentally caught moving images of Anne Frank leaning out of the window of her hiding place to overlook a wedding gathering, or the flaming deathdrop of the Hindenburg. They're simultaneously breathtaking and stomach-churningly disturbing.

The filmed "detonations", haunting in their obvious ability to eradicate life and inanimate objects, are somehow eerily dazzling, as they colorfully and gracefully rise up into the open skies. There's a menacing beauty there, much like Mother Nature's A-bomb, the F-5 tornado. Peter Coyote, the vibrant-throated narrator of National Geographic's doc, "Cyclone", described twisters as having the appearance of "the delicate dance of ghosts". This applies here. Even an unfortunate young eyewitness to Hiroshima's blast described it's multi-colored appearance and beauty. The shame is the horrendously revolting artifacts these masters of destruction leave behind. There is a subtle parallel there, as tornadic images also are not strangers to my evening slumber either. Although, that's a different story, for a different day.

Now in the wake of 9/11, there are rumblings of terrorists achieving nuclear capabilities in the form of potential "suitcase" bombs. Although experts claim the ability to weaponize nuclear material, either stolen or purchased from the fallen Soviet bloc, is unlikely. Though it was spookily illustrated in the BBC film, "Dirty War", that a "dirty" bomb, an explosion meant only to release dangerous radioactive material is more likely. Again, moviewise, "Right at Your Door" illustrates that terrifying concept in Los Angeles.

Incidentally, "Dirty War" was shot a year before the London subway explosions. Art preceding Life?

There is also the possibility of further nuclear nemeses in the distance as North Korea and Iran both display rumblings of pursuing that dark path. There's whispers on the wind that Brazil if feverishly developing a possible nuclear capability. The end result of this information in my youth would probably have resulted in me having a cardiac event.

Now as I've loaded myself with knowledge on these subjects, I'm more baffled at the "whys" involved than the ifs or whens. I no longer fear nuclear devastation. Why? I don't know the full answer to that question. Is it that knowledge is power? Maybe. Or is it that as awful and possibly needless as Hiroshima was, that my faith in mankind helps me to nurture a belief that maybe, just perhaps, even sixty years later, we've all learned our lesson.

I can only hope the activity existing today is merely sabre-rattling.

Hope, not fear, being the key word this time around.

THE LAZINESS OF MOTLEY CRUE

2009-11-06T21:34:00.000-08:00

I know that my diatribes have been bleak lately, at the very least, downers, so I thought I'd share somethng humorous that recently was discussed in my life with a dear friend. We were discussing the notorious LA strip band, Motley Crue. You'll forgive me if I dont include the goddamn umlauts.

I was saying in this discussion that I thought I remembered the Crue rhyming "kicking ass" with "kicking ass" and that, to me anyway, was tantamount to lyrical laziness. Really. I've rhymed better than that, and I'm hardly Dylan Thomas or Robert Frost.

For posterity's sake, here's the lyrics, for better or worse.

"When we started this band
All we needed, needed was a laugh
Years gone by
I'd say we've kicked some ass

When I'm enraged
Or hittin' the stage
Adrenaline rushing
Through my veins
And I'd say we're still kickin' ass,"

So, technically I was wrong. They rhymed "kicked some ass" with "kickin' ass". Obviously a huge difference. As my friend and I discussed this tripe, (thanks for the word, Chris) I was thinking that with that attempt at prose, that they didn't even make an effort.

And it reminded me of the classic 80's film, featuring the criminally overlooked actor, Casey Sziemaszko, "Three O'Clock High". Wherein Casey's character pays a hulking bully stolen money not to fight him after school. The bully, Buddy Revell, one of the most intimidating high school bullies I've ever seen portrayed, (gotta give the props to actor Richard Tyson.) of course takes the cash. Then he leers at Sziemaszko in a weather-worn, disgusted face, complete with a voice showing ultimate disdain, and says....

"You didn't even try, how does that feel?", before sauntering off. That line always stuck with me. I applied it to Milwaukee Brewers management during the all-star break and trade deadline non-highlights, but that's neither here nor there.

Geez, Motley Crue, kicked some ass, with kickin' ass? You, on your fourth platinum album, with hundreds of sold-out shows around the world, and your vast experience with the band dynamic, could'nt find something in the neighborhood of ass?

No matter how hard you looked, you couldn't find something between the four of you?
Or did you bother to try?

How does that feel?

NIGHTMARES CAN GET BENT.

2009-11-06T16:16:00.001-08:00

THIS DREAM WAS FROM A COUPLE WEEKS AGO, BUT IT WAS THE ONE THAT STARTED IT ALL......

