Death by Partisan Politics

What is the real war count these days? What qualifies as a "war" to politicians? We all know that Iraq and Afghanistan are bonafide wars. People are dying and billions and billions of U.S. taxpayers dollars are going towards financing these huge violent military conflicts. As in most wars the U.S. has to sway opinions, opinions that could save lives, by payoffs made to "people in high places". The characters in these "high places" are real pieces of work, kids.

A major shitload of cash has gone to openly paying off some of these dangerous "Warlords" or "Tribal Chiefs" or whatever you want to call these lawless, immoral, murdering scum. These warlords are then suddenly considered to be our new "allies" - what the brass has since realized just isn't true. You cannot buy loyalty from these people, or any other people for that matter.

I guess these huge payoffs are now an acceptable form of warfare. This practice is "acceptable" to the people at the helm of this shitstorm I should point out, because it sure as hell isn't acceptable to me personally. Of course nobody asked me, and my view that a bullet is cheaper probably wouldn't garner a lot of support amongst politicians, people whose main focus in life is to get themselves re-elected.

Maybe my opinion that paying these people is akin to bribery will be more acceptable. Acceptable to us regular "U.S. Citizens" as we all know bribery is a politician's Christmas.

These same politicians finally passed the 1st Responders Health care Bill in the House of Representatives yesterday. This is, of course, funding for the people that had their health ruined by the toxicity of the environment that once was the World Trade Center. George W. Bush's self appointed head of the E.P.A., Christie Todd Whitman gave the "All Clear" announcement that the air around ground zero was not dangerous for the workers. Many of these workers were volunteers. Many of them are now dead and/or dying slow horrible deaths. They need and they certainly deserve proper health care from their, from our (us Americans) government.

The news media proclaimed the passage of this bill to be "Historic". How is finally doing the right thing, the humane thing, nine fucking years too late I might add, "Historic"? The politicians involved in trying to quash this bill are overwhelmingly Republican. I try to understand the game of politics and the concept and reasoning behind towing the party line. However, how can any American deny health care to the selfless heroes that were trying to perform miracles in what was the most horrible crime scene on earth at the time?

And I sure as fuck (do I sound pissed?) don't have to remind anyone of how the country felt about what took place on 9/11.

Well I can't hold it in any longer! I'm sick to fucking death of people like this walking sack of shit politician from fucking Texas that thinks paying for health care to the "9/11 First Responders Health Bill" is just another example of Congress' appetite for taxpayer dollars.

I'm writing about Rep. Lamar Smith, Republican from Texas. An esteemed fuckwad that has voted for nothing but issues that affect his fellow Republicans pockets. He hardly ever votes at all and when he does it's usually against some bill written to help Americans like the first Responders or our U.S. Military enlisted personnel. He had the fucking unmitigated audacity to get up in front of Congress and the world yesterday and decry the 1st Responder Health care Act as a waste of money.

How can this piece of shit that has voted for pumping billions of dollars into the "War on Drugs" condemn this comparably minuscule amount of funding? If he thinks we don't notice that he is from a state that is considered the most dangerous "Drug War Borders" he is sadly mistaken. His state gets a shitload of funding for this clusterfuck they're running (and losing horribly) down there in Good 'Ole Boy land. The home of George W. Bush.

So is the "War on Drugs" any different than any other war? I guess Rep. Lamar Smith (R) Texas likes his Wars in his own back yard where he can profit from them. Why the hell else do politicians make these bogus statements about their views on funding certain initiatives? Loyalty (keeping your mouth shut) and the party line, which, when it comes right down to it, is all about money. I'm including the lust for power in this stinking heap of political motivations also, some people have so much dough, billions in some cases, must still be in the game for power.
I mean, can you really enjoy hundreds of millions of dollars if you work ninety hours a week? Not by my definition of "enjoy" anyways!

It is really making it tough for the entire country when these fucking politicians, all of them, do nothing but play the party game, tow the party line. This is for their own selfish reasons and doesn't do one iota of good for our country. This great superpower cannot agree on any new important issues because there will always be the politicians that vote the "line" no matter what the issue on hand is.

Where is this going to get us folks?

When pols like Rep. Lamar Smith (R) Texas vote down a bill because he said it would invite abuse and corruption I think he just means there's going to be some money floating around that he can't divert to Texas for his buddies. I'm not saying it's all the fault of the Republicans, it's not. They just happen to try their damnedest to kill a bill that should have been passed easily, a no-brainer. This issue should have never been partisan.

Just compare the funding amount to other "bridges to nowhere" and you'll see that in the long run killing this bill is not about the health care that is needed. It's about pols like this shithead Lamar Smith that are stagnating our country because their side didn't win the election and some colored guy did.

When we finally do learn how these two parties can both work together for the good of the country and its citizens the U.S. will be unstoppable. We'll be able to return the word "pride" back to our description of our government.

Didn't a very wise (stoned and beaten) man once say "Can't we all just get along?".

Or was it "Can't we all just do a bong"? I forget.







Selah.





Author's notes:A 2008 study by Harvard economist Jeffrey A. Miron has estimated that legalizing drugs would inject $76.8 billion a year into the U.S. economy — $44.1 billion from law enforcement savings, and at least $32.7 billion in tax revenue ($6.7 billion from marijuana alone.

To my Readers: Thank you so much for the suggestions on a new name for the column. You are truly sick twisted motherfuckers and I love every one of you. Now send some that maybe I can use! They were fucking hysterical!

To my commentors: I appreciate all comments, as long as they make some kind of sense. Funny or profane is fine and will be posted, just not boring unintelligible gibberish. I will not bore my readers with bad nonsensicle confused (badly spelled) writing (I know who you are...)! Just kidding, I don't mind bad spelling!

Hair Today Gone Tommorrow?

I've been thinking about cutting my hair lately. I've had long hair, in a pony-tail, for about four years now. I had always wanted to grow my hair long. I thought I'd look good, not to brag but I've got a pretty decent head of hair, thank God. I was a guitar player and always thought that's how we should look. But I wasn't a professional guitar player, I didn't earn a living at it so I wasn't officially a "Guitar Player". I still had to see clients, so that kept me in the closet - so to speak. I'd get close, don't get me wrong, but there is a point that lasts for a long time where you really have to commit.

Why, you ask? Good question.

After a while there is a point where your hair just isn't long enough to put in a pony-tail. You look like you need a haircut because you do, you look ridiculous. But if you get it cut, it just takes that much longer to reach your goal to join the brotherhood of dudes with pony-tails. So you either give in and get it cut or deal with whatever freak show you see in the mirror every morning. For months in some cases!

I always enjoyed when people made the "Captain Fucking Obvious" remark and ask "You growin' your hair out?" "No, I enjoy looking like Ellen DeGeneres, dipshit". I must admit the thing I hated most about short hair was that it makes me look like a cop. Or worse, a Narc. Don't get me wrong I don't have anything against cops (most cops) I just don't want to look like one. I found this out during my stint as a Grateful Dead fan. I never refer to myself as a Deadhead, I wasn't one. I found the Deadheads to be rudely clique-ish, especially to us "short-hairs".

What do you think is the real reason behind Rock-n-Rollers having long hair? It started with the Beatles as far as mass popularity goes. But what possessed them to grow their hair? Wouldn't it be fucking hysterical if this whole long hair thing was caused by John Lennon blowing off a hair-cut appointment? Johnny had some bad kidney pie last night now the whole western world looks like a giant hair pile.

It would be great to see just what things would look like had the roles been reversed. Imagine getting pulled over for speeding and seeing a gigantic State cop with a head of hair like Farrah Fawcett in your rear view mirror! That cocky way they adjust themselves after getting off of their motorcycles, punctuated by a flick of a beautiful mane of long golden blond hair. It would look divine with those mirror shades!

But I am finding my long hair to be a real pain in the ass lately. It's just too much work, so now after many years, I find myself trying to decide what my head should look like now. There are a lot more more male affectations than you may think. I could go for the crazed scientist/Einstein look. White/gray hair sticking straight up like a chia pet and a big, bushy, black mustache. I'm amazed at how often I see guys that fit that very description. Just watch a documentary on Global Warming or Astronomy.You'll see that or some guy trying to look like Art Garfunkel for some bizarre reason.

One phenomenon that is attacking men over the age of about sixty is a horrible malady called "Old Lady Face". This happens when a mans testosterone levels are kaput. Their faces are naturally sagging with age and their facial hair follicles are almost non-existent. Add a little television make-up to the pot (see Billy Crystal) and viola! Your guy now looks like his Mom. If you've ever wondered why some older actors walk around with a few days growth of ugly facial stubble, well, it's certainly beats looking like Rosie O'Donnell. I'm glad I don't have to worry about that just yet.

In the past four years if my hair was really out of control I'd just reach back and cut off most of my pony-tail with a pair of scissors. Now I just have to get up the nerve and go to someplace that actually knows how to cut hair. I just hope I don't get some wise-ass that's going to make a big production out of it. I don't need to be the center of attention at the town barber-shop, and I really don't want someone I've just told to "shaddup" cutting my hair for the first time in four years.

Maybe I'll go to one of those Korean places, they've always been nice and they laugh at my jokes, usually before I'm even done telling them! At least I think they're laughing at my jokes...

Screw it, where are my scissors?





Selah.

The New Face of Old Hypocrisy

I should have seen it coming. It all makes sense to me now. The mystery is over!

Finding old friends on these new "Social Networking" sites can be a gratifying, fun experience. I've been on FB for almost three months now. In that time I've connected with many old friends that I've found by, of course, reaching out to them by sending a friend request. I've run into many different types of responses, return friend invitations, event notices, birthdays, whores, etc., etc.

I had a very eye-opening experience the other day. Actually it was more like getting bitch-slapped with a rotting flounder. This was a bitch slap in the name of God himself! Oh Lawdy, yes, brothers and sisters! And I will share the tale with you all right now, straight from the safety of my warm, cozy, well-armed writing cavern.

It all started when I found an old friend on FaceBook. This is one of those people I had kept in contact with, barely, for a number of years via email and maybe a phone call. Timeline-wise I remember making one phone call from my office on the 68th floor of the World Trade Center so we've been in contact for a while.

I was thrilled to see him on FB, although slightly puzzled by his profile, and immediately sent out a friend request. As you can guess at this point, if you're into FB, the request was ignored. I sent a follow-up message and got no response. After inquiring with a few mutual friends as to his whereabouts, I was left even more puzzled. He had been in contact with other friends - I finally got the hint!

Now I had to try and figure out why the blow-off. It did sadden me a great deal, we had been great friends, we were inseparable, a team, running partners, we were thick as thieves. But, of course, we were now very different people. Not to mention constantly printing your opinions has a tendency to piss some people off

I make no pretenses about my life. I won't sit here and try to come off as some holier-than-thou fuckstick because I'm trying to pretend my past actions never occurred. Now even though this is one of my pet peeves, if someone wants to pretend these things never happened it's none of my damn business.

However, I do expect the same courtesy from these fucking poseurs. My bitch is when people that have acted like drug crazed vermin in the past keep me in that same category. After decades of separation their past no longer exists, but I'm still the same guy as I was in high school? Fuck that. And fuck them for that matter!

There are several reasons some people, even close dear friends, will turn on you like a pack of wild hyenas.

Here are some of those "reasons":

Fame - the ultimate usurper of normalcy. Example: Being rejected for a "Friend Request" on FaceBook by a musician that I had done literally hundreds of gigs with in the past. It made me feel like a stalker when it was suggested I join the "fan" page.

Money - to some people life is still a contest, he with the most toys wins. There are people I used to do massive amounts of cocaine with, freebasing, in their parent's mansions for days on end in the early '80s. I've seen a few of them this summer, and after giving them a warm hello I barely rated a casual nod. Do they think I still do those kinds of things? Was there a glass pipe hanging out of my pocket? Well one of these people was just arrested for keeping an underage girl on the side, so there's your morality.

Sex - whether it be cosmetic surgery, a trophy wife or husband - the fight against age can be fought with good looks. This is one I am guilty of myself, I must admit, I can be shallow. But it's the fat jokes! I blame the fat jokes as they were my only line of defense when I was a kid and I got damn good at it, I know a million of them.

At the same time I don't think one can buy bragging rights with cosmetic surgery, that's too easy, it's cheating. If you see someone from the distant past that has kept fit for all those years by healthy living, they deserve the credit. And bragging rights. However, the sudden sight of an old friend that has put on two hundred pounds can be damaging. It can result in shock, blindness, coma, frontal lobe seizures, and fits of laughter (with pointing) in inappropriate surroundings.

Social Standing - you would think this would fall under the Money category, but I've know many a couple that were not wealthy by any standards, but these people definitely had a stick up their ass. They were entering the world of politics. Or I should say had already entered as they had that stench about them, a kind of "Dick Nixon" perfume. After making a joke about the great weed he supplied to the neighborhood I never heard from him again. Or gotten any of that great weed from him again. But again, my friends, the joke was made in private, at my house at my bar. Just me and him sitting there having an after work beer. I guess all the hidden microphones made him nervous. I don't know why, they were all in the bathroom...

Religion - this, to me, is the most confusing because of the sheer hypocrisy that's gone down lately. Can some one tell me whatever happened to "Separation of Church and State"? I'm not talking about the "Tea-baggers" I'm talking about laws that are already on the books, have been enforced for years, and are all blatantly about religion. Some push them under the carpet by calling them "Blue Laws". That's bullshit. I could go on forever about all of these points so I'll keep it short.

How can history and science be discounted by religion? How can something that can and has been proven, like evolution, be discounted by something that has never been proven, does not hold one shred of viable evidence, and must be sustained by having "Faith"? Personally I don't give a shit, but when you start forcing your religious beliefs on my kids in school you've crossed a line. At school that is paid for by public funding? This means MY MONEY! If these people want to send their kids to a Madrasah, I mean a religious school, that's fine with me. This is America. Just don't expect me to pay for it! That's also America, motherfucker!

I get scared when a person that does not believe in evolution can actually be a presidential candidate. Mike Huckabee, now here's a piece of work. I wonder if these people that believe in creationism actually put some thought into what would happen to this country if Mike Huckabee's full agenda was put into action. What would America be like under President Huckabee? I see the creationists eye's glaze over as that little "children of the corn" smile comes to their lily white faces.

And I see the realists, lining up to buy one-way tickets to Canada. After seeing President Huckabee "Speaking in Tongues" during the State of the Union Address there's been a second mass exodus! The first exodus, mainly consisted of catholic families with young boys, started right after the Huckabee Administration passed the man/boy love act.

The point I guess I'm trying to make here brothers and sisters and all you little weirdos in between (love 'ya) is forgiveness. Where is the forgiveness and understanding that is supposed to be a major part of spirituality, and a major part of religion? Yes I said religion. Every religion I've ever known has always preached peace, love, understanding, and most of all forgiveness. Salvation. Hope. Where have these things gone? Has status killed the very core of all of our "higher powers"?

Well kids, there will be no understanding in Mudville tonight. I found out it was my views on his newly found religion that caused my old friend's soapbox to wobble. He had been reading my column. In this age of social networking he was afraid I'd post some crazy past antic or blatant drug abuse we used to enjoy so often. Are these people so fucking delusional that I care so much about them that I'm going to waste my time and energy writing something damning on their fucking FaceWall? I guess so, because that's exactly what the reason turned out to be.

When it comes to his fellow parishioners finding out about his past he may have valid fears. Just take a look at some holier-than-thou leaders of the Evangelical and Baptist churches that have had their past exposed. How about Ted Haggard? Remember him, the leader of the "New Life Church" of Colorado Springs, Colorado that got caught in a tryst involving a hunky gay masseur and pile of crystal meth? Old Ted really got fucked over on that one. Where's the forgiveness? Where's the compassion? Pastor Ted did go to a three week clinic that washed all of the gay off of him, so what's the fuckin' problem?

Maybe there's some of Pastor Ted's "buddies" that don't want him around, some other upstanding members of their congregation that have the same skeletons in their closet for example. For some reason I have not been able to find an explanation for, Ted Haggard agreed contractually not to live in the State of Colorado. Sure he was paid but why did he have to physically disappear? Maybe the other boys that were eventually paid off by the church had something to do with that. The boys were paid six figures to keep things quiet, money not too well spent, eh?

Well if my old friend is worried that his past actions and statements would sully him in the eyes of his church he damn well should be. He should catch the next train to Clarksville, Daddy-o, because if this is their version of forgiveness and understanding he's fucked.

And if someone like him is elected President we're all fucked.



Selah.

The Janie Hendrix Experience

On September 18, 1970 at the ripe old age of twenty-seven the world lost Jimi Hendrix, arguably the most incredible rock-n-roll guitar prodigy ever. Jimi died almost broke, a victim of the "same old story" music business bullshit. He was the antithesis of the artist that was only interested in making "the music in my head", the record company peons be damned! Luckily for the corporate slime that always oozed its shadow behind Hendrix, Jimi was a genius when it came to music. A genius that still stands unequaled.

His guitar playing, performance style, and innovation were unparalleled. The sums of money Hendrix brought in were staggering for those times. He was reported to have been paid $30,000.00 to play at Woodstock, the highest sum paid to any artist to date in 1969.

Of course Jimi saw little of the vast sums of currency and died with no will and an incredible trove of unreleased material. This meant an enormous windfall was in store for whomever could regain the rights to release (and get paid for) Jimi's work. The shitstorm that transpired lasted for years and when the leftovers finally got to the Hendrix family the greed continued completely unabated.

One person of note that makes me want to vomit (I actually want to vomit...) is Jimi's "stepsister" Janie. Janie was no blood relation to Jimi or any other Hendrix for that matter. Janie did not grow up with her older brother and only met him after her mother married Jimi's father, Al Hendrix. It is not known who Janie's father is, but it's sure as hell not Al Hendrix.

That didn't stop little Janie from cozying up to old Al, he needed the help. Al Hendrix was barely able to read and had been in increasingly bad health since the late 1970's. Al Hendrix died in 2002 when he was in the care of little Janie, leaving the management of Experience Hendrix, LLC up to Janie and a cousin of Jimi Hendrix, Robert Hendrix.

Besides Janie and Jimi's younger brother, Leon, there were seven other beneficiaries and companies poised to inherit monies from "Experience Hendrix,LLC". It took less than two years before a probate lawsuit was filed that named Janie and Robert Hendrix as the parties responsible for cutting off payments to the other seven beneficiaries.

Soon after Al Hendrix's death the beneficiaries of the trust complained bitterly that they were not receiving payments and the trust was being mismanaged by Janie and Robert. Janie and Robert cried out with excuses like "Al wanted no money to be disbursed before all outstanding financial obligations of the trust had been settled." Well, not to disparage Al, but I kind of doubt Al could spell "disbursed" and I'd also bet my bottom dollar that he didn't give two shits about anyone outside the family getting paid - especially after he died!

Jimi's only relative that he could really relate to, ever, was his younger brother Leon. Although they didn't spend much time together after Jimi left his home town of Seattle they were very close and cared deeply about each other. After Leon was arrested in Seattle Jimi refused to see him in jail, not out of anger but he felt the sight, the reality of it all, could be damaging to all those present.

Jimi was planning on helping Leon get back on his feet, he was also a guitar player, nowhere near his brother's talent, but Leon was hopeful. According to what I've gathered Jimi and Leon were still very close when Jimi died.

While under the care of Janie and Robert Hendrix, Jimi's father Al somehow decided that Leon Hendrix, Jimi's only living blood relative, was no longer worthy of the large inheritance he was about to receive.

Out of the blue Al Hendrix, a man that could barely speak coherently at this point, cut his youngest son off completely. The legal affidavits explained that it was due to Leon's past drug use, demands for money, and threats of litigation as the reasons for denying Leon and his family his inheritance.

In the separate legal claims filed by the other seven beneficiaries the same allegations were made: Janie and Robert were illegally refusing to disburse money to them. This were the same people that stated the money was first and foremost going to settling all outstanding debts of the Hendrix LLC. These same people paid themselves exorbitant salaries, took out large "no interest" loans for themselves, and drove several expensive luxury automobiles. They defended themselves by stating that they were given bad advice from accountants.

Were there three accountants? One fat and bald, one with curly hair, and one (the boss) with a Beatles type haircut? Was the boss named "Moe"?

They looked a judge right in the face and blamed this kind of spending on bad advice from an accountant? Was their accountant also a used car salesman? I've heard some crap in my life, but Holy Shit!

The judge was more than happy to cut off money to a black man that used drugs. After all, just mention the word "drugs" around any type of Police or Judicial personnel and you got yourself an audience - one that's on your side.

It's just like the assholes that cause traffic accidents and, when questioned by the authorities, they blurt out "He was going way too fast!". The cops and courts eat this shit up and take it for gospel when they hear those special words.

So little Janie who was so close to Jimi as to have had only one conversation with him, in an airport, that lasted all of two hours, got Jimi's only brother and his family cut off without a dime.

The "drug use" thing angers me. Wasn't it a black man that took drugs (a lot of drugs) the one that made all this money in the first place? And I can't imagine why Leon was threatening Janie with litigation. I think he might have wanted his fair share for himself and his family. And since when is threatening someone with litigation a negative mark on you during an inheritance "battle". Isn't that what the fuck you are supposed to do? Isn't this the proper legal alternative to having someone slap the shit out of little Janie here?

So Leon Hendrix, Jimi's only living blood relative, has no say whatsoever when it comes to his brothers music. Since the ruling Experience Hendrix, LLC, has released some material that was obviously never approved by Jimi, or any other real Hendrix for that matter.

I just listened to Jimi's new release "Valleys of Neptune" . This recording is living proof that some music should just stay where the creator left it. While it is impossible to ever call Hendrix recordings crap, this is definitely something Jimi would never have let be released voluntarily. Jimi created music in his early twenties that no other musician alive has ever come close to when it comes to pure emotion. This recording falls way short of his perfectionist ways. Jimi would never have let this see the light of day in its current configuration.

Of course it's Janie that now decides what is Jimi's music. Her fortune, said to be worth between 80 and 200 million dollars can't get any fatter if no new music is released. Fuck what Jimi wanted, Janie needs more millions!

You also have to deal with the LLC if you want to use Jimi's music for any type of soundtrack. There are new guidelines for the use of Jimi's music. They can no longer be heard during scenes that depict any type of drug use or reference. We all know how anti-drug Jimi Hendrix was! There was also a footnote used at the end of every new Hendrix documentary or any type of film that states "Jimi had no trace of heroin in his system at the time of his death".

There. That certainly clears that up. Of course Jimi never used heroin! I'm sure the couple of times he was busted for possessing heroin he was completely unaware that it was in his luggage. And I'm sure Tommy Chong is completely full of shit when he told Howard Stern's audience that he had seen Jimi shooting heroin on the floor in a men's room somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. This was a firsthand account by someone with absolutely no reason to disparage his former friend.

Tommy Chong doesn't come across as the "narc" type to me, I can't imagine why...

Janie and this asshole "Thomas Hendrix" do come across as "holier than thou" types. They try to swindle the rightful heirs out of their inheritance because I guess they feel they need all of the money. They then go about trying to change history by rewriting the legend of Hendrix with the hope that the new sanitized version of his music will make them even more money. Maybe they can spend some of that money finishing Jimi's graveside memorial.

Fuck these people. I'll bet Janie Hendrix doesn't even know that the lyrics to "If Six was Nine" are referring to people just like her.

I'd almost like to think Jimi would be rolling over in his grave right now because of this. But I'm sure he'd just shrug, smile and say something really fucking cool. I know that sounds ridiculous and it's pretty bad copy.

But Jimi was pretty fucking cool.




Selah.

A Putrid Travesty In Sin City

Alright. Enough. No more.
Of course I could only possibly be talking about Paris Hilton. I finally say "Enough!" after standing up for Paris Hilton. My extremely limited personal experience with the hotel heiress came one New Year's Eve at the Las Vegas Hilton. We were there for a party, as was every other human in Sodom. It was one hell of a party, real first class all the way.

There was a big live band, an orchestra really, phenomenal food and top shelf booze - all you ever wanted - and then some, in the grand Las Vegas tradition. And the one thing that always "separates the men from the boys" is the incredible service. You hardly ever noticed "them" because you never had to ask for anything. Libation just appeared like the waitstaff had you on surveillance. Maybe they did. After all, this was Vegas, the town where anything can happen (and usually does).

We arrived at the bash with another couple and were pleased to see we had a great table, right in front of the stage, and not far from the dance floor. We were sitting at the large round table with a third couple making it the six of us, whooping it up on a chilly New Year's Eve in the greatest party town on earth.

And whoop we did. After bottle upon bottle of fine wine during dinner the grape orgy continued when the champagne started flowing. The good stuff, none of this shaking and spraying bullshit. This was some fine bubbly. How the fuck did we end up here? The thought was ringing in my head all night, but screw it! We stepped in something good, which is always a nice surprise. I'm always astonished, especially lately, when you get to a function and it doesn't suck out loud and this was certainly a nice surprise.

The women were getting on quite well, lots of singing and dancing going on. Us guys were having a good time from what I can remember. The husband of my wife's friend is a good guy, a lot of fun and the other guy, named Rick was down to earth, fun, pleasant guy also.

The bandleader then surprised us by announcing that Paris Hilton was making an appearance and would be sitting at a particular table number (I can't remember what the table number was.). Well, I grabbed our camera and set out to find the celebrity table. My search kept bringing me back to the table we were already sitting at. This is when I noticed two things that completely changed the aura of that night in the desert.

One: The table number they announced for Paris Hilton was our table number. Two: I realized the other couple at our table were Rick and Kathy Hilton, Paris' Mom and Dad.

Cool.

Security guards and attendants swarmed over the area. Being seated at the Hilton's table (it was now the Hilton's table...) gave us instant celebrity. Extra banquet tables appeared to accommodate the entourage. Bedlam ensued as the whole party wanted a peek at the world's most famous party girl.

It was funny because I had no idea that I was talking to Rick Hilton. My wife knew and just assumed that I knew, I couldn't possibly be that friggin' stupid. So much for that. It wasn't until I was trying to find Paris' table, and saw her talking to her parents, that I realized what all the fuss was about.

Hmmm... How do I handle this one? No time for a psychotic meltdown - that would be too easy. The table area was complete chaos. I tried to get to my seat but was blocked by a large security guard with a big dickweed grin on his face. He was really getting off on telling people what to do. To my amazement Rick himself told the guy that this was our table and I was welcomed with open arms.

I never got to talk to Paris but she seemed to be really nice to everyone. Her sister Nicky was there and being a total bitch, but I doubt she was getting paid, maybe that had something to do with it. Everyone else was having a great time. My wife and Kathy even sang a duet with the band. We have some great pictures of that night. There was a huge fireworks display at midnight, Vegas spared no expense and as always didn't let us down.

So for years I've been kind to Paris, even justifying some of her antics as "kids will be kids". And rich kids will act like rich children. I don't know where these judges get the fucking balls to rub her leniency in the face of every American citizen. I makes me want to fucking scream (so I do)!

After this last disgusting display of favoritism I'm officially off the Hilton family bandwagon. I'm so angry at the starstruck jurists that so blatantly pervert the judicial system that you almost want to wish little Paris on his own family. Next time she's all fucked up on Grey Goose/Red Bull and a mound of cocaine maybe she'll get behind the wheel of her giant Hummer and fate and coincidence can do the rest. Maybe that will guide your blind, stupid fucking "punishment" decision next time, asshole (I do mean that in a nice way).

If she fucks up again they are saying she will go to jail for one year. Straight up. No more bullshit, just jail, for the entire year. The judge and prosecutor made this all very clear to the public (again) and I think it's complete and total horseshit.

I think it is going to take a horrible death at the hands of one of these celebutards (greatest word ever) to wake these racists judges up. Maybe then they'll put the blinders on and do their fucking jobs.

Paris still has her driver's license. Do you think she'll drive her $400k Mercedes/McClaren to her community service? Paris doesn't even have to check in with her probation officer, it is unsupervised probation. Just how is this any kind of probation when it is unsupervised?

Supervision is literally in the very definition of the legal term "probation". Do you think she'll stop drinking and doing blow? Why should she? Neither drug will stay in your system for more than two days and if the judge doesn't give a fuck why should anyone else?

With this bullshit sentence I certainly don't feel that the public has been well served or protected.

I wonder what Rick and Kathy are thinking? I wonder what they'll think when Paris does some real harm. I wonder if the judge'll be held accountable for letting this travesty exist.

And do you think Nicky's still a little bitch? I do.



Selah.

Expectations Of Another Age

So my friends, we are faced once again with that sad fact that the summer is coming to an end. Living in the American Northeast we face fairly harsh winters, a time where any type of social interaction is hampered by it being freezing fucking cold outside.

Summertime around my neck of the woods is looked forward to with great anticipation, and nature usually doesn’t let us down. This year was what I would consider a pretty great summer.

I’m fortunate to live on a lake, so the summertime is especially precious to me. Even as I’m getting older the memories of past summers fill my mind with anticipation. Here in the state of New York the seasonal transformation is spectacular. The world comes back to a fresh growing season after lying dormant for a frozen winter.

As do people. When I was a kid the family used to go from the sweaty suburbs of Hartford to the Connecticut coastline. “The Sound” my parents called it, Long Island Sound, where you could see the lengthy stretch of southern New York from the beaches of Connecticut.

I was pretty damned sure at an early age that England didn’t look all that far away. I could see it on a clear day right from the beach. My siblings, being the ever-so-supportive group that they are, encouraged me to be the first man on earth to swim the Atlantic Ocean to England!

Oh the beach! Nothing brings back olfactory memories than salt air and a mixture of tanning potions; hot sand and the sound from the waves. What is it about this combination that so appeases the human senses? These memories stay with you, become a part of who you are.

But is this always a good thing? Do we expect too much the older we get? Is it an accumulation of fond memories that makes us hyper critical when things don’t turn out the way we remember them to be? I’ve found it to be true that you seem to remember the good times, even when those good times were filled with hardship, separation, loneliness and despair.

I’m talking from the perspective of a man that is coming up on fifty years old. I still have the same inner perspective on the world as I did when I was much younger. And I’ve always been cynical, not morbid but saw the world as a place that needed to be lampooned, made fun of, and jeered at. With humor of course, I always was a wise-ass.

I served in the United States Army for three and a half years in the eighties. I was far from home, in Germany, and that’s a pretty good distance for a young kid that’s far from being a world traveler. The Army was a hard life; it was hard, rigid, disciplined work every single day.

The three years I lived in Germany was definitely one of the highlights of my life, so far anyways. The Army was filled with days of getting up at 5a.m. for a 6a.m. formation outside in every kind of foul weather. This was usually followed by P.T. (physical training) which in the Army is no step aerobics, I can assure you that. Then there were daily room inspections, shitty food, field exercises, etc. Even during peacetime the Army really pretty much sucks.

But all I remember are the good times. The friends you make in the military are like no other friends you will ever encounter in your life’s travels. It’s no myth. My buddies would not only get my mail for me if I missed mail call but they would open the letter, usually from my mother or an old girlfriend, read it out loud, pass it around, and for good measure sometimes they even wrote back! And I didn’t mind at all. It wasn’t like we were family; we were much closer than that. I was so proud to have these guys as my friends, real true friends, they could do no wrong.

The good old times.

I wonder how many of these “good old times” I’d experience in the Army today. I’m sure I wouldn’t last a week. There would be no spectacular traveling through central Europe, no concerts in Frankfurt, no Porsches on the Autobahn and no New Years Eve in a different landmark European city every year.

That would suck.

So, are expectations molded by past experiences? I tend to think so. Just look at High School reunions. Has anyone ever looked forward to seeing an old friend, a close friend, only to have their expectations obliterated when the friend is no longer the person you knew? Someone you expected to greet with a big hug results in a cursory limp handshake. Golly, that’s not like High School. He used to snort speed in class and then we’d go out and throw empty beer bottles at street signs for laughs. Not that I was expecting this kind of behavior, don’t be ridiculous.

But why pretend that it never happened? We had a great time and most important – we were kids. Kids are more or less expected to do crazy shit. Always have, always will. That hasn’t changed, hell, just look at your kids. Or if you don’t have kids you’ve probably been up to some kind of crazy shit lately, you can’t fool me (DMI).

Are you still enjoying rock concerts? Going to see live music has always been my absolute favorite pastime. I started out seeing Jonathan Edwards at the Bushnell Theatre in Hartford, CT when I was probably twelve or thirteen years old. I’ve been to hundreds of coliseum sized concerts and probably over two thousand gin mill gigs.

I’m so hyper-critical about going out at this point I’ve all but given up on it. There’s always something (usually someone) that’s bothering the shit out of me to the point where I can’t just relax and enjoy the music.

When it comes to live music I’m pretty sure age has a whole lot to do with it. Last year we went to see Dickey Bettes play in a large theatre type of venue. I had a seat near the aisle because I like to drink beer. Unfortunately the security is spread out thin, it’s usually a pretty classy place (go figure) so they don’t just kick the shit out of you and throw you out in the street like in the good old days if you fuck-up.

So the band is wailing away, just fantastic, when I notice a giant drunken warthog dancing way too close to me on my left side. It was a female hog, a sow if you will, long past her prime. She certainly wasn’t shy about dancing in front of everyone as she was making a spectacle of herself. I’m pretty sure that if this had been thirty years ago I probably wouldn’t have minded at all. Of course thirty years ago I'm betting she may not have been soused with sour mash, forty pounds overweight, and had all her teeth.

Not anymore, man.

My memory of concerts stem from seeing the Allman Brother at the Beacon Theatre in NYC, my absolute favorite venue. My wife was with me, we were not yet married, and we were on a date! I remember she was wearing a black rock-n-roll t-shirt that had only one shoulder strap, very sexy, and we were having a ball interacting all night with the people around us.

It was like a big party, everyone had a great time. Nobody was talking loudly while we were trying to hear the music. Remember the music? There were none of these assholes holding their asshole phone-cameras up in front of your face. You could still get away with having a smoke if you were so inclined, and the beer didn’t cost ten dollars for a warm plastic cup full of flat beer.

It’s not that I expect that kind of scene anymore, but common courtesy is a thing of the past. I personally blame these goddamn cell phone cameras for most of the problems. These idiots (you know who you are) don’t care if they are spoiling your view all night as long as they get a nice grainy, static, unwatchable video clip. Who cares about the hundreds of dollars you shelled out for your ticket?

So I think this is a prime example of my previous experiences shaping my current expectations. I’m going to see Roger Waters perform “The Wall” concert in October. He is supposed to be recreating the original 1978 concert of which only about ten performances were ever done, stateside anyways.

I was at one of the original “Wall” concerts. It was the most incredible show I’ve ever seen, bar none. I’m looking forward to this new show with great anticipation along with a nice big dollop of angst! But this time I’m bringing back-up, my friends are huge. I pity the fool that holds a cell phone up in front of my face that night.

We’re going to party like it’s 1978 all over again.

Of course this time we’re not going to run out of gas at 2a.m.



Selah.

You Crazy Kids and Your Music!

I try to be open minded in this, our land of the weird. I don't like when I find myself complaining about something to do with "today's youth". Sometimes I find myself sounding like a grumpy old fart and I wonder if its just me being a grumpy old fart? Mind you I'm not yet in my fifties, but damn close to it. So for me the line between young and old is quickly growing into an ever increasing chasm.

I'm really having a hard time stomaching some of today's youths trends. If it is some new music I find revoltingly horrible I wonder if I'm just too old to understand it, like my parents were, or does it just really suck? One big question I have is just who is driving this fucking monstrous land-shark of publicity? Every day it seems like some new rapper is the biggest star in the country. Just today I saw this gentleman (it took me five minute to decide on the word 'gentleman') named B.o.B. Obviously B.o.B. has a big hit on his hands (not to mention dyslexia) and he's going to be all over the M.T.V. video awards show.

I've never heard of B.o.B. Nobody I know (Oh, I asked.) has ever heard of him either. Granted my inner circle is hardly a representation of a wide spectrum of humanity (far from it actually...). But one aspect that bugs me is the fact that I have no problem with most other media. So why do I like the same movies that are out today, but I think the music sucks ass? I liked "Avatar" and I loved "Indecent Basterds", no problem there with the movies.

As far as literature goes I don't see much of a problem there either. I may be somewhat limited as I don't read fiction, I don't have the time. I do try to get some pop culture, stay abreast of things, by reading "Rolling Stone". I have complained vehemently about the "Stone" in the past but my bitch was not about the journalism, it was about their choice of musicians they chose to highlight.

I think "Rolling Stone" has great writers, but I don't think musicians that play to children belong on the cover. Among musicians the cover of "Rolling Stone" was once considered a very serious honor. Does the person that reads Matt Taibbi's scathing report on Wall Street bailouts also like the fact that the Jonas Brothers are on the cover?

This also just happened to be the same issue that contained a lengthy interview with Gregg Allman, but the fucking Jonas pimples were on the cover! Of course I should probably stop ranting about the Jonas Brothers, they're pretty much over at this point anyways. I don't think they'll be bouncing back with their own "Sgt. Pepper's" any time soon.

I thought the new television shows, mostly the "reality" genre were just looking awful. The most glaring example of this televised drivel looked like "The Jersey Shore". I normally would never even bother to give a show like this a shot, but all the hype drew me in.

"Why the hell not?" I thought, if it sucks I'll know right away and I'll be gone in a matter of seconds. I just had to be sure the remote was handy,because I've yanked the plug on some shows that sucked so hard I had to turn it off immediately or throw the T.V. in the lake. There was a "Jersey Shore: Miami Beach" marathon showing before the M.V.A.'s, so, trying to stay open-minded and in need of some youth oriented pop culture to stay well-rounded, I tuned in.

I was fucking mesmerized for hours! This was the greatest show ever on the T.V. (not really) I couldn't look away! The women in this show were so horrible to each other in contrast to the men it was hysterical! I could go on for pages, but I'll just do you the favor and recommend you watch at least one episode. But again, the only part of the show I really didn't care for was the soundtrack music they use.

They displayed the name of the song and the artist that's playing (I didn't recognize one of them!), on the bottom frame, during the show. I thought this was a great idea for reality shows, it would be a little distracting for a good drama, but what a great piece of commercial exposure! It was really too bad that the music was unlistenable, for me anyways.

One "musician" I've seen absolutely everywhere lately is this Justin Beiber. I try to be open-minded as I said but this one is just baffling to me. I just don't think it's right to be exploiting a girl this young that is gay. I know it's a great opportunity for anyone to be that successful at a young age - you'll be old and rich - but aren't the pressures of being young, rich, famous, and openly gay just too much?

Sure she's a cute kid and she sings well, I guess (I'd never actually listen to that, sorry) but she's obviously barely into puberty. Kids that age are fucking batshit crazy enough when they're normal (not that there's anything abnormal with her). It would just be a shame to see her when she starts to look like Chastity Bono. Kids that are that flashy at such a young age rarely have long illustrious careers. At least she hasn't been exploited as a pro-lesbian figurehead yet, but they're coming for her - you can bet on that.

So maybe I should compare myself to my parents when it comes to the musical divide. I can't see my Mom ever taking a shine to Black Sabbath for instance. Okay, I'll buy that. I don't think there's a chance in hell I'd ever like anything by (let's pull a random name from a hat) let's say "Vampire Weekend".

I actually tried to listen to more than one tune from their CD but I only got through maybe 30-40 seconds before I knew I was wasting my time and was never going to like their music. I'm not saying they suck as musicians, I'm just saying that their music sucks (to me). I'll bet my bottom dollar that my Mother would say that very thing if she was to hear the opening strains of "Ironman", one of the greatest songs ever written (in my opinion, of course).

What should also be taken into account is the legacy of the music. Will this modern/new music stay relevant for thirty years? I hear young musicians talk about getting inspiration and motivation directly from Black Sabbath and have been hearing that since I saw them with my own eyes. Will there be someone gushing about Justin Beiber at the 2035 Lilith Faire Concerts? There might just be. Who can say? Until we can look into the future we really have to rely on our own instincts, and my instincts smell Milli Vanilli.

Sure I know we can't all create great music and can't expect every new musician to be the next John Lennon. But when I look at artists like Lady Gaga, Justine Beiber, Ke$ha and Katy Perry I just wonder why we keep on getting nothing but Yokos'.

I'll admit I'm jaded but I'm also very lucky at the same time. I was brought up on the Beatles!

Maybe I was born at the right time.



Selah.

The Silent, the Fake, and the Super-Star

Sometimes I have a hard time thinking of a topic I am passionate enough to write about, but this particular topic hit me like a lightning bolt. The subject of this column is a phenomenon that has existed ever since man was able to communicate amongst each other. Everyone alive has experienced this type of person, yes barely a person, but a human nonetheless.

I'm of course talking about the "poseur". The Connecticut Cowboy, the Jewish Nazi, the drummer that you've never seen near a drum kit, Snookie, the Kiss Army, the "Actor" that never goes to any auditions, this list can go on forever and we've all met literally hundreds if not thousands of these people. Let's talk about a few of the ones that were the motivation for this topic, shall we?

One of my personal favorites, for obvious reasons, is the writer/poseur. Yes, the fabulous intellectual that dresses like a college professor, even sometimes going as far as to wear a tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, the proper eye wear, a scarf, the unkempt tousled hair, and the proverbial "last straw" is when they concoct some kind of language affectation, the fake accent. They carry tattered copies of "The Catcher in The Rye" and unused writing tablets, drive small British sports cars they can't afford, and the antithesis of writer/poseur recognition is they've never written a fucking word.

They will go on forever about literature, writers, and the ground breaking creation they are currently working on, whether it be a novel, poetry (Avoid conversations with poetry/poeser at all costs!) or the ubiquitous screenplay. The writer/poseur can be identified quite accurately by suggesting that any of their "work" could easily be made into a movie. They will agree with this so fervently you'll have to cover your drink to keep their excited spittle away. But the writer/poseur pales in comparison to the rock-star/poseur.

I started working for Rock-n-Roll bands when I was fifteen. As soon as my father died I was able to do pretty much whatever I wanted to do, so I attached myself to some local rock bands as a faithful roadie. I always planned on forming my own band, and being on the road was a great education. I was from an actual "Smalltown, America", a boring little whitebread hamlet in the northeastern United States. When I finally got up the balls to try and start up my own band, being from a small town didn't offer much in the way of talent when it came to the local musicians.

I finally met two brothers that could play well and being a drums/bass rhythm section really helped. Keeping a proper beat is key for a young band with young musicians. None of us knew how to sing. I say "knew" instead of "couldn't" because it turned out in later years that a couple of us had pretty decent voices, we just didn't know it. A vocalist was sorely needed to complete our young band, a lead singer, a front-man. As long as he could really perform I couldn't give two shits in a windstorm if the guy was a complete dick, I just wanted to finally get out and play.

After asking around the local nightspots and music store we finally had to break down and place an ad in the local Pennysaver Classified newspaper. This started a parade of poseurs that lasted the entire summer of 1981. We were literally a garage band, playing in the garage of a house I was renting on a quiet suburban street filled with quiet small-minded suburban assholes for the most part.

The young people on the street would ride their bikes to the end of the driveway and gather there to listen to us practice on those days when it was way too hot to keep the garage door closed. This made our prospective vocalists nervous and I couldn't have been happier about it. I would drill these prospects about their previous experience and for some reason they had absolutely no qualms about lying their asses off to us.

I didn't want to waste time with poseurs - we needed to get our shit together and take it on the road. The poseurs would always reveal themselves as soon as the vocals were supposed to kick in. How could they not - they couldn't fucking sing! The situation looked grim as the list of losers, poseurs, and wannabees grew to pathetic proportions. But they sure did have the "look" down. If you're going to dress like Slash you might want to learn a chord or two.

This really started to get to me. who the fuck did these jerk-offs think they were? They had a lot of damn gall to waltz into my practice hole on the pretense of being a experienced, professional-level vocalist. The other three members of the band, myself included, had been practicing our instruments, at a great expense of time and money, for over a decade at this point. We practiced - every day - for years. These people think they can just walk up to a microphone and perform on the same level as real, hard working, practiced musicians. I found this to be extremely insulting, more and more so as the poseur parade seemed endless.

We had some real winners. One of my favorites was this idiot we nicknamed "Steven Tyler". He was anointed as such because as soon as we told him he could try out for the L.V. spot (Lead Vocalist) he started to dress like Steven Tyler from Aerosmith. He looked ridiculous, so we encouraged his look by complimenting him whenever we could keep a straight face long enough to form a sentence. He strung us along for weeks, always coming up with some excuse as to why he could not make the audition. He actually thought we were buying this crock of horseshit which made it all the more infuriating.

When I found out he was telling people he was already a member of our (my) band I decided right there and then that Englebert needed to be put in his place with extreme prejudice.

It was time for a house-part anyways, so I figured that having his audition in front of everybody in town, unbeknown to him, was just a swell idea! I almost blew the whole plan when one night our boy Steven Tyler introduced me to some girls he knew. His exact words were "This is the lead guitar player in my band."! He has no idea how close he was to having those be his last fucking words. He had not even touched a microphone at that point.

So, at the party, he was quite unaware that the band would be playing in full swing. The three of us, guitar, bass and drums, had gotten quite tight musically. We could even croak out a few of the old tunes that don't really require any quality when it comes to vocals. Songs like "Louie, Louie" and "Wild Thing" we could muddle through as long as the beat was tight and the guitar was screaming. All we needed was a Lead Vocalist and we were on our way! And what better time to introduce our new SuperStar than a house party?

Steven Tyler was shocked when we opened up the garage door. Some friends had decorated the garage with streamers, balloons, ribbons and a large sign welcoming our new L.V. to the family. All our gear was set up, the P.A. system was tested, equalized and turned up nice and loud. The power indicator lights glowed and the amp stacks hummed. We were ready to rock. The lyrics to Steven Tyler's "Song I do the best." were prominently presented on a music stand. I had tried to think of everything to make his first song an excuse-free nightmare.

Before the party we went out of our way assure him that his audition would be the following day. He let us know he and his voice were in fine shape and he was looking forward to his big debut. This way when the small crowd at the party started to harangue him mercilessly to get on the fucking stage and sing he had no way out. Suicide would have been an acceptable exit (HIS fucking band!) but nothing less.

Our plan kicked-off when I pulled him aside and told him that one of the microphones wasn't working right and he'd have to use the left-handed one. I told him this literally seconds before he noticed the two exact same mics set up for vocals. Of course I had to direct (yell at) him when he went over to the wrong microphone "No! Your other left!" I directed him. He was looking more and more panicked and confused. I just looked at him as to say "What the fuck is wrong with you? Why the hell don't you know which mic to use?".

He was so poseur nervous it almost wasn't funny. He was in front of dozens of people that knew at least one band member well, and in most cases everyone knew everyone. His face was almost as red as his boa, (that's right boa...). Every time he looked to me for guidance I directed him (yelled) to face the fucking audience. That's what a L.V. does.

The band launched into our version of Bobby Fuller's hit "I Fought the Law", supposedly "Steven's" best tune. As he grabbed the other mic, the one with the on/off switch on the bottom, he quickly realized that someone (me) had turned the switch to the "off" position.

Now just remember folks, if this asswipe had been honest and upfront with us not only would we have tried to help him in his pursuit we might not have tried to traumatize him so thoroughly.

I was having fun calmly telling him to simply turn the mic on. I've seen this before, even with very experienced musicians. Microphones with on/off switches are rarely used because they're usually pretty crappy. However, if you are a real vocalist and someone tells you to turn your microphone on you should know right away that there is an on/off switch.

The reasoning behind this is: If there's no output from the microphone when you speak into it either the volume is turned all the way down at the sound/mixing board or the mic itself is turned off. If the person operating the sound/mixing board tells you to turn the mic on he obviously has already turned the volume for that mic up and still isn't getting any sound. So whether you followed any of that or not that fact still remains that a person that has experience using microphones would have known at least where the fucking switch was!

I let him squirm just long enough for the band to stop playing, again, because of a rookie vocalist mishap. The crowd was getting ugly so we played a couple of tunes that we could "sing" ourselves. We told Steven Tyler to stay onstage, try to relax, and sing some harmonies or back-up, whatever he wanted, as the mood hit him.

The king-poseur at this point was finally onstage! He grabbed a tambourine that our drummer used to put on his high-hat cymbal set-up and started to really "jam out". This pissed our drummer off, of course. What do-wah-dickhead here didn't get was the tambourine was on the drummer's high-hat for a fucking reason! It pleased me to no end when the drummer told him to "Put that fuckin' thing back!" through gritted teeth. No Laurie Partridge moment for you tonight, poseur.

This certainly didn't stop him from trying to steal the show as he took to the front-center of the stage. He grabbed the microphone this time with confidence - he knew where the switch was! As an old pro at this point in his music career he had everything under control as he led his band through a hard-rockin' set. You could almost see the words in his swelled head. He decided to have a go at the real deal right then! He gave me the nod that he was going to sing away at the next verse. I couldn't have been happier. He might have seen the tear in my eye.

What he didn't see was me turning the volume to the microphone up all the way at the mixing board. The mixing board is usually out in front of the stage, run by an engineer or "sound man", but we didn't have that luxury. We put the board back by me so I could run it onstage. Remember, there weren't any real vocals anyways so the sound board didn't need much adjusting.

Turning on a "hot" microphone causes loud, intense, high-pitched feedback (When you do it right!). A hot searing pain through their eardrums was the last fucking thing the crowd wanted from this guy. Especially when the place just started rocking again after his last fuck-up practiclly drained the life out of the room.

I, of course, came to his rescue once again. I directed him (yelled real loud) to turn his fucking mic down - "What the Hell, man?". As he tried valiantly to find the non-existent volume control on the microphone the band stopped playing once again. This really started to piss-off the crowd and good old Steven Tyler finally put down his boa and sheepishly walked off the stage through a barrage of boos and cat-calls, never to be seen again.

Wouldn't it be great to have a T.V. show like that? One that showed all kinds of shit-headed poseurs trying to sing like they were already professionals?

It would never last. Fucking poseurs.




Selah.

Jim Crow and The White Men With Guns

I went out to buy some food for our three cats today. They're picky eaters, the little shits, all three of them. For this I have to go out of my way to a special "Feed" store to pick up the good stuff they do not carry in the local A&P.

This is when I saw the truck. This truck was nothing special in and of itself, it was the political fecal matter draped all over its every surface that made it stand out like Kanye West at a KKK rally. The first thing that any good racist (there's that smell again) will recommend for turning your vehicle into a rolling hate-mobile is a Confederate flag license plate. And when you are in the Northeastern part of these United States, well, it doesn't take a political scientist to figure out just what point is being made here. We'll get to that conclusion in a second.

Along with other various bumper stickers was one that I'll never forget. One that made me seriously consider smashing this asshole's rear windshield with a tire iron. Cooler heads prevailed (I really didn't feel like getting my ass kicked) but the picture in my mind's eye remains. The "bumper sticker" showed a caricature of a grinning white man, dressed as a good 'ol boy, wearing blue jeans, a work shirt, and the obsequious John Deere farm cap. This happy little white fella was also holding a proportionally huge shotgun. The caption read: "THIS COUNTRY WAS BUILT BY WHITE MEN WITH GUNS". There were some others that were not quite as original, such as "THESE COLORS DON'T RUN" and "YOU CAN HAVE MY GUN WHEN THEY PRY IT FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS" and the prerequisite N.R.A. sticker.

Yeesh!

What the fuckles, there, Chuckels? Had I accidentally pulled into Mayberry RFD circa 1961? I mean Holy shit, in this day and age, at my fucking pet food store, on a really nice day, I'm suddenly face to face with one of the most nauseating racist affronts to my senses that I have ever seen. "Who is the fucking asshole that owns this truck?" I found myself saying out loud, in a loud voice, and my window was rolled down (It's been rumored that I'm kind of a pussy - not true.) Of course there wasn't anybody else in the parking lot, but that didn't stop me from expressing my outrage out loud, albeit to myself.

When I entered the Feed store I knew right away which employee was the owner of the "dick-wagon". He really dressed the part, and with no excuses. He had the prerequisite short-cropped hair - what the skin-heads that don't want to look bald wear. Then came the goatee and Doc Martten's to complete the ensemble.

He was polite - to me, anyways, but all I could think of was grabbing him by the collar and asking him if he knew just how fucking ignorant he was being. To say that this country was built by just white men with guns is only half (fucking stupid ignorantly) accurate.

Black soldiers have fought in every conflict this country has even been involved in. This is to include the conflicts that were fought before we were even considered a country. They were enslaved and brought here starting in 1619. Since the Revolutionary War they had fought as free men and slaves alike, just the same as the "white men with guns". I wonder who got the shitty assignments back then! It was bad enough for black soldiers in the '40s I can't imagine what it could have been like in the 1740's.

Two Revolutionary War field Officers discussing battle strategy:

Colonel - "We need to draw the British out of their fortification on the hilltop."

Major - "How about creating a diversion - create what looks like an overwhelming opportunity for them to reduce us in great numbers. This will cause them to "charge", thus leaving the hilltop vulnerable."

Colonel - "Tell Sergeant Brown I want him over here pronto!"

Major - "Yes Sir!"

Sergeant Brown - "Sergeant Brown reporting as ordered Sir!"

Colonel - "I have a mission for you and your men, Sergeant. We need to draw the Red-Coats off the hilltop, even for a few minutes. Their advantage has disrupted the supply chain. The Officer Corp hasn't had their Brandy and Whores for days now, and this is not what we signed up to fight for!"

Sergeant Brown (with just a slight hint of attitude) - "Oh Lawdy no Missa Colonel Sah! We's c'aint hab dat happenin, no-sah!"

Colonel - "Right! You understand Brown! So what we need from you is to have you lead your men around the left flank of the hill. There's nothing over there but a rock quarry - there's no way out and no cover."

Sergeant Brown - "Say What, now?"

Colonel - "They'll run off that hill like gangbusters when they see that pile of sitting ducks!"

Sergeant Brown (with a lot more attitude) - "Sitting ducks, Sir?"

Colonel - "It's just a War College phrase, Brown I wouldn't expect you to understand it."

Sergeant Brown - "Oh I understand just fine, Sir."

Colonel - "Well let's get a move on Brown. It's getting dark so your men have a better chance of not being noticed."

Sergeant Brown (attitude is back) - "Well golly Colonel Sah, but jus' how in hell are we goin' to be sitting ducks if they can't see us? Sir."

Colonel - "That easy Brown, when you all get to the corner in the quarry - just y'all look up at 'em and smile!"

Major (laughing) - "That'll give 'em away alright!"

Sergeant Brown keeps his military bearing, barely. He briefs his men and off they go. Following the orders of their white superiors to fight for this country's independence.

Colonel - "How the black guys holdin' up? "Any left?"

Major - "We just received a report that Sergeant Brown and his men have been back in camp for a few hours now. It seems they mopped up the floor with those Brits. Imagine that... "

Colonel - "All of them! That's impossible!"

Major - "I think it was your very words, Sir, that inspired them to kill with such intensity."

Colonel - "Well Major, another victory! A Victory for us 'The White Men With Guns!'".

Doesn't sound all that unlikely does it? As for the bumper stickers I can honestly say, with absolutely no certainty at all, that I have never seen a bumper sticker that disparaged the white race. That doesn't mean they don't exist but I've lived all over the land of the weird for quite some time, and in my travels I'm sure I would have noticed something by now.

I remember seeing old "Jim Crow*" signs deep in the sticky bowels of lower Alabama - in 1986. This was at an abandoned train station on some abandoned railroad tracks down an abandoned road (obviously in Alabama "abandoned" is quite the trend). This was a place one of the locals showed me. It was frequently used by the local youths for all kinds of debauchery. You could barely read it, but in the strong southern midday sun it was still discernible that the sign over the door read "Colored Waiting Room". The local gent seemed strangely (Strange - what a fucking understatement!) proud of this remnant of the "Jim Crow Laws**" that once ruled the south.

These laws are gone now, but their legacy will live on in infamy forever. They were horrible oppresive "laws" enacted by people that just completely refuse to concede the outcome of the Civil War. And, as noted, we still see brand new traces of this kind of thinking. Whether it be hate crimes or bumper stickers, old Jim Crow is still lurking in the shadows all over America.

The Jim Crow laws were wrong, but one thing they did accomplish was to keep those freaking darkies in their place, even for just a little while. Oh CALM DOWN! I'm only kidding for christsakes! You know me better than that!



Yeesh!




Selah.



*The origin of the phrase "Jim Crow" has often been attributed to "Jump Jim Crow", a song-and-dance caricature of African Americans performed by white actor Thomas D. Rice in blackface, which first surfaced in 1832 and was used to satirize Andrew Jackson's populist policies.

**The phrase "Jim Crow Law" first appeared in 1904 according to the Dictionary of American English,"Jim Crow" had become a pejorative expression meaning "African American" by 1838, and from this the laws of racial segregation became known as Jim Crow laws.

A Gladiator's Journey to Valhalla

A new form of entertainment has taken hold in the American psyche. The modern Gladiator has been trying to find an acceptable and entertaining way of presenting his talents for decades. As a child I could not wait for Sunday afternoon Professional Wresting. A root-beer/vanilla ice cream float in my giant plastic cup and a show so revolting to the rest of my family members would render me in my own private heaven.

When I learned that this was all a sham, an act, a FAKE, I was completely disillusioned. I thought I was becoming a man, because what was more manly in the sixties than watching sports on the T.V.? Barely out of toddler status I was just too young to withstand the adult rules-driven monotony of "real"professional sports as Football and Baseball. No, nothing was more fun than whipping yourself into a sugar filled frenzy, bouncing off the furniture, mimicking the crippling moves of your hero wrestlers.

When this fake was revealed I was more heartbroken than when I realized Santa Claus was just another lie told to me by now totally untrustworthy parents. I actually always kind of thought the whole Santa thing was a bunch of crap, as far as I can remember anyways. My Mom and Dad made damn sure we knew just who had shelled out their hard-earned dough for the abundant Christmas bounty.

I consider myself very fortunate to have lived throughout possibly the greatest era in boxing, the phenom created by the incredible Muhammad Ali/Joe Frazier trilogy. If this didn't scratch the Gladiator "itch" for you nothing ever would. These were events of such major, wide reaching magnitude as to have actual serious political ramifications. Especially when the good ol' boys got down right racist.

But the contests were sparse back then and the technology primitive and limited. You would be lucky to find one or two good fights a year when you had to take into account outside obstacles such as bedtime and Mom's permission. But luckily these obstacles were being dealt with. The literal count of two whole channels would soon expand, hell, explode is probably more accurate! The popularity of the Ali/Frazier era ushered in a wave of boxing talent the world had never seen the likes of.

Young, incredibly gifted fighters, Gladiators if you will (and you will...) were no longer the underpaid palookas of yesteryear. Then the country finally got all hooked together through the greatest invention of the twentieth century, cable television. At this time boxing was competitive and plentiful. Until Mike fucking Tyson ruined it forever, inadvertently, but in ruins nonetheless.

At first Tyson was absolute Nirvana for fight lovers. Brutal fighting such as this had never been seen, with Tyson going through his competition like a hot knife slides through soft butter, soft pale butter. The fights left us gasping for more, more of the same intensity. And there is where the problem began. There were no fighters anywhere near as intense, and intensely violent, than Mike Tyson. His talent was unparalleled and at the ripe old age of Twenty years he captured the world heavyweight championship as the youngest champ ever.

And little old Mikey was in the process of capturing hundreds of millions of dollars.

This caused a feeding frenzy that resulted in the destruction of the once proud sport of Boxing. There are just too many tedious details to ever allow comprehension of the current pile of confusion that is now Boxing. Just trying to figure out who's the "Champ" is daunting. I started hearing of new heavyweight champs in a "Boxing Authority" I'd never heard of, along with never even previously having heard the "Champ's" name for fucksake!

And still the only fighter worth watching was Mike Tyson. He had set the bar so high by his total domination and destruction of his contenders that nothing less would satisfy the "Gladiator" that lurks in the heart of men. Some men have it pretty well hidden, especially when Tyson is nearby.

The late comedic genius Bob Schimmel had a joke about the time when someone asked Evander Holyfield if he would come out of retirement and fight Mike Tyson for fifty million dollars. Whereas Bob replied "I'd give Mike Tyson a blowjob in front of my parents for fifty million dollars!"

When Tyson was sent to jail for rape the popularity of boxing plummeted. Upon his release Mike Tyson would only have a few good years left in him. And there was no one to replace him. No one boxer, or any type of televised fighting for that matter could match what Tyson brought to the ring. The public, myself included, got to be very jaded as we listened to the promoter's promises of fighter after fighter that was supposed to be the next "Mike Tyson".

We, the fans, wanted something, demanded something, with the same brutal thrill. And we sure as hell hadn't seen it in boxing, thus creating a niche that demanded to be filled, an itch screaming out to be scratched. And the person that could whip this up would sure make some scratch, the green spendable kind, laid on him pretty damn quick. In big green piles.

This is when I started hearing about something that was being called by many names that tried to convey the same message - unbridled violence. Extreme fighting, Cage matches, Death matches, no holds barred, anything goes - these phrases were now required in an attempt to assuage the public's bloodlust. All kinds of laws were pushed to the limits or just downright broken. New laws had to be enacted with great urgency to protect Mom and Pop Smith and the kids!

What followed was some of the most violent "sporting" events ever witnessed. But sheer curiosity took hold with a profound grip. Would we get the same thrill as seeing Iron Mike reduce his opponent to a bloody quivering unconscious mess? I sure hoped so.

Various organizations came and went as the level and definitions of "respectable" and laughingly "safe" rules and laws were enacted. The sport, now usually referred to as "Ultimate Fighting" had finally gained enough public acceptance as to be televised. The amazing growth that followed was spectacular. The new genre was delivering just what the public wanted.

The largest organization to come out of this new wave is called, appropriately, Ultimate Fighting Championship, or UFC for short. There is even a new manner of combining many forms of fighting and martial arts that is refereed to as MMA, standing for Mixed Martial Arts. To compete on this stage, in this forum, you have to be a master at just about every type of fight, defense, or submission discipline extant.

This makes for some pretty incredible athletes that, In my opinion, are modern day Gladiators.

One such young man, Evan Tanner was a Renaissance man of sorts with many different intellectual inspirations under his belt. In 1989 he won the Texas State Championships in wrestling as a junior and senior despite only entering the sport in his sophomore year of high school.

By 2005 he was the UFC Middleweight Champion of the World.

It has been said that Even Tanner was not one to be absolutely absorbed by Ultimate Fighting. This, while hardly being anywhere near being a "bad thing" was probably not his best path if, this is a big "if" mind you, if he wanted to stay on top of the UFC world. He was already well off and very famous in the fight circles.

However his record immediately following his championship suffered as he lost several key fights. He was not without wins, mind you, just without the important wins, the legend making kind that he was quite capable of winning.

After a key loss that left his status with the UFC in limbo Evan was said to have had been inspired by a friend, inspired to explore the desert. What was not well known at the time was Evan had developed a serious dependency on alcohol and the status of that issue was still in question.


He’d just relocated to Oceanside, Calif., when he started his latest adventure to burrow into the desert, which he characterized as a “journey to solitude” on his blog. He was also noted as saying that he planned to burrow so deep into the desert as to be totally dependant on his gear, even to the point of noting that any equipment failure could result in his death.

Evan Tanner's body was found on September Eighth, 2008 and it was determined that he had died of heat exposure less than 48 hours into his trip.


It looks like his motorcycle had simply run out of gas.


Was this his “Journey to Solitude” or was it a proud, modern Gladiator on his way to Valhalla?



Food for thought.




Selah.

Alive in L.A.

Just a quick note for those of you bored enough to be here in the first place. This is the weekend of the big wedding. I know I said it was last weekend, but it looks like I missed a week somewhere. I hate it when that happens. I once ended up in my hometown for Christmas, I got there just in time for New Year's eve. It was strange, sure, but it was also one hell of a New Year's celebration.

But enough of that, I'm on vacation so I'm just stopping by to say hello.

Whomever designed the seats on the plane we were on should be executed, the sadistic bastard. No upgrades! No good booze! I had a fucking air conditioner blow freezing cold air onto the back of my neck from Houston to L.A.

Trying to come back to life after the trip to attend the rehearsal dinner. We are having an actual rehearsal, too. Oh joy! Oh bliss! I have a tendency to burst into flames when I enter any house of religion. It's a hundred degrees out here, and being in the wedding party tomorrow should be excruciating. But it is not every day your son get hitched so I gotta shut the hell up, stop being such a fucking pussy and smile, boy, smile!

Well it's cocktail time and I'm on vacation. I haven't had a drop of Jameson's in days so it's off to the lounge. God help them if they offer me Jack Daniels.

So if there's anything left of me I'll check back in tomorrow, let you know all the juicy details of the rehearsal.

Until then my friends stay alert! They're always out there and you just never know when someone close to you will turn into a screwhead! More later - but I am on vacation...




Selah.