A Bridge and Tons Of Ignorance

Today the Veterans Memorial Bridge is opening in Smalltown, USA. As I've ranted before, there is no bridge or other large display in Smalltown dedicated to truly integral members of day-to-day life (health care workers, teachers, truck drivers.)

Actually, during the 40th president's reign in office in the 1980s, the bridge took on a new name. You guessed it, Ronald Reagan Bridge. But that was pretty short-lived. The gun-fighters with high-n-tights got their bridge back when Ron began to forget what a bridge was.

What really burns my proverbial cookies is that so few people seem to be aware of why currently surviving veterans went to war in the first place. To save our country??? WTF???

WW1, WW2, Korea, Viet Nam, El Salvador, Iraq (versions 1 & 2). These wars were about money, oil, and political philosophy. But rarely to keep Americans safe or "democracy" safe. Is it any wonder that the King in the present game is having an increasingly difficult time scraping up automatonic pawns. Maybe if the present generations put today and yesterday together, they will figure out that this mindless practice is not a new idea.

Armistice Day

Can we give up this Veteran's Day schlock? Really!!! The holiday is called Armistice Day and the date reflects the formal end of mortar fire in World War One. The 11th hour, the 11th day, the 11th month, 1918. No more, no less.

I grew up with a World War One vet, my paternal grandfather. Yes, the generations were quite spread out. But he never mentioned a word about his time in the army. About eight years ago, I interviewed two World War One vets in the same day at a nursing facility. I would have gotten three, but the third gentleman was comatose. A couple years later I went back and one of the men was still around, aged 103. Still full of memories of his life, which he let me record.

Obviously it's inevitable, but it pains me that the veterans of the Great War are disappearing. It's not only my favourite time in US History, it's also the first war whose final survivors I'm actually noticing as they leave this earth. Nevertheless, they receive(d) little attention because big bad World War II overshadowed their fight.

By the way, when pronouncing "veteran", please use all the letters. It's not "vet'ran". I'd think that people who wish to celebrate a holiday for war and death could pronounce the "V" word. Why no holiday for farmers who feed us or teachers who educate us or doctors who heal us, etc?

Fantasy Sports--What's Up With That???

As Homer Simpson said, perhaps I've been misguided. But I suspect not. I find the entire genre of fantasy sports truly bizarre. Having never really engaged in fantasy sports, I understand that players have the option of putting together teams that would otherwise never assemble. They subsequently play big, pretend games. More games to live and die with, like the real professional sports weren't enough.

This knocks on virtual/surreal history. Writers take the time to suggest what would have happened if some major event in history had gone a different way. The point??? There is art. There is creation. But for me, this falls far short of either.

The Imploding Gut

Two women who were once close friends of my ex and my mother, respectively, went under the knife for gastric bypass in the past couple years. And they have both become very different creatures--externally. Internally I have no idea. I never speak with them. I just view them in passing or on Yahoo! Personals.

Today I sat outside the local McDonald's, as it was inundated with ravaging hoards. As I ate a snack of mushrooms, celery, and an apple, I wondered how much artery sludge comes out of one McDonald's in one day. There is an unbelievable variety of folk who do the McD's routine. From the mentally disabled to the hardworking joe to the state's attorney. They were all there today.

Imagine if everybody boycotted biological hell-holes like McDonald's for one day (or better yet, forever.) The trouble is, this would violate kapitalism. And kapitalism doesn't care whom it kills, just so the money gets divided a little more finely amidst a smaller head count.

Alan Parsons Was Right About That

Time stands still for no one. And the Parsons Band said it best with their song "Time". The Guinness Book once asserted that it is theoretically possible to have more generations of great grandchildren than anyone in recorded modern history has ever cranked out. My family tree hasn't approached that level, but there have been some interesting waves. Not atypical.

A couple of weeks back, I wrote about a pretty pretty bridal shower for my cousin's daughter. This sparked thought in my head, and not good thought at that. While many of us have committed dark acts that Senate sub-committees would jump on like crows on raw meat (my cousin included) I believe my dark sordid past is having its turn.

No, I'm not paranoid. I don't believe that people living lives, watching TV, ordering carry-out, planning a wedding, and holding down jobs have nothing better to do than talk about me. But they are hip to elements of what I did, just as I could say this about them.

This is where judgment comes in. Are they judgmental? Do they forgive? Do they forget? Or do they just pretend like they never knew? I guess if I ever see them, I may learn the answer. I will lose no sleep wondering.

No More Altoids For Me

I've officially made the switch. I've gone from vegetarian to full-blown vegan. Two years ago when I gave up meat, I wondered whether this day would ever come. I liked the cheese on the pizza and I loved the ice cream. But I've slowly weaned myself off dairy (is there a pun in there?)

I remember when I was a 21yo carnivore and saw a friend eating essentially the same things that I do now. I was very turned off and could never imagine myself eating garbanzos or black-eyed peas or any of the other things that I just had for dinner. But people usually get better with age. Provided they leave their minds open--that's essential!

I Looove You, Doggy! Now SIT!!!!!

Back to pets. My friend, Joanne, recently had a guest over who had a stare-down prompted by the cat of the house. The cat subsequently slapped her, giving her a slight scratch. She subsequently went to an emergency health care facility to confirm whether she had cat scratch fever (now known as "cat scratch disease".)

While the physicians could see no scratch, they could feel a light marking. She called Joanne and asked that the cat be sealed up, put away on subsequent visits. But Joanne told me all that she could hear going off in her mind was the infamous Nugent song.

Have I mentioned that Ted Nugent is just an ass? Not part ass, but whole ass. Poor guy. He's a right wing extremist of the lowest sort. Hitler helped pull Deutschland out of the Great Depression. All the Nuge has ever done is put out a few quality tunes. He believes in the death penalty for a variety of non-mortal offenses. He loves his gun, his bow (whatever kills) beyond description. This is what happens when power goes to one's head. You are not omnipotent, Mr Dream Scream. But I do think some possessed cat scratched the compassion from your mind.

Time To Party Like It's 1917!!!!!!

Yee-Ha!!!!!! It's Over!!!!!!! A Chicago team has won the World Series for the first time since World War I. Now there will be those (losers) who insist, "Yeah, at least it wasn't the Cubs who won..." Forget them and enjoy the party! Remember, there was still legal booze in a few parts of America back in 1917.

No Goat Here. No Sir!

Whether the Chicago White Sox sweep the Houston Astros in tonight's fourth game of the World Series or they do not, history tells us that, barring divine intervention, the Sox will be the 2005 champs. Note, I said "history", not "statistics". It's no coincidence that I have an MA in history but never, ever sat through a statistics class.

Okay, I'm looking at this from a sports point of view. Do you notice that when anything happens on a sports broadcast the announcer is quick with a statistic? "Oh he's scratching himself, Johnny. And he's third in the batting order. So far this season, every time the third man in the order has scratched himself when the wind was coming out of the north, it spelled victory."

Just excessive junk that needs to be shipped to the world of Alex Trebek. That said, I'm sure there are a myriad of ways to show that Houston should win, despite the 0-3 deficit.

No 'Z' In Illinois

I'm told that there was a time when drivers regarded truckers as knights of the road. Then they started popping uppers like they were M&M's and an alternative reputation grew. During the old days, there were trucking movies like "Smokey & The Bandit". There were many songs, but perhaps the best known told the tale of an ever-growing behemoth of truckers going coast-to-coast (never fueling up) and flipping John Q the bird for thousands of miles.

Of course I'm referring to CW McCall's "Convoy", which is a combination of a lead vocalist with a serious sinus condition and back-up singers who sound like they prance with miniature poodles. The one line in the song that always burned my cookies was when McCall referred to the National Guard members as being from "Ill-uh-noize". Entschuldigung!! There is no said place. There is no Illinoize. Despite what the unknowing may tell you, it's "Ill-uh-noy".

God bless technology. Tonight I took McCall's faux pas and I stuck it into an audio program, cleaved the "z" sound off Illinois, and the song never sounded better. Though it's still pretty schmaltzy. Rank McCall up there with guys like Huey Lewis who were afraid to use the word "ass", despite the fact that it fit well in their lyrical content.

Too Rolling Stoned?

I'm ashamed to admit that I'm only slightly hip to the likes of hardworking guitar genuises like Robin Trower and Pat Travers. These are guys who put out very high quality material but are recognized by a relatively select group of listeners, largely other guitar players.

One of Trower's memorable greats is a lengthy piece titled "Too Rolling Stoned". When I first heard that title as a kid, I thought somebody had just had just listened to a bit too much of the Glimmer Twins. But it's neither that simple nor that precise. Many aspects of our lives may be labeled "too rolling stoned".

Recently at the YMCA, I encountered an old friend from church who has done quite a bit in the way of leadership. He runs his own business and has sparked new programs in more than one church. Perhaps the "multiple church" element is due to the fact that while kind and benevolent, he can come off as overbearing. After a while, if people don't respond to his ideas, he bolts. New territory. This guy is just too rolling stoned.

Nevertheless, it is interesting to listen to his perspective--on occasion, for a few minutes. But I doubt that he has the Robin Trower music in his home that would slip him the 411.

Paul Harvey's "Jim"

Paul Harvey IS a tantalizing bastard, isn't he? Some years ago, he told one of his woven mysteries in which an infamous person committed an infamous act while on a visit to Japan. He didn't let his audience know who he was talking about until the very end. Textbook Paul Harvey. Well, on that particular day, in between raving for arthritic pain reliever, he was describing "Jim" and his run-in with the po in Japan. Shucks, boys and girls, he was talking about a lad better known to the world as Paul McCartney--Sir James Paul McCartney.

Rather than being a tantalizing bastard, Paul (or Macca) is a seriously rich bastard. David Gilmour recently criticized Paul for not doing more with his hundreds of millions of quid besides sitting on it. This led me to reconsider my opinion of the left-handed Beatle.

He's a fabulous showman, writer, performer, etc. (I got that out of the way.) I remember being thrilled by his muzak as a wee lad. My brother and I referred to each other as "JP" (Paul) and "JL" (John). But I had other influences. And there were moments.

A close friend was a great John fan who often swayed me in that direction. Thus, I became "JO" and my brother did the proper thing and switched to "JM". We'd call out these monikers when we were in the dark, aboard amusement park rides. Great memories!

I also had a cousin who ultimately swayed me toward George Harrison. We sat in a jacuzzi once at a Holiday Inn and polled people to see who preferred McCartney and who preferred Harrison. Need I say who won?

These days I am learning the bass lines from "Silly Love Songs" which gives me another look at Paul. This song is, after all, Paul's response to criticism of his music, 1970-1975. I bet Paul Harvey could talk a big mystery about that story.

Hold Onto Your Lunch, You Never Saw THIS On Brady Bunch

Does anyone make a sign that you can post over your toilet that politely requests that you make sure that anything that came out of you makes the trip into the septic system? They should. Too often people do their biz, flush once and race on to live life. That next person coming in to merely throw a whiz may have an earthly friend waiting. Now is that necessary? I ask you, who can't check and make bloody sure that all the fecal remains went bye-bye? (besides maybe the sight-impaired, and I excuse them)

Oh, you're still reading? Cool! When I was in college, there were two or three bathrooms that I used most frequently (outside the library--there I shared the wealth.) One of these men's rooms frequently had whole "deposits" sans toilet paper. Said user had either not used paper OR had used paper and thrown it elsewhere, leaving a "bit of himself" for others to view.

I could go on... and on, but I think you wanna keep that lunch.

Vegetarians Don't Just Eat Around the Meat

I remember when Paul & Linda McCartney helped welcome Lisa Simpson into vegetarianism in the mid-1990s. That particular episode featured one of my favourite McCartney songs "Maybe I'm Amazed". I, too, rushed to enter into a world of no gristle or cholesterol.

As a young kid, I hated eating the meat that my mother prepared. And she was quite the proud cook, frying greasy pork chops, cheap cuts of beef, and a plethora of dead animal surprise. I received zero mercy. The old man's mantra was "Eat what we eat or you go hungry". And I did, several times. But they didn't just let me get up and walk away upon refusal. They forced me to sit at the table for INXS of an hour each time I refused to eat the greasy, knotted meat.

Ode to ignorance. The parents observed that I willingly consumed food produced by McDonald's and the like. They insisted that it was the very same meat that I refused when mother prepared it. People who prepare, buy and sell meat can tell you otherwise. Furthermore, as I grew older and my friends began to eat at my house periodically, they informed me how bad the meat was.

Back to my initial attempt to go veg. By the time I was in my 20s, I had been cooking with wife #1 for a few years and we'd come up with significantly more effective methods to prepare food. But I was really, really ignorant about assembling a veg diet. My absence of meat lasted less than a week. Then I walked into Long John Silver's and ended it all.

Seven years and a Paul McCartney concert later, I once again opted to go veg. This time I was significantly more successful. (And the stores had more meat substitutes!) I have been clean now for almost two years. But the road has its bumpy, borderline comedic moments.

More ignorance. (Hey, it's people i'm writing about here!) Meat eaters assume that they can provide group meals with no concern for the vegetarians. 'Those people can just pick, eat around the meat. Right?' I'm so open to comments on this...

Slam That Door, John Henry!!

What does it mean when someone slams a door? Psychologists tell us that people can be pissed off and taking out frustration or aggression on the door. GRRR!!!!! I did that as a kid. I was about 8yo. I slammed my bedroom door three times inside of about twenty seconds. I broke a piece of the doorframe and sealed myself in said room.

I thought quickly. I hustled out the window (as my older brother had done in his room after dark) and scurried around to the kitchen door. I grabbed some Elmer's glue and, once I'd opened the door, smeared it all over the inside of the frame. Voila! The perfect crime!

Did you know that you need clamps when you glue two pieces of wood together? And furthermore, did you know that white glue sucks on wood? I confessed to my mom, who quickly grabbed the old man. He came to the rescue with a rag and a hammer. Being the slammin man he is, I'm amazed this hasn't happened to him more often.

Each time he leaves a room or the house he SLAMS! the door like he wants attention or he wants to kill the house/door. WTF? I keep thinking of that TV movie in which Jimmy Smits adopted the fetal alcohol syndrome kid who cranked the bathroom faucets to make sure they were shut off. Eventually, the plumbing burst. Makes ya wonder if grandma drank and grandpa ragged about the doors being shut.

Why Do the Media Tease Us?

Why do they present samplings of good stuff, then dismiss it for fodder? Didn't said presentations make enough money? Not enough viewers? Listeners? Revenue! Screw quality! If more people will watch effeminate green berets light fires in toilets than talented actors present Hamlet, let's go for for the firey crapper!

I confess, I gave up TV years ago because the quality and the mentality is "duh! duh!" at best. Lest we forget commercial time, which is off the mental radar screen. I caught that bit of the toasty toilets while I was standing in a doorway, waiting for my lunch to cook. I just shook my head.

But this goes beyond TV. I would say bad TV, but isn't that pretty much redundant? The Guitar Center chain put out a groovy piece of comics in their May catalog. It started there. It ended there. Good characters, interesting plot. Do we see them again? Hell no! I say bring back Skunkbath!!!

Hardcore Fans

During my lifetime I've noticed that there are people who live and die, and even kill, with the wins and losses of their favourite sports teams. They typically loathe said teams' rivals and would eat them bloody raw.

My uncle (not the intellectual uncle, different uncle) is a hardcore St. Louis Cardinals fan. And they've given him much to be happy about during his lifetime. But not only has he seen the Cardinals win the world Series, he's also seen their rivals, the Chicago Cubs choke on 3-1 leads in league finals and fail to get to the Series. This happened in 1984 and again in 2003.

This goes yet a step further. My uncle, the Cards/Packers fan and Cubs/Bears hater, has spread this disease to another generation. His son has grown up knowing that rape is evil, killing is evil, and the Cubs are evil. Had I been him, I would have held up a particularly long digit and donned a Ryne Sandberg jersey. Alas, my cousin now has kids and I'm sure the fever will continue to spread.

Finally, I always thought that my old man was kinda nuts (I still do, but that's a topic for a year's worth of rants) in that he doesn't even prefer any pro team. He loathes a few teams, like the New York Yankees and whoever has decided to pay Shaquille the most money that season, but he loves no teams. I feel for the NBA, the NFL, and MLB. Because he's seen me too, and demonstrated just about as much emotion.

Charlie Tuna Died In His Bathtub Today

Today the first member of my mom's family's "next generation" is having her lovely (gasp) bridal shower. She's 21yo and her parents/grandparents suspect that she could do better. What's new?

I remember when I was a kid and heard the term "bridal shower". I pictured a bunch of chicks getting naked and scrubbing some woman who was about to get married. Okay, I was a little off base. It was just a bunch of chicks showering some bride-to-be (not "bride-elect") with pretty pretty gifts.

But things have changed since the late 20th century. This is no longer just a chick-fest. Sometimes, the guys come too. Not in this case, however. This shower led to a gathering of a peculiar triad: me, my old man, and my mom's brother-in-law.

The first two of us share essentially one thing in common, we live in bu-fu hinter country. The latter two are both INXS of age 65. But my uncle and I share much more. We discussed family history and his great collection of family pics that is now so great that he could not rescue them if a fire hit his home.

It occured to me that it has been commonplace in my family to hold these "oh-you're-so-nice" bridal showers. But the guys get squat. No bachelor parties in my family. Wouldn't be propa'! Ironically, the guys are starting to help write the gift list for the bridal showers. So, while avoiding the giggle crap and the cake, they are taking home some parting gifts.

Sac In the Battle

I was talking with my friend, Joanne, yesterday about the new lawnmower that my dad purchased. It's a shiny green riding model with headlights and cruise control, and he got a great deal to boot! The old man's in hog heaven. Quickly, Joanne and I both realised that when I had been happy about the purchase of guitars or musical software, no one cared. These same 'who-gave-ragin-flaming-fecal-dander-about-your-guitars' people expected me to drop everything, run, and scope the pretty pretty lawnmower.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not playing sour grapes here. I would never have been interested in a lawn mower. It just doesn't float my proverbial boat. But I regularly get reminded of how, when I was about 12, I hit a tree with the last shiny green lawnmower my parents had. It left a scratch in the pretty pretty paint.

It comes down to this. You can earn money pretty readily with a lawnmower and a few connections. You've gotta bust ass and practice for a good while before you can earn penny one with a guitar. That's the old man's philosophy; at least the mower part. For him, guitars may as well not exist. They don't cut grass or pound nails or paint or even sweep. But they do play music whenever you want. They help your mind and body grow together. And there's no money worth more than that to me.

Dog People--Cat People

For years I believed that society was divided by many intense black and white perspectives, sort of like the old Miller Lite commercials that culminated in the "Tastes Great!! Less Filling!!" mantra. People were either conservatives or liberals, smokers or non-smokers, pro-life or pro-choice. And, of course, people preferred either having dogs or cats as pets.

I was a cat person. This was largely due to the fact that the last time that my parents permitted me to have a dog, they made the poor little bastard sleep and reside outdoors where he was subsequently hit by a car a week after I got him. They made me go petless for about four years. Then they let me adopt a barnyard kitten. Well, of course I was going to prefer the kind of animal that I could actually lay hands on. And did I mention that an Alsatian bit my thigh when I was five-years-old?

When I was 14, my English teacher told us to write essays about why we prefer dogs or cats. A whole new world came to light. There were actually cat haters!! Farm kids who could take the dozens of cats that popped out each year and execute them in maniacally clever ways. Dragging them behind tractors, tying their tails together and throwing them over clotheslines to watch them battle to the death.

To my knowledge, cat people don't do that to dogs. But when dogs do get neglected or abused, it often makes the paper. Cats can fend for themselves. They seem to get treated one step above rats, mice, and the flying squirrel. I'll stick with cats, three legs or four.

John 65

From John's 1964 In His Own Write

Sad Michael

"There was no reason for Michael to be sad that morning, (the little wretch): everyone liked him, (the scab). He'd had a hard day's night that day, for Michael was a Cocky Watchtower. His wife Bernie, who was well controlled, had wrabbed his norman lunch but he was still sad. It was strange for a man who have everything and a wife to boot. At 4 o'clock whne his fire was burking bridelly a Poleaseman had clubbed in to parse the time around. 'Goddeven Michael,' the Poleaseman speeg, but Michael did not answer for he was debb and duff and could not speeg . . ."

GIVE PEACE A CHANCE

The Jerking Of Holidays

Yahoo! Mountain Dew! We are in midst of yet another holiday three-day weekend. Let's kill the fatted calf and hit the beach. If only we could move Christmas, New Year's and the Fourth of July to Monday! Then all the white collar bureaucrats would have it made! But I think office folk, school teachers, and the like fair pretty well with holidays like King's Birthday, Memorial Day, Labor Day, "Veterans" Day, and, lest I forget, Columbus Day.

I'm not going to go into the "lesser" holidays, i.e., those not listed here, so don't go looking for Popcorn Ball Day or St. Patrick's Day. But before I attack the "problem" holidays, let me begin by excusing the passable ones. The Fourth of July is pretty straight. Same date every year, same significance since its inception, although celebratory patriotism has gone up a few notches in the past 125 years. And New Year's; that's pretty stable. It means the same thing that it did a hundred years ago when Dick Clark was watching his own balls drop.

The real funky holidays start when, according to some rule that I never followed, it's time to begin wearing white shoes. Of course I'm referring to Memorial Day. That's the day that we are to remember military people who died for the USA. Lovely. So, if you get killed in trying to kill someone else, there's a holiday for you. But if you died, say erecting a hospital that will one day be the home to brilliant medical services, no holiday for you.

But that's rather innocent versus the philosophy behind the holidays celebrated on November 11th and December 25th. Both of these dates were previously used to celebrate different holidays. But time wore on and mankind changed. In both cases, people were in the habit of celebrating, hence both dates were just subtly renamed. Armistice Day, that celebrated the end of the Great War on 11 November 1918, lost its gusto mid-century while many of that war's veterans were still around. The pagan holiday that is now called Christmas was relabeled when old school missionaries imported Christianity to pagan leaders who didn't want to upset the masses.

So what's the word with Columbus Day? Might it be time to give old Chris's day a reassignment? He hasn't been here in over 500 years. Wait! He never made it to North America. How about we switch to Henry Ford Day? We could celebrate one of the forefathers of assembly line mass production. But given the current scare in fossil fuel prices, maybe we missed the boat. Sorry, Henry.

Done With Mirrors

Today I imported a mirror from an old dresser that my older brother used to use. The remainder of the dresser--the part with the drawers went to my ex. But enough about that!

Actually, I think my parents initially used the dresser back in the early 70s. Then they scored an oak bedroom set and handed the dresser down to my brother who had been getting by with a rather small piece of junk. As I mentioned earlier, I got one of the big mirrors today. In the early 80s, a different brother, who's now deceased, practiced airband with me in front of those mirrors.

Carrying on that tradition, in the late 80s I used a four-foot mirror to watch myself prance around, lip-syncing the words to heavy metal songs. Yes, I was a bit fruity. Not fruity gay, just fruity bizarre.

The biggest pain in the arse surrounding mirrors came when my parents opted to mount their bathroom mirror for "average" people. I'm a bit higher than average, so I had to crouch down to brush my hair, beginning around age 15. I vowed that if the house ever became mine, I would relocate said mirror. But my parents are trying to feed me with ideas to sell the house when they're dead to the guy who owns the two out-buildings next door. Given his stature, the mirror will be fine where it's at.

The Cross-Over

High schools come in roughly three sizes, though there are exceptions. There's small, medium, and WHOA!! THAT'S HUGE!!! The first of these typically has an enrollment of about 100 students per class, the second 300-400 per level, and the last one often schools a total of between 2500 and 4000 students.

I started out in smallville. I did my first 2.5 years there. Then I crossed over. I finished in medium-size school. My son is doing just the opposite. He put in three years at mid-size and has shrunk down to the little level to finish things out. The contrast in transformation makes for an interesting comparison.

Despite the fact that I made my switch-over 20 years ago, little has changed in the differences between little school and medium school. Little school remains obsessed with sports and school pride. Students listen to country music, with a few rap fans on the side. No one has blue hair; no one forms a band.

According to my son, at medium school students are significantly more diverse. Not all of the good-looking girls are jocks first and poseurs second. Most people don't care about school spirit. People listen to all types of music and several actually form bands and try to play their own music. There are punks, goths, and people with pink and blue hair who support Hot Topic.

Final question. I asked him if he would have rather had my perspective on the two schools or his. Without a doubt, he assured me that he would have preferred my perspective. I agree. It compares with leaving the black and white of Pleasantville, rather than entering it.

The Ten Most Worst Best

I remember when my bro, Matt, showed me some of his brief writings in high school. It opened
a whole new world to me. Until that point I thought that the only guy who thought the goofy junk that I did had been gunned down in late 1980. Of course that would be John Lennon. After I saw Matt's stuff, I went home and stuff just came rushing out of my penhand. Matt and I also loved to composed "what if" scenarios, as well as top ten lists. No, I was never a great fan of Letterman, nor was I ripping off his spiel. I loved making lists and reading the Book Of List series.

I tried to get my ex-wife to join in. But, like most folks, she thought that I was a guava-knocker headcase with issues. So, I plodded on. I began producing lists on a daily basis to entertain a supervisor at work. That went quite well. But listmaking is truly an art, designed for persons of a certain mental fabric. And listmakers (not the grocery store frivel, mind you) are a rare bird.

WOOOOOOOOOOSSSHHH!!!!!!!!!

Are you one of those people who typically aches for the opportunity to pass relatively slow-moving vehicles? Or are you more often the one who gets followed up the vehicular buttocks by someone who simply must have someplace important to be? I try really hard to avoid speeding tickets, because my money leaves me fast enough as it is. I don't need to donate to the state.

I think there are a few pigeon-holed causes for why people exceed posted speed limits. (Other than speed traps that have 20mph limits!) Some people simply believe themselves to be above the law. It's all a game. They buy the latest anti-radar/anti-laser gadgets and play catch-me-if-you-can. It's all a big cat n' mouse game. But where do these people have to be? Do they have lives that are THAT important? Do they hate driving and want it to be as brief as possible? Are they emulating their favourite NASCAR drivers? WHAT?

Some people are late. Late for appointments, late for class, late for work. And hauling ass is going to save them. Under most circumstances, these chronic latesters could have just started earlier and given their cars a break.

Finally come the people who need to get to the facilities or the hospital or some other bodily-related need. I think of this sometimes when I'm followed up the butt by a swerving car. "Gee that guy must really have to go! Or he's late for class." But that's only if I check and see that he doesn't have a radar detector.

Freud Never Had MTV

I earned my first degree at community college as a psych major. I loved social science. It wasn't as inflexible ( and monotonous) as mathematics. And you got to delve into what made people tick. What caused people to do what they do and the subsequent effects of that. It never ended. I spent a healthy amount of time probing the philosophies of psychology pioneer, Sigmund Freud, whom many people say focused on sex. It's unclear how Freud would have differentiated between personality types according to musical preferences. But as a great fan of music, I'm going to try just that.

I could sit here for the rest of my life and try unsuccessfully to name off all the genres and sub-genres of music in the 21st century. But this is my blog, so I'm going to narrow down the categories to six: rock, country, pop, (ugh) rap, classical, and no music.

First, the country folk. These people seem to come off with few pretenses, sometimes committing themselves so deeply that even they don't quite completely grasp where they're coming from. No, I'm not asserting that they're stupid hillbillies. They just seem to draw a real line in the sand between cacophony and peace. And that's not just music.

The pop people are quite the opposite. You never know what to expect from a pop fan. Could be just about anything, barring the hardcore elements of my other categories. Just as pop music is ho-hum, so are its people. They are typically unwilling to commit to passions or obsessions. They just want to shuffle along with the crowd and not get bumped. The irony comes when mellow pop music gets out-sold by country and (ugh) rap.

OK, let's get this over. Rap. As Gregg Allman put it, it's missing the letter 'c'. And while I do appreciate some of the work done by Snoop Dogg and Limp Bizkit, in general I'll pass. Most of rap pertains to negative feelings. "Society screwed me"; "Society screwed my people"; "I'll screw anybody". Is that about it? Rap is what black people (and wiggas) get nowadays, instead of Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye. It's exactly the same as asserting that white music has taken a serious tumble in the past 25 years. Whether you're black or white or whatever, the music was better during the Carter Administration.

Classical people mystify me. I confess ignorance here. I enjoy classical music, but I'll never be able to identify who wrote what and who's playing it. The media portrays classical fans as well-to-do, and that too is outside my reach. I respect classical people. They admire music that has lasted for hundreds of years. Obviously it endured for a reason. I think many of the people who enjoy classical music appreciate the dedication it took to produce and subsequently perform said music. They are experts, themselves.

Because many people acquire musical tastes that endure for a lifetime around age 16, rock fans can be a very wide variety of folk. I don't know too many rockers who get turned on to such music around age 45. There are those who sway toward all the other modes as they grow older. Not rock. You are either a rocker by the time you can legally buy a beer, or you will never become a rocker. People of all political boundaries enjoy rock--figure that out! (I guess there is a starch-shorts hunter named Nugent.)

Finally, there are the people who know no music. These are the people I understand least of all. They own no recordings. They will readily endure any radio station without comment. Sound does not matter. What do they replace the music with? I guess Freud would say, lots of sex.

Victim Of John Hughes Films

Are we all familiar with Kevin Costner's bittersweet romance flick Message In A Bottle? If not, it's the tale of a single mom who happens to be a journalist and learns of a lovelorn boat repairman. She seeks him out, and they fall for each other. But in the end, he dies. That's not the way love stories are supposed to end, right? Well, that's what anyone would say who watched a series of infamous John Hughes Brat Pack flicks from the 1980s.

With hand firmly in the air, I too confess that I got suckered into these boy-meets-girl screen-o-ramas. I believed it. I believed every last bit of it. I believed that an absolute geek (like myself, or the characters played by Anthony Michael Hall) could score with Wonder Woman (see Kelly LeBrock). What I actually should have realised was that pouty girls (like Molly Ringwald) ended up with rich boys (like Michael Schoeffling).

I think there's something of a pattern here. When I was a teen in the '80s, I completely dismissed the likes of The Brady Bunch or Leave It To Beaver. That was just made-up frivel. Today, my son can smell the lies in John Hughes better I ever hoped to. I don't watch TV and rarely see movies. I'm kinda curious as to where the pattern is taking us next.

Say Goodbye To the Ninth Month

September is over. And with it are gone Labor Day, the anniversary of the fall of the World Trade Center, and summer proper. Comparable to discussing the JFK assassination 40 years ago, most people today can tell you where they where when they learned about the 2001 attack on New York City. The press has insisted that 11 September 2001 was a day that meant a change in the lives of anyone who wants to get on an airplane, haul haz-mat for a living, or get sent to fight in Iraq. But I don't watch the news. And this isn't what September means to me.

September brings the birthdays of three members of my generation. Let me clarify. History separates the Boomers and the Gen-Xers at '64/'65. And these 40-types aren't X'ers like myself. They are from the same intrafamilial generation as me. Okay? Two of these are the only twins anyone in my family has produced to date. That was back in 1962, before anyone remembered where they were on that day Kennedy was in Dallas. The third September family member is my brother.

My brother helped redefine the term "black sheep". When I was a wee lad, between daring people to knock batteries off his shoulder, Robert Conrad starred in a military series titled "Baa Baa Black Sheep". Ahh, Pappy... But that's not important right now. My brother opted to (gulp) smoke cigarettes as a teenager and hang out with the undesirables.

When he graduated high school, he joined the navy, toured the planet, and subsequently married his high school sweetheart. That marriage lasted all of about seven days. He started hanging out more and more with his birth mother who liked to drink and party. Eventually he cut the cord and moved away from us--all six miles--and took up with blood relatives.

Surprise! He was disowned. His mental health waned. He began to commit mucho crime and eventually landed himself in the big house, then a half-way house. These days his mind seems foggy and I see him about two or three times per decade. Memories can be a bitch.

Eh--uh--eh--scalation!!!!!

As a young lad I often heard how my parents had childhoods more trying and difficult than my own. I was blessed. I had it easy. The world in general had become softer. When they were young, kids gave grown-ups respect beyond measure, or so they said. When I incorporated what my parents subsequently said about my grandparents and how each generation was getting a little more slack, I ultimately figured that my grandparents' grandparents must have been nutbusters whose children regarded them as demi-gods. By that same token, my own children were destined to raise hell like no one who came before them.

Have you figured out yet that kids quite often don't get the stories quite right? There were people doing the same things in all directions 50 years ago and 100 years ago as there are today. We just didn't have TVs to cram it down our necks in whatever capacity network news deemed appropriate. Kids said icky things to their parents. And parents made kids work in coal mines. Maybe we don't have the juvey coal mines these days, but parents still have the means of getting away with cruelty.

People are people. And they were the same animal 1000 years ago. They want food, shelter, sex, and a clue about what happens when the heart stops beating. Some people have real bad-ass parents, complete with attitude. Just because that is the case, it doesn't mean the children of such jerks have to carry on the family tradition or preach about it. If I got kicked into a pile of shit, I wouldn't be aching to share war stories with my son or give him the opportunity to do so with my grandchildren. Of course I don't have any grandchildren...

Why Myndsi Was So Different From Lou's Tools

Twenty years ago I spawned a would-be rock group labeled Myndsi. Now I know that in the 21st century there's actually a myndsi blog. Apparently I'm not the only one who likes to jerk with spelling. But during the Ray-gun administration, we were the only Myndsi that I'd ever heard of.

Despite our pouty demeanor, we were actually pretty tame, bookish sorts. The group was started by my high school chum, aka Lucky, and his brother, aka Jonesy. Soon thereafter, we integrated someone who was actually trying to learn music in a guitarist aka Arius Knight. Yes, you read that correctly. We were just an air band. But we took it very seriously.

I was called Xavier Q, and I was typically the lead vocalist. Because Lucky had also tried (also unsuccessfully) to learn guitar, he played guitar parts pretty effectively--as did Arius. We actually filmed a few "concerts", then faded into oblivion.

When I went to college for the first time, I met a hyper-leftwing punk fan who ached to be affiliated with someone else who could play role-playing fantasy games and rock. I came pretty close to that level, and I too was a social outcast. His name was Nick Fear. We formed Myndsi II, though we never called it that.

This time around, he was the singer and I was the guitarist. I picked up my dusty guitar and strummed a few notes. But I sounded as terrible as ever, so my attempts were short-lived. When he met a bass player who was WAY out there, he drifted away from Myndsi. Whilst that's not the whole story, the messy bits and pieces are long and drawn out.

Like, Diurnal To the Max

Did you ever notice the difference between most (not all, but most) people who go to first shift jobs and the rest of the world? People who get up with the sun tend to be screwed just a bit tighter than the rest of us. Let me make a clarification immediately. When I say "first shift", I'm not referring to 9-5'ers, lest they have to get up at 5am to sit in rush hour traffic. No, I'm talking about 6-2'ers, 7-3'ers. or, God help 'em, 5-1'ers. Who the hell thought up that last one?!

People who are up with the proverbial chickens tend to believe that there are specific times on the clock that are appropriate for eating, sleeping, shitting, procreating, and, yes, working. In their opinion, there is just something not right with those guys who work (dum! dum! dum!) second or even third shift. Deep in their heart of hearts, don't they all one day want to move up to first shift and be big boys? Maybe not.

What about the people who just like being up at night? Or the people who like to sleep late? The people who couldn't wait until high school was over so that they could score a second or third shift job and take the rods out of their arses!

I'm generally pretty easy. But I do find that I get more accomplished by getting up earlier. By so doing, I inevitably have to face the scrunchy tight types. Socially, they have much to learn. Maybe that's why they go to bed early--to get their beauty rest and dream of no longer being society's bitches.

Walleye World And the Society It Rode In On

Call it Wally World, Walleye World, or just plain King Sam's. It's Wal-Mart and if you don't have one along with your McDonald's, you will shortly. I'm not here to whine about greed and the wrongdoings of evil corporations. Plenty of other people are doing that even as I write. I'm also not going to praise such creaking monoliths because they provide jobs that otherwise wouldn't have been. That's just a joke. Rather, I'd like to look at the social side of Walleye World.

Unless you grew up under a rock, it's nearly impossible to spend in excess of five minutes inside your local Wal-Mart without seeing someone you know. In the past week, I saw the only girl who signed my freshman yearbook. She's a nurse now and still very friendly. I also happened upon a former supervisor who was canned and now acts significantly more friendly. That's another thing. Shopping at the Mart is something of a great equalizer. Everybody is welcome, because everyone can afford to unload their pockets in some form or fashion.

It's Not Called A "Christian" Name For No Reason

Today I got the priviledge to return to the high school where I spent two-and-a-half years of my life. Apparently my son is not performing up to snuff, as the older generation says. I got to sit at the head of a long table, opposite a wizened-looking lady with short gray hair and a serious look on her face. On our left and right sides, besides the woman who directed the meeting, were faculty members who had taken the time to attend said meeting.

Director woman opened the meeting by asking all present to introduce themselves. Suddenly all these people became "Mr This" and "Mrs That". Crap!! I felt like I was back in the fourth grade where, if you learned a teacher's first name, you'd reached the end of a bizarre hierarchical rainbow. That shit was secret! Ultimately we came to the psychologist lady sitting opposite me. She confessed her Christian name. No "Miss", "Mrs", not even a "Ms" or "Dr". And then she smiled subtley, as the others ran through everything they had to say. I think we were on the same gentle vibe.

I remember when I was 15-years-old and, due to my crush on the yearbook advisor, I spent every possible hour working for the school's annual. I thought then, as I do now, that it's just daft to remember people by a title. I suggested using first names for faculty members in the yearbook. And it went over, for the first time. Stuffy just sucks. But it's ironic, you never can tell who's going to have the proverbial rod up the butt--the gray-haired psychologist or the lady wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, leading the whole she-bang. Look out.

Brady Bunch Logic

Why did architect, Mike Brady, have just one john for his six little darlings? Hasn't someone in your immediate vicinity asked that question?

When my parents opted to construct their own abode, back in 1974 (sorry, the Bradys had been cancelled by then), they put in three bedrooms for four--occasionally five--people. But just one john. We didn't even get the den, the attic, the TV room, or a chick named Alice.

Neither of my parents grew up under such circumstances. My dad grew up in a house with three toilets. My mom grew up in the booneys, on a farm with a two-seater outhouse. But they did bring one tradition with them, they both refused to shut the bathroom door when they engaged in "organic" activity.

My older brother made frequent trips to the holy one-seater. Ergo, the old man labeled him "the king" and the crapper was dubbed "his throne." If he sat there for an unacceptable period of time, the old man announced that "the king needs to get off his throne!" Ah, memories.

Better To Be An Automaton Who Can't Define "Automaton"?

Is it better to understand as little as possible? To be a diurnal workaholic, with little dreams and a healthy TV set? The type who respects the man, salutes the flag, goes to church every Sunday, and never NEVER asks questions? To set aside the so-called nest-egg for the later years, when you can look back on the good ole days and talk about how things used to be really swell?

Is it better to just turn off the mind, relax, and float downstream? Shit!! No relaxation, man! Gotta bust ass! This is a dipshit working man's paradise. Lest you be a rarity, a one in a million, you will get little in return for being anything else. In society, knowledge is jack.

No Thing Lasts Forever

In 1991, I made my first trip to Lebanon, Indiana, to meet my former brother-in-law at a now-defunct McDonald's. When I returned in 1997, the USA Today in the newspaper rack indicated that Jimmy Stewart had just died. Just like nobody lasts forever, on earth, neither does anything.

During the past year, my folks have taken it upon themselves to clear up what they regard as clutter about their home. They have helped empty at least one friend's house following a death, and they insisted that they don't wish to put me through the same nightmare. The thing is, they just started tossing stuff with reckless abandon and asked me for no input. This, after having condemned the families of other people for having done the very same.

Logic schmogic!! What matters to them is what they are trying to maintain, and that really isn't a problem. The actual problem is that they fail to consider what I don't want thrown away. They have offed pictures and trophies--only God really knows what else.

Nevertheless, nothing--no tangible thing--will last forever. Our carnal lives do not last forever. And I'm not really stressing. I just scratch my head and watch them save things that bear no sentimental value to me. I hope that one day they will explain why they do that. So it goes.

Is It That Time Already?

My closest friend wrote to me yesterday and said that she was excited because notices regarding Christmas just went up in the break room at the school where she teaches. It jarred loose memories of how my mom's boss--her niece--used to post a notice 365 days per, telling employees how many shopping days they had left.

I'm not going to rant about the worshiping Christ bit. If you wish to worship Jesus, like I do, you should be doing it 24/7, not just at Christmas and Easter. Rather, I'd like to discuss the differences between the secular X-mas I remember as a wee lad and the secular X-mas that I currently endure.

I was ignorant as a kid. And I've not completely overcome that ignorance--human thing. I watched the joy and the frills and never the struggles that went into executing the aforementioned high holly-day. Now that I'm a big boy and I see corporate America trying to sell me everything that my soul could potentially purchase, I see man-made X-mas as pretty blase.

At least when I was a kid, X-mas was a small family reunion. But given that I'm an only child, that doesn't happen. I still dig watching Jimmy Stewart do his thing and listening to Nat King Cole do his thing. But I'm ready for some new traditions. Is this wishful thinking?

21 September--A Date That Will Live In Infamy

I am no longer married to my ex-wife. Having never been through divorce proceedings, it was a true education. I went into this with the best intention. Did that sound cheesy enough? When this legal mumbo-jumbo began 11 months ago, we were still speaking and pretty friendly. By the time we left court today, she had chewed on me, my attorney, her attorney, and the judge. I just tried to STFU so we could get out.

When I came home, I told our 17yo son that she verbally thrashed me because she could no longer speak with him. He replied that when he tried to talk with her, he got nothing but bitch-outs. Life goes on.

A Rant Is Not Always A Rant

If you read my off-the-cuff lore, you'll notice that I sometimes point out imperfections in the actions of others. People sometimes do things that piss me off. I guess that means I'm a member of the human race. Nevertheless, there are people who jump on the aforementioned wagon and beat said drum until the sticks have broken and the drumskins are slashed.

Such people scope the activities of their neighbors and vomit forth the scripts to vicious Neil Simon movies. The neighbors don't install the right kinds of windows. There are too many cars parked in front of their house. They didn't build their house in the right spot on their property. That guy is too well-educated, subsequently he's a complete ass. That kid doesn't bring the newspaper on time; when I was his age...

This just transcends a good rant. It enters, dare I say, "bitch" territory. And I've already dealt with enough bitches for this life.

Will They Think That I Talk Funny?

For decades, I have listened to the words that have come out of my parents' mouths. I began to sense that something was different between our two generations' choices of verbal expression when I was about six or seven years old. As I grew older and English teachers forced me to break down sentences and examine the meanings of words, I kept wondering whatever made the previous generation speak in such an odd capacity.

It's not just the poor verb conjugation. There are catch-phrases from a half-century ago that still fly like wild cannon fodder. I guess look out in twenty or thirty years. I'll be loaded with quotes from Beatles lyrics. But, much like Shakespeare, I trust that Lennon and McCartney will age well.

I Do NOT Worship the USA

I walked out of last Sunday's worship service. It was the anniversary of the fall of the World Trade Center. The youth pastor's father gave a lengthy speech (so they tell me) while shots of congregation members who are currently engaged in the military flashed behind him. Does this mean that next week I can bring in pictures of musicians and rattle on about them, while everyone waits for the actual sermon?

Sentimental Or Just Plain Mental?

I've been "sentimental" since I was a young kid. I enjoyed looking backwards (yes, I've read the book) and stockpiled all the info that I could on past generations. As I've grown older, the members of my generation have produced their own families, as well as their own traditions. They seem to care little for contributing to a log for family members yet to come.

Practicing 35-year-old songs like "Stairway To Heaven" strikes many chords of the past and touches the aforementioned theme. Possibly, when someone inevitably dies, the remaining members of my generation will realise that it might not suck to take the time to get together for one more afternoon.

Rock Opera

Sitting at work on a particularly slow morning, I began to conceive of a tale describing two guys in their early 30s who got to fulfill a few wishes. By composing some music at home then integrating bits of the story line, I got the framework for a rock opera. I didn't actually see a rock opera until I was in my mid teens and viewed the first half-hour of Tommy. I didn't get it, man! So, I waited until I was 17 to watch Rocky Horror at the local theatre. It was fun getting to participate. Twenty years later, I'm trying to turn a concept album about my life into something else.

Music Schmusic

My mom turned me on to classic country when I was but a wee lad. Artists like Donna Fargo, Johnny Cash, and Bill Anderson ranked among our favourites. As I grew, I exited Hee Haw stage left and began listening to my current faves. And I listened with great frequency. I don't understand people who just blow off music. People who never owned a record, a tape, a CD--whatever is the flavour of the week. People who get no pleasure from any form of music. It's beyond me. But I'm not done growing, and maybe someday an answer will come.

"Life Goes On...Bra!"

I sit in a small back room practicing Zeppelin's "Stairway To Heaven" on the guitar, like thousands have before me. I enjoy learning music, an artform. It goes well with the right side of my brain. I feel like the left side got burned beyond recognition two years ago when I underwent surgery to correct my seizure disorder. I used to be quite good at memorization, but now it is really a chore. That is why I have to practice so much if I ever expect to play the work of Jimmy Page.

+
Another One By Lou's Tools