That morning I awoke from a dream in which I had recently suffered a seizure that wiped out the previous 4 months. Upon returning to work, I found my position as press operator had been given to someone else. I was however offered a job cleaning fish.

I went to the mirror, looked at myself and asked directly, "Do you have anything left to say?"

I succinctly replied, " I got nothing"

Scared the hell out of me.

GREAT STUFF VOL 2: Chris Thomas King

2009-11-06T14:44:00.000-08:00

GREAT STUFF: VOL. 1: Chris Savage

2009-11-06T14:40:00.000-08:00

Check out the new band he's in: MIC THE TIGER
http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#/pages/Mic-The-Tiger/10060257975?ref=ts

ROB WILL, PROFESSIONAL NEW KID

2009-11-06T13:17:00.000-08:00

That's how I used to introduce myself. In the fall of 1987, when I started my sophomore year of high school, that is. North Central Wisconsin. Mmm. This was the last stop in the grandiose tour I mentioned in an earlier blog about the Replacements, so I won't pontificate on the specifics of said stroll through the heart of the U.S.

I wasn't an army brat, but there was enough "starting over" to make that above statement in bright green true. Professional indicates a mastery, or at least, "goodishness" at something, to the point that you can be titled. I was an established new kid. I had that shit down.

Make no mistake, I wasn't disappointed in the lack of "female" reaction I was getting. I'd learned long ago that just cause you're new, it does not cause a scent of mystery and allure. The new guy, drawing whispers and glances from the established female student body as he strolls down the hall. That shit only happens in the fuckin' movies. Or if you look like Johnny Depp.

Well, chances are, you look like Depp, it has happened somewhere. And often. But I'm gettin' off track.

So yeah, I played the role a bit. I grew out the hair, wore dark clothing. If it was cold I wore a hooded sweatshirt under the dark clothing......pretty much dressed the same way I do now. I threw dirty looks about the place, outside of the classroom, I kept to myself.

It definitely wasn't the movies. But that works in two ways. See, I didn't have the looks or that Hollywood air of mystery that drew in the ladies, but I didn't get my ass beat down every day by the big and the stupid either. So I can't really complain if I didn't see one side for neither of the double-edge sword.

The problem was where to fit in. As you know, fearless readers, 'tis my problem to this day.

The jocks wouldn't have me. I didn't have the height, size, or self-absorbed nature for all of that football nonsense. (The lack of a Friday jersey didn't help with the ladies either....who says girls aren't obsessed with status) The "nerds" saw me as an outsider. I wasn't smart enough, or at least didn't "apply myself" enough to ring in with that crowd.

Have B-, will travel.

The "skate crowd" only liked me because I had an Husker Du sticker on a textbook. For all their clamor about isolationism, and bitching about the "popular" people and their obsession with status, my induction into their ranks, simply because I listened to punk, would have been just as superficial as all that.

So in a way, it was like the movies, I guess. Only I didn't have a beleaguered and hilarious best friend that kept me up straight when the world was falling down around me. I didn't end up bumping into this mousy, yet gorgeous underneath the glasses and the brains, chick who saw me "for who I was" and a whirlwind romance ensued. I didn't kick the shit out of the school bully, or free the put-upon of the high school from the chains of bureaucratic horseshit in some phenomenal display of speechitude that had everybody starting a "slow clap" as they came to their senses.

No I was just a kid.

Or the movie wasn't about me.

AFTER A SMALL HIATUS, THE 'MARES RETURN

2009-11-04T18:47:00.000-08:00

Often, in my dreams, the place I work at is an amalgam of former locations of employment from the facilities on down to the co-workers.

Last night, not only was this true, but I found that upon starting my "dream state" work shift, that everyone that I love and respect, look up to, and even am friends with were now fellow grindstone-nosers. The problem was, they treated me like crap. A local radio personality I admire was on me "to get my shit together", my wife concurred. Several friends shook their heads at me in beleagured disappointment and disbelief.

It was hellish.

I was locked into some sort of paperwork maelstrom that was a quasi-vicious circle of getting nowhere, and I could get no help from anyone. When the people who MATTER to you, become the people you just TOLERATE because you work with them, where do you go from there?

That's a lonely damn thought.

PRINTER'S LAMENT ---Rob Will

2009-11-04T17:43:00.001-08:00

One would think the colors
that I see every day
would fit nicely on the pallete
of beauty's heart

but when they come from a bucket
and wind up on your face
yellows, reds, and whites become dark

and it's the furthest fucking thing from art